THE BANQUET.--THE DWARF EXPLAINS THE MYSTERY OF THE NIDECK HOUSE.
The body of the boar was strapped across the backs of the two horses
which the beaters, Wilhelm Moelz and Yeri Scharf, relinquished for the
purpose, themselves returning on foot to the Castle.
I looked with strange fascination at the shaggy brute that had so nearly
put an end to all my cherished prospects. The bristling, wiry hair
running over head and shoulders and extending half-way to the haunches;
the broad yellow tusks that forced up the black, leathery upper lip;
the small, savage eyes now glazed and half-closed in death, all inspired
me with reluctant curiosity and loathing.
We retraced our road to the Castle, walking our jaded mounts. The dogs
followed close behind us, their tongues lolling from their mouths, and
eyeing at intervals their fallen foe, as if not yet sure that he was
beyond renewing the combat.
As we reached the eventful fork in the forest path, the Count drew up:
"Here's where you went astray," he said; "you didn't see the bit of red
flannel, torn from the lining of Sebalt's jacket, that we pinned to the
tree, just here, within the left-hand path? By Jove, it's gone! This
stiff breeze must have drawn it against the knife's edge and cut it
through. Look! There it is, caught in the thicket."
Sure enough, a long strip of red flannel was fluttering in the twigs of
the underbrush a few feet away.
"I shudder when I think how we might be returning now!" exclaimed the
Count, and a look of gloom settled for a moment upon his face.
Gideon rode up to the tree, and pulling out his hunting-knife, restored
it to his belt. We looked thoughtfully along the fateful path for
several minutes still. Then we resumed our homeward course.
It was towards two o'clock when we trooped into the courtyard. We
presented a somewhat less spirited appearance than at our setting out
at daybreak, but we were victorious and happy, nevertheless.
While the huntsmen and hostlers were busy in removing the boar and
caring for the dogs and horses, the Count continued to the lodge gate,
and Odile and I followed him leisurely, along the rugged path.
As we passed the lodge room, wherein we could descry the dwarf and a
half-dozen other figures seated about the fireplace, Offenloch stepped
out, and bowing to the Count, he said:
"Some musicians from the Forest, monsieur! They ask permission to play
in the Castle this evening in return for food and a night's lodging."
"Good!" said the Count; "music is just what we want, and such as these
fellows play! For I was just sending for you, Offenloch, to bid you
prepare a feast to-night worthy of the triple event to be celebrated.
Tell all the people of the Castle to be present in the dining-room at
eight o'clock, and see that no one of them all is missing. These players
shall furnish us music. Let nothing be wanting to every one's pleasure."
The delighted butler smiled expectantly, and withdrew to carry out his
master's instructions.
We continued to the drawing-room, where we took leave of one another to
prepare for the evening's festivities. A few minutes later I found
myself in my chamber. I was pretty thoroughly used up with the unusual
experiences of the morning, and throwing off my borrowed clothes, I lay
down on my bed, where I presently fell into a leaden slumber.
I woke some hours later, much refreshed, to find the sun set and my
tower chamber dark. After five minutes of yawning and stretching, I got
up, and striking a light, I set about to prepare myself for the feast.
Meanwhile I reflected--in that state of complete happiness which life
cannot offer twice, and which it does not often fall to our lot that
first time to embrace--upon the circumstances of my present. It seemed
like the touch of the genie's hand that I should now find myself
installed for all time at Nideck, the accepted lover of its mistress,
and beloved by its master, the Count.
I was still reflecting in this wise as I went down the stairs to the
dining-room. I found a gay company assembled there. Many of the faces
were new to me, as I had never penetrated to the remoter parts of the
Castle; but all were gay and laughing, and bespoke impatient expectation
of the amusement in store for them. The arrangements for the repast were
elaborate and complete, and worthy of their projector, Offenloch.
Hardly had the members of the household finished greeting me, when Odile
appeared on the Count's arm, her exquisite beauty well set off by a rich
gown of black brocade that made her complexion dazzling by contrast, and
in her hair a single band of jewels.
