REST
'Memories that make the heart a tomb.'
THERE is solace to the mourner in the sound of rushing waters; most of
all can the stricken soul find a short oblivion in the ceaseless chant of
the ocean's mighty surging; and by the tumult of a great river human
unrest is soothed ineffably.
At Schaffhausen the Rhine falls in giant cascades, roaring and dashing
against those rocks which, legend says, Wotan flung into the river in his
mighty rage against a poor husbandman who had drowned himself and his
lowly wife because her mortal beauty had excited the desire of the
amorous wanderer.
White, whirling foam, and above a thin, glistening, veil-like mist made
of the myriad drops flung up from the water's impact; but here too the
eternal poet, Legend, has wrought a delicate phantasy: this mist he calls
the breath from the lips of the Rhine-maidens who sing for ever beneath
the foam.
An enchanted place this Schaffhausen, guarded by the great white Alps
whose pure crests rise in awful majesty to high Heaven. And here it was
that the Grävenitz dwelt after she left Wirtemberg, and here Time the
consoler healed her bruised heart and her crushed pride. She dwelt in the
small castle which Zollern had given her and where her marriage with
Würben had been solemnised. Her soul rested from pain, but there were
torturing ghosts of the past around her: Eberhard Ludwig, Madame de Ruth,
Zollern, her unkind brother, even the fraudulent attorney Schütz, and the
ridiculous figure of her name-husband, Nepomuk Würben. Yes, all her
life's denizens had vanished. Death or absence had swallowed them; only
she, the central figure, remained.
She was memory-haunted, who herself was but a memory.
Her great healthfulness endured, but sometimes she suffered from strange
swoons. 'It is from the heart,' said the apothecary whom Maria called in.
'God knows--heart affliction!' said the Grävenitz bitterly, when they
told her of this verdict.
Years passed, and still she lingered at Schaffhausen, though she often
promised herself to journey to Berlin armed with that 'Letter of Royal
Protection' which Zollern had procured for her from Prussia's first King
Friedrich I. But she shrank from bringing her cause before Friedrich
Wilhelm I., the blustering monarch who had played so unexpected a rôle in
her life. She accounted him as the destroyer of her happiness, for she
believed that it was he alone who had influenced Eberhard Ludwig against
her, and had induced him to banish her. Woman-like, she threw the blame
of her lover's action entirely upon the adviser.
She hankered after her beautiful Freudenthal, and she dreamed of
returning thither. Deeming herself forgotten, she believed she would be
safe in Wirtemberg. Also the fierce torrent of the people's rage had been
diverted to another channel, their hatred sated with their vengeance on
another favourite. Süss Oppenheimer, who had saved her from imprisonment,
had paid the penalty of his own crimes; in his expiation he had borne the
brunt, and, for the time, appeased the people's wrath against
favouritism.
Karl Alexander of Wirtemberg was dead, and his son, a child of some
twelve years, was Duke of Wirtemberg. He resided in Stuttgart with his
mother, a princess of the House of Thurn and Taxis.
Ludwigsburg was deserted, the palace closed; the busy crowd of merchants,
clothiers, perruquiers, dressmakers, which had flocked to the new centre
of gaiety, had vanished. The Grävenitz had heard that Ludwigsburg was
like a city of the dead, with grass-grown streets and deserted houses.
Surely she, who belonged to that forgotten past, was forgotten also? She
longed to return and once more to view the scenes of her dead glory. But
the years passed, and she lingered in Switzerland.
In 1740 she heard of the death of Friedrich Wilhelm I. of Prussia, and of
the accession of his much-tried son--that Friedrich whom the world was
justly to call Great.
A fresh hope sprang up in the Grävenitz's heart. This young man, so
noble, so just, so cultured, would he not give her justice? She would
journey to Berlin and present the Letter of Royal Protection; he would
recognise her claims, and induce the Wirtemberg government to give her
back her Freudenthal.
The headman of the canton of Schaffhausen supplied her with the necessary
travelling papers. 'A lady of quality and her serving-maid journeying to
Berlin on court business,' it was certified therein; no mention of the
names of Grävenitz or Würben, which might have awakened dangerous
memories.
