In a narrow street near the wall of the old city, not far from the
river Elbe, stood a small house in a garden surrounded with a wall. One
could easily see that it had been recently erected, and care had been
taken to make it handsomer than the other houses. On the walls the
architect had suspended stone flowers, round the windows were placed
ornaments, graceful curves took the place of straight lines, thus
making the building very fantastic.
On the gate stood two vases brought from Italy in order to remind one
of that country. On one side of the house a verandah also reminded one
of the Italian _pergole_. The front of the house turned towards the
river Elbe. Young trees already gave some shadow, and two old linden
trees, which remained from byegone times, spread their branches widely.
One autumn evening a woman was sitting on the balcony. She was the
personification of wistful longing. She was young, beautiful, but sad
as night; her black eyebrows were contracted, in her dark eyes shone
tears; she put her elbows on her knees, leaned her head on her hands,
and looked into the distance.
It was easy to recognise in her an Italian, for such a beautiful form
nature grants only to her elect children, growing in air filled with
the scent of orange blossoms. On the half-open red lips, between which
could be seen her white teeth, there lingered a song. Her thoughts
interrupted it, the voice stopped, and after a while flowed on again
like a dream, then died away in silence, changing into a sigh.
She was alone, her thoughts concentrated on herself, turned into stone
by longing, wearied of life. The song flowed from habit, the tears
flowed from the heart.
Dressed as if she were in her own country, she could dream about the
warm Italian autumn, for the day was warm. She wore a light dress,
slipping from her shoulders, her black hair was loose, her arms were
bare. It was difficult to guess her age--the first years of youth had
hardly passed and it was followed by those in which one longs after
youth and looks forward to the future, though fearing the latter in the
meanwhile. Her eyes were already familiar with tears and the mouth
seemed no more to yearn after kisses, for she was already familiar with
their sweetness. Her body was near the dreary river Elbe under the sky
of the North, but her thoughts were far beyond the mountains and seas.
To the left the sun was setting in an orange-yellow sky and she turned
her eyes in that direction. Just then steps were heard in the narrow
street. The dreamy woman heard them and awoke from her dreams. She
became frightened and listened. Someone knocked at the gate. Afraid,
she wrapped herself in her gown, gathered up her dishevelled hair and
disappeared into the house.
Another knock was heard at the gate. An old grey-haired man, wearing
only a shirt and a cotton cape opened the door and looked out. At the
gate stood a good-looking man, who, without asking permission, walked
through. The old man muttered something, closed the door and followed
him.
The new-comer asked the old man in Italian whether Teresa was at home
and received from him an answer in the affirmative. He went quickly
towards the house, the door of which stood open. The entrance hall was
empty; he went upstairs and knocked at the door; an old, poorly dressed
woman opened it and let him in.
The guest entered and found only the stool upon which the Italian was
sitting a short time ago. The door leading to the balcony was open. The
view from here was so charming that he stopped, looked at it and grew
meditative.
The rustling of a dress was heard behind him, and the same woman whom
we saw on the balcony advanced slowly. She now wore a voluminous black
dress and her hair was negligently tied. Her face bore the same
expression of weariness.
She nodded as her guest turned to greet her. They spoke in Italian.
'What is the matter with you?' the stranger asked.
'I am not well! I am dying from longing,' answered the Italian sadly.
'I cannot live here!'
'Where does such despair come from?'
'From the air!' the woman cried, throwing herself on a sofa.
The man sat opposite her on a chair.
'From the air!' she repeated, 'I cannot breathe here! I cannot live
here! I must die here!'
'But what is the matter?'
'You see----'
'Then again that longing?'
'It has never left me.'
'I am sure Faustina has done something again,' said the visitor. It was
Bruehl, as one could guess.
'Faustina?' she said looking at him angrily. 'You think and talk only
of her!'
'Why do you not eclipse Faustina? Why do you not try to please the
King? She is older----'
'She is a witch as old as the world--' interrupted Teresa. 'An
abominable comedian. But with that King----'
'Pray, speak with respect about him!'
Teresa's mouth twitched.
'I will give you some advice,' said Bruehl, 'when you sing, always turn
towards the King, look at him, smile to him, be coquettish. If he
applaud you, you are first.'
