INTERLACING DESTINIES.
Nigel looked ruefully at the duck.
"Stay and eat it, comrade!" said the lieutenant.
"I must leave it! One does not keep Waldstein waiting! I bequeath it to
you. See that you give a good account of it."
"That I can promise you!" said the still hungry lieutenant. "At dawn,
you said?"
"At dawn! And give a good look at the horses before you turn in!"
Then casting his cloak about him Nigel went out into the deepening
twilight.
* * * * *
Nigel Charteris had once, and only once, spoken to Wallenstein face to
face. For although Nigel served as a subaltern all through the great
campaign, the large armies commanded by the great general operated over
tracts of country often miles apart, and months elapsed between one
glimpse of him and the next. Little by little, as the great game of war
had come to mean something to Nigel's mind, for at the first it had
seemed but a sadly confused business, it came to him that Albrecht von
Waldstein was a great player. Since his experience with Count Tilly,
Nigel had been able to agree that he also was no mean antagonist, but
not the equal of Wallenstein. In that curious welter of the Thirty
Years' War it wanted but little shaking of the dice-box for Tilly and
Wallenstein to have been pitted against one another. As the dice fell,
they never were so pitted, and by consequence what then might have
happened is left to those skilful in conjecture, and not for us the
chroniclers of what did happen.
Nigel, ushered by one servant to another, and finally by some great one
to the presence of the great man, felt the awe that one does in meeting
the supremely great in one's own profession; but as to his being a Count
of the Holy Roman Empire, which the Emperor had made him, a Duke of
Friedland, which by comparison was a mere proclamation of landed
nobility, Nigel Charteris of Pencaitland in the Lothians cared little.
The man was gentle by birth as he himself was. Whether he was a degree
higher or lower was naught to a gentle Scot, for the Scot yields to no
man in the pride of race.
The house was a great house, rather deep than wide, with gardens full of
trees behind. At some time it had belonged to the King of Bohemia, but
had been bestowed on one of the great nobles, and in the general
disturbance of things ensuing upon the Winter King's invasion of
Bohemia, Albrecht von Waldstein had bought it for a small part of its
value. It was not the only instance of that faculty the exercise of
which by the Jews has gained them the contemptuous names of brokers and
Lombarders. In other words, Wallenstein became rich, had become rich,
not because he was a great and successful general, but because the same
talents which enabled him to plan and organise his armies, enabled him
also to plan his own fortunes in matters of estate.
Wallenstein received Nigel in a spacious chamber, which had been an
audience-chamber in older days. It was panelled with wood all round the
walls, and the flat ceiling was also of wood, but painted with the
royal arms of Bohemia and those of the chief vassals, much of them faded
and blackened. There was a great open fireplace with a goodly fire of
logs blazing in it, and at a convenient distance from it was a small
table, curiously carved as to the legs, a couple of flagons of wine, and
two tall goblets of fine glass curiously wrought.
In a great chair sat Wallenstein, and at the door by which Nigel entered
stood two serving-men.
Nigel saluted his old commander-in-chief. Wallenstein nodded, and bade a
servant bring a chair.
"You were with me in the late wars?" was his question, not in the abrupt
military fashion, though there were no more words, but in a tone which
bespoke a certain graciousness and a certain distance.
"I was, your Grace--lieutenant, then captain of musketeers!"
"And are now with Count Tilly? You were at Magdeburg?"
"Yes! I am now riding with despatches to the Emperor!"
This was the second time he had implied that he had the despatches to
deliver, knowing in fact that he had none. He had lied boldly to Gordon,
the commandant who should have been a shopkeeper, and thought nothing of
it. Besides, Gordon was a Protestant. He did not like lying even by
implication to Wallenstein, but he had the wish not to give the great
commander an ill opinion of his capacity.
"It is well!" said Wallenstein. "I do not ask you to show them to me.
But I should like to know something of Count Tilly's dispositions. I am
out of harness. I am enriched and decorated with titles, and put aside.
The Jesuits would like to use me as a flail to beat the Protestants, but
they do not want the flail for itself, or to beat them. The flail is a
passably good flail, and will not wear out yet. How many men has Count
Tilly?"
"Twenty thousand foot; two thousand horse!" said Nigel promptly.
"And artillery?"
"Fifty pieces of all kinds!"
