THE SAINT BARTHOLOMEW WEDDING
Anne of Saxony stood at the top of the wide stairs of Leipsic town hall
waiting to welcome her bridegroom; about her spread the motionless
pageantry of harquebusiers, burgher guard, nobles, gentlemen, and
pages—all ranged up the stairs and on the landings in groups of
brilliant colours and shining weapons.
It was St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24th of August, and intensely hot; the
air of the town hall, though constantly refreshed with perfume sprays,
was close and dry; through the windows, carefully shuttered against the
heat, the sun crept in through odd chinks and made spots of dazzling
gold. The pages sighed under their breath, the gentlemen heaved their
shoulders under the heavy weight of velvet, brocade, and jewelled
chains; the ladies behind the bride swayed to and fro with little
whispers and glances among themselves; the Electress stood slightly
apart, covertly fanning herself, and lamenting to the bride's uncle, the
Landgrave William, son of the old Landgrave of Hesse, that the electoral
palace which was so much more commodious than the town hall, should be
under repair.
The bride herself stood in advance of all, on the very edge of the top
stair; her eyes were directed fiercely down between the two rows of
soldiers that glittered against the dark wood balustrades.
The long weeks of tumultuous days and sleepless nights had reduced her
feebleness to utter exhaustion, but passionate excitement supported her,
and gave her the strength to stand there bearing the weight of her heavy
robes, the heated air, the fatigue of standing.
The Elector, with four thousand nobles, gentlemen, and soldiers, had
ridden to meet the bridegroom and his escort outside the city; to those
waiting here the return of Augustus and his guest seemed wearisomely
delayed.
"Why do they not come—why do they not come?" muttered Anne again and
again.
Rénèe le Meung, who stood close behind, remarked her mistress's gorgeous
figure with a tired curiosity.
The waiting-woman was herself so remote in heart from all this festivity
which she stood in the centre of, so far in spirit from all the
excitement by which she was surrounded, that these people seemed to her
in a strange way lifeless—splendid puppets like those the tailor had
brought on the polished wood gallows; and when she looked at the bride
she was sorry, in a vague way, that Anne was not more lovely, more
gracious, more sweet. The long-stifled romance of her own youth told her
the central figure of all this pageantry should be more worthy.
Since seven that morning Anne had stood on her feet being attired, and
it was now towards two of the clock—the actual time of the wedding being
five.
All those hours of her women's labour and fatigue, her own screaming
impatience and trembling nervousness, had resulted in an appearance
almost grotesquely brilliant.
She wore a gown of stiff satin, interchangeable wine red and yellow—the
colour of old amber; it flowed fold on fold from her tight waist, to
fall heavily on the floor, weighted by a hem of ruby and topaz
embroidery; in front it was slightly caught up by a gold cord, to
display a petticoat of black and crimson brocade in a design of flowers,
and the pointed shoes cloth of gold with red silk tissue roses.
The bodice was crimson cloth of gold, cut low in the front, and rising
behind to a high upstanding collar of finest gold lace, the full sleeves
were of pale yellow satin, laced across and across with gold and crimson
cords; round the throat and over the bosom hung strings of pearls and
rubies and long chains of curious enamel; the dull-coloured hair was
crowned by a gold cap sewn with pearls, and long emeralds swung in the
ears.
From Anne's stooping shoulders there hung, despite the heat, an orange
mantle lined and bordered with ermine, which lay a full yard on the
polished boards behind her. But none of this costly and princely
magnificence could disguise the thin malformed figure, and the fierce
fire of the gems only served to make the pale weary face look like a
colourless mask—and colourless she was, from her pallid lips to her
light brows—only in her pale eyes burned the flame of her passionate,
jealous, eager soul.
So she stood, waiting for her lover, as she was pleased to consider him;
and Rénèe was sorry for her mistress from her heart.
