Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 19

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General Rudbeck had indeed asserted that he was convinced the King was no more than a spiritless, if agreeable fribble, entirely absorbed, for the moment, in the opera he was himself producing in the palace theatre and for which he had written the libretto, but the Government were not wholly satisfied with this opinion. Caps and Hats alike were baffled by this fine spun, wide flung plot, that must be known to so many, yet which no one betrayed; Prince Karl's messenger had disappeared, no news could be expected from Finland until a fair wind rose, nor from Scania until Prince Karl sent an answer to the command for his recall. No one knew where Sprengtporten's loyalty lay. The bewildered and angry Riksdag requested the King to remain in Stockholm, and while sending out couriers to hasten on the troops who were to overawe the capital, they sent, on his own desire, Baron Pechlin, universally considered the ablest man in the realm, to ask an audience of His Majesty.

This was at once granted and Gustaf received his chief native opponent in the private apartment overlooking the quay where he spent his most familiar hours.

Baron Pechlin, who had never known failure, remorse or scruple, who was not burdened by any sensitiveness of any kind, was always certain of himself and he did not doubt now that he could screw his secrets out of this slight young man who had never experienced anything beyond the games and adulations of luxurious salons, who passed his time in what Baron Pechlin considered idle and foolish pursuits, yet he was acute enough not to despise what he did not understand, he allowed to himself that it was just possible that Gustaf might have qualities other than the brilliantly ornamental attractions he so flashingly displayed.

The Holsteiner, a man of late middle age, of formidable appearance, his brows habitually drawn, his speech habitually circumspect, his thin rigid lips set in a smile that was soon touched into a sneer, yet courtly and insinuating of address, directed himself at once to his task.

As he offered his conventional compliments he studied Gustaf as he had never studied him before; the King was standing in the window place, a tracery of glossy rose leaves, with here and there a last bloom loosening last petals, was behind him, he wore a fantastically rich costume of azure satin, glittering with sequins on the cuffs and pocket flaps, his carriage was erect, yet eager, as if he awaited a signal, he held his head high and laughed and seemed, Pechlin thought, pleased and amused; his height was increased by his hat, round, of the new Henri III fashion with upright ostrich plumes in the national colours of corncockle blue and sulphur yellow.

"Who," the determined observer asked himself, "is this charmer with the smile of a woman, the step of a Ballet master, a regal air, an enchanting grace?" and a doubt of any pat answers to these questions chilled him, he felt uneasy as if he looked at a dangerous stranger.

"Sire, the Riksdag is much concerned at the revolt in Scania, the more so as General Rudbeck overheard an officer declare that your Majesty's hand was in it."

"I myself heard General Rudbeck make that remark," replied the King easily, "was it not absurd? It was not however, an officer who spoke thus foolishly, but a sentry."

Unable to doubt openly the King's word, Pechlin bowed and Gustaf motioned him to the winged blue damask chair, while he himself took the settee of green velvet, where he lay at ease, indolently graceful.

"Had it been an officer," added Gustaf, "he would have lost his commission."

"Your Majesty treats very casually this serious state of the country."

"The state of the country is more hopeful than it has been for some while, my dear Baron—is it not served by patriots who are resolved to reform all abuses, to punish corruption, to defy our enemies?"

"Your Majesty is pleased to employ lofty terms of speech, the idiom of antique virtue goes very well on the stage, but in real life we must employ a sterner language."

"Virtue is stern," smiled Gustaf, "vice is soft and easy to serve, virtue is difficult—save, as you remark, for those who strut on the boards. What was the purpose of this audience?"

The King took a pencil and tablet from his glittering pocket and drew a caricature of Karl Scheffer, now waiting nervously at his coastal castle of Tyreso, staring at his becalmed yacht on which he hoped to escape to a German port.

"To arouse your Majesty to a sense of your—danger."

"I consider myself very well protected—the burgher cavalry already posted in the streets—the Uplanders on the march, the rebellion quelled in Scania."

But behind his perfect self assurance, his most accomplished ease, he faced the gloomy labyrinths of Piranesi's prisons, the heads of Struensee and Brandt held aloft, the bloody scaffold, the screaming hunted conspirators, the masquerade interrupted by the rush of armed soldiery—the man in the stone spider's web of stairs, and wheels and ladders—"I want to get out". The word "danger" was borne on the boom of the sunset gun fired then from the Amphion, the light chilled in the gracious apartment; the dangerous vision, powerful as an hallucination, hung like tattered smoke in the darkening corners of the chamber where the King's blue glance turned expectantly. Yet as if completely at leisure he waited; he knew exactly what the other man thought of him, the purpose of this interview, how he was spied on, despised and yet feared; within a few hours they meant to have him quite helpless, perhaps a prisoner in Gripsholm. Kings had spent years in dungeons, kings had been murdered, privately, secretly.

