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THE
LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK
A Spiritual Romance
BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE
AUTHOR OF 'JOHN INGLESANT'
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1894
_Part I--First Edition, October 1883. Reprinted December 1883_
_Part II--First Edition, 1884. Reprinted twice February 1885_
_Complete Edition made up from parts 1885. Reprinted 1891, 1894_
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._
PREFACE.
THE readers of German autobiography (and more delightful reading cannot
be had) will perceive that I have made use of some passages in the
childhood of Heinrich Jung-Stilling to create the character of Little
Mark. The experience of the Princess as to private religious societies
was also that of Stilling. Should this little tale induce any one, at
present ignorant of Stilling's Autobiography, to read that book, they
will forget any grudge they may have formed against the present writer.
As a matter of common honesty I should wish to express the pleasure I
have had in reading another delightful book, _Studies of the Eighteenth
Century in Italy_, by Vernon Lee.
The words of the anthem in the concluding chapter are taken from a
sermon by Canon Knox Little, "The Vision of the Truth," preached in St.
Paul's in Lent 1883, and published in _The Witness of the Passion_. They
are so exactly in accord with the message which the shadowy beings of my
tale seem to have left me that I cannot force myself to coin another
phrase.
J. H. S.
TO
Lady Alwyne Compton
BY PERMISSION
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
THE
LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.
A Spiritual Romance.
PART FIRST.
I.
THE Court Chaplain Eisenhart walked up the village street towards the
schoolhouse. It was April, in the year 1750, and a soft west wind was
blowing up the street, across the oak woods of the near forest. Between
the forest and the village lay a valley of meadows, planted with thorn
bushes and old birch trees with snow-white stems: the fresh green leaves
trembled continually in the restless wind. On the other side of the
street a lofty crag rose precipitously above a rushing mountain torrent.
This rock is the spur of other lofty hills, planted with oak and beech
trees, through the openings of which a boy may frequently be seen,
driving an ox or gathering firewood on his half-trodden path. Here and
there in the distance the smoke of charcoal-burners ascends into the
sky. Between the street and the torrent stand the houses of the village,
with high thatched roofs and walls of timber and of mud, and, at the
back, projecting stages and steps above the rushing water. A paradise in
the late spring, in summer, and in autumn, these wild and romantic
woods, traversed only by a few forest paths, are terrible in winter, and
the contrast is part of their charm. The schoolhouse stands in the upper
part of the village, on the opposite side of the street to the rest of
the houses, looking across the valley to the western sun. Two large
birch trees are before the open door. The Court Chaplain pauses before
he goes in.
How it comes to pass that a Court Chaplain should be walking up the
street of this forest village we shall see anon.
At first sight there does not seem to be much schoolwork going on. A
boy, or we should rather say a child, of fifteen is seated at an open
window looking over the forest. He is fair-haired and blue-eyed; but it
is the deep blue of an angel's, not the cold gray blue of a courtier's
eyes. Around him are seated several children, both boys and girls; and,
far from teaching, he appears to be relating stories to them. The
story, whatever it is, ceases as the Court Chaplain goes in, and both
raconteur and audience rise.
"I have something to say to thee, schoolmaster," said the Chaplain,
"send the children away. Thou wilt not teach them anything more to-day,
I suspect."
The children went away lingeringly, not at all like children just let
loose from school.
When they were gone the expression of the Chaplain's face changed--he
looked at the little schoolmaster very kindly, and sat down on one of
the benches, which were black and worn with age.
"Last year, little one," he said, "when the Herr Rector took thee away
from the Latin school and from thy father's tailoring, and confirmed
thee, and thou tookest thy first communion, and he made thee
schoolmaster here, many wise people shook their heads. I do not think,"
he continued, with a smile, "that they have ceased shaking them when
they have seen in how strange a manner thou keepest school."
"Ah, your Reverence," said the boy, eagerly, "the good people are
satisfied enough when they see that their children learn without
receiving much correction; and many of them even take pleasure in the
beautiful tales which I relate to the children, and which they repeat to
them. Every morning, as soon as the children enter the school, I pray
with them, and catechise them in the principles of our holy religion, as
God teaches me, for I use no book. Then I set the children to read and
to write, and promise them these charming tales if they learn well. It
is impossible to express with what zeal the children learn. When they
are perverse or not diligent I do not relate my histories, but I read to
myself."
"Well, little one," said the Court Chaplain, "it is a strange system of
education, but I am far from saying that it is a bad one. Nevertheless
it will not last. The Herr Rector has his eye upon thee, and will send
thee back to thy tailoring very soon."
The tears came into the little schoolmaster's eyes, and he turned very
pale.
"Well, do not be sad," said the Chaplain. "I have been thinking and
working for thee. Thou hast heard of the Prince, though thou hast, I
think, never seen the pleasure palace, Joyeuse, though it is so near."
"I have seen the iron gates with the golden scrolls," said the boy.
"They are like the heavenly Jerusalem; every several gate is one pearl."
The Chaplain did not notice the confused metaphor of this description.
