THE GHETTO
THE new lady-in-waiting was installed in two rooms in the castle, very
near the roof and hard by Madame de Ruth's apartment. Wilhelmine received
a small income, also her food and the services of a waiting-woman of the
ducal household. This person was a large, fair-skinned Swabian--a
peasant, simple yet suspicious, loud-voiced, rough in manner, very tender
of heart. During the first days of her service she feared and disliked
her 'foreign' mistress, but, like every one whom Wilhelmine chose to
charm, Maria adored her before the week was out with that whole-hearted
devotion which servants sometimes give their employers, and which is
often so unequal a bargain. But it was not to prove so in this case, for
Wilhelmine responded readily to any genuine affection, and, proud as she
was, she was too proud to imagine that her freedom of speech and her easy
laughter could be met with undue familiarity, which indeed, as is usual
with the woman of true breeding, it never was. Maria remained devoted and
free spoken, though absolutely respectful. To her the 'Grävenitzin,' as
people began to call Wilhelmine, poured out the story of the numerous
petty annoyances which disturbed her, and the peasant girl learned to
regard her as a persecuted angel. Though her mistress's violent temper
flamed forth if the smallest detail of the toilet went amiss, and often,
indeed, for no apparent cause, the next moment the impression was erased
and the waiting-maid's heart soothed by some affectionate word or hasty,
almost childlike, apology. Few know the extraordinary loyalty, the
silence and forbearing, which many servants exercise; but those who do,
and can prize it truly, have an added power in their hands and an immense
aid to their ambition. Maria, while absolutely silent regarding her
mistress's affairs, was fully informed concerning the rest of the
inhabitants of the Stuttgart castle and of their various opinions of
Wilhelmine, and all this she communicated while the latter lay abed
drinking her chocolate of a morning. In this manner Wilhelmine learned
many things of which she would otherwise have been ignorant.
One morning, about a month after the commencement of Wilhelmine's sojourn
at the castle, she was dressing at her leisure, her Highness having
commanded her presence at a later hour than usual. The window stood open,
and she could hear the whirl of wings as the doves flew about from the
roof of the inner courtyard or alighted on the stone balustrade below her
window. The heat had abated, and a faint sighing breeze was wafted
through the window. Maria had gone to the town to purchase a ribbon for
Madame de Ruth's spaniel, and the Grävenitzin remained alone. She leaned
back in a tall, carved chair, listening to the million sounds of silence.
Ah! Silence!--quiet! how she loved it! With yearning she realised how she
longed for the stillness of some deep wood or of some fragrant garden,
with Eberhard Ludwig at her side. True, she saw him daily at court; drove
with him on his fine coach drawn by eight horses; supped with him, sang
to him, knew herself to be his acknowledged mistress. There were stolen
interviews in her little room, moments of wondrous rapture and thrilling,
passionate surrender. Yet, somehow, she never had the sensation of being
entirely undisturbed, of enjoying the delight of solitude with him, safe
from possible interruption. She knew that her genuine passion for the
Duke was regarded by the court as an ordinary gallant adventure; her
relation with him classed among the unlovely liaisons of princes; and,
like each woman who considers her personal conduct, she imagined her own
love to be a thing utterly different to the passions of other
women--infinitely purer, absolutely apart. Also, she hated disapproval;
it had the power to vilify her, drawing out the worst in her nature. Then
the Duchess, who was possessed of all the harsh cruelty of the untempted
virtuous woman, constantly slighted the lady-in-waiting, whose presence
she, perforce, endured, while it afforded her a decided relief to vent
her jealous, agonised spleen in the privacy of her apartment upon her
victorious rival of public society. She little knew, poor soul, what a
sinister list of 'affronts to be avenged' was being written in
Wilhelmine's mind, nor could she gauge, she of the moth-coloured spite,
the evil, relentless hatred which she was daily fostering in a heart
strong to love and strong to hate.