Once more her way lay through the spring-radiant land. Fate had caused
her to wait for the blossom, it was her destiny always to see Wirtemberg
clothed in the fairest raiment. She journeyed through the smiling
valleys, she passed beside the peaceful Neckar river. Her way led her
near to Rottenburg, and she turned from her road to visit the Neuhaus.
Here she found ruin. Madame de Ruth had bequeathed her property to
Zollern, and while he lived the place had been tended with pious care;
but he too was dead, and the Neuhaus had passed to an heir-at-law who
knew not, and if he had known, would not have comprehended, the loving
memory which caused the dilapidated mansion to be treasured. It is always
so; there is no sadder thing than the melancholy of a place, once sacred
and beloved, which has fallen into the chill hands of the indifference of
another generation.
The Neuhaus was turned farm: the upper rooms were used as hay-lofts, and
in that long, panelled living-room, which had seen Wilhelmine von
Grävenitz's strange marriage, a peasant woman cooked, scolding her brood
of children. She stared at the Grävenitz.
'Oh yes! this is my husband's farm. What do you want with me? See the
house? There is not much to see,' she said suspiciously. A gulden changed
her tone.
'Certainly; look if you like,' she said, and followed the sad visitant
from room to room, hands on hips, and shrill voice explaining how the
rats were so bad in the house that she and her husband would have to
leave next month.
'Is there a grave here? a grave surrounded by a stone wall? No? But it
was consecrated ground, it cannot have been destroyed?' The Grävenitz
spoke quietly, but she could have wept aloud.
Yes, the woman said, there was a bit of walled-off land, but it did not
belong to them. There was a gate, and they had not the key. Perhaps there
was a grave there; the grass grew so high you could not tell. She led her
visitor through the neglected garden which Spring, the glorious gardener,
had yet made fair with blossom and the budding lilac. The Grävenitz
peered through the bars of the graveyard gate. Ah, thank God! who sends
Spring to garnish the graves of the forgotten dead! The tombs were hidden
by a fair coronal of waving grasses, and the redthorns above made a
baldaquin more beautiful than the work of man's hand.
'Forgotten, yet so peaceful,' she murmured as she turned away.
'Did you speak, lady?' said the peasant woman; but the Grävenitz shook
her head.
'Only to myself; only to myself always now,' she answered.
At Tübingen no one paid heed to the traveller, but she did not venture up
to the castle. She might have dared it, for none would have remembered
her, or recognised in the tall, white-haired woman the beautiful young
courtesan who had held mock court in the ancient university castle. She
learned that no Duke had resided there for many years, it was entirely
given up to the students and their grave professors.
'But the state-rooms? I heard that there were fine apartments in the
castle, where princes and their courts held high revel?' she queried of
the innkeeper.
'Eh! all those are dismantled now, Madame,' returned the man.
Dismantled--the word rang in her ears. Yes; the very scenes of her
glorious past were changed.
Through the shadowy Tübingen forest she journeyed onwards. She commanded
her driver to turn aside before Stuttgart, and thus she passed along
by-roads to Ludwigsburg.
The sun was still high in the heavens when she entered the
well-remembered avenue of shady chestnut-trees. Here too Spring had been
busy, crowning the trees with bloom. A regal decoration for her
home-coming, she thought.
At the stately town-gate her coach halted, and for the first time in her
life she paid toll upon entering Ludwigsburg. Her eyes sought the
monogram sculptured on the stone gate-pillars: 'E. L.' entwined in
graceful curves on a rounded shield upheld by playful amorini. How well
she remembered when Frisoni had brought her the drawings for this device.
Would her Excellency wish her chiffre to appear in the design? the
Italian had asked, and she had rejected the proposal, she hardly knew
why.
Her coach lumbered down the Ludwigsburg street. It was in a deplorable
condition, and the heavy carriage jolted and swung from side to side. The
houses which bordered one side of the street were closed and shuttered,
and their blank windows seemed like sightless yet imploring eyes gazing
towards the deserted palace gardens.
