least to encounter, and he wondered how he could be sensible to it, even
under the influence of music, so soon after breaking from an
entanglement which the lady had taken with a seriousness
incomprehensible to himself. He was in a mood which impelled him to
close the eyes of the lover in him forever, and his real interest in
Margarethe Styr began when the Princess Nachmeister told him that she
was a woman of intellect and hated his sex. He by no means hated hers,
but his mind was lonely, and his ego sought blindly for that
companionship which all souls claim as their right, and generally go
forth to other worlds still seeking.
The voice of the King ceased. Kundry burst forth again. The wild grief,
the remorse of her awakened soul at her abandonment of Christ, then her
passionate supplication for the joys and compensations of mortal love,
hardly removed the impression, nor her promise to make the obstinate
youth a god in her embrace. But when she hurled forth her curses, Ordham
breathed more freely, although the furies of hell seemed to echo among
the hills.
There was a brief pause. Then with a wild and startling transition:—
“Ho-yo-to-ho! Ho-yo-to-ho!
Hi-ya-ha! Hi-ya-ha!
Ho-yo-to-ho! Ho-yo-to-ho!”
Brünhilde’s jubilant cry sprang from peak to peak; then this strange
woman’s vocal interpretation of the gulf that separated Wotan’s daughter
from her sisters even before the War-father bereft her of her godhead;
the gathering clouds of her approaching humanity; the eternal tragedy of
woman’s sacrifice to man.
Styr passed from opera to songs, all, no doubt, selected by the King.
Some were sonorous with deep religious feeling, others a long-sustained
chaunt of sadness and despair; one alone was insolent with triumph and
power. It seemed to Ordham that he was swept upward to the stars, those
golden voices of dead singers once as great as this virile creature
below him. His body was cold, his pulses were still, his brain was on
fire. He had a vision of himself and this woman swirling together on a
tide of song through the infinite paths of the Milky Way—invisible
to-night under the violent light of the moon—then—up—up—through the
gates of heaven—
But he was by character and training too cool and self-controlled to
remain in a condition of mental intoxication for any length of time. He
had glanced at the programme handed to him at the conclusion of dinner
and knew that the songs were to end the night’s performance.
Ordham, constitutionally shy, albeit with the audacity which so often
accompanies that weakness, possessed also what Napoleon called two
o’clock in the morning courage. He had felt sure that were he suddenly
to be introduced to the mysterious Styr he should turn cold to his
marrow and long to bolt. But to meet her formally might prove
impossible. To-night was his opportunity. He made up his mind that he
would talk to her did she invoke the vengeance of the gods.
He hastily made his way out of the castle by the main entrance, ran down
the slope of the great rock, skirted its base, and ascended through the
forest to the bridge. He believed that the King would retire as soon as
the concert was over, and that the singer would remain for a few moments
to enjoy the extraordinary beauty of the night.
And so it happened. Styr, her engagement finished, but still exalted
with the intoxication of song, after one long look about her, leaned
both hands on the railing of the bridge and stared down into the wild
depths below. The grip of the bridge on the rocks was none too secure; a
landslip, such as occurred daily in the Alps, and she would lie
shattered below. But she enjoyed the hint of danger and might have stood
motionless for an hour, warm as she was in her white woollen draperies,
had not a footstep made her move her shoulders impatiently. She supposed
it to be a lackey with a superfluous wrap, and did not move again until
aware that some one stood beside her on the bridge. Then she turned with
a start and faced Ordham. She knew at once who he must be; Princess
Nachmeister often talked of her favourite, and had told her that he was
a guest at the castle to-night. His audacity in approaching her and in
such circumstances took away her breath. But only for an instant. She
drew herself up with a majesty few queens have had sufficient practice
to attain. Her height nearly matched his—not quite; he thanked his
stars that she was compelled to look up at him; and she did look the
cold astonishment her lips would not frame.
“I could not think of letting you return to the castle alone, Countess
Tann,” said Ordham, gently, “even if those lackeys were not too stupid
to think of coming for you. I am sure this forest is full of peasants;
they must have known of the concert. They may be harmless, but as the
King’s only guest of his own sex, and as he is unable to look after you
himself—I am sure you will forgive me. How could I remain quiet in the
castle while you found your way back alone? I should be a barbarian.”