Even Madame de Ruth was appalled at the dimensions of the affair which
she herself had aided in creating. Wilhelmine fascinated her still, but
she began to fear her, and though she laughed at those who murmured that
'the Grävenitzin had the evil eye,' a certain disquiet peeped into her
mind at times. Wilhelmine had heard, through the maid Maria, that there
were whispers of her being possessed of the evil eye; and it amused her
to confront those who offended or irritated her with that strange look
which she could command at will. Certainly she had a vast will-power, and
the Duke was subjugated, not alone by love but by that marvellous
dominion of mind which is exercised by certain beings over others. He
told her often that she was a witch; being doubly a poet since he loved,
he raved of the witchery of his mistress; yet had he dreamed for one
moment that there could be anything mysterious in her fascination he
would have been appalled. He was of his day, and could not explain glibly
the mysteries and marvels of personal attraction and repulsion, of
will-power and dominion, by the easy word magnetism. He would have called
it 'witchcraft, magic, devilry,' and he did later on, and trembled. But
all this was only beginning when Wilhelmine sat listening to the silence
that summer morning. A heavy footfall on the balcony without aroused her
from her reverie, and her window was darkened for a flash by a passing
form. A rough knock came on her door, and she heard a voice informing her
the Altesse Sérénissime the Duchess desired her presence immediately.
She sprang up. 'Tell her Highness I will come immediately; but that, as I
was not commanded for so early an hour, I am unfortunately not quite
ready,' she called after the lackey's retreating form. She flung off her
morning gown and began hastily to don a silken bodice, but it took her
longer to dress without Maria's help, and it was some time before she
stood at the door of her Highness's anteroom. She was met by one of the
tiring-women whom she particularly disliked, and whose mulish face and
impertinent manners had often irritated her.
'Her Highness is waiting, Fräuleinle von Grävenitz,' said this person,
while she treated Wilhelmine to an insolent stare.
'That has nothing to do with you,' answered Wilhelmine haughtily, her
ready anger flaring at the covert insolence of the woman's manner and the
familiar use of the word 'Fräuleinle.' As she passed she caught a grin of
amusement on the woman's face. Ridicule from any one, but especially from
the 'canaille,' as she termed most of the inmates of this world, was a
thing which always raised the slumbering devil in Wilhelmine. She turned
abruptly, confronting the tiring-woman with that fixed evil glance of
hers. The smile died on the woman's lips, and she shrank back muttering.
'You will regret your insolence,' said Wilhelmine, thereby forging
another link in that chain of the witchcraft theory which was destined to
have such strange developments in her life and fate.
'I am accustomed to being attended immediately, Mademoiselle, when I send
for my ladies,' said the Duchess icily as Wilhelmine entered.
'Your Highness will pardon me; it was an unexpected summons, and I was
not dressed.'
'Ah! I suppose the so evidently recent attack of smallpox makes
Mademoiselle a little delicate still?' replied Johanna Elizabetha, with a
spiteful smile, and looking pointedly at her lady-in-waiting's face.
At this taunt, once more, though this time involuntarily, the snake look
came into Wilhelmine's eyes. Her Highness did not shrink, but returned
the gaze fully with a glance of quiet animosity. Johanna Elizabetha was a
brave woman, of good blood, and it is remarkable that, through all her
dealings with the Grävenitz, she never showed any of that fear, which to
arouse was one of this mysterious woman's most potent weapons. 'Would it
please you were I to give you permission to retire from court for a few
months, Mademoiselle, in order to recoup your damaged--er--health?' She
paused before the last word, and her adversary knew what she would have
said. The lady-in-waiting still had the strength to command the wave of
bitter anger which was surging within her, and she answered calmly:
'I thank your Highness for the offer; but,' here a note of insolent
triumph pierced through the studied courtesy of her manner, 'but I find
the climate of Stuttgart agrees vastly well with me, and I need no
change. Your Highness must remember how much I am in the open air.'
This allusion to the constant drives with Eberhard Ludwig goaded Johanna
Elizabetha past endurance.
'You will not be able to be abroad so much in future, Mademoiselle de
Grävenitz,' she answered grimly; 'I intend to commence a large piece of
embroidery, and the work will keep me more in the house. I shall require
your services to read to me while I am working.'
Wilhelmine bowed.
'Fetch me that embroidery frame and the silks, Mademoiselle,' the Duchess
said, in a tone of such imperious command that the other felt an angry
blush flame in her cheeks; but she walked quietly across the room and
brought the frame to her Highness, who at once busied herself in matching
the coloured silks on the design. Seating herself near the window, and
settling the frame on a small table before her, she worked steadily for
some time in silence, Wilhelmine standing near, not having been granted
permission to be seated. The silence became horrible, tense, gloomy; the
air seemed quivering with the hatred which both women felt. At length the
Duchess laid aside her work and, turning, faced her lady-in-waiting
directly.
'Mademoiselle Wilhelmine von Grävenitz,' she said slowly, 'I will give
you one chance of becoming an honest woman. You are unnecessary to me in
your present capacity, and I have decided to remove you from my service.'