'But in the meanwhile that old Faustina is first. The King is ruled by
habit, and has no taste. She has a coarse voice and grey hair. But it
does not matter, she is a _diva_, and we _compars!_'
'Teresa, listen,' said Bruehl, 'do not despair, it shall be changed,
Faustina shall return home, you shall remain.'
'I would prefer the contrary,' Teresa muttered.
'I have not time to-day to talk that matter over with you,' said Bruehl.
'At any minute I expect Padre Guarini to rap at the door. Tell old
Beppo to let him in. I could not see him elsewhere and I told him to
come here. Give him something sweet, but not your lips which are the
sweetest, and leave us alone.'
Teresa listened with indifference; then as though forced to obey, she
rose and moved slowly towards the door calling her old woman, to whom
she whispered a few words. Bruehl paced up and down the room.
Teresa turned, looked at him and went to the sofa, but a muffled knock
at the door forced her to rise again to welcome the Jesuit.
A swift step was heard on the stairs and the long face of the Padre,
smiling kindly, appeared in the doorway. He noticed Teresa as she put
in order the things scattered about the room.
'Let that be,' he exclaimed. 'I am not a guest, but one of the family.
I feel so happy to be with my countrymen.'
Bruehl came over to Guarini.
'What news?' he asked. 'Is he going away?'
'Yes,' said the Padre laughing. 'The King himself told him to go and
rest after working so hard. Do you understand? Very cleverly done. I
never expected the Queen to be so cunning. She said to the King, "I
know that you will be longing after Sulkowski, that we shall not be
able to find a substitute for him, but he is killing himself with hard
work. He is made for the active life of a soldier, let him go and smell
some powder, and return refreshed." The King kissed her hand, thanking
her for her sympathy for his favourite, and he said: "I shall tell
Sulkowski to-day to go and travel, and pay his expenses." We must not
stint the money! Let him go! Let him go!' exclaimed Guarini.
Bruehl accompanied him.
'Let him go!'
'He shall stay a few months,' the Padre continued, 'we shall have
plenty of time in which to prepare the King's mind to dismiss him.'
Bruehl's face brightened.
'During that time you know what you have to do,' added Guarini. 'You
must not act against him; that would be dangerous. Leave that to me and
the Queen. Sulkowski hurt many by his pride; as soon as they realise
that his good luck may forsake him, they will help us. You must remain
his friend till the end.'
'That was my idea also,' said Bruehl, 'even I shall protest against his
departure, arguing that I shall not be able to do everything without
Sulkowski.'
'Very well,' said Guarini. '_Al nemico il ponte d'oro chi fuge_--when
the King asks for money, give it lavishly.'
'Even to the last thaler,' said Bruehl, rubbing his hands; then
recollecting that he must show his gratitude, he kissed the priest's
hand.
'_Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore_,' muttered the Padre. 'The
King will get accustomed to you.'
They both walked to and fro, the Padre was pondering.
'He leaves his wife, she will communicate with him,' he said quietly.
'We must have some people round her.'
'One would do,' said Guarini, 'but it seems that she is not so easy to
deal with, and it is difficult to find a man for such a function.'
They began to whisper.
'_A goccia a goccia si cava la pietra_--' added the Padre.
Teresa entered from the other room; she was better dressed out of
respect to the priest; she brought some fruit which she placed on the
table.
The priest clapped her on the shoulder in the Italian fashion, she
kissed his hand. He took several medals from his pocket, and gave
Teresa one for herself, and two for her mother and the old Beppo, for
which she kissed his hand again.
The dusk was already falling when Bruehl and the Padre left the
room in which Teresa remained, as sad as before. The old mother came to
keep her company, but they both longed so wistfully after their own
sun-bathed country that they could not speak.
They had not yet lighted the lamp in order not to attract the
mosquitoes, when there was again a rap at the door. Teresa did not rise
although she was curious to know who was there: who could bring her any
consolation?
They could hear a conversation being carried on in Italian with Beppo
on the stairs; it was a woman's voice. Teresa sprang from her seat, her
mother also rose. In the dusk they perceived on the threshold a tall,
well-dressed and good-looking woman, and Teresa to her great surprise
recognised her antagonist Faustina.
The stage queen looked round the room and seemed to be thinking what to
say.
Teresa stood silent.
