A German Pompadour
by Hon. Marie Hay · English · Gutenberg #25758 · 766,335 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A German Pompadour
Author: Hon. Marie Hay
Release date: June 11, 2008 [eBook #25758]
Language: English
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A GERMAN POMPADOUR
[Illustration: WILHELMINE REICHSGRÄFIN VON GRÄVENITZ.
_From a Portrait in the collection of Frau Anna Remshardt
at Heilbronn._]
A GERMAN POMPADOUR
Being the Extraordinary History of
WILHELMINE VON GRÄVENITZ
LANDHOFMEISTERIN OF WIRTEMBERG
A NARRATIVE OF
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
BY
MARIE HAY
AUTHOR OF 'DIANNE DE POYTIERS' AND
'AN UNREQUITED LOYALTY'
[Illustration]
SECOND IMPRESSION
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1906
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
THIS
BOOK OF MEMORIES
IS DEDICATED
TO
A MEMORY
PREFACE
'The Past that is not overpast,
But present here.'
IN a dusty, time-soiled packet of legal papers which had lain untouched
for nigh upon two hundred years, the extraordinary history of Wilhelmine
von Grävenitz is set forth in all the colourless reticence of official
documents. And yet something of the thrill of the superstitious fear, and
the virtuous disapproval of the lawyers who composed these writings,
pierces through the stilted phrases. Like a faint fragrance of faded
rose-leaves, a breath of this woman's charm seems to cling and elusively
to peep out of the curt record of her crimes. Enough at least to incite
the wanderer in History's byways to a further study of this potent German
forerunner of the Pompadour.
To search through the Stuttgart archives, to ferret out forgotten books
in dusty old book-shops, to fit together the links in the chain of events
of the woman's story, to haunt the scenes of bygone splendour in deserted
palace and castle, old-world garden and desolate mansion; such has been
the delightful labour which has gone to the telling of the true history
of the Grävenitz. The Land-despoiler the downtrodden peasantry and
indignant burghers named her, for they hated her as their sort must ever
hate the beautiful, elegant, haughty woman of the great world. They
called her sinner, which she was; and she called them canaille, which
they probably were.
And traces of all this linger in Württemberg.[1] They still deem the
Countess Grävenitz a subject to be mentioned with bated breath--a thing
too evil, too terrible, for polite conversation. The very guides at
Ludwigsburg slur over her name, and if they go so far as to mention her,
they say: 'Ja, das war aber eine schlimme Dame,' and turn the talk to
something else. But her memory lives magnificently in the great palace
built for her, in her little 'Château Joyeux' of La Favorite, and in the
many beautiful properties which belonged to this extravagant
Land-despoiler. She came to Württemberg when the country was at a low
financial ebb. Louis XIV. had preyed upon the land for years. Robber
raids they called these wars which he waged for trumped-up pretexts.
After these invasions came the war of the Spanish succession, and
Württemberg lying on the high-road from France to Austria, the
belligerent armies swept over the Swabian land on their way to battle.
The Duke of Württemberg, loyal to his Suzerain the Emperor at Vienna,
joined in the fray and fought bravely at the side of Marlborough and
Eugene of Savoy against the French terror. When Blenheim had been fought
and won, the war-tide swept northwards to the Netherlands, leaving
Southern Germany for the nonce at rest, and Eberhard Ludwig of
Württemberg repaired to Stuttgart to attend to his Duchy's government.
Now began the love-story of his life, the long-drawn episode which made
his name a target for the gossip and scandal of early eighteenth-century
Germany; the episode which changed the simple, stiff family life of the
Württemberg ducal circle to a brilliant, festive court, which travellers
tell us in their memoirs vied in magnificence with the glories of
Versailles itself.
M. H.
STUTTGART, 1905.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE INTRIGUE, 1
II. THE AVE MARIA, 13
III. THE FIRST STEP, 27
IV. THE JOURNEY, 50
V. THE PLAY-ACTING, 68
VI. LOVE'S SPRINGTIDE, 82
VII. THE FULFILMENT, 90
VIII. THE GHETTO, 103
IX. 'SHE COMES TO STAY THIS TIME,' 116
X. THE ATTACK IN THE GROTTO, 129
XI. THE MOCK MARRIAGE, 153
XII. THE MOCK COURT, 167
XIII. THE DUCHESS'S BLACK ROOMS, 181
XIV. THE SECOND MARRIAGE, 196
XV. THE RETURN, 212
XVI. LUDWIGSBURG, 224
XVII. THE BURNING IN EFFIGY, 242
XVIII. THE SINNER'S PALACE, 261
XIX. THE GREAT TRIUMPH AND THE SHADOW, 279
XX. SATIETY, 302
XXI. THE DOWNFALL, 325
XXII. REST, 350
A GERMAN POMPADOUR
CHAPTER I
THE INTRIGUE
'Es ist eine Hofkabale.'--SCHILLER.
ON the outskirts of the village of Oberhausen in South Wirtemberg stands
a deserted house. Rats are its only denizens now; rats and the 'poor
ghosts,' so the peasants say. Two hundred years ago this eerie mansion
was occupied by living men and women, perchance the ghosts of to-day. Who
can tell? But I, who have grown to love them, having studied the depths
of their hearts, I pray that they may rest them well in their graves, and
that the Neuhaus ghosts be not my friends of 1705.
It was a fitting place for intrigues this Neuhaus, standing as it did so
near in actual mileage to the court of Stuttgart, and hard by the Jesuit
centre of Rottenburg. The high-road was close at hand, yet Neuhaus, shut
off by peaceful fields, was hidden from the passer-by, and here began the
great intrigue, as it was called then. Of a truth the plot, as it was
conceived, was no mighty thing; it was designed, as many another gossamer
web of court gallantry and petty pecuniary gain, for obscure individuals;
but great it became through the potent will of a woman.
On a dreary November afternoon of the year 1705, a party of four was
assembled in the Neuhaus, the seldom-used country mansion of Madame de
Ruth, an important personage at Stuttgart's court, and of Monsieur de
Ruth, an undistinguished character, who played no rôle that we know of,
save to bequeath his ancient name--and the Neuhaus--to his relict.
The house was a long, two-storied building, with large, black wooden
beams showing quaintly outside against the white plastered walls; it was
no imposing structure, but a certain air of melancholy aloofness lent it
distinction.
A high wall shut off the village street on the one side, while to the
south and east the mansion was surrounded by a garden. A row of
beech-trees grew close to the windows, a narrow pathway led from a side
door across the garden to a vast orchard. It was doubtless a beautiful
spot in spring or summer, but on this November afternoon it was
inexpressibly dreary. The rain had beaten down the unkempt grass, which
lay in draggled sheaves along the edges of the pathway. Brown, fallen
beech leaves made a sodden carpet around the tree-roots; the trees
themselves, bare and gaunt, lifted their grey, leafless branches towards
the hurrying, wind-driven clouds. The wind moaned fitfully round the
house; every now and then, as though in uncontrollable wrath, it broke
forth into a whistling howl. At intervals bursts of rain were borne by
the tempest against the windows, adding a hurried patter to the tapping
of the long beech branches, which grew near enough to enable the wind to
drive them against the window-panes, while the greater branches strained
and creaked in the blast. Rain-laden clouds swept across the sky,
hastening the darkness of approaching night. It seemed strange that on so
desolate a gloaming the inmates of the Neuhaus had not drawn the curtains
to shut out the sadness of the storm-ravaged garden. The windows remained
like despairing, unblinking eyes gazing at the desolate scene without.
The room wherein was assembled the small company was unlit, save from the
glow from the embers in the stove. The upper grating had been opened, and
in the furnace a handful of half-dry wood sputtered and crackled, rising
sometimes to a momentary flame, in whose glow four persons threw
strangely contorted shadows on the ceiling. But for this, and a faint,
uncertain light which crept through the windows, the room was entirely
dark. When the wood flared, a lady seated to the left of the stove cast a
caricature-like shadow slantwise on the ceiling, her head seeming
gigantic in its piled-up masses of elaborately dressed hair. In the
middle of the room was a huddled figure bending over the centre table. It
seemed to be a mere heap of dark garments. The firelight caught and
illumined a white ruffle and large pale hand belonging to this figure,
but as it was flung out across the sombre covering of the table, the arm
was invisible, and only the hand in the ruffled sleeve could be seen, and
it seemed like some hideous dismembered thing. Outlined against the
fading light stood a tall figure with an enormous ringleted wig falling
far over the shoulders. When this being moved, his shadow, thrown upon
the ceiling by the embers' glow, appeared to join in the wavering,
dance-like movements of the other shadows, and seemed like some ungainly
monster. One portion of the room was not reached either by light of fire
or fading day, and out of this utter darkness came the sound of repressed
sobbing, which alone revealed the presence of a fourth member of this
lugubrious party. For many minutes the silence was unbroken save for the
stealthy sobbing, the sough of the wind without, the pattering rain, and
the tap-tap of the twigs on the windows, sounding for all the world like
the fumbling of invisible fingers seeking for admittance. The man at the
centre table broke silence at length.
'Impossible!' he said in a harsh voice. 'Madame la Baronne cannot imagine
we can live in Stuttgart at the court,' this last pompously, in spite of
the real distress of the voice. 'How can we? on five hundred gulden a
year and debts to pay--alas! No! I must return to the army, only coming
on leave once a year to fulfil my court appointment; and, Marie, you must
live in Rottenburg with your mother while I am away.'
At this a figure moved out of the darkness behind the stove, and another
fantastic shadow was cast upon the ceiling.
'Never, Friedrich! It is cruel to ask it. You know well enough that, if
you did not gamble, we could live quite finely on what we have got. Your
duties as Kammerjunker need not keep you for ever in Stuttgart; we might
live in Rottenburg.' She clasped her hands, her voice trembled between
tears and anger.
'Rottenburg----' The man's voice was full of scorn, vibrating with
derision. 'Ah! yes!--Mass each morning, and----'
'Friedrich, I will never let you return to the army; rather would I
humble myself before that wicked woman, Madame de Geyling, and beg her
to influence Serenissimus to give you a higher and better paid
appointment. I tell you----'
'Madame,' broke in a deep voice, and the figure at the window moved
forward, 'there are other ways of gaining gold at court; a beautiful
woman need never be poor, I can vouch----'
'Monsieur de Stafforth!' almost shouted the first speaker, 'you address
my wife! I am poor, but the honour of a wife of a Grävenitz shall not be
smirched.'
'Your pardon, Kammerjunker, but we were discussing necessities, not
ideals, and surely I proposed a great honour. Serenissimus is charming;
besides, there are others----'
The hostess, whose shadow we have seen on the ceiling, rose and joined
the three disputants.
'My friends, only fools end their conclaves with quarrels. We have been
discussing ways and means for the continuance of our friends Monsieur and
Madame de Grävenitz's court life, and finding no practical scheme, here
is Grävenitz crying out that he will return to the army. Marie Grävenitz,
after sobbing her heart out, flies into a rage and declares she will go
whining to that upstart Geyling! And you, Monsieur de Stafforth,
Hofmarshall and successful courtier, propose terms to a young husband in
so unpolished a fashion, that even a peasant would be obliged to retort
with the old affectation of a wife's honour and purity. Now hear me; I
know the court better than you do----' The darkness hid the meaning
smiles which played over the lips of the others, for Frau von Ruth
(Madame de Ruth as she was named at court, German being considered as a
language only fitting for peasants' use) was well known to have a
knowledge of court life not compatible with strictly decorous behaviour.
'Well! and I say to you, where there is a court there is always a way.
And if you will so far honour me as to drink a bowl of punch to lighten
our wits, we may find some solution of our friends' difficulties. First
let me call for lights, and let me shut out this dreary evening. Courage,
my friends! I warrant we shall smile some day at our present desperate
straits, and meanwhile "to wait" is the verb we must conjugate.'
Madame de Ruth went to the door and called for light. A sullen-faced
peasant boy appeared, carrying two silver candlesticks of a handsome old
German design. He placed them on the middle table, and the feeble yellow
flame of the waxen tapers shed a flicker into the long, gloomy room. Then
he stood idly staring, with the heavy dull-wittedness of the Swabian
peasant. Madame de Ruth eyed him for a moment, with that half-humorous,
half-pitying glance which she was wont to bestow on those she found
stupid. She was an odd-tempered, free-mannered woman, deeply crafty,
absolutely unmoral, and yet with a true kindliness of heart and a
thorough understanding of human nature which, together with her ready
laugh, her clever, indecorous anecdotes and sharp wit, made her
attractive. For these traits people forgave her her ugly face and fifty
years of a past even less reputable than was usual in the eighteenth
century.
In her early youth, it was whispered, the Duke Wilhelm Ludwig, father of
the reigning Duke of Wirtemberg, had initiated her into the ways of the
world in general and of courts in particular; in gratitude wherefore she
was reputed to have performed the same office, twenty years later, for
his son Eberhard Ludwig. The Duke of Zollern, several Hohenlohes, and
many Gemmingens had been her slaves; not to mention other less
illustrious cavaliers to whom she had been rather more than kind. She was
now a useful friend to princes, and new arrivals at court found her
friendship indispensable, especially if the new arrival happened to be a
lady with aspirations to royal favour and a career. Up to date these
careers had been brilliant but short, and Madame de Ruth had generally
played an important part in each.
'Ah! Dieu! ces paysans, quelles brutes!' she said, as she looked at her
servant; and then speaking in the rough Wirtemberg dialect she continued:
'Heinrich, thy mother gave thee hands; God knows thy father did not
forget thy big feet. Use both and bring the punch, as I told thee; or I
will give thee hay for thy evening meal, as were fitting for an ass's
feed!' This somewhat drastic speech seemed to please the lad and to stir
up his slow wits, but the company looked surprised at the familiarity of
the 'thou,' it being the general custom in those days for superiors to
address their inferiors in the third person singular. Directly to address
a serving-man or maid was deemed incorrect, for it would have betokened
an unfitting equality. However, Madame de Ruth's peasant lad responded
with alacrity to his lady's homely speech, and in an astonishingly short
time he reappeared with an enormous bowl of the steaming hot spirits--the
punch, which Marlborough's army had brought into fashion on the
Continent, and which the damp of South Germany in the autumn made a
welcome beverage.
'Come, my friends, and drink to the sharpening of our wits, which are
strangely dull this evening. I must announce to you that I await the
visit to-night of the Duke of Zollern, but this cruel weather has proved,
I fear, too much even for his youthful sixty years.'
'Madame,' said Monsieur de Stafforth, 'if the Duke of Zollern does not
brave the elements, in order to visit you, he must indeed be feeling his
sixty years.'
'Stafforth, do not natter me in that tone. I adore flattery, but a stupid
compliment is worse than an insult. You know the Duke of Zollern and
myself have long ceased incommoding ourselves for each other's sakes,
with the consequence that we are really friends. He sees me when he
wishes, and I see him when I feel inclined. After twenty years _nous
avons fini nos simagrées_; but after all, listen, I think I hear wheels.'
Her ugly old face flushed through the overlying paint and powder. In
spite of her protest, Madame de Ruth had a remnant of her youth--a poor,
faded flower of sentiment for this old man. A huge lumbering coach drew
up at the door, and therefrom descended a small and shrunken figure, with
a wrinkled, dried-up face. A voluminous peruke fell over the padded
shoulders, rich lace ruffles adorned the sleeves of the brown satin
longcoat, a waistcoat of heavily embroidered brocade reached far down,
nearly to the shrunken knees, below which were a pair of calves thin as
pipe-stems and adorned with brown silken hose; the shoes were of brown
leather with high, red heels and enormous ribbon rosettes and diamond
buckles. One withered hand held a cane with a china top, on which, could
you have examined it, you would have found mythological subjects depicted
with much delicacy of workmanship, but less delicacy of sentiment. A beau
indeed, elegant, lavish, and with that air for the which Monsieur de
Stafforth, adventurer and burgher by birth, would have given many a year
of his successful climbing career to have possessed even a shade,--the
indescribable and inimitable air of the Grand Seigneur.
Madame de Ruth met this gentleman at the door of her abode, her peasant
servant standing behind her, holding a flaring torch to light the entry
of his Grace. She curtseyed deeply, and Monsieur de Zollern, having
successfully hobbled from his coach, returned her salute with so
tremendous a bow, that the long feather of his three-cornered hat swept
the floor.
'I had almost given up the expectation of your visit, Monseigneur,' said
the lady, 'but now you are here, the pleasure is all the greater'; and as
he bowed once more over her hand, she whispered: 'Pleasure you always
gave me, dear friend.'
'Madame chère amie, those times are past, alas! Enfin! we can still laugh
together.'
They passed on through the gloomy corridor, and Madame de Ruth herself
threw open the door of the salon, crying as she did so: 'The Duke of
Zollern and Punch together must make even a dark day bright!'
'Madame, in these days the last title might describe me perfectly,' he
said. Then as he saw the inquiring look on the faces around him, he
added: 'Autrefois j'étais polichon, aujourd'hui, hélas! ne suis-je qu'un
vieux Polichinelle--"Punch" they call it in England.'
'Monseigneur, Punch must be a pretty wit indeed if he be like your
Grace,' said Stafforth, with his usual desire to ingratiate himself with
the great of the earth; but Monsieur de Zollern did not deign to answer.
Like Madame de Ruth he preferred less directly expressed adulation. 'The
fine flavour of flattery is delicious,' he was wont to aver, 'but like
all else in life, to practise it requires an expert or a genius. Open
compliments on any subject are like sausages, to be appreciated by
peasants and our greasy friends the burghers, but for us--we cannot
digest them!' So he looked away from Stafforth, giving his attention to
the Grävenitz couple. 'Madame de Grävenitz,' he said, 'I observed you at
Mass in the Cathedral of Rottenburg a few days since. God forgives the
inattention at Mass of an old man when he sleeps; of a young man when he
loves; and the wandering attention of an _old_ man blessed with a _young_
heart the Almighty will surely pardon, for He Himself must admire beauty,
since He made it.' Madame de Grävenitz looked perturbed. She was a good
and conscientious Catholic, and this light way of speaking of things
sacred seemed alarmingly daring to her; also, being rather stupid, it
bewildered her, and she had no answer for the old courtier.
'Ah, Monsieur de Grävenitz,' continued Zollern, 'what news from
Mecklemburg? Does not your heart smite you when you think of the country
which gave you birth?'
'Monseigneur, it was the only gift Mecklemburg ever gave me, and indeed,
to-night I am hardly grateful for the gift. What is the use of life when
it is so fierce a struggle not to die of hunger?' he said, and drained
his glass of punch. 'I have such simple tastes.--Madame de Ruth, may I
drink another glass of your excellent punch?--I have such simple tastes,
and even these I cannot satisfy!'
The Duke of Zollern watched him, and his fine smile was more of a
commentary than many a spoken word. Grävenitz observing it broke into a
laugh, which was echoed by the company.
'Monseigneur,' said Madame de Ruth, 'we have been sitting here in the
dark for two hours discussing Grävenitz's future. I mean, of course, his
fortune; we always say future when we mean fortune! He vows that if more
gulden cannot be lured into his pocket, he must retire from court. We can
find no way out of our friend's dilemma. Can you suggest some course?'
'Madame, to serve a friend of yours I am always ready! Surely
Serenissimus will not willingly lose a courtier he has delighted in; but
at this moment, I believe, Monsieur de Stafforth will bear me out when I
say all the court charges are engaged; and Monsieur de Grävenitz, not
being of the sex, cannot hold the most important charge of any court, for
Madame de Geyling usurps that! So what can I suggest?'
Madame de Ruth was thoughtful for a moment; then, throwing up her hands,
she exclaimed: 'And you call me a woman with wits? For two long hours
have we deliberated and found nothing, and it needed the punch-bowl to
give me an idea! We want three things, nay, four: to help Grävenitz with
funds; to dethrone that Geyling, whose airs and graces have become
intolerable; Monsieur de Stafforth seeks a friend in the Duke's intimate,
most intimate, council; and our Mother Church desires a friend there
too.' She ticked off each succeeding clause on her much-beringed fingers.
'Monsieur de Grävenitz, you once told me you had a pretty sister wasting
her charms at Güstrow. Let us put her in the Geyling's place! A few years
of that envied position and we achieve our first two objects! Stafforth,
my friend, you are the man to find means of gaining your aims thereby as
well.' The adventurer smiled fatuously. 'And the Church--ah, we forget
the Church!' At these words the mocking smile faded from Zollern's face;
his expression was that of a man whose interest was stirred, as indeed it
was; for though to Monseigneur de Zollern there was nothing sacred, and
he subjected all things to his biting wit, he gave conscientious
allegiance to the Church of Rome, which he regarded as the only faith
fitted for a gentleman. He belonged to the political party desirous of
governing Wirtemberg in conjunction with the Jesuits. No matter that the
people were strict and bigoted Protestants, or that the adoption of Roman
Catholicism would mean the revolt of half the population; he considered
the religious beliefs of burghers to be but pawns in that vast political
game which was being played at that time in Europe, and in Germany in
particular, under the name of religion. Wirtemberg was governed by a
Protestant ruler, the people regarded the Roman Faith as the religion of
Antichrist, but the nobles were nearly all Catholics; and as long as
Wirtemberg remained Protestant, they, naturally, played but small rôles
in the government. The peasants of Wirtemberg had more freedom than any
other people of the Empire. A heavy, stubborn race, these Wirtembergers,
hating their French-speaking rulers and jealously safeguarding those
ancient rights and liberties accorded to them by the testament of
Eberhard der Greiner in 1514. This Magna Charta of Swabia granted the
people a degree of freedom which was exceedingly irksome to the Dukes of
Wirtemberg. The nobles of the land who regarded themselves as too mighty
to attend the petty court of Stuttgart, for the most part sulked in their
castles, or repaired to the imperial court in Vienna. The Dukes of
Wirtemberg had perforce accepted this with as good grace as possible, but
when Eberhard Ludwig attained his majority he welcomed foreigners from
every part of Germany, forming from this band of usually noble, but
invariably penniless, adventurers a court of a certain magnificence and
brilliance. 'Here it is possible to enrich oneself; whereas in all other
courts it is impossible not to be ruined,' Monsieur de Pöllnitz tells us
of the Wirtemberg of Eberhard Ludwig's day.