There was no trace of emotion or even of admiration in his face, merely
the natural courtesy of a gentleman, perhaps a touch of boyish
knightliness. And certainly he was a mere boy, Margarethe Styr
reflected. In that white downpour, that has rejuvenated many a battered
visage, he looked—she groped for the word—virginal. And his steady
gaze had never wavered before the haughty inquiry of hers. This young
man might or might not be as innocent as he looked, but his perfect
breeding, which she instantly divined to be an integral part of him,
appealed to the woman who had so often found polished manners a brittle
veneer. Moreover, she was as amused at his ruse, which had not deceived
her for a moment, as she felt herself compelled to admire his strategic
cleverness. Then she abruptly asked herself the question that perhaps
the immortal goddesses asked in their day, “Why not?” and bent her head
pleasantly.
“Thank you,” she said. “Of course you are Mr. Ordham. Thank you many
times for thinking of me. Shall we walk a little? I should not stand too
long after singing.”
He was so taken aback by the swiftness of his triumph that diffidence
overwhelmed him, and he stammered: “You are sure you would not like
another wrap? I can fetch one in a moment.”
“I am very warmly clad. Do not bother.” She did not notice his relapse
and asked him idly if he had enjoyed her singing.
“Oh—enjoy! Please do not tempt me into banalities. It was much too
wonderful to talk about. I should like to talk to you—about a hundred
other things. I know your voice—I have never missed one of your nights
since I came to Munich. But I do not know you at all. This is the
blessed opportunity.”
He had had time to recover himself, and he watched her intently. Her
eyes, which had hung before his mental vision like two tragic suns,
flashed with amusement.
“Do you know that I have lived in Munich for six years and not had five
minutes’ conversation with any man alone, except on business relating to
the Hof? Much less have I ‘known’ any one.”
“But you can’t go on forever like that. If you weren’t fundamentally
human, you could not be a great artist; and if you are human, you must
crave some sort of companionship. Are you never quite horribly lonely?”
“There is so much in life that is worse than loneliness.” Her voice
sounded as dry as dust. “Moreover, it is an excellent rampart. But I am
not lonely. I work constantly. Why do you set such a high value on human
companionship?”
“I don’t think I do. I am often glad enough to get away from people. And
I fancy I read a good deal more than I talk—and I am not sure that I
don’t like the theatre quite as well as society. But, after all—there
are certain wants—”
“We outlive so many of them!”
“Do we—permanently, I mean? I feel that sooner or later you would have
flung down your barriers. It is mere chance that makes me the blessed
first.”
“I wonder?”
“Whether it is chance or destiny?” He smiled as if at the audacity of
his own words.
“Not at all. There is no such thing as chance, or any destiny but that
which you make for yourself—that is, after you are old enough to know
what you are about. I wondered if the human needs were stronger than the
brain.”
“I was thinking of mental needs when I spoke. Nothing is more human than
the brain. One can get on without love, after one has had a dose or two
of it, but not without striking fire from another brain now and again.
From one brain in particular, I should say.”
“That is a curious speech for so young a man to make.”
“Perhaps I should not make it if I were ten years older. For the matter
of that, do years count? We come into the world encased in traditions
and are only happy when we have shed the last of them.”
