I LOSE MY WAY AND PASS THE NIGHT IN THE DWARF'S LODGE.
I wandered around the Castle, unable to find the opening through which I
had come out on to the plain. So much anxiety and emotion began to tell
upon my mind; I moved aimlessly along, asking myself with dread if
madness were not playing a part in my fancies, unable to believe what I
had seen, and yet alarmed at the clearness of my perceptions. The image
of the master of Nideck waving his torch in the darkness, howling like a
wolf, coolly accomplishing an imaginary crime, without omitting a
gesture, a circumstance, not even the smallest detail, then escaping and
committing to the abyss the secret of the murder, harassed my mind and
hung over me like a nightmare. I ran breathless and distracted through
the snow, not knowing in what direction to guide my steps.
As day approached, the cold became more intense. At last, exhausted, my
legs feeling like lead, and my ears half frozen, I succeeded in
discovering the iron grating, and I rang the bell with all my might. It
was then about four o'clock in the morning. Knapwurst kept me waiting a
terribly long time. His little lodge, built against the rock, just
within the principal gate, remained quite silent; it seemed to me that
the dwarf would never finish dressing, for I had fancied him in bed and
soundly sleeping.
I rang again, and this time his grotesque figure emerged abruptly from
his doorway, and he cried furiously:
"Who's there?"
"I! The Doctor!"
"Ah! that is another matter! I'll see whether you are telling the
truth."
He went back into his lodge to get a lantern, crossed the outer court
with the snow up to his middle, and staring at me through the grating:
"I beg your pardon, monsieur the doctor," he said; "I thought you were
asleep up-stairs in Hugh's Tower. It was you ringing! Now I see why
Sperver came to me at midnight to ask if any one had gone out. I said
no, for I never saw you go out."
"But for Heaven's sake, Knapwurst, open the door! You can tell me all
this later."
"Be patient for a moment, monsieur."
And the dwarf deliberately turned the lock and drew back the bolts,
while I stood with my teeth chattering, and shivering from head to foot.
"You are cold, Doctor," observed the diminutive porter, "and you cannot
get into the Castle. Sperver has fastened the inside door, I don't know
why; he doesn't ordinarily; the grating is enough. Come into the lodge
and warm yourself. You won't find my room much to boast of; properly
speaking, it is nothing but a sty, but when you are cold you don't spend
much time in looking about."
Without replying to his chatter I followed him as rapidly as possible,
burning with impatience to learn what things were passing in the Castle,
but seeing nothing for it but to wait till dawn.
We entered the lodge, and in spite of my state of complete frigidity, I
could not help admiring the picturesque disorder of this species of
nest. The slate roof leaned against the rock on one side, and on the
other against a wall six to seven feet high, disclosing to view the
blackened beams propped up against each other. The lodge consisted of a
single room, furnished with a bed which the gnome did not take the
trouble to make up very often, and two small dusty windows with
hexagonal panes which the moon turned to mother-of-pearl with its pale
rays. A large, square table occupied the middle of the room. How this
massive oak table had ever been brought through the narrow doorway, it
would have been difficult to explain. Upon a few shelves were arranged
some old volumes and rolls of parchment, and on the table lay open an
enormous tome with illuminated initial letters, bound in vellum, with a
silver clasp and corners; it looked to me like a collection of old
chronicles. Lastly, two armchairs, one covered with red leather and the
other upholstered with a down cushion, and bearing the unmistakable
impression of the dwarf's body, completed the furniture of the place.
I will not stop to describe the desk with its five or six pens, the
tobacco jar, the pipes scattered variously about, the little, low, iron
stove in one corner of the room, with its door standing open, red hot,
and sending a shower of sparks from time to time on to the stone floor,
and the spitting cat with her back arched and her paw lifted in defiance
of me.
All these objects were veiled in that smoky amber light which rests the
eye, and of which the old Flemish masters alone possessed the secret.
"So you went out last night, monsieur the doctor," Knapwurst said to me
when we were comfortably seated, he before his volume and I with my
hands stretched out before the fire.
"Yes, rather early. A woodcutter of the Black Forest needed my services;
he had cut his left foot with an axe stroke."
This explanation appeared to satisfy the dwarf; he lighted his black
pipe, which hung down over his chin.
"You don't smoke, monsieur?"
"Indeed I do!"
"Well, help yourself to a pipe! I was just here," he said, stretching
his long, yellow hand over the page, "reading the chronicles of Hertzog
when you rang."
I now understood why he had kept me standing so long in the cold.
"You waited to finish your chapter," I said smiling.
"Yes, monsieur," he admitted; and we laughed together.
"However, if I had known it was you, I should have put it off till
another time," he added.
A silence of some minutes followed, during which I studied the truly
remarkable physiognomy of the dwarf: those deep wrinkles at the corners
of his mouth, those little squinting eyes, the broad, unshapely nose
rounded at the end, and especially his swelling, double-storied
forehead. I noticed in his face something of the expression of Socrates,
and as I warmed myself before the crackling blaze, I reflected upon the
strange fortunes of certain of us.
