Across the Endless River

by Thad Carhart

  “You know perfectly well he’s a wine merchant,” Paul responded. It was late morning, and Baptiste was already tired of sitting in the coach.

  “I also know there’s more there than meets the eye. He has contacts all over Europe; people raise their eyebrows when his name comes up; these mounted soldiers”—he gestured outside the coach—“who never leave our sight: surely that is not all because of wine!”

  Paul extended his hand and, as Baptiste shook it, he said, “Family secret.” Paul knew that Baptiste could be trusted absolutely, and this had become their ritual for signaling a bond of silence. Paul told him that Hennesy was a wine merchant, and a very good one. Over several generations, his family had built a renowned vineyard and a network of contacts second to none. A passionate believer in the ideals of the French Revolution, he had supported Bonaparte until he declared himself emperor, but had sought to make common cause with republicans since then. Using his wine business as a cover, Hennesy also regularly dealt in guns, often providing arms to those fighting what he regarded as oppression. Ireland had received many shipments over the years, and some of the guns they were delivering along their way to Stuttgart were destined for partisans in Greece fighting for independence. His dealings were secret, delicate, and highly lucrative.

  “Uncle Franz buys large quantities of wine, and sufficient numbers of the latest weapons to keep the garrisons of Württemberg well stocked,” Paul said. “He turns a blind eye to Hennesy’s other activities, but he finds him indispensable in the matter of intelligence regarding enemies, actual or potential. No one has better information.”

  “It sounds dangerous,” Baptiste said.

  “That is putting it mildly, my friend! But there are people in this world who have a gift for danger, and for always coming out on the side that prevails. Hennesy is one of that number. As a young man, he was caught up in the Irish Rising of 1798, and ever since he has been at odds with the English. Of course I do not pretend to understand his scheme of values, necessarily filled with contradictions and louche characters, but he always seems serene. I think one can rightly call him an idealist.”

  After a brief stop in Stuttgart—King Wilhelm was in Vienna—they left for Ludwigsburg, the king’s country palace. They set out in the early morning in a large, black closed carriage, followed by a smaller carriage carrying servants and an open wagon for the luggage. They were joined by Paul’s cousin Princess Theresa, who was a few years older than Paul and whom Baptiste had not met. At the porte cochère of the palace in Stuttgart, the princess didn’t wait for the footman to hand her up, but climbed in on her own.

  She was attractive, but not in a conventional way—not, certainly, like the profusion of young women at Prince Franz’s ball in Paris. She wore a dress and cloak of light brown silk, and her chestnut hair was pulled back from her face. She used little of the heavy powder and rouge much favored by the ladies Baptiste had met so far. Her face was fair, her cheeks a healthy pink, and her full lips plum-hued. The sharp line of her nose and the piercing gaze of her amber eyes gave her face a solemn look that Baptiste found intriguing. She wore a single oval brooch where her lace collar closed, a cameo of a woman’s head in pale white on a field of dusky rose, a reiteration of her own coloring, which Baptiste felt had not been worn by chance. She wore small coral earrings as well, but none of the pearls, rings, gemstones, or gold that Baptiste had by now come to expect. Neither did she use the cloying perfumes that enveloped so many French women in a cloud of nauseating sweetness.

  They spoke French, the lingua franca for the three, and the language in which everyone at court was fluent. He enjoyed hearing Theresa speak since her accent differed significantly from his. Baptiste learned that the princess was Paul’s favorite among his many cousins. She told him she had been raised in Stuttgart and shared Paul’s fascination for geography and the natural sciences, though her curiosity had been discouraged by tutors and nannies who thought it improper for a young lady to be interested in such matters.

  “I would see Paul at the palace on Sundays, along with the rest of the family, and after church and lunch I would force him to tell me about what he had read during the week. We’d spend hours in the library looking at the globe, imagining what manner of people and animals lived on all the territories marked ‘Unexplored.’ ”

  They talked of many things: news of family, different political systems, the new means of transportation. As the morning wore on and they rolled through the sun-bathed countryside, a shared understanding formed among the three.

