TWELVE -- The Fairy Tale of Father Brown
THE picturesque city and state of Heiligwaldenstein was one of those toykingdoms of which certain parts of the German Empire still consist. Ithad come under the Prussian hegemony quite late in history--hardly fiftyyears before the fine summer day when Flambeau and Father Brown foundthemselves sitting in its gardens and drinking its beer. There had beennot a little of war and wild justice there within living memory, as soonwill be shown. But in merely looking at it one could not dismissthat impression of childishness which is the most charming side ofGermany--those little pantomime, paternal monarchies in which a kingseems as domestic as a cook. The German soldiers by the innumerablesentry-boxes looked strangely like German toys, and the clean-cutbattlements of the castle, gilded by the sunshine, looked the morelike the gilt gingerbread. For it was brilliant weather. The sky wasas Prussian a blue as Potsdam itself could require, but it was yet morelike that lavish and glowing use of the colour which a child extractsfrom a shilling paint-box. Even the grey-ribbed trees looked young, forthe pointed buds on them were still pink, and in a pattern against thestrong blue looked like innumerable childish figures.
Despite his prosaic appearance and generally practical walk of life,Father Brown was not without a certain streak of romance in hiscomposition, though he generally kept his daydreams to himself, as manychildren do. Amid the brisk, bright colours of such a day, and in theheraldic framework of such a town, he did feel rather as if he hadentered a fairy tale. He took a childish pleasure, as a younger brothermight, in the formidable sword-stick which Flambeau always flung as hewalked, and which now stood upright beside his tall mug of Munich. Nay,in his sleepy irresponsibility, he even found himself eyeing the knobbedand clumsy head of his own shabby umbrella, with some faint memories ofthe ogre's club in a coloured toy-book. But he never composed anythingin the form of fiction, unless it be the tale that follows:
"I wonder," he said, "whether one would have real adventures in a placelike this, if one put oneself in the way? It's a splendid back-scene forthem, but I always have a kind of feeling that they would fight you withpasteboard sabres more than real, horrible swords."
"You are mistaken," said his friend. "In this place they not only fightwith swords, but kill without swords. And there's worse than that."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Father Brown.
"Why," replied the other, "I should say this was the only place inEurope where a man was ever shot without firearms."
"Do you mean a bow and arrow?" asked Brown in some wonder.
"I mean a bullet in the brain," replied Flambeau. "Don't you know thestory of the late Prince of this place? It was one of the great policemysteries about twenty years ago. You remember, of course, that thisplace was forcibly annexed at the time of Bismarck's very earliestschemes of consolidation--forcibly, that is, but not at all easily. Theempire (or what wanted to be one) sent Prince Otto of Grossenmark torule the place in the Imperial interests. We saw his portrait inthe gallery there--a handsome old gentleman if he'd had any hair oreyebrows, and hadn't been wrinkled all over like a vulture; but he hadthings to harass him, as I'll explain in a minute. He was a soldier ofdistinguished skill and success, but he didn't have altogether an easyjob with this little place. He was defeated in several battles bythe celebrated Arnhold brothers--the three guerrilla patriots to whomSwinburne wrote a poem, you remember:
Wolves with the hair of the ermine, Crows that are crowned and kings-- These things be many as vermin, Yet Three shall abide these things.
Or something of that kind. Indeed, it is by no means certain that theoccupation would ever have been successful had not one of the threebrothers, Paul, despicably, but very decisively declined to abidethese things any longer, and, by surrendering all the secrets of theinsurrection, ensured its overthrow and his own ultimate promotion tothe post of chamberlain to Prince Otto. After this, Ludwig, the onegenuine hero among Mr Swinburne's heroes, was killed, sword in hand,in the capture of the city; and the third, Heinrich, who, though not atraitor, had always been tame and even timid compared with his activebrothers, retired into something like a hermitage, became converted to aChristian quietism which was almost Quakerish, and never mixed with menexcept to give nearly all he had to the poor. They tell me that not longago he could still be seen about the neighbourhood occasionally, a manin a black cloak, nearly blind, with very wild, white hair, but a faceof astonishing softness."
