Count Magnus

By what means thepapers out of which I have made a connected story cameinto myhands is the last point which the reader will learn fromthesepages.But it is necessary to prefix my extracts from them astatement of theform in which I possess them. They consist, then,partly of a series of collections for a book oftravels, such avolume as was a common product of the forties and fifties.HoraceMarryat's Journal of a Residence in Jutland and the Danish Islesis afair specimen of the class to which I allude. These booksusually treated ofsome unfamiliar district on the Continent. Theywere illustrated withwoodcuts or steel plates. They gave detailsof hotel accommodation , and ofmeans of communication, such as wenow expect to find in any well-regulatedguide-book, and theydealt largely in reported conversations withintelligentforeigners, racy innkeepers and garrulous peasants. In aword,they were chatty. Begun with the idea of furnishing materialfor such a book, my papers asthey progressed assumed thecharacter of a record of one single personalexperience, and thisrecord was continued was continued up to the very eve,almost, ofits termination. The writer was a Mr. Wraxall. For my knowledgeof him I have to dependentirely on the evidence his writingsafford, and from these I deduce thathe was a man past middle age,possessed of some private means, and very muchalone in the world.He had, it seems, no settled abode in England, but was adenizenof hotels and boarding -houses. it is probable that heentertainedthe idea of settling down at some future time whichnever came; and I thinkit also likely that the Pantechnicon firein the early seventies must havedestroyed a great deal that wouldhave thrown light on his antecedents, forhe refers once or twiceto property of his that was warehoused at thatestablishment. Itis further apparent that Mr . Wraxall had published a book, andthatit treated of a holiday he had once taken in Brittany. morethan this Icannot say about his work, because a diligent searchin bibliographicalworks has convinced me that it must haveappeared either anonymously orunder a pseudonym. As to hischaracter, it is not difficult to form some superficialopinion.He must have been an intelligent and cultivated man. It seemshewas near being a Fellow of his college at Oxford - Brasenose,as I judgefrom the Calendar. His besetting fault was prettyclearly that of over-inquisitiveness, possibly a good fault in atraveller, certainly a faultfor which this traveller paid dearlyenough in the end. On what proved topbe his last expedition, hewas plotting another book. Scandinavia, a regionnot widely knownto Englishmen forty years ago, had struck him as aninterestingfield. He must have lighted on some old books of Swedishhistory,or memoirs, and the idea had struck him that there was room forabook descriptive of travel in Sweden, interspersed with episodesfrom thehistory of some of the great Swedish families. heprocured letters ofintroduction, therefore, to some persons ofquality in Sweden, and set outthither in the early summer of 1863.Of his travels in the North there is no need to speak, nor ofhisresidence of some weeks in Stockholm. I need only mention thatsome savantresident there put him on the track of an importantcollection of familypapers belonging to the proprietors of anancient manor-house inVestergothland, and obtained for himpermission to examine them. The manor house, or herrgard, inquestion is to be calledRŒbŠck(pronounced somethinglike Roebeck) though that is not its name. It isone of the bestbuilding s of its kind in all the country, and the pictureof itin Dahlenberg's Suecia antiqua et moderna, engraved in 1694,shows itvery much as the tourist may see it today. It was builtsoon after 1600, andis, roughly speaking, very much like anEnglish house of that period inrespect of material - red-brickwith stone facings - and style. The man whobuilt it was a scionof the great house of De la Gardie, and his descendantspossess itstill. De la Gardie is the name by which I will designatethemwhen mention of them becomes necessary. They received Mr.Wraxall with great kindness and courtesy, and pressedhim to stayin the house as long as his researches lasted.But, preferringtobe independent, and mistrusting his powers of conversing inSwedish, hesettled himself at the village inn, which turned outquite sufficientlycomfortable, at any rate during the summermonths. This arrangement wouldentail a short walk daily to andfrom the manor-house of something under amile. The house itselfstood in a park and, and was protected - we shouldsay grown up -with large old timber. Near it you found the walled garden,andthen entered a close wood fringing one of the small lakes