by Isak Dinesen
Be this as it may, the young princely worshipper of the Muses returned to his own court, craving nothing in the world but to marry Princess Ludmilla of Leuchtenstein.
The ceremonial demand in marriage was made and accepted. And on a bright October day, when the vintage was just finished, the city of Babenhausen welcomed its young Princess. Fresh and pure as a peony bud, tender and playful as a child, the bride made the loyal Babenhauseners scatter their very hearts with the rain of flowers upon the pavement before her coach.
A row of brilliant balls, banquets and gala performances ensued. The whole court was smiling, and old chamberlains with tears in their eyes witnessed the display of princely matrimonial happiness.
The young couple, like two instruments of different nature, melted together in melodious happiness. Princess Ludmilla, delighted to delight, led the dance, and Prince Lothar, still wooing what he had won, followed his young wife through all its figures. The Grand Duchess looked on and smiled. The glory of the house of Fugger-Babenhausen was to be maintained.
It was and it was not. On a day shortly before Christmas Prince Lothar came to see his mother and calmly and candidly, as he did everything, informed her that the Ducal heir, on whom her mind and heart had for so long been concentrating, was about to make his entry in the world a full two months before law and decency permitted.
The Grand Duchess was struck dumb, first with amazement, for she had never imagined the possibility of such a thing in bonne compagnie. Then with horror, for what would the nation think of a scandal in the ruling house—what, in particular, would the dubious branch of the house itself think, and make, of it? In the end with terrible wrath against her son. And with this last emotion came a crushing feeling of guilt. For had she not herself delivered her frail child into the hands of that demonic figure, Herr Cazotte, and had not Herr Cazotte, talking about Lothar, pronounced the sentence: “With him the idea is action.” The Grand Duchess trembled.
The next moment she was folded in the arms of the miscreant himself. And in this embrace, the first that her son had ever offered her on his own accord, her whole being melted. The world was changed round her, slowly, like a landscape at sunrise, it filled with new surprising tinges of tenderness and rapture. And this, I may here state, was the first triumph of the cherubic child upon whose small figure so much of my tale does turn.
Before she had spoken a word the Grand Duchess had determined to side with her son and daughter-in-law. She would keep their secret even from her husband. She took no further decision at the moment, but when Prince Lothar had left her and she was again alone, she realized that a line of action would have to be found.
To her own surprise the Grand Duchess at once found herself longing for Herr Cazotte. The tail and cloven hoof of the gentleman faded out of the picture, she recalled his second remark about Lothar (“And with him the action is idea”) and smiled.
But Herr Cazotte was away in Rome, painting the portrait of Cardinal Salviati. So the Grand Duchess spent the strangest Christmas of her life, with a dimly radiant Christmas tree somewhere in front of her and parcels of secrets in her drawers.
However, between Christmas and the New Year an event took place which gave her a kind of respite. On a sledge party in the mountains the two panached horses before the young princely couple’s sledge shied at an old woman carrying wood, ran away and upset the sledge in a deep drift of snow. None of the passengers came to any harm, Princess Ludmilla’s rosy face laughed up at her rescuers. But her mother-in-law was alarmed, she sent for the old physician-in-ordinary, Professor Putziger, and told him everything. Professor Putziger ordered his patient to stay in bed for three weeks; for that length of time the Grand Duchess felt a kind of safety.
A fortnight later Herr Cazotte returned from Rome, pleased with his portrait. The Grand Duchess at once sent for him. Although she felt it beneath her to lay any responsibility on him, the artist realized that he was here being taken to task as a person at home in the land of romance and as Prince Lothar’s guide and mentor in it.
“Madame,” said Herr Cazotte, “The Lord God, that great artist, at times paints his pictures in such a manner as to be best appreciated at a long distance. A hundred and fifty years hence your present predicament will have all the look of an idyll composed to delight its spectators. Your difficulty at this moment is that you are a little too close to it.”
“I am very close to it, mon ami,” said the Grand Duchess.