"Well," he said, "I have been speaking to the Prince of thee. Thou
knowest nothing of these things, but the Prince has lived for many years
in Italy, a country where they do nothing but sing and dance. He has
come back, as thou knowest, and has married a wife, according to the
traditions of his race. Since he came back to Germany he has taken a
fancy to this forest-lodge, for at first it was little more, and has
garnished it and enlarged it according to his southern fancies; that is
why he likes it better than his princely cities. He has two children--a
boy and a girl--eight and nine, or thereabouts. The Princess is not a
good woman. She neglects her children, and she prefers the princely
cities to her husband, to her little ones, and to the beautiful forests
and hills."
The little schoolmaster listened with open eyes. Then he said, beneath
his breath:
"How Satanic that must be!"
"The Prince," continued the Court Chaplain, "is a beautiful soul
'manque,' which means spoilt. His sister, the Princess Isoline von
Isenberg-Wertheim, is such a soul. She has joined herself to a company
of pious people who have taken an old manor-house belonging to the
Prince on the farther side of the palace gardens, where they devote
themselves to prayer, to good works, and to the manufacture of
half-silk stuffs, by which they maintain themselves and give to the
poor. The Prince himself knows something of such feelings. He indeed
knows the way of piety, though he does not follow it. He acknowledges
the grace of refinement which piety gives, even to the most highly bred.
He is particularly desirous that his children should possess this
supreme touch. Something that I told him of thee pleased his fancy. Thy
strange way of keeping school seemed to him very new; more especially
was he delighted with that infancy story of thee and old Father Stalher.
The old man, I told the Prince, came into thy father's for his new coat
and found thee reading. Reading, in any one, seemed to Father Stalher
little short of miraculous; but in a child of eight it was more--it was
elfish.
"'What are you doing there, child?' said Father Stalher.
"'I am reading.'
"'Canst thou read already?'
"'That is a foolish question, for I am a human being,' said the child,
and began to read with ease, proper emphasis, and due distinction.
"Stalher was amazed, and said:
"'The devil fetch me, I have never seen the like in all my life.'
"Then little Mark jumped up and looked timidly and carefully round the
room. When he saw that the devil did not come, he went down on his knees
in the middle of the floor and said:
"'O God! how gracious art thou.'
"Then, standing up boldly before old Stalher, he said:
"'Man, hast thou ever seen Satan?'
"'No.'
"'Then call upon him no more.'
"And the child went quietly into another room.
"And I told the Prince what thy old grandfather used to say to me.
"'The lad is soaring away from us; we must pray that God will guide him
by His good Spirit.'
"When I told all this to the Prince, he said:
"'I will have this boy. He shall teach my children as he does the
village ones. None can teach children as can such a child as this.'"
The little schoolmaster had been looking before him all the time the
Chaplain had been speaking, as though in something of a maze. He
evidently saw nothing to wonder at in the story of himself and old
Stalher. It seemed to him commonplace and obvious enough.
"I shall send up a tailor from Joyeuse to-morrow," said the Chaplain; "a
court tailor, such as thou never saw'st, nor thy father either. He must
measure thee for a court-suit of black. Then we will go together, and I
will present thee to the Prince."
II.
A FEW days after this conversation there was a melancholy procession
down the village street. The Court Chaplain and the schoolmaster walked
first; the boy was crying bitterly. Then followed all the children of
the school, all weeping, and many peasant women, and two or three old
men. The Rector stood in a corner of the churchyard under a great walnut
tree and looked on. He did not weep. The Court Chaplain looked ashamed,
for all the people took this misfortune to be of his causing.
When they had gone some way out of the village the children stopped,
and, collecting into a little crowd, they wept more than ever. The
Chaplain turned round and waved his hand, but the little schoolmaster
was too troubled to take any farewell. He covered his face with his
hands and went on, weeping bitterly. At last they passed away out of
sight.
When they had gone on some distance, the boy became calmer; he took his
hands from his face, and looked up at the Chaplain through his tears.
"What am I to do when I come to the Prince, your Reverence?" he said.
"Thou must make a bow as best thou canst," said the other; "thou must
not speak till the Prince speaks to thee, and thou must say 'Highness'
sometimes, but not too often."
"How am I to tell when to say 'Highness' and when to forbear?" said the
boy.
"Ah! that I cannot tell thee. Thou must trust in God; He will show thee
when to say 'Highness' and when not."
They went forward in this way across the meadows, and through the
scattered forest for two leagues or more, in the mid-day heat. The boy
was not used to labour, and he grew very tired and unhappy. It seemed to
him that he was leaving behind all that was fair and true and beautiful,
and going to that which was false and garish and unkind. At last they
came to an open drive, or avenue of the forest, where great oaks were
growing. Some distance up the avenue they saw a high park pale
stretching away on either hand, and in the centre of the drive were
iron gates covered with gilt scrolls and letters. The Court Chaplain
pushed the gates open, and they went in.
Inside, the forest drive was planted with young trees in triple rows.
After walking for some distance they reached another gate, similar to
the first, but provided with "loges," or guardrooms, on either side. One
or two soldiers were standing listlessly about, but they took no heed.
Here the drive entered the palace gardens, laid out in grass plots and
stone terraces, and crossed by lofty hedges which shut out the view.