'Do you see, I come to you, I!' Faustina said laughing. 'I waited in
vain for you to come to me, and I came to make peace! My dear Teresa,
we are Italians, both from that beautiful country, where the oranges
blossom, and instead of making our life sweet, we poison it. Give me
your hand and let us be friends.'
Teresa hesitated, then she began to cry and threw herself on Faustina's
neck.
'I never was your foe!' she exclaimed. 'I have not taken a lover from
you, I never spoke ill of you.'
'Let us forget about the past!' Faustina rejoined. 'Let us not speak of
it, let us be friends. Our life is bitter enough, poisoned by others;
we need not help them.'
Faustina sighed.
'I come to you, for I pity you; but what is the use of good advice and
of kind words? They are too late, nobody can stop that which is to be.'
She became silent; Teresa's mother left the room; the two women seated
themselves.
'The people mar our happiness,' said Faustina, 'and we must swallow our
tears. It is not our world--and at their court one must walk as
cautiously as on ice, in order not to slip or fall. Fortunately I have
the King, and he will be faithful to my voice. He is a good creature,
who goes to his box as a horse to his stable, and I furnish him with
his food of songs.'
She laughed and bent and kissed Teresa's forehead.
'I pity you, you are in that man's hands.'
Teresa looked timidly round and said:
'I am afraid of my own mother.'
'And I am not afraid of anybody,' said Faustina. 'But tell me do you
know him?'
Teresa shivered.
'He is a dreadful man!' Faustina said. 'He is sweet, kind, but his
laughter hisses like that of a serpent; he smiles but he has no heart.
And so pious, so modest--'
Faustina shook herself and continued:
'I have come to tell you, that soon he will rule absolutely over us
all, and then woe to any of us if we resist him. _Poverina_!'
Teresa was silent. Faustina continued:
'Perhaps he is good to you, but if you could hear complaints, as I do
everyday, about his oppression, you would hate him.'
'My dear Faustina,' Teresa at last replied, 'I am 80 glad you came to
see me. I am so miserable! I dream continually of the Adriatic sea: it
seems to me that I sit on the threshold of our cottage--_lucciole_ fly
in the air, Andrea plays the guitar--the song resounds, the wind brings
the scent of flowers. I wake up, listen: the wind rustles, but it
brings snow, and the strange tongue resounds and the people laugh and
their irony wounds and their love humiliates.'
Teresa covered her face with her hands.
'_Cara mia_,' said Faustina kissing her, 'therefore let us not tease
each other but help each other on this thorny path.'
And she put out her hand whispering:
'Be careful of that man, for he is dreadful, and may the Madonna take
care of you.'
Teresa rose and accompanied her to the door.
'_Addio_!' she said. 'May God reward you for your good heart; you came
when I was sad--I am happier now that we are friends.'
Thus they separated and the thoughtful Faustina, whose _porte-chaise_
was waiting in front of the house, told the men to carry her home. She
was obliged to pass the castle. The dusk was not yet as dark in the
street as it was in the houses and one could recognise people's
faces. Faustina looking distractedly in front of her recognised, in a
_porte-chaise_ passing hers, Sulkowski's pale face and black moustache.
She rapped at the window and cried:
'_Fermate_!'
Sulkowski leaned out. Both _porte-chaises_ stopped so that their
windows were opposite each other and their occupants could converse.
Faustina dropped the glass; the minister, a little surprised, looked at
her.
'I must have a word with your Excellency,' she said in Italian.
'Beautiful _diva_!' said the Count, 'if it is a question of some
quarrel, Padre Guarini is for that; if about some favour, our gracious
King never refuses you anything, but I have no time to listen to you!'
'Count! the question is not about myself, not about a favour, but about
you and the King,' said Faustina boldly.
'I am at your service and I listen to you,' said the Count smiling.
'Ah! if you would also believe me!'
The Count was silent and tried to control his impatience.
'Count,' said Faustina, 'is it true that you are going away, that you
leave the place to your foes?'
Sulkowski laughed.
'I have no foes,' he said quietly, 'and were I so fortunate as to have
them, (for I should consider it an honour to gain enemies by serving
the King), I should not be afraid of them.'
'Do not mistrust me,' rejoined Faustina. 'But from behind the stage one
sees the world well and one knows people better than in the drawing-room.
