by John Galt
This was the reason which induced Master Albrecht to choose it for his residence when he withdrew from Heidelberg. A soldier out of employ, a wooer disappointed in love—and young enough to regard both of these misfortunes as something unjust and unusual—he fancied that life and its enjoyments concerned him no longer. There, was, indeed, some reason for surprise at the treatment he had met with from the counselor’s fair daughter, Christine; as her heart betrayed no other preference, and he was such a suitor as maidens do not often repel. But he little knew the pains which his rivals had taken to poison her ear, nor how often, when he was beside her, the innocent girl had wished in her heart that the tales she had heard were untrue. But she did believe them, being herself too artless to suspect the plausible conspiracy against poor Albrecht. Thus, while she avoided his approach, and denied him all opportunity of expostulation, he could only ascribe to fixed aversion a reserve which her heart in secret gainsaid. He despaired, and departed.
On the night with which my anecdote should begin, there were few watchers in Aix-la-Chapelle more listless and sad at heart than Albrecht, as he sat alone, indulging himself with the self-torment so dear to the fancy-stricken. His lodging was in a large old house on the south side of the market-place, directly opposite to the bronze statue of Charlemagne. This was, in Catholic times, the property of the Cistercians; but the different suites of rooms—some rich and in good repair, others mean and ruinous—were now hired by various occupants. All had been quiet for some hours, and Albrecht was far gone in the pursuit of his own fancies, when a tap at the chamber door recalled him. His lamp was so nearly spent, that he could not discern the features of the visitor: it seemed to be a child, from the smallness of his stature.
“Whom do you seek?” inquired Albrecht.
He was answered in a voice strange, but not unpleasant, “My master, Wenzel, is near his end, and asks to see you.”
“How? my poor philosopher! Stay, I will follow you on the instant!” But when he turned, after closing the door, the messenger was already gone.
He did not, however, want a guide to Wenzel’s chamber; a poor apartment under the same roof, but in a wing of the building which had fallen into decay. Here Albrecht had found him, by accident, soon after arriving in Aix-la-Chapelle, living apparently on the slenderest means, and quite alone. In Heidelberg he had known him in different circumstances, attached to the suite of a Hungarian prince, over whom he appeared to exercise an entire influence, until the transaction occurred which drove him from Heidelberg. He was a man in the prime of life, of graceful manners and discreet speech, reputed to be deeply learned, and certainly gifted with the power of controlling all whom he approached in a singular degree: amongst others, Albrecht, so unlike himself, was at first attracted, and soon became attached to him. But Wenzel’s position at the Palatine court grew suspected, and then dangerous. Rumors were circulated respecting his objects there; and, in those times, the bare report that he was an agent of the king of Spain was enough to render him odious. It was then that accusations charging him with unlawful practices, and ascribing the influence he had acquired to wicked means, found ready believers. Albrecht was one of the few whom these reports did not move; and to his assistance Wenzel owed his escape from an attempt, the authors of which were not discovered, to dispose of him by assassination. For some days he was sheltered by Albrecht, until means were found for his departure from Heidelberg privately. Thus again brought together by chance, both living as it were in banishment and misfortune, their former intimacy became closer in Aix-la-Chapelle. All offers of pecuniary assistance Wenzel had haughtily refused; but Albrecht found a singular pleasure in his company, and in listening to strange and eloquent discourse on subjects wholly foreign to his natural mood. The announcement of his danger took Albrecht by surprise; the day before, he had seen him apparently as well as usual. The possession of a servant, too, seemed a novelty; hitherto he had appeared unwilling as well as unable to maintain such an encumbrance.
Albrecht was struck with surprise, on entering Wenzel’s chamber, to find him dressed in what seemed to be grave-clothes, and sitting upright on the miserable mattress with his eyes, which were still open, turned towards the door. A small but very bright lamp stood on a table at the bed’s foot, which was covered on this occasion with a velvet cloth; a silver cup and a naked sword, the blade ornamented with Arabic letters in gold, were also placed upon it. Besides this, and a crazy wooden stool, there was no other furniture visible.
Wenzel’s voice was as clear and strong as ever, as he greeted his friend.
“Welcome for the last time, Master Albrecht; I am glad you are here while the light is still burning.”