They approached the long facade of a house with pointed roofs and green
shutter blinds to all the windows. Here the Chaplain left the path, and
conducted his companion to a remote side entrance; and, after passing
through many passages and small rooms, at last left him to the tender
mercies of the court tailor and some domestics, at whose hands the
little schoolmaster suffered what appeared to him to be unspeakable
indignities. He was washed from head to foot, his hair was cut, curled,
and frizzled, and he was finally arrayed in a plain suit of black silk,
with silk stockings, and delicate shoes with silver buckles, and plain
linen bands like a clergyman. The worn homespun suit that had become
dear to him was ruthlessly thrown upon a dust-heap, and a message was
sent to Herr Chaplain that his _protege_ was now fit to be presented to
the Prince.
The boy could scarcely restrain his tears; he felt as though he were
wandering through the paths of a miserable dream. Ah! could he only
awake and find himself again in the old schoolhouse, narrating the
adventures of the Fair Melusina to the attentive little ones.
The Chaplain led him up some back stairs, and through corridors and
anterooms, all full of wonderful things, which the boy passed
bewildered, till they reached a small room where were two boys
apparently of his own age. They appeared to have been just engaged in
punching each other's heads, for their hair was disordered, their faces
red, and one was in tears. They regarded the Chaplain with a sullen
suspicion, and the schoolmaster with undisguised contempt. The door at
the farther side of the room was partly open, the Chaplain scratched
upon it, and, receiving some answer, they went in.
The little schoolmaster dared scarcely breathe when he got into the
room, so surprising was all he saw. To the left of the door, as they
came in, was placed a harpsichord, before which was standing, with her
back towards them, a young girl whose face they could not see; by her
side, at the harpsichord, was seated an elderly man upon whom the boy
gazed with wonder, so different was he from anything that he had ever
seen before; opposite to them, in the window, hung a canary in a cage,
and the boy perceived, even in the surprise of the moment, that the bird
was agitated and troubled. But the next moment all his attention was
absorbed by the figure of the Prince, who was seated on a couch to the
right of the room, and almost facing them. To say that this was the
most wonderful sight that the little schoolmaster had ever seen would be
to speak foolishly, for he had seen no wonderful sights, but it
surpassed the wildest imagination of his dreams. The Prince was a very
handsome man of about thirty-five, of a slight and delicate figure, and
of foreign manners and pose. He was dressed in a suit of what seemed to
the boy a wonderful white cloth, of a soft material, embroidered in
silk, with flowers of the most lovely tints. The coat was sparingly
ornamented in this manner, but the waistcoat, which was only partly
seen, was a mass of these exquisite flowers. At his throat and wrists
were masses of costly lace, and his hair was frizzled, and slightly
powdered, which increased the delicate expression of his features, which
were perfectly cut. He lay back on the couch, caressing, with his right
hand, a small monkey, also gorgeously dressed, and armed with a toy
sword, who sat on the arm of the sofa cracking nuts, and throwing the
shells upon the carpet.
The Prince looked up as the two came in, and waved his disengaged hand
for them to stand back, and the next moment the strange phantasmagoria,
into which the boy's life was turned, took another phase, and he again
lost all perception of what he had seen before; for there burst into the
little room the most wonderful voice, which not only he and the
Chaplain, but even the Maestro and the Prince, had well-nigh ever heard.
The girl, who was taking her music lesson, had been discovered in Italy
by the old Maestro, who managed the music of the private theatre which
the Prince had formed. He had heard her, a poor untaught girl, in a
coffee-house in Venice, and she afterwards became, in the opinion of
some, the most pathetic female actress and singer of the century.
The first chord of her voice penetrated into the boy's nature as nothing
had ever done before; he had never heard any singing save that of the
peasants at church, and of the boys and girls who sang hymns round the
cottage hearths in the winter nights.
The solemn tramp of the Lutheran measures, where the deep basses of the
men drown the women's soft voices, and the shrill unshaded singing of
the children, could hardly belong to this art, which he heard now for
the first time. These sudden runs and trills, so fantastic and
difficult, these chords and harmonies, so quaint and full of colour,
were messages from a world of sound, as yet an unknown country to the
boy. He stood gazing upon the singer with open mouth. The Prince moved
his jewelled hand slightly in unison with the notes; the monkey,
apparently rather scared, left off cracking his nuts, and, creeping
close to his master, nestled against his beautiful coat close to the
star upon his breast.
Then suddenly, in this world of wonders, a still more wonderful thing
occurred. There entered into this bewitching, this entrancing voice, a
strange, almost a discordant, note. Through the fantasied gaiety of the
theme, to which the sustained whirr of the harpsichord was like the
sigh of the wind through the long grass, there was perceptible a strain,
a tremor of sadness, almost of sobs. It was as if, in the midst of
festival, some hidden grief, known beforetime of all, but forgotten or
suppressed, should at once and in a moment well up in the hearts of all,
turning the dance-measures into funeral chants, the love-songs into the
loveliest of chorales. The Maestro faltered in his accompaniment; the
Prince left off marking the time, he swept the monkey from him with a
movement of his hand, and leaned forward eagerly in his seat: the
discarded favourite slunk into a corner, where it leaned disconsolately
against the wall. The pathetic strain went on, growing more tremulous
and more intense, when suddenly the singing stopped, the girl buried
her face in her hands and sank upon the floor in a passion of tears; the
boy sprang forward, he forgot where he was, he forgot the Prince--
"It is the bird," he cried, "the bird!"