"I know," said Father Brown. "I saw him once."
His friend looked at him in some surprise. "I didn't know you'd beenhere before," he said. "Perhaps you know as much about it as I do.Anyhow, that's the story of the Arnholds, and he was the last survivorof them. Yes, and of all the men who played parts in that drama."
"You mean that the Prince, too, died long before?"
"Died," repeated Flambeau, "and that's about as much as we can say. Youmust understand that towards the end of his life he began to havethose tricks of the nerves not uncommon with tyrants. He multiplied theordinary daily and nightly guard round his castle till there seemed tobe more sentry-boxes than houses in the town, and doubtful characterswere shot without mercy. He lived almost entirely in a little room thatwas in the very centre of the enormous labyrinth of all the other rooms,and even in this he erected another sort of central cabin or cupboard,lined with steel, like a safe or a battleship. Some say that under thefloor of this again was a secret hole in the earth, no more than largeenough to hold him, so that, in his anxiety to avoid the grave, he waswilling to go into a place pretty much like it. But he went further yet.The populace had been supposed to be disarmed ever since the suppressionof the revolt, but Otto now insisted, as governments very seldominsist, on an absolute and literal disarmament. It was carried out,with extraordinary thoroughness and severity, by very well-organizedofficials over a small and familiar area, and, so far as human strengthand science can be absolutely certain of anything, Prince Otto wasabsolutely certain that nobody could introduce so much as a toy pistolinto Heiligwaldenstein."
"Human science can never be quite certain of things like that," saidFather Brown, still looking at the red budding of the branches overhis head, "if only because of the difficulty about definition andconnotation. What is a weapon? People have been murdered with themildest domestic comforts; certainly with tea-kettles, probably withtea-cosies. On the other hand, if you showed an Ancient Briton arevolver, I doubt if he would know it was a weapon--until it was firedinto him, of course. Perhaps somebody introduced a firearm so new thatit didn't even look like a firearm. Perhaps it looked like a thimble orsomething. Was the bullet at all peculiar?"
"Not that I ever heard of," answered Flambeau; "but my information isfragmentary, and only comes from my old friend Grimm. He was a very abledetective in the German service, and he tried to arrest me; I arrestedhim instead, and we had many interesting chats. He was in charge hereof the inquiry about Prince Otto, but I forgot to ask him anything aboutthe bullet. According to Grimm, what happened was this." He paused amoment to drain the greater part of his dark lager at a draught, andthen resumed:
"On the evening in question, it seems, the Prince was expected to appearin one of the outer rooms, because he had to receive certain visitorswhom he really wished to meet. They were geological experts sent toinvestigate the old question of the alleged supply of gold from therocks round here, upon which (as it was said) the small city-statehad so long maintained its credit and been able to negotiate withits neighbours even under the ceaseless bombardment of bigger armies.Hitherto it had never been found by the most exacting inquiry whichcould--"
"Which could be quite certain of discovering a toy pistol," said FatherBrown with a smile. "But what about the brother who ratted? Hadn't heanything to tell the Prince?"
"He always asseverated that he did not know," replied Flambeau; "thatthis was the one secret his brothers had not told him. It is only rightto say that it received some support from fragmentary words--spoken bythe great Ludwig
in the hour of death, when he looked at Heinrich butpointed at Paul, and said, 'You have not told him...' and was soonafterwards incapable of speech. Anyhow, the deputation of distinguishedgeologists and mineralogists from Paris and Berlin were there in themost magnificent and appropriate dress, for there are no men who likewearing their decorations so much as the men of science--as anybodyknows who has ever been to a soiree of the Royal Society. It was abrilliant gathering, but very late, and gradually the Chamberlain--yousaw his portrait, too: a man with black eyebrows, serious eyes, and ameaningless sort of smile underneath--the Chamberlain, I say, discoveredthere was everything there except the Prince himself. He searched allthe outer salons; then, remembering the man's mad fits of fear, hurriedto the inmost chamber. That also was empty, but the steel turret orcabin erected in the middle of it took some time to open. When it didopen it was empty, too. He went and looked into the hole in the ground,which seemed deeper and somehow all the more like a grave--that is hisaccount, of course. And even as he did so he heard a burst of cries andtumult in the long rooms and corridors without.