And now the doors at the foot of the stairs were opened, and the full
August sun fell on the black and orange of the halberdiers, the
spearmen, and harquebusiers, the gleaming weapons and fluttering banners
that rose above the heads of the crowd that filled the market square.
Outside the town hall the whole splendid cavalcade had halted, and
presently, through the broad shaft of sunshine and in at the doors came
the Elector, accompanied by several other German princes and the
bridegroom, escorted by his three brothers—the Counts John, Adolphus,
and Louis.
At the foot of the stairs these gentlemen paused for a second, and among
those waiting at the top there was the slightest movement and murmur—a
bending forward of expectant faces, the rustle of stiff satins.
There was indeed great curiosity to behold the bridegroom, many of those
present having never seen him before; Rénèe, more curious because more
thoughtful than the others, stepped lightly from behind her mistress and
gazed down the stairs.
She saw one cavalier come forward from the others and ascend the stairs
a little in advance of them; this was he whose fame had travelled so
far, who had been so criticized, so discussed in Saxony, whose marriage
project had been the subject of so many intrigues and broils in Madrid,
Brussels, and Dresden.
Slowly he came up the stairs, his eyes fixed on Anne, and himself the
subject of all regards.
Rénèe watched him long, intently.
This was her first sight of him, and she was long to remember this
brilliant scene, long to recall in other scenes of terror, misery, and
exaltation that figure coming up the stairs with the blaze of sunshine
and the little group of princes behind him.
This, her first impression of William of Orange, was of a gentleman of
extreme good looks with the carriage of a soldier and the grace of a
courtier. He was slender, twenty-eight years of age, and of a Southern
type—dark, warmly coloured, with a small head and regular features, the
nose straight, the lips full, the eyes chestnut brown, large, and
well-opened; his red-brown hair was short, thick, and curling, his beard
close shaven, his complexion dark. He wore still a simple dress of tawny
velvet buttoned high under the chin and, turning over with a little
collar of embroidered lawn, it was slashed over an under-vest of
scarlet, and the sleeves and breeches were of black silk fretted with
silver work; his one adornment was a long gold chain of massive links,
passed six times round his neck; he carried his gloves and a black cap
with a heron's plume in his left hand.
Straight up the stairs he came with an ease that seemed unconscious.
Anne swayed towards him; he kissed her cold hand, smiled at her, and
stood so a moment beside her, looking down into her pale, almost
frightened, face.
In that moment Rénèe saw, as by a sudden light, the bride as she was in
contrast with him. By the standard of his complete manhood, his finished
accomplishment, his undeniable charm, gaiety, and power, she beheld Anne
a peevish, sickly, malicious, ignorant child, and she turned her eyes
away. This contrast of bride and groom seemed to her to touch this
mating with horror.
The Prince now turned to the Electress, and Anne, with a deep reverence
to her future husband, withdrew with her women to the apartments
prepared for her use.
No sooner was she there than her strained control gave way; she scolded,
she stamped, and finally broke into hysterical tears.
The frightened agitated women ran hither and thither with cordials and
essences and all the details of the resplendent wedding-gown with which
their mistress had to be vested.
Rénèe, a little bewildered by that sight of the Prince of Orange, went
about her duties quietly; she believed she knew the cause of Anne's
untimely tears. Deep beneath the Princess's vanities, ignorances, and
arrogances lay a woman's intuitions; these warned her, sometimes in a
manner not to be ignored, that she was crooked, undesirable, and now
they told her that the Prince's kind glance had not been that of a
lover. Anne, too, Rénèe thought, had felt the bitter difference between
herself and her betrothed.