withwhich thewhole country is pitted. Then came the wall of thedemense, and you climbeda steep knoll - a knob of rock lightlycovered with soil - and on the top ofthis stood the church,fenced in with tall dark trees. It was a curiousbuilding toEnglish eyes. The nave and aisles were low, and filled withpewsand galleries. In the western gallery stood the handsome oldorgan, gailypainted, and with silver pipes.The ceiling was flat,and had been adorned bya seventeenth-century artist with astrange and hideous last judgment, fullof lurid flames, fallingcities, burning ships, crying souls, and brown andsmiling demons.Handsome brass coronae hung from the roof; the pulpit waslike adolls-house covered with little painted cherubs and saints; astandwith three hour-glasses was hinged to the preachers desk.Such sights asthese may be seen in many a church in Sweden now,but what distinguishedthis one was an addition to the originalbuilding. At the eastern end of thenorth aisle the builder of themanor -house had erected a mausoleum forhimself and his family.it was a largish eight-sided building, lighted by aseries of ovalwindows, and it had a domed roof, topped by a kind ofpumpkin-shapedobject rising into a spire, a form in which Swedisharchitectsgreatly delighted.The roof was of copper externally, andwaspainted black, while the walls, in common with those of thechurch, werestaringly white. To this mausoleum there was noaccess from the church. Ithad a portal and steps of its own onthe northern side. Past the churchyard the path to the villagegoes, and not more than threeor four minutes bring you to the inndoor. On the first day of his stay at RŒbŠck Mr.Wraxall found the church dooropen, and made these notes of theinterior which I have epitomized. Into themausoleum, however, hecould not make his way. He could, by looking throughthe keyhole,just descry that there were fine marble effigies and sarcophagiofcopper, and a wealth of armorial ornament, which made him veryanxious tospend some time in investigation. The papers he hadcome to examine at the manor-house proved to be justthe kind ofthing he wanted for his book.There were familycorrespondence,journals, and account-books of the earliest ownersof the estate, verycarefully kept and clearly written, full ofamusing and picturesque detail.The first De La Gardie appeared inthem as a strong and capable man. Shortlyafter the building ofthe mansion there had been a period of distress in thedistrict,and the peasants had risen and attacked several chateaux anddonesome damage. The owner of RŒbŠck took a leadingpart in suppressing thetrouble, and there was reference toexecutions of ringleaders and severepunishments inflicted with nosparing hand. The portrait of this Magnus de la Gardie was one ofthe best in thehouse, and Mr Wraxall studied it with no littleinterest after his day'swork. He gives no detailed description ofit, but I gather that the faceimpressed him rather by its powerthan by its beauty or goodness; in fact,he writes that CountMagnus was an almost phenomenally ugly man. On this day MrWraxall took his supper with the family, and walked backin thelate but still bright evening. "I must remember," hewrites, "to ask the sexton if he can let me intothemausoleum at the church. He evidently has access to it himself,for Isaw him tonight standing in the steps, and, as I thought,either locking orunlocking the door." I find that early onthe following day Mr Wraxall had some conversationwith hislandlord.His setting it down at such length as he does surprisedmeat first; but I soon realized that the papers I was readinghere were, atleast in their beginning, the materials for the bookhe was meditating, andthat it was to have been one of those quasi-journalisticproductions whichadmit of the introduction of an admixture ofconversational matter. His object, he says, was to find outwhether any traditions of CountMagnus de la Gardie lingered on inthe scenes of that gentleman's activity,and whether the popularestimate of him were favourable or not. He foundthat the Countwas decidedly not a favourite. If his tenants came late totheirwork on the days which they owed to him as Lord of the Manor,theywere set on the wooden horse, or flogged and branded in themanor-houseyard. One or two cases there were of men who hadoccupied lands whichencroached on the lord's domain, and whosehouses had been mysteriouslyburnt on a winter's night, with thewhole family inside. But what seemeddwell on the innkeeper's mindmost- for he returned to the subject more thanonce- was that theCount had been on the Black Pilgrimage, and had broughtsomethingor someone back with him. You will naturally inquire, as MrWraxall did, what the Black Pilgrimagemay have been. But