She liked the way he walked beside her, seeming to protect her down the
steep path without touching her. He carried himself with a quiet
unconscious dignity, refreshing after the military strut of which she
was artistically weary; and as he looked down at her with his kind smile
and calm almost studious gaze, he attracted her more than any man had
done for half his years. She also felt a curious mental excitement, a
desire to talk very fast, which she attributed to the uncommon
circumstances, but which she realized before long was the stimulating
influence of that rarest of mortal contacts, a sympathetic brain. In
days gone by she had found it easy to love, but she remembered few men
she had cared to talk to. At the moment she shot up an inquisitive
glance. Might he not be older than she had fancied? Nineteen he had
looked on the bridge. Possibly he was nearer thirty. But she recalled
that Princess Nachmeister had mentioned his age. Young men—with one
tragic exception—had never interested her. But she was quick to read
the human countenance; and she observed that if his eyes recorded
nothing beyond the mood of the moment, the line from ear to chin, under
the fine smooth English skin, was uncommonly long. It might indicate
future character and present obstinacy; although there were no strong
lines yet in the boyish sensuous mouth, soft and pouting in spite of its
fine modelling. And although he had demonstrated that he could seize and
hold a fort, there was no hint of obstinacy in his manner, which was
very gentle and diffident. For the first time in her life she
experienced a sensation of gratitude toward a member of the man sex, a
sensation made up of many parts, and rising from dark corners of memory.
It impelled her to say:
“Let us sit down. It is quite warm here in the forest.”
“You are sure you will not take a cold? I will give you my coat to sit
on.”
“You will do nothing of the sort. Fortunately, these classic costumes
commanded by the King are made of wool. Besides, I always dress warmly
to sing in that _Festsaal_. It is colder there than out of doors.”
“Nevertheless, you were very angry when you began to sing.”
“Did you detect that? I hope the King did.”
Ordham, who had stretched himself at her feet—she had seated herself on
a bench—looked steadily at her while they talked, wondering if she were
beautiful or not, or if it mattered. Her head in poise and form was
classic, her face oval, and her rather long nose thin and sensitive. But
her eyes—those eyes that looked immense on the stage—were small,
deeply set, dark, impenetrable, sullen, like the lower part of her face.
Occasionally they lit up with amusement, and hinted of temper and other
uncomfortable attributes; nor was there any suggestion of tenderness in
the close mouth and strong jaw. In the second act of _Tristan und
Isolde_ she expressed every soft enchantment of womanhood, and Ordham
for the first time fully realized what a great artist she was, for he
could see no indication that any traces remained of those impulses that
drive the race blindfolded, in this sullen almost angry shell. She
looked like a fallen goddess, whom mortal passions had consumed, leaving
but a vast regret for her lost godhead. No wonder she could play
Brynhildr! There was nothing else in that imposing casket but brain, and
although he could imagine the tigerish beauty of her youth, she
fascinated him far more as she was. The world was full of soft
passionate women—he hated the thought of them—and his mind, almost
full-blown, imperiously demanded this particular brain as its mate. But
he made no effort to lead the conversation into unusual channels. In
conversation, for that matter, he was not skilful, and depended upon the
inspiration of the moment.
Princess Nachmeister had said that a woman might be known by her lovers,
but he judged people largely by what they read, and he asked Margarethe
Styr if she took in all the reviews.
“Not one. To me this high plateau is the world. I do not know who is the
President of the United States, or the Prime Minister of England.”
“Does your art really fill your life?”
“Almost. And I read a great deal, although no reviews, newspapers, and
few novels.”
“And is this to go on forever? How do you define the word ‘life’?”
“All that I most wish to forget.”
“Then if you had not this wonderful voice, you would not live at all,”
he adventured.
Her eyes gleamed, and for the moment she seemed about to turn the remark
aside. But she looked at him unflinchingly, and finally answered, “No.”
“Then art does suffice. It is very interesting to learn that.”
“It once saved me from death—when I was almost dead. Every one else had
succumbed. It was the knowledge of that golden wonder in my throat and
the memory of the ecstasy in pouring it forth that kept the breath in my
body.”
“Tell me about it!” He sat up eagerly.
She shook her head. “I never think of it. I cannot imagine what has
brought it to my mind to-night.” She bent her head and looked at him
keenly. “Yes, there is a slight resemblance,” she added thoughtfully.
“You are unfair. I am mad with curiosity. Tell me. Tell me.”
She asked him abruptly: “Do you find that I have a German accent? It is
seven years and more since I have spoken with any one of my own tongue,
and I am curious to know.”
“It is a colour rather than an accent—that is to say—I always express
myself very badly—as if you had dyed your native American with brown
and crimson, and at the same time rounded off the thin edges. But I
should not take you for a German. Is that what you wish?”
