by Graeme Davis
*A lithographic print textured to resemble an oil painting.
†In British dialect of the time, this word referred to bundles of firewood.
‡Not the actor, but a battle that took place on the England-Scotland border in 1388. The “Chevy Chase” was a hunting preserve in the Cheviot Hills of Northumberland, where the battle was fought.
UNEXPLAINED
by Mary Louisa Molesworth
1888
Mary Louisa Stewart was born in Rotterdam; her father was an English merchant who moved to Manchester and became prosperous enough to have her educated in Britain and Switzerland. At the age of twenty-two, she married a Major Molesworth, the nephew of an Irish Viscount. They were legally separated after eighteen years, but by then Mary had established herself as a popular writer, best known for her children’s books: one critic dubbed her “the Jane Austen of the nursery.” She kept her estranged husband’s name, publishing as “Mrs. Molesworth” or occasionally as “M. L. S. Molesworth.” Most of her children’s stories have not aged well; they are too full of simplistic, saccharine moralism for modern tastes.
Her novels for adult readers appeared under the pseudonym “Ennis Graham.” She published two collections of uncanny fiction: Four Ghost Stories (1888) and Uncanny Stories (1896), as well as a handful of ghost stories in her other collections.
“Unexplained” amounts almost to a novella, but it is one of her best. It was first published in 1888, in Four Ghost Stories.
PART I
“For facts are stubborn things.” —SMOLLETT.
Silberbach! What in the name of everything that is eccentric should you go there for? The most uninteresting, out-of-the-way, altogether unattractive little hole in all Germany? What can have put Silberbach in your head?”
“I really don’t know,” I answered, rather tired, to tell the truth, of the discussion. “There doesn’t seem any particular reason why anybody ever should go to Silberbach, except that Goethe and the Duke of Weimar are supposed to have gone there to dance with the peasant maidens. I certainly don’t see that that is any reason why I should go there. Still, on the other hand, I don’t see that it is any reason why I should not ? I only want to find some thoroughly country place where the children and I can do as we like for a fortnight or so. It is really too hot to stay in a town, even a little town like this.”
“Yes, that is true,” said my friend. “It is a pity you took up your quarters in the town. You might have taken a little villa outside, and then you would not have needed to go away at all.”
“I wanted a rest from housekeeping, and our queer old inn is very comfortable,” I said. “Besides, being here, would it not be a pity to go away without seeing anything of the far-famed Thuringian Forest?”
“Yes, certainly it would. I quite agree with you about everything except about Silberbach. That is what I cannot get over. You have not enough self-assertion, my dear. I am certain Silberbach is some freak of Herr von Walden’s—most unpractical man. Why, I really am not at all sure that you will get anything to eat there.”
“I am not afraid of that part of it,” I replied philosophically. “With plenty of milk, fresh eggs, and bread and butter, we can always get on. And those I suppose we are sure to find.”
“Milk and eggs—yes, I suppose so. Butter is doubtful once you leave the tourist track, and the bread will be the sour bread of the country.”
“I don’t mind that—nor do the children. But if the worst comes to the worst we need not stay at Silberbach—we can always get away.”
“That is certainly true; if one can get there, one can, I suppose, always get away,” answered Fräulein Ottilia with a smile, “though I confess it is a curious inducement to name for going to a place—that one can get away from it! However, we need not say any more about it. I see your heart is set on Silberbach, and I am quite sure I shall have the satisfaction of hearing you own I was right in trying to dissuade you from it, when you come back again,” she added, rather maliciously.
“Perhaps so. But it is not only Silberbach we are going to. We shall see lots of other places. Herr von Walden has planned it all. The first three days we shall travel mostly on foot. I think it will be great fun. Nora and Reggie are enchanted. Of course I would not travel on foot alone with them; it would hardly be safe, I suppose?”