It was in this wise that Stafforth, a man of little birth from Hanover,
had succeeded in becoming an important person, and even pushed and
intrigued himself into the high position of Oberhofmarshall.
Herr Friedrich Wilhelm von Grävenitz, another courtier and newcomer, was
a gentleman of Mecklemburg. He had served in one of the Mecklemburg
regiments attached to Marlborough's troops when that great general, with
the Imperial Army, defended the banks of the Rhine from the invasion of
Louis XIV.
Duke Eberhard Ludwig espoused the cause of his suzerain, the Austrian
Emperor, and at the head of such troops as he could muster out of
Wirtemberg joined the Allied Army serving under the Duke of Marlborough.
On his return from the campaign he brought with him, on a visit to
Stuttgart, several gentlemen, his comrades in arms, among whom was
Grävenitz. This young soldier having little to gain by returning to
Mecklemburg, and finding Stuttgart a pleasant abode, remained at Eberhard
Ludwig's court; married a Fräulein von Stuben of Rottenburg on the
Neckar, hard by Tübingen; was created Kammerjunker to the Duke, and, as
we have just seen, felt himself in spite of this office but ill-rewarded
for having taken domicile in Wirtemberg.
'The Church, Madame,' said the Duke of Zollern, 'is in so sorry a plight
in this country, that she will certainly be ready to assist herself by
the means you mention. But, in this case, we are not sure if the "means"
be willing; for I fear Mademoiselle de Grävenitz, like her brother, is
of the Protestant sect? Is that not so, Grävenitz?'
'Monseigneur, my sister is not made of martyr stuff. I fancy that she
would be willing to further the aims of the Church, were it in her power
to do so, and if it were clearly to her advantage. We are talking
openly,' he added with a slight flush, for he was still young, only
four-and-twenty, and more used to the ruder if more honest code of the
camp, than to court manners and customs.
'Now let us consider our strategics,' said Madame de Ruth. 'Bonté divine!
How it refreshes one to have a scheme on hand! Stafforth, you say
nothing? Marie, you are shocked; how foolish in this workaday world! Why,
girl, each does what he can; and, believe me, it is not a lazy life I
propose for your sister-in-law. God does not forgive the lazy--it is one
of the deadly sins--especially at court. Allons! Let us consider:
Monsieur de Stafforth remind us of the dates of the coming court
festivities! A ball? No! A ball is useful during a well-started intrigue.
I have it! there will be theatricals in the Lusthaus on the 29th of
April. Three days? Perfect! And your sister sings? Grävenitz, how does
she sing?'
'Well, Madame, divinely well; but her voice is deep, very low--a dark
rich voice that mad old dreamer, the schoolmaster at Güstrow, calls
it----' he began, but the garrulous lady interrupted eagerly:
'Heaven guard the boy for a simpleton! Do you not know the invincible
thrill of the new, the unaccustomed? We are all sick to death of the
Geyling's shrill pipe; your sister's voice would be invaluable, as a
contrast.'
'When Madame de Ruth talks it is like the ripple of the brooks,' said
Zollern laughing; 'your pardon, dear friend, that I interrupt! Your plan
is admirable, but first let us get the lady here, see her, hear her, and
then we shall know what to do. Meanwhile I must go homewards. Monsieur de
Berga, my old friend, who bores me with his virtue but holds me by his
well-tried affection, awaits me for supper, and I have a long road before
me ere I get to my house.'
So saying, the Duke of Zollern rose to depart. 'Berga!' laughed Madame de
Ruth, 'there is the very man we want for the end of our intrigue! When
his Highness has plucked the flower and enjoyed its sweetness, we will
give it to Berga to dry between the leaves of his Bible! He shall marry
Mademoiselle de Grävenitz in a few years' time; it will be a pious act
for him, and a small reward to us for having borne his lectures with such
good grace this twenty years.' Zollern smiled. He knew his austere old
friend too well, and he could not picture him in the ridiculous rôle of
husband of a cast-off courtesan. With a profound salute the old beau took
leave of the company, and followed his hostess into the ill-lit corridor.
'A fine plan, dear friend, a very fine plan! By the way, let us hope this
Grävenitz girl talks a little better French than does her sister-in-law.
I verily believe Madame Friedrich de Grävenitz prefers peasant German to
our own speech, and at court no word of that inelegant language could be
tolerated.'
Once more he bent over Madame de Ruth's hand, murmuring, 'Merci de mes
souvenirs, amie bien chère,' and then he climbed back into his heavy
coach and drove out into the stormy darkness. Madame de Ruth watched the
lights of the carriage disappearing, and with a sigh re-entered the
salon, where she found Grävenitz writing a letter to his sister, helped
by suggestions from Oberhofmarshall Stafforth.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Württemberg was formerly and more correctly spelt Wirtemberg. This
ancient spelling has been retained in the present work.
CHAPTER II
THE AVE MARIA
A ROOM with rudely bulging plaster walls, once painted a harsh blue, now
toned by time and damp to a hundred parti-coloured patches. A rough,
uneven floor; for furniture a narrow, oaken bedstead, a heavy chair lamed
by four legs of various heights, a rickety table steadied by a pad of
rags beneath one foot, a long chest of painted wood: such was the
sleeping-room of Wilhelmine von Grävenitz, in her mother's house at
Güstrow in Mecklemburg. And here on a December morning of the year 1705
Wilhelmine sat disconsolately on the edge of the narrow bed. A feeble ray
of winter sunshine crept through the small lattice window and made the
dust twirl in a straight shaft of haze. The sunbeam kissed a cheerfulness
into the dreary chamber, but the girl evidently felt no answering thrill
of gladness, for she remained in her dejected attitude gloomily
contemplating the dust dancing in the sunray. It was bitterly cold, and
the feeble sun seemed only a teasing trick of nature, emphasising the
general unfriendliness of the morning. Wilhelmine shivered in her thin
bedgown, but she made no movement towards clothing herself; she was a
prey to a mood of profound melancholy, and her expression was mournful,
almost sinister. Though hers was a strangely haunting face, giving the
impression of loveliness, yet, had one called this girl beautiful, it
would have conveyed a totally erroneous picture of her, and but ill
defined her subtle fascination. Her features were irregular, a trifle
heavy perchance, with high cheek bones and massive square chin, with a
cleft in the centre as though the Master Sculptor had said: 'This were
too strong a face for a woman; I will give her a hint of tenderness to
make her utterly irresistible,' and so He had planted a child's dimple
in her chin and another near her lips when she smiled. Wilhelmine was
over-tall, lithe of limb, and spare as a Greek runner; then suddenly,
unexpectedly, full breasted--surprising, when one considered the rest of
her proportions. Her hair was deep brown, nearly black, save where the
light showed a tinge of red, a glint of gold. It was almost too abundant;
like a rich, virulent weed it grew triumphant. Her lips were thin yet
perfectly modelled, a long gracious curve; the upper lip a trifle thicker
and short below the sensitive, wide-open nostrils. The brow serene and
white, heavy over the deep-set blue eyes. And the eyes! No one could ever
describe Wilhelmine von Grävenitz's eyes, or no two persons could agree
concerning them, which comes to the same thing. They were blue and deeply
set, the lids heavy, the lashes short and thick, the eyebrows strongly
marked, arched and almost joining over the nose. But these are mere
outward presentments, and tell nothing of the spirit living in those
marvellous eyes. This was a thing of vital force, for ever changeful.
Even the colour of her eyes was varying, and yet there was a curious
persistency of gaze, a power of fixing. The Güstrow citizens called
Wilhelmine von Grävenitz witch and sorceress because of these strange
eyes; they said she could freeze men with a look, that she had a
serpent's gaze that grew cold and petrifying, when she chose, and yet
those who loved her (they were not many) knew that her eyes could dance
with laughter like a child's, that they could soften to tenderness, could
glow with enthusiasm over a song or poem. But these softer moods were
rare; in Wilhelmine's life there was little to call forth a gentle
feeling. She lived alone with her mother in the small dark house, her
brother Friedrich was away at the wars, her elder sister had married a
middle-class personage of the name of Sittmann, a struggling Berlin
merchant; and thus Wilhelmine led a dull life enough, for she despised
the homely Güstrow citizens, who in return disliked and feared her and
called her witch. Frau von Grävenitz was a talkative dame, who passed her
days in gossip and in waiting for news of her son Friedrich--'my soldier
son at the wars with our brave Mecklemburgians, who follow the allied
army under the great Englishman Malbruck!' as she informed her neighbours
a hundred times a day. Upon Wilhelmine she lavished little affection,
grudging her the scanty fare, and continually reminding her that she must
marry. 'And who is more fitting a husband than Herr Pastor Müller?' she
would add. 'Though,' she grumbled, 'he is not of noble birth, still he is
a solid man; and really in these days, when all the country is upset and
one never knows when the French King and his wickedness may come upon us;
what with one thing and another, indeed, a maiden may be pleased to find
even a plebeian protector.' Thus she rambled on in her sharp voice, yet
there was cause for her anxiety, and truth lay beneath her cackle, but
the wisdom of age is often obscured by its presentment.
Wilhelmine paid little heed to her mother's eloquence; though this
morning, as she sat on the edge of her bed, it was of those daily tirades
that she thought.
Frau von Grävenitz was a sore trial. The food in her house was poor and
scanty. The house itself dirty and untidy, with one peasant girl to do
all the work. Wilhelmine hated this misery. She dreamed of ease and
plenty, of soft linen, of bright garments, of balls and masques, of
gaiety and splendour.
Pastor Müller had none of these things to offer, she reflected; and she
saw in prospect long years of dull sermons to be yawned through,
stockings--thick, ugly stockings--to darn, stuffy respectability!--A
timid knock came at the door, and Wilhelmine called the permission to
enter, in a voice still clouded and harsh from her dreary reflections.
The door opened, disclosing a curious and pathetic figure wrapped in a
tattered homespun cloak.
It seemed to be a child, for it had but childhood's growth; yet the body
had the clumsy decrepitude of old age. The shoulders were high and
pointed; the long, emaciated arms reached almost to the ground. Enormous
hands hung on these poor limbs--hands for a very big woman, beautiful
hands; for in spite of their huge size they were wonderfully modelled and
imposingly strong, with the long, nervous fingers of the artist or the
enthusiast. The head was grotesquely oversized, though essentially
beautiful; but it seemed like some sculptor's masterpiece placed upon a
ridiculous figure, or some fine boulder rock balanced absurdly on a
narrow, crooked flower-stem. The face arrested attention immediately; it
was beautiful, finely chiselled and of classic line, without a hint of
deformity or disease on its glowing health. The eyes were large, liquid,
appealing, yet painfully watchful, as are the eyes of all the deformed. A
yearning soul looked out of them, longing for sympathy, suspicious of
pity--pity which is of all things most hateful to the cripple and the
hunchback. As she stood in the doorway, there was a look of almost stern
disapproval on her face, though the eyes softened with the tenderness of
a woman watching the gracious naughtiness of a child.
'Wilhelmine,' she said, her grave glance meeting the other's angry frown,
'Wilhelmine, what is it now? Has the mother been singing her usual song
of poverty and marriage? Come, beloved one, never frown at me so; you
know it hurts me when you frown, more than the sneers and laughter which
I always hear around me.--My friend! Nothing is worth a frown, though
many things are worth tears.'
Wilhelmine turned away abruptly. Anna Reinhard was her friend, one of the
few people in the world for whom she felt affection; but the pedantic
words of the deformed girl often irritated her, and she found that spoken
wisdom of Anna's infinitely wearisome, yet she was seldom querulous to
her, partly because of the real affection she bore her, partly from a
certain fear of the hunchback's quick wit and vehemence.
'No,' said Wilhelmine, 'it is not really the recollection of mother's
lectures which disturbs me; but oh, Anna, this existence is becoming
unbearable! It is all very well for you; you have your beloved books, and
your religion to occupy you, but I have got nothing, and I want so much!
Believe me, all those things you call amusement and luxury are
necessities to me. I want to lie soft in sweet linen, to wear rich
clothes, to dance, and--yes, Anna, don't look wise and solemn! I want
admiration, applause, power. Anna, Anna, I wish I had been born like you'
(the hunchback shuddered), 'yes, yes! You know what I mean! To like those
things you like, all of which you can get----'
'What foolishness!' broke in Anna; 'content with what one can have is
the only happiness. Wilhelmine, some day perhaps you will have the things
you pine for, far more perhaps, and then you will want others, always
more!'
'Give me these things, and I will not ask for more!' burst out
Wilhelmine.
'So you always say, Wilhelmine, and always will--even when----'
'Anna, you do not understand! how could you? I want life and all that
life holds----' She opened her strange, grasping hands, and they closed
over the other's wrists in a compelling grip.
At this moment a clatter arose in the narrow, ill-paved street, in which
stood Frau von Grävenitz's house.
A man on a mud-bespattered horse cantered to the door of the Rathaus and
pulled up with a flourish, blowing a shrill blast on a horn. He was
accoutred in the blue and silver uniform which the Princes of Thurn and
Taxis decreed to be worn by the Imperial Post.
The Taxis were Hereditary Grand Masters of the Imperial Post, which
office they had found to be a valuable source of income, for the entire
return of the exorbitant postal rates went into their pockets; still the
people had cause for gratitude to the Taxis, as, at least, their care
assured a tolerably safe carrying of letters, and, to a certain extent, a
systematised postal service.
In those days the arrival of the mail was an important event. It awoke
the small German town from its habitual slumberous dullness, and a letter
caused its recipient to be regarded as a person of consequence.
A crowd of town cronies and gossips immediately formed round the
horseman. They did not ask if he brought a letter; indeed, that was
unlikely, but news! news of the war! What were the Frenchmen doing? had
they gone back to their godless country?
The man answered these questions as best he might. He knew little, he
said, for he only carried despatches from Schwerin. News of the war in
the South? Well,--they said in Schwerin that Marshal Villars had left
Wirtemberg with his army, but there was a letter in his bag from
Wirtemberg for the Fräulein von Grävenitz, and perchance she would be
able to tell them. At mention of this a busybody ran up the narrow
street, calling loudly: 'Fräulein Wilhelmine! Fräulein Wilhelmine! there
is a letter from your brother! Come and tell us the news of the army. He
may tell when to expect our soldiers' return.'
Wilhelmine, who had dressed hurriedly on hearing the post arrive, came
slowly down the street. She looked angrily at the woman, for she hated
the familiarity of the townsfolk and resented their open curiosity. Did
they expect her to read her brother's letter aloud to a gaping group, as
though it were a public gazette? But she wanted the letter, and wished to
get it before her mother, hearing the tumult, could come and snatch it
from her. The people eyed the proud girl with no good will. She was
reserved and haughty, and some said she had the evil eye.
The messenger handed her the letter and she walked quickly away, followed
by many a disapproving grunt and sarcastic comment from the crowd. She
gained the door of her mother's house and, springing up the creaking
stair, went quickly into her room, shutting and bolting the door behind
her.
* * * * *
'DEAR SISTER,'--she read--'Since last I wrote to thee, I have
left my Lord of Marlborough's army, being invited to visit the
court of my honoured brother in arms, Monseigneur le Duc de
Wirtemberg. This happened six months since; meanwhile I have
married Mademoiselle Marie von Stuben, a lady of Rottenburg (a
small town on the borders of my Lord Duke's territory). I have
been appointed Kammerjunker at court, and shall not be returning
to Güstrow for some time. I write this news so that thou mayst
break it gently to our mother, who, I fear, may be disappointed
in that I do not return immediately to visit her. But assure her
that I will ride North to see her whenever I can, and that
shortly I hope to be in a position to offer her hospitality in
Stuttgart.
'I am convinced that it would be to thine advantage, dear sister,
if thou camest immediately to visit us. Tell our mother that I
know many rich noblemen here, and that I will endeavour to
arrange a marriage for thee, more fitting than the alliance of
our sister Sittmann. The great thing is that thou shouldst set
forth soon, for there will be court festivities in the spring.
After which, there is usually little gaiety until the late
autumn.
'A good friend of mine, Madame de Ruth of Oberhausen, is willing
to receive thee, and will arrange that thou shouldst take part in
these court gaieties. A thousand greetings to our mother, and beg
her, for my sake, to permit thee to travel southward without too
much delay.--Thy brother,
'FREIDRICH WILHELM VON GRÄVENITZ.
'Neuhaus, Oberhausen,
près Rottenburg sur le Neckar.
WIRTEMBERG. _Ce_ 29 _Nov._ 1705.
'I hope thy friend Monsieur Gabriel has really taught thee fine
French, for no one speaks German here at court; it is considered
as peasants' speech! As thou wilt see, I do not even write to
thee in German! French talk, French manners, in spite of French
battles!'
* * * * *
Wilhelmine sat motionless for a few moments after she had perused this
effusion. In her mind she saw a succession of pictures of courtly
splendour and graceful adventure--and in each she herself was the central
figure. She looked around her bare room; the bulging walls, the rude
furniture. Her eyes narrowed into that strange look of hers which the
people of Güstrow declared was like a serpent's gaze, and could hold
animals powerless as long as it was directed upon them. She was thinking
deeply--swiftly--and perhaps it was at this moment that Wilhelmine von
Grävenitz vowed her soul to worldly success; her indomitable will
directed to the goal of worldly power at all costs and at all hazards.
She rose shivering. It was cheerless and cold in her room; the momentary
gleam of the winter sun had died away, and the sky was grey and heavy
with coming snow. She unhooked her cloak from the peg, fastened it round
her, and with her letter hidden away in the folds she stepped softly out
and down the stair, throwing a quick backward glance to see if her mother
followed or observed her. Noiselessly she lifted the latch of the house
door and took her way up the narrow street.
She passed the old Rathaus with the quaint fourteenth-century belfry, and
the clock whence sprang out the brightly painted leaden figure of a
knight, to smite the chime with his sword at each hour. In the
market-place beneath, the weekly market was being held.
Many small booths had been erected, and the venders were expostulating
with the citizens, who drove hard bargains with them. It was a
picturesque scene enough, had Wilhelmine paused to watch--much colour in
the peasants' dress, much variety in the women's headgear, and over all
the wonderful old building, which would have delighted a painter's soul.
That morning Wilhelmine noted nothing of all this, though on another
occasion she would have taken pleasure in it, for like most sensuous
natures she had a keen feeling for colour, and the grouping of a peasant
crowd appealed to her artistic eye; but that day she was so absorbed in
her own dreams that she did not even observe her mother walking towards
her, an expression of annoyance on her sharp features. Wilhelmine started
when Frau von Grävenitz, laying an ungentle hand on her shoulder, said
close to her ear: 'And where may my fine daughter be going at so early an
hour? Generally Miss Lie-abed is still reposing at nine of the clock!'
'O mother!' she answered, 'I am going to Monsieur Gabriel for my singing
lesson. God knows, you cannot grudge me that, for he teaches me without
payment.' Her quick wit told her that to draw her mother's attention to
this fruitful source of complaint, her poverty, would ensure an escape
unquestioned. She reflected that she could tell of Friedrich's letter,
pretending she had received it on her way home. Or, if her mother
discovered the earlier delivery of the post, she would say the angry
attack in the market-place had made her forget to mention it. This plan
met with success, and Frau von Grävenitz remained in the pleasurable
throes of a talkative woman with a grievance, holding forth to an
appreciative audience composed of several of her gossips, who had
gathered round as soon as they heard her shrill excited tones. A
market-woman or two joined the group and stood with hands on hips,
listening with open amusement, for the garrulous dame was a well-known
character in the country town.
As Wilhelmine gained the shelter of the dark street which ran from the
Marktplatz to the cathedral, she saw Pastor Müller's fat form added to
her mother's assemblage. How she hated that stout person, his pompous
condescension to her, and his greasy face!
The Klosterstrasse seemed deliciously quiet after the noise of the
Marktplatz, and before her, at the end of the street, she could see one
tall buttress of the cathedral, and a corner of the graveyard. She walked
up the pathway between the tombs and pushed open the heavy church door.
The cathedral nave was dark. Wilhelmine peered about and, thinking there
was no one in the church, turned to go, when from the organ, far away
near the high altar (or where the high altar had been before Protestant
fury had torn it down), came a whisper like the awakening of the
cathedral's soul; a long-drawn note which grew stronger and fuller,
filling the whole building with a pulse of sound.