"First it was a distant din and thrill of something unthinkable on thehorizon of the crowd, even beyond the castle. Next it was a wordlessclamour startlingly close, and loud enough to be distinct if each wordhad not killed the other. Next came words of a terrible clearness,coming nearer, and next one man, rushing into the room and telling thenews as briefly as such news is told.
"Otto, Prince of Heiligwaldenstein and Grossenmark, was lying in thedews of the darkening twilight in the woods beyond the castle, with hisarms flung out and his face flung up to the moon. The blood still pulsedfrom his shattered temple and jaw, but it was the only part of him thatmoved like a living thing. He was clad in his full white and yellowuniform, as to receive his guests within, except that the sash or scarfhad been unbound and lay rather crumpled by his side. Before he couldbe lifted he was dead. But, dead or alive, he was a riddle--he who hadalways hidden in the inmost chamber out there in the wet woods, unarmedand alone."
"Who found his body?" asked Father Brown.
"Some girl attached to the Court named Hedwig von something or other,"replied his friend, "who had been out in the wood picking wild flowers."
"Had she picked any?" asked the priest, staring rather vacantly at theveil of the branches above him.
"Yes," replied Flambeau. "I particularly remember that the Chamberlain,or old Grimm or somebody, said how horrible it was, when they came upat her call, to see a girl holding spring flowers and bending overthat--that bloody collapse. However, the main point is that before helparrived he was dead, and the news, of course, had to be carried back tothe castle. The consternation it created was something beyond even thatnatural in a Court at the fall of a potentate. The foreign visitors,especially the mining experts, were in the wildest doubt and excitement,as well as many important Prussian officials, and it soon began to beclear that the scheme for finding the treasure bulked much bigger inthe business than people had supposed. Experts and officials had beenpromised great prizes or international advantages, and some even saidthat the Prince's secret apartments and strong military protection weredue less to fear of the populace than to the pursuit of some privateinvestigation of--"
"Had the flowers got long stalks?" asked Father Brown.
Flambeau stared at him. "What an odd person you are!" he said. "That'sexactly what old Grimm said. He said the ugliest part of it, hethought--uglier than the blood and bullet--was that the flowers werequite short, plucked close under the head."
"Of course," said the priest, "when a grown up girl is really pickingflowers, she picks them with plenty of stalk. If she just pulled theirheads off, as a child does, it looks as if--" And he hesitated.
"Well?" inquired the other.
"Well, it looks rather as if she had snatched them nervously, to make anexcuse for being there after--well, after she was there."
"I know what you're driving at," said Flambeau rather gloomily. "Butthat and every other suspicion breaks down on the one point--the wantof a weapon. He could have been killed, as you say, with lots of otherthings--even with his own military sash; but we have to explain not howhe was killed, but how he was shot. And the fact is we can't. They hadthe girl most ruthlessly searched; for, to tell the truth, she was alittle suspect, though the niece and ward of the wicked old Chamberlain,Paul Arnhold. But she was very romantic, and was suspected of sympathywith the old revolutionary enthusiasm in her family. All the same,however romantic you are, you can't imagine a big bullet into a man'sjaw or brain without using a gun or pistol. And there was no pistol,though there were two pistol shots. I leave it to you, my friend."
"How do you know there were two shots?" asked the little priest.
"There was only one in his head," said his companion, "but there wasanother bullet-hole in the sash."
Father Brown's smooth brow became suddenly constricted. "Was the otherbullet found?" he demanded.
Flambeau started a little. "I don't think I remember," he said.
"Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!" cried Brown, frowning more and more, witha quite unusual concentration of curiosity. "Don't think me rude. Let methink this out for a moment."
"All right," said Flambeau, laughing, and finished his beer. A slightbreeze stirred the budding trees and blew up into the sky cloudlets ofwhite and pink that seemed to make the sky bluer and the whole colouredscene more quaint. They might have been cherubs flying home to thecasements of a sort of celestial nursery. The oldest tower of thecastle, the Dragon Tower, stood up as grotesque as the ale-mug, but ashomely. Only beyond the tower glimmered the wood in which the man hadlain dead.