At last the bride, alternately shaken by nervous temper and stormy
sobbing, was arrayed in the wedding-gown of milk-white velvet,
over-veiled with a skirt of braided pearls, transparent silver wings
rising at the back in lieu of a ruff, and over all a train of pale
purple embroidered with crystal flowers; a wreath of myrtle twisted with
an orange ribbon was placed on the stiff waves of her crimped hair, the
traces of tears were powdered away as well as might be, the rings,
necklets, bracelets, chains were replaced. She was perfumed with costly
essence extracted from Eastern lilies, then escorted to an upper chamber
where waited the Elector, the Electress, two town councillors, the
Prince of Orange, and his brother Counts.
All the women now withdrew save the Electress's lady, Sophia von
Miltitz, and Rénèe.
In a corner, before a table, stood one Wolf Sesdel, a notary.
The Prince of Orange had changed his attire; he was in rose cloth of
gold from head to foot, with a short cloak of dark violet velvet lined
with blue, and a triple ruff of gold tissue.
Rénèe glanced at him again. "A mere courtier, like his brother," she
thought. Her eyes turned to Count John; he, too, was a princely young
man, though without the great charm of William or the infinite grace of
Louis.
Bride and groom were now placed opposite each other before the notary,
his brother and one of his gentlemen behind the Prince; Dame Sophia, one
of the councillors, and Rénèe, behind Anne; in front Elector and
Electress with Hans von Ponika, the second councillor, who addressed the
Prince, reminding him that the Elector had sent him a memorandum
requiring him to preserve Anne in her present faith, to allow her to
receive the Augsburg sacraments, even, at extreme need, in her chamber,
and to instruct her children in the doctrines of the Reformed Church.
This memorandum William had always refused to sign. He listened to the
councillor's long speech courteously, but with a look of amusement,
Rénèe thought, as if he appreciated at its true value this last attempt
on the part of Augustus to salve his conscience on the question of the
bridegroom's Papistry.
"As your princely Highness," continued Von Ponika, "has been pleased to
so far give no agreement in writing on these points, it has been
arranged that you should now give your consent verbally, before these
princely witnesses."
William, with laughing eyes in a grave face, looked at the Elector,
whose stern features were impassive. Anne was trembling like one in a
fever, and continually pressing her handkerchief to her dry lips and
burning cheeks.
Von Ponika proceeded to read the memorandum which William had rejected
since April last, and asked if His Highness was prepared to keep the
articles contained therein?
The Prince advanced a step towards the Elector and answered—Rénèe noted
his voice, low, deep, and soft, a very masculine voice—
"Gracious Elector, I remember the writing that you sent me in April, and
which this learned doctor has just read. I now declare to Your Highness
that I will act in all as becomes a Prince, and conform to this note as
I ever said I would conform."
This evasion was all the Elector had hoped for. He knew as well as
William did that no subject of King Philip could live according to the
Augsburg Confession nor practise the rites of the Reformed Church, but
he had finally satisfied his conscience, and when William offered his
hand the Elector took it heartily.
The notary then put the Prince's reply on record, and all left the room.
The bridal procession was now formed. In front the Court musicians
playing bravely, after them the marshals, the nobles, the guests, the
envoys, the Elector and his wife, and the bride and groom, followed by
the councillors and such of the Netherland grandees who had dared King
Philip sufficiently to attend a wedding His Majesty secretly frowned on.
So to the sound of drums and trumpet they entered the great hall, which
was hung from ceiling to floor with fine silk tapestries of Arras and
carpeted with Eastern rugs, and furnished with five round tables and
chairs, each chair like a throne.
There the marriage ceremony took place. If the Elector had tacitly
accepted William's evasions on religious questions, William as tacitly
accepted the Lutheran marriage rites, which would have been little to
the taste of King Philip.
After Doctor Pfeffinger had united the two, Anne was conducted to a gold
couch with gold curtains set on a dais at the upper end of the hall; the
Prince seated himself beside her, and kneeling pages of noble blood
handed them goblets of rock crystal filled with sweet wine, and comfits
on plates of engraved silver.
The rest of the company were also served, and all drank standing and
looking towards the bride. Anne's spirits had now risen; she was flushed
with pride and happiness, her eyes sparkled, and she drank her wine with
a relish.