"Here is this dwarf," I said to myself, "this unsightly, stunted
creature, exiled into a corner of Nideck like the cricket that sings
beneath the hearthstone; this Knapwurst, who, in the midst of all these
excitements, hunting-parties and gay cavalcades going and coming, the
baying of hounds, stamping of horses, and winding of the hunters' horn,
lives quietly alone, buried in his books, and thinking only of times
long past, indifferent whether all is in songs or tears around him,
whether it is spring, summer, or autumn that comes to peep in at him
through his little dusty window panes, reanimating, warming or chilling
the breast of Nature outside. While others are living, blessed with the
hope and magic of love, striving to gratify ambition or avarice,
plotting, coveting, and longing, he hopes for nothing, covets nothing,
wishes nothing. He sits and smokes his pipe, and with his eyes fixed on
the old parchment before him, he dreams and revels in things that no
longer exist, perhaps never had any existence--what matters it to
him--'Hertzog says this,' 'such a one has it differently,'--and he is
happy. His parchment skin gets more and more wrinkled, his sharp elbows
dig holes in the table, while his long fingers bury themselves in his
cheeks, and his little gray eyes roam over Latin, Greek, and Etruscan
characters. He goes into ecstasies, he licks his lips like a cat who has
just lapped up a saucer of cream, and then he lies down on his cot, with
his knees drawn up under the coverlid, and thinks he has passed the best
possible kind of a day. O God of Heaven! Is it at the top or at the
bottom of the ladder that we find the true application of your laws, and
the accomplishment of the duties you have imposed?"
Meanwhile the snow was melting from my legs, and the grateful warmth of
the stove restored my spirits. I felt reanimated in this atmosphere of
tobacco smoke and resinous pine. Knapwurst laid his pipe on the table,
and passing his hand once more across the folio:
"Monsieur de la Roche," he said in a grave tone that seemed to come from
the bottom of his conscience, or if you prefer, from the depths of a
twenty-five gallon cask, "here is the law and the prophets."
"How do you mean, Knapwurst?"
"Parchment, old parchment, is what I love. These old yellow leaves,
eaten by worms, are all that is left us of times long gone by, from
Charlemagne to our own day. The ancient families have disappeared, but
the old parchments remain. Where would be the glory of the
Hohenstauferns, the Liningens, the Nidecks, and so many other noble
families, were it not for these? Where would be the fame of their
title-rights, their deeds of arms, their heroic actions, their distant
expeditions to the Holy Land, their ancient alliances and claims, and
their conquests, did they not stand in these chronicles? These lofty
barons, dukes, and princes would be as if they never existed--they and
everything relating to them far and near.
"Their great castles, fortunes, and palaces crumble and fall, and their
ruins serve as vague reminders. Of all this a single memorial
remains,--the chronicles, the history, the songs of bards and
minnesingers,--parchment alone is left to us!"
A brief silence followed, then Knapwurst resumed:
"And in those distant times, when brave knights went forth to war,
disputing and fighting over a bit of forest, title, or a lesser matter
yet, with what contempt did they look upon this wretched little scribe,
this man of letters and mystery, clad in ratteen, his only weapon an ink
bottle dangling at his belt, and the handle of his pen for a plume. How
often they jeered him, crying, 'That fellow is an atom, a flea; he is
good for nothing; he cannot even collect our taxes or manage our
estates, while we fine chaps go out on our mounts with lance in hand,
ready for anything that comes in our way!' Thus they talked when they
saw the poor devil dragging along behind them, shivering in winter,
sweating in summer, and growing feeble in his old age. Ah, well! this
atom, this flea, has caused them to survive long after their castles
have turned to dust and their arms have rusted away, and for my part I
love these old parchments; I respect and revere them. Like ivy, they
clothe the ruins and prevent the old walls from crumbling away and
becoming entirely effaced."
Having given such expression to his thoughts, Knapwurst seemed grave,
and reflecting upon these things his eyes filled with the tears of
affectionate remembrance. The dwarf loved those who had tolerated and
protected his ancestors. After all, he spoke the truth; there was
profound good sense in his words. His warmth surprised me.
"Have you learned Latin, Knapwurst?" I asked him.
"Yes, monsieur," he replied, "I taught myself Latin and Greek. Old
grammars were enough,--some of the Count's thrown into the ash-barrel;
they fell into my hands and I devoured them. Some time after, the Lord
of Nideck having chanced to hear me make some Latin quotation was
surprised.
"'Who taught you Latin, Knapwurst?' he asked.
"'I taught myself, monseigneur.'
"He asked me some questions, which I answered pretty well.
"'By Jove!' he cried, 'Knapwurst knows more than I do! He shall keep my
archives.'
"And he gave me the key to the archive chamber. During the thirty years
since then, I have read every page. Sometimes the Count, seeing me on my
ladder, stops a minute and says to me:
"'Ha! ha! What are you doing up there, Knapwurst?'
