Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 14

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Inside the quiet little house the three young men took off their mantles.

"Liljensparre was there himself to-night," said the King, "he is a good, diligent fellow and some day I may find him useful. There are police the other side of the street also."

"We are always well protected," smiled Karl; he much resembled the King in grace and comeliness, had the same type of pale vivid colouring, a similar sweep of brow and large blue eyes, a similar air of fastidious elegance, his expression was alert and humorous, he had not either the extreme distinction nor the extreme amiability of the King, the slightest and shortest of the three brothers, Karl might have been the model for one of the exquisite courtiers modelled in Dresden porcelain who adorned the rose-silk padded cabinets of his mother's drawing room, but he gave no impression of effeminacy. Frederik was more heavily built, his blue eyes darker, his hair a brighter gold, his features, though fine, modelled with less delicacy, his air was smiling and affable, all of them concealed their thoughts and emotions behind the most polished courtesy. Gustaf who had put his life and his kingdom into the slim hands of his brothers, did not trust them beyond this plot that would benefit them as much as it would himself; he relied on their courage and pride, their diplomacy and cunning, though none of these qualities had been tested in them, but he did not rely on their loyalty as he did on that of others not his kin.

The bent man who had opened the door to the brothers trimmed the lamp, asked respectfully if they wanted anything and when told no, left, shuffling in slippers; he had a carefully cultivated air of a learned recluse, with long dingy robe and untrimmed beard, he was well known to the police as a harmless eccentric, terming himself an alchemist, who resided, partly as servant, partly as partner, in the modest house of Madame Arfmedsson, where his wife cooked and laboured in small domestic duties, and he had a small laboratory; his name was Nordenskfold, a Finn.

The room was lined with plain tables and chests of drawers on which stood boxes, these contained, as the seeress had informed the police, the apparatus of her art, and she had opened them to show grimoires, charms, puppets in precious and base metals, bottles and jars with handwritten labels. Now the King took some keys from his pocket, and unlocked most of these receptacles; without words, for they understood one another well, the three young men brought out maps, packets of memoranda, notebooks, pencils and rulers that they placed on the centre table that was divided into seven sections with white paint, these met at a centre point where stood the plain silver lamp.

Drawing up their chairs, they sorted out the papers, Karl placed in front of him a map of Scania, on which the fortresses of Kristianstad, Karlskrona and Malmo were vivid with red crosses, the distances between them being marked off in pencilled leagues, the routes and the state of them being clearly described, every waterfall, mountain and canal clearly indicated; yet again Karl studied the progress of his advance to quell the sham rebellion Toll would provoke. Frederik had his hand on a chart of the Finlandian Gulf, before the King was a map of his entire domains; he did not need to look at it, every detail of his country was always clearly before his mind; he leaned forward and told his brothers of the men whom he had lately sworn into the band, the noble Adelebeth, the secret whispered when he, the King, had read his verses, Sergel, the famous sculptor, Maurice Arm-felt, the splendid courtier, the dashing Axel von Fersen, Evert Taube the unrivalled secret agent, all these, burning with enthusiasm for high ideals, had ardently put their swords at the King's service.

"But," said Gustaf, "though I wholly trust these gentlemen, only the men of action know the full details of the plot—you, my brothers, Colonel Baron Jakob Sprengtporten of the Borga Dragoons, his brother, then this strange Johan Toll, and their lieutenants—ah, and Scheffer who must draw up our Constitution, we need a lawyer there, and Beylon and Schorderheim, who fetch and carry with absolute composure." He looked at Karl as he spoke and a clear flush rose to that youth's cheek as he recalled his indiscretion towards Aurora, but after all, it had been no more than a hint that he might acquit himself well soon in some great task; he studied the plan of Karlskrona with the elaborate fortifications that looked like a design for embroidery; Gustaf never humiliated anyone, and he had, as he believed, secured the loyalty of the Fersen demoiselle, so he contented himself by remarking:

"We have been fortunate in keeping our secret from all the ladies, even from the Queen Dowager."

Frederik, tracing a silver pencil over a map of Smaland, a danger spot, since Baron Pechlin's estates and influence lay there, spoke firmly, yet with an almost jesting decorum.

"Your Majesty knows that our mother would have most eagerly supported your Majesty."