"And powder and ball and matches?"
"Sufficient store!"
"Ah!" said Wallenstein. "If Saxony and Brandenburg together make up
their minds they can find work for Count Tilly. And then there is
Gustavus! Who is to oppose him, and with what? Where do they say
Gustavus is?"
"In Pomerania, your Grace!"
"So I have heard, and is negotiating a treaty with France! If the
Protestants but knew it, they could beset Tilly and ruin the Emperor."
"But you forget the Elector Maximilian?"
"He is forgettable! He is a Jesuit, who should have been a priest, but
was unhappily born a prince. He has an arm, and that arm is Pappenheim.
With men enough Pappenheim could face Gustavus. But Pappenheim is with
Tilly. An army can have but one head."
"When the Emperor's advisers grow frightened they will send again for
your Grace!" said Nigel.
"They must pay dearly!" was Wallenstein's grim remark, with a curl of
his thick lower lip. Then he asked abruptly, in a tone which suggested
an amused contempt for such toys, "Do you believe in the stars?"
Had Nigel been sitting over a flagon with Hildebrand von Hohendorf
instead of with Albrecht von Waldstein he would have laughed out a "No."
But two experiences, the sudden apparition of Ottilie outside Hradschin,
a possible delusion of the sense of sight, and the disappearance of his
despatches from beneath his head in defiance of sentries and all his
senses, which was no delusion, had shaken his hitherto light esteem for
witchcraft, star-gazing, horoscopes, alchemy, and all the other
ingenious paltering with past and future. It had been whispered too
among the armies that Wallenstein had commanded that he, like many other
great ones of the time, devout Catholics all, consulted necromancers,
and this came to Nigel's mind. He made a cautious reply.
"I have never had my horoscope cast. Nor do I know anything of the
science of the stars. It is an old belief that the stars affect the
destinies of the great ones of the earth, and it would be a presumption
in me, who am nobody but a poor Scots gentleman, to treat it lightly."
"Destiny? What is it?" Wallenstein asked. "Man makes his own path out of
the best materials to his hand or lets others buffet him into
nothingness. There is no third way. But every man who carves his own
pathway would fain learn by what implements he can arrive at the summit,
so that he may use them at the earliest."
"And suppose," said the other, "the end be a cannon-ball that cuts one
in two, what better is a man for knowing it two years before?"
"In truth," and into the eyes of Wallenstein came a strange look, "I
know not, but there is always the grim feeling that one may stumble upon
a most exact presage of fatality. It draws one on."
"Then you have made some experiments, your Grace?"
"One must do something when one has too much leisure. There is a learned
master, a Jew, I think, but he tells little of his origin, who is to be
found sometimes at Vienna, sometimes elsewhere, who calls himself Pietro
Bramante. He commended himself to me because he hates the Jesuits. He
showed skill in casting my horoscope, and has on several occasions given
me good intelligence. He is here now."
Nigel involuntarily made the sign of the Cross.
Wallenstein noticed it.
"He does not traffic in devils, nor meddle with holy things. But he
professes great skill in the mathematics, which he says are the root of
all divination. He is learned in the Cabal, the unwritten tradition of
the Jews, whereby Solomon came to know the beginning, mediety, and
consummation of times."
The chamberlain of the household now came in, and bowing low said, "The
learned Pietro Bramante bids me to acquaint you, my lord, that the
constellations are in a favourable aspect for you to enter the House of
Knowledge, but that the stranger must enter also, for the orbit of his
star conjoins with your lordship's."
"Come!" said Wallenstein, his eyes lighting up into a curious eagerness,
curious that is, in a man of his years, and more so to a Scot such as
Nigel Charteris was, for the Scots are not given to appearing
eager,--even of good fortune. And if the Scot were forty-eight, which
was the tale of Wallenstein's years, and he were told that some one was
ready to give him good news or bad, he would say, "Weel! weel! it'll no
lose in the tellin'," and never move his legs an inch faster.
"Come! Let us see what this diviner has to say!"
Nigel was in truth by no means pleased. For he was a devout Catholic,
and hated alike Jews and witchcraft, and thought little of horoscopes.
The stars were a good guide on a clear night crossing a moor or in a
strange country. That was all. But Wallenstein had once held all the
German lands in his hands, and might again. It was a waste of
opportunity not to second his whimsies: and if there was nothing in
divination but hocus-pocus, why, there was no harm could come of it.
