Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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THE young man who was waiting for the money had much on his mind and heart, but nothing distracted him from his anxious expectancy, neither the letters under his hand on the green leather desk, the half finished embroidered belt over the blue damask chair, the pair of English pistols in the open case, the roses shaken in a northern breeze at the tall window, nor the recollection, never absent from his sensitive memory, of the blood stained coats amid the flags and drums of the church where a dark space was waiting for him beside his father's silver coffin.

Everything resolved into the arrival of the money; without it he was lost, a fool, an adventurer, a puppet; already many had given him just those names, smiled at him behind their hands or through their fingers; he knew, even while they fawned on him, that they considered him a fribble, a dilettante, a tinsel beau, and used worse words than these, he did not doubt. He looked at the clock; the golden dial on the white onyx globe was bright and still as the noonday sun, the hands appeared motionless; even allowing for the rough and rutted German roads, the money was overdue, soon, it might arrive too late.

The sharp winged gulls, rising from the cool foam where the salt water met the fresh water and flying high over the masts and furled sails by the quays, flashed across the chill blue of the sky beyond the flickering red and white of the roses, touching delicately the crystal bright panes. The young man turned over a gold brocade portfolio and drew out a music score, carefully written in his own script; with his inner ear, acute, as all his senses, he could listen to the majestic chords of bass and 'cello, repeated with almost unbearable emphasis, the persistent appeals of the violins, the summons of Fate, the refusal to accept defeat. Iphigénie en Tauride, the overture, played in the candlelit orchestra pit before the fringed curtains were drawn apart when the whispering sighed away behind butterfly fans and swansdown muffs.

He was mindful of the meaning behind this music so enchanting to the spirit and the senses, and that of the other prelude, that he had also copied with special pleasure in the precise annotation, Alceste, that described the struggle of humanity to keep death at bay. He endeavoured to occupy himself with this symbolism so much to his taste; the portfolio contained other sheets of music besides the Bavarian's powerful and sombre melodies, beneath the pages marked Kristof Willibald Gluck, was another signed J. S. Bach—a little nothing for the harpsichord—Toccata in G a lesson, an exercise on a recurrent, on a slight theme, one touched with the finger tips, returned to slightly and left. As the young man's fantastic and acute whim played with the reflections roused by the portfolio of music sheets, he heard a tap on the door, that vibrated across the large, loftly apartment into the imagined clamorous chords of the Iphigénie and the echo of the plucked strings in the Toccata.

He did not move or speak, showing by nothing that he con trolled an expectation that afflicted him with nausea; he tied the portfolio strings of moire blue ribbon as the door opened; it was, of course, Elis Schorderheim, his humble, faithful friend, and factotum.

"Sir, there is nothing from France," said this person, anxiously, advancing with an air that was affection without flattery, and reverence without servility. "And I do recall that you were not to be disturbed for any other matter."

He paused in the centre of the room, a modest man in middle life, earnest with the cares of others and asking nothing for himself; his neat figure was reflected in the waxed floor as a smudge of dark suddenly cut by the lustrous pile of a Persian rug, azure and mulberry coloured sheen.

The young man noticed this effect and that of the looped back curtains of plum-hued velvet on the far wall that made a rich background to the unpretentious figure of M. Schorderheim; he could not forbear such observation even at the most vital moments; he had furnished the room himself, he approved even now, while ferocious disappointment shook him, the alabaster vase, filled with trailing fern, tresses of dark and pale lilac, white tulips and single white roses that stood alone in the far corner of the stately apartment, and appeared to be created from the warm shadows and filtered light from the far window. He had made the chamber a study in air and space, after the design of an Italian church; it was a success, a noble perspective met his glance when he turned in his purple velvet seat.

"Something else of importance, then?" he asked smiling.

"Sir, this—a young adventurer desires a private interview."

"Yes? You have an important reason for informing me of this?"

"The reason is, sir, that Baron Jakob Magnus Sprengtporten asks you to grant this favour."

"You are sure of that?"

"Sir, I have seen the brief credentials this gentleman brings. I have very soberly cross examined him. He is poor, of good birth, was an officer, but left the army for the law, he exerted himself to obtain a judgeship—on a technical error he was deprived of this, he then received a civil service appointment and lost it—he is still chasing fortune at twenty-nine years of age."

"And Jakob Sprengtporten sends him to me—now?"

"I am not surprised. I take him to be a man of genius and dangerous, sir, to his enemies."

"Bring him here, the secret stairs—say, I write a drama, true enough. If—there is news from France—knock twice on the door. What is this man's name?"

"Sir, it is Johan Toll."

The young man suddenly smiled, and the sparkle never absent from his large, dark blue eyes, lit up his sensitive face as he said:—

"Even this genius will be useless without the money, eh?"

Johan Toll entered from behind the carefully draped curtain that concealed the door of the spiral staircase, he came confidently round the delicate alabaster vase that had an amber tint in the half light; he was a magnificent man, with regular, calm features, secure in the unusual strength of his body and the uncommon powers of his mind; his attire was plain and slightly worn, the searching glance of the other observed this as he came into the sunless gleam from the eastern window that illuminated the desk with the pistols, the portfolio, the letters and the blue chair with the embroidered belt.

"Baron Sprengtporten sent you, M. Toll, why?"

Unmoved by this direct question, the stranger answered:—"Because I have guessed that your Majesty intends a revolution."

"Ah—in the drama—in the opera—in the national costume—or perhaps, the stitching of a baldric?"

"Sire, in the constitution of Sweden."

"Baron Jakob Sprengtporten told you that?"

"No—I told his brother, Baron Goran—a friend of mine—what I guessed, sir, and he spoke to Colonel Baron Jakob."

"Because he has formed a royalist club of young officers—you supposed him a conspirator?"

"I knew he was. Several clues led me to him, then Baron Goran was too careful. Only a man with something to conceal would have been so prudent."

The King lightly sighed.

"Why did you come here? The Sprengtporten brothers should have told me this themselves."

"They said that if they related this tale to your Majesty you would not believe it, but that if I came myself you would."

"You think you impressed them, M. Toll?"

"I told them that the plot would fail without me. I gave them plans—to improve their own."

"I see. What makes you suppose that I, the King, intend a revolt against the constitution?"

"Your qualities. Your speech to your first Riksdag, all that men know about you. Your ancestors, Sire."

The King saw before his inner eye the