Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 20

Table of Contents

The entertainment was more than sumptuous, a rare taste had blended the designs of nature and art; the open windows of the palace let in the warm air of the blue dusk that was the Northern night and the faint breeze only sufficient to flutter a lady's handkerchief, salt and tinged with the perfumes of crushed flowers and let out the glow of thousands of wax candles to illuminate the green tresses of the acacia trees drooping by the gilt cages of the lynx and the leopard, the milk white statues of Eros and Hebe crowned by the fading roses woven by Aurora Lowenhjelm, the steps to the dark water, the flagged lantern lit shipping, the upsweeping prows on which women, eagles, angels and sea gods turned their staring wooden faces, to the full moon that hung like a God's silver embossed shield in the pale sky above the brass and copper domes of Stockholm. The open water glittered where it rippled to the sea, beneath the quays it was dark and still in a shadow broken by the shifting reflections from the lanterns at the mast heads; the melodies of the first Swedish opera floated over the artificial groves, set round the classic temples of the elaborate royal garden; Italian violins and violas, flutes of ivory and boxwood, accompanied the pure young voices that used the Swedish tongue with so touching a sweetness. The spectacle, as the music, seemed more the realization of a dream than a cunning human contrivance, the troupe of singers more like a band of the native spirits of Sweden than men and women playing parts; Thetis, spangled and garlanded with pearls seemed to move her milk white limbs in a waterfall's spume, her attendants to float rather than to walk, so easily did the daughters of gentle Oceanus glide the narrow stage veiled with blue green tinsels arranged to resemble a grotto beneath the sea. Curtains of shot silk, interchanging colours behind silver gauze parted on the green, shell strewn corridors of the sea king's palace as the nymphs tripped forth with hair flowing freely as the streams, rivulets and forests where they dwelt, blessing, protecting and succouring humanity, foremost were the Naiads, goddesses of the inland waters whose delightful murmur echoes so softly over the Swedish campaign, or of those dark and sombre lakes where the lotus rests solitary, and the reeds whisper ancient secrets to the lonely swans. Honoured and lovely, divine, yet wistfully mortal, the guardians of the springs that refresh the ground, bring health and the gift of second sight, hovered on rosy, sandalled feet, carrying sheaves of corn, poppies, roses, lilies and rowan, offering their tiny hands to their green clad sisters, the Dryads who had come from their hiding places in the dark forests and the wayside trees, the Oreads who tread the rocks and guide the wanderer away from the abyss where the false Lorelei lurks, the Oceanids, with conch in hand, branches of coral in their azure gray tresses, amber necklets round their soft throats and seaweeds and grasses entwining their head dresses fashioned as naval crowns.

Peleus the mortal, was gently guided by these friendly spirits, who were often invoked to bless a marriage rite, and who sometimes themselves wed mortals, to Thetis whom he had seized as she leaped beneath flashing water on the back of a shining dolphin. Fans sewn with sequins fluttered in the audience, like hesitant butterflies sparkling in the dimmed theatre, the jewelled handles winked sparkles of light, so that it was brilliant as a southern May night when the fireflies twinkle in the dim warmth. A circle of these changeful fires shone from the diamonds on the proud brow and bosom of Ulrika Lovisa seated erect in her gilt chair, her brocade paniers stretching a yard either side of her delicately clasped hands, the royal gems of Sweden glittered on the prim white curls of Sophia Magdalena, shy, unhappy and apart, she affected no pleasure in the entertainment that evoked a sighing enthusiasm in her companions; the King looked at her secretly, keenly, without hope; she was as inanimate as one of the plump expressionless penitents dully listening to the courteous rebukes of a stout angel that showed in the prints in her German Bible; she even yawned, more from idleness than vacancy; the King trembled, thinking of Jeanne d'Egmont who would have quivered to every note of this music, to all the implications of this allegory, who, exhausted by emotion would have sent her spirit to him mingled with the harmony of sound and colour that expressed his fantasy.

Something at least of his fantasy as he sat enthroned, watching the enchanting scene that was his own creation, his mind was far from this dainty artifice that suited his taste so exquisitely.