  Baptiste saw a side of Paul that he hadn’t seen since their time together on the Missouri. In the carriage, he was not addressed as “Duke”; there were no servants or underlings, no public before whom an image had to be maintained or a role played. Paul enthused about his experiences on the Missouri, about meeting Cuvier, and about the work of organizing his collection.

  “Paul, you are happy when you talk about serving science, just as you did in America when you were collecting specimens,” Baptiste observed. “Couldn’t you have continued with your studies in botany and zoology and become a professor at the university?”

  Paul shook his head. “The choice was not mine. The army was unavoidable.”

  The princess took his arm gently in hers and said to Baptiste, “Wilhelm, the king, would not understand taking any other path. It is what a nobleman in Europe does. He serves his prince in the army, just as surely as a woman finds a husband and produces babies.”

  “The warriors among the Hidatsa and the Mandan are the same,” Baptiste said. “It would be impossible for them to be anything else.” He had never imagined Paul as something other than totally free, a rich and influential nobleman with the world at his fingertips. Now he saw his host in a different light.

  They stopped at midmorning to water the horses in a small town, and descended briefly from the carriage to stretch their legs. The other vehicles were covered with a layer of gray dust from following behind; they looked like a ghostly escort from a different world, both men and horses wearing a mantle of fine powder. Gradually they left behind the smells of undried hay that rose from the newly cut fields and Baptiste saw that the forest was now unbroken, its understory open and awash with the golden green infusion of light that filtered through the new growth above.

  “It won’t be long now!” Paul exclaimed. It was evident that he was delighted to be returning to this landscape. He had not been here since he set out on his adventure to the Missouri River two years earlier.

  As the mass of trees began to thin out, the small party of carriages entered the outskirts of a town. Stone buildings and substantial houses lined the streets, including an elaborate twin-towered church whose facade dominated a very large square filled with tented market stalls. They turned onto a wide tree-lined avenue, on one side of which sat more fine houses and on the other what looked like a garden of trees. Baptiste could see beneath the branches of ordered plane trees an immense facade stretching across the entire park. Its roof was alive with statuary. As they came closer, he saw that the front of the palace was given over to symmetrical flower gardens. Spring had arrived here, like an apparition through the haze of tender green that sprouted from the trees.

  They continued beyond the garden, turning in at an ornate wrought-iron gate. The carriage stopped as guards in scarlet tunics and gold braid saluted Paul respectfully, then continued into an immense white gravel courtyard. The carriage swung around a central fountain and came to a stop beneath a stone porch that jutted out from the flagdraped Palace of Ludwigsburg. The vehicles carrying the servants and the luggage had been directed elsewhere.

  Theresa said to Paul, “Before I do anything, I must have a walk in the gardens. I’ll take our guest along while his things are being settled this afternoon, before we lose the sun.”

  “Very well,” Paul responded, “but don’t try to show him everything on his first afternoon here.”

  As they entered the vestibule of the palace, courtiers bowed low an
d opened doors, footmen carried what little baggage they had kept with them, and older servants curtsied and bowed, greeting Paul and Theresa with special warmth. They proceeded into a monumental columned hall, and Paul turned to an old retainer who appeared to be in charge.

  “Suber, this is my good friend Monsieur Charbonneau. See that he has everything he needs to feel at home.” He spoke in German, and Baptiste was happy to discover he understood what was being said.

  “Of course, Your Grace. It shall be done.” He inclined his head toward Baptiste and, when he raised it, Baptiste could not help feeling that a steely eye of appraisal flashed upon him as the old servant opened his mouth in a servile smile.

  After they had washed and had a light lunch, they strolled along the wide paths of the sprawling gardens. Theresa led Baptiste around the first of the big circular pools that lay spaced at intervals along a central axis, then chose a path that brought them to the double allées of plane trees flanking the gardens. Under the canopy of leaves and branches she turned to Baptiste and let out a sigh of relief.

  “That’s better. We can no longer see the palace. Here I can talk,” Theresa said.