The driver halted. She heard him shouting to one of the rare passers-by
in this dead city, 'Where is the inn?' She made a movement forward and
would have called through the window, 'The inn is further down the
street,' but she checked herself, remembering that she must betray no
knowledge of the town she had created.
It was a daring thing, this visit to Wirtemberg. Who could tell if some
one might not recognise her and set a howling mob upon her? The law would
not interfere with her; she had been pardoned, and was merely passing
through the country on her journey to Berlin, but some remnant of hatred
might linger in the peasants' memory.
When she reached the inn the innkeeper looked hard at his guest. Did he
recognise her? she wondered.
'Is this Ludwigsburg?' she asked, feigning ignorance.
'Yes, lady. Whom have I the honour of serving?'
She gave some name at random, adding: 'I am travelling from Austria and
Switzerland home to Berlin.' Then she inquired concerning the palace.
Could a stranger visit the gardens? Did the reigning prince reside in
that beautiful palace? and so on, questioning like an inquisitive
traveller.
If she wished she could see the whole place, she was told. The new
gatekeeper was a very friendly fellow; he would let her into the gardens
if she gave him a trifle to purchase a drink of wine. She ordered a meal
and pretended to eat, though the food choked her, but she dared not show
undue eagerness to visit the palace. At length the dreary subterfuges
were over; she had intimated her intention of passing the night at the
inn; she had been shown the guest-chamber; she had pretended to rest, and
now she was free to repair to her sorry sight-seeing without incurring
suspicion.
Evening fell over Ludwigsburg, yet the rounded roofs of the palace were
still kissed by the departing sunshine, when she walked up to the gateway
through which she had so often driven in ceremonious state surrounded by
the splendid Silver Guard. A squat-figured, broad-faced Wirtemberger
stood in the gateway, smoking a huge carved wood pipe of rank tobacco.
The blue smoke rose in spirals from the pipe bowl, and the man blew
clouds of a browner hue, the delicate blue-grey of the smoke spoiled from
the admixture of human breath.
The man watched the Grävenitz's approach without offering greeting or
comment.
'Are you the gatekeeper?' she asked.
'Yes, that I am,' he grunted ungraciously. Good Heavens! how she would
have had him flogged if he had spoken to her thus twelve years ago! She
looked at him steadily.
'I am a stranger, and would fain visit this famous palace,' she said.
'Have you an order from the court? I cannot let strangers enter without
one,' he returned gruffly.
'No, I have no order. Will you let me see the gardens, at least?' He
shook his head and continued smoking.
'See, I will give you something for your trouble, but I must see the
gardens.' She held out two golden pieces. 'Take these, and let me enter,'
she said imploringly.
The man's manner changed. This must be some great lady if she could pay
him in gold when he would have let her in for a few groschen. Well, these
travellers often had strange fancies; and if it pleased her to pay so
much for so small a thing!--He took the money and moved aside.
'Go in, go in, lady! Shall I come round with you? I have heard tell all
about the old days here: I can show you where Duke Eberhard Ludwig lived,
and where the Duke Karl died. I will go fetch the castle keys.' She
shuddered.
'No! no! I do not wish to see; I will only walk in the garden. Do not
disturb yourself,' she said hastily, and passed on. The gatekeeper
followed her a few steps: 'You can see the gardens of La Favorite, if you
wish; you need only walk straight from the north terraces and you will
come to La Favorite,' he called after her. How strange it was to be thus
directed by a newcomer, told the way, shown what she had planned and
devised yard by yard. She nodded to the man. 'I thank you, I shall find
my way,' she answered.
And now she was free to wander in the past, free to suffer the exquisite
pain of memory. She walked slowly on. How the trees had grown! And the
little lilacs she had planted--they were tall bushes now. The paths were
grass-grown, the water in the basin of the fountain on the south side was
covered with weeds and thick green slime, the large stone vases which
stood round the basin were moss-covered. The lichen hid the medallions on
the vases, the medallions which bore her sculptured portrait. There were
the clumps of rose peonies she had planted--in bud too--she would never
see them flower again. On, through the gardens to the courtyard where
grass grew between the paving-stones. The palace windows were closed and
shuttered. No sound broke the stillness of this deserted dwelling-place.