Albrecht would have replied, but Wenzel interrupted him:
“Nay, I know what you would say. It is even so; and the minutes are few. Listen! Until now I have never thanked you. You have done well—meant kindly by me; I would offer some return.”
“Indeed, Master Wenzel, you owe me no thanks!”
“Thanks!” he replied, “they are mere words. What would such profit you? I would make you a gift; take it, and do not fear to use what I have meant for your service. There is a trusty creature of mine; now he shall be yours: do not let him go while you need him. Dost hear, Eule?” And, as he spoke, there crept from behind the bed’s head a little figure, with thin limbs, and a brown shriveled face, strongly featured, and lighted by a pair of large keen gray eyes; he came bowing to the side of the bed.
“Hearken, Eule; I give thee to Master Albrecht here; serve him until he has found what he requires.” And, turning to Albrecht, Wenzel continued, “Do not quarrel with Eule; he is somewhat willful, but you will find him quick and wise.” He had barely uttered the last word, when a deep sigh escaped him, and he fell at length on the bed. Albrecht hastened to his side, but the dwarf motioned him back. “It is of no use”—the voice was the same that had called at his door—“he has been two hours dead! See, the lamp is out—let us go.” And Albrecht hurried from the room, hardly knowing, at the moment, what he did. Eule shut the door, and seemed to follow, as Albrecht went down the narrow stair.
Death is at all times a mystery; but, in this of Wenzel’s, there was a strangeness which the solitary place and the dark hour rendered peculiarly startling. Albrecht had reached the door of his own chamber, still fancying he heard the shuffling step of the dwarf on his heels, before he turned round; then he looked behind him, but his follower was not there. In the morning, he prepared to take order for Wenzel’s burial, as he knew there was no one beside to care for it; when he was told that there had been people busy in his chamber all the night. It seems they must have carried away the body, for the place was found utterly deserted and bare. As the deceased owed nothing to anyone, and had no wealth to excite the interest of strangers, his disappearance passed without questions; and Albrecht, after what he had witnessed, felt averse to search into the matter. He was, moreover, in that nerveless mood which follows a first disappointment, and, for a time, renders action of any kind distressing.
But, on the following night (it was the last of April, when it is still misty and cold in that region), the tap came again to Albrecht’s chamber-door. “Come in,” he said; for he was loathe to stir from the light of the stove. He had to repeat the permission twice again, before the dwarf entered.
“I am here to serve you,” he said; “what must I do?” And the little grotesque thing came close to the side of his chair, dressed in a short red cloak and blue hose, with a peaked cap and feather in his hand, making a variety of queer obeisances. Albrecht felt inclined alternately to shudder and to laugh.
“Where have you been, Eule?” he said, at length; “and what has been done with poor Master Wenzel?”
“I have been sleeping in the belfry. With the dead I have no business. Give me some better employment than answering idle questions. It is not my way.”
“I need no service,” said Albrecht, who felt disturbed at the strange looks and manner of the dwarf. The creat
ure had squatted itself cross-legged with its back to the fire, and peered into Albrecht’s face, with a look of familiar cunning.
“Go to, master,” he said, “you are afraid of a strange face. You may know me better; remember what he told you—‘quick and wise.’”
“You served Wenzel long?” said Albrecht; “I never saw you with him.” The dwarf grinned. “May be, I do not appear much by day. Why, did you fancy me a menial, like one of your snorting sots in the antechamber yonder?”
“What then can you do, and why do you come hither?”
“More questions! I do not come unbidden. Do? I can read thought—and prosper them. Somewhat of the past I know, too. Shall I remind you of the words you spoke last Nicholas’ eve in the porch of the Heiliger-kloster?”
Albrecht started: he remembered them well. But who could have heard them but Christine and himself? The dwarf rattled his withered legs, and laughed with a sound like a creaking wheel.
“Come,” he said, “noble sir, I know more of that story, may be, than one or both. So quick, and headstrong, and blind!—you lovers are always running the wrong way. What if I show you a letter?”