So he rose to his feet and followed: and Wallenstein led him upstairs to
a long gallery, and at the farther end was a curtain drawn across.
Portraits of many kings and princesses were ranged along the one wall,
and upon the other where the windows were not. The windows looked out
upon a balcony and the balcony upon a pleasaunce, but of this, it being
now night, Nigel could see little. At long intervals were lighted
candles, and many unlit between. And their footfalls, soldier-like and
decided, echoed by walls and ceiling, made a great noise in Nigel's ear.
So they came to the curtain and a voice bade draw, and Pietro Bramante
stood there and moved not a whit. There were no candles alight near him,
and all the light that was came from a copper bowl in which he burned
some tow with a blue and now a green flame.
The sage began a recitation in which he made much mention of the seventh
house and divers stars and constellations being in opposition or in
conjunction, and of this Abracadabra Nigel made nothing. The blue and
green flame played upon his naturally brownish face and it was grey, and
from Wallenstein's all colour seemed to be gone; instead was his face
like a parchment full of lines, all but the eyes, which glittered
blackly, never losing gaze upon the sage's face. Except for the latter's
utterances there was deep silence, and the three seemed to be alone, for
the chamberlain had retired, having ushered them into the gallery.
Then the sage blew out the flame, and his finger faintly glowing began
to be visible writing on a wall, or some flat upright surface, and the
figure he made was a circle, as truly drawn an O as Messire Michelangelo
Buonarrotti might have made. And the circle was of light and glowed
through more strongly in one part than another.
"Behold the orbit of the life of Albrecht von Waldstein, a perfect
circle. Those lines are perfect circles that make a multiple of ten. It
is in every tenth year that great causes may affect them--great
upliftings of Fortune, or great fatalities.
"Now regard truly this orbit of another life, which passeth through the
centre of the first," and again with unerring finger he drew another
curve, which may have been a section of a greater circle, or of an
elliptical figure, or of a parabola, but it was a true curve, and cut
the circle at its centre. "This orbit passeth through the field of Mars
and ariseth beyond the plane of the first orbit, and this signifieth
that it is the life of a stranger by blood and nation."
So the original glowed upon the void darkness, and the new line that
came from afar and passed through the centre of the circle glowed; and
yet another line Pietro Bramante drew, and this time it was an oval.
"Behold now the orbit of yet another life. It is an oval and signifieth
the life of a woman. An oval hath two foci, and the one is the centre of
the orbit of Albrecht von Wallenstein and the other is upon the
circumference of the same circle. Now the actions of woman proceed from
two foci, the heart and the intelligence, and the heart focus is upon
the centre of the circle and the other focus of the mind is upon the
circumference or pathway of the same circle. Wherefore I deduce that
this woman, whoever she be, hath her affections firmly set upon the very
essence which is the spirit of Albrecht von Wallenstein, and her
intelligence is set steadfastly on the orbit of his destiny so that it
may go fast or slow as she willeth.
"Now, sir!" he addressed Nigel, "what was the day and hour of your
birth?"
"The year 1603. The month July. The day the 7th, and the hour 7!"
"Behold figures full of portent," said Pietro. "The year's numerals
added together give ten, which is a complete number. Sixteen hundred
and three is a multiple of seven. The month is the seventh month. The
day is the seventh. The hour is the seventh. They are propitious times
and should give a favourable horoscope. Now I will cast it, and
calculate the orbit."
Pietro turned to his copper vessel, and by means which neither of his
onlookers could guess the flame sprang up again, and taking a sheet of
parchment he made calculations, and set down the fixed points his
calculations showed. As the light burned, so the geometrical figures he
had drawn before faded from sight.
The two sat silently. Nigel thus far was impressed against his will by
the mathematical methods of the learned doctor. He stole a swift glance
now and again at Wallenstein, who sat stiffly, absorbed in the doings.
Nigel was more interested in the figures of the circle and of the
ellipse as they applied to Wallenstein, for Wallenstein of all men was
as little to be swayed by any feminine influence as any man. He had
married twice. In both cases he had married a woman of noble birth, and
of moderate, almost of great, fortune. But no one called Wallenstein
uxorious or accused him of careless living in the article of women. No
one had imputed to him that he had mistresses, or that either of his
wives had ruled him. His face betrayed no tendency to passion. The eyes
had no amorousness. As to the lips, if the lower lip spoke of the
senses, it was rather of good living. The many lines upon his brow spoke
of thought and ambition.