The Prince had rather an absent look, though completely at his ease; his
mind did not appear to be wholly in the ceremonies in which he was
taking part so gracefully.
He now rose, and the Margrave of Brandenburg raised Anne and presented
her to her husband.
"Gracious Highness," he said, "I give you this maiden on behalf of the
Elector, and I recommend Your Grace to cherish her with all care and
affection, and to leave her undisturbed in the right use of the Holy
Gospel and Sacraments."
The bridal couple parted, to a second time change their garments.
Anne was in a rapture.
"Is he not noble and fine?" she asked her weary women as they again
disrobed her. "I think there is no knight like him in Europe. And how
foolish my uncle is with his notes and promises! As if I could not trust
my princely husband!"
She used the new title with an affected laugh.
"I am now the Princess of Orange," she added.
"Yes, Highness," said Rénèe. She was weary from the long hours of
standing; her head ached from the noise of the drums and trumpets, the
glare of all the mingled gems and flashing gold and the bright colours
of the dresses, the intensity of the heat, and lack of food. None of the
overworked women had eaten since morning; the kitchens were wholly
absorbed in preparations for the wedding feast.
Anne's shrill, excited chatter fell distastefully on the ears of Rénèe.
'What will they think of her in Brussels?' she wondered; it seemed
grotesque to imagine her the head of the Prince of Orange's gorgeous and
extravagant household, the greatest lady in the brilliant Court of the
Regent.
But Anne, at least, seemed not to doubt at all of coming triumphs; as
she was arrayed she talked incessantly of her future glories.
She now wore a gown of blue satin with an overskirt of silver brocade
worked with raised yellow roses, her bodice was one stiff piece of
silver as if she was encased in the precious metal itself, her long
yellow sleeves were caught together and fastened with sapphire studs;
her bosom was bare, but round her throat was a fine ruff reaching to her
ears and sparkling with little brilliants, her hair was confined under a
cap of silver tissue, and from her shoulders hung a mantle of darker
yellow satin with a great collar of rose velvet and a lining of blue.
Thus she returned to the great hall where covers for fifty were laid,
ten at each table, and the first course of twenty-five dishes being
immediately served, she took her place beside her husband, who wore
crimson satin cut over violet cloth of gold, and so sewn with gold that
no more than a gleam of the stuff was visible. The Elector's choir began
to play a gay measure, and twelve young counts with gold wreaths on
their heads brought forward the wine, the water, the napkins for the use
of the bride and groom.
It was now past six, and the great heat diminishing. Rénèe and the other
women went slowly about the Princess's apartments, putting straight the
disorder, and beginning to lay by the gowns in the long travelling
coffers; the sound of the bridal music came faintly to their ears, and
faintly they could savour the mingled odours of the extravagant wedding
dishes. As they moved about their task they ate cakes and comfits,
having little hope of a supper that night, and in a tired, disjointed
way they talked together.
"She is quite right, he is very handsome," said one, "and very
magnificent too. They say he is greatly in debt."
"Well, there will not be much of her fortune left to repair holes in
his," replied another. "Such extravagance! And she looks all the uglier
for it all. And I hear he is fond of pretty women." The speaker glanced
with some satisfaction at her own pleasing reflection in Anne's mirror.
"Was his first wife well favoured?"
"Well, she was straight and had a quiet tongue."
"Herr Jesus! Why should he wed Fräulein Anne?" cried another damsel,
wearily seating herself. "Not for her beauty, nor her money——"
"For their 'reasons of State,'" quoted Rénèe, "and also because he does
not know her. This will prove an ugly marriage. He does not look a man
to suffer a curst wife."
"Perhaps she will be sweeter now," replied the other.
"There is no sweetness in her," said a third, gathering up the bunches
of lavender, allspice leaves, rosemary, and orris-root that were to be
laid among the bride's clothes in the long carved caskets.