  Only a small corner of the facade was visible from where they stood; the rest was shielded from view by the low-hanging branches, trimmed severely along their outer edges and shaped into a high vault on the inside. She continued walking, and Baptiste fell in step alongside her. He felt curious, unsettled, shy, and jubilant, all his senses sharpened now that he was alone with Theresa.

  The perfectly spaced columns of trees stretched before them for hundreds of yards, the barrel roof moving slightly in the breeze. An occasional bird flitted overhead and twittered among the boughs, punctuating the perfect quiet that otherwise prevailed.

  “This is like another palace corridor,” Baptiste ventured.

  “Monsieur Dupin would love to hear you say that. He has been the chief gardener here since the time of King Friedrich, and has spent his life applying the ideals of French landscaping to the grounds of Ludwigsburg. The French have long made their gardens an extension of architecture.” Theresa became more animated with each step separating them from the palace.

  At the end of the tree tunnel, they walked through the sunlight to a tall evergreen hedge set at right angles to the line of trees. Theresa hurried ahead, continued along the perfectly regular edge of the bushes, and turned a corner abruptly. Baptiste followed but found only a recess in the hedge. He entered the small passage and discovered a narrow pathway that threaded through the evergreens, turning twice to conceal the entrance. He finally emerged on the other side of the hedge, which was over ten feet deep, in the corner of a perfect square whose boundaries were marked by tall evergreens. Their seamless planes and razor-edge joints mimicked the finest carpentry. Statues stood in alcoves cut into the four sides, stone benches formed a pattern around flower beds and symmetrical paths, and at the center stood Theresa, striking a pose. With her shawl draped over one outstretched arm, she was a Greek goddess presiding over her temple. When she saw Baptiste’s startled face she broke the motionless pantomime.

  “Do you see? It’s a room with walls, furniture, and the sky for a roof.”

  Baptiste relaxed. “What an idea,” he said slowly, turning to inspect the dimensions as if to find a flaw.

  “Every palace in Europe has one,” Theresa told him, “or a maze fashioned from shrubs, or a life-sized chessboard worked into the lawns. They’re de rigueur. Monsieur Dupin is very proud of it.”

  “I don’t understand this place,” Baptiste said softly.

  “It is a very convenient refuge from the prying eyes at court, which was the original idea. But trimming and shaping plants for years so that they resemble stone and plaster reminds me of what my grandmother used to say: ‘If God had intended for trees to grow in straight lines, he’d have made them square.’ ”

  They sat on one of the stone benches, and a feeling of intimacy enveloped them. Theresa said, “I can only imagine how strange this must seem to you. But where you come from seems strange to me, too. Can you imagine that? The few people I have met who have been to your part of the world say that it is like no other place on earth.”

  “Many things are different where I come from,” Baptiste said, unsure how to respond.

  “Perhaps I can help you understand our ways,” Theresa said gently. “Let us describe our worlds to one another.”

  Baptiste hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “In my country when you conclude an agreement, you always shake on it.” He extended his hand.

  Theresa laughed as she took his hand in hers.

  TWENTY

  APRIL 22, 1824

  PALACE OF LUDWIGSBURG

  Dear Cousin,

  I write to you from Württemberg. Duke Paul and I came up from Stuttgart some days ago, but I am now here on my own while he visits relatives in Baden. There is plenty for me to do, however. I am being introduced to court life, having German lessons, and venturing into the town to see how the local people live. I am also taking piano lessons! I learned to play the pump organ a little in St. Louis, but this is more difficult.

  As I mentioned to you, I did not have the opportunity to get to know France other than by my solitary walks in Paris. I cannot say I met or talked to anyone outside the Duke’s circle of friends. Here things are different. The town is much smaller than Paris (still very large compared to St. Louis) and it is an easy matter to walk among the people. Market days are best, I have found. There are many outsiders in town and I blend in more readily, easily mingling with the crowds filling the taverns around the main square. I have acquired some simple clothes that allow me to pass unnoticed, and the color of my skin is taken as proof of Mediterranean parentage.