She rose with the dignity she could assume at times. 'The reasons for my
decision you know well enough, and, indeed, it were not fitting for me to
discuss them with you. If you will resign your charge, and leave the
country to-day, promising never to return, I will announce that, to my
regret, you have been called back to your home. As I know you came here
penniless, I offer you a free present of ten thousand gulden, under the
conditions I have named. If you will not accept this I shall have you
driven from my house, and I shall command that no one in Wirtemberg shall
shelter you under pain of loss of entry at court.'
Johanna Elizabetha was really impressive and dignified, infinitely
pathetic too; for it was a futile assumption of an authority hers by
right, and, in fact, absolutely non-existent. 'I await your answer,' she
added, a little tremulously.
'And I give you my answer, here and now, for to-day and for as long as I
choose. And my answer is--No!' She said it boldly, but her heart was
beating violently; after all, she too was fighting for her life, for all
she had found beautiful, for the man she loved, and for the ease and
charm of existence, the 'fine linen and fair raiment, honour and power,'
without which she could and would not live.
The Duchess looked at her curiously. Certainly she was very beautiful,
standing straight, tall, and strong; radiant with health, magnificent in
her proud decision of being; with head thrown back, hands clasped behind
her like a child saying a lesson--the singing attitude, which the Duchess
had often seen before with angry, grudging admiration.
'Is this your decision?' Johanna Elizabetha asked once more. 'God in
Heaven! why did you come here? I offer you wealth and peace; cannot you
go and leave me what is mine?'
'Yours?' broke out Wilhelmine impetuously. 'Yours? You know what you say
is untrue! Yours!'
Such an accent of scorn, such an intolerable ridicule of the unbeautiful
woman lay in Wilhelmine's voice, that the Duchess drew back as from a
blow; she shrank, feeling herself thrust into the chill dreariness of the
world of unloved, unlovable, undesired, undesirable women. Then the pride
of race reasserted itself; after all, she was the mistress, and this, her
tormentor, was her servant. For once, goaded out of her measured
correctness, the Duchess became vital, vehement, agonisedly energetic
and passionate. She swept past Wilhelmine to the door of her apartment;
she flung it open, and called loudly to the sentry who stood below in the
courtyard, bidding him summon the captain of the guard and a detachment
of men-at-arms. The man's hurried steps rang out as he clattered across
the courtyard. Then the silence was only broken by the heavy breathing of
the maddened woman at the door, and once more Wilhelmine heard the swish
and whirl of the wings as the doves flew about the balustrade. Then came
the even tramp of men, and a captain of the guard, with drawn sword,
stood in the doorway before her Highness, the yellow and silver of the
men's uniforms making a picture of gay colours framed in the grey
stonework of the balcony beyond.
'Remove that woman! She has insulted me! Take her across the moat, and
close the castle door upon her. She shall not enter here again!' The
Duchess's voice came short and sharp.
'But, your Highness----' began the captain.
'Do as I command!' broke in Johanna Elizabetha; and never had man or
woman heard the 'Dull Duchess' speak in so proud a tone.
The captain approached Wilhelmine; he feared her and dreaded the Duke's
indignation.
'Mademoiselle de Grävenitz,' he said hesitatingly, 'I must obey; believe
me, I do not understand----'
'Nor need you,' answered Wilhelmine haughtily; 'I am ready to follow you.
Your Highness,' and she bent in the usual courtesy; but the poor Duchess
could not see it, for she had hidden her face in her hands, and, with
convulsive sobs, she wept in a painful reaction of weakness after her
outburst of passionate decision.
* * * * *
Wilhelmine found herself standing beyond the moat, with the iron gate
leading to the castle courtyard grimly closed upon her. It was a
perplexing moment; she knew not whither she might seek shelter, and she
wished to avoid scandal as far as possible. The Duke had gone to Urach to
inspect the coverts for the autumn hunting, and he would not return for
several days. Madame de Ruth was in the castle, unconscious of the
stirring events of the morning. Stafforth had accompanied the Duke, and
she knew Madame de Stafforth would not receive her if she made known the
cause of her departure from the castle. She realised, with dismay, that
when she went to the Duchess she had, naturally, not taken money with
her, so that she could not even seek the shelter of an inn. It was an
awkward predicament, and yet so ridiculous to this woman, certain of the
Duke-ruler's homage, that she laughed gently to herself as she walked
slowly away through the castle gardens towards the town. The air was
still and heavy, and the sound of cries and traffic from the market-place
came to her distinctly. To her right lay the Duke's Jägerhaus and the
kennels, from whence came an occasional bark from some of Eberhard
Ludwig's numerous hounds.
