My good friend Gideon was in too great a rage with the unhappy woman to make it possible to bring him back to calm reason. Besides, who can draw the limits around the region of possibility? Every day we see the range of reality extending more widely. Unseen and unknown influences, marvellous correspondences, invisible bonds, some kind of mysterious magnetism, are, on the one hand, proclaimed as undoubted facts, and denied on the other with irony and scepticism, and yet who can say that after a while there will not be some astonishing revelations breaking in in the midst of us all when we least expect it? In the midst of so much ignorance it seems easy to lay a claim to wisdom and shrewdness.
I therefore only begged Sperver to moderate his anger, and by no means to fire upon the Black Plague, warning him that such a proceeding would bring serious misfortune upon him.
“Pooh!” he cried; “at the very worst they could but hang me.”
But that, I remarked, was a good deal for an honest man to suffer.
“Not at all,” he cried; “it is but one kind of death out of many. You are suffocated, that is all. I would just as soon die of that as of a hammer falling on my head, as in apoplexy, or not to be able to sleep, or smoke, or swallow, or digest my food.”
“You, Gideon, with your grey beard, you have learnt a peculiar mode of reasoning.”
“Grey beard or not, that is my way of seeing things. I always keep a ball in my double-barrelled gun at the witch’s service; from time to time I put in a fresh charge, and if I get the chance—”
He only added an expressive gesture.
“Quite wrong, Sperver, quite wrong. I agree with the Count of Nideck, and I say no bloodshed. Oceans cannot wipe away blood shed in anger. Think of that, and discharge that barrel against the first boar you meet.”
These words seemed to make some impression upon the old huntsman; he hung down his head and looked thoughtful.
We were then climbing the wooded steeps which separate the poor village of Tiefenbach from the Castle of Nideck.
Night had closed in. As it always happens with us after a bright clear winter’s day, snow was again beginning to fall, heavy flakes dropped and melted upon our horses’ manes, who were beginning now to pluck up their spirits at the near prospect of the comfortable stable.
Now and then Sperver looked over his shoulder with evident uneasiness; and I myself was not altogether free from a feeling of apprehension in thinking of the strange account which the huntsman had given me of his master’s complaint.
Besides all this, there is a certain harmony between external nature and the spirit of a man, and I know of nothing more depressing than a gloomy forest loaded in every branch with thick snow and hoar frost, and moaning in the north wind. The gaunt and weird-looking trunks of the tall pines and the gnarled and massive oaks look mournfully upon you, and fill you with melancholy thoughts.
As we ascended the rocky eminence the oaks became fewer, and scattered birches, straight and white as marble pillars, divided the dark green of the forest pines, when in a moment, as we issued from a thicket, the ancient stronghold stood before us in a heavy mass, its dark surface studded with brilliant points of light.
Sperver had pulled up before a deep gateway between two towers, barred in by an iron grating.
“Here we are,” he cried, throwing the reins on the horses’ necks.
He laid hold of the deer’s-foot bell-handle, and the clear sound of a bell broke the stillness.
After waiting a few minutes the light of a lantern flickered in the deep archway, showing us in its semicircular frame of ruddy light the figure of a humpbacked dwarf, yellow-bearded, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in furs from head to foot.
You might have thought him, in the deep shadow, some gnome or evil spirit of earth realised out of the dreams of the Niebelungen Lieder.
He came towards us at a very leisurely pace, and laid his great flat features close against the massive grating, straining his eyes, and trying to make us out in the darkness in which we were standing.
“Is that you, Sperver?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Open at once, Knapwurst,” was the quick reply. “Don’t you know how cold it is?”
“Oh! I know you now,” cried the little man; “there’s no mistaking you. You always speak as if you were going to gobble people up.”
The door opened, and the dwarf, examining me with his lantern, with an odd expression in his face, received me with “Willkommen, herr doctor,” but which seemed to say besides, “Here is another who will have to go away again as others have done.” Then he quietly closed the door, whilst we alighted, and came to take our horses by the bridle.
CHAPTER II
Following Sperver, who ascended the staircase with rapid steps, I was still able to convince myself that the Castle of Nideck had not an undeserved reputation.
It was a true stronghold, partly cut out of the rock, such as used formerly to be called a château d’ambuscade. Its lofty vaulted arches re-echoed afar with our steps, and the outside air blowing with sharp gusts through the loopholes—narrow slits made for the archers of former days—caused our torches to flare and flicker from space to space over the faintly-illuminated protruding lines of the arches as they caught the uncertain light.
Sperver knew every nook and corner of this vast place. He turned now to the right and now to the left, and I followed him breathless. At last he stopped on a spacious landing, and said to me—
“Now, Fritz, I will leave you for a minute with the people of the castle to inform the young Countess Odile of your arrival.”
“Do just what you think right.”
“Then you will find the head butler, Tobias Offenloch, an old soldier of the regiment of Nideck. He campaigned in France under the count; and you will see his wife, a Frenchwoman, Marie Lagoutte, who pretends that she comes of a high family.”