yourcuriosity on the point must remain unsatisfied forthe time being,just as his did. The landlord was evidently unwilling togive afull answer, or indeed any answer, on the point, and being calledoutfor the moment, trotted out with obvious alacrity, onlyputting his head inat the door to say that he was called away toSkara, and should not be backuntil evening. So Mr Wraxall had togo unsatisfied to his day's work at the manor house.The papers onwhich he was just then engaged soon put his thoughts intoanotherchannel, for he had to occupy himself with glancing overthecorrespondence between Sophia Albertina in Stockholm and hermarried cousinUlrica Leonora at RŒbŠck in the years1705-10. The letter were ofexceptional interest for the lightthey threw upon the culture of thatperiod in Sweden, as anyonecan testify who has read the full edition ofthem in thepublications of the Swedish Historical Manuscripts Commission. Inthe afternoon he had done with these, and after returning theboxes inwhich they were kept to their places on the shelf, heproceeded,verynaturally, to take down some of the volumes nearestto them, in order todetermine which of them had best be hisprincipal subject of investigationnext day. The shelf he had hitupon was occupied mostly by a collection ofaccount-books in thewriting of the first Count Magnus. But one among themwas not anaccount-book, but a book of alchemical and other tracts inanothersixteenth-century hand. Not being very familiar withalchemicalliterature, Mr Wraxall spends much space which he mighthave spared insetting out the names and beginnings of the varioustreatises; The book ofthe Phoenix, book of the Thirty Words,bookof the Toad, book of Miriam,Turba Philosophorum, and so forth;and then he announces with a good deal ofcircumstance his delightat finding, on a leaf originally left blank nearthe middle of thebook, some writing of Count Magnus himself headed 'Libernigraeperegrinationis'. It is true that only a few lines were written,butthere was quite enough to show that the landlord had thatmorning beenreferring to a belief at least as old as the time ofCount Magnus, andprobably shared by him. This is the English ofwhat was written: 'If any man desires to obtain a long life, ifhe would obtain a faithfulmessenger and see the blood of hisenemies, it is necessary that he shouldfirst go into the city ofChorazin, and there salute the prince...' Herethere was anerasure of one word, not very thoroughly done, so that MrWraxallfelt pretty sure that he was right in reading it as aeris ('oftheair'). But there was no more of the text copied, only a linein Latin:Quaere reliqua hujus materiei inter secretiora. (See therest of this matteramong the more private things.). It could notbe denied that this threw a rather lurid light on the tastesandbeliefs of the Count; but to Mr Wraxall, separated from him bynearlythree centuries, the thought that the might have added tohis generalforcefulness alchemy, and to alchemy something likemagic, only made him amore picturesque figure, and when, after arather prolonged contemplation ofhis picture in the hall, MrWraxall set out on his homeward way, his mindwas full of thethought of Count Magnus. He had no eyes for hissurroundings, noperceptions of the evening scents of the woods or theeveninglight on the lake; and when all of a sudden he pulled up short,hewas astonished to find himself already at the gate of thechurchyard, andwithin a few minutes of his dinner. His eyes fellon the mausoleum. "Ah," he said, "Count Magnus,there you are. I should dearly like to seeyou". "Likemany solitary men," he writes, "I have a habit oftalking to myselfaloud; and, unlike some of the Greek and Latinparticles, I do not expect ananswer. Certainly and perhapsfortunately in this case, there was neithervoice nor any thatregarded: only the woman who, I suppose, was cleaning upthechurch, dropped some metallic object on the floor, whose clangstartledme. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps sound enough."That same evening the landlord of the inn, who had heard MrWraxall saythat he wished to see the clerk or deacon (as he wouldbe called in Sweden)of the parish, introduced him to thatofficial in the inn parlour.A visit tothe De la Gardie tomb-housewas soon arranged for the next day, and a littlegeneralconversation ensued. Mr Wraxall, remembering that one function ofScandinavian deacons is toteach candidates for Confirmation,thought he would refresh his own memoryon a Biblical point."Can you tell me," he said,"anything aboutChorazin?" The deacon seemed startled, but readily remindedhim how that village hadonce been denounced. "To be sure,"said Mr Wraxall,"it is, I suppose, quite a ruin now?""So I expect," replied