The canary, whose dying struggles the singer had been watching through
her song, gave a final shudder and fell lifeless from its perch.
The Prince rose: he lifted the singer from her knees, and, taking her
hands from the wet face, he turned to the others with a smile.
"Ah, Herr Chaplain," he said, "you come in a good hour. This then is the
angel-child. They will console each other."
And, picking up the monkey as he passed, he left the room by another
door.
III.
WHEN the Prince was gone the Maestro gathered up some music and turned
to his pupil, who was drying her eyes and looking somewhat curiously at
the boy through her tears.
"Well, Signorina," he said, "you truly sang that very well. If you could
bring some of that 'timbre' into your voice always, you would indeed be
a singer. But you are too light, too 'frivole.' I wish we could have a
canary always who would die;" and, bowing very slightly to the Chaplain,
he left the room.
Then the Chaplain looked kindly at the young people.
"Fraeulein," he said, "this is the young tutor to the little serene
Highnesses, I will leave you together, as the Prince wished."
When they were alone the boy felt very uncomfortable. He was very shy.
This perhaps was as well, for there was no shyness at all on the part of
his companion.
"So," she said, looking at him with a smile, and eyes that were again
bright, "you are the new toy. I have heard of you. You are a wonderful
holy child; what they call 'pious' in this country. How very funny! come
and give me a kiss."
"No, Fraeulein," said Mark, blushing still more, "that would be improper
in me."
"Would it?" said the girl lightly; "don't angels kiss? How very stupid
it must be to be an angel! Come and look at poor 'Fifine' then! I
suppose she is quite dead."
And, opening the cage, she took out the piteous heap of yellow feathers
and held it in her delicate hand, while the tears came again into her
large dark eyes.
"Ah! it was dreadful," she said, "to sing and see him die."
"But, Fraeulein," said the boy, "you sang most beautifully. I never heard
anything so wonderful. It was heaven itself."
The girl looked at him very kindly.
"Oh, you like my singing," she said, "I am glad of that. Do you know, we
shall be great friends. I like you. You are a very pretty boy."
And she tried to put her arm round his neck. Mark eluded her embrace.
"Fraeulein," he said, with a dignified air, which made his companion
laugh, "you must remember that I am tutor to their serene Highnesses; I
shall be very glad to be friends with you, and you will tell me
something about the people in the palace."
"Oh!" replied the girl, "there is no one but our own company, but they
are the greatest fun, and better fun here than anywhere else. It is
delightful to see them among these stupid, solemn, heavy Germans, with
their terrible language. I shall love to see you with them, you will
stare your pretty eyes out. There's old Carricchio--that's not his name,
you know, but he is called so because of his part--that is the best of
them, they are always the same--off the stage or on it--always
laughing, always joking, always kicking up their heels. You will see the
faces--such delicious grimaces, old Carricchio will make at you when he
asks you for the salt. But don't be frightened, I'll take care of you.
They are all in love with me, but I like you already better than all of
them. You shall come on yourself sometime, just as you are; you will
make a delightful part."
Mark stared at her with amazement.
"But what are these people?" he said; "what do they do?"
"Oh, you will see," she said, laughing; "how can I tell you. You never
dreamt of such things; you will stare your eyes out. Well, there's the
Prince, and the little Highnesses, and the old _Barotin_, the governess,
and"--here a change came over the girl's face--"and the Princess is
coming soon, I hear, with her '_servente_.'"
"The Princess!" said the boy, "does she ever come?"
"Yes, she comes, sometimes," said his companion. "I wish she didn't. She
is a bad woman. I hate her."
"Why? and what is her '_servente_?'"
"I hate her," said the girl; "her _servente_ is the
Count--_Cavaliere-servente_, you know"--and her face became quite hard
and fierce--"he is the devil himself."
The little schoolmaster's face became quite pale.
"The devil!" he said, staring with his large blue eyes.
"Oh! you foolish boy!" she said, laughing again, "I don't mean that
devil. The Count is a much more real devil than he!"
The boy looked so dreadfully shocked that she grew quite cheerful again.
"What a strange boy you are!" she said, laughing. "Do you think he will
come and take you away? I'll take care of you--come and sit on my lap;"
and, sitting down, she spread out her lap for him with an inviting
gesture.
Mark rejected this attractive offer with disdain, and looked so
unspeakably miserable and ready to cry that his companion took pity upon
him.
"Poor boy," she said, "you shan't be teased any more. Come with me, I
will take you to the _Barotin_, and present you to the little serene
Highnesses. They are nice children--for Highnesses; you will get on well
with them."
Taking the boy's unwilling hand, she led him through several rooms,
lined with old marquetterie cabinets in the Italian fashion, till she
found a page, to whom she delivered Mark, telling him to take him to the
Baroness, into whose presence she herself did not appear anxious to
intrude, that he might be presented to his future pupils.