The thought came to her that only herself, a ghost of past glories, and
perhaps the sinister spectre of the White Lady, moved about the dead
palace. She passed on. The door of the main entrance on the ground floor
of the Corps de Logis stood ajar. Strange that it should be so in this
shut house. She entered; no, it could not matter even if the doors had
stood wide open, for the hall was entirely empty--not a chair or table
for a thief to drag away! And the well-remembered staircase, leading to
Eberhard Ludwig's apartments, was boarded up with rough deal planks.
The air struck chill and tomblike in the entrance-hall, yet the Grävenitz
lingered. Yes; there from the ceiling her own face looked down at her in
two bas-reliefs. In one the face was smiling with half-open, voluptuous
lips, and the eyes, a little drooping, told of some delicious thrill of
passion. Opposite this was the figure of Time, winged and frowning, with
huge scythe-blades in his mighty hands. She shuddered; those relentless
blades had indeed mown down the little day of her love's triumph. What
devil had prompted the Italian Frisoni to illustrate this terrible truth
upon the very palace built to honour her?
Across the entrance-hall she saw another bas-relief, again her face, but
serious this time, looking fixedly, gravely upwards--the expression of
one who aspires, of one who would compel Destiny. Facing this was a
medallion bearing a ducal crown in the centre, the scroll-work round this
medallion was made of giant thorns, and a peering, mocking satyr's face
peeped out from the thorn wreath.
Had the Italian dared to mock her thus? And in the old days she had not
noted the insolent meaning underlying the beautiful designs! How she
would have revenged herself upon the artist!
She turned away. After all, the man had spoken truly in his sculptured
allegory: Time, and Change, and Death are more mighty than Love, than
Joy, than Power. She mused on, and unconsciously her wanderings, led by
old custom's memory, brought her to the vaulted arcade beside the door of
the east pavilion where she had dwelt. Here, too, her own face met her in
the bas-reliefs. Graceful designs of musical instruments, emblems of her
taste, and everywhere laughing Cupids held wreathed flowers, viole
d'amore, harps and lutes around the mistress-musician's voluptuous face.
The carven stone held for ever the memory of Eberhard Ludwig's homage in
the beauteous picturing of Love, Laughter, Music--all that she had
wielded with such potency to charm; and she knew that the sneering
artist-architect had hidden everywhere the figure of Time the Avenger;
sometimes she had called him the Consoler, but she knew him better now as
the Eternally Pitiless, waiting to reap his harvest--the flowers reaped
with the wheat.
Suddenly the full message came to her: 'All things wither, but the
remembrance of the sinful light of love is bitter pain, whereas the
memory of the pure woman is sweet with children's tears.' She had read
the words in some book, they smote her now. In an agony of weeping she
leaned her head against the stone picture of Music, Love, and Laughter,
and her own young face. 'O God! O God! have I not atoned by pain?' she
moaned.
A soft evening breeze came stealing round her. Nature could give no
answer to her fearful questioning, but the gentle Spring wind kissed her
on lips and brow. She rose and took her way to the terrace. Here, too,
was ruinous neglect--grass-grown paths, moss-covered sculptures, untended
plants. She looked up at the windows of the rooms which had been Eberhard
Ludwig's; they were closed and shuttered.--Dead, everything was dead!
She hurried on towards La Favorite, her Château Joyeux. Here again was
ruin, and here also her own face met her sculptured everywhere--smiling,
young, and indifferent to the ruin. The flowering parterre was untended,
but the lilacs and the redthorn-trees made the garden fair. The long
Spring twilight faded, night drew near--and the Grävenitz turned away.
'Farewell,' she said aloud, 'the night comes! Farewell, Spring!'
* * * * *
That night Maria could not induce her beloved mistress to taste food. 'I
am so weary, Maria, let me rest. I think God will give me sleep,' she
said, and the faithful peasant woman left her.
In the morning Maria found her resting still. God had given her the Great
Sleep.
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 35, "tuggted" changed to "tugged"
Page 35, "he" changed to "her"
Page 133, "Fraülein" changed to "Fräulein"
Page 257, "an" changed to "and"