Wilhelmine paused, then, turning silently to one of the oaken pews, sat
down. A wondrous melody crept through the air, strong, noble,
uncomplicated; then followed chords growing each moment more the
expression of a soul on fire. They rose stronger, they swelled and strove
and implored, they wailed with the passion of finite hearts that yearn
infinitely; then suddenly sank back into the solemn major key whence they
started. And it was as the renunciation of some terrible striving, as
though the organ chanted the litany of some perfect calm reached through
an agony of endeavour and suffering. Wilhelmine's eyes were wet, while
she leaned her head against the back of the oaken pew. To her music was
the only form of prayer, and it never failed to move her to a vague
aspiration, she herself knew hardly what. Her dreams of the world faded,
and she was only cognisant of the dim church and the inspired
improvisation of her beloved Monsieur Gabriel. This was his answer to her
as yet unasked question. She had come to him for guidance, to beg his
counsel concerning her brother's letter, and he had told her in his music
all that he knew of the world. He had shown her the cruel agony of the
worldly life, the unrest, the bootless seeking, the satiety of realised
ambition, and the calmness, the peace of the renunciation of these
things.
The organ was silent for a moment, and then through the stillness of the
shadowy aisle floated the first notes of an 'Ave Maria,' which Wilhelmine
knew well and had often sung when no disturbing element of disapproving
Protestant burgherdom was near. Instinctively she came in at the
appointed bar for the voice's commencement. 'Ave Maria gratia plena,' she
sang, and her powerful notes echoed through the cathedral with all the
sombre glory which lay in her great contralto voice. The player at the
organ immediately softened his music to a mere accompanying whisper,
which yet supported the voice, greeting it with the newly awakened soul
of the organ. 'Ora pro nobis, peccatoribus,' she sang, and surely the
Mother of God must have listened to so wonderful a tone prayer? 'Nunc et
in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.' And the organ wandered on repeating the
'Amen' again and again in a solemn, dreamy deepening of chords, which the
beautiful voice followed and answered with that certainty and ease which
belong to a few of the world's singers when they sing to the
accompaniment of one with whom they are in perfect musical and
sympathetic understanding. The music came to an end and the church seemed
doubly silent, with the painful stillness one sometimes feels when a song
is ended; it is almost the same sudden forlorn feeling as when a beloved
friend goes away, that sense of the departure of a beautiful presence, or
it may be that our souls have returned to earth after soaring towards
some beauteous mystic region. Wilhelmine passed up the nave, through a
small door in the side of the carven wooden screen, and up a dark and
narrow winding stair which led to the organ-loft. It was unusual to find
an organ even in a cathedral in those days, but a pious Duke of
Mecklemburg-Güstrow had given this one to the church as a thankoffering,
and had caused it to be built by the famous organ-makers of Venice.
The organist's face and figure commanded attention. Tall and spare, with
the scholar's stoop, a long narrow head broadening at the brow, a mass of
iron-grey hair,--a thin, eager face lit by almost colourless eyes, which
looked as though the blue of youth had been washed away by tears, or
faded by vigils and patient suffering. This was the individual whom the
townsfolk called the 'mad French schoolmaster, Monsieur Gabriel,' and
whose youth they whispered had been spent at the court of France, till
Madame de Maintenon had set his enemies upon him, and he, being proved a
heretic, had fled for his life across the frontier and wandered
northwards. The course of his wanderings brought him to Mecklemburg
where, hearing that the schoolmaster at Güstrow had died, he had sought
the post and it had been granted him, because of his proved learning and
his skill as a musician. This uneventful calling he had followed for many
years, and the people had ceased to wonder at his eccentricities, his
silence, and his friendlessness. The children loved him, and his school
became famous through the countryside, and on Sundays and feast days the
citizens flocked to hear his organ playing, and the performance of the
choir of youths and maidens he had trained to sing so well.
Pastor Müller, according to his coarse nature, was jealous of him and
insolent to him, yet he feared the mild gaze of those faded eyes and the
imperturbable courtesy of the old Frenchman's manner. The pastor would
often question the schoolmaster sharply concerning the music he played.
'Chorales are all very fine,' he said, 'but surely oftentimes you play
music from the abominable Mass, not fitting indeed in a holy place set
apart for the worship of the Lord according to our pure faith?' 'Ah!
Pastor, but the notes cannot contaminate,' Monsieur Gabriel would answer;
'Luther himself made use of the monk's melodies in his canticles.' And
Pastor Müller retired to his dirty, airless house, feeling rebuked
himself where he had wished to chide.
When Wilhelmine von Grävenitz appeared at the Güstrow school, a
curly-haired child, Monsieur Gabriel had immediately fallen victim to her
wayward charm, and had lavished much care on her studies. He taught her
French thoroughly. 'I am told,' he was wont to say, 'that even in Germany
no lady speaks aught save French, and you, my child, must be a great lady
some day. Believe me, there is no more magnificent being than a true
_grande dame_, and for this destiny the good God fashioned you.' He
trained Wilhelmine in music, till thorough-bass, counterpoint, and the
rest became to her an easy exercise. He read her of the history of
France; taught her to know and love the _Roman de la Rose_, and the poems
of the singers of La Pleïade. Often he would quote Malherbes, saying with
a smile and a sigh as he looked at her radiant youth: 'Et rose, elle a
vécu ce que vivent les roses, l'espace d'un matin; for,' he said, 'the
flowers of the world fade quickly, and thou art surely a flower, my
little one.' He read her the works of Racine, Corneille, Molière, all of
which learning she assimilated rapidly, and with an accuracy which
delighted the old scholar. Sometimes, of an evening, he would keep her
with him long after school hours, and one winter he took it into his head
that she must learn to dance. He tied an inky tablecloth to her shoulders
to serve as a sweeping garment. It was infinitely droll to see the two,
mincing, bowing, and pirouetting in front of the mirror. 'You must _see_
yourself curtsey,' he said, 'if you would learn the real movement.' He
taught her the gavotte, the pavane, and many other dances, playing the
measures on an old violin the while. The school desks served for dummy
dancers, and were arranged to give her a notion of the ordering of the
figures. The aged recluse, in his musty coat, seemed transformed into a
very courtly gentleman, but Wilhelmine always fancied that his eyes were
more melancholy than usual after these mimic courts. One day she asked
him if it saddened him to revoke the past. 'Ah! mon enfant!' he replied,
'que voulez-vous? un coeur profondément blessé ne guérit jamais; and
the melodies of these dances remind me of my wound, which I thought had
healed in your peaceful northern land. Ah! little one, there is no sadder
music to the old than the dance-music of a vanished youth.'
While Wilhelmine read her brother's letter on that cold December morning,
it was to Monsieur Gabriel she at once decided to confide its surprising
contents. Her mother, she knew, would raise a dozen difficulties, and it
were best to talk with Monsieur Gabriel and devise some means of
procuring sufficient money to pay the cost of her journey to Wirtemberg.
Then, if they could hit upon a scheme to propose to Frau von Grävenitz,
there was more likelihood of gaining her consent. But the music had
changed Wilhelmine's mind, and as she climbed up to the organ-loft she
was almost prepared to abandon her intended journey.
'Monsieur Gabriel!' she said, 'I have great news, so strangely unexpected
that I wonder if I am dreaming it! Read this letter of my brother's, and
give me your advice.' The old man stretched out his left hand to take the
paper, while his right hand remained on the organ keys, and as he read he
played a few chords. 'Hélas!' he murmured as he refolded the letter, 'so
the time has come when you must go forth into the world. Well, well--it
is right; you are wasted here, though God knows it will be very dark
without you.'
'But, Monsieur Gabriel,' she said, 'you talk as though I should start
to-morrow! I have not told my mother yet, and I have come to you for
advice. Where could I get the money to pay my journey? It will cost many
gulden.'
The old man smiled. 'Money? your brother sends you none, of course? Your
mother? she also has none. Does Friedrich think you can fly southward on
a swallow's wing? And the swallows have gone to the south long ago,' he
added dreamily.
'O Monsieur Gabriel,' cried Wilhelmine, 'help me!--you have always helped
me! tell me where to get this money.'
'My child, I must think; do you know what the cost will be? No, nor I
either; but let me see--how long has this letter been on the
road?--sixteen days--and you could not travel so far without rest and
refreshment. Well! you must have a hundred gulden. But, child, to what am
I sending you?'
Wilhelmine started; she knew by his last words that he could procure the
money.
'To success!' she answered in a low voice.
'Success? Yes, probably, but that is the greatest danger! We can most of
us remain pure of heart, tender, generous while we are poor or sad, but
it is when the world smiles that the heart so often grows cold and hard.'
Wilhelmine clambered on to the organ bench, pushing Monsieur Gabriel
gently aside. She struck a chord, but the half-witted bellows-blower,
whose presence they had forgotten, had ceased to pump air into the organ,
and there came only a painful droning from the empty pipes. She called to
him imperiously, and with a muttered grumble he resumed his pumping.
'A bad omen,' said Wilhelmine; 'I strike a chord and I achieve dissonance
and wailing.' She threw back her head and pressed her fingers on the
keyboard: this time a thin flute-like chord came forth, and Wilhelmine
lifted her voice and sang:
'Cher ami de ma jeunesse
Souriez à ma liesse--
Au Printemps chansons et fleurs!
Pour l'hiver gardons les pleurs.
Cher ami, la vieillesse
Est revêche à l'alégresse
Je cueillerai les douces fleurs
Pour l'hiver gardant mes pleurs.'
She managed the organ wonderfully, and succeeded so well in playing a
light, graceful accompaniment to the old French melody, that Monsieur
Gabriel, listening with a smile and nodding his head, whispered as though
to some invisible confidant: 'I have made her a true artist!--no, God
makes the artist, but those who love them teach them to give their genius
to the world. Well, my child,' he continued, 'I will find the money for
you, but leave me now. Be satisfied, your song has done its work; I will
send you on your search for the flowers, and God grant you may not find
the tears too soon!--I do not love that song with its refrain of fleurs
et pleurs, it is so terribly true.' But Wilhelmine was not listening to
his rambling talk; her strange eyes had lost the brightness which had
been theirs while she sang the gay French song; they had narrowed to that
hard, compelling gaze which, in truth, was curiously serpent-like in its
cold fixity.
Monsieur Gabriel laid his hand on her shoulder, and together they went
down into the silent nave of the church. They separated at the door; the
old man going up the Klosterstrasse to the schoolhouse, while Wilhelmine
walked rapidly away, through the graveyard, towards the bleak fields and
the marshland which surrounded the dreary northern town.
CHAPTER III
THE FIRST STEP
'Happy the nations of the moral North!
Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth.'
_Don Juan_, Canto II.
WILHELMINE walked on for some twenty minutes, the cold morning air
bringing a bright colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Her
gait was one of her greatest charms; it never seemed hurried, and yet the
long, even steps carried her swiftly onwards. There was vigorous
elasticity in her tread; she walked freely and with perfectly assured
balance, her shoulders thrown back and head erect. It was in a measure
this walk of hers which caused the townsfolk to call her 'the proud
hussy,' though they were careful not to let her hear their disparaging
remarks, for they feared the compelling power of her strange eyes. It was
whispered that it was dangerous to offend her. 'Though, of course,' they
declared, 'we do not really believe in witchcraft and such Popish
abominations, still it is certainly true that Hans Frisch, the
blacksmith's child, who threw a snowball at her last winter and had the
misfortune to hit her on the face, went home, took to his bed, and nearly
died of convulsions.' Of this talk Wilhelmine was unaware, though,
knowing the effect of her eyes upon people, she would often voluntarily
narrow her lids, causing the pupils to contract. She practised this feat
before the mirror, but she was careful not to do so at night, for it gave
her an uncanny feeling, and she sometimes succeeded in frightening
herself, as she did others. That cold morning, while she walked, there
was none of all this in her face; she was merely a gloriously healthy
young being rejoicing simply and naturally in the morning freshness and
in the pulsing of the blood in her veins. She was feeling the elation of
health, and it chased away her morbid fancies in spite of the dreariness
of the wet fields around her. Indeed, it needed the buoyancy of youth to
counteract the profound melancholy of the Mecklemburg lake-country in
winter. The enormous flat fields stretching away in unbroken monotony,
the road very straight, with a division of colour in the middle where the
summer road marched with the winter road; the former merely a soaking
mud-bog, the latter hard and stony. On each side of the highway a line of
apple and pear trees lifted gaunt twisted arms to the leaden sky, as
though in protest against the sullen aspect of the world. Wilhelmine
paused and looked about her. The snow was surely coming; there was the
hush in the air which precedes a snowstorm, and she was some distance
from home. She strained her eyes westward and endeavoured to catch a
glimpse of the lake towards which she was journeying, but she could see
nothing save the drenched fields, and in the dim distance the dark line
of fir woods. She turned her face homewards and began to walk with a
quickened step. The cold air had made her hungry; she had only partaken
of a lump of black bread and a glass of milk, and it was now late in the
morning. She felt a soft cold touch on her cheek, the first snowflake of
the gathering storm. At first the snowflakes only added to the slush on
the road; they melted shudderingly and were devoured by the brown mud,
but as the snow fell the mud was conquered and lay hidden beneath a
dazzling white covering. Ever faster came the snow. It beat down on
Wilhelmine, the large fleecy patches almost blinding her. She had walked
farther than she had realised, and her feet sinking deep through the snow
into the mud beneath, the high heels of her thin shoes stuck and impeded
her progress. At length she reached the outskirts of the town, whose red
roofs were already almost hidden by a white layer of snow. She hurried up
the deserted street, past the cathedral. When she came to the corner of
the market-place she saw a dark figure in a cloak of peasant's frieze
coming towards her, and with a feeling of annoyance she recognised Pastor
Müller.
At that moment he too observed her, and hurried to meet her. 'Ah!
Fräulein,' he said as he came up, 'I am grieved to see you exposed to
this inclement weather. May I not offer you the hospitality of my
house?' He spoke in German with a careful affectation of correctness,
though his accent was harsh and guttural from his native low German
dialect. Wilhelmine particularly detested his speech, and it irritated
her to be addressed as 'Fräulein,' as though she were a burgher's
daughter, and not of sufficiently noble birth to be styled 'gracious
lady.' Of a truth, the pastor was not a person to inspire either liking
or respect. He was fat in body, with short plump legs whose common shape
was exhibited to the fullest extent by tight knee-breeches and woollen
stockings. His face was enormous, and though his jaw showed strength and
decision, the weak mouth and large protuberant lips indicated that his
senses ruled what he himself styled 'the fair habitation of an immortal
soul.' His eyes were small, and seemed to express inordinate greed, when
they were not, as was usually the case, lifted to the sky in pious
self-assurance, yet with feigned humility. Pastor Müller was at once
unctuous and insolent, a combination of contending characteristics which
is often the possession of those who patronise God Almighty with their
approval, and use His Name as a convenient adjunct in their homilies
against all things human. His health, he was wont to declare, had
suffered from his many vigils, and consequently he found himself forced
to fortify his body with much nourishment, and with copious draughts of
any wine which he could obtain. In spite of this, he dominated his
congregation partly by reason of a certain eloquence which was at his
command in the pulpit when dealing with theological questions, in which,
indeed, he was deeply learned. He convinced by his uncompromising
attitude towards the sinful members of his parish. In fact, the Güstrow
citizens regarded him as a strong Christian, and rejoiced in his fervid
biblical language. Many of the spinsters of his flock would gladly have
become Frau Müller, but he paid no heed to their blandishments, and
openly avowed his intention of making Wilhelmine the mistress of the
Pfarrhaus, though she appeared strangely insensible to the glory of this
prospect. In the first place, with the arrogance of youth, she regarded
the pastor's forty years as old age, and treated his ponderous attempts
at gallantry with levity. However, when she met him in the snow that
morning she was cold and hungry, and the prospect of probable warmth at
his fireside, with a substantial meal provided, proved alluring; so it
was with an unusually gracious manner that she accepted his offer of
shelter. A few steps brought them to the door of his abode, and they
passed into the small, dark corridor which led to his study. Here the
stove sent forth a pleasant heat, and it was with a welcome sensation of
returning warmth that Wilhelmine sank down in the large chair which the
pastor drew up for her close to the stove. She had flung off her
snow-covered cloak, and she sat there in her thin morning blouse, open at
the neck and showing the contour of her white throat. Müller begged her
to remove her soaking shoes, and, having done so, she leaned back,
stretching out her feet towards the little door in the stove, which he
had opened in order to permit the red embers to give forth their full
heat. He pushed some logs through the aperture, and there was a
delightful crackling and the busy burning of well-dried wood. Then he
left Wilhelmine while he went to forage in the kitchen for food; his old
house-keeper being at the market, or more probably sheltering from the
storm and gossiping in some friendly booth. Wilhelmine reclined in the
comfortable chair and surveyed the room. A number of theological works
lay on the table in the centre of the apartment; and another large table
which stood in the window was covered with papers, closely written sheets
as her sharp eyes observed. The walls were bare and ugly, but the room
had a decided air of comfort; the windows shut out the cold in a manner
unknown in Frau von Grävenitz's dilapidated house; the chair she lay in
was soft; and, above all, it was very warm in the room. She stretched
herself and wondered if, after all, there would not be sufficient
creature comforts to atone for the dullness of life as Frau Müller.
The pastor returned carrying a dish of cold meat, a loaf of home-baked
bread, and under his arm a large bottle. Pushing some of the theological
books aside, he set down the food on the middle table which he drew up
near the stove beside Wilhelmine. Then again he disappeared to the
kitchen, returning anon with plates, glasses, knives and forks. He placed
himself opposite his guest, and turning his eyes towards the grimy
ceiling, he folded his fat hands and recited a prayer over the victuals.
'O Lord, who hath brought this female into mine house, send a blessing, I
pray thee, upon the food which I set before her!' He paused, then added:
'May this be the first of many meals she shall partake of here in
Christian humility and dutiful affection.' Wilhelmine laughed. At another
time the pastor would have been rebuked sharply for a speech of this
kind; but she was hungry, and it did not suit her to postpone her meal to
the uncertain date of Frau von Grävenitz's dinner. The pastor helped her
liberally to meat, and cut a large slice from the white loaf--a luxury
for Wilhelmine, used to the heavy, sour, black bread, which was provided
in her mother's house. He poured out a copious draught from the black
bottle, and the smell of corn brandy filled the air. Wilhelmine ate
hungrily, and drank the liquor with relish, the strong spirits coursing
through her with a grateful, tingling feeling, for she was really in need
of food.
'Dear lady,' said Müller, pouring a large quantity of the brandy into his
own glass, 'I give you of my best; this excellent liquor was a present to
me from the noble Herr von Maltzan. He is a generous friend to me. But
truly, this beverage is not for those whom the Lord has blessed with
health and strength, and I keep it for the use of the sick, though my own
delicate constitution demands, at rare intervals, a small amount to
strengthen me. Dear Fräulein, I give it gladly to you this morning, for
it is cruelly cold, and you, my dear one, were exposed to the rigours of
the storm.'
'I thank you, Herr Pastor; I feel truly better for your breakfast, though
my head is going round a little, I must confess,' said Wilhelmine.
Müller looked at her curiously, then, rising, he walked to the window,
and watched the driving snow. After a few moments he returned, and
drawing up his chair near the stove he spread out his fat fingers,
warming them at the fire. There was silence between them, only broken by
the wind outside, which had risen and was whistling and howling, and
driving the snow in clouds down the street. Suddenly the pastor bent down
and laid his hand on her stockinged foot. 'Still damp,' he said; 'it
would be well if you took off your hose and dried them.' Wilhelmine
smiled lazily.
'Good Herr Pastor,' she said, 'your plenteous meal has made me sleepy. I
cannot take the trouble to take off my hose even though they may be a
trifle wet.' She closed her eyes. The walk in the strong winter air,
followed by the warmth of the room and the unaccustomed alcohol made her
drowsy, and she wished to be undisturbed in her half dream. Müller's face
flushed to a deep purple, then paled. He breathed heavily, and the veins
stood out on his temples like cords.
'Wilhelmine,' he said in a hoarse, thick whisper, 'you shall indeed be my
wife--I promise you--ah, you are fitted to adorn any position,
Wilhelmine, my bride!' He bent and kissed her stockinged foot, and his
coarse fingers pressed deep into her slight ankle.
'Your condescension amazes me, Herr Pastor,' she said mockingly, 'but I
fear----'
'Nay, my dear, no maidenly modesty! Come, we are affianced now; let me
give thee the lover's kiss!' He leaned over her. His breath was sour with
the smell of corn brandy. His eyes were glassy, staring, and his fat face
was livid, hideous. An overwhelming sense of repulsion came to her. She
felt herself degraded by this man's admiration, smirched by his odious
desire. The recollection flashed through her mind of a white flower she
had seen--a gracious, delicate thing--and a huge, slimy, black slug had
rested on the petals. She remembered how she had knocked the creature
away, feeling that it defiled the flower.
'No, never! do you hear? Never! I will not marry you,' she broke out.
She struggled to remove Müller's hand from her ankle; but he gripped
strongly, and her fingers seemed terribly impotent, childishly weak.
'How dare you! Let me go. I tell you I will never marry you,' she
reiterated vehemently.