"What became of this Hedwig eventually?" asked the priest at last.
"She is married to General Schwartz," said Flambeau. "No doubt you'veheard of his career, which was rather romantic. He had distinguishedhimself even, before his exploits at Sadowa and Gravelotte; in fact, herose from the ranks, which is very unusual even in the smallest of theGerman..."
Father Brown sat up suddenly.
"Rose from the ranks!" he cried, and made a mouth as if to whistle."Well, well, what a queer story! What a queer way of killing a man;but I suppose it was the only one possible. But to think of hate sopatient--"
"What do you mean?" demanded the other. "In what way did they kill theman?"
"They killed him with the sash," said Brown carefully; and then, asFlambeau protested: "Yes, yes, I know about the bullet. Perhaps I oughtto say he died of having a sash. I know it doesn't sound like having adisease."
"I suppose," said Flambeau, "that you've got some notion in your head,but it won't easily get the bullet out of his. As I explained before, hemight easily have been strangled. But he was shot. By whom? By what?"
"He was shot by his own orders," said the priest.
"You mean he committed suicide?"
"I didn't say by his own wish," replied Father Brown. "I said by his ownorders."
"Well, anyhow, what is your theory?"
Father Brown laughed. "I am only on my holiday," he said. "I haven't gotany theories. Only this place reminds me of fairy stories, and, if youlike, I'll tell you a story."
The little pink clouds, that looked rather like sweet-stuff, had floatedup to crown the turrets of the gilt gingerbread castle, and the pinkbaby fingers of the budding trees seemed spreading and stretching toreach them; the blue sky began to take a bright violet of evening, whenFather Brown suddenly spoke again:
"It was on a dismal night, with rain still dropping from the treesand dew already clustering, that Prince Otto of Grossenmark steppedhurriedly out of a side door of the castle and walked swiftly into thewood. One of the innumerable sentries saluted him, but he did not noticeit. He had no wish to be specially noticed himself. He was glad when thegreat trees, grey and already greasy with rain, swallowed him up likea swamp. He had deliberately chosen the least frequented side of hispalace, but even that was more frequented than he liked. But there wasno particular chance of officious or diplomatic pursuit
, for his exithad been a sudden impulse. All the full-dressed diplomatists he leftbehind were unimportant. He had realized suddenly that he could dowithout them.
"His great passion was not the much nobler dread of death, but thestrange desire of gold. For this legend of the gold he had leftGrossenmark and invaded Heiligwaldenstein. For this and only this hehad bought the traitor and butchered the hero, for this he had longquestioned and cross-questioned the false Chamberlain, until he had cometo the conclusion that, touching his ignorance, the renegade reallytold the truth. For this he had, somewhat reluctantly, paid and promisedmoney on the chance of gaining the larger amount; and for this he hadstolen out of his palace like a thief in the rain, for he had thought ofanother way to get the desire of his eyes, and to get it cheap.
"Away at the upper end of a rambling mountain path to which he wasmaking his way, among the pillared rocks along the ridge that hangsabove the town, stood the hermitage, hardly more than a cavern fencedwith thorn, in which the third of the great brethren had long hiddenhimself from the world. He, thought Prince Otto, could have no realreason for refusing to give up the gold. He had known its place foryears, and made no effort to find it, even before his new ascetic creedhad cut him off from property or pleasures. True, he had been an enemy,but he now professed a duty of having no enemies. Some concession to hiscause, some appeal to his principles, would probably get the meremoney secret out of him. Otto was no coward, in spite of his network ofmilitary precautions, and, in any case, his avarice was stronger thanhis fears. Nor was there much cause for fear. Since he was certain therewere no private arms in the whole principality, he was a hundred timesmore certain there were none in the Quaker's little hermitage on thehill, where he lived on herbs, with two old rustic servants, and withno other voice of man for year after year. Prince Otto looked downwith something of a grim smile at the bright, square labyrinths of thelamp-lit city below him. For as far as the eye could see there ran therifles of his friends, and not one pinch of powder for his enemies.Rifles ranked so close even to that mountain path that a cry from himwould bring the soldiers rushing up the hill, to say nothing of the factthat the wood and ridge were patrolled at regular intervals; rifles sofar away, in the dim woods, dwarfed by distance, beyond the river, thatan enemy could not slink into the town by any detour. And round thepalace rifles at the west door and the east door, at the north door andthe south, and all along the four facades linking them. He was safe.