“Each of your loyal subjects,” said Herr Cazotte, “did he know of the matter which now vexes you, would smile in his heart, for all the world loves a lover. At the same time he might feel it his duty to pull a grave face. You are feeling and behaving just like him, Madame. Do not let your own face deceive you.”
“But what are we to do?” asked the Grand Duchess.
“Providence,” said Herr Cazotte, “has stepped in to help us. We must not fall out of step with it.”
He developed to the Grand Duchess a plan which, although it must have been conceived on the spot, seemed well thought through.
The Grand Duke and the nation of Babenhausen, he pronounced, would be informed, quite truthfully, that a hope for the dynasty was dawning. The date for the happy event, in the announcement to them, would be put down for the middle of July. They would further be informed that upon Professor Putziger’s advice the Princess should keep to her bed for three months, and that even after that period she would have to live in utmost seclusion.
During these three months a country resort must be found, everything in it arranged as comfortably and harmoniously as possible, and a small trustworthy court formed. In April the precious patient would be escorted, with care, to the chosen residence and there, in the middle of May, the infant would actually be born.
It was upon the subsequent two months that the whole matter turned. That period alone would be really perilous, and the partisans of the rightful Grand Ducal house were here called upon to form as a stone wall of loyal hearts round an exalted secret. At the end of it, on the fifteenth of July, a cannonade—the cannonade, it was to be hoped, of a hundred and one guns announcing the birth of a male heir—from the old citadel of Babenhausen would proclaim to town and country the great and happy news.
Certainly one would have to be careful even after that date. The traditional pompous baptism must be held within a few weeks. Here it was a lucky thing that the old Archbishop was extremely short-sighted. After this great event the young princely couple might quite naturally take up their summer residence for the rest of the season. And about the end of September the proud Babenhauseners would be pluming themselves on their lusty and clever little Prince.
The Grand Duchess went through the plan carefully and approved of it. In further meetings between her and Herr Cazotte, at times joined by the young father-to-be, it was built up in detail.
The choice of the residence itself was entrusted to Herr Cazotte. After various expeditions this gentleman for Princess Ludmilla’s place of confinement picked out the little chateau of Rosenbad, a rococo hermitage, charmingly situated on a mountain slope by a lake and among woods, and isolated from the rest of the world. For a month he devoted all his talents to fitting out and furnishing the place.
Next a list of the members of the small court was drawn up. Old Professor Putziger as a matter of course would be staying at the chateau in constant attention to the Princess. A distinguished Oberhofmeisterin was found in the Countess Poggendorff, who twenty-five years before had been maid-of-honor to the Grand Duchess herself. The Grand Duchess’ old maid and valet were transferred from her service to that of her daughter-in-law. The roll was lengthening sweetly.
The Grand Duchess, participating in an intrigue, was rejuvenated by thirty years. She might to the one side partake of her consort’s legitimate dynastic gratification, while to the other she kept herself pleasantly occupied by little tête-a-têtes with Herr Cazotte. She even undertook two trips to Schloss Rosenbad.
A problem presented it
self with the nomination of a maid-of-honor to the Princess. The present one was not, to the mind of the Grand Duchess, all that could be desired, for she had three married sisters at court, all three notable gossips. The question when gone into proved more difficult than first assumed, for the young lady who was to hold the office would have to be of such birth, education and appearance as would to the eyes of the world justify her election. She would furthermore have to be young and sweet-tempered, since the Princess in her seclusion would want a companion of her own age and temperament. And where does one, these days, find a pleasant young girl of the highest society with the elevation of mind, the steadfastness of character and the unwavering loyalty of heart demanded by the situation? Tell me that, my dear Herr Cazotte!
Herr Cazotte sat for some time in silence with a thoughtful face. Possibly he had already made his choice, but was taking pleasure in letting the highborn maidens of Babenhausen pass muster before his inner eye.
In the end he said: “Ehrengard von Schreckenstein.”
“Schreckenstein?” the Grand Duchess asked. “The daughter of that General von Schreckenstein who was my father-in-laws’s aide-de-camp?”