They proceeded to the head of the table, and the Count motioned me to
him. Then, with Odile on his right hand and I at his left, he addressed
the gathering:
"My friends," said he, "you shall now know the purpose of your being
called hither to-night. It is to celebrate the greatest of all events in
the lives of three of us; namely, the saving of your mistress's life
this morning, as you have doubtless already heard, and the restoration
of your master's health, both the work of Monsieur de la Roche beside me
here" (I experienced much more embarrassment than gratification at this
unexpected eulogy), "and lastly, that which is fraught with like
significance for us all, the betrothal of your mistress and our
benefactor!"
At this point the Count was interrupted by a chorus of cheers that were
prolonged for several moments. As the noise subsided he went on:
"It is well known to you all how dear to me the thought has been of
feeling that the ancient line of Nideck, which has held an honorable
place in the history of Alsace for many centuries, should continue to
flourish long after I, Count Hermann, shall have passed away. That time
is not far distant, and when it comes it rejoices me to think that I
shall hand over to these young people beside me here the future of my
race. Your young master has endeared himself already to your hearts, and
he will continue to do so during the years which are to come. Your
devotion to me in the past has been complete, and the memory of it is
one of the proudest of my possessions; and now I ask you to extend this
devotion to those who shall succeed me when I in turn pass on the Castle
and its lands. And now but one more word. This night shall be devoted to
revelry, and there should be no downcast eye among us! He who rejoices
most shall best prove his loyalty to his house. Eat, drink, and be
merry! The Count of Nideck requires it of you!"
He paused, and a chorus of shouts greeted his message of good-will. The
old housekeeper wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron, while some of
the younger maids were reduced even to whimpering; the men maintained a
sturdy silence, but it was evident that all, especially the old steward,
the dwarf, and the master of the hounds, were no less affected than the
women.
Ere we resumed our seats, the ancient wassail-bowl of the Nidecks,
blackened by centuries past, was filled to overflowing with sparkling
wine from the Drachenfels, and went the round of the table, each one
draining all he could at a breath. The generous draught served to
increase the already growing hilarity. The happy eyes and faces sparkled
more brightly under its magic spell. Then, in response to a signal from
the Count, we seated ourselves about the board.
The table fairly groaned beneath its burden of dishes ranged everywhere
with lavish profusion. Bottles of all shapes and sizes, cobwebbed and
redolent of the Castle's earthen vaults, were dotted all about, with
glasses of as various patterns beside them, and long-stemmed pipes lay
beside the plate of each smoker, while an army of small dishes, the
contents of which I could not even guess, were ranged the length of the
board. Directly in the centre of it all, in an enormous platter of
flowered china, rested the head of the ill-favored boar, swimming in a
lake of white wine sauce.
The meal progressed; the merriment increased. To-night there was license
everywhere, and each one enjoyed himself after his own manner. Healths
were emptied with marvellous rapidity till I felt my head reeling with
the fumes of the wine and the intoxication of happiness.
An hour passed. The Count, Odile, and I, were toasted at intervals of
every few minutes. I wondered how long this state of things could
continue successfully. I looked about me.
There was Sperver, a little distance down the table, with his thin
forehead and bristling gray head, his eyes shining and his mustache wet
with wine; at his right sat Knapwurst and on his left Marie Lagoutte.
His cheeks were a good deal flushed, and on his breast sparkled the
badge of his office; it was a pleasure to see his honest, happy face.
Marie Lagoutte was even more loquacious than was her wont; her large,
cotton cap was pushed very much to one side, and she drank first with
one and then with another with the greatest impartiality.
Knapwurst, squatting in his armchair, his head on a level with Sperver's
elbow, looked like an enormous cabbage. Then came Tobias Offenloch, so
red that he looked as though he had dipped his face in the wine before
him. His wig rested against the chair-back, and his wooden leg was stuck
straight out before him under the table. Further on, Sebalt's long,
melancholy face stood out in grotesque relief, smiling faintly into his
glass.