Count, I am a friend of yours, for you love the King and you wish for
the welfare of this country which I consider my second fatherland. You
wish that others also loved the King but they think only of themselves
and do not care about the country at all.'
Sulkowski frowned.
'But who? Who?'
'Are you blind then?' Faustina exclaimed. 'Do you not see anything?
Have I to open your eyes? The Queen is jealous of the King's favours
towards you, the almighty Padre Guarini is your foe and Bruehl your
rival. They made a plot secretly, they send you away in order to take
from you the King's heart. And you do not see it! That man will take
your place!'
Saying this she wrung her hands; Sulkowski listened; his pale face
flushed.
'My dear Signora,' he said, 'these are dreams and visions. I am going,
but I myself asked for leave of absence; I have no enemies and I am
sure of the King's heart. Be assured it is gossip, flying round the
court like mosquitoes about the marshes. Believe me, I am not blind and
it is difficult to fool me and still more difficult to get rid of me.'
He began to laugh. He wished to withdraw when Faustina exclaimed:
'Count, is it possible that you are so blind? Your noble character does
not admit of treachery which everybody sees.'
'Because all that has no sense. Bruehl would not dare, even had he such
allies as the Queen and the venerable Padre.'
Faustina lowered her head and said slowly:
'Therefore that which is destined is unavoidable. _Chi a la morte e
destinato, muore santo o disperato. Addio, signor conte_ and may
Providence guide you and bring you back. Do not stay long away. You may
recollect Faustina's warning, but it will be too late.'
The Count took hold of her hand.
'Beautiful and good-hearted signora,' he said, 'I am very grateful to
you, for that which you have done is the proof of a good heart. I know
how to appreciate it. But things are not as bad as you imagine. I can
call the King my best friend; I trust him and shall not be
disappointed! Be easy about me!'
Faustina said nothing more; the Count saluted her.
But he changed his plans and ordered his men to bear him to Bruehl's
palace.
It was a time at which he had a good chance of finding him at home. He
did not need to ask to be admitted, for before the almighty Sulkowski
all doors were thrown open.
Bruehl was at home.
Sulkowski rushed upstairs and did not notice that a page preceded him
through another door to tell his master about the visitor.
Bruehl was with Henniche whom he dismissed, and before Sulkowski, who
was obliged to pass through several drawing-rooms, reached his study,
he fell on his knees before a crucifix and began to pray.
The easy manner in which he assumed that position proved that it was
not for the first time that he found it advisable that a visitor should
come upon him unexpectedly praying.
The contemporary writers assure us that Bruehl was very often found
praying.
Sulkowski entered the room without knocking at the door and stood there
in surprise; it was the first time he had seen Bruehl praying and he
could hardly believe his own eyes; he stood motionless, while Bruehl
with his back turned, as though he had not heard the door open, knelt,
sighing. At length he beat upon his breast, bending his head as low as
a beggar in front of a church asking for alms.
Sulkowski could not have suspected that all this was a comedy, for he
entered unannounced and in the dusk the _porte-chaise_ could not have
been noticed.
The farce lasted quite a long time, and every time Bruehl lifted his
hand Sulkowski could see a rosary-round his wrist. At length the Count
coughed slightly.
Bruehl started as if frightened, and having perceived Sulkowski covered
his eyes:
'Ah! dear Count! You must excuse me--I am ashamed--but sometimes one
needs to pray--so much time do we give to the pleasures of life and it
is only right that some should be given to prayer--'
'It is I that must beg your pardon,' said Sulkowski advancing slowly,
'and I am edified by your piety. Forgive me that I have interrupted
you.'
'I was just finishing,' Bruehl said pointing to the sofa.
Two candles were burning on the table.
'A man who prays like that,' thought Sulkowski, 'cannot be bad and
perverse; it is impossible.'
A heavy weight fell from his breast. He looked at Bruehl who seemed to
be still in pious ecstasies.
'Well,' said Sulkowski, seating himself comfortably on the sofa, 'you
know that I am going away.'
Bruehl's face became melancholy.
'You must do as you please,' he said slowly, 'as for me I neither
approve your voyage, nor do I advise it. Speaking frankly, I was
against it and I am still. In the first place nobody can be a
substitute for you with the King. I can and I must be frank with you.