“Not in the least.”
“But Princess Nachmeister intimated that Munich was the passion of your
life, or something of that sort.”
“Well, it is one of them, certainly; and for a while I was so grateful
to Germany, so enchanted with my new life, that I deliberately tried to
make myself over into a German, put myself into the rôle, as one does on
the stage. I succeeded for a time, but all that is past. Once an
American always an American, I fancy. And the longer I live in Europe
the more American I become. Don’t ask me to define this. It is merely an
instinct—perhaps a jealousy of birthright. I may never return to the
United States. I know nothing of her affairs. But—well, my essence was
compounded in that great country. She could put Germany into her pocket
and not hear it rattle. It may be that—the physical vastness of the
country—that holds me. I am only thinking out loud—I have never
attempted to analyze why I finally admitted that Europe could inspire me
with everything but a new patriotism, but I have a fancy that it is only
snobs that become thoroughly Europeanized. Titles are a form of
intoxication to republicans as well as to the bourgeoisie of monarchical
countries. But after all, they work less harm than absinthe and cognac,
so why be too severe? If one must have human weaknesses, let us be
content merely with making fools of ourselves and save our livers and
our nerves.”
Ordham laughed. “I was sure you were a monster of charity! But I hardly
understand your loyalty to the United States. If your blood is
Hungarian, what matters your birthplace? No Englishman feels a sentiment
for the American flag because he happens to have been born under it.”
“Who told you I was of Hungarian parentage?”
“Everybody.”
“My mother was a Hungarian—emigrant. I have caused that story to be
circulated about Munich, for I was tired of their nonsense. If you have
any curiosity on the subject—I have not the vaguest idea who my father
was. My mother, I have reason to believe, was of aristocratic blood on
her father’s side, but she was a natural child, of course, and a
vagrant.”
“Are you trying to disenchant me?” Ordham felt a little angry; he was,
in truth, too much of a Briton and a born diplomatist to relish such
plain speech.
“Perhaps. But, to be quite honest, not entirely that. It is rather a
relief to fling the bare facts into somebody’s teeth. When you have been
shut up within yourself for many years, it suddenly becomes necessary to
lift the lid and let the steam escape. Of course I cannot give all the
facts to the public. It would not be fair to the King, in the first
place. Moreover, when I set foot on German soil and assumed the name of
Margarethe Styr, it was with the firm intention of beginning life over
again. I had no scruple about holding my tongue on many subjects. I
brought to the Germans the equivalent of all they could give to me. We
are quits. I experience a kind of defiance now and again, a desire to
assert my complete liberty and independence by proclaiming the truth
from the housetops. But of course I do nothing of the sort.”
She did not ask him to keep her counsel, and he volunteered no promise,
two facts that must have struck them as significant had either been in
the analytical temper. But Ordham was wondering if she would ever tell
him the whole story; and she, if the excited stir of her mind were due
to the unwonted occurrence of talking to a young man alone in a forest
at night, after eight years of almost complete disassociation from his
sex; or if it were merely the usual nervous aftermath of song. But she
had no time to define her sensations at the moment. There was a rapid
step in the forest. Out of the shadows emerged the King’s personal
footman, Meyr, who announced that his Majesty’s coach was in the
courtyard, ready for the customary midnight drive, and that his Majesty
requested the pleasure of the company of the Gräfin Tann and Herr
Ordham.
“I won’t go,” said Ordham, in English. “I wish to stay here and talk to
you. Please don’t get up.”
“Not even for the pleasure of talking to you would I risk being
dismissed out of Bavaria to-morrow. This is the sovereign that takes no
excuse. And why should I deny him? Has he not made me what I am? And do
you realize that a great honour is being conferred upon you?—upon us
both? So far as I know, he has never invited any one to drive with him
at night before.”
“I will go for the sake of remaining with you, and only hope it may
prove half as interesting as our talk would have been.”