The page promised to obey, and, giving him a box on the ear to ensure
attention, a familiarity which he took with the most cheerful and
forgiving air, she left the room.
The moment she was gone the page made a rush at Mark, and, seizing him
round the waist, lifted him from the ground and ran with him through two
or three rooms, till he reached a door, where he deposited him upon his
feet. Then throwing open the door, he announced suddenly, "The Herr
Tutor to the serene Highnesses!" and shut Mark into the room.
His breath taken away by this atrocious attack upon his person and
dignity, Mark saw before him a stately, but not unkindly-looking lady
and two beautiful children, a boy and girl, of about eight and nine
years of age. The lady rose, and, looking at Mark with some curiosity,
as well she might, said:
"Your serene Highnesses, this is the tutor whom the Prince, your father,
has provided for you. You will no doubt profit greatly by his
instructions."
The little girl came forward at once, and gave Mark her hand, which, not
knowing what to do with, he held for a moment and then dropped.
"My papa has spoken of you," she said. "He has told me that you are
very good."
"I shall try to be good, Princess," said Mark, who by this time had
recovered his breath.
The little girl seemed very much insulted. She drew herself up and
flushed all over her face.
"You must not say _Princess_ to me," she said, "that is what only the
little Princes say. You must say, 'my most gracious and serene
Highness,' whenever you speak to me."
This was too much. Mark blushed with anger.
"May God forgive me," he said, "if I do anything so foolish. I am here
to teach thee and thy brother, and I will do it in my own way, or not at
all."
The little Princess looked as if she were about to cry, then, apparently
thinking better of it, she said, with a half sob, and dropping the
stately "_you_":
"Well, my papa says that thou art an angel. I suppose thou must do as
thou wilt."
The little boy, meanwhile, had been staring at Mark with solemn eyes. He
said nothing, but he came, finally, to the little schoolmaster and put
his hand in his.
What more might have been said cannot be told, for at this moment the
page appeared again, saying that dinner was served at the third table,
and that the Herr Tutor was to dine there.
The Baroness seemed surprised at this.
"I should have supposed," she said, "that he would have dined with the
Chaplain at the second table."
"No," asserted the page boldly, "the Prince has ordered it."
When alone, the Prince seldom dined ostensibly in public; but often
appeared masqued at the third table, which was that of the actors and
singers. He had given no orders at all about Mark. The arrangement was
entirely of the Signorina's making, who desired that he should dine with
her. It was a bold stroke; and an hour afterwards, when the Court
Chaplain discovered it, measures were taken to prevent its
recurrence--at least for a time.
In whatever way this arrangement came to be made, however, the result
was very advantageous to Mark. In the first place, it was not
formidable. The company took little notice of him. Signor Carricchio
made grotesque faces at others, but not at him. He sat quite safe and
snug by the Signorina, and certainly stared with all his eyes, as she
had said. The long, dark, aquiline features of the men, the mobile play
of humorous farce upon their faces, the constant chatter and sport--what
could the German peasant boy do but stare? His friend taught him how to
hold his knife and fork, and how to eat. The Italians were very nice in
their eating, and the boy picked up more in five minutes from the
Signorina--he was very quick--than he would have done in weeks from the
Chaplain.
He was so scared and frightened, and the girl was so kind to him, that
his boy's heart went out to her.
"What shall I call you, Signorina?" he said, as dinner was over. "You
are so good to me." He had already caught the Italian word.
"My name is Faustina Banti," she said, looking at him with her great
eyes; "but you may call me 'Tina,' if you like. I had a little brother
once who called me that. He died."
"You are so very kind to me, Tina," said the boy, "I am sure you must be
very good."
She looked at him again, smiling.
IV.
THE next morning early Mark was sent for to the Prince. He was shown
into the dressing-room, but the Prince was already dressed. He was
seated in an easy-chair reading a small closely-printed sheet of paper,
upon which the word "Wien" was conspicuous to the boy. The Prince bade
the little schoolmaster be seated on a fauteuil near him, and looked so
kindly that he felt quite at his ease.
"Well! little one," said the Prince, "how findest thou thyself? Hast
thou found any friends yet in this place?"
"The Signorina has been very kind to me, Highness," said the boy.
"Ah!" said the Prince, smiling, "thou hast found that out already. That
is not so bad. I thought you two would be friends. What has the
Signorina told thee?"
"She has told me of the actors who are so clever and so strange. She
says that they are all in love with her."
"That is not unlikely. And what else?"
"She has told me of the Princess and of her servente."
"Indeed!" said the Prince, with the slightest possible appearance of
increased interest; "what does she say of the Princess?"
"She says that she is a bad woman, and that she hates her."
"Ah! the Signorina appears to have formed opinions of her own, and to
be able to express them. What else?"
"She says that the servente is the devil himself! But she does not mean
the real devil. She says that the servente is a much more real devil
than he! Is not that horrible, Highness?"
The Prince looked at Mark for two or three moments, with a kindly but
strange far-reaching look, which struck the boy, though he did not in
the least understand it.