“Safe? oh yes, safe enough. The peasants are very quiet, civil people—honest and kindly, though generally desperately poor! But you would be safe enough anywhere in Thuringia. It is not like Alsace, where now and then one does meet with rather queer customers in the forests. So good-bye, then, my dear, for the next two or three weeks—and may you enjoy yourself.”
“Especially at Silberbach?”
“Even at Silberbach—that is to say, even if I have to own you were right and I wrong. Yes, my dear, I am unselfish enough to hope you will return having found Silberbach an earthly paradise.”
And waving her hand in adieu, kind Fräulein Ottilia stood at her garden-gate watching me make my way down the dusty road.
“She is a little prejudiced, I daresay,” I thought to myself. “Prejudiced against Herr von Walden’s choice, for I notice every one here has their pet places and their special aversions. I daresay we shall like Silberbach, and if not, we need not stay there after the Waldens leave us. Anyway, I shall be thankful to get out of this heat into the real country.”
I was spending the summer in a part of Germany hitherto new ground to me. We had—the “we” meaning myself and my two younger children, Nora of twelve and Reggie of nine—settled down for the greater part of the time in a small town on the borders of the Thuringian Forest. Small, but not in its own estimation unimportant, for it was a “Residenz,” with a fortress of sufficiently ancient date to be well worth visiting, even had the view from its ramparts been far less beautiful than it was. And had the little town possessed no attractions of its own, natural or artificial, the extreme cordiality and kindness of its most hospitable inhabitants would have left the pleasantest impression on my mind. I was sorry to leave my friends even for two or three weeks, but it was too hot! Nora was pale and Reggie’s noble appetite gave signs of flagging. Besides—as I had said to Ottilia—it would be too absurd to have come so far and not see the lions of the neighbourhood.
So we were to start the next morning for an excursion in the so-called “Forest,” in the company of Herr von Walden, his wife and son, and two young men, friends of the latter. We were to travel by rail over the first part of the ground, uninteresting enough, till we reached a point where we could make our way on foot through the woods for a considerable distance. Then, after spending the night in a village whose beautiful situation had tempted some enterprising speculator to build a good hotel, we proposed the next day to plunge still deeper into the real recesses of the forest, walking and driving by turns, in accordance with our inclination and the resources of the country in respect of Einspänners—the light carriage with the horse invariably yoked at one side of the pole instead of between shafts, in which one gets about more speedily and safely than might be imagined. And at the end of three or four days of this, weather permitting, agreeably nomad life, our friends the Waldens, obliged to return to their home in the town from which we started, were to leave my children and me for a fortnight’s country air in this same village of Silberbach which Ottilia so vehemently objected to. I did not then, I do not now, know—and I am pretty sure he himself could not say—why our guide, Herr von Walden, had chosen Silberbach from among the dozens of other villages which could quite as well—as events proved, indeed, infinitely better—have served our very simple purpose. It was a chance, as such things often are, but a chance which, as you will see, left its mark in a manner which can never be altogether effaced from my memory.
The programme was successfully carried out. The weather was magnificent. Nobody fell ill or footsore, or turned out unexpectedly bad-tempered. And it was hot enough, even in the forest shades, which we kept to as much as possible, to hav
e excused some amount of irritability. But we were all sound and strong, and had entered into a tacit compact of making the best of things and enjoying ourselves as much as we could. Nora and Reggie perhaps, by the end of the second day, began to have doubts as to the delights of indefinitely continued walking excursions; and though they would not have owned to it, they were not, I think, sorry to hear that the greater part of the fourth day’s travels was to be on wheels. But they were very well off. Lutz von Walden and his two friends—a young baron, rather the typical “German student” in appearance, though in reality as hearty and unsentimental as any John Bull of his age and rank—and George Norman, an English boy of seventeen or eighteen, “getting up” German for an army examination—were all three only too ready to carry my little boy on their backs on any sign of over-fatigue. And, indeed, more than one hint reached me that they would willingly have done the same by Nora, had the dignity of her twelve years allowed of such a thing. She scarcely looked her age at that time, but she was very conscious of having entered “on her teens,” and the struggle between this new importance and her hitherto almost boyish tastes was amusing to watch. She was strong and healthy in the extreme, intelligent though not precocious, observant but rather matter-of-fact, with no undue development of the imagination, nothing that by any kind of misapprehension or exaggeration could have been called “morbid” about her. It was a legend in the family that the word “nerves” existed not for Nora: she did not know the meaning of fear, physical or moral. I could sometimes wish she had never learnt otherwise. But we must take the bad with the good, the shadow inseparable from the light. The first perception of things not dreamt of in her simple childish philosophy came to Nora as I would not have chosen it; but so, I must believe, it had to be.