"It was all the more clear when he had crested the ridge and foundhow naked was the nest of his old enemy. He found himself on a smallplatform of rock, broken abruptly by the three corners of precipice.Behind was the black cave, masked with green thorn, so low that it washard to believe that a man could enter it. In front was the fall of thecliffs and the vast but cloudy vision of the valley. On the small rockplatform stood an old bronze lectern or reading-stand, groaning under agreat German Bible. The bronze or copper of it had grown green with theeating airs of that exalted place, and Otto had instantly the thought,'Even if they had arms, they must be rusted by now.' Moonrise hadalready made a deathly dawn behind the crests and crags, and the rainhad ceased.
"Behind the lectern, and looking across the valley, stood a very oldman in a black robe that fell as straight as the cliffs around him, butwhose white hair and weak voice seemed alike to waver in the wind.He was evidently reading some daily lesson as part of his religiousexercises. 'They trust in their horses...'
"'Sir,' said the Prince of Heiligwaldenstein, with quite unusualcourtesy, 'I should like only one word with you.'
"'...and in their chariots,' went on the old man weakly, 'but wewill trust in the name of the Lord of Hosts....' His last words wereinaudible, but he closed the book reverently and, being nearly blind,made a groping movement and gripped the reading-stand. Instantly his twoservants slipped out of the low-browed cavern and supported him. Theywore dull-black gowns like his own, but they had not the frosty silveron the hair, nor the frost-bitten refinement of the features. They werepeasants, Croat or Magyar, with broad, blunt visages and blinking eyes.For the first time something troubled the Prince, but his courage anddiplomatic sense stood firm.
"'I fear we have not met,' he said, 'since that awful cannonade in whichyour poor brother died.'
"'All my brothers died,' said the old man, still looking across thevalley. Then, for one instant turning on Otto his drooping, delicatefeatures, and the wintry hair that seemed to drip over his eyebrows likeicicles, he added: 'You see, I am dead, too.'
"'I hope you'll understand,' said the Prince, controlling himself almostto a point of conciliation, 'that I do not come here to haunt you, as amere ghost of those great quarrels. We will not talk about who was rightor wrong in that, but at least there was one point on which we werenever wrong, because you were always right. Whatever is to be said ofthe policy of your family, no one for one moment imagines that you weremoved by the mere gold; you have proved yourself above the suspicionthat...'
"The old man in the black gown had hitherto continued to gaze at himwith watery blue eyes and a sort of weak wisdom in his face. Butwhen the word 'gold' was said he held out his hand as if in arrest ofsomething, and turned away his face to the mountains.
"'He has spoken of gold,' he said. 'He has spoken of things not lawful.Let him cease to speak.'
"Otto had the vice of his Prussian type and tradition, which is toregard success not as an incident but as a quality. He conceived himselfand his like as perpetually conquering peoples who were perpetuallybeing conquered. Consequently, he was ill acquainted with the emotionof surprise, and ill prepared for the next movement, which startled andstiffened him. He had opened his mouth to answer the hermit, when themouth was stopped and the voice strangled by a strong, soft gag suddenlytwisted round his head like a tourniquet. It was fully forty secondsbefore he even realized that the two Hungarian servants had done it, andthat they had done it with his own military scarf.