Where should she go? The question was becoming urgent, for the heat of
midday approached and already her head ached dully. She walked on, hardly
noticing that she had passed beyond the garden gate, and it was with a
start that she suddenly realised she had wandered to an unfamiliar part
of the town. She was in a narrow street, where the overhanging higher
stories of the houses approached each other so closely that the sky
between them seemed to be but a distant blue streak. Instinctively she
had turned into this shaded gangway to escape from the burning sun. To
her horror she felt a curious weakness creeping over her, a booming
sounded in her ears, and the veins of her throat seemed to have swelled
as though the blood would burst through the skin. She put up her hand to
the velvet ribbon which she wore round her neck, and her fingers pulled
awkwardly, impatiently, impotently at it. She felt as if her eyeballs
were pushed violently outwards by clumsy, heavy finger-tips. She leaned
against the wall of one of the houses, and, with the idea of avoidance of
scandal still working numbly in her brain, she turned her head this way
and that to see if there were any observers of her pitiful plight; but
the street lay to right and left, sordid, silent, and deserted. She
reflected that, of course, the inhabitants must be sheltering from the
heat--sleeping, perhaps--Ah! sleeping!--and she was so tired, so deathly
weary--and her feet were so heavy--so far away--and heavy----
Surely Monsieur Gabriel would be pleased with that melody? Wilhelmine
turned towards him, then half-consciousness returning told her she was
not in Güstrow. Where was she? She moved, tried to sit up; on her brow a
hand, cool and soothing, pressed her backwards, closing her aching eyes.
Once more her thoughts sank downwards--flickered, as it were. What did it
signify where she was, after all? Everything was far off. What scent was
that? Wonderful! She drew it in to her lungs, and it seemed to fill her
breast with fragrant freshness. With a sigh, she came back from some dim
world and opened her eyes. A strange face bent over her and she stared
wonderingly at it. Surely she was dreaming still, for it was the face of
a picture she knew. Remembrance came, ere full consciousness grasped sway
of her--Savonarola, the Monk of San Marco. She had seen a wood-cut
portrait of the inspired fanatic in a book of Eberhard Ludwig's library.
She lay, scarcely returned from her unconsciousness, gazing at this face.
Yes, Savonarola! The powerful, broken brow, the small, piercing eyes, the
rugged cheeks, the whole face dominated by the huge nose. Then full
consciousness returned to her, and she saw that this was no fanatic
genius, no monk of Italy, but an old woman with an extraordinary
physiognomy, who was watching her with patient, kindly eyes. Wilhelmine
sat up, pushing from her brow a cloth soaked in some essence, from whence
came the delicious pungent scent which had recalled her from her trance.
'Where am I?' she asked.
'You are safe, and, I pray you, rest,' answered a hoarse, weak voice.
'I thank you,' Wilhelmine said, 'I will rest; but, at least, tell me
where I am and who you are?'
'I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, and you fainted at my door, so I
took you in.'
'A very Christian action from a Jew, and I thank you,' replied Wilhelmine
haughtily. All the unreasoning hatred of the Jewish race lay in her
withdrawal from even ordinary gratitude towards the woman who had rescued
her.
The face above her darkened, and the kind eyes changed to flickering
pin-points of anger.
'Christian? Nay, girl; it is Christian to be cruel! Christian? God of my
fathers! it is Christian to murder and oppress! Did you not hear that I
told you I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, the son of Israel? and in
my house, when I have anointed your head with rare essences to cool you
from your sun-faint, you insult me, and you owe me no affront!' There was
a pride in the woman's manner which appealed to Wilhelmine.
'Indeed, I meant none, and I thank you for your courtesy,' she said, and
smiled.
'Well, rest you then,' replied the Jewess in a mollified tone; and again
silence fell between the two women.
'Why do Jews hate the Christians?' Wilhelmine asked, after some time. She
was interested, for this was a new and surprising view; partly, too, she
asked the question from lazy curiosity.
'Hate them? Would not you?' returned the woman harshly.
'Why should you?' the girl asked.
'Do you know anything of the story of our race, you who ask? No? Well, I
will tell you. For centuries we have been outcasts, treated like beggars,
like scum; for ages we have suffered for the acts of our ancestors of
hundreds of generations past, and always the Christian has sought to
profit by our misfortunes; and have we been credulous of their promises,
they have returned us jibes and disdain.'