Two of the skilful and high-minded ladies who acted as his secret agents at Versailles had lately contrived to write to him, the erudite and fascinating Madame de Boufflers had written words that seemed too a propos, he could hear them behind the spell of the music, as one can fell pain, dulled but persistent, behind the opiate—"Sire, despite my attachment to your Majesty's cause and the lively hope I have of your triumph, I cannot suppress a reflection, that your Majesty must pardon if it be too bold. It is that your Majesty may be misled by the very eminence of your own noble virtues, that are, possibly, in the rude storms of party passions, likely to prove inconvenient. Your Majesty's gifts are so remarkable, they have always shone against so brilliant a décor, that perhaps your Majesty, admirable favourite of the gods, first of men, is not fitted for the part of an absolute monarch, a part that requires a ruthless energy, a cold knowledge of the baseness of humanity, a severe carriage, even perhaps, cruelty. Ah, I think woman's understanding so confused and feeble on these matters that I dare write no more, I should not have written so much had not your Majesty demanded my opinion on your Majesty's chances of success."

She means, thought Gustaf, she does not think me capable of overturning a government, maybe, not even capable of contriving a palace revolution, did she know my present situation she would consider it one of despair. Madame Feydeau Mesmes had written, Jeanne d'Egmont was too languid to hold a pen for more than a few moments, though she had pencilled notes to the eager political tract her "chancellor" as she termed her friend, had written to her dictation; folded inside the letter was a three cornered note—"You write again for my portrait, declaring that you have nothing but the picture my husband's mother gave you, but I remain startled and alarmed by these odious stories that you asked Madame du Barry for her portrait and that it hangs in your cabinet. Your minister, M. de Stedingk, denies this, and so have you, yet lightly, you must offer me your word of honour that you will not compromise me with this ridiculous rivalry before you receive my likeness. I learn with deep emotion that the colours of your new order, of Vasa, are to be mine, and that you will wear this habit of lilac, green and silver on ceremonial occasions, and the ribbons always, I have a secret joy in knowing that Gustaf is my knight, that is a touching glory of which I am unworthy—reassure me about the portrait. Three years of illness have not much wasted my countenance—M. Hall will paint me in a French dress of the time of the Chevalier Bayard—but how unfortunate that he has also painted the likeness of Madame du Barry, it is somewhat hard to be forced even to think of this woman, and to be obliged to contemplate, even from a resigned retirement the magnificent rewards given to the most shocking of vices—even the reward of adorning the cabinet of Gustaf."

The King had replied by return courier—"Madame du Barry offered me nothing but the impertinence of her adulation, and I offered her nothing but a collar of diamonds for her poodle."

A third great lady, the Princess Rohan Lorraine, Comtesse de Brionne had written to Gustaf privately, encouraging him with her sage admiration, reflecting an honest credulity—"is it so easy to overturn a kingdom? What philosophers have preached can princes put into practice?"

At least none of them doubted his sincerity or his courage, their fine, nobly bred feminine and Gallic minds had judged him more truly than any Swede—he knew that even the Sprengtporten brothers, even Toll were not now sure of him.

He had spared no art o make himself agreeable, to coin himself into charm, laughter, gallantry, wit, to spin impromptu verse, to scribble impromptu grotesques, to toss the rose to this, the silken ball to that, to move from group to group gay, cool, seductive, wearing silver brocade and the scarf of lilac and green knotted above his sword, and the scarlet heeled shoes that were the butts of the pamphleteers and the caricaturists.

He was unarmed save for his courtier's rapier and under the constant apprehension of assassination or the signal for his arrest, Baron Pechlin had given him more than one furtive glance, sidelong, prying, sharp, and Colonel Ribbing, in his presence, had had the insolence to mock at the sham revolt in Kristianstad, Gustaf had paused at that name, that face, one of his mother's party, father of the beautiful page he had seen in her ante-chamber—"Ha," he had smiled, "let us keep our fiction, our make believe reports, and sportive tales for the stage—the drama needs your power of invention, Colonel Ribbing."