'Ah! you beautiful wild thing--but I will make you love me--you will see
how you will love your husband. Come, no nonsense! I will soon show you
how you love me.' He loosed his grip of her ankle and flung himself over
her in the chair, endeavouring to press his thick lips to hers. She
struggled against him but he kept her down; with one hand on her forehead
he pushed her back into the chair, while with the other he wrenched open
the neck of her bodice, tearing it downward to her breast. Always a
strong man he seemed now transformed into some ruthless, degraded,
maddened animal. Apparently she was entirely at his mercy, but she was
strong and young, and angry disgust gave her unusual strength. She caught
the man's throat in both her hands, working her knuckles inwards on his
windpipe with such force that he was almost choked, and instinctively put
up his hands to hers endeavouring to remove her grip. But she held him,
and, half-throttled, he sank down sideways on the arm of the chair. In an
instant she dragged herself from him and was able to raise herself on one
knee, still keeping her hold on his throat. He wrenched away her hands,
his iron grip on both her wrists, but she was now able to dominate her
aggressor from above and could hold him down with the full force of her
arms. Face to face with her enemy, she recalled the potency of her
witch-gaze. She narrowed her eyelids and directed her steely glance into
the bloodshot eyes of her tormentor. During a few seconds they were thus:
the girl half-standing, half-kneeling, rigid, tense, holding the man from
her with all her strength. The man sprawling on his side in the chair--a
huge, ridiculous being, panting, gasping, helpless, for he could not
regain his balance unless he let go the woman's wrists. To Wilhelmine, in
spite of her dauntless nature, these few seconds seemed endless.
Fortunately for her, no misgivings as to the compelling power of her eyes
crossed her mind, or probably her force might thereby have been
diminished. At length she felt a slackening of the muscles of Müller's
hands--his gaze faltered. Again he struggled frantically. She resolved to
hazard everything, trusting entirely in her strange power. She bent
slowly downwards, all the force of her will focused in her eyes. She felt
as though each eye held a dagger wherewith she could stab her enemy's
very consciousness. Another moment and the man's hands relaxed entirely
and fell limp and inert from her wrists. She sprang up, catching her
cloak in her hand as she fled. She reached the study door before Müller
moved. For the moment he seemed transfixed, but as she opened the door,
to her horror she saw him rise, and as she rushed down the short passage
she heard Müller's heavy step behind her. For the first time during the
whole disgusting scene she felt afraid. Her knees seemed to fail, her
feet to grow strangely heavy. She stumbled on till she gained the house
door. She fumbled frantically at the latch; it was unfamiliar to her and
she could not unfasten it. The pursuer was up to her now and his breath
was on her cheek. Once more he threw his arms round her. She turned, like
an animal at bay, and dealt Müller a blow full on the lips. He staggered
for an instant, and she succeeded, at last, in wrenching open the door.
He clutched at her skirt as she sprang out. It unbalanced her, and she
fell forward on her face into the snow of the street.
* * * * *
The shock of the fall, following the excitement of her struggle with
Müller, stunned Wilhelmine for a moment, and when she dragged herself up
to a kneeling position and looked round, she found herself alone in the
driving snow. Müller's door was shut, and the street absolutely deserted.
She rubbed the clinging snow off her face and ruefully considered the
distance which lay between her and her mother's house. The snow had
soaked through her thin stockings. She rose wearily, and drawing her
cloak round her, and over her head, she hid both her torn bodice and her
thick unbound hair, which had fallen over her shoulders during her
struggle with Müller.
Then she started homewards through the fast-falling snow. As she passed
the market-place, many faces peered out at her from the venders' booths,
and one friendly peasant woman called to her to take shelter, but
Wilhelmine shook her head and hastened onwards. She feared that her
shoeless feet would awaken curiosity, and she dared not let the people
see her torn garments as they assuredly would did she tarry in the booth,
for in their homely kindness they would insist on removing her wet cloak.
The Rathaus clock chimed the hour, and Wilhelmine realised with a
strange, dream-like feeling that but three hours had gone by since she
passed that way to visit Monsieur Gabriel. Yet it seemed to her as
though days had elapsed since she sang the _Ave Maria_ in the cathedral.
At length she reached the door of her mother's house. She knocked loudly,
wondering if Frau von Grävenitz had watched her from the windows of the
upper story, which commanded a view of part of the market-place and the
door of the Rathaus, where she had received her brother's letter that
morning. She knocked again and tried to lift the latch, but it was
secured within. She listened, but could hear no approaching footsteps in
the corridor. She leaned against the portal, and wondered if it was her
fate to remain in the snow for the rest of the day.
Suddenly a thought came to her, which sent the blood tingling in a hot
wave to her cheeks: Where was her brother's letter? She felt for it in
her bosom; it was not there, and she knew the precious missive must have
fallen from her gown during the struggle at the Pfarrhaus. Could she go
back and fetch it? she asked herself. No! that was out of the question.
At this moment the door was flung open and Frau von Grävenitz appeared.
'Lord God!' she said, when she saw Wilhelmine standing on the threshold,
'where have you been child? Surely your dear Monsieur Gabriel could keep
you in the schoolhouse till this storm passed over, and not send you back
to catch your death of cold or cost me an apothecary's fee!'
Wilhelmine pushed past her mother without a word, designing to gain her
chamber before the old woman observed her torn garments and her lack of
shoes; but Frau von Grävenitz clutched hold of the cloak and, giving it a
vicious pull, exclaimed: 'No, no! I will not permit you to take your
soaking clothes upstairs. Come in here and take them off.' She tugged at
the heavy cloak with such vehemence that the clasp at her neck parted and
the cape fell back, revealing Wilhelmine's loosened hair and her torn
bodice. The old woman saw her daughter's shoeless feet. She looked at her
searchingly, her face darkening and hardening from annoyance to real
anger and distrust. 'Wilhelmine,' she said harshly, 'explain your
extraordinary appearance. Where have you been, and why do you come home
in this strange and unbecoming manner?'
'Mother,' answered the girl, 'let me take off my wet clothes and I will
tell you everything.' She wished to gain time to concoct a plausible
story, for she did not intend to mention Müller's outbreak.
In the first place she was horribly ashamed, and knowing Frau von
Grävenitz's garrulous tongue she feared to be made the subject of the
citizens' gossip. But her mother was not to be put off so easily. She
drew the girl into the kitchen, and after shutting the larder door in the
servant-maid's astonished face, she planted herself firmly in front of
Wilhelmine. 'Now,' she said, 'you will favour me with your story. It is
strange to see a young maiden return in this state of disarray from an
interview with a man, and I insist upon your clearing yourself
immediately if you can.'
'Interview with a man, mother?' said Wilhelmine; 'what do you mean?' It
flashed across her that Frau von Grävenitz must have seen her enter
Müller's house.
'Yes; your fine Monsieur Gabriel, with his mincing airs and his high
manners! You go to him for your studies, after two long hours you return
looking as though----Good Lord! child! answer me--what has that evil old
Frenchman done to you?'
Wilhelmine looked at her for a moment in silence; it had not struck her
that this interpretation of her dishevelled appearance could be harboured
even in her mother's suspicious mind. It filled her with indignation and
dismay for her friend; yet she realised with surprise that, could such a
thing have occurred as for Monsieur Gabriel to lose his self-control and
offend as Müller had, it would not have disgusted her to the same extent.
Somehow, she felt it would not have debased her and humiliated her as had
the pastor's attack. For a moment she almost decided to let her mother
suspect there had been some strange scene with the organist; anything
better than own to the degradation of having suffered the insult of the
greasy burgher. Then with a revulsion of feeling, her soul sickened at
the injustice of letting Monsieur Gabriel pay the penalty of the pastor's
wicked insolence, and she remembered that her friend would be exposed to
the horrified reprobation of the sober townsfolk; nay, more, he might
even be dismissed from his post.
'How can you think such a thing, mother?' she said angrily. 'I tell you
Monsieur Gabriel knows nothing of all this, and as you put such an
odious construction on my appearance, I shall not give you the
satisfaction of telling you how it came about.'
'As you wish,' the other replied icily; 'but it will be my duty to forbid
any further visits to that Frenchman, and I shall inform Pastor Müller of
the schoolmaster's real character.'
This was too much for Wilhelmine; her anger flamed, all her reticence
vanished, and she poured forth the whole story. Her mother heard her to
the end, and, shaking her head, she made answer: 'If this be true, Pastor
Müller should be punished. But I cannot credit it; you are shielding
Monsieur Gabriel. Now go to your room and reflect. You are a sinful
woman, Wilhelmine, and a disgrace to your ancient name.'
The girl turned away. The excitement of the last hours had fatigued her,
and she felt an unaccountable apathy. After all, what did it matter if
her mother misjudged her? She would soon be far away; her present life
and surroundings appeared to her to be absolutely detached from her real
self. She went slowly up the creaking stair and into her garret, and
flung herself down on the bed. She was asleep almost as soon as her head
touched the pillow.
* * * * *
It was quite dark when Wilhelmine woke, and she wondered why she should
awaken during the night; then, slowly, remembrance came to her, and she
realised that she was still fully dressed. She lay quiet for some time,
pondering on the events of the day. The Rathaus clock chimed eight slow
notes, and she knew she had slept for nearly nine hours. She listened;
there was some one moving downstairs in the kitchen, probably her mother
preparing the meagre supper. Wilhelmine rose, groped her way to the door,
and turned the handle. The door remained firmly closed. She shook it
gently, pushed it--the doors in her mother's house often stuck fast; but
this time it was no accidental adherence of ill-fitting hinges, the door
was securely fastened from outside. Her mother had locked her in! To be
locked into a room had always been a terrible thing to her. When she was
a child, her brother had often teased her by pushing her into a dark
cupboard and turning the key, and it was the only one of the many tricks
he played her which had caused her real alarm. She hated the dark and
always imagined she was stifling when she knew she was a prisoner in an
unlit place. The same feeling came over her now, and she beat her hands
frantically against the door, calling her mother loudly the while. But no
answer came. She groped her way across the room till she felt her hand
touch the window. She found the fastening and, opening the casement,
leaned far out into the still night air. From across the market-place
came the sound of men's voices, and a glow of light shone beneath the
hostelry door. An occasional burst of song and drunken laughter told her
that the bad characters of the town were carousing, as usual, on a
Saturday night. Otherwise the silence was intense and the darkness
unbroken by moon or star. The calm air of the winter night soothed
Wilhelmine, and she was ashamed of having knocked and called so wildly;
but now a dull feeling of resentment rose in her against her mother for
locking her into her room like a naughty child. She leaned her head
against the window-frame and wondered if any one on earth had ever been
as lonely and miserable as she. Her mother disliked her, her brother was
too selfish to care for any one save himself. Anna, her friend, was
something in her life; but it is small avail to be loved by those who
manage to make their affection tiresome. Müller loved her! She smiled
bitterly to herself; yes, that was a love which could give her happiness!
That was what some people called love, she had been told. All at once a
wonderful feeling came to her, a wave of infinite relief, like balsam to
her wounded heart: it was the thought of Monsieur Gabriel's gentle
friendship and trust in her. She saw his kind, dim eyes; the good,
discriminating smile, and the thought was as though he laid his delicate,
blue-veined hand on her head, soothing her unutterably. She heard a step
coming on the stair, a flicker of light crept under her door, and some
one fitted the key into the lock. 'Mother!' she called in a softened
voice. When the door opened, she saw Frau von Grävenitz standing there, a
rush-light in one hand and a plate of food balanced between her breast
and the other hand, in which she held a pitcher of milk. The old woman's
eyes were red with weeping, and vaguely Wilhelmine realised for the first
time in her life that, in spite of grumbling, reproaches, and grudging
meanness, her mother had for her a spark of that patient, yearning
tenderness which is maternal love.
'Here, my child,' she said gently, 'eat and drink, and forget the
horrible things you have passed through to-day.' Wilhelmine slipped an
arm round the old woman's neck, and kissed her as she had not done for
many a long day, perhaps never since she had been a little child. For a
moment she leaned her head against her mother's shoulder, and then taking
the food she began to eat. Frau von Grävenitz stuck the rush-light up
between a book which was lying on the table and the edge of the plate,
then shutting the window she went out, closing and re-locking the door
behind her.
* * * * *
On the following morning Wilhelmine woke early, and she was dressed when
her mother came to the door and bade her descend and help with the
housework. All traces of the unwonted tenderness in the old woman's face
had vanished. She had, apparently, forgotten the circumstances of the
previous day, or at any rate she made no allusion thereto, though her
daughter fancied she watched her narrowly. When the morning's work was
ended Wilhelmine returned to her chamber to dress for the church service.
She was brushing her hair, when she heard a knock at the house door,
followed by Frau von Grävenitz's shrill tones as she conversed in the
corridor with some person. Then she heard her mother mounting the stairs
and calling 'Wilhelmine!' in flustered tones. The girl hastened to the
door of her room and stood on the landing waiting to hear the cause of
her mother's summons.
'Your precious Monsieur Gabriel has gone off to Schwerin, it seems,' she
said, eyeing Wilhelmine sharply. 'He has sent a message, saying that he
prays you take his place at the organ this morning. He says he has urgent
business at Schwerin, though what it can be I am sure I do not know!
However, I suppose you will play the organ this morning, and I hope you
will make your Monsieur Gabriel pay you in good silver coin for your
trouble.' Wilhelmine's lip curled contemptuously. 'We have never paid him
a groschen for teaching me to play this same organ, mother,' she said.
'Of course I shall play this morning, but I shall persuade Anna to come
to the organ-loft with me,' she added, as a vision flashed across her of
Pastor Müller, and a possible pursuit down the dark winding stair-way
after the congregation had left the church. She dressed quickly, and
wrapping her cloak round her went out into the crisp frosty morning air
to fetch Anna. When she came to the dreary house in the Stiftstrasse
where the deformed girl lived, she was annoyed to find that her friend
had already started for church. It was Anna's habit to go to the
cathedral before the appointed hour for the church service. She loved to
sit in the dim aisle, watching the sunlight creeping through the ancient
stained glass windows, while she waited for the first tone of the organ.
Wilhelmine considered for a moment. It was ridiculous to fear Müller; he
would not dare to molest her in the precincts of the church; yet she
hated to pass the sacristy door alone, for he could follow her, unseen
from the rest of the building. She threw back her head with a defiant
movement: was she becoming fearful, timid? Was this a frame of mind in
which to face the adventurous life at a court? She turned away
impatiently, and went swiftly down the Stiftstrasse to the market-place.
The Rathaus clock rang out, and Wilhelmine realised that there was no
time to be lost if she were to play the voluntary to the sound of which
the worshippers were accustomed to take their places. She hastened across
the market-place, down the Klosterstrasse and through the graveyard,
where the old stone slabs on the graves were, for the most part, hidden
beneath the frost-bound snow which glittered in the sun, though here and
there an upright tombstone showed like a discoloured, jagged tooth in the
midst of a white pall. She hurried on and entered the side door near the
sacristy. As she lifted the latch of the entrance to the dark stair
leading up to the organ-loft she heard a movement behind her, and,
turning, she saw Müller's face peer at her from the sacristy. She paid no
heed, and springing quickly up the steps gained the small platform, where
the happiest hours of her life had been spent with the old musician. She
peered down into the well-like space beneath the organ, where the
bellows-blower laboured, pumping in the air for the pipes. He was at his
post patiently waiting for the signal to commence his work. Wilhelmine
signed to him to begin, and having assured herself that all was in order,
she glanced at the sheets of manuscript music. She found that Monsieur
Gabriel had appointed hymns and canticles for the day, and she noticed
that he had chosen the easiest and simplest, for though her skill almost
equalled his own, he had evidently wished to spare her difficulty and
trouble. She seated herself upon the high bench before the organ,
arranging her skirts so that they should not balk her pedalling. At first
she played softly--a wailing melody of her own devising; then, as though
she gathered strength and assurance in her music, the chords boomed out,
rich and deep, rolling down the church like the relentless waves of some
elementary force. She played on and on, not hearing through the music the
sound of the shuffling feet of the entering worshippers. It was with a
feeling of alarm that she became aware of rows of honest burghers seated
stolidly in their accustomed places. Pastor Müller was kneeling in the
pulpit waiting for the music to cease ere he began the preliminary
prayer. She softened the chords, till they faded and ceased entirely,
then taking up a book of canticles, she studied the melodies and read
their words, for she felt she could not listen to Müller's rasping voice
exhorting his flock to holiness and purity of living.
The harsh tones fell unheeded on her ear for some time. A sudden
cessation thereof roused her to attention, and she craned her neck over
the side of the panelled wainscot which ran round the organ-loft. She saw
the congregation attentively waiting for the pastor to give out the text
of his sermon. Müller stood in the pulpit; an open Bible lay on the ledge
beneath one of his strong, coarse hands; the other hand grasped the
pulpit edge, and Wilhelmine could see his knuckles whitening with the
force of his grip. His face was ashy, and the deep-set eyes moved
incessantly; he was evidently in a state of that violent excitement which
sometimes seized him when he preached, and which gave him a fervid
emotional eloquence.
'For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of
grass. The grass withereth and the flower thereof falleth away. But the
word of the Lord endureth for ever. And this is the word which by the
Gospel is preached unto you.' He read his text in a husky, raucous
voice, and through the assemblage passed a wave of astonishment. This was
surely no verse for a Sunday before Christmas; it was more fitted for a
Lenten discourse! But Pastor Müller's sermons were the only theatrical
performances given at Güstrow, and the citizens revelled in the often
startlingly emotional character of his exhortations; so that day they
settled down as usual to listen to his sermon with pleasurable curiosity.
'Brethren,' he began, 'O miserable sinners, who lightly look towards the
season of Christ's birth as a time of rejoicing and merry-making,
forgetting the load of iniquity which weighs you down--I call to you to
pause! Tremble, ye righteous! Quake in fearful terror, ye wrong-doers!
All joy is evil, and all things of the flesh accursed. Mourn, ye women!
Cry out and weep, ye little children! for by lust ye were begot. Yea, sin
walks abroad, and corruption liveth in the hearts of men. Boast not
thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Repent, I command you, and scourge yourselves, for though it is true that
the Lord Christ came into the world to save sinners, still the security
you have made unto yourselves is a vain thing. Without repentance you
cannot share in the benefit of the birth of Christ. Prepare for Christmas
by much searching of heart and renunciation of the joys of the flesh, not
by seeking fresh pleasures and carousing. For truly the grass withereth
and the flower thereof passeth away!' He stood tense, one arm
outstretched; he was moved by his own incoherent eloquence. The
congregation listened spellbound; indeed, the man was an orator, and the
very unexpectedness of his strange violence held his listeners
enthralled. After a pause, during which the silence became nearly
intolerable, he continued his oration. His language had a Biblical
flavour, and the passion of his utterance seemed like holy inspiration.
Wilhelmine listened unmoved; she knew that the man laboured under an
excitement of being, which had little or nothing to do with religious
sincerity. It was merely his physical fury, dammed back from a more
natural channel, which had caused this exaltation of mind. She watched
him with a mocking smile as he poured forth a torrent of vehement
words--denunciations of all things joyful, exhortations to repentance,
and thunders of prospective vengeance on sin. Even to her the sermon
seemed a masterpiece of eloquence, and the artistic feeling in her
rejoiced in the vigorous phrases and fervid declamation, though her whole
being revolted against the hypocrite and fanatic who spoke, and she
despised the crude bigotry of the actual matter of the peroration.
His words came ever faster and in ever growing violence, till with
consummate skill he made another sudden pause; then, sinking his voice to
a tone of grave warning, he ejaculated solemnly: 'O my brethren, men of
the reformed faith, hearken unto me! Here, before the Face of God
Almighty, I denounce the hellish instigators of all this abominable lust,
the frail instruments of temptations--Women! These are the scourges of
the world! accursed by reason of their vanity! condemned everlastingly by
reason of their carnal desire and of their perpetual contamination of the
pure heart of man!'
This was more than Wilhelmine could tolerate coming from the lips of the
wretch who, but a few hours before, had proved himself to be a very
beast. She would hear no more of his insolent diatribes! She gave the
sign to the bellows-blower to commence his labours, and as she heard
Müller's voice again rising in a burst of wild denunciation, she crashed
both hands on the keys of the organ, drowning the preacher's words in a
flood of magnificent sound. In a triumph song of the fullness of Earth's
beauty and glory the giant chords rang out, and Wilhelmine laughed aloud
under cover of the music. This was her answer to the hollowness of the
hypocrite's denunciation of life and happiness; this was her confession
of faith in the joy of living, and this was her revenge upon the man who
had humiliated her. She remembered, however, that the congregation must
be propitiated for the interruption, and sliding her strong fingers from
note to note on the organ she modulated her triumphant rhapsody into the
simple, restful C Major; then she played the first bar of the canticle
which Monsieur Gabriel had given out to the singers; who, though sitting
among the congregation during the services, were still a very compact and
united choir carefully trained by him, for the most part, from childhood.
As she expected, they answered immediately to the organ's command, and a
hundred young voices sang Luther's grand old hymn--
'Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott.'
* * * * *
On the following afternoon Wilhelmine was sitting disconsolately in her
attic. The book she was reading had fallen from her hands, and her eyes
rested on the ugly blue walls of her room. She reviewed in her mind the
events of the previous day; the scene in the church, and her subsequent
departure therefrom, which she had managed so deftly that, though Müller
was in the graveyard when she came out, she had evaded him, and joining
Anna, who was waiting for her near the porch, she had succeeded in
passing the pastor without staying to hear what he evidently wished to
say. Frau von Grävenitz chid her sharply for interrupting the sermon, but
she was silenced by Wilhelmine's angry retort and reminder of Müller's
misdeeds. The Sunday afternoon and evening had passed without any
unwonted occurrence. Wilhelmine was tortured by the fact that she had not
told her mother of Friedrich's letter; she had not recovered it from
Müller, though twice she had sent the servant-maid to demand its
restitution.