He walked beside her down the hill, grumbling all the way. In the upper
courtyard was a large open coach, bountifully gilded, to which six white
horses were harnessed. On two were postilions; an outrider carried an
unlighted torch. A footman was on the box beside the coachman, but there
was none behind. Ordham’s eyes sparkled as he put on without further
protest the overcoat and hat with which his apologetic servant awaited
him; and had they been less under control, would have danced a moment
later when the King’s valet came hastily from the castle with the
announcement, which surprised no one but the English stranger, that his
Majesty found himself too indisposed to go out that night, and begged
that his guests would use the carriage at their pleasure. Countess Tann,
whose maid had muffled her in a white hood and cloak, half turned from
the coach, but she suddenly found herself handed in and Ordham seated
beside her.
“This is quite wonderful!” he cried, as the horses seemed to make a
flying leap over the drawbridge. “And I thought this visit was to be a
failure. Blessed be the fates!”
And in spite of all that followed he never recalled that pæan.
V
ORDHAM AND THE STYR
The six horses seemed to take another leap through the air as they left
the lower courtyard, and Ordham expected to land on the tree-tops below.
But those horses, that had the motion of winged things, flew unerringly
along the lower road, through the dark forest, down the mountain side to
Füssen. In this loyal village every window, suddenly lighted, was flung
open, heads of old and young appeared, and delighted cries of “_Heil
unserem König, Heil!_” rang after the undetected occupants of the coach
when they were once more in the forest. Up hill and down hill flew the
horses, out of the forest again, toward snow peaks that seemed to be
flying about in distraction, sometimes rushing to meet these mad riders
of the night. The coachman and footman kept their seats as if a part of
the bounding vehicle. But Ordham and his companion were so tossed about
that he soon gathered up the cushions and packed them round her, then
leaning his weight on those between them, braced his feet on the
opposite seat. He made no attempt to hold her in place as another man
might have done, he did not even touch her; and Margarethe Styr, who had
been accustomed to men that took every possible advantage of a woman’s
helplessness, gave him a place in her regard that she never permanently
revoked.
But nothing was farther from his mind than the wish to touch her. She
was a woman alone with him under somewhat hazardous circumstances, and
he protected her instinctively and made her as comfortable as possible.
Although he would have risen to the occasion as a matter of course, he
was grateful that he was not with a woman who would expect to be made
love to, but with this strange and delightful creature, who, exhilarated
by the terrific speed and the danger, could enjoy herself in precisely
his own fashion. He did not even ask her if she were frightened,
although once, as they tore through a narrow gorge with the roar of
waters far below, he leaned over the side of the carriage, holding the
cushions firmly against her with his left hand, then, as he resumed his
former position, remarked:
“Three hundred feet, I should think, and perhaps three inches between
the wheels and the edge.”
She laughed, and he turned his eyes quickly to her white face, in which
the dark eyes were more widely opened and eager than usual.
“You enjoy the idea of possibly being dashed to pieces on those
rocks—getting out of it all.”
Her eyes met his in a cold flash. “Do you realize what you have said?”
“That you are the bravest woman I ever saw, but with no love of life.
Could you be the greatest actress in the world otherwise?”
“I wonder if you really know what you are saying? But you are young—so
very young.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Well—perhaps—what?”
“Nothing, really. I have seen you look very old and very young, and
every shade between. When you get that helmet on your head in _Die
Walküre_, you look sixteen, much too young for the part. Just now you
look like a fate. A woman who calls out of their graves other women that
have been dead for centuries and gives them life again for four or five
hours,—Wagner’s operas are much too long,—who makes them live so
intensely that their very dust must feel the current,—why, of course,
you have no age. Margarethe Styr disappears, ceases to exist. When she
returns to her tenement, it must be with the sensation of being born
again. For myself—well, perhaps I am forty masquerading as a boy.”
“I know exactly how old you are,” she said maliciously. “And you could
not grow a mustache to save your life.”
“Nothing would induce me to!” And then they both laughed, although he
blushed very red, for he was sensitive on the subject of his age and
wished that Peerages had never been invented.
Styr put her hands to her face and gave a faint scream. A column of fire
had shot up in the path just ahead of the horses.
“The moon has gone under a cloud and the outrider has lit the torch,”
Ordham reassured her.