Gustaf thought, without rancour, "perhaps, after all, she does know, and Frederik is her spy, he was always her favourite and is much under her influence," aloud he said: "We cannot doubt that, but we have no right to put her in peril—she must be able to swear she knows nothing—if it goes awry."

"Besides," added Karl coolly, "Her Majesty is not the woman for a mighty intrigue, she would enjoy it so much she would betray her excitement."

Gustaf was thinking of Jeanne d'Egmont, if Karl had let slip a rash hint to Aurora Lowenhjelm, he, Gustaf, had written minute descriptions of his plans that were now in the possession of Madame d'Egmont, Madame Feydeau de Mesmes and her friends, but he had not betrayed any of his designs to her, for, step by step she had encouraged and exhorted him in the noblest terms, in impassioned language, to this great enterprise; he put his hand to his pocket where her knot of colours lay.

The three blond heads, lightly powdered and elegantly curled, bent over the pile of memoranda in cipher, it was dangerous to put these secrets into written words, everything had to be memorised, even these few papers were concealed behind the apparatus of the jugglery used by the mystagogues, in case the police should suddenly be zealous.

Behind the mechanics of his task the King's agile mind flowed onwards towards his visionary goal; the map of Sweden glowed and flowered under his eyes into a rich picture of the country he meant not only to be free, but the outpost of freedom in Europe.

Hyberboreas, Ultima Thule—the mystical land beyond the snows of the farthest North where storm and stress was unknown; that fable served to symbolise the state that he intended to create with resources so meagre and uncertain, merely his own ardour and that of some other enthusiastic men, young as himself, as himself inspired by the noble idealism of modern French philosophy. A most comely and stately country with the thin layer of soil, no more than a foot deep, over the precious minerals underground, the silver, gold, copper and jewels in their matrix, the ploughs so light that a single ox and a lone maid with easy hand could draw and guide them, the forests that grew from the shallow earth to return to it as fertilising ashes; the poverty that was strict and pure, sheep with wool so coarse that only peasants' garments could be spun from it, the straw roofs unthatched in winter to feed the elk or reindeer, waterfalls crossed by rainbows with spray veiling the landscape until it was as the remembrance of a dream. At midsummer one continual day and the land overspread with raspberries, currants, strawberries, honeysuckle, hops and dog roses, corncockle and tansy, the Swedish colours, blue and yellow, flowing by the wayside, the lamb feeding on the grass grown roof and the wild, fragrant briar rose at the door. Always the sense of the snow, the ice, the North not far away, always the desire to journey there, to be away from the waving grain, the lilies of the valley in the damp woods, the lilac bushes in the ale house plot, the sharp blades of sweet vernal grass in the meadows, the ancient silver willows by the quiet stream, the mountain ash hung with clusters of orange-scarlet berries, away from the water breaks like liquid amber casting aureoles round the summits of the blue black pines, the quickset hawthorn hedges at Goteborg brilliant in spring, the sloe hedges in Scania, brilliant in autumn, the barley mown by the ruddy good humoured peasantry while their children in aprons of Turkish yellow plucked the wild gooseberries and blae-berries. Yes, the desire to be away, in a sledge drawn by the stout dun native horses hung with copper bells, away on one of those moonlit winter nights when the traveller needed no lantern, for the snow reflected the luminous heaven, and the white hares sped over the trackless ice, to be driving fast, to where the singing swans fly, where by the stirring river of Lethe the heroes rest, the back of the North wind.