“Where are we to sleep to-night, Herr von Walden, please?” asked Reggie from the heights of Lutz’s broad shoulders, late that third afternoon, when we were all, not the children only, beginning to think that a rest even in the barest of inn parlours, and a dinner even of the most modest description, would be very welcome.
“Don’t tease so, Reggie,” said Nora. “I’m sure Herr von Walden has told you the name twenty times already.”
“Yes, but I forget it,” urged the child; and good-natured Herr von Walden, nowise loath to do so again, took up the tale of our projected doings and destinations.
“To-night, my dear child, we sleep at the pretty little town—yes, town I may almost call it—of Seeberg. It stands in what I may call an oasis of the forest, which stops abruptly, and begins again some miles beyond Seeberg. We should be there in another hour or so,” he went on, consulting his watch. “I have, of course, written for rooms there, as I have done to all the places where we mean to halt. And so far I have not proved a bad courier, I flatter myself?”
He paused, and looked round him complacently.
“No, indeed,” replied everybody. “The very contrary. We have got on capitally.”
At which the beaming face of our commander-in-chief beamed still more graciously.
“And to-morrow,” continued Reggie in his funny German, pounding away vigorously at Lutz’s shoulders meanwhile, “what do we do to-morrow? We must have an Einspänner—is it not so? not that we are tired, but you said we had far to go.”
“Yes, an Einspänner for the ladies—your amiable mother, Miss Nora, and my wife, and you, Reggie, will find a corner beside the driver. Myself and these young fellows,” indicating the three friends by a wave of the hand, “will start from Seeberg betimes, giving you rendez vous at Ulrichsthal, where there are some famous ruins. And you must not forget,” he added, turning to his wife and me, “to stop at Grünstein as you pass, and spend a quarter of an hour in the china manufactory there.”
“Just what I wanted,” said Frau von Walden. “I have a tea-service from there, and I am in hopes of matching it. I had a good many breakages last winter with a dreadfully careless servant, and there is a good deal to replace.”
“I don’t think I know the Grünstein china,” I said. “Is it very pretty?”
“It is very like the blue-and-white that one sees so much of with us,” said Frau von Walden. “That, the ordinary blue-and-white, is made at Blauenstein. But there is more variety of colours at Grünstein. They are rather more enterprising there, I fancy, and perhaps there is a finer quality of china clay, or whatever they call it, in that neighbourhood. I often wonder the Thuringian china is not more used in England, where you are so fond of novelties.”
“And where nothing is so appreciated as what comes from a distance,” said George Norman. “By Jove! isn’t that a pretty picture!” he broke off suddenly, and we all stood still to admire.
It was the month of August; already the subdued evening lights were replacing the brilliant sunshine and blue sky of the glowing summer day. We were in the forest, through which at this part ran the main road which we were following to Seeberg. At one side of the road the ground descended abruptly to a considerable depth, and there in the defile far beneath us ran a stream, on one bank of which the trees had been for some distance cleared away, leaving a strip of pasture of the most vivid green imaginable. And just below where we stood, a goatherd, in what—thanks possibly to the enchantment of the distance—appeared a picturesque costume, was slowly making his way along, piping as he went, and his flock, of some fifteen or twenty goats of every colour and size, following him according to their own eccentric fashion, some scrambling on the bits of rock a little way up the ascending ground, others quietly browsing here and there on their way—the tinkling of their collar-bells reaching us with a far-away, silvery sound through the still softer and fainter notes of the pipe. There was something strangely fascinating about it all—something pathetic in the goatherd’s music, simple, barbaric even as it was, and in the distant, uncertain tinkling, which impressed us all, and for a moment or two no one spoke.