"I did well, little one," he said at last, "when I sent for thee."
There was a pause. The Prince seemed to have forgotten the presence of
the boy, who already was sufficiently of a courtier to hold his tongue.
At last the Prince spoke.
"And the children," he said; "thou hast seen them?"
"Yes," said Mark, with a little shy smile, "I did badly there. I
insulted the gracious Fraeulein by calling her 'Princess,' which she said
only the little Princes should do; and I told her I was come to teach
her and her little brother, and that I should do it in my own way or not
at all."
The Prince looked as though he feared that this unexpected amusement
would be almost too delightful.
"Well, little one," he said, "thou hast begun well. Better than this
none could have done. Only be careful that thou art not spoilt. Care
nothing for what thou hearest here. Continue to hate and fear the devil;
for, whether he be thy own devil or the servente, he is more powerful
than thou. Say nothing but what He whom thou rightly callest God teaches
thee to say. So all will be well. Better teacher than thou my daughter
could not have. I would wish her to be pious, within reason; not like
her aunt, that would not be well. I should wish her to care for the
poor. Nothing is so gracious in noble ladies as to care for the poor.
When they cease to do this they lose tone at once. The French noblesse
have done so. I should like her to visit the poor herself. It will have
the best effect upon her nature; much better," continued the Prince with
a half smile, and seemingly speaking to himself, "much better, I should
imagine, than on the poor themselves. But what will you have?--some one
must suffer, and the final touch cannot be obtained without."
There was another pause. This aspect of the necessary suffering the poor
had to undergo was so new to Mark that he required some time to grasp
it. The visits of noble ladies to his village had not been so frequent
as to cause the malign effects to be deeply felt.
* * * * *
Acting upon this advice so far as he understood it, Mark pursued the
same system of education with the little Highnesses as he had followed
with the village children; that is, he set them to read such things as
he was told they ought to learn, and encouraged them to do so by
promising to relate his histories and tales if they were good.
It is surprising how much the same human nature remains after
generations of different breeding and culture. It is true that these
princely children had heard many tales before, perhaps the very ones the
little schoolmaster now related, yet they delighted in nothing so much
as hearing them again. Much of this pleasure, no doubt, was due to the
intense faith and interest in them shown by Mark himself. He talked to
them also much about God and the unseen world of angels, and of the
wicked one; and, as they believed firmly that he was an angel, they
listened to these things with the more ready belief. Indeed, the
affection which the little boy formed for his child-tutor was unusual.
He was a silent, solemn child; he said nothing, but he attached himself
to Mark with a persistent devotion.
Every one in the palace, indeed, took to the boy: the pages left off
teasing him; the Signorina petted him in a manner sufficient to deprive
her numerous lovers of their reason; the servants waited on him for love
and not for reward; but the strangest thing of all was, that in
proportion as he was kindly treated--just as much as every one seemed to
love him and delight in him--just so much did the boy become miserable
and unhappy. The kinder these people were, the more he felt the abyss
which lay between his soul and theirs; earnestness and solemn faith in
his--sarcasm and lively farce, and, at the most, kindly toleration of
belief, in theirs.
Had they ill-treated or wronged him, he would not have felt it so much;
but kindness and security on their part, seemed to intensify the sense
of doubt and perplexity on his.
It is difficult to realise the effect which sarcasm and irony have upon
such natures as his. They look upon life with such a single eye. It is
so beautiful and solemn to them. Truth is so true; they are so much in
earnest that they cannot understand the complex feeling that finds
relief in sarcasm and allegory, that tolerates the frivolous and the
vain, as an ironic reading of the lesson of life.
The actors were particularly kind to him, though their grotesque
attempts to amuse him mostly added to his misery. They were extremely
anxious that he should appear upon the stage, and indeed the boy's
beauty and simplicity would have made an excellent foil.
"Herr Tutor," said old Carricchio the arlecchino to him one day, with
mock gravity, "we are about to perform a comedy--what is called a
masqued comedy, not because we wear masques, for we don't, but because
of our dresses. It consists of music, dancing, love-making, joking, and
buffoonery; you will see what a trifle it is all about. The scene is in
the garden of a country-house--during what in Italy we call the
Villeggiatura, that is the month we spend in the country during the
vintage. A lady's fan is found by an ill-natured person in a curious
place; all the rest agree not to see the fan, not to acknowledge that it
is a fan. It is all left to us at the moment, all except the songs and
the music, and you know how delightful those are. If you would take a
part, and keep your own character throughout, it would be magnificent;
but we will wait, if you once see it you will wish to act."
No one, indeed, was kinder to Mark, or seemed more to delight in his
society than the old arlecchino, and the two made a most curious sight,
seated together on one of the terraces on a sunny afternoon. Nothing
could be more diverse in appearance than this strangely assorted pair.