This was the King's heritage, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Swedish Pomerania, on the map he saw the stately cities, the majestic forts, the clean villages, the lonely farms, the desolate marshes where the wizards dwelt and the lotus floated on solitary lakes, the handsome brick and stone mansions of the Scotch merchants at Goteborg, with the painted birch furniture and hangings of Lyons silk, the sulphur mines at Fahlun, surrounded by yellow streams tumbling over sharp rocks and greenish spume, the rivulets of the dales that ran over beds of purple porphery, moss coloured and red feldspar, the Lorelei who lured travellers to the heights of granite mountains only to cast them into the azure and purple whirlpool beneath. Vedern, the bottomless lake, haunted by the Fata Morgana, near the Vedern Castle, gloomy with unhappy legends, the ruined church at Husaby, where the glossy ravens flew in and out of the glassless windows and the massive coffin shaped granite gravestones were, Kinekalla, the hanging gardens of Sweden, the palace of Locko worn by time, the birthplace of St. Brigitte, the saintly patroness of the North in the days of idolatary, Gripsholm, haunted castle and modern palace alike, Drottningholm, Ulriksdal rising in rich islets from the blue green swift waters or the blue still ice, traversed by the nocken, the water sprites, those ondines with green tresses, who rode the violet sheened water horses with seaweed for their curling, rippling tresses, Haga, the elegant little summer house built for the King's private repose, and the cottages the soldiers had in lieu of pay, each with a regimental shield by the wooden door. Jeanne d'Egmont had seen this splendid panorama through his eyes, though they had so little time together, he had made her behold his kingdom as he beheld it, blue and green, clear air, all rising on riches of silver and jewels, mines and galleries of precious stones where the elves gambolled, the wild swans flying North stretched like arrows for their goal.

He had described Stockholm, where the grandiose modern palace rose from a quay a mile long and the anchorage at the royal steps where the royal yacht Amphion fired a salute at sunset. Incongruous amid the huddled alleys of the old city, isolated at night by the lifted drawbridges that connected with the mainland, the palace stood as a fit dwelling for kings; and to-night all the shipping would be dressed with flags and pennons for the Coronation of a marionette. He had not described to Jeanne d'Egmont the Riddarsholm church with the silver coffins of the Vasa heroes, the drums forever silent, the standards forever dropping still and heavy on the poles, the two bloody buff tunics torn by bullets, the wooden horsemen in their blue steel armour. She had spoken to him most earnestly—"Sire, a dream can be realized, and you can achieve this one. Do not suppose because much in France is frivolous and corrupt, because philosophy has become delightful as a game, because we exercise our wit on virtue, that humanity has lost hope. Reform, progress, enlightenment, the end of ignorance and superstition—dull, heavy words, you think, but beside what they mean everything else in the world is without enchantment." She, born heiress of Richelieu and the Guises of Lorraine, had lived as a Queen from her childish years, surrounded by all that was splendid, elegant, sparkling and seductive, she had put aside all this magnificence, flawless as a fairy tale's recital of fairyland with as light a gesture of her pale hand as if she had smilingly refused a brittle glass of thin wine. She lived in retreat, much away from the husband to whom she was constant and respectful, but whom she did not love, away from the waxlit palaces and the lamplit parks, the costly staged dramas on the toy stage, the luxurious festivals, the sumptuous masquerades, away from the enchantment of music, away from the delicate homage and the tactful flattery, all the arts and letters of Paris and Versailles that she had so warmly encouraged, away from the miracles of Cagliostro and Mesmer, the wonders performed by M. St. Germain, the Rosicrucians and the Swedenborgians. Her sole interest was the young King of Sweden and what he might do to ease the galling burdens of the times, she wrote to him of the rotting harvest, the starving manual toilers, the lean beasts, the foul and crowded lazar houses, the dungeons where those never brought to trial wasted for years, the scaffolds and the axe, the crippled children, the rigid censorship as an iron grip on speech and print, the Church wielding authority as a steel whip to scourge freedom in the name of bloodstained superstitions in which only the uneducated now believed...freedom of thought, of action, mercy, justice, tolerance—"if you love me" wrote Jeanne d'Egmont "you will serve these, even when I am dead—yes, when I am no more than a little dust nourishing a blade of grass, if you love me, you will be true to these ideals in which we both believe."

He did love her; a solitary spirit, he would have put through his life's task without her impassioned encouragement, he required no prop or stay, but her love, so remote from his daily life, so apart from his destiny most richly gilded his resolution taken so long ago; and the exquisite courtesy of his love allowed her to believe that she had wholly created his intentions as truly she inspired his actions inasmuch as she was always everywhere about his thoughts, as the rainbow spray was about the waterfalls, it was a dangerous emotion, this love etherealised until it was as a guiding star to the sick woman and to the man an enchantment that kept him spellbound from the natural affection of a woman seen, caressed and kept close.