“The same,” said Herr Cazotte.
“But my dear Herr Cazotte,” the Grand Duchess exclaimed after a moment. “The Schreckensteins are Lutherans!”
“They are?” said the painter, as if pleasantly surprised.
“One of the few old Lutheran families of the country,” said the lady. “A very stern, indeed puritan breed. All military people.”
“A most fortunate coincidence,” said Herr Cazotte. “If the Roman Catholic mind has a greater picturesqueness, the Lutheran mind has a steelier armature—an armature, Madame, being that iron skeleton round which the sculptor builds up his clay.”
“The General,” said the Grand Duchess, “was first married to a von Kniphausen and by her had five sons, all in the army. Then later in life he married a Solenhofen-Puechau and by his second wife had this daughter. Where have you seen the girl? I seem to remember her now,” she added. “Nothing much to look at.”
“O Madame,” said Herr Cazotte. “Speak not so. She has been presented at Court, and I have seen her. In a white frock. A young Walkyrie. Brought up in the sternest military virtues, in the vast and grim castle of Schreckenstein, the only daughter of a warrior clan. An almost unbelievably fitting white-hot young angel with a flaming sword to stand sentinel before our young lovers’ paradise!”
“Gauche,” said the Grand Duchess thoughtfully.
“Young,” Herr Cazotte agreed. “Long-legged. With big hands and a forehead like a Nike.”
“I have been told, I think,” the Grand Duchess remarked, “that the Schreckenstein girl is to marry her cousin, a von Blittersdorff, of my guards. Or that, although there be no official engagement, the marriage for a long time has been agreed upon by the families. Will not the girl blab in her letters to her fiancé?”
“Unless the young guardsman’s birthday falls within our particular two months,” Herr Cazotte answered, “I doubt whether the young lady will be writing him any letters at all. The Schreckensteins are not a literary family.”
“I shall think the matter over,” said the Grand Duchess. “For mind you, this is a very important post on our list.”
“The most important of all,” said Herr Cazotte, “with the exception of one. Of that of a gentleman with sufficient knowledge of the world, and with sufficient deadly devotion to the house of Fugger-Babenhausen, to act as liaison officer and to be moving freely between the outside world and the enchanted castle. Him it may take us some time and trouble to find.”
“That gentleman,” said the Grand Duchess, “has already been found and already been appointed.” With these words she gracefully gave Herr Cazotte her hand to kiss.
The great lady, after having thought the matter over, had an interview with General von Schreckenstein.
This gray-haired warrior, inflexible in his military doctrines, held vaguer views on sentimental matters, the which he took to be mainly women’s domain. He listened to the flattering confidential princely communication and made no questions. The situation, he gathered, would involve no trifling with the sacred, fundamental principle of legitimacy. And no Schreckenstein had ever failed in loyalty to his Sovereign. He would, he said, inform and instruct his daughter.
Herr Cazotte himself later paid a visit to the castle of Schreckenstein. He was familiar with the plan and the history of the place and enchanted with its medieval ramparts and dungeons. He also enjoyed General von Schreckenstein’s complete ignorance of his own name and work.
So the name of Ehrengard von Schreckenstein was entered into the Grand Duchess’ list of the Schloss Rosenbad household.
And with this settlement, my dears, the prelude to, or the first movement of my little story terminates. I shall name it “Prince Lothar.” Now, entering upon the next chapter of the tale, we are moving from the town to the country, into the peaceful setting of big trees, clear lakes and grassy slopes. My second movement is a pastorale, and shall be named “Rosenbad.”
Herr Cazotte in the last week of April wrote to my great-grandmother:
My Dearest Friend and Benefactress,
You ask me for a description of Schloss Rosenbad. Imagine to yourself that you be quietly stepping into a painting by Claude Lorrain, and that the landscape around you becomes alive, balsamic breezes wafting and violets turning the mountain sides into long gentle waves of blue! And imagine, in the midsts of this delightful scenery, our small scene and temple of delight. You may mount the stairs at liberty and walk undisturbed from room to room: an artist and poet, you will then admit, has gone through the house before you and has made it speak.