the deacon."I have heardsome of our old priestssay that Antichrist is to be born there;and there are tales-" "Ah!" what tales are those?"Mr Wraxall put in. "Tales, I was going to say, which I haveforgotten," said the deacon; andsoon after that he said goodnight. The landlord was now alone, and at Mr Wraxall's mercy; andthat inquirerwas not inclined to spare him. "Herr Nielsen,"he said, "I have found out something about theBlackPilgrimage. You may as well tell me what you know. What didthe Count bringback with him?" Swedes are habitually slow,perhaps, in answering,or perhaps the landlordwas an exception. Iam not sure; but Mr Wraxall notes that the landlordspent at leastone minute in looking at him before he said anything at all.Thenhe came close up to his guest, and with a good deal of effort hespoke: "Mr Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, andno more - not anymore. You must not ask anything when I have done.In my grandfather's time -that is, ninety-two years ago - therewere two men who said:'The Count isdead; we do not care for him.We will go tonight and have a free hunt in hiswood' - the longwood on the hill that you have seen behind RŒbŠck.Well,thosethat heard them say this, they said:'No, do not go; we are sureyouwill meet with persons walking who should not be walking.Theyshould beresting, not walking.' These men laughed. There were noforest-men to keepthe wood, because no one wished to live there.The family were not here atthe house. These men could do whatthey wished, "Very well, they go to the wood that night. Mygrandfather was sittinghere in this room. It was the summer, anda light night. With the windowopen, he could see out to the wood,and hear. "So he sat there, and two or three men with him,and they listened. Atfirst they hear nothing at all; then theyhear someone- you know how faraway it is- they hear someonescream, just as if the most inside part of hissoul was twistedout of him. All of them in the room caught hold of eachother, andthey sat so for three quarters of an hour. Then they hearsomeoneelse, only about three hundred ells off. They hear himlaugh out loud: itwas not one of those two men who laughed, andindeed, they have all of themsaid that it was not any man at all.After that they hear a great door shut. "Then, when it wasjust light with the sun, they all went to the priest.They said tohim: 'Father, put on your gown and your ruff, and come to burythese men,Anders Bjornsen and Hans Thorbjorn.' "Youunderstand that they were sure these men were dead. So they wenttothe wood- my grandfather never forgot this. He said they wereall like somany dead men themselves. The priest, too, he was in awhite fear. He saidwhen they came to him: 'I heard one cry in thenight, and I heard one laugh afterwards. If Icannot forget that,I shall not be able to sleep again.' "So they went to thewood, and they found these men on the edge of thewood. HansThorbjorn was standing with his back against a tree, and allthetime he was pushing with his hands- pushing something awayfrom him whichwas not there. So he was not dead. And they led himaway, and took him tothe house at Nykjoping and he died beforethe winter; but he went on pushingwith his hands. Also AndersBjornsen was there; but he was dead. And I tellyou this aboutAnders Bjornsen, that he was once a beautiful man, but nowhisface was not there, because the flesh of it was sucked away offthebones. You understand that? My grandfather did not forget that.And theylaid him on the bier which they had brought, and and theyput a cloth overhis head, and the priest walked before; and theybegin to sing the psalm forthe dead as well as they could. So, asthey were singing the end of thefirst verse, one fell down, whowas carrying the head of the bier, and theothers looked back, andthey saw that the cloth had fallen off, and the eyesof AndersBjornsen were looking up, because there was nothing to closeoverthem.And this they could not bear. Therefore the priest laidthe cloth uponhim, and sent for a spade, and they buried him inthat place." The next day Mr Wraxall records that the deaconcalled for him soon afterhis breakfast, and took him to thechurch and mausoleum. He noticed that thekey of the latter washung on a nail just by the pulpit, and it occurred tohim that, asthe church door seemed to be left unlocked as a rule, it wouldnotbe difficult for him to pay a second and more private visit tothemonuments if there proved to be more of interest among themthan could bedigested at first. The building, when he entered it,he found notunimposing. The monuments, mostly large erections ofthe seventeenth andeighteenth centuries, were dignified ifluxuriant,and the epitaphs andheraldry were copious. The