He completed his precise writing and looked up at his brothers, intent on their ciphers, the long fingers moving in the ring of lamplight; Gustaf often felt a detached, almost compassionate curiosity as to how far they were with him; they had bargained for dukedoms, increased revenues, Karl wanted Fersen's niece as wife, but the Queen Mother would prevent that match, both of them helped their mother to keep the Queen an outcast, both of them surely, hoped in time to rule, or to be father of a king. And Gustaf was helping them because of the cold, black dread of the Danish blood and an imbecile heir, and because he loved the unattainable Jeanne d'Egmont. He allowed his fancy wing as he might have let a bird from a cage, as he rested his long face in his long hand, he and she, ruling a new world between them, or, dearer dream still, speeding together across the ice, across the snow, under the lakes, through the rainbows, to the land beyond the North wind.

"There is really nothing more to do," said Karl looking up and breaking the King's day dream, with his manner of a veteran he added: "If Toll does his part and the troops don't mutiny I should subdue Scania in a matter of days from my leaving Stockholm. Should I fail," he remarked slipping his note book inside his vest pocket, "I shall try to fall back on Hambourg in good order and I hope that your Majesty will send me supplies." Gustaf admitted this to be a reasonable request, but he thought of Toll, who had asked for nothing, who had refused the rich weapons, who had gone to raise a province without credentials, with only a hundred dollars.

"I shall share all I have," said the King; the brothers exchanged their charming smiles, their blue glances. "It will not be much if we do fail," murmured Frederik, "that your Majesty will have left to share."

"Truly," said Karl rising as the King rose. "I believe I have now every inch of Scania engraved on my mind."

They went into the next room that looked on the street; there Madame Arfmedsson sat before a modest coffee urn and cups; she was a creature of meek appearance, with sunken chest and depressed nose; her vague eyes stared wistfully at the three brilliant young men to whom she gave a loyalty she never voiced and they never questioned; the industrious and faithful Beylon had found her long ago, both her house and her reputation formed useful blinds for the secret activities of Gustaf; he put on the table before her the thick gold piece that was her usual fee and she made the coffee with cheerful, busy care while they talked together of trifles. Unable to read or write the seeress took no interest in anything save the affairs of her small household and the invisible world; she did not know why the brothers met secretly in her back parlour, she did not care—"matters of state" Beylon had said, and she agreed that there must be secret matters conducted quietly by the great. None of the brothers had shown the slightest concern with her occult arts, but cunning in her simplicity, she was well able to baffle the adroit and diligent Liljensparre by pretending that they frequented this modest trysting place for just that—to consult the spirits.

She remained standing, her hands humbly folded while they drank the black coffee, smiling over the brims of the cups. "There are dregs in my cup," said the King; unable to resist a dramatic effect he added. "Shall we not give the good Liljensparre something for his vigil?" And went to the window, opening the shutters by a chink; the watchful Chief of Police did thus see, for a second, the King's fine profile bent over a coarse, empty cup, before the shutter was hastily closed. "What folly!" Liljensparre sighed as Gustaf laughed at his brothers.

"Your Majesty is too fond of playing the harlequin," smiled Karl, his eyes and tone were cold. "For my part I should have divulged the plot to Baron Liljensparre and asked his very able help."

"One does not disclose an approaching rebellion to as efficient a Chief of Police as it is our good fortune to possess," said the King with unblemished good humour, and he asked how the obscure and loyal alchemist Nordenskfold was succeeding in his experiments? Had he yet discovered the philosopher's stone?

"Your Majesty is pleased always to mock at these mysteries," replied the seeress with the steadiness of simple faith, "but Nordenskfold is a most loyal subject of your Majesty's and works in your service."

"I wish he could make enough gold to pay our debts," said Frederik while Karl remarked, "I wish he could send a few familiar spirits to Kristianstad to revolt the garrison."

"He can do nothing because you do not believe," replied the old woman respectfully. "Some day your Highness may think differently."

"Peep into the future for me," smiled Karl, drawing on his gloves, "tell me if I shall be lucky in love." Frederik twitched his sleeve—"It is so late, I shall be yawning soon, I could not stay awake much longer for all the witches in Finland."

They were out in the narrow street, with well acted airs of precaution, hurrying away, separately up the lane where the shadows of the houses lay dark beneath the silvered roofs.

"It is regrettable," sighed the Chief of Police again, "that they are such fools, for it is impossible to dislike them."