The direct allusion to a subject of painful interest would at any other time have been received by Albrecht with anger and impatience. But the visit of the dwarf, in itself calculated to take the fancy by surprise, had found him in that mood of excitement, which no intense direction of the mind to any remote object of desire is apt to create. There is no state more prone than this to superstition; when the will, repulsed by realities, is fain to grasp at some hope or promise beyond them. In this temper of mind Albrecht readily connected Wenzel’s singular legacy with some fulfillment of his dearest wish; and the intelligence professed by the dwarf awakened a host of vague expectations.
“I would give my life,” he said, “to read her heart truly for one instant.”
“The offer, Master Albrecht, is not very tempting to one like me,” the dwarf replied, drily. “But my charge just now is not to bargain with you. What if I can serve you better than this?—stay, there are two conditions; come whither I bid you, and ask no vain questions.”
At this instant a sound was heard, like the call of a trumpet at a distance. The dwarf sprang to his feet. “Fie on it,” he said, “I shall be waited for! There are fine doings at the palace tonight. Will you come?”
“Befall what may,” thought Albrecht, “I risk nothing; for what have I to lose? The game begins strangely; let me even see what will become of it!”
The natural recklessness of his character for the moment revived; and, taking his cap and sword, “Go on,” he said, “I will follow you. But beware how you deal with me. I will have no quacksalver’s tricks or mockery.”
Eule scuttled down the staircase at a wonderful pace, chuckling and chattering like an ape; it was no easy matter to keep up with him. On passing out into the open space before his lodging, Albrecht was struck by the unusual spectacle of a concourse of people, at an hour when there was not wont to be a soul awake in the city. The lights, which were held at intervals over the heads of the crowd, allowed their dress and features to be partially seen; and these, also, were strange and surprising to Albrecht. There were men and women of all ages, in stiff dingy costumes; and before them, as if to keep the way clear, stood files of men at arms, with fierce hairy visages, and of unusual stature. As Albrecht passed nearer to them, the hue of their faces looked dead and sullen; and he perceived that the uncouth weapons in their hands were discolored with rust. They did not speak, but, as Albrecht followed his guide, nodded and pointed to each other, with such distorted motions, that he involuntarily turned his eyes away.
“A goodly company,” said the dwarf, as he hurried along; “the Emperor’s coming has brought them all out tonight. But now we are at the gate of the palace—follow me closely; I have a pass.”
The entrance of the building (for it was the place, at least, of the old town-house) was quite changed to Albrecht’s eye. It was lighted by many iron lamps; and at the doors, and along the staircase, were ranged attendants, as it seemed, of a certain rude splendor.
As Eule crossed the threshold, the first that stood before it, called out, in a shrill tone of voice, “Ho, there, make way for the Emperor’s dwarf!” And the cry was repeated up the staircase, with such a strange accent, that Albrecht shivered, and would fain have held back. But the dwarf, turning round, whispered, “Come on; you will repent if you tarry.”
So he went forward.
The door at the head of the staircase was thrown open as they advanced; and before them lay the entire extent of the hall, blazing with lights, and crowded with an assemblage of great strangeness and dignity. On either side of the apartment—and all of them—were grouped members of both sexes, of stately aspect, and clothed in rich, but singular, apparel. Albrecht was struck by the beauty of the women, and the profusion and fairness of their hair, which fell from the crown of the head in long ringlets. At the upper end of the room, a number of noble figures, surpassing all the rest in stature and manly beauty, were ranged on either side of a throne, which was occupied by one of august presence, seated and covered. The expression of his countenance, which might have been called fierce, was softened by arched eyebrows, which, as well as the ample beard that descended to his girdle, were of snowy whiteness. The impressiveness of the scene was rendered more striking by the silence of all; but a certain fixed gaze in the eyes, and a rigid calm in their features, gave a ghastly air to the company. The lights were strangely disposed from above, amongst the fretted quoins and pendants of the roof; and the grotesque heads which stared from the spring of the arches, and beneath the corbels, seemed, to Albrecht’s hurried glance, as fully alive as the group below, shedding light from their eyes, and panting through their open jaws. To observe what has now been described was the work of a moment; in the next, Albrecht saw every eye turned upon his guide, and every face in the hall smiles: but this sign of welcome was more unearthly than the previous stillness. Then the stately figure on the throne raised his head, and beckoned the dwarf to come forward.