"The old man went again weakly to his great brazen-supported Bible,turned over the leaves, with a patience that had something horribleabout it, till he came to the Epistle of St James, and then began toread: 'The tongue is a little member, but--'
"Something in the very voice made the Prince turn suddenly and plungedown the mountain-path he had climbed. He was half-way towards thegardens of the palace before he even tried to tear the strangling scarffrom his neck and jaws. He tried again and again, and it was impossible;the men who had knotted that gag knew the difference between what a mancan do with his hands in front of him and what he can do with his handsbehind his head. His legs were free to leap like an antelope on themountains, his arms were free to use any gesture or wave any signal, buthe could not speak. A dumb devil was in him.
"He had come close to the woods that walled in the castle before he hadquite realized what his wordless state meant and was meant to mean.Once more he looked down grimly at the bright, square labyrinths ofthe lamp-lit city below him, and he smiled no more. He felt himselfrepeating the phrases of his former mood with a murderous irony. Far asthe eye could see ran the rifles of his friends, every one of whom wouldshoot him dead if he could not answer the challenge. Rifles were sonear that the wood and ridge could be patrolled at regular intervals;therefore it was useless to hide in the wood till morning. Rifles wereranked so far away that an enemy could not slink into the town byany detour; therefore it was vain to return to the city by any remotecourse. A cry from him would bring his soldiers rushing up the hill. Butfrom him no cry would come.
"The moon had risen in strengthening silver, and the sky showed instripes of bright, nocturnal blue between the black stripes of the pinesabout the castle. Flowers of some wide and feathery sort--for he hadnever noticed such things before--were at once luminous and discolouredby the moonshine, and seemed indescribably fantastic as they clustered,as if crawling about the roots of the trees. Perhaps his reason had beensuddenly unseated by the unnatural captivity he carried with him, but inthat wood he felt something unfathomably German--the fairy tale
. He knewwith half his mind that he was drawing near to the castle of an ogre--hehad forgotten that he was the ogre. He remembered asking his mother ifbears lived in the old park at home. He stooped to pick a flower, asif it were a charm against enchantment. The stalk was stronger than heexpected, and broke with a slight snap. Carefully trying to place it inhis scarf, he heard the halloo, 'Who goes there?' Then he remembered thescarf was not in its usual place.
"He tried to scream and was silent. The second challenge came; and thena shot that shrieked as it came and then was stilled suddenly by impact.Otto of Grossenmark lay very peacefully among the fairy trees, and woulddo no more harm either with gold or steel; only the silver pencil of themoon would pick out and trace here and there the intricate ornament ofhis uniform, or the old wrinkles on his brow. May God have mercy on hissoul.
"The sentry who had fired, according to the strict orders of thegarrison, naturally ran forward to find some trace of his quarry. He wasa private named Schwartz, since not unknown in his profession, and whathe found was a bald man in uniform, but with his face so bandaged by akind of mask made of his own military scarf that nothing but open, deadeyes could be seen, glittering stonily in the moonlight. The bullet hadgone through the gag into the jaw; that is why there was a shot-holein the scarf, but only one shot. Naturally, if not correctly, youngSchwartz tore off the mysterious silken mask and cast it on the grass;and then he saw whom he had slain.
"We cannot be certain of the next phase. But I incline to believe thatthere was a fairy tale, after all, in that little wood, horrible aswas its occasion. Whether the young lady named Hedwig had any previousknowledge of the soldier she saved and eventually married, or whethershe came accidentally upon the accident and their intimacy began thatnight, we shall probably never know. But we can know, I fancy, that thisHedwig was a heroine, and deserved to marry a man who became somethingof a hero. She did the bold and the wise thing. She persuaded the sentryto go back to his post, in which place there was nothing to connect himwith the disaster; he was but one of the most loyal and orderly of fiftysuch sentries within call. She remained by the body and gave the alarm;and there was nothing to connect her with the disaster either, since shehad not got, and could not have, any firearms.
"Well," said Father Brown rising cheerfully "I hope they're happy."
"Where are you going?" asked his friend.
"I'm going to have another look at that portrait of the Chamberlain, theArnhold who betrayed his brethren," answered the priest. "I wonder whatpart--I wonder if a man is less a traitor when he is twice a traitor?"
And he ruminated long before the portrait of a white-haired manwith black eyebrows and a pink, painted sort of smile that seemed tocontradict the black warning in his eyes.
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