“And why should she not?”
“Of course she might; but, between ourselves, she was nothing but a cantinière in the Grande Armée. She brought in Tobias Offenloch upon her cart, with one of his legs gone, and he has married her out of gratitude. You understand?”
“That will do, but open, for I am numb with cold.”
And I was about to push on; but Sperver, as obstinate as any other good German, was not going to let me off without edifying me upon the history of the people with whom my lot was going to be cast for awhile, and holding me by the frogs of my fur coat he went on—
“There’s, besides, Sébalt Kraft, the master of the hounds; he is rather a dismal fellow, but he has not his equal at sounding the horn; and there will be Karl Trumpf, the butler, and Christian Becker, and everybody, unless they have all gone to bed.”
Thereupon Sperver pushed open the door, and I stood in some surprise on the threshold of a high, dark hall, the guard room of the old lords of Nideck.
My eyes fell at first upon the three windows at the farther end, looking out upon the sheer rocky precipice. On the right stood an old sideboard in dark oak, and upon it a cask, glasses, and bottles; on the left a Gothic chimney overhung with its heavy massive mantelpiece, empurpled by the brilliant roaring fire underneath, and ornamented on both front and sides with wood-carvings representing scenes from boar-hunts in the Middle Ages, and along the centre of the apartment a long table, upon which stood a huge lamp throwing its light upon a dozen pewter tankards.
At one glance I saw all this; but the human portion of the scene interested me most.
I recognised the major-domo, or head butler, by his wooden leg, of which I had already heard; he was of low stature, round, fat, and rosy, and his knees seldom coming within an easy range of his eyesight; a nose red and bulbous like a ripe raspberry; on his head he wore a huge hemp-coloured wig, bulging out over his fat poll; a coat of light green plush, with steel buttons as large as a five-franc piece; velvet breeches, silk stockings, and shoes garnished with silver buckles. He was just with his hand upon the top of the cask, with an air of inexpressible satisfaction beaming upon his
ruddy features, and his eyes glowing in profile, from the reflection of the fire, like a couple of watch-glasses.
His wife, the worthy Marie Lagoutte, her spare figure draped in voluminous folds, her long and sallow face like a skin of chamois leather, was playing at cards with two servants who were gravely seated on straight-backed arm-chairs. Certain small split pegs were seated astride across the nose of the old woman and that of another player, whilst the third was significantly and cunningly winking his eye and seeming to enjoy seeing them victimised upon these new Caudine Forks.
“How many cards?” he was asking.
“Two,” answered the old woman.
“And you, Christian?”
“Two.”
“Aha! now I have got you, then. Cut the king—now the ace—here’s one, here’s another. Another peg, mother! This will teach you once more not to brag about French games.”
“Monsieur Christian, you don’t treat the fair sex with proper respect.”
“At cards you respect nobody.”
“But you see I have no room left!”
“Pooh, on a nose like yours there’s always room for more!”
At that moment Sperver cried—
“Mates, here I am!”
“Ha! Gideon, back already?”
Marie Lagoutte shook off her numerous pegs with a jerk of her head. The big butler drank off his glass. Everybody turned our way.
“Is monseigneur better?”
The butler answered with a doubtful ejaculation.
“Is he just the same?”
“Much about,” answered Marie Lagoutte, who never took her eyes off me.
Sperver noticed this.
“Let me introduce to you my foster-son, Doctor Fritz, from the Black Forest,” he answered proudly. “Now we shall see a change, Master Tobie. Now that Fritz has come the abominable fits will be put an end to. If I had but been listened to earlier—but better late than never.”
Marie Lagoutte was still watching us, and her scrutiny seemed satisfactory, for, addressing the major-domo, she said—
“Now, Monsieur Offenloch, hand the doctor a chair; move about a little, do! There you stand with your mouth wide open, just like a fish. Ah, sir, these Germans!”
And the good man, jumping up as if moved by a spring, came to take off my cloak.
“Permit me, sir.”
“You are very kind, my dear lady.”
“Give it to me. What terrible weather! Ah, monsieur, what a dreadful country this is!”
“So monseigneur is neither better nor worse,” said Sperver, shaking the snow off his cap; “we are not too late, then. Ho, Kasper! Kasper!”
A little man, who had one shoulder higher than the other, and his face spotted with innumerable freckles, came out of the chimney corner.
“Here I am!”
“Very good; now get ready for this gentleman the bedroom at the end of the long gallery—Hugh’s room; you know which I mean.”
“Yes, Sperver, in a minute.”
“And you will take with you, as you go, the doctor’s knapsack. Knapwurst will give it you. As for supper—”
“Never you mind. That is my business.”
“Very well, then. I will depend upon you.”
The little man went out, and Gideon, after taking off his cape, left us to go and inform the young countess of my arrival.
I was rather overpowered with the attentions of Marie Lagoutte.
“Give up that place of yours, Sébalt,” she cried to the kennel-keeper. “You are roasted enough by this time. Sit near the fire, monsieur le docteur; you must have very cold feet. Stretch out your legs; that’s the way.”