centralspace of the domed room was occupied bythree copper sarcophagi,covered with finely engraved ornament. Two of themhad, as iscommonly the case in Denmark and Sweden, a large metal crucifixonthe lid. The third,that of Count Magnus, as it appeared, had,instead ofthat, a full-length effigy engraved upon it, and roundthe edge were severalbands of similar ornament representingvarious scenes. one was a battle,with cannon belching out smoke,and walled towns, and troops of pikemen.Another showed anexecution. In a third, among trees, was a man running atfullspeed, with flying hair and outstretched hands. After himfollowed astrange form; it would be hard to say whether theartist had intended it fora man, and was unable to give it therequisite similitude, or whether it wasintentionally made asmonstrous as it looked. In view of the skill withwhich the restof the drawing was done, Mr Wraxall felt inclined to adoptthelatter idea. the figure was unduly short, and was for the mostpartmuffled in a hooded garment which swept the ground. The onlypart of theform which projected from that shelter was not shapedlike any hand or arm.Mr Wraxall compares it to the tentacle of adevil-fish, and continues:"Onseeing this, I said to myself,"This,then which is evidently an allegoricalrepresentation of some kind-a fiend pursuing a hunted soul - may be theorigin of the story ofCount Magnus and his mysterious companion. Let us seehow thehuntsman is pictured: doubtless it will be a demon blowinghishorn." But, as it turned out, there was no suchsensational figure, only thesemblance of a cloaked man on ahillock, who stood leaning on a stick, andwatching the hunt withan interest which the engraver had tried to expressin hisattitude. Mr Wraxall noted the finely-worked and massive steelpadlocks - three innumber - which secured the sarcophagus. One ofthem, he saw, was detached,and lay upon the pavement. And then,unwilling to delay the deacon longer orwaste his own workingtime, he made his onward to the manor-house, "It is curious," he notes, "how, on retracing a familiar path, oneÍsthoughtsengross one to the absolute exclusion of surrounding objects.Tonight,for the second time, I had entirely failed to notice where Iwasgoing (I had planned a private visit to the tomb-house to copytheepitaphs), when I suddenly, as it were, awoke toconsciousness, and foundmyself (as before) turning in at thechurchyard gate, and, as I believe,singing or chanting some somesuch words as, "Are you awake, CountMagnus?Are you asleep,Count Magnus?" and then something more which I havefailed torecollect. It seemed to me that I must have been behaving inthisnonsensical way for some time." He found the key of themausoleum where he had expected to find it, andcopied the greaterpart of what he wanted; in fact, he stayed until thelight beganto fail him. "I must have been wrong," he writes,"in saying that one of the locks ofthe Count's sarcophaguswas unfastened; I see tonight that two are loose. Ipicked bothup, and laid them carefully on the window-ledge, aftertryingunsuccessfully to close them. The remaining one is stillfirm, and, though Itake it to be a spring lock, I cannot guesshow it is opened. Had Isucceeded in undoing it, I am almostafraid I should have taken the libertyof opening the sarcophagus.It is strange, the interest I feel in thepersonality of this, Ifear, somewhat ferocious and grim old noble." The dayfollowing was, as it turned out, the last of Mr Wraxall's stayatRŒbŠck. He received letters connected with certaininvestments which made itdesirable that he should return toEngland; his work among the papers waspractically done, andtravelling was slow. He decided, therefore, to makehis farewells,put some finishing touches to his notes, and be off. Thesefinishing touches and farewells, as it turned out,took moretimethan he had expected. The hospitable family insisted on hisstaying to dinewith them - they dined at three - and it wasverging on half past six beforehe was outside the iron gates of RŒbŠck.He dwelt on every step of his walkby the lake, determined tosaturate himself, now that he trod it for thelast time, in thesentiment of the place and hour. And when he reached thesummit ofthe church yard knoll, he lingered for many minutes, gazing atthelimitless prospect of woods near and distant, all dark beneatha sky ofliquid green. When at last he turned to go, the thoughtstruck him thatsurely he must bid farewell to Count Magnus aswell as the rest of the De laGardies. The church was but twentyyards away, and he knew where the key ofthe mausoleum hung. Itwas not long before he was standing over the greatcopper coffin,and as usual, talking to himself aloud:"You may have beenabit of a rascal in your