She intended to reveal the whole story to her mother, when Monsieur
Gabriel returned with the promised money; for she guessed that the object
of his journey to Schwerin was the procuring of the sum. The light was
failing rapidly, and Wilhelmine felt intensely dreary and sad. She turned
over the leaves of the book which lay on her lap; it was a volume lent
her by Monsieur Gabriel, a book written by Blaise Pascal. Her eye was
caught by a sentence, and she read the wise words of the great thinker:
'Love hath its reasons which reason knoweth not.' Again her attention
wandered from the page; her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of
her destiny. With bitterness she realised that, for her, Love must be
either a renunciation of ambition, a life passed with some simple
countryman, or else a career, a profession, an abnegation of quiet days.
Which should she strive for? 'What does it avail a man though he gain the
whole world and lose his own soul?' The words came back to her; but no,
she was not made for peaceful days, she would weary of them inevitably.
She heard a knock on the house door and, shaking off her unusual
depression, she hurried downstairs. Monsieur Gabriel stood in the
corridor explaining in his scholarly foreign German to the servant-maid,
that it was absolutely necessary for him to see Fräulein von Grävenitz,
even if madame her mother could not receive him, as he had a matter of
importance to communicate. He smiled when he saw Wilhelmine--that good
smile of his, which was at once so kind, so bright, and yet so
unutterably sad.
'Ah! dear child!' he said, in French, 'I bring you good news. I have
procured the money.'
Wilhelmine went quickly up to him, and taking his hand in both of hers,
she drew him into the prim little dwelling-room where Frau von Grävenitz
received her rare guests. 'How can I ever thank you?' she said as she
closed the door.
'By thinking of me when you are far away,' he answered, 'and sometimes by
sending me a letter to lighten my gloom.'
'Yes!' she said eagerly; 'but tell me how you procured this great sum?'
'I had a few old trinkets,' he answered, 'which I had carried with me
from France. They were hidden in my travelling chest, and I had not even
looked at them these many years. They reminded me of another life, a life
which has nothing to do with the old schoolmaster of Güstrow,' he added
with a sigh. He laid a packet on the table, cut the string with his
knife, and began to undo four long rolls within, disclosing the bright
edges of twenty-five golden gulden in each roll. 'Twenty-five, fifty,
seventy-five, a hundred,' he counted out.
Wilhelmine looked curiously at the coins; she had seldom seen gold pieces
before, and never in a large quantity. She laid her hand on one of the
rouleaux. 'Gold is power, they say,' she murmured.
'The getting of gold is pain,' the old man answered, and he took her hand
in his, drawing hers away from the golden heap.
At that moment the door opened silently, and Frau von Grävenitz stood on
the threshold. She looked from one to the other, she saw the money on the
table, and Wilhelmine's sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. Monsieur
Gabriel's face she could not see, for it was turned away from her towards
Wilhelmine; but she could see that he held her hand in his, and all her
suspicions re-awoke.
'What is this?' she said: 'Monsieur Gabriel, why are you bringing money
to my daughter?' Both Wilhelmine and her friend started. 'For her journey
to Stuttgart, madame,' he answered. 'Her journey?' said the old woman,
'what journey? What do you mean?'
'Ah! Mademoiselle Wilhelmine has perhaps not had time to communicate her
plans to you, madame,' he replied courteously. 'She told me of her
brother's letter, and as I thought that madame had perhaps not got so
large a sum of money at her disposal at the moment, I have ventured to
make a little gift to my favourite pupil, to enable her to accept her
brother's proposition. Believe me, madame, I esteem it an honour to be of
service to one whose wonderful gift of music has made my poor life so
much happier than it could have been otherwise.'
'Wilhelmine, what is the meaning of this?' cried Frau von Grävenitz in
her sharpest tones. 'You have received a letter from my son, of which you
have not informed me! You plan things with a stranger, and I am told
nothing! You receive money from a man--what for, I should like to know? I
dare not say what terrible thoughts all this awakens in me. Give me your
brother's letter immediately!' Her voice had risen higher and higher,
till she almost screamed the last words.
'I cannot give you the letter, mother,' Wilhelmine returned quietly, 'I
have lost it.'
'Monsieur Gabriel,' said Frau von Grävenitz, 'perhaps you have got it? I
command you to hand it over to me.'
'Madame, I am astounded! Indeed, I have not got the letter, though
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine showed it to me on Saturday morning.'
'Yes! Saturday morning!' Frau von Grävenitz retorted with a sneer. 'Of a
truth, you and my daughter have reason to remember that day. You are a
corrupter of youth, and an evil man, Mr. Schoolmaster, and a purloiner of
letters as well.'
Monsieur Gabriel looked from the irate lady to her daughter, in
consternation and bewilderment. 'I fear, madame, that I do not understand
you,' he said gently; 'you labour under a misapprehension. I have never
had the letter in my possession. As for your other accusation, I think
you are led away by your anger. Indeed, I do not know the meaning of your
words, madame.' His calmness only served to madden Frau von Grävenitz
further. She turned away from him, and seizing Wilhelmine roughly by the
shoulder, she hissed in her ear: 'Give me the letter, you wanton!'
Wilhelmine started violently, and Monsieur Gabriel made a step forward,
as though to defend her; his face flushed deeply, and he said in a steady
voice: 'Madame de Grävenitz, such an accusation, even from a mother's
lips, is a thing to which no woman has the right to submit.' But Frau von
Grävenitz was beyond hearing; her features were distorted by rage, and
her mouth twitched convulsively. 'How dare you address me?' she screamed;
'you are my daughter's seducer--go--leave my house, and take the wages of
my daughter's sin with you!' She came up to the table, and with a sweep
of her arm scattered the gold to right and left.
'Mother!' cried Wilhelmine, 'you are mad!'
'Madame,' said Monsieur Gabriel, 'I can but obey your command to depart,'
and with a profoundly respectful bow to Wilhelmine, he quitted the
apartment with quiet dignity.
Frau von Grävenitz continued her fierce monologue for some time, without
interruption. Wilhelmine stood watching her, till an involuntary
breathless pause in her mother's torrent of words gave her the
opportunity of speech. 'You have always been unjust to me, mother,' she
said, in a hard, cold voice; 'and to-day you have insulted me, in the
presence of one you called a stranger. Yes; Friedrich wrote, proposing
that I should go and seek a more prosperous life in Wirtemberg. Yes; I
told Monsieur Gabriel. Yes; he said he would give me the money for my
journey. I warn you that I shall go, and it will be of no avail if you
attempt to hinder me.'
'You will not go,' said Frau von Grävenitz harshly. 'The money you have
earned by your dishonour I shall give to the poor.'
'It is not yours to give,' answered Wilhelmine coldly.
'We shall see,' replied her mother grimly, and commenced an undignified
scramble beneath the table, as she gathered up the scattered gold pieces.
When she had found all, and carefully counted it out, she placed it in an
oaken cupboard, double locked the door thereof, and placed the key in her
pocket, Wilhelmine watching her the while.
The evening meal was eaten in utter silence. Frau von Grävenitz
superintended the washing up of the plates, knives, and forks; then going
to the house door she fastened it securely, taking the key with her.
While the old woman was occupied at the house door, Wilhelmine slipped up
the stairs, with the noiseless tread of a cat, and abstracted the key
from her mother's bedroom door, then passing to her attic she undressed,
and, wrapping her bedgown round her, lay down on her bed. The stolen key
she tied firmly in a knot of her hair, close to her head, well hidden by
her thick curls. Having accomplished this, she feigned sleep. As she
expected, her mother soon discovered the absence of the key, and after a
fruitless search in her own room she stormed into Wilhelmine's attic, and
accused her of having removed it. The girl looked at her from sleepy
eyes, and denied all knowledge of the missing article. Frau von Grävenitz
searched the room, and then bidding her daughter rise, she felt beneath
her mattress and pillow. Then she ran her hand over her daughter's body,
but she never thought of examining the waves of hair, under which the key
was safely hidden. At length, she was satisfied that it was not in her
daughter's keeping, and she retired to bed grumbling.
Wilhelmine listened attentively for some half-hour, then gently pushed
aside the covering and noiselessly unlatched the door. She crept towards
her mother's door and listened. For some time she heard nothing, but at
length her patience was rewarded by the sound of a long, even breath, and
she knew her mother was asleep. Wilhelmine returned to her apartment.
Slowly and silently she resumed her clothes. Fortunately there was a
moon, and the room was flooded with pale light. She did not put on boots,
skirt, or cloak, but deposited these in a heap on the corridor floor.
Then she approached her mother's door, and listened once more; the
regular breaths were quite audible now. Softly she lifted the latch, and
passed into the room. The moon was hidden for a moment, and the room was
in utter darkness. She crouched, and carefully drew the door to behind
her; it creaked, and Frau von Grävenitz moved in her sleep. Wilhelmine
crouched lower, and taking a kerchief from her breast pushed it beneath
the door, to steady it. She waited motionless till her mother's breathing
told her that she was really asleep, and then, with noiseless tread, she
approached the sleeper. The clouds shifted and the moon shone in, showing
Frau von Grävenitz's face livid and deathlike in the luminous moonshine.
The girl shuddered; it was like robbing a corpse, she thought. But her
hesitation was momentary; she pushed her flexible hand beneath her
mother's pillow, and her fingers closed on the cold iron of a key. She
drew it out, but she felt rather than saw that it was not the one wanted.
She was stretching out her hand to seek for the other key, when the
sleeper stirred uneasily, murmuring some incomprehensible word, and
Wilhelmine cowered down once more. The old woman turned round in bed, so
that she faced the crouching girl; her face was now in shadow, and
Wilhelmine could not see whether the eyes were open or shut. She waited
for what seemed hours in that hunched-up position. After some time, the
even breathing recommenced, and Wilhelmine ventured to kneel up beside
the bed, but now a fresh difficulty confronted her: to reach the other
key, provided it lay beneath the pillow, she must pass her hand under
that portion of the pillow upon which Frau von Grävenitz's head rested.
She wriggled her hand in, and the point of her fingers touched the key;
but it was too far away for her to grasp it, and her efforts only pushed
it further. She withdrew her hand, and waited till the clouds floated
over the moon. When the welcome darkness came, she bent over her mother,
and lifting the further edge of the pillow quickly found the key. Then
she crept noiselessly to the threshold, took her kerchief, and shut the
door silently. Safe in the corridor, she caught up her bundle of garments
and groped her way down the stairs, which creaked under her, but she
heard no movement in the house, though she listened attentively at the
foot of the stairs. Swiftly she gained the dwelling-room, fitted the key
into the oaken press, unlocked it, and took out the rolls of gold. In
another moment she stood in the snow-covered street, the money for her
journey safe in her hand.
Wilhelmine von Grävenitz had taken the first step of an extraordinary
career.
CHAPTER IV
THE JOURNEY
'When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows,
And the air's with love notes teeming,
When fancies break, and the senses wake,
O, life's a dream worth dreaming.'
W. E. HENLEY.
A HEAVY, leaden sky hung over the small town of Cannstatt, and the people
looked with foreboding at the lowering black clouds, and the weather-wise
foretold a furious thunder-storm. For many weeks the heavens had smiled
as though summer had come, though in truth the spring was but just begun,
and May counted but few days. The trees of the forest were donning their
leafy garments, the orchards were white and pink with apple, pear, and
cherry blossom, and the young grass stood tall and feathery in an
unusually early maturity. Of course the peasants grumbled, as peasants
always do; they complained of the heat and shook their heads over a
belated frost, which they declared must come to chastise the forwardness
of the growing things; they demanded rain from the smiling blue heavens,
and contemplated gloomily the tender, green shoots of the vines. But
when, in answer to their prayers for rain, the sky lowered and the sun
vanished, they grumbled again and spoke of the hailstones, which would
come to dash the blossoms of the fruit-trees and break the young vines.
All day the thunder had menaced but had not fulfilled the threat, and
when evening fell the air was still heavily oppressive. A rumbling sound
caused the people to run to their lattice windows and look up at the sky,
wondering if the storm had come at last; but it was only the echo of
carriage-wheels rolling through the mediæval archway, which led to the
fields beyond the town. The diligence drew up ponderously at the door of
the Hotel Zur Post, and the driver descended equally ponderously,
demanding loudly a drink of good Wirtemberg wine. Meanwhile an imperious
voice from the conveyance could be heard inquiring whether they had
arrived at Stuttgart, and if not, where they were. No one answering this
query, a hand was visible thrust out of the clumsy diligence, in an
attempt to unfasten the catch which held the door firm. A bystander came
forward and undid the door, and a tall woman stood on the step of the
coach looking around her. As she put her foot to the ground in her
further descent, a brilliant flash of forked lightning, followed
immediately by a tremendous detonation of thunder, announced the storm's
advent.
Rain began to fall in torrents, as though the clouds were rent asunder
and poured long pent-up anger upon the world. The lady hastened to the
porch of the Gasthof to seek shelter, and the driver of the coach led his
tired horses under cover of a shed in the courtyard. The chief room of
the inn was a cheerless apartment, long and dark, with narrow, rough
wooden tables fitted round the walls. A strong, stale smell greeted the
nose disagreeably. One or two peasants sat at the far end of one of the
tables; they stared rudely as the lady entered, and whispered remarks
about her, grinning broadly the while. She glanced haughtily at them and
called to the innkeeper, who had followed her from the courtyard,
desiring him to bring her food and wine. He went slowly to a painted
wooden cupboard, which stood against the wall at the back of the room,
and returned with a lump of coarse bread and some raw ham which he set
down on the dirty table. Taking an earthenware jug from before the group
of peasants, he brought it to add to the lady's unappetising meal. 'Good
wine last year here,' he said. 'Then, at least, something is good, Herr
Wirth, in your inn!' she answered; 'but tell me,' she continued, with a
smile which almost charmed even the boorish innkeeper, 'how far is it to
Stuttgart, and what is the name of this village?' 'Village? Lady, it is a
township, and much older than Stuttgart! It is Cannstatt, where the
Romans have left a camp, but Stuttgart is the finer because the Duke's
court is there. You have travelled far?' he added, his curiosity getting
the better of the unfriendly distrust with which the Wirtemberger
regards all strangers. 'From the far north,' she answered shortly. 'You
have never been in our country before?' he asked; 'well, you have an
ill-omened day for your arrival; the storm greeted you!' The lady
started. 'Thank you for reminding me,' she said, 'I dislike ill omens.'
The man grinned: it delighted his honest soul to have succeeded in
annoying a foreigner. 'You will reach Stuttgart to-night, for it is only
half a league from here. Is Stuttgart your destination?' he asked.
'Perhaps,' she answered, and turned away; the man's curiosity was,
evidently, little to her taste. However, another thought seemed to come
to her, for she turned again towards him, and, with a smile of infinite
sweetness, began to question him on the country, the people, and the
court. At first he answered shortly enough, but the lady fixed her eyes
upon him. Gradually he felt (he told the tale often in later days) a sort
of dream-feeling creep over him, and he replied to all her questions
fully, telling her everything he knew of the country gossip: how the Duke
was heartily weary of his wife, Duchess Johanna Elizabetha; how she was
eternally jealous of him; of how a Frau von Geyling held the Duke
enthralled; that the Erbprinz was a sickly child of nine years old, who
men said could not be long for this world. He told her of the people's
hatred of a Herr von Stafforth, a foreigner, who had become very mighty
in Stuttgart; in fact he gossiped freely, and perhaps, in his half-hour's
talk, let her discover more of the people's thoughts, and the dangerously
discontented state of the country, than was known to the ministers of
Wirtemberg. At length the lady rose and requested him to see if the storm
had sufficiently abated for the coach to continue its journey. The man
went out rubbing his eyes; he felt as if he had been half asleep.
The storm was over, and only the rain fell quietly as the coach rumbled
out of Cannstatt and across the bridge over the Neckar. The lady leaned
back against the wooden side of the diligence and closed her eyes. She
reflected that she must be near Stuttgart, and she wondered what her
destiny would be in the town which she was nearing in the darkness.
Gradually the monotonous creaking and the jolting of the heavy vehicle
made her drowsy, also she felt the warmth of the potent Wirtemberg wine
glow through her tired limbs. The coach passed through the outskirts of
Stuttgart, but Wilhelmine von Grävenitz, for it was she, slept and did
not see the outlying houses of that town, where Fate willed she should
play so important a part.
Wilhelmine had tarried in Berlin with her sister, Frau Sittmann, and the
days of her visit had lengthened to weeks ere she had resumed her journey
southwards, for she had been sick unto death with smallpox. When she
recovered she had almost found it in her heart to return to Güstrow and
hide her ravaged beauty; but in reality the fell disease had been very
merciful, and though Wilhelmine's skin was slightly pock-marked, the
bloom and colour of her magnificent health and forceful youth rendered
the marks inoffensive. Thus, though long delayed, she had at last
continued her adventurous quest.
The coach lumbered on, and Wilhelmine woke with a start as a more than
usually violent jolt flung her against the door. She peered out into the
darkness but could see nothing, for the night was absolutely starless.
The road was so steep that at moments the heavy carriage threatened to
run backwards down the hill, in spite of the straining of the wretched
horses that struggled onwards, slipping and floundering on the dripping
road. At the top of the hill the driver pulled up to breathe the poor
beasts; he came round to the back of the coach and called to Wilhelmine
that if she leaned out of the window she would see the lights of the town
of Stuttgart beneath her in the valley. She looked out, and far down she
saw lights glittering through the night. There were only a few visible,
for the windows of most of the houses were probably curtained to shut out
the wet night. Wilhelmine drew back into the diligence with a sense of
disappointment. She had dreamed of a splendid city, and this seemed like
a village.
She slept again, and it was the morning sun shining on her face which
roused her. She looked out of the window once more, and this time a
smiling landscape met her eye. The route ran between green fields, and on
each side of the road were huge, gnarled apple and pear trees, which
spring had crowned with a glory of snowy blossom. In the near distance
rose rounded, fir-clad hills, here and there the sombre colour broken by
the delicate verdure of young beech leaves. A delicious morning air
kissed Wilhelmine's cheeks and lips as she leaned out of the window,
wafting to her the faint, sweet breath of the fruit blossom mixed with
the smell of the wet fields and woods. 'What a glorious country!' she
said aloud, and she called to the driver to stop and let her rest her
aching limbs in a few minutes' walk. The man opened the door and bade her
'Grüss Gott, Fräulein,' and even the surly tone in which the words were
uttered could not spoil the beauty of the friendly South German greeting.
'All the fields and the woods say "Grüss Gott" to-day, I think!' she
returned. The heavy Swabian peasant stared at her. 'What ridiculous
things these foreigners say!' was written so clearly in his face, that
Wilhelmine laughed outright.
'Where do we change horses next?' she queried. He told her at Tübingen in
an hour's time, and that they would reach her destination, Rottenburg,
about twelve of the clock. When they rattled in to the old town of
Tübingen the driver informed her that they made an hour's halt there.
'Unless indeed,' he added, 'you choose to travel to Rottenburg by special
post-chaise, at a cost of twelve gulden.'
But Wilhelmine had few gulden to spare, and she decided to wander about
the town until the ordinary diligence started for Rottenburg. She climbed
the steep road to the ancient castle. The moat was filled with flowers
and shrubs. It surprised her to see this peaceful garrison of the
fortifications of a stronghold so soon after the invasion of Wirtemberg
by the troops of Louis XIV. She questioned a peasant who was loitering
near the drawbridge. He laughed at her, and endeavoured to be witty at
her expense, after the agreeable manner of the Swabian, who thinks
himself entitled to poke clumsy fun at any questioner. He condescended,
however, to inform her that in fertile Wirtemberg flowers and all growing
things find a home each spring in any and every nook and cranny, careless
that their forbears of a twelvemonth have been uprooted.
'A beautiful land,' she murmured, 'peopled by boors!' She turned away
from her discourteous informant and contemplated the grey walls of the
castle, so strong and grim, yet dressed with the gracious flowers of a
lavish spring. As she stood admiring the wonderful Renaissance gateway,
one side of the huge door was pushed open and a young man in student's
dress emerged. His face, though sickly and emaciated, interested her by
reason of its vivid intelligence and a certain mocking look of eye and
lip.
'Sir,' said Wilhelmine, as the youth approached over the drawbridge,
'could I see the castle, do you think? I am a stranger and have an hour
to pass in Tübingen, and I would fain wile away the time of my stay
here.' He told her she was at liberty to wander through the courtyard; he
need but request the doorkeeper to admit her. 'I am a student in this
university,' he explained, 'for though this castle is in reality a royal
residence, the students occupy one side of the quadrangle; and, in truth,
his Highness Eberhard Ludwig seldom visits his fortress of Tübingen.' She
thanked him for his courtesy and would have passed on alone, but the
student followed her through the peaceful courtyard, proudly pointing out
to her the fine workmanship of the fountain. Then he made her peep
through the windows of the library, which filled one side of the
building. There she saw black-robed students poring over the books.
'Melanchthon lectured there,' he said; 'Erasmus was here, and the learned
Dr. Faustus of Maulbronn came and studied here, so legend says.'
He took her up the moss-grown steps at the end of the courtyard, and out
on to the rampart. A view of infinite beauty lay before her: a vast
expanse of green fields through which the river Neckar flows gently, a
smiling valley glittering in the morning sunshine and radiant with fruit
blossom. In the middle distance were fir-clad hills, while behind them
rose blue and misty mountains. The student pointed southwards. 'Over
there is the ruined castle of Hohenzollern. If you have good eyes you can
catch the sun glinting upon one of the few remaining towers. It is the
ancient home of that strong race which rules Prussia. This Southern
Germany is the birthland of great races. Hohenstauffen is another
mountain in this range; but you cannot see it from here, it is too far.'