There were, besides the musicians, the serving-men and women, domestics
and hangers-on,--all that little world, in short, which lives and
flourishes around great families as the moss, the ivy, and the
convolvulus cling about the forest oak. Their eyes were moist with
wine-begotten tears. The Vine of Bacchus wept freely everywhere. The
light of the great bronze lamp shed over all its beautiful amber tint
and left in the shadows the old gray walls where hung in wreaths the
trumpets, bugles, and horns of the former lords of the Castle. The scene
was like a glimpse from ages past.
The roof rang with songs and shouts, and ballads long lain dormant in
the minds of the singers now came forth and woke the startled echoes of
the Castle.
For my part, I did little else but listen and occupy myself with the
faces about me; for thanks to the exercise of the morning and my long
inhaling of the old wine, smelling of vervain and cypress, that mounted
to my brain, and clothed all things for me in vague, unreal beauty, I
was in that wholly receptive mood which disaffects even the semblance of
effort.
So I listened with entire complacency to the singularly successful
efforts of the entertainers, who were elated to an unusual degree by
every circumstance of the occasion.
The evening wore on. The boar's head had disappeared; the array of small
dishes was reduced to a mass of indistinguishable debris; one set of
bottles had been emptied and replaced by another, and our pipe-bowls
were aglow.
At this point the Count suggested that we should have music. The
musicians, having enjoyed their fill of food and wine, and burned out a
generous pipe, hastened to comply.
Taking up their instruments, they moved over before the hearth, where
seats had been arranged for them in the form of a semicircle. They
seated themselves, and began to put their instruments in tune.
It was a picturesque sight, these sons of the Black Forest seated in the
dim light of the hall,--the old harper, bent with years, leaning over
his instrument; next him a short, thick-set fellow, whom his comrades
called Black Pierre, passively supporting his 'cello, and gazing about
him curiously at the unfamiliar objects in the room; at his side the
handsome, jovial-looking flute player, a picture of rugged health and
careless good humor; while next in line came a man of medium stature,
whose indistinctive features were rendered more so by the large creases
in his cheeks, made by supporting his violin, which he held firmly
beneath his square chin, while he tightened the horse-hair of his bow;
and finally, to complete the semicircle, the clarinet player, a slight,
sunburned boy, scarce turned eighteen, unmistakably a member of one of
those numerous Gypsy bands whose camps are always to be found in the
plateau of the Rothalps between Alsace and Lorraine.
The music began, and in justice to the vagabond players it must be said
that it was of no ordinary degree of excellence. All the fire and pathos
of their lawless natures was blended in the melody; now low and sad and
tender as the reveries of old age itself; then rising and swelling into
a burst of passion and longing that bewildered and electrified you; then
in the midst of all this followed a lively measure, persuasive and
careless, that in turn gave way to a waltz, foolish, palpitating,
wanton.
I sat enchanted, my eyes roving over the faces of those around me.
Odile, too, seemed to find the strains a fitting accompaniment to her
thoughts, for she nodded approvingly at me from time to time, and once I
thought I saw a tear hang on her eyelash. However, that may have been
mere imagination, as I invariably become sentimental with my third
bottle.
After a little the music began again. This time it was Schiller's
"Brigands," and this more ambitious undertaking was rendered with a
spirit and understanding hardly to be looked for in those who rarely
aspired higher than the audiences of the inns, or the woodcutter's
gatherings in the shambles of the forest.
I glanced once more about me. Everyone's eyes were fastened on the
flooring. Even the frowzy scullion, who winced as he became conscious of
my gaze, and passed the back of his hand across his nose apologetically,
seemed lifted for the moment from his pots and kettles to loftier
thoughts. Other pieces followed; there were those to suit every mood and
fancy. The Count was enthusiastic in his applause at the end of each
number, and demanded more, while the others expressed their satisfaction
with clapping and stamps on the stone floor.
When at last the music came to an end, the players were rewarded with
generous gold pieces by the master, and returned well satisfied to the
table to wear away what little was left of the night, in wine and
conversation.
The hour was late. The old clock ticked on in the chimney-corner, and
groaned in its casing as its heavy weights ran out their length. The
fire fell on the hearth; the great yule logs of the early evening had
given out their substance, and now were crumbling away into ruddy embers
and soft, flaky ashes. And still the merriment continued, still glasses
were filled and drained, and still the call for songs and stories went
on.