You have seldom seen me satisfied with my own work, and often distressed by my own worthlessness. Do not, now, shake your head at my outburst of triumph. The triumph is not mine, and I take no credit for it. I am in service, “Ich dien.”
The Goddess of Love, the Lady Venus herself, has entrusted me with the work, and I have only followed her instructions. In the landscape, the light, the season and the situation itself she has whispered to me and ordered me to re-erect, in the blue mountains, her ancient, sunken and slandered residence: the Venusberg.
How hard and happily I have worked in her employ. I have succeeded in preserving the charm of remoteness, reverie and decay of the place, and I have polished it, upholstered it in silk and colored it in tints of rose, making of it a nest of classic elegance and comfort. Look up and down, right and left, with your most critical eye—you will not find a single tone which be not harmoniously tuned into the harmony of the whole. Voluptuousness breathes through the rooms, stairs and corridors, voluptuousness lingers in the folds of the curtains and smilingly gazes at you from the tapestries on the walls. In these surroundings our young Princess cannot fail to give birth to an amorino.
I am holding a privileged post at the Venusberg Court as mediator between Rosenbad and Babenhausen. And what a happy côterie we form inside the magic ring! A particular charm is given to our daily life by the fact that our circle has had to be restricted to a minimum. We are gardeners and milkmaids, grooms and waiters in the service of the seaborn Goddess. I myself, as you know, am a fairly skilled chef and do often give a hand to old François.
The good Babenhauseners turn their eyes towards the Venusberg with loyal approval and hope, discussing the bulletins. We are silent, mentally each of us has a finger on the lips. But through our silence ripples of smiles are running. At times I hear the drops of the Venetian chandeliers jingling with subdued laughter and the jets of the garden fountains joining in.
Is not your boudoir as you open this letter filled with fragrance?
Your most deeply devoted
Cazotte
P.S. Walking in the garden this evening Prince Lothar said to Princess Ludmilla: “So here is Paradise.” And with her head upon his shoulder his young wife echoed: “Paradise.” I smiled benevolence on them, like a
n archangel assisting the Lord in laying out the garden of Eden, and smiling on the first human male and female. But the great landscape architect himself, when his work had been completed, on looking at it and listening to the Gloria and Hallelujah of his angelic chorus, will have felt the craving for a clear, unbiased eye to view it with him, the eye of a critic, a connoisseur and an arbiter. With what creature, in all Paradise, will he have found that eye, Madame? Madame—with the Serpent!
Your obedient servant, etc.
On the first of May he again wrote:
I saw, at a court ball, a girl in a white frock, the daughter of warriors, in whose universe art, or the artist, have never existed. And I cried with Michelangelo: “My greatest triumph hides within that block of marble.”
Since then I have at times ventured to believe that it be this vision of mine which has caused our entire course of events and has, in the end, lifted my young eaglet off her native mountain peak to drop her in the flower garden of Rosenbad.
What will be now, to the true artist, the fine fleur of her being? In what act is a nature like hers, within the chosen moment, to give forth itself most exhaustively? I have pictured her in every possible situation and posture, in itself a sweet pursuit.
And I made my decision. In the blush.
You will not, I know, for a moment be thinking of the blush of offended modesty which might be called forth, from the outside, by a coarse and blunt assailant, if one coarse and blunt enough could be found. To the mind of the artist the very idea is blasphemy, he turns away his face from it. You will no more be thinking of the blush of anger, the which, from the outside, I myself—preserve me—might bring about. None of the two would, in any case, be what I want. Events from outside will, by law of nature, come to Ehrengard and will mean nothing at all to her. She will marry—and I do not envy the man who is to enter into relationship with the Schreckensteins, personally I should prefer to enter their dungeon—she will bear ten soldier sons, and it will mean nothing at all to her. What is really to happen to this admirable, this unique nature is to happen within herself.