“What is it that it reminds me of?” said Lutz suddenly. “I seem to have seen and heard it all before.”
“Yes, I know exactly how you mean,” I replied. “It is like a dream;” and as I said so, I walked on again a little in advance of the others with Lutz and his rider. For I thought I saw a philosophical or metaphysical dissertation preparing in Herr von Walden’s bent brows and general look of absorption, and somehow, just then, it would have spoilt it all. Lutz seemed instinctively to understand, for he too for a moment or so was silent, when suddenly a joyful cry arose.
“Seeberg!” exclaimed several voices; for the first sight of our temporary destination broke upon the view all at once, as is often the case in these more or less wooded districts. One travels for hours together as if in an enchanted land of changeless monotony; trees, trees everywhere and nothing but trees—one could fancy late in the afternoon that one was back at the early morning’s starting-point—when suddenly the forest stops, sharply and completely, where the hand of man has decreed that it should, not by gradual degrees as when things have been left to the gentler management of nature and time.
So our satisfaction was the greater from not having known the goal of that day’s journey to be so near. We began to allow to each other for the first time that we were “a little tired,” and with far less hesitation that we were “very hungry.” Still we were not a very dilapidated-looking party when the inhabitants of Seeberg turned out at doors and windows to inspect us. Reggie, of course, whom no consideration could induce to make his entry on Lutz’s shoulders, looking the freshest of all, and eliciting many complimentary remarks from the matrons and maidens of the place as we passed.
Our quarters at Seeberg met with the approval of everybody. The supper was excellent, our rooms as clean and comfortable as could be wished.
“So far,” I could not help saying to my friends, “I have seen no signs of the ‘roughing it’ for which you prepared me. I call this luxurious.”
“Yes, this is very comfortable,” said Herr von Walden. “At Silberbach, which we shall reach to-morrow evening, all will be much more h
omely.”
“But that is what I like,” I maintained stoutly. “I assure you I am not at all difficile, as the French say.”
“Still,” began Frau von Walden, “are you sure that you know what ‘roughing it’ means? One has such romantic, unpractical ideas till one really tries it. For me, I confess, there is something very depressing in being without all the hundred and one little comforts, not to say luxuries, that have become second nature to us, and yet I do not think I am a self-indulgent woman.”
“Certainly not,” I said, and with sincerity.
“If it were necessary,” she went on, “I hope I should be quite ready to live in a cottage and make the best of it cheerfully. But when it is not necessary? Don’t you think, my dear friend, it would perhaps be wiser for you to arrange to spend your two or three weeks here, and not go on to Silberbach? You might return here to-morrow from Ulrichsthal while we make our way home, by Silberbach, if my husband really wishes to see it.”
I looked at her in some surprise. What possessed everybody to caution me so against Silberbach? Everybody, that is to say, except Herr von Walden himself. A spice of contradiction began to influence me. Perhaps the worthy Herr had himself been influenced in the same way more than he realised.
“I don’t see why I should do so,” I said. “We expect really to enjoy ourselves at Silberbach. You have no reason for advising me to give it up?”
“No, oh no—none in particular,” she replied. “I have only a feeling that it is rather out of the way and lonely for you. Supposing, for instance, one of the children got ill there?”
“Oh, my dear, you are too fanciful,” said her husband. “Why should the children get ill there more than anywhere else? If one thought of all these possibilities one would never stir from home.”
“And you know my maid is ready to follow me as soon as I quite settle where we shall stay,” I said. “I shall not be alone more than four-and-twenty hours. Of course it would have been nonsense to bring Lina with us; she would have been quite out of her element during our walking expeditions.”