At length, at that hour when fatigue begins to assert itself over
inclination, when vitality is low, and the shadows become deeper,
colder, and the night more mysterious, then it was that the Count
exclaimed:
"Each one shall sing a final song except Knapwurst, for he has a voice
like a bull-frog, but he is first in story-telling in all Alsace! When
it comes his turn he shall tell us a story. Sperver, you shall begin
with the song of Black Hatto the Burgrave!
"I am the king of these mountains of mine."
And the steward, rising and standing like the figure of the wild
huntsman in the heather, thundered forth the song with wonderful effect.
The entire room joined in the chorus, and the old suits of mail fairly
creaked and trembled with the sound.
"Bravo!" cried the Count. "Nobly done, Sperver! It is your turn now,
Becker! Sing what you like!"
Becker, whose arm had stolen unperceived around Gretchen's waist, got
up hastily, in some embarrassment, and steadying himself against the
table, complied with a species of madrigal, proclaiming the virtues of
lasses of the present, and claiming in a loud refrain that they were
quite the equal of those of the olden times. And in truth they were,
judging from the fair faces at intervals about the board, sitting with
their eyes veiled by long, drooping lashes, as sleep and the wine were
now stealing over them. The kennel-keeper's tribute to their charms
served to arouse them, however, and they stole shy and gratified glances
at each other as he sang.
After Becker, the Gypsy youth followed with a herdsman's jodel, and so
the round was gradually completed.
The clock struck two from its niche in the corner. The last embers
flared up and fell. The lamp burned low.
"A story from Knapwurst now!" exclaimed the Count; "and then the day is
done!"
A complete silence succeeded; Knapwurst's quaint relations were
favorites, it seemed.
The dwarf, half-tipsy as a result of his liberal potations, rested his
elbows on the table, and with his fists dug into his hollow cheeks, and
his eyes staring out of his head, he began in a harsh, monotonous voice:
"Bernhard Hertzog relates that the Burgrave Hugh, surnamed the Wolf, the
founder of Nideck, having become old, used to cover his head with a sort
of hood that fell down about his shoulders, which he wore over his
steel helmet when engaged in combat; when he wished to breathe more
easily, he removed the helmet and covered his head with the hood alone,
the scallops of which hung down about his waist. Up to the age of
eighty-two, Hugh still wore his armor, though he could hardly breathe in
it. Then he sent for Otto of Burlach, his chaplain; Hugh, his eldest
son; Berthold, his second son; and his daughter, Bertha, of the red
hair, the wife of a Saxon chief named Zaan, and said to them, 'Your
mother, the she-wolf, has bequeathed to you her claws; her blood is
mixed with mine, and it will be born again among you from century to
century, and weep among the snows of the Black Forest. Some will say,
'It is the moaning of the wind!' Others, 'Hark! The owl hoots!' But it
is your blood, mine, and the blood of the she-wolf who made me to murder
Elfreda, my first wife before God and the Holy Church! Yes, she has
perished by my hand. Cursed be the she-wolf, for it is written, 'I will
visit the crime of the father upon the children, unto the third and
fourth generations;' aye, until justice be done.' And old Hugh died.
From that day the north wind has sobbed, and the owl has hooted, and the
lost traveller by night knows not that it is the blood of the she-wolf
bemoaning her crime. 'And she will bemoan it,' says Hertzog, 'from
century to century, until that day when Hugh's first wife, Elfreda,
shall reappear in the form of an angel at Nideck, to pardon and
console.'"
The dwarf paused, and silence succeeded, which lasted for a full minute;
then he continued, with drunken gravity, pointing his long forefinger at
Odile:
"There is she who was to return to pardon and console. She has returned.
At this moment she is sitting beside the Count, our master! Look, sirs!
Do you not recognize her? Is it not she? Henceforth the lords of Nideck
may rest in peace, for justice is done, and the good angel of this noble
house has returned."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Count of Nideck, by Ralph Browning Fiske