He tossed down his tablets and flung off his hat then crossed to the gilt harpsichord. Toccata in G—what variations on that theme? G minor—G major—he signed his initial on the dainty keys of ebony and ivory while Baron Pechlin, contemptuously on his feet, pressed home his point, the offer of his false loyalty to beguile a man who must be afraid.

"There might be some clash in which your Majesty would need friends," he insinuated, touching his breast.

"I trust I should find one, as always, in yourself, my dear Baron."

Even Pechlin was for a second nonplussed at having his words anticipated and so mocked; he remarked sombrely.

"I might be more useful than some of those who are encouraged by your Majesty."

This from a man who had betrayed everyone with whom he had ever worked, and made with the most cynical intentions of luring a damning admission from his victim, caused the King to shudder; to him it was as if a monstrous figure, treachery and fraud, had leaped from behind the trim courtier's conventional figure, to stand menacing and leering beside the harpsichord, to beckon up those other shapes from the shadows of his mind.

"Your Majesty is faint?" asked Pechlin, creeping closer.

"Yes, sometimes I have a giddy fit—our native Lorelei haunts me—but I do not stand upon a height," he added, "so I cannot say why sometimes I sicken and vapour seems thick about me—here, where the air is so clear."

"The spasms of a cockered weakling," thought Pechlin gratified, for the King, who had ceased to play, did appear wan, his cheek near as colourless as his whitened curls, only his blue eyes, so changeful, so remarkable, remained charged with energy.

"When this disturbance is over, your Majesty should again try the baths at Loka."

"Now you speak lightly, Baron. Disturbance? That is a word for a student's brawl—not for the anarchy of—" he stopped deliberately, said to himself "the worse governed country in Europe," then aloud—"some reckless hotheads."

"Your Majesty must be agitated by the absence of news from Finland—perhaps Madame Arfmedsson who is so clever with coffee dregs, could have sold a fellow Finn a capful of wind before he sailed—Baron Sprengtporten should have thought of that—"

Gustaf wondered how many people the Queen Dowager had told of his visits to the seeress, these had served the very purpose he had intended, but it was not agreeable to know that his mother had joined in the sneers he had hoped to raise, but he was sure that it was she, neither the Chief of Police or his men would have gossiped about the weaknesses of the King. He moved languidly on his stool.

"Ah, my dear Pechlin, coffee dregs sound ridiculous, I know—but they are a mere device for concentrating the attention as is the crystal ball, the lines caused by breathing on sand in a tray, or the waving of boughs of leaves before the eyes. How absurd are the pretensions of superstitions! And why need I concern myself about the delay in Baron Sprengtporten's fleet? The Uplanders will protect my person and my crown without the help of the Borga dragoons."

"Your Majesty has decided to disclose nothing?" asked Baron Pechlin abruptly.

Gustaf turned this direct challenge, bold even for Russia's spy and agent, as swiftly as if he turned a rapier aimed at his heart, by a more skilful parry.

"Of the entertainment to-night," he asked. "The opera Peleus and Thetis? I did not know you were so interested. I am the more delighted, as the work is largely my own—I offer Sweden, music, singing, the drama, here in my own palace, until the opera house is built."

His words and his aspect showed a graceful pride, a charming vanity—"that is, after all, his main interest," thought Pechlin with disgust, amazement and some relief.

"I thought of employing a national legend," added Gustaf, "but they are rude, and we cannot better the classic symbolism, eh? Thetis and her sisters, Amphitrite and Galatea, are nereids, daughters of the most kindly of deities, Nereus, who reigns so placidly over the sea nymphs and those who guard coasts, lakes, mariners and islands—the titular goddesses of Sweden—Thetis is wedded to a mortal, Peleus—and all the immortals brought immortal gifts—as they have brought them to this country—Thetis and Nereus haunt this country changing into waterfalls, streams—dolphins and even the Fata Morgana, the aerial images seen over our inland lakes."

Gustaf spoke with moving eloquence and grace, also with an artificial manner such as he used when addressing a literary meeting, playing a part on the stage, or declaiming before the Riksdag; he so easily assumed the well trained actions and gestures of the accomplished orator that he led Pechlin completely off the track of the truth; that experienced politician was as misled as the less astute Rudbeck had been—he thought—"we deal with a pedantic impresario at best" and expressed his contempt by remarking coolly.

"I am satisfied it will be a pretty spectacle, though the allegory seems strained—Sweden is something more than a haunt of ondines," he added on an impulse to be insolent. "Was it not at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis that Discord threw the apple so disastrously disputed?" Gustaf rose, picking up the hat with the blue and yellow plumes to show that the audience was at an end, as he countered—"Such fruit is tossed at most feasts," he thought poignantly. "Do they mean to assassinate me at the ball to-night?"