time, Magnus, " he was saying,"butfor all that Ishould like to see you, or rather-" "Justat that instant," he says, "I felt a blow on my foot.HastilyenoughI drew it back, and something fell on the pavement with aclash. It was thethird, the last of the three padlocks which hadfastened the sarcophagus. Istooped to pick it up, and - Heaven ismy witness that I am writing only thebare truth - before I hadraised myself there was a sound of metal hingescreaking, and Idistinctly saw the lid shifting upwards. I may have behavedlike acoward, but I could not for my life stay for one moment. Iwasoutside that dreadful building in less time than I can write -almost asquickly as I could have said - the words; and whatfrightens me yet more, Icould not turn the key in the lock. As Isit here in my room noting thesefacts, I ask myself (it was nottwenty minutes ago) whether that noise ofcreaking metalcontinued, and I cannot tell whether it did or not. I onlyknowthat there was something more than I have written that alarmedme, butwhether it was sound or sight I am not able to remember.What is this that Ihave done?" Poor Mr Wraxall! he set outon his journey to England on the next day, ashe had planned, andhe reached England in safety; and yet, as I judge fromhis changedhand and inconsequent jottings, a broken man.One of theseveralsmall note-books that have come to me with his papersgives, not a key to,but a kind of inkling of, his experiences.Much of his journey was bycanal-boat, and I find not less thansix painful attempts to enumerate anddescribe his fellow-passengers.The entries are of this kind:24. Pastor of village in SkŒne.Usual black coat and soft black hat.25. Commercial Traveller fromStockholm going to TrollhŠttan. Black cloak,brown hat.26.Manin long black cloak, broad-leafed hat, very old-fashioned.Thisentry is lined out, and a note added:"Perhaps identical withNo.13.Have not yet seen his face." On referring to No. 13, Ifind that he is aRoman priest in a cassock. The net result of thereckoning is always the same. Twenty-eight peopleappear in theenumeration, one being always a man in a long black cloakandbroad hat, and the other a 'short figure in dark cloak andhood'. On theother hand, it is always noted that only twenty-sixpassengers appear atmeals, and that the man in the cloak isperhaps absent, and the short figureis certainly absent. Onreaching England, it appears that Mr Wraxall landed at Harwich,andthat he resolved at once to put himself out of the reach ofsome person orpersons whom he never specifies, but whom he hadevidently come to regard ashis pursuers. Accordingly he took avehicle - it was a closed fly - nottrusting the railway, anddrove across country to the village of Belchamp StPaul. It wasabout nine o'clock on a moonlight August night when he nearedtheplace. He was sitting forward, and looking out of the window atthefields and thickets - there was little else to be seen -racing past him.Suddenly he came to a cross-road. At the cornertwo figures were standingmotionless; both were in dark cloaks;the taller one wore a hat, the shortera hood. He had no time tosee their faces, nor did they make any motion thathe coulddiscern. Yet the horse shied violently and broke into a gallop,andMr Wraxall sank back into his seat in something likedesperation.he had seenthem before. Arrived at Belchamp St.Paul,he was fortunate enough to find a decentfurnished lodging, andfor the next twenty-four hours he lived,comparatively speaking,in peace. His last notes were written on thisday.They are toodisjointed and ejaculatory to be given here in full, butthesubstance of them is clear enough.He is expecting a visit fromhispursuers - how or when he knows not - and his constant cry is"What has hedone?" and "Is there no hope?"Doctors, he knows, would call him mad,policemen would laugh athim.The parson is away. What can he do but lock hisdoor and cryto God? People still remember last year at Belchamp St Paul how astrangegentleman came one evening in August years back; and howthe next morningbut one he was found dead, and there was aninquest; and the jury thatviewed the body fainted, seven of 'emdid, and none of 'em wouldn't speak towhat they see, and theverdict was was visitation of God; and how the peopleas kep' the'ouse moved out that same week, and went away from that part.Butthey do not, I think, know that any glimmer of light has beenthrown, orcould be thrown, on the mystery. It so happened thatlast year the littlehouse came into my hands as part of a legacy.It had stood empty since 1863,and there seemed no prospect ofletting it; so I had it pulled down, and thepapers of which Ihave given you an abstract were found in a forgottencupboardunder the window in the best bedroom.