The student spoke dreamily, as though the changing destinies of master
races lay before him in a vision. Wilhelmine leant against the stone
balustrade and gazed at the beautiful country. She was interested in the
scholar's talk, and she waited, hoping he would continue; but as he did
not speak, she asked him whether the castle of the Hohenstauffens still
existed. He told her that not one stone remained upon another. 'Vanished
like the proud race which was called by its name, only a memory now to
the few who love the past!' he said. 'All things vanish, Fräulein,' he
continued, 'the good, the great, the wrong, the glory, and the tears; the
wise man must carve his name on the _lives_ of those around him if he
would benefit by power. The noble deed carved on stone raised to do us
honour after death is almost mockery. Personal power during our lives,
riches, enjoyment, all that dominion over others gives----' He paused and
laughed harshly.
Wilhelmine looked at him. 'What power do you seek, Mr. Student?' she
asked curiously.
'For myself, little! I wish for a sufficiency of money to be able to
pursue my studies, that is all. I am a theologian, and shall be a pastor
in a few months' time, and the occupation with the uninteresting peasant
souls of a country parish is little to my taste.'
Wilhelmine observed him narrowly. This man might prove useful, she
reflected, if she should desire a service, and if she were in a position
to pay for it. 'Tell me your name,' she said. He told her--Otto Pfahler,
and in return he begged her to tell him who she was; but she evaded the
question, and asked him concerning the history of Tübingen. There is no
being on earth more easy to manage than an historical enthusiast who has
seldom the opportunity of expatiating on the legends which he loves; you
have but to turn his mind to the past, he will wander off therein, and
you need not even listen, provided you have the wit to nod in an
interested way at intervals. Pfahler talked on as he accompanied
Wilhelmine across the courtyard, and she was able to dismiss him with a
bow and a word of thanks for his historic anecdotes, without divulging
her identity.
When Wilhelmine regained the diligence, she found the horses already
harnessed and the driver climbing upon the box. She took her place in
the clumsy vehicle and recommenced her journey.
The road from Tübingen to Rottenburg winds through the valley of the
Neckar for some ten miles. It is the usual South German high-road,
bordered by large fruit-trees; but to Wilhelmine, coming from the bleak
northern winter, it seemed as though she had been set down in Fairyland.
The white and pink blossoms of the fruit-trees, the strong high grass
whitened by the luxuriant growth of the cow-parsley, touched here and
there with the gold of the giant kingcups, and, as though the Master's
palette had been robbed of all its colours to complete this radiant
spring picture, the very earth of the vineyards below the fresh green of
the vine sprouts shone with the rich red brown of the Wirtemberg soil,
which is one more opulent charm added to the beauty of an indescribably
lovely spring country. Rottenburg lies in the centre of this valley; the
Neckar flows placidly half way round the small town. The diligence rolled
over a mediæval bridge which spans the river, and Wilhelmine found
herself at the end of her tedious, rattling journey. She stepped out of
the coach and looked about her, expecting to see her brother.
The narrow street was empty, save for several black-gowned figures moving
slowly towards an enormous building, which flanked one side of a square
or market-place, at the end of the street.
As she stood a moment hesitating, she heard herself addressed from the
door of the inn, before which the diligence had halted. Turning she saw a
most suave personage bowing and smiling, and imploring her to enter the
hostelry. Wilhelmine looked with interest at the man, evidently the
innkeeper, yet of so clerical an appearance that she thought he must be a
particularly prosperous priest. She entered the inn, and was ordering
herself some slight refreshment from her obsequious host when bells from
some neighbouring church rang out. The innkeeper crossed his brow and
breast with the third finger of his right hand, while with his left hand
he piously hid his eyes. He recited some prayers in a mumbling undertone,
then crossing himself once more, he turned with an oily smile to
Wilhelmine. 'The Angelus,' he said; 'evidently Madame is not of the
Faith. Here in Rottenburg we are all members of the true Church. We have
had the privilege of having a Jesuit college here these many years.'
Wilhelmine made some appropriate answer, and noted for the first time in
her personal experience the truth of a remark of Monsieur Gabriel's, that
one of the strengths of the Catholic Church is the semi-clericalising of
the laymen who live in or near any religious centre. It flatters the
uneducated to feel themselves akin to their spiritual dictators, and it
gives them a spurious refinement. Undoubtedly, the host of the Römischer
Kaiser was an excellent specimen of this class.
Wilhelmine, having partaken of her breakfast, was setting out to walk
towards the Neuhaus, where her brother had directed her to appear, when
she saw Friedrich Grävenitz coming down the street. He greeted his sister
hastily, and explained that the diligence had arrived before the usual
hour. He apologised for not having been at the inn to welcome his sister
on her arrival, but it struck Wilhelmine that though her brother had
gained in polish of manner since he had become a courtier, he had lost
the warmth and friendliness which had characterised him in earlier days.
She felt chilled and saddened, and it was in silence that she walked
beside him across the fields from Rottenburg to Madame de Ruth's house. A
stout peasant followed them carrying her scanty baggage. Friedrich talked
volubly to his unresponsive companion, and though he expressed the hope,
with much politeness, that she was not fatigued by her journey, he did
not listen to her reply, but plunged into an exact account of his own
position at court and of his poverty and difficulties. His sister was
weary, and an overpowering sense of loneliness possessed her; she had
always known her brother to be an egoist, but a certain spontaneous, easy
kindness had masked his self-love when he was in Mecklemburg.
They walked over the field before the house, passed through the
tree-shaded garden, up the red-tiled garden-path to the side door of the
Neuhaus, and Friedrich knocked loudly with the handle of his cane on the
panel. Madame de Ruth's peasant servant admitted them, and led the way
through the dark corridor to the panelled room, where, three months
earlier, it had been decided that Wilhelmine should be summoned to
Wirtemberg to help fill her brother's purse.
The sunshine streamed down on the garden without, but the room was
chilly, and Wilhelmine shivered a little as she stood waiting for her
unknown hostess to appear. It could not be said that Wilhelmine was a
timid woman, yet hers was one of those natures which, though ready to
attempt many things, shrink unaccountably at any touch of dreariness, and
almost dread meeting strangers. She looked at her brother, who stood with
his back turned towards the room, gazing out at the sunlit garden. She
noted his broad shoulders, the graceful pose of the body, the straight,
shapely legs, and the slightness of hip which distinguished him from the
usual heavily-built German. There was beauty in his lines, and yet a
certain strangeness of proportion in the whole figure which puzzled her
for a moment; then she noticed the extreme smallness of his head, and the
curious absence of development in the back of the skull, which gave him a
well-bred but foolish look. He was quite amiable, and meant kindly
towards his sister, yet he was incapable of helping in what was for her a
difficult moment; indeed, he added to her feeling of loneliness by his
loud talk and patronising air. At length the door opened and Madame de
Ruth appeared. She came forward with hands outstretched and a smile of
welcome on her kind, ugly face, which became most genial when she saw her
guest's undoubted beauty. 'A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting, my
dear! I was not dressed, lazy old woman that I am! And how fatigued you
must be, dear child; such a journey!--Grävenitz, have you not offered
your sister some refreshment? Good Lord! what an idea! What? You say you
have been talking? Yes, yes, I warrant you have!' Her sharp eyes had
taken in the situation. Madame de Ruth, though she talked, as Zollern
said, 'like a book,' had the faculty of talking and observing at the same
time. People think that the talkers of the world are so occupied with
their own prattle that their eyes remain idle; whereas some of the most
practised observers, especially those of the feminine sex, have learned
that it is possible to extract more information from others by appearing
to impart much, and that a flow of speech masks the observation to a
great extent. The garrulous lady saw the brother's pompous attitude; she
had caught the tones of his unmodulated voice before she entered, and she
noticed immediately the shadow on the girl's face and guessed what the
new arrival felt.
Wilhelmine responded readily to Madame de Ruth. Soon the girl felt as
though she had known her for years. After a few minutes' conversation the
two ladies left the formal living-room, and passed up a broad wooden
stair to a room on the first floor, where Wilhelmine found her few
belongings already set down. It was a pretty room for those days, though
we should now consider it but insufficiently furnished. Bare,
brown-stained boards, a narrow wooden bedstead, a couple of carved wooden
chairs, a large carved cupboard, and a table, on which stood a tiny
washing-basin and ewer of beautiful porcelain, completed the
appointments. The hostess rattled on cheerfully while Wilhelmine divested
herself of the cloak and hood. She realised that Madame de Ruth intended
to remain, curious to see the contents of the travelling-basket; but this
was precisely what the guest did not desire, for she had no wish to
expose the scantiness of her wardrobe to her new friend. She sat down on
one of the wooden chairs opposite her hostess, and listened to the
voluble talk. Both women knew exactly what the other wanted, and both
were equally determined not to be beaten; also both knew that the other
knew what they each wanted. It was one of those small feminine conflicts
which take place every day. The older woman's tongue ran on, while her
sharp eyes noted every shade and change in her guest's face. Wilhelmine
answered the many questions frankly enough, but Madame de Ruth observed
with satisfaction that she told only such things as all the world might
hear. There were no outbursts of girlish confidences, no indiscreet
questions; she was mistress of the situation, and if she showed any
shyness, it was never either awkward or foolish, but seemed merely a
delightful youthful attribute, an added charm. Her hostess felt a
deepening interest. This girl would be a more potent factor in the
intrigues for which they had destined her than they had dreamed. She
watched Wilhelmine as a full-grown tigress might watch the play of a
tiger cub, noting the promise of each movement, gauging the strength of
the young animal, and calculating the fighting powers which it would
develop. At length Madame de Ruth rose, and, drawing Wilhelmine to her,
she kissed her affectionately. 'You have a future before you, my dear,'
she said, and her fine smile lit her face. 'You have bewitched me, and
you will bewitch others of more importance. Now, dress. We dine at three
o'clock, and the Duke of Zollern will be with us.'
* * * * *
The Duke of Zollern was seated at Madame de Ruth's right hand; Monsieur
de Stafforth, Oberhofmarshall of the court of Wirtemberg, was at her
left; Madame Friedrich de Grävenitz sat beside the Duke to his right;
beside her was the Freiherr von Reischach, a gentleman famous for his
fine courtliness and his experience in war and love; Friedrich Grävenitz
sat next to him, and then came Wilhelmine seated between her brother and
Monsieur de Stafforth, opposite her hostess and the Duke of Zollern.
Madame de Ruth sat with her back turned towards the light; she knew the
value of shadow to an ageing face, and always declared that the glare
hurt her eyes, though, God knows, these were neither weak nor easily
dazzled. The Duke of Zollern, too, liked to have the light behind him.
'It is fitting for the old to turn their backs to the sunshine,' he had
remarked as they took their places at the table, 'for, indeed, the light
of youth is behind us, shining, alas! on the paths we have already
traversed. For the young--let the sunshine lie before them, making their
youth still more fair--if possible.' And he had bowed in his inimitable
way to Wilhelmine, who delighted in this courteous speech, though she was
perfectly aware that he and Madame de Ruth had placed her in the full
light in order to study her the better. Of a truth, Wilhelmine looked
wonderfully lovely that afternoon. Her luxuriant hair, innocent of
powder, was piled high on her head, and turned back from off her white
brow; the glow of perfect health was in her cheeks, and her strange
magnetic eyes were softened by shyness. She had fashioned herself a
bodice out of the feast-day kerchiefs which Mecklemburg peasant women
wear; cutting off the flowered borders, she had joined them together and
made a deep hem which she had sewn on her dark blue linen skirt. The
corsage was cut down at the back, and the front she had cut out in a deep
V shape, showing her creamy neck and the gentle rise of her breast. A
poor garment indeed, but the kerchiefs had been carefully collected, and
were all of the same delicate pink colour, and she had further softened
the lines round the contour of her neck by a folded white kerchief. At
her bosom she had fastened a spray of apple-blossom, and the petals
leaning against her white skin were not more delicate, more divinely
young than her breast. She looked like a blossom herself as the sunlight
touched her, and the men round the dinner-table gazed so eagerly at her,
that she knew she must be more beautiful than the ladies of the court,
albeit their gowns were of silk.
No dinner could be dull if Madame de Ruth was there; and Zollern, with
his courtly grace and witty talk, was a host in himself. Reischach was
silent, but his openly admiring looks at Wilhelmine pleased her more than
the phrases of a talkative gallant. As for Grävenitz, he talked loudly,
according to his wont, paying but little heed to the random answers of
Monsieur de Stafforth, who like Reischach was occupied with Wilhelmine.
But, unlike Reischach, Stafforth's admiration, though not so open, had
that touch of coarseness which is so often the mark of the bourgeois'
approval. Madame de Grävenitz, it was evident, entirely disapproved of
Wilhelmine. She was a pretty, colourless devotee, and she felt her
sister-in-law's beauty and obvious fascination to be almost indecorous.
Madame de Ruth chattered as usual, though at moments she paused to
whisper a comment to Zollern, who answered in a low voice by some subtle
irony which caused the lady much amusement. The dinner was very long, and
it was with relief that Wilhelmine saw her hostess rise from the table.
'Coffee in the garden, mes amis! and then Mademoiselle de Grävenitz
shall sing to us. There is a clavichord in the panelled room, and we will
leave the garden door open in order to hear the music. Come, Marie! what
a gloomy face! Why must the pious be gloomy? Lord, girl! forget your sins
for once, or you will exhaust the stock, and then there will be nothing
to repent of. Think, my dear,' she said, turning to Wilhelmine, 'your
sister-in-law is a saint. O Monseigneur, you shake a finger at me! Brook?
Who talks of brooks? Ah, well, I talk too much!--well, well!--An account
on the Last Day of my words? I pity the angel who adds up the sum! But
come, coffee! and a moment's silence, my friends!'
They all laughed. Madame de Ruth's vivacity was infectious; and even
Marie Grävenitz was smiling, as the party passed through the living-room
and into the garden. They went down the red-tiled path, and, turning to
the left, came to a stone bench before which, on a square table, the
servant had placed the coffee and seven tiny porcelain cups. Madame de
Ruth busied herself preparing the coffee for her guests, and Zollern
watched her, seated near on the bench. Marie Grävenitz walked a short
distance away, her demure figure harmonising well with the peace of the
formal garden; Grävenitz leaned against the back of the bench and looked
with complacency at the good brown coffee, which his hostess was pouring
into the little cups. Coffee was expensive, and being regarded as a great
luxury, was only dispensed in very small quantities. Reischach and
Monsieur de Stafforth were dallying with Wilhelmine, who stood listening
to their compliments with a smile on her lips.
'Mademoiselle,' Stafforth was saying, 'the court will rejoice in your
presence. We crave for youth--more still, we crave for beauty! His
Highness will welcome you, though, I trow, Madame the Duchess may not
prove so gracious! But when will you come to Stuttgart? It will be my
privilege to herald your arrival.'
'Monsieur, I am guided by my brother in these matters. He is my
protector, as is fitting,' she said, a trifle haughtily. Monsieur de
Stafforth's obsequious, yet patronising tone displeased her, and somehow
she desired him to know that her brother stood at her side in the world.
'Mademoiselle is right,' said Reischach shortly, 'these things will be
arranged. The coffee waits you, Monsieur; it would be a pity should your
portion get cold.' He spoke lightly, but Wilhelmine recognised the man of
breeding in the covert hint to Stafforth. It pleased her, and she smiled
at him. Stafforth, for his part, apparently paid no heed to the rebuff,
though Wilhelmine surprised an ugly glance and a faint deepening of the
hue of his coarsely chiselled, handsome face. At this moment Madame de
Ruth called them, and they gathered round the table. They drank their
coffee, listening to a highly coloured story of the wars which Friedrich
Grävenitz was recounting. His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, the hero
thereof, a sorry figure, as the reluctant victim of a lady of Ingolstadt,
whose advances he refused, trembling lest his haughty Sarah should hear
of it and give him a sound rating on his return to England. The anecdote
was broad, to say the least, and sure it did not lose in the telling. 'A
great captain, but sorely afraid of his lady!' finished Grävenitz with a
loud laugh.
'It is the privilege of the truly brave to tremble before beauty and
gentleness,' said Zollern sharply.
'The prerogative of fools to set them at naught,' he added in a low voice
to Madame de Ruth. There was a pause. Grävenitz himself, who should have
been uncomfortable, seemed to notice nothing, but the rest of the company
felt the moment to be one of difficulty. Stafforth offered his arm to
Wilhelmine and proposed a short stroll through the garden to the orchard;
and the girl, glad to escape the spectacle of her brother's swaggering
tactlessness, accepted, and they walked away together beneath the tender
green of the beech-trees.
The orchard was an enchanted spot, such a marvel of blossom overhead,
like rose-tinted foam, while under foot the grass was full of spring
flowers, the cow-parsley sending up a delicious faint fragrance, mingled
with the smell of the earth wet from the night's rain. Stafforth found a
stack of orchard poles, and dragging from beneath the heap the dryest of
them, he arranged a resting-place for Wilhelmine. They sat down, and he
recounted stories of court life in general and of Stuttgart in
particular. He portrayed the Duchess Johanna Elizabetha, a Princess of
Baden-Durlach by birth. He told of her good qualities, but also of her
dullness; of her eternal jealousy of her husband, Eberhard Ludwig, Duke
of Wirtemberg; of how the Duke sought entertainment with other ladies,
but that the reign of each was short-lived, for the Duke really had a
faithful soul and returned to his excellent, wearisome spouse. How a
Madame de Geyling was queen of the present hour; that she was a foolish
woman with a bad temper, who offended the courtiers and rated the Duke;
of how the court expected an imminent change of affection, but that no
one could imagine who the new favourite would be. He told her that the
Duke was a brilliant soldier, the friend and companion-in-arms of his
Grace of Marlborough, a polished courtier too, the finest dancer of his
day, and a very Phæton with horses. Withal a man of learning and
refinement, a passionate lover of music, a dreamer and a child of Nature,
who loved to wander alone in the beautiful Wirtemberg forests, and often
in the summer would stay in the woods all night, sleeping upon the soft,
brown carpet of last year's leaves. Stafforth spoke of the perpetual
intrigues of the Romish priests to convert the Duke and gain the country
back to the Catholic Church; he told her stories of the French invasion
of Wirtemberg, and how it was feared that the French would return to the
attack, and that therefore the Duke was occupied in Stuttgart gathering a
new army, though he masked those preparations by a series of brilliant
court gaieties. 'There is to be a magnificent feast in a few weeks' time
at Stuttgart, theatricals, a banquet, a stag-hunt, and a grand ball. Will
you honour my wife and me by accepting our hospitality for that time?
Your brother has rooms in the quarters set apart for the Kammerjunkers;
Madame de Ruth also has but a small apartment in the castle, not large
enough to entertain a guest. But I have a house with ample accommodation,
and it would give me much pleasure if you would come. Madame de Stafforth
too,' he added as an afterthought.
Wilhelmine accepted. She felt that this was no sudden proposition but an
organised scheme, probably of Madame de Ruth's.
'You must play a part in the theatricals, Mademoiselle. The rehearsals
begin next week; will you come then?'
'Let us go and consult Madame de Ruth,' she replied, rising.
They rejoined the group round the table, and Stafforth made his proposal
as though it were a new idea which had come to him. Madame de Ruth
feigned surprise; Grävenitz played the part of the grateful brother;
Zollern acclaimed the notion as excellent. Wherefore all this comedy?
thought Wilhelmine, for she realised that her programme had been fixed by
these schemers, and that this was merely the first act. She looked round:
ah, yes, Reischach! he was the audience for this play-acting. He was
intended to remain ignorant. Wilhelmine smiled; she was in the presence
of three practised intriguers--Zollern, Madame de Ruth, Stafforth. She
herself was to be a tool, as her brother already was. Well, let their
scheme carry her as far as it could; afterwards, she promised herself to
go onward aided by her own ingenuity alone, once she knew her ground. At
present she was not sure at whom the plot was aimed, though she had a
suspicion that it was the Duke himself whom she was designed to capture,
in order to further some unknown plans of her three protectors. She did
not count her brother; she recognised him as a mere pawn in the game.
'Mademoiselle to take part in the theatricals?' Madame de Ruth was
saying; 'delightful! but which part? You must sing, my dear. Your brother
says your voice is wonderful! Let us hear you now. Come, mes amis!
music!' Reischach led the newcomer to the clavichord in the panelled
room, and the company gathered near the garden-door to listen.
Wilhelmine ran her fingers over the keyboard. The instrument was old, and
though the notes rang true, they were faint and jingly. A lesser artist
might have endeavoured to amplify the chords, but Wilhelmine played her
accompaniment in thin arpeggios, making the clavichord sound like a
stringed instrument, and achieving a charming effect. She sang a gay
little sixteenth-century song, such a one as perchance Chastelard may
have sung to Marie of Scots in their happy days in France--a light
melody, with a sudden change to the minor in the refrain, like a sigh
following laughter. Wilhelmine's hearers, who had expected a beautiful,
untrained voice from this provincial lady, listened in unfeigned
surprise, and when the song was ended they crowded round her with
expressions of delight.