The Queen is a saint, but she is a woman. If you go her influence will
increase and the King will fall under her and Guarini's influence. You
know that I am a good Catholic but I should dislike to see the King's
mind too much under the influence of the priests. Our gracious lord
hearkens too much to them already and hurts the feelings of his Saxon
subjects.'
Sulkowski listened very attentively.
'My dear Bruehl,' he said, 'you are right and I endorse your opinion.
All that you say is true. You blame me for going away, but I am a
soldier. The King made me commander of his army. I expect a war and I
persuaded the King that war is inevitable, that Saxony must take
advantage of the situation of Austria. That is the reason why I wish to
acquire military experience; I go, but not to satisfy my fancy--'
'I would prefer that you stayed,' Bruehl rejoined,
'And do you know what they say?' asked Sulkowski.
Bruehl's face expressed surprise.
'It is very curious,' said Sulkowski slowly. 'They warn me not to go,
for you and Guarini have made a plot against me, to send me away
purposely, in order to overthrow me.'
Bruehl wrung his hands, sprang from his chair and said angrily:
'Show me that slanderer! They dare to say that against me! I and Father
Guarini! I who fear him as a pestilence! I would dare to attack you
whom the King calls friend! It is stupid and ridiculous!'
'Calm yourself,' said Sulkowski laughing. 'I told you this to show you
how stupid people are. I hope you do not think that I distrust or fear
you.'
And he added after a while:
'It is possible that a foolish man might make such an attempt, but it
would cost him dear; I am sure of the King's favour, he has no secrets
from me.'
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
'In that case,' Bruehl rejoined, 'I shall still more insist that you
remain.'
'Excuse me, but exactly for the same reason I must go, in order to
prove to the idiots that I am not afraid of anybody.'
Bruehl waved his hand.
'I am sure it came from Berlin, where the gossip about Saxony
originated,' he said.
'I am going to Prague to-morrow,' said Sulkowski, for I must look at
Prague from a strategical points of view, as we are going to take it.
Can I take leave of your wife?'
Bruehl rang the bell. The lackey entered.
'Is your mistress at home?'
'Yes, your Excellency.'
'Announce the Count Sulkowski and me.'
The lackey left the room; there was silence; then he returned and said:
'My lady is ready to receive your Excellencies.'
Sulkowski rose from the sofa and went to the drawing-room; Bruehl
followed him, smiling notwithstanding the emotions he had just
experienced.
In the drawing-room Bruehl's beautiful wife was waiting for them. She
had just returned from the Queen's _cercle_, which was usually held
from four to six o'clock. She was dressed and radiant in her beauty
which astonished more than attracted. There was something wild in her
eyes, something cruel in her mouth, those who looked at her became
uneasy. It was the reflection of the disquiet raging in her soul.
She looked at Sulkowski.
'I have come to take leave of you.' said Sulkowski with indifference,
bowing slightly. 'I am sure you know I am going away. I am sorry to
leave such a charming court, but there are duties--'
'Ah, yes,' said the beautiful Frances, 'I heard at her Majesty's
_cercle_ that you are leaving us. I was very much surprised.'
'Did your husband not tell you about it?' asked Sulkowski.
'My husband!' said Frau Bruehl, making a funny face, 'he is so busy that
sometimes I do not see him for a month. I have to learn his whereabouts
from other people.'
'You ought to scold him for it.'
'Why?' said Frances ironically. 'He is free and I am free also. Can
there be anything more agreeable in matrimony? We have not time to be
saturated with each other and we are happy.'
She looked scornfully at her husband, who took it as mirthfully as he
could and laughed in the most natural way.
'Does the countess remain?' the lady asked.
'Unfortunately, I must leave her!' rejoined Sulkowski. 'Although I
should like her to accompany me on the campaign.'
'Then you think of fighting?'
'Yes! Pray wish me good luck that I may bring you a Turk's head.'
'I do not wish for that,' she said maliciously. 'Bring back your own
head safe, that will suffice. With a wreath of laurels on it, it would
look very well on a medal.'
Her own allusion to a medal recalled Watzdorf to her memory and made
her eyes burn with fire.
'I wish you good luck,' she said, making a curtsey. Her eyes said
something else.
Sulkowski bowed carelessly. The hostess turned towards her apartment.
The host took Sulkowski by the arm, and whispering something
confidentially, led him back to his study.