"How my head aches!" said Rénèe.
"It is her voice," replied one of the women, "it rings in the head like
the clanging of a brass bell. Come and see the dancing. We can leave
this work for a while."
Rénèe and three of her companions slipped away and went by the back
entrances to the gallery overlooking the Grand Hall; the soldiers
allowed them to pass, and the pages brought them sugar sticks, fruit,
and comfits left from the feast.
"I am sickened with sweets to-day," said Rénèe, with a faint smile. She
rested her elbows on the carved balustrade of the gallery and looked
down.
The tables had been removed and the hall cleared for dancing; the summer
sun still shone without, but had left the high windows, and already
lamps, hanging to the ceiling bosses by gold chains, were lit, sending a
soft light over the polished floor and silk hangings on the wall; the
choir was singing and playing, and the Court and guests were moving
through one of the elaborate figures of the prearranged dances. The
ladies in their great farthingales, stiff bodices, and long trains, the
gentlemen in their huge ruffs, formal cloaks, embroidered doublets, and
gleaming chains, moved slowly and precisely through the intricacies of
the dance, as if they traced some complicated pattern on the floor with
their fine and sparkling shoes.
To Rénèe they seemed as if they were being moved by invisible strings
from the dark ceiling—so many puppets moving with stiff grace and
immobile dignity.
She sought out the rose red and gold figure of the Prince of Orange; he
was dancing with the Electress. She noticed that he moved with more
spirit and gaiety than any of the others; also that he kept bad time to
the music, and more than once was a little out of step in the long
galliard he had not previously rehearsed.
The dance at an end the bride and groom returned to their gold couch,
and a band of maidens in green and purple entered the hall and presented
them with long sheaves of lilies bound with silver cords, round bunches
of crimson and white roses, sprays of myrtle blossom, and parcels of
sweets in gold tissue.
After this the Chamberlain clapped his hands and a party of masquers ran
in, curiously habited as Turks, Russians, fools, bird-snarers, and
giants, and began executing a fantastic measure.
"The Prince brought them from the Netherlands," said one of the
waiting-women.
"It is a silly show," replied Rénèe, "or else I have no heart for these
things."
She left the gallery and returned to Anne's temporary apartments, which
would no longer be used, as others had been prepared for the Prince and
Princess. Rénèe mechanically sorted and folded the confusion of
garments, locked away the hastily discarded jewels, arranged the
brushes, combs, unguents, crimping irons, curling sticks, powders,
perfumes, that had been used in the adornment of the bride, then opened
the curtains and stepped out of the narrow window on to the little
curved balcony that overlooked the market square.
The pale purple sky spread, stainless of cloud, above the roofs, gables,
and towers; the bells were ringing gay peals from all the chiming
belfries of Leipsic; joy-fires flared up here and there against the
crystal light of the stars; the breeze was perfumed with the scent of
summer and still sun-warmed. Rénèe was not thinking of the gaiety and
loveliness of the festival night; through her mind ran a few sentences
she had overheard from two Netherlanders of the Prince's suite as she
went up the back staircase to see the dancing.
"How long will these feasts last?" one had said. "The Cardinal plays his
own game at home—it would be well to return immediately."
"They say he will persuade the King to enforce the Inquisition," the
other answered, "so resolute is he to extirpate heresy."
And the two men had looked stern, gloomy, and anxious for guests at a
bridal feast, and Rénèe recalled their words with a bitter shudder.
It was the Inquisition that had arrested her father and handed him over
to his death; it was the Inquisition that had confiscated his entire
property and left her mother and herself dependent on charity.
Her face grew hard and almost fierce.
"Extirpate heresy," she said half aloud. "Well, I will die that way
too."
The joy-fires sprang up and the bells and the music blended; presently
the stars faded in the light of the risen moon.
St. Batholomew's Day was over and the famous marriage accomplished at
last.