"'I am reading the family records, monseigneur.'
"'And you enjoy it?'
"'Very much, monseigneur.'
"'Well, well! I am glad to hear it; if it weren't for you, Knapwurst,
who would know of the glory of the Nidecks?' and he goes off laughing. I
do as I please here!"
"He is a good master then?"
"Oh, monsieur, what a heart, and what kindness!" exclaimed the dwarf,
clasping his hands. "He has but one fault."
"And what is that?"
"He has no ambition."
"How so?"
"Why, he could have attained to anything. A Nideck! One of the most
illustrious families of Germany! Think of that, monsieur! He had only to
choose; he might have been a minister or a field-marshal. But no! In his
youth he retired from political life. With the exception of a campaign
that he conducted in France, at the head of a regiment which he raised
by his own exertions--with this exception, he has always lived far from
noise and strife, simple and almost unknown, only interesting himself in
his hunting."
These details were of the greatest interest to me. The conversation was
taking, of its own accord, the direction that I most wished, and I
resolved to profit by my opportunity.
"The Count has never had any great passions in his life, then?" I asked.
"None, monsieur; and that is the pity, for noble passions make the
renown of great families. It is a misfortune for the member of a noble
race to be devoid of ambition. He allows his family to degenerate. I
could cite many examples in proof of what I say. That which would be the
pride of the tradesman's family, would be the ruin of the illustrious."
I was amazed; all my speculations regarding the Count's past life were
fast being disproved.
"However, the Count has met with many reverses, has he not?"
"Of what nature?"
"He has lost his wife?"
"Yes, you are right; his wife was an angel. He married her for love; she
was a daughter of one the oldest and noblest families of Alsace, but
ruined by the Revolution. The Countess Odette was her husband's sole
happiness. She died of a lingering illness that lasted over the space of
five years; every means was resorted to to save her life. They travelled
together in Italy, but she returned worse than she went, and succumbed
some three weeks after their return. The Count came near dying himself
of a broken heart. For two years he shut himself up and would see
nobody. His dogs and horses were neglected. Time at length calmed his
grief, but there has ever been something here." (The dwarf laid his
finger on his heart.) "You understand; it is a bleeding wound. Old
wounds pain us in change of weather, and old griefs, too, when the
flowers spring up above the tomb, and in autumn when the dead leaves
cover the ground. The Count has never wished to marry again; his
daughter is the sole object of his affection."
"So this marriage was always a happy one?"
"Happy? It was a blessing for everybody!"
I was silent. Evidently the Count had not committed, could not have
committed, a crime. I was obliged to yield to the weight of evidence;
but then that nocturnal scene, these strange relations with the Black
Plague, that horrible pantomime and the remorse in a dream which forced
the couple to betray their past--what did it all mean? I became lost in
thought.
Knapwurst relighted his pipe and reached me one, which I accepted. The
chill which had seized me had by this time passed away. I was
experiencing that delicious period of inaction which follows the fatigue
caused by unusual exertions, when, sprawled out in a big armchair in the
chimney-corner and enveloped in a cloud of smoke, you abandon yourself
to the pleasure of repose and listen to the blending of the cricket's
chant with the unearthly singing of the green log on the hearth. We sat
thus for a quarter of an hour.
"The Count sometimes gets angry with his daughter," I ventured to
remark. Knapwurst started, and fixing on me a suspicious, almost
hostile look, replied:
"I know, I know!"
I watched him with a sidelong glance, thinking that I might learn
something new, but he added ironically:
"The towers of Nideck are high, and slander flies too low to reach
them!"
"Undoubtedly; but it is a fact, nevertheless, is it not?"
"Yes; but this is a mere crotchet, an effect of his malady. Once the
crisis is passed, all his affection for the Countess Odile returns. It
is curious, monsieur, a lover of twenty years could not be more devoted,
more affectionate than he. This young woman is his one joy and pride.
Only fancy, no less than a dozen times I have seen him ride off to get
her a dress, or flowers, or some like trifle. He would not entrust this
commission to any one, not even to his faithful Sperver. The Countess
does not even dare to express a wish in his presence, lest he should
commit some new extravagance. In a word, monsieur, I assure you that the
Count of Nideck is the worthiest of men, the tenderest of fathers, and
the best of masters. As for the poachers who ravaged his forests, the
old Count Ludwig would have hanged them without mercy; but our Count
tolerates them; he even makes them his gamekeepers. Take Sperver, for
instance! If Count Ludwig was still alive, Sperver's bones would be
clicking together like castanets, at the end of a rope, while as it is,
he is the steward and man-of-affairs at the Castle."
My theories were fast falling to the ground. I rested my head between my
hands and thought for a long time. Knapwurst, supposing that I was
asleep, had resumed his reading. The gray dawn appeared through the tiny
panes; the lamplight paled, and vague murmurs arose within the Castle.
Suddenly footsteps sounded outside, some one passed before the window,
the door opened abruptly, and Gideon appeared on the threshold.