As Albrecht mechanically followed, Eule composedly whispered to him, “Take heed now—they are going to dance; do you as the rest, and do not fail to keep the hand of the partner I shall give you.”
So the dwarf went up the room, and, as he drew near to the dias, Albrecht fell aside, where there was a vacant place beneath a pillar; none seeming to give heed to him. A smile came over the face of the grave personage, as Eule knelt before him; and, when the obeisance was completed, he rose, and, at a sign from his hand, a strange burst of music (if such wild sounds might be so called) was uttered from some unseen instruments above, and the multitude ordered themselves in pairs, each cavalier presenting his hand to a lady, and leading her forth. One of these—the least distinguished in beauty or apparel—was left alone; when Eule led Albrecht towards her, saying, “Wait, and when the next measure is begun, offer your hand.”
In the mean while, the rest were all in motion, pacing to and fro with a grave solemnity, which seemed more like a procession than a dance. After a short pause, the Emperor himself uncovered, and approached the solitary lady, when Eule said to Albrecht, “Now is the time; take her hand, and grasp it firmly.”
Hardly knowing what he did, Albrecht obeyed the instructions, and, bowing, seized the hand, which was not refused him. The instant he had done so, a look of fury distorted the monarch’s countenance, and, to his consternation the lady’s hand crumbled to dust in his grasp. The lights were at once quenched, and a confused uproar drowned the music. Eule was at his side: “Keep firm hold of my cloak,” he said, “and make your best speed hence; but do not lose the ring.”
Amidst the darkness and tumult, he hurried after his guide; doors were violently opened and flung together. In the bewilderment, his senses forsook him: he knew not how he reached home. When he woke on the following morning, feeble and feverish, in his own chamber, the recollections of the night were those of a delirious dream.
He closed his eyes again, and slept heavily throughout the day.
The voice of the dwarf at his bedside made him wake with a start. It was evening.
“Have you got the ring?” he said.
Albrecht looked; and, behold, on his forefinger, a serpent, rudely chased, of pale gold, with eyes of fiery carbuncle. He shuddered: the wild spectacle of the past night had then been a real existence!
“I have done enough for you,” said Eule; “you will find what virtue there is in that toy. It turned an emperor’s head, and built a city; try if it cannot cure a froward girl. Will you wear it, and let me go?”
“Go, in God’s name!” exclaimed Albrecht; “I will have no more part in these unnatural things.” And many more disclaimers he would probably have uttered, but the dwarf had contrived to depart on the instant.
What passed in Albrecht’s mind, after he was gone, there are now no means of knowing; but this is certain—that, on the following day, he left Aix-la-Chapelle—that he did not throw away the ring—and that, in three days afterwards, his rivals at the Palatine court were surprised by his reappearance at Heidelberg.
Their displeasure, it may be supposed, was, at least, equal to their surprise, at the marked change in Lady Christine’s manner towards him; and when, after a few weeks, it was understood that the favored suitor was shortly to become her lord and master, it was openly asserted that such an instance of sudden caprice exceeded the ordinary license of a lady’s will, and was, indeed, indecorous and unnatural. Nevertheless, the marriage took place.
They had been, for some years, furnishing matter of conversation to all the court idlers, by the unchanging attachment which seemed to unite them, when the circumstances of Albrecht’s visit to Aix-la-Chapelle, in some way or other, transpired. Probably he had disclosed them, in a moment of confidence, to his lady; and she, of course, could not remain the sole possessor of so rare a secret. At once, the wonder seemed clearly explained; and the well-known legend of enchantment which belonged to a ring, whereby the Emperor Charlemagne was ensnared of old, was in everybody’s mouth; and it is said, that many were the schemes laid (chiefly by female plotters) to obtain possession of Albrecht’s jewel. But whether he had faith in its virtue or no, it is related that he never trusted it on any hand but his own. It may be doubted, perhaps, whether the success of his wooing, and his wedded happiness, could not be explained without a reference to magic—by the discovery of slanders, and the existence of a strong mutual affection. But these are inquiries beyond the province of the narrator, who can merely relate the story, as it is set forth in records of the time, leaving the explanation of dubious questions to wits more subtle than his own.