'We have found a pearl!' declared Madame de Ruth. 'Stafforth, what is
this play which they are going to act at Stuttgart? Who sings in it?
Madame de Geyling?--of course! Well, and after?--no one? Well, then,
Mademoiselle shall sing! Let it come as a surprise!'
Reischach approached.
'Monsieur de Reischach, I count you in our plot! We want our new friend
to make a sensation in Stuttgart. We can rely on your discretion? Let her
come as a surprise, I beg you! Remember that the lute of Orpheus itself
could not have charmed the beasts had they been warned to expect too
much.'
Reischach bowed. 'No word from me, Madame, to warn--the beasts!'
Madame de Ruth laughed. 'Do not apply my allegory literally,' she said.
The company broke up; the Duke of Zollern's coach was at the door. Also
Monsieur de Stafforth took his leave, for he intended to ride to
Stuttgart that evening.
As Zollern bade farewell to his hostess, she whispered, 'She will do
admirably! she will go far.'
'Too far, perhaps, Madame,' he answered; 'too far for all our
calculations, and for many people's comfort!'
CHAPTER V
THE PLAY-ACTING
AT eight of the clock on the evening of 15th May 1706, the main street of
Stuttgart was crowded with a stream of coaches and foot-passengers. The
cries of the running footmen: 'Make way there for his Highness the Duke
of Zollern!' 'Room for the high and nobly born Freifrau von Geyling!'
'Let pass the coach of the gracious Countess Gemmingen!' 'Ho, there! for
the Witgenstein's coach!' mixed with the comments of the rabble of
sightseers, and the retorts of the substantial burghers who were piloting
their wives and daughters through the mob. All these wayfarers were bound
for the great dancing-hall in the Lusthaus, whither they were bidden by
Serenissimus, the magnificent Duke Eberhard Ludwig of Wirtemberg, who had
commanded a brilliant ball as commencement of a series of festivities.
There was to be a grand hunt in the Red Wood, and finally court
theatricals in his Highness's own playhouse. The beautiful castle gardens
were illuminated with a myriad coloured lamps in the trees; the
rose-garden had become an enchanted bower, with little lanterns twinkling
in each rose-bush, and the fountain in the centre was so lit up with
varied lights that the spray assumed a thousand hues. Hidden bands of
musicians played in the garden, and, in fact, it was said that Stuttgart
would never have witnessed such a brilliant festival. The Duke had
travelled in many lands--to France, where the court had been so gay and
fine before its King Louis XIV. became a death-fearing, trembling bigot,
dragging out the last years of a dissipated life in terrified prayers.
Poor Roi Soleil, become the creature of his mistress, Madame la Marquise
de Maintenon! Still, though Eberhard Ludwig had not been in time to
witness this first splendour, he had been able to learn in France of how
fine feasts should be ordered. He had been in England too, though he
could not have seen much there in the dull days of William of Nassau, or
of good, ponderous Queen Anne; yet all travel teaches, and evidently the
Duke had learnt its pleasant lesson well.
Wilhelmine sat in Monsieur de Stafforth's fine coach with Madame de
Stafforth--a gentle, silent lady, whom Stafforth had chosen for her noble
birth and yielding ways. She was perfectly unimportant; Stafforth never
considered her, and the only person who was known to notice her was her
Highness Johanna Elizabetha, who was, indeed, something akin to her in
nature. Madame de Stafforth sat meekly on the back seat of her husband's
splendid coach, leaving the place of honour on the front seat to her
husband and his guest, rewarded sufficiently for her diffidence by a
smile which her handsome lord threw her, as he lay back on the yellow
satin cushions of his over-decorated coach.
It was but a step to the castle gate, and as Oberhofmarshall Stafforth
might have walked through the Duke's private garden and gained a side
entrance to the castle, and thence traversed the short distance to the
Lusthaus, but he chose rather to drive through the crowd in order to
arrive with ostentatious flourish.
The coach drew up at the entrance, and many curious eyes were fixed upon
the Oberhofmarshall as he led his guest through the throng to the door of
the disrobing room. Madame de Stafforth followed, and, being unable to
push her way so quickly past the people, it was a moment or two before
she rejoined Wilhelmine, who was removing her wrap in a leisurely way
while the other ladies there eyed her rudely. It was very like the advent
of a strange bird into a cage of canaries; the indigenous birds were all
prepared to peck at the intruder. How willingly would they have torn out
the strange bird's feathers! Wilhelmine appeared unconscious of this
unfriendly scrutiny, though, in reality, she was disagreeably aware of
it. Madame de Stafforth had torn the hem of her skirt walking through the
crowded antehall, and she begged the attendant to sew it for her.
Wilhelmine was obliged to wait, and nearly all the company had streamed
into the dancing-hall before the two ladies were ready. Fate played
Wilhelmine a nasty trick in this--a throw-back in fact; for when they
reached the hall the effect of their entrance was hidden by the crowd,
and his Highness Eberhard Ludwig had already left the daïs before which
the courtiers passed and bowed. Only her Highness Johanna Elizabetha
remained to receive the salutes of the late arrivals.
Stafforth had hurried away; the Duchess was so unimportant, poor soul!
and he could make his bow to her later in the evening. Besides, he had
his duties to attend to: he must glance at the long supper-tables in the
apartment adjoining the dancing-hall, he must see that all the
arrangements were perfect. So Madame de Stafforth presented Fräulein
Wilhelmine von Grävenitz to her Highness Johanna Elizabetha, Duchess of
Wirtemberg. The dull, amiable woman gave Wilhelmine her hand to kiss and
turned away, indifferent, unconcerned. So little do we know when we first
approach the enemies of our lives! With those we are to love it is often
the same. We touch the hand which is fated to give life's gift of joy to
us, and we pass on unconscious that Destiny has spoken. Sometimes we
would barter a year of our life to recall that first touch.
Wilhelmine stood at the foot of the daïs before the Duchess, who was
exchanging moth-dull confidences with Madame de Stafforth. The crowd
moved before the girl's eyes, and she felt bewildered, dizzy, in a dream,
for she was unaccustomed to crowds. At length she saw Stafforth coming
towards her. He looked very fine in his court dress: the long, blue silk
overcoat richly embroidered in gold, the embroidered waistcoat of white
satin, white silk hose, and blue satin shoes with high red heels and
enormous diamond buckles. He carried the Oberhofmarshall's staff of
office in his left hand, and on his breast shone the insignia of several
high orders. His curled wig was much powdered, and his healthy, coarse
face seemed to gain in refinement thereby, softened in outline by the
white hair. Very fine was the bow he made as he said: 'Mademoiselle, may
I entreat the honour of your hand for the pavane? Serenissimus dances in
the same set. You know the pavane?' he added anxiously. 'His Highness is
quicker to detect a fault in dancing than to pardon it.'
Wilhelmine had danced the pavane with M. Gabriel in the schoolhouse at
Güstrow, and he had told her that her dancing was perfect enough for the
court of France itself; so she accepted Monsieur de Stafforth's hand
without hesitation.
He led her to the middle of the dancing-hall, and stood beside her,
waiting for the Duke to give the sign to the musicians to commence. It
was scarcely correct for Wilhelmine to dance in the Duke's pavane before
she had been presented to his Highness, but Stafforth told her that the
Duke desired all presentations to be made in the pause after the figure
dance, which was to take place later in the evening. Wilhelmine reflected
that she would be at liberty to observe Eberhard Ludwig at her leisure
during the dance. She looked round, but the Duke was not yet visible.
Stafforth pointed to an alcove, telling her that his Highness was there
talking to Madame de Geyling. At length the curtains of the recess were
pushed aside and a tall figure appeared. Eberhard Ludwig, Duke of
Wirtemberg, leading his favourite, Madame de Geyling, by the hand. A
princely figure indeed, thought Wilhelmine, as she bent low in the
elaborate courtesy with which the dancers greeted their Duke. He was tall
and slight, dressed in ivory-coloured satin; his breast glittered with
magnificent orders, the broad orange ribbon of the newly instituted
Prussian order of the Black Eagle being the only variation in the uniform
whiteness of his attire. He looked the very figure of a prince of
romance, and the gentlemen who bowed before him seemed to be popinjays in
their over-gorgeous clothes.
He stood for a moment, his blue eyes flashing round the circle of
dancers, then he raised his hand in sign to the musicians to commence,
and turning to Madame de Geyling bowed profoundly. The music rang out in
the stately measure of the pavane, and the dance began: the ladies
gliding, bowing, bending, their fans raised above their heads, then
pressed to their bosoms as they bowed again; the cavaliers no whit behind
them in elegance and grace. The court of Versailles itself had not
danced better, for to dance badly meant disgrace with the Duke of
Wirtemberg.
The pavane ended, and Monsieur de Stafforth led Wilhelmine to a seat near
the daïs, where she found Madame de Ruth resplendent in a green court
dress. The two ladies settled down to await the beginning of the figure
dance, in which the Duke himself was to take part. Madame de Ruth,
voluble as usual, questioned Wilhelmine closely upon the events of the
evening, and her face fell when she heard that the girl had not been
presented to his Highness--nay, more, had danced near him without his
deigning to notice her. 'Well, my dear, never mind,' said Madame de Ruth,
'the most victorious armies may suffer defeat at first.' As will be seen
by this speech, the object of Wilhelmine's campaign was no longer a
mystery, and the intriguers now spoke openly before their intended tool.
She knew that her goal was Eberhard Ludwig himself, and the future seemed
good to her since she had seen Eberhard Ludwig. Also it all spelt 'fine
clothes, fine living, fine linen, gaiety, and perhaps power,' and as she
had once said to her friend Anna Reinhard at Güstrow, without these she
could not imagine happiness. 'Mon enfant, it is serious though,' Madame
de Ruth was saying, 'the Duke never looked at you? you are sure? Ah! he
was staring at that odious Geyling, I dare swear! Lord God! how I hate
that woman! She once asked me if I had any children, and when I said
"no," she inquired if I had any grandchildren!'
Wilhelmine laughed. 'She might have grandchildren herself, I think,' she
said.
'Yes, my child, if you scraped the paint you might find the grandmother
beneath. Indeed, the Geyling is nearly as old as I am,' laughed Madame de
Ruth, delighted at Wilhelmine's judgment of the woman whom she hated.
'But see,' she continued, 'here comes the figure dance.' As she spoke the
doors at the end of the dancing-hall opened, and the musicians in the
gallery began to play a lilting strain. Quite slowly through the gilded
doors came a tiny figure dressed in wreaths of leaves and flowers, a
golden bow in his hand, and at his side a miniature quiver filled with
paper arrows. 'The Geyling's nephew,' said Madame de Ruth, 'and the only
good thing about her! A charmingly naughty child, who they hope,
however, will play his Cupid's rôle to-night, though he is as likely as
not to do exactly the reverse, for he is by nature a god of mischief!'
The child walked solemnly to the centre of the hall, and there began to
dance a rapid skipping measure, waving his bow over his head the while.
The onlookers burst into applause. Then the music softened to an
accompaniment, and boys' voices from the musicians' loft sang in parts.
'Bad verses, my dear,' grunted Madame de Ruth, 'yet a pretty air. They
say the Geyling wrote the rhymes--that explains it!' But her grumble was
lost to Wilhelmine, who was observing the entry of four rather lightly
clad nymphs, who came forward in a graceful swaying line, encircling the
child, who stood stock-still in the midst wondering, poor mite, if this
long game would soon be ended. At length the four nymphs sank to their
knees before the boy, holding out their arms to him, while the voices in
the gallery warbled with ever-increasing rapture.
The child ran from one kneeling figure to the other: first to
Mademoiselle de Gemmingen, then to Mademoiselle de Varnbüller, to
Mademoiselle de Reischach, and before his aunt, Madame de Geyling, the
little fellow stopped and took his aim, with his bow and paper arrows.
Everything was going admirably, never had this Cupid behaved so exactly
as arranged. Already the Geyling was feigning to fall backwards in
affected alarm, when Cupid whipped round saying, in a high childish
treble, 'Non, ma tante, je ne te choisis pas, tu es trop méchante!'
An audible titter went round the audience, for the Geyling was
universally disliked. Cupid now thoroughly entering into the mischief of
the game, ran round the group of nymphs calling out, 'Ni toi! Ni toi! Je
cherche une vraie reine!' He paused irresolute for a moment, then,
catching sight of Wilhelmine's smiling face, he made a dash for her,
exclaiming loudly, 'Je te choisis, jolie dame!' and he shot his paper
arrow straight at her breast. There was a pause of consternation among
the dancers; this upset all the plans; and how could an untrained
stranger execute the elaborate step of the dance especially invented by
his Highness's own dancing-master for this occasion?
There was commotion in the audience: men pressed forward to observe the
scene, women fluttered their fans and whispered together, the three
nymphs tittered weakly, while Madame de Geyling stood in the middle of
the hall with heaving bosom and angry face. Madame de Ruth was laughing,
and even the Duchess had risen from her chair and was leaning on Madame
de Stafforth's shoulder, smiling and nodding. Wilhelmine had caught Cupid
up in her arms, and he was laughing and shouting and sticking the little
paper arrows in her hair. The musicians ceased playing, waiting for the
chosen nymph to begin the 'Dance of Joy,' which preceded the entrance of
the Duke in the character of Prince Charming.
Wilhelmine whispered to Madame de Ruth: 'What shall I do? I don't know
the dance--the Duke would never forgive--advise me quickly!'
'Don't dance, but make the Duke notice you,' whispered the old woman.
The girl rose, Cupid still in her arms, and began to walk slowly across
the hall towards the door whence the Duke must appear. The musicians,
mistaking her for some personage of the masque, struck up the 'Dance of
Joy.' Now Wilhelmine possessed immense dramatic perceptions, also she
knew she could dance, so without hesitation she began to execute a long
sliding measure in perfect harmony with the music, though it was, of
course, an impromptu of her own. She danced half-way round the hall,
holding Cupid high in the air in her strong arms. Meanwhile the Duke, all
unknowing, appeared in the doorway in his appointed place. Wilhelmine
glided up to him, and sinking on one knee with Cupid held up to his
Highness, she said, 'Cupid has made a mistake, Monseigneur. He was always
a blind god. Pardon, Monseigneur, and permit Sa Majesté l'Amour to choose
again!' With that she set the child down and ran through the door past
the Duke, who, astounded, remained standing holding Cupid by the hand. He
heard the applause which had broken forth in the hall, and he saw the
Geyling's furious face, and, realising that something unexpected had
occurred, he came forward quickly.
'A mistake, Madame,' he said shortly as he reached the Geyling. 'Let us
endeavour to obliterate it by your grace!' And he commanded the musicians
to play the new dance, but he danced unevenly, constantly glancing in the
direction of the door where Wilhelmine had disappeared. Madame de Ruth
watched for a moment, and then, with a nod to Stafforth who stood beside
the daïs in evident perplexity, she turned and went to seek Wilhelmine.
* * * * *
The next day Stuttgart talked much of the handsome stranger whom Cupid
had chosen to dance with the Duke, and conjecture was rife as to who she
could be. Then it leaked out that she was to sing in the theatricals that
night, and the curious, which means each person in or near a court, were
on tiptoe with expectation.
Many looked for her at the stag-hunt in the Red Wood that day, and Madame
de Ruth, who had the reputation of knowing everything, was fairly
besieged by questioners. She told them so little, though in so many
words, that they were all the more anxious to be informed further. But
what part was the unknown to take in the theatricals? they asked among
themselves. She had not been seen at the rehearsals--strange--but Madame
de Ruth assured them that the mysterious one was indeed to sing that
night.
The chosen piece was La Fontaine's _Coupe Enchantée_, a pretty thing, and
even decorous enough for the hearing of Johanna Elizabetha; new too in
Stuttgart, though Paris had already forgotten it.
You may imagine that the invited guests were in their places at the
theatre in good time. Behind the scenes there was much bustle and
confusion. His Highness Eberhard Ludwig, to say the least of it, was
perturbed; he ran from dressing-room to dressing-room, knocking and
inquiring if the players were there. When he came to the dressing-room
set apart for Madame de Geyling the door was opened suddenly, almost
knocking his Highness on the nose, and an angry face appeared through the
door's aperture. One side of this face was painted for the stage, while
the other was only adorned with the pigments with which the Geyling was
accustomed to hide her ageing features. The Duke smiled: I regret to say
he actually laughed, and this laugh provoked a torrent of angry words
from the lady. His Highness retired discomfited, and there were whispers
behind the scenes of how this must be one of the closing dramas of this
lady's reign.
The curtain parted and the comedy began. At first the audience paid but
scant attention to the play, but soon a severe glance from the Duchess
silenced the whispering crowd.
Madame de Ruth's laughter led the chorus of approval at each subtle
speech, and they said 'Ah oui! que c'est fin!' when she said it, for they
did not trust their own judgment. The Duke of Zollern leaned his chin on
the back of his hands, which he had crossed over the porcelain handle of
his stick. He was not amused; he thought it dull, which it was. The
Duchess paid no attention to the play; she was watching, in her ponderous
way, the marked respect and affection which Eberhard Ludwig succeeded in
showing Madame de Geyling even through his acting, and she suffered, this
poor, dull woman. Madame de Stafforth sat near her, saying nothing as
usual. Friedrich Grävenitz stood leaning against the pillar by the
entrance to the parterre, looking handsome and sombre. _La Coupe
Enchantée_ went on its gay, subtle way, and was followed by an
allegorical dance--a medley of gods and goddesses, of conventional
shepherds and shepherdesses; a graceful enough conceit withal, but
involved and not very amusing. At the end there came the only scene which
appeared to interest her Highness Johanna Elizabetha: the little
Erbprinz, her son, came on the stage dressed as Mars the God of War, and
was greeted with homage from the other gods. Poor Johanna Elizabetha
applauded and kissed her hands to him, while she recounted to Madame de
Stafforth a hundred details of the child's health.
The curtain fell, and the audience prepared to depart. Disappointment was
rife, for the stranger had failed to appear, and it seemed that the
comedy was finished. The Duchess, who had been seated in the foremost
row of chairs, was already moving away followed by her suite, when the
musicians recommenced to play, and it was whispered through the
assemblage that the Envoi had yet to be performed. Very slowly the
curtain was drawn aside and a darkened stage disclosed. For a moment the
music ceased, then took up a haunting melody as a tall, white figure
approached down the almost unlit stage. It was a young woman in flowing,
classic draperies--a goddess she looked; and after the mincing
shepherdesses and their artificial, conventional mannerisms, this woman
came as a breath from Nature's grandeur, young, forceful, untrammelled.
She came right down to the half-lit footlights, and stood motionless
during a bar or two of the music. And then she sang, and the audience,
tittering curiously before, remained spellbound, awe-struck, as the first
notes of that matchless voice smote upon their hearing. She sang of the
sadness of the ending of comedies, of the regret which lingers in the
remembrance of past laughter. In a couplet of passionate melancholy she
asked, where are the roses of yesterday? whither vanish the songs of
to-day?
Changing verse and melody to a soft _récitatif_, she begged her hearers
to give good favour to the evening's festivities. She reminded them that
the merry company would soon disperse for many months; she wished them
peace and happiness, and she prayed that another spring would find the
company reunited once again. 'Mars, God of War, hold thy hand; touch not
this fair country!'
In her singing she had struck that note of regret which never leaves an
audience unmoved; she appealed to the sadness which lingers for ever in
the heart of man, and, after the vapid brilliancies of La Fontaine's
comedy, the strain had all the greater power to stir. Wilhelmine, an
unseen spectator at many rehearsals of the theatricals, had calculated
this to a nicety, with an artist's instinct for playing upon human nature
and emotion.
There were women among the audience who knew that ere the following
spring many of those they loved might be shot down by French bullets;
there were men in the parterre who knew this, and a wave of emotion
swept over the whole audience. To the singer herself all this hardly
mattered; the human hearts were merely instruments upon which she played
a melody; yet her receptive, finely strung being thrilled in response to
the feeling she evoked; a half-sob rose in her throat and flooded her
flexible voice with a passion of sadness. When the song ended, there came
a moment's breathless silence, then the applause broke forth, and
Wilhelmine knew she had achieved a triumph.
* * * * *
In the banqueting-hall Duke Eberhard's guests were seated at a
magnificent repast. Five hundred ladies and gentlemen at long tables on a
raised platform, while in the lower portion of the hall the burghers of
Stuttgart were regaled with wine and cake. Her Highness Johanna
Elizabetha sat at one table with her retinue; Serenissimus at another
with his suite and closest friends, at his right hand was Madame de
Geyling. Stafforth was seated at this table, Madame de Ruth was there
also, Monseigneur the Duke of Zollern, of course, and Prelate Osiander.
The Geyling discussed the comedy. Lifting her glass she toasted Eberhard
Ludwig: 'I drink to your Highness from la Coupe Enchantée,' she murmured;
but the Duke answered absently, and Madame de Ruth smiled when he asked
Stafforth, 'Where is the goddess of sound? Has she vanished with her
divine song?' He was told that the lady had retired to rerobe herself.
'Robe herself, you mean!' said the Geyling sharply, 'she had, in truth,
little to remove!' She spoke quickly to the Duke in an undertone, but his
Highness turned away and commanded Stafforth to present the singer
directly she appeared.
The Geyling bit her underlip--there was a pause in the talk at the Duke's
table.