Carricchio was tall, with long limbs, and large aquiline features. He
wore a set smile upon his large expressive mouth, which seemed born of
no sense of enjoyment, but of an infinite insight, and of a mocking
friendliness. He seldom wore anything but the dress of his part; but he
wrapped himself mostly in a long cloak, lined with fur, for even the
northern sunshine seemed chilly to the old clown. Wrapped in this
ancient garment, he would sit beside Mark, listening to the boy's
stories with his deep unfathomed smile; and as he went on with his
histories, the boy used to look into his companion's face, wondering at
the slow smile, and at the deep wrinkles of the worn visage, till at
length, fascinated at the sight, he forgot his stories, and looking into
the old man's face appeared to Mark, though the comparison seems
preposterous, like gazing at the fated story of the mystic tracings of
the star-lit skies.
Why the old man listened so patiently to these childish stories no one
could tell; perhaps he did not hear them. He himself said that the
presence of Mark had the effect of music upon his jaded and worn sense.
But, indeed, there was beneath Carricchio's mechanical buffoonery and
farce a sober and pathetic humour, which was almost unconscious, and
which was now, probably owing to advancing years, first becoming known
either to himself or others.
"The Maestro has been talking to me this morning," he said one day. "He
says that life is a wretched masque, a miserable apology for existence
by the side of art; what do you say to that?"
"I do not know what it means," said Mark; "I neither know life nor art,
how can I tell?"
"That is true, but you know more than you think. The Maestro means that
life is imperfect, struggling, a failure, ugly most often; art is
perfect, complete, beautiful, and full of force and power. But I tell
him that some failure is better than success; sometimes ugliness is a
finer thing than beauty; and that the best art is that which only
reproduces life. If life were fashioned after the most perfect art you
would never be able to cry, nor to make me cry, as you do over your
beautiful tales."
Mark tried to understand this, but failed, and was therefore silent.
Indeed it is not certain whether Carricchio himself understood what he
was saying.
He seemed to have some suspicion of this, for he did not go on talking,
but was silent for some time. These silences were common between the
two.
At last he said:
"I think where the Maestro is wrong is in making the two quarrel. They
cannot quarrel. There is no art without life, and no life without art.
Look at a puppet-play--the fantoccini--it means life and it means art."
"I never saw a puppet-play," said Mark.
"Well, you have seen us," said Carricchio; "we are much the same. We
move ourselves--they are moved by wires; but we do just the same
things--we are life and we are art, in the burletta we are both. I often
think which is which--which is the imposture and which is the masque.
Then I think that somewhere there must be a higher art that surpasses
the realism of life--a divine art which is not life but fashions life.
"When I look at you, little one," Carricchio went on, "I feel almost as
I do when the violins break in upon the jar and fret of the wittiest
dialogue. Jest and lively fancy--these are the sweets of life, no
doubt--and humorous thought and speech and gesture--but they are not
this divine art, they are not rest. They shrivel and wither the brain.
The whole being is parched, the heart is dry in this sultry, piercing
light. But when the stringed melodies steal in, and when the rippling,
surging arpeggios and crescendos sweep in upon the sense, and the
stilled cadences that lull and soothe--then, indeed, it is like moisture
and the gracious dew. It is like sleep; the strained nerves relax; the
overwrought frame, which is like dry garden mould, is softened, and the
flowers spring up again."
Carricchio paused; but as Mark said nothing, he went on again.
"The other life is gay, lively, bright, full of excitement and
interest, of tender pity even, and of love--but this is rest and peace.
The other is human life, but what is this? Art? Ah! but a divine art.
Here is no struggle, no selfish desire, no striving, no conflict of love
or of hate. It is like silence, the most unselfish thing there is. I
have, indeed, sometimes thought that music must be the silence of
heaven."
"The silence of heaven!" said Mark, with open eyes. "The silence of
heaven! What, then, are its words?"
"Ah! that," said the old clown, smiling, but with a sad slowness in his
speech, "is beyond me to tell. I can hear its silence, but not its
voice."
V.
THE private theatre in the palace was a room of very moderate size, for
the audience was necessarily very small; in fact, the stage was larger
than the auditorium. The play took place in the afternoon, and there was
no artificial light; many of the operatic performances in Italy, indeed,
took place in the open air.
Yet, though the time of day and the natural light deprived the theatre
of much of the strangeness and glamour with which it is usually
associated, and which so much impress a youth who sees it for the first
time, the effect of the first performance upon Mark was very remarkable.
He was seated immediately behind the Prince. Far from being delighted
with the play, he was overpowered as it went on by an intense melancholy
horror. When the violins, the flutes, and the fifes began the overture,
a new sense seemed given to him, which was not pleasure but the
intensest dread. If the singing of the Signorina had been a shock to
him, accustomed as he was only to the solemn singing of his childhood,
what must this elfish, weird, melodious music have seemed, full of gay
and careless life, and of artless unconscious airs which yet were
miracles of art? He sat, terrified at these delicious sounds, as though
this world of music without thought or conscience were a wicked thing.
The shrill notes of the fifes, the long tremulous vibration of the
strings, seemed to draw his heart after them. Wherever this wizard call
might lead him it seemed he would have to follow the alluring chords.