A smile or the semblance of a smile, and that sardonical, had passed
across his face when the doctor had spoken of the mysterious woman who
was to influence his life.
At last Pietro looked up from his calculations. There was a slight gleam
in his worn eyes as of satisfaction, and he brought them his parchment.
"The line of this life, sirs, from the figures of the birth, when
affected by the influences which the constellations exercise, must pass
through these points," and he showed points upon the parchment marked
with Greek letters. "Now if I join these points," and he did so with the
point of his pen, "a curve is produced." Again he extinguished the flame
of his lamp.
"Now, compare it with the curve I have just shown to you," and it was
visible on the extinction of the other flame. "It is the same curve
without doubt!"
Nigel was aware of some extraordinary exaltation of mind he could in no
wise account for. With his colder intelligence he yet seemed incapable
of resisting the belief that the conclusions of the reader of horoscopes
were true, that his own path of life was in some momentous way linked up
with that of Wallenstein, the idol of his professional admiration, and
that now and here that part of his earthly path had begun.
"It seems," said Wallenstein, turning to Nigel, "that by all the rules
of divination as practised by the learned doctors of these times, and in
particular by Pietro Bramante, who has at divers times made notable
experiments at the court of Vienna and elsewhere, you are one of those
whose birth is fortunate, and that you are destined to cross my orbit at
its zenith and its nadir, and to pass through the very centre of my
intelligence for good or ill."
"You read aright, sir!" said Pietro. "It is beyond my power to say if
for good or for ill."
"I would fain know," said Wallenstein, "if you are a good Catholic."
"I am!" said Nigel.
"And have no dealings with the Jesuits?"
"No! I have had no commerce with them at any time!"
"It is well!" said Wallenstein. "For the rest you are a soldier of
fortune, and your greatest desire----"
"Is to become a trusted officer in your Grace's service, whenever it
shall please the Emperor to recall you!" said Nigel heartily.
"Then let us read the presage as a fortunate one!" said Wallenstein,
"and God speed the fulfilment of your desires! And now, most learned
doctor, surely your powers of divination do not end here. You have
spoken of some unknown lady or perchance some uncouth beldame, whom the
stars have chosen to become a benign power in my life. Does not your art
enable you to disclose at least her name? Tell me at least whether she
is of a dark and melancholic disposition, or of a sanguine inclination."
Nigel could not tell from the dry passionless utterance of the speaker
whether irony lay at the root of his tongue: but he was at least as
eager as Wallenstein appeared to be indifferent as to the outcome. It
was the difference between youth and maturity. If it had been permitted
to look into the mind of that inscrutable man, one might have expected
to find that on a stage where strode so many principal and, in their
several parts, renowned actors, where war and high policy and ambition
were the themes, Wallenstein should count as nothing the staying or
speeding of his actions by any woman.
Pietro Bramante turned again to his lamp, which he relighted, and,
drawing a curtain aside, the light fell upon a tall mirror of the height
of a man set at such an angle that at the present it reflected nothing.
At two paces from it he set a chafing-dish wherein burned glowing
charcoal, and upon it sprinkled some powder from a little box of ebony;
and from the dish rose up a white smoke of a sweet savour. And then
Pietro recited some Latin verses, which to Nigel, unversed in such
incantations, bore no meaning.
Then, before they were aware, though both gazed intently upon the smoke,
the form of a majestic woman appeared to gather substance, and at length
her face in all its lineaments became plain to view. The eyes gazed in a
kind of ecstasy fixedly, gravely benignant, towards Wallenstein.
Nigel leaped up, spurred by his astonishment, even in opposition to the
awe which the moment enjoined upon him, exclaiming "Ottilie von
Thüringen!"
And Wallenstein, as if Nigel had not been there, still in his seat, but
filled with amaze, exclaimed under his breath--
"Ferdinand's Stephanie!" And then, "Let me have speech of her! Dost
hear! Pietro Bramante?"
But the vision had disappeared. Pietro's voice made itself audible.
"This that you saw was but a vision called up by my art. I must confirm
it by my mathematics."