'But the Jews committed a terrible wrong,' Wilhelmine interrupted; 'they
crucified the----'
'Crucified! crucified!' broke in the Jewess angrily, 'we are weary of the
very word! We crucified Him as you hang rebels, and He happened to be a
Charmer who inspired a new religion--yours! and for ever since you
Christians who rant of pardon, tenderness, moderation, love of all the
world--you have oppressed us with a vengeance so terrible, so relentless,
that we in our turn have learnt to hate and contrive vengeance.'
'But can you?' Wilhelmine smiled mockingly.
'Ah! but wait! Some day we, who have no heritage--we shall inherit the
earth!' The old Jewess's voice trailed, and into its muttered tones
thrilled the accent of the mystic belief of race destiny which lives so
strongly in the children of Israel. Wilhelmine, upon whom no hint of
power, of fate, or of belief in the unknown, ever failed to work,
listened with growing interest. She questioned the old crone, and
succeeded in drawing from her a long and impassioned tirade upon the
wrongs of the race of Israel.
No one could charm people as could Wilhelmine; her vitality, her sonorous
voice, the quick sympathy which drew confidences from the most
reserved--in fine, her magnetic force, made her, when she chose, the most
irresistible of beings. And she exerted herself to exercise her
attraction upon the Jewess, for her curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and
also with her strange instinct for power she scented a possible use to
her, if she could count upon the adherence of a silent, secret force like
the Jews. The old Jewess told how her people were constantly in
communication with their fellow Jews of every land; she said that one who
did a service to a Jew was always sure of finding support from the whole
race; and Wilhelmine's quick brain and vivid imagination wove a romantic
web, herself the centre thereof, holding in one hand the power of
Wirtemberg's court, and in the other the secret thread commanding the
commercial enterprises undertaken by freed and grateful Israelites.
Romantic certainly, but very lucrative to the heroine of this self-woven
romance!
'Well, Widow Hazzim,' she said at length, 'destiny has brought me to you.
Some day I may have power to help your race, will you vouch me gratitude
and support in return?' She spoke lightly, but her eyes were serious and
watchful, and her hands gripped the essence-soaked kerchief which she had
taken from her brow.
The Jewess laughed. 'Do us a service and you will see!' she answered.
At this moment the door, which led to some inner room, opened, and a boy
appeared on the threshold.
'My great-nephew, lady,' said the Jewess; 'his mother is my niece. He can
sing like the heavenly seraphim, and great beauty of body is his as
well.' She whispered the last statement in that fatal whisper wherewith
the aged often give conceited self-consciousness to children.
The boy advanced: graceful, perfect in line, glowing in his Jewish
youthful beauty, which is usually over-bold, a trifle insolent and hard.
He approached Wilhelmine, and bent before her in a salute so ceremonious
that it was at once strangely appealing from a child, and yet unctuous
and unnatural. Wilhelmine gave him her hand and inquired his name.
'Joseph Süss Oppenheimer, musician,' he replied gravely.
'Indeed? Musician!' she said, laughing. 'Thy profession already fixed and
entitled.'
'My father is a musician; he sings before courts, and I shall do the
same,' he added proudly.
Wilhelmine laughed. The boy's calm assurance of success pleased her, and
his unusual beauty attracted her, as all personal comeliness invariably
did.
'He knows what he wants, this Joseph Süss,' she said; 'and to know what
one wants, to know it decidedly, is the first step to achievement. Grasp
success firmly and it is yours!'
The boy looked at her, fascinated by her loveliness, dominated by her
voice and the creed which she enunciated. The old Jewess sent the boy to
fetch his guitar, and when he returned she desired him to sing for her
guest's entertainment.
Joseph Süss, with the too precocious manner of the Jewish child, inquired
with another elaborate bow if Wilhelmine would care to hear his voice.
She begged him to let her hear the seraphim sing. The boy caught the note
of irony in her phrase; flushing deeply, he laid aside his guitar and
would have run away had not Wilhelmine, with her easy self-indulgent
kindness of heart to those who did not get in her way, called him back
and propitiated him with smiling reassurances. The boy seated himself
near her and sang. His voice was deliciously fresh and clear, and
Wilhelmine, delightedly, made him sing again and again till the child's
repertory was exhausted. She praised him and fondled him, and taking
from her breast a small jewelled pin, engraved with her initials, she
fastened it in his coat.
'A remembrance, dear musician,' she said laughing. She was destined to
see that jewel again after long years, when humiliation and defeat came
to her, striking her down at the zenith of her brilliant career.