  When I open my mouth, of course, I do not pass for a local. My German is coming along—I am told my accent is good—but I don’t yet have enough words to allow me to say anything of substance. My teacher would prefer that I learn every rule and exception of grammar. Very few people outside the palace speak French and almost no one speaks any English or Spanish, so I stick to German and try my best. Everyone drinks beer in the taverns, and one or two mugs help untie my tongue.

  Two days ago a woman in the marketplace recognized me as a friend of Duke Paul, and as soon as she said the words, the atmosphere changed. She and her friends drew back, suddenly cool and reserved, and acted as if I were a wild animal that might bite. When I mentioned it later to Duke Paul, he cautioned me about such “adventures,” as he called them, among the local population. He told me he won’t walk into town on his own. I asked him why, and he said that for a member of the royal family to wander at will was “unthinkable.” That was the end of the discussion. Here there is a reverence for the king and his relations that borders on fear, an attitude Americans don’t feel toward their leaders. Nevertheless, I have decided to continue my walks as discreetly as I can.

  I will be traveling again soon. Duke Paul plans to visit his family’s lands in Silesia, where his brother lives. According to him, it is the wild edge of Europe. Then we will go to Berlin and possibly to Saint Petersburg to meet with his fellow natural historians. We might go to Paris again, too, though probably not until much later in the fall. I hope to have the pleasure of finding you there.

  You can write to me here at Ludwigsburg if you like. We won’t leave before late August, and any mail that arrives after that will follow me with Duke Paul’s own correspondence.

  I realize that I have hardly asked about you. I trust that you are well. It seems like years rather than weeks since we last met at Prince Franz’s ball. Your father’s words about the Bourbons are still vivid in my mind, as is the vision of your blue dress. Remember me a little when you think of your father’s family in America.

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Jean-Baptiste

  TWENTY-ONE

  Paul left the countless boxes in Stuttgart, “in safe warehouses,” he told Baptiste, “until the collection finds its home.” A few items
were sent to Ludwigsburg, packed in fine trunks and presented to Paul’s friends and family as exotic gifts that showed he had been to the far ends of the earth. In the ensuing weeks, Baptiste saw some of the pieces in the family salons: a pair of moccasins on a mantel, or a powder horn with a beaded lanyard on a table lying amid precious baubles and porcelain vases. They looked sadly out of place on a polished wood sideboard or a marble hearth.

  The week after they arrived, Paul planned to return to Stuttgart for two or three days and then visit friends in nearby parts of Württemberg. Baptiste was content to remain at Ludwigsburg, exploring. His daily German lessons with Schlape continued, and as his speaking improved, the older servant taught Baptiste court protocol, the arcane rules of conduct that prevailed in the sovereign’s presence.

  Theresa accompanied him around the palace and its grounds. As a member of the royal family, she could go where she pleased, and her knowledge of the domain was intimate and extensive. She taught him the names and uses of the royal apartments that ringed the vast courtyard: the state dining room, the family dining room, the ambassadors’ waiting room, the map room, the music room, and the throne room. The column-lined hallways connecting the rooms seemed to go on forever. Only a few of the rooms had open hearths; the others were warmed by huge gray metal cylinders set against the wall, sometimes decorated with pieces of porcelain, which Theresa explained were heating stoves, stoked in winter by servants who passed through a network of invisible passageways behind the walls. Baptiste wanted to see the servants’ side of the wall, but Theresa told him it was not possible.

  She showed him the royal theater, an elaborately decorated hall with four tiers of seating and the royal box at the center of the first level, richly draped in red velvet and gold braid. The royal chapel looked much like the theater—there was even a royal box in the balcony that was accessible from the king’s apartments—but in place of a stage stood a marble altar flanked by huge paintings whose crowded tableaux Baptiste recognized from his study of the Bible. Intricate carvings of foliage and broad bas-relief medallions covered the walls and ceiling; overhead, angels were stringing garlands and laughing down at him. The shimmering expanse of organ pipes looked like a frozen waterfall, and he wondered how you could talk to God amid such clutter.