But when the acting began his terror became more intense. The grotesque
figures seemed to him those of devils, or at the best of fantastic imps
or gnomes. He could understand nothing of the dialogue, but the
gestures, the laughter, the wild singing, were shocking to him. When the
Signorina appeared, the strange intensity of her colour, the brilliancy
of her eyes, and what seemed to him the freedom of her gestures and the
boldness of her bewitching glances, far from delighting, as they seemed
to do all the others, made him ready to weep with shame and grief. He
sank back in his seat to avoid the notice of the Prince, who, indeed,
was too much absorbed in the music and the acting to remember him.
The beauty of the music only added to his despair; had it been less
lovely, had the acting not forced now and then a glance of admiring
wonder or struck a note of high-toned touching pathos even, it would not
all have seemed so much the work of evil. When the comedy was over he
crept silently away to his room; and in the excitement of congratulation
and praise, as actors and audience mingled together, and the Signorina
was receiving the commendations of the Prince, he was not missed.
He could not stay in this place--that at least was clear to him. He must
escape. He must return to nature, to the woods and birds, to children
and to children's sports. These gibing grimaces, these endless bowings
and scrapings and false compliments, known of all to be false, would
choke him if he stayed. He must escape from the house of frivolity into
the soft, gracious outer air of sincerity and truth.
He cried himself to sleep: all through the night, amid fitful slumber,
the crowd of masques jostled and mocked at him; the weird strains of
unknown instruments reached his half-conscious bewildered sense. Early
in the morning he awoke. There had been rain in the night, and the
smiling morning beckoned him out.
He stole down some back stairs, and found a door which opened on gardens
and walks at the back of the palace. This he managed to open, and went
out.
The path on which the door opened led him through rows of fruit-trees
and young plantations. A little forest of delicate boughs and young
leaves lifted itself up against the blue sky, and a myriad drops
sparkled in the morning sun. The fresh cool air, the blue sky, the
singing of the birds, restored Mark to himself. He seemed to see again
the possibility of escape from evil, and the hope of righteousness and
peace. His whole spirit went out in prayer and love to the Almighty, who
had made these lovely things. He felt as he had been wont to do when, on
a fine Sunday, he had walked home with his children in order, relating
to them the most beautiful tales of God. He wandered slowly down the
narrow paths. The fresh-turned earth between the rows of saplings, the
beds of herbs, the moist grass, gave forth a scent at once delicate and
searching. The boy's cheerfulness began to return. The past seemed to
fade. He almost thought himself the little schoolmaster again.
After wandering for some time through this delicious land of perfume, of
light, and sweet sound, he came to a very long but narrow avenue of old
elm trees that led down a gradual slope, as it seemed, into the heart of
the forest. Beneath the avenue a well-kept path seemed to point with a
guiding hand.
He followed the path for some distance, and had just perceived what
seemed to be an old manor-house, standing in a courtyard at the farther
end, when he was conscious of a figure advancing along the path to meet
him: as it approached he saw that it was that of a lady of tall and
commanding appearance, and apparently of great beauty; she wore the
dress of some sisterhood. When he was near enough to see her face he
found that it was indeed beautiful, with an expression of the purest
sincerity and benevolence. The lady stopped and spoke to Mark at once.
"You must be the new tutor to their Highnesses," she said; "I have heard
of you."
Mark said that he was.
"You do not look well," said the lady, very kindly; "are you happy at
the palace?"
"Are you the Princess Isoline?" said Mark, not answering the question;
"I think you must be, you are so beautiful."
"I am the Princess Isoline," said the lady; "walk a little way with me."
Mark turned with the lady and walked back towards the palace. After a
moment or two he said: "I am not happy at Joyeuse, I am very miserable,
I want to run away."
"What makes you so unhappy? Are they not kind to you? The Prince is very
kind, and the children are good children--I have always thought."
"They are all very kind, too kind to me," said the boy. "I cannot make
you understand why I am so miserable, I cannot tell myself--the Prince
is worse than all----"
"Why is the Prince the worst of all?" said the lady, in a very gentle
voice.
"All the rest I know are wrong," replied the boy, passionately--"the
actors, the Signorina, the pages, and all; but when the Prince looks at
me with his quiet smile--when the look comes into his eyes as though he
could see through time even into eternity--when he looks at me in his
kindly, pitying way--I begin to doubt. Oh, Highness, it is terrible to
doubt! Do you think that the Prince is right?"
The Princess was silent for a moment or two; it was not that she did not
understand the boy, for she understood him very well.
"No, I think you are right and not the Prince," she said at length, in
her quiet voice.
There was a pause: neither seemed to know what to say next. They had
now nearly reached the end of the avenue next the palace; the Princess
stopped.
"Come back with me," she said, "I will show you my house."
They walked slowly along the narrow pathway towards the old house at the
farther end. The Princess was evidently considering what to say.
"Why do you know that they are all wrong?" she said at last.
"Highness," said the boy after a pause, "I have never lived amongst, or
seen anything, since I was born, but what was natural and real--the
forest, the fruit-trees in blossom, the gardens, and the flowers. I have
never heard anything except of God--of the wretchedness of sin--of
beautiful stories of good people. My grandfather, when he was alive,
used to talk to me, as I sat with him at his charcoal-burning in the
forest, of my forefathers who were all honest and pious people. There
are not many Princes who can say that."
The Princess did not seem to notice this last uncourtly speech.