At length a door near the platform opened, and Wilhelmine appeared. No
one noticed her at first, and she stood for a moment hesitating in the
doorway; then Madame de Ruth espied her, and, craving the Duke's pardon,
she rose and went to Wilhelmine and, taking her by the hand, led her
towards the Duke. It was necessary to pass the Duchess's table;
Wilhelmine immediately recognised her Highness, and as she passed she
swept Johanna Elizabetha a deep courtesy. It was gracefully done, and the
neglected lady, unaccustomed to be treated with even ordinary
consideration, responded by an amiable smile. As they approached the
Duke, his Highness rose and came forward to meet them. He had seen
Wilhelmine's spontaneous good manners and was gratified thereby. Nothing
gratifies a grand seigneur more than the grand manner, and in return to
Wilhelmine's inclination his Highness bowed as though to a queen.
'Mademoiselle, I am deeply in your debt,' he said; 'it would be banal to
thank you for your divine music, yet permit me to say that I would
willingly keep you for ever as my creditor, if you would but promise to
make my debt the greater by singing to me again--and soon.'
'Monseigneur, you do me too much honour,' she responded, sinking to the
ground in another courtesy.
'To a feast of the gods you would be welcome, Mademoiselle; but as we are
not in Olympus, let me, at least, lead the Goddess of Song to my poor
table for refreshment.' So saying, his Highness offered his hand and led
her to his table. He presented her to Madame de Geyling, who gave her a
bitter-sweet smile and paid her the compliment of turning her back upon
her. The Duke plied his guest with food and wine, declaring that ambrosia
and nectar were better fitted for her; he toasted her; he praised her; he
exhausted his knowledge of mythology in her honour, calling her
Melpomene, the tragic Muse, for had she not made men weep with her song
that very night? Song, did he say? nay, hymn it was! She was Polyhymnia,
singer of sublimity. He named her Philomèle, and desired the lute of
Orpheus that he might play an accompaniment to her wondrous singing. He
asked her in which enchanted ocean she had lived. 'Mademoiselle Sirène,
lurer of men's souls,' he called her.
Wilhelmine spoke little in answer to all this, but she acted her part
well, smiling at him with glistening eyes. Indeed, she found no
difficulty herein, for her heart had played a cleverer trick than ever
her brain had devised--she was falling in love with Eberhard Ludwig of
Wirtemberg. When supper was over the Duke rose, and, in defiance of
etiquette, desired Stafforth to accompany Madame de Geyling, while he
himself led Mademoiselle de Grävenitz from the banqueting-hall. They
passed on to the terrace, above the outer colonnade of the Lusthaus, and
stood together looking down on the garden, and the strains from the
instruments of the musicians hidden in the bowers floated up to them.
'I hardly dare propose it, Mademoiselle,' said the Duke after some
moments' silence, 'but the garden is very fair to-night; would you honour
me by accepting my arm and taking a short stroll towards the fountain?
Only a few minutes, the night is so beautiful--come and look at the stars
with me!'
She hesitated; but the man's face was so noble, so open. Why not?
'Monseigneur, I know not,' she whispered.
'Mademoiselle, I entreat. If you knew how I hate these crowded rooms. I
am a soldier, and I love the memory of those nights encamped in the open,
when I left my tent and wandered alone beneath the stars. Forstner--you
know Forstner? No? Well--a good friend, yet always at my elbow with
rebukes and etiquette! Well--old Forstner used to chide me, saying it was
not fitting for a reigning Duke to wander alone "like a ridiculous
poet-fellow philandering with the stars," as he called it. Ah!
Mademoiselle, will you leave the Duke here on the balcony, and come and
look at the stars with the ridiculous poet-fellow? will you?'
Who could resist him, this man with the pleading eyes and deep, strong
voice? And Wilhelmine, coming from Mecklemburg to make a career, had
begun it already, God knows! by falling in love with the Duke. They went
down the steps leading to the garden, and in silence walked along the
path towards the fountain. The moon played white over the flowers, and
the sound of the violins, harps, and zithers faded away in the distance.
They reached an old stone seat beneath a beech-tree and sat down. Before
them the fountain rose, like some shimmering witch in the moonlight.
'Sing me a snatch of some song, Mademoiselle,' said Eberhard Ludwig.
'There is no one near; sing to me once, to _me alone_--to the silly
poet-fellow!'
'Nay, Monseigneur,' she answered tremulously, 'I cannot sing--my heart is
beating in my throat somehow.'
He looked at her in the moonlight.
'Mademoiselle de Grävenitz,' he said, 'I have never been so happy, yet so
unutterably sad, as at this moment. I--I--Mademoiselle----' and his voice
broke. He took her hand in his and, raising it to his lips, kissed it
once, twice, then in a husky voice he said, 'We must go back.' He rose
from the seat, offering her his arm. He led her up the dark garden-path
and into the glitter of lights in the ante-hall of the Lusthaus, where
Madame de Stafforth stood ready to depart, waiting for Wilhelmine. The
Duke sent Stafforth for Mademoiselle's cloak, and when he brought it, his
Highness himself wrapped it round her. As he did so, his hand
involuntarily touched the soft skin of her shoulder, and Eberhard Ludwig
flushed to the edge of his white curled peruke as he murmured: 'Au
revoir, Philomèle!' and Wilhelmine daringly whispered back: 'Au revoir,
gentil poète.'
CHAPTER VI
LOVE'S SPRINGTIDE
'A queenly rose of sound, with tune for scent;
A pause of shadow in a day of heat;
A voice to make God weak as man,
And at its pleadings take away the ban
'Neath which so long our spirits have been bent--
A voice to make death tender and life sweet!'
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
THE Hofmarshall's house stood in the 'Graben,' a broad road which ran
proudly past the old town ending at the ducal gardens on the west, while
to the east began the fields and vineyards leading up to the royal
hunting forest, the Rothwald. Stafforth's house was a fine stone building
decorated with rococo masks. To the back lay a beautiful garden laid out
on a plan of M. Lenôtre's, from whose book of _Jardins Mignons_ Stafforth
had selected it. On the morning after the theatricals Wilhelmine was
seated on one of the garden benches, and though her eyes were fixed on
the pages of a French translation of Barclay's satirical novel _Argenis_,
her thoughts were busy with the events of the previous evening. Her
reverie was interrupted by Madame de Ruth who arrived, as usual, in a
cloud of her own words. She embraced Wilhelmine affectionately,
exclaiming: 'Never was there so great a victory! One battle and the
country is ours! The hero at your feet, my dear! Did I not say that you
had a great future before you? Ah! the Geyling! Ha! ha! ha! what a face
she made when his Highness led you out on to the balcony, and I asked her
if she thought it convenable for you! Ha! ha! ha! she looked sour indeed,
and she screeched at me in her peahen voice: "Mademoiselle de Grävenitz
seems to be a lady of experience; she can guard her own young virtue, I
suppose!" "'Tis not her virtue, Madame," I said, with a surprised look
and the prim manner of a Pietist, "I know _that_ is safe with so devoted
a husband as Serenissimus, but I fear for her reputation! Ah! Madame, the
evil tongues of older women! and already no one here to-night can speak
of ought save Mademoiselle. But I assure you the theatricals are not even
mentioned, Madame! They can remember nothing save the Envoi and its
singer." O Wilhelmine! if you could have seen her face! I suffer, I
expire with laughter, when I think of it.' And Madame de Ruth laughed
till she really was almost suffocated, and was obliged to hold her hands
over her heaving sides.
Wilhelmine leaned her head on her hands. 'Poor Madame de Geyling!' she
said in a musing tone.
Madame de Ruth ceased laughing and looked at her piercingly. 'Poor Madame
de Geyling?' she exclaimed. 'But, my child! Ah!' and she caught
Wilhelmine by the wrist; 'you pity her? because she has lost the Duke's
affection? Why?' She paused a moment--reflected. 'Girl! you have fallen
in love with Serenissimus,' she whispered.
Wilhelmine sprang up--her cheeks aflame. It was true, and she knew it
herself then for the first time. She was angry, and yet there was an
immense gladness in her heart. Her eyes were wet, and she felt the pulses
throbbing in her temples. She was ashamed and yet gloriously proud.
Madame de Ruth watched her; at first, with smiling curiosity, then the
old woman's face softened, she took Wilhelmine's hand and said gently:
'God give you joy, my child. There, there--I am a foolish old woman--you
make me weep.--Lord God! but hearts are the great intriguers, not
brains!'
Wilhelmine turned to her and, bending, kissed the old courtesan on the
brow.
'Madame,' she said, 'Madame, be my friend; I shall need one in the days
to come.'
Madame de Ruth drew the girl down beside her on the bench, her face had
grown suddenly old and infinitely sad. 'Yes,' she answered, 'I will be
your friend. Do you know that I had a little girl twenty years ago? She
would have been just your age now, had she lived, and perhaps I should
have been a different woman. Well, well--no sentiment, my dear; it is so
unsuitable, isn't it? but I will be your friend.'
She kissed the young woman, and, rising hastily, took her way towards the
house.
* * * * *
The days dragged slowly on in Stuttgart for Wilhelmine, and there came no
message from his Highness, who had gone to Urach, they told her, to hunt.
Though the court remained nominally in Stuttgart while her Highness
Johanna Elizabetha resided at the castle, most of the courtiers had
retired to the country and Stuttgart was more than usually dull.
Stafforth had accompanied the Duke to Urach, so Wilhelmine remained alone
with Madame de Stafforth. The heat was terrible in the town, which lay
encircled by the vine-clad hills, as in a great caldron. The Stuttgarters
told her that such heat was unusual at that time of year, but there was
little consolation for her in that.
To some natures dullness becomes an insupportable suffering. Loneliness,
all you will, they can bear, for they draw occupation and joy from the
depth of their own souls; but that dreariness, which has been called
dullness, is an almost tangible presence at moments, and seems to blight
the beauty of all things. This Wilhelmine felt in those stifling days at
Stuttgart. Madame de Stafforth's moth-like personality wearied her.
Madame de Ruth, who had returned to Rottenburg, wrote constantly
imploring her friend to visit her; yet something seemed to hold the girl,
some mysterious sentiment, that if she left Stuttgart she would turn her
back on her life.
Once or twice Wilhelmine accompanied Madame de Stafforth to the castle.
The Duchess received her with amiable indifference, and the young woman
stood silently by while the two dull women discussed their habitual
uninteresting topics.
It was perfectly unreasonable, but she felt a hatred growing in her heart
for the wife of Eberhard Ludwig.
One morning towards the end of June, Wilhelmine awoke to find the grey
dawn creeping in at her window; she rose and opened the casement and
leaned out. Her room looked on the formal garden. There was a solemn hush
in the air, and she realised that even the birds were asleep. Far in the
east, over the top of the one beech-tree which still stood in the garden
in spite of M. Lenôtre, the rising sun was tingeing the horizon with a
delicate rosy glow. A bird stirred--twittered--finally a clear note of
welcome to the day rang out, and the world was awake. The radiance in the
east grew brighter, long streaks of glorious colour invaded the soft grey
of dawn. From the distant field roads came the rumble of a peasant's
cart. Wilhelmine dressed herself hurriedly and tiptoed down the dark
stair to the house door. The broad street, the Graben, was deserted and
silent, save for an occasional rattle in the direction of the
market-place, where the peasants were arriving from the country with
their carts heaped up with fresh fruit and vegetables. She walked up the
street, delighting in the coolness and the scent of the morning air after
the long days of oppressive heat which she had endured. A fancy took her
to wander in the Rothwald, and she walked briskly along, up the dusty
country path which led to the wood on the hill. The sun had risen, and
even at that early hour the heat was so great that once or twice
Wilhelmine almost turned homewards; however, the thought of the cool
shade of the beech-trees in the forest drew her, and she pressed onward.
At length she reached the edge of the wood, and, turning, she
contemplated the steep hill which she had climbed from the town. The
rough country road wound like some white riband through the green
vineyards which lay between Stuttgart and the Rothwald. A light breeze
sprang up and stirred the long, lush grass of the field which bordered
the shadow of the trees. There is no part of a forest more beautiful than
the line where wood begins and meadow ends; it is as the lip of the
forest breathing forth in a fragrant kiss of poesy some mystery of silent
dells and fairy's haunts, which it hints of but does not quite betray.
Wilhelmine mused on this; she was gifted with a delicate appreciation of
each beauty-forming detail, and the accurate observation without which
the enjoyment of beauty is a mere sensuous mood. She paused a while,
drinking in the freshness and revelling in the solitude; then she
entered the wood and walked onward, her feet sinking deep into the rich
moss. She inhaled the delicious smell of the beech-trees, that light
odour of the northern forest which is almost imperceptible, and yet so
fresh, so pungent. It is made up of the smell of earth, of moss, of fern,
of grass and leaves, and the resinous health of young pine. As Wilhelmine
walked, she whispered a melody half in greeting to the trees, half
mechanically. She found a shallow bank, and, seating herself on the
ground, she supported her shoulders against the slope. She leaned her
head back and gazed up into Spring's wonderful tracery in the myriad
beech-leaves, and the cool green fell like balsam on her eyes. A breeze
stirred the tree-tops, and for a moment they swayed and leaned together
whisperingly, then, like little children playing at some gentle teasing
game, they drew back as the breeze passed.
Wilhelmine's thoughts wandered to Eberhard Ludwig; of a truth they knew
the way, for how often had they sought his memory since that night in the
castle garden? She pondered how she had been told his Highness loved to
sleep in the forest. 'Ridiculous poet-fellow' he had called himself. She
drew a deep breath. 'Au revoir, Philomèle,' he had said. Ah! but he had
forgotten her! Madame de Ruth had been mistaken! The campaign was not
won. Wilhelmine's cheeks glowed suddenly, she crushed a leaf of an
overhanging beech-branch; it was intolerable. All those people would
ridicule her! Leaning her head in her hand, she pressed her fingers
against her eyes to shut out the sunlight, but it lingered in her
eyeballs, and against the blackness she saw dancing rays of blinding
light. A feeling of delightful drowsiness was coming over her--a far-away
feeling. Presently she raised her head from her hands, and once more
contemplated the peaceful wood. What did she care for those people who
would mock her? She would return their malevolent stares with her evil
look, which she knew would be eminently disagreeable to them. Her
thoughts turned back to Güstrow now--Güstrow and Monsieur Gabriel. Almost
unconsciously, as she thought of her old friend, she found herself
humming an air. At first she but whispered it under her breath, then she
was gradually carried away by the physical enjoyment of letting forth her
powerful voice, and she burst into full song:
'Bois épais redouble ton ombre,
Tu ne saurais être assez sombre.
Tu ne peux trop cacher
Mon malheureux amour!
Je sens un désespoir,
Dont l'horreur est extrême.
Je ne dois plus voir
Ce que j'aime--
Je ne veux plus souffrir le jour!'
She sang the old French melody out into the trees, and the great notes
thrilled and echoed through the wood till it was as though they had
become an integrant part of the forest. Her voice was truly a woman's
voice in the ineffable tenderness and the grand passion of it, but there
lay in its tones a depth of strong uncompromising nobility which lives in
an organ's notes or in the rich low chords of a violoncello. Truly, as
Monsieur Gabriel had said, her voice belonged by right to the shadowy
cathedrals, for each note seemed a sacred thing, a homage to God, and
itself deserving to be worshipped in reverent devotion. During the song
Wilhelmine had not heard the sound of approaching footsteps, nor did she
observe how a hand pushed aside some branches not far from where she sat,
and a man's head and shoulders appeared. She leaned back on the moss for
a moment's rest, and then springing up recommenced to sing. She stood
very straight and tall, her hands locked together behind her, like a
schoolgirl reciting a lesson; somehow this childlike attitude added by
its simplicity to the woman's dignity. Her head was held a little back,
chin tilted upwards, and the eyes looked far away as though they beheld a
whole world of dreams and lovely melody beyond all save the singer's ken.
As she sang the colour mounted slowly to her cheeks, flooding her face
with a divine flush; perhaps her very heart's blood rushed to adore the
tones which fell from her lips. The man watching held his breath. She
finished her song on a clear high note, and as she gave it forth, she
flung back her head in an impulsive gesture, glorying in an ecstasy of
sound, a magnificence of accomplishment.
When the echo of the last ringing note faded, the man sprang forward,
and, throwing himself impetuously on his knees before Wilhelmine, he
raised the hem of her gown to his lips in a passionate gesture, though
with the adoring reverence that all poets give to great singers.
'Philomèle!' he murmured. 'Ah! Philomèle! Beloved!'
She looked down at him. How strangely natural, necessary, unsurprising it
seemed to her that he should be kneeling there, and yet she thought
herself in some oft-remembered dream.
'Gentil poète,' she whispered back, and her hand fell on his shoulder.
His hand sought hers, he caught it and kissed it with a sort of piety.
'I love you.' He spoke the words like a prayer. She drew away from him.
'Monseigneur,' she said, 'I thought you had forgotten me!' He started at
her gesture of repulsion and at the formal word.
'You are a woman no man can forget,' he answered. Then he told her how
that evening in the castle garden he had known he loved her; how he had
dreaded giving himself up to a passion which he divined would prove so
absorbing as to turn him from his cherished military ambition. He poured
out to her his life's history, all his dreams of brilliant feats of arms,
the raising of his duchy to a kingdom; he told her of his bitter
disappointment when he found these ambitions were incomprehensible to the
Duchess Johanna Elizabetha; of how, gradually, he had awakened to the
fact that he was tied to a woman who utterly lacked in sympathy, and thus
wearied him and drove him to seek consolation and amusement in the light
loves and fancies of court gallantry, and then how each lady's charms had
palled inevitably.
'And now,' he paused, 'now I feel that all my life began when first I
heard your voice! I have been fighting with my thoughts ever since.
Beloved! I have nothing to offer you--you are too pure to take the only
position I could give you--and I love you too well to ask you.'
She looked at him, and a smile touched her lips and vanished almost
before it was born.
'Mon poète,' she whispered, and stretched out both hands to him; he took
them in his, and drew her towards him. One thick curl of hair had fallen
forward on her neck, he lifted it and buried his face in it, kissing it
wildly, breathing in its fragrance.
'I love you,' he said again, and drew her, unresisting, into his arms.
'Philomèle! Ah!' and his lips met hers.
Overhead a bird burst forth into a rhapsody of song.
CHAPTER VII
THE FULFILMENT
NOW began for Wilhelmine a time of strangely mixed and contending
emotions. She loved Eberhard Ludwig with all that fervour and lavish
freshness which we give to our first love; she longed to surrender to his
passion, yet she held back with a modesty of maidenly reserve which her
many jealous enemies ascribed to calculation, or else entirely denied,
alleging that she was a mere adventuress plying her illicit trade
according to her habit. Of a truth, there may have been a shade of
strategy in her virtuous hesitation, for Madame de Ruth, who had returned
to Stuttgart post-haste on hearing of his Highness's advent, constantly
counselled her to hold back. Wilhelmine herself realised that a battle's
importance is generally gauged by its difficulty, and the ultimate
victory more highly prized if hardly won. Sometimes she wondered why she
knew these things, and laughingly she told Madame de Ruth of this.
'Dear child,' said the old woman with her thin, satirical smile, 'we
women come into the world knowing such things; whereas men--poor, beloved
fools!--need experience, philosophy, and the Lord knows what, to teach
them. Alas! by the time they have learned they no longer need their
knowledge, for by that time cruel old age has got them in its grey, dull
clutches.'
Another factor in Wilhelmine's life at that time was the Duke's friend
Baron Forstner, a man of excellent and sterling qualities, but one of
those unfortunate mortals cursed with a lugubrious manner which makes
their goodness seem to be but one more irritating characteristic of a
tiresome personality. Forstner was genuinely devoted to the Duke; he had
been the companion of the Prince's childhood, had shared his studies,
and had followed him on his travels to the various European courts and in
the campaigns where Eberhard Ludwig had so mightily distinguished
himself. How cruel it is that devotion may be so entirely masked by some
wearisome trait, as to turn the whole affection into a source of
irritation to its object! Forstner perpetually reminded his Highness of
his duty.
Now Eberhard Ludwig was possessed of a high regard for that stern code of
life which is called Duty; he had all a soldier's respect for rule, for
obedience, all a gentleman's reverence for honour and truth; yet these
things, as presented by Forstner, were to him odious, and his first
impulse was to go counter to any advice proffered in the drab-coloured
guise of Forstner's counsel, and by his deep, dreary voice.
'L'osseux,' the Bony One, Madame de Ruth dubbed him; and truly the
sobriquet was justified, for the man was so long and thin as to give the
impression of bones strung on strings. He walked in jerks: his flat,
narrow feet posed precisely, the head held forward, like some gaunt bird
seeking with its lengthy beak for any meagre grain which might chance in
its way. Somehow one felt the grain he sought must be meagre. 'The good
God wills that Forstner lives,' said Madame de Ruth, 'and God knows he
lives according to God's rules; but oh! how more than usually tiresome he
makes those rules, poor Bony One!'
Forstner naturally disapproved of Wilhelmine, and the two were for ever
contradicting each other; but she often endeavoured to propitiate him,
for she loathed disapproval, and preferred the open hostility of a real
enemy to the presence of any merely disapproving person. Eberhard Ludwig
suffered intensely in those weeks at Stuttgart; he was fiercely irritable
to Forstner, resenting his comments on Wilhelmine, though he longed
childishly for some appreciation of a new and much-prized toy.
Stafforth, who had returned with the Duke, assisted the intrigue to the
best of his ability by constantly arranging meetings, feasts, picnics in
the forest, music in t
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