Then, holding out her snuff-box to me—
“Do you take snuff?”
“No, dear madam, with many thanks.”
“That is a pity,” she answered, filling both nostrils. “It is the most delightful habit.”
She slipped her snuff-box back into her apron pocket, and went on—
“You are come not a bit too soon. Monseigneur had his second attack yesterday; it was an awful attack, was it not, Monsieur Offenloch?”
“Furious indeed,” answered the head butler gravely.
“It is not surprising,” she continued, “when a man takes no nourishment. Fancy, monsieur, that for two days he has never tasted broth!”
“Nor a glass of wine,” added the major-domo, crossing his hands over his portly, well-lined person.
As it seemed expected of me, I expressed my surprise, on which Tobias Offenloch came to sit at my right hand, and said—
“Doctor, take my advice; order him a bottle a day of Marcobrunner.”
“And,” chimed in Marie Lagoutte, “a wing of a chicken at every meal. The poor man is frightfully thin.”
“We have got Marcobrunner sixty years in bottle,” added the major-domo, “for it is a mistake of Madame Offenloch’s to suppose that the French drank it all. And you had better order, while you are about it, now and then, a good bottle of Johannisberg. That is the best wine to set a man up again.”
“Time was,” remarked the master of the hounds in a dismal voice—“time was when monseigneur hunted twice a week; then he was well; when he left off hunting, then he fell ill.”
“Of course it could not be otherwise,” observed Marie Lagoutte. “The open air gives you an appetite. The doctor had better order him to hunt three times a week to make up for lost time.”
“Two would be enough,” replied the man of dogs with the same gravity; “quite enough. The hounds must have their rest. Dogs have just as much right to rest as we have.”
There was a few moments’ silence, during which I could hear the wind beating against the window-panes, and rush, sighing and wailing, through the loopholes into the towers.
Sébalt sat with legs across, and his elbow resting on his knee, gazing into the fire with unspeakable dolefulness. Marie Lagoutte, after having refreshed herself with a fresh pinch, was settling her snuff into shape in its box, while I sat thinking on the strange habit people indulge in of pressing their advice upon those who don’t want it.
At this moment the major-domo rose.
“Will you have a glass of wine, doctor?” said he, leaning over the back of my arm-chair.
“Thank you, but I never drink before seeing a patient.”
“What! not even one little glass?”
“Not the smallest glass you could offer me.”
He opened his eyes wide and looked with astonishment at his wife.
“The doctor is right,” she said. “I am quite of his opinion. I prefer to drink with my meat, and to take a glass of cognac afterwards. That is what the ladies do in France. Cognac is more fashionable than kirschwasser!”
Marie Lagoutte had hardly finished with her dissertation when Sperver opened the door quietly and beckoned me to follow him.
I bowed to the “honourable company,” and as I was entering the passage I could hear that lady saying to her husband—
“That is a nice young man. He would have made a good-looking soldier.”
Sperver looked uneasy, but said nothing. I was full of my own thoughts.
A few steps under the darkling vaults of Nideck completely effaced from my memory the queer figures of Tobias and Marie Lagoutte, poor harmless creatures, existing like bats under the mighty wing of the vulture.
Soon Gideon brought me into a sumptuous apartment hung with violet-coloured velvet, relieved with gold. A bronze lamp stood in a corner, its brightness toned down by a globe of ground crystal; thick carpets, soft as the turf on the hills, made our steps noiseless. It seemed a fit abode for silence and meditation.
On entering Sperver lifted the heavy draperies which fell around an ogee window. I observed him straining his eyes to discover something in the darkened distance; he was trying to make out whether the witch still lay there crouching down upon the snow in the midst of the plain; but he could see nothing, for there was deep darkness over all.
But I had gon
e on a few steps, and came in sight, by the faint rays of the lamp, of a pale, delicate figure seated in a Gothic chair not far from the sick man. It was Odile of Nideck. Her long black silk dress, her gentle expression of calm self-devotion and complete resignation, the ideal angel-like cast of her sweet features, recalled to one’s mind those mysterious creations of the pencil in the Middle Ages when painting was pursued as a true art, but which modern imitators have found themselves obliged to give up in despair, while at the same time they never can forget them.
I cannot say what thoughts passed rapidly through my mind at the sight of this fair creature, but certainly much of devotion mingled with my sentiments. A sense of music and harmony swept sadly through by soul, with faint impressions of the old ballads of my childhood—of those pious songs with which the kind nurses of the Black Forest rock to peaceful sleep our infant sorrows.
At my approach Odile rose.
“You are very welcome, monsieur le docteur,” she said with touching kindness and simplicity; then, pointing with her finger to a recess where lay the count, she added, “There is my father.”
I bowed respectfully and without answering, for I felt deeply affected, and drew near to my patient.
Sperver, standing at the head of the bed, held up the lamp with one hand, holding his far cap in the other. Odile stood at my left hand. The light, softened by the subdued light of the globe of ground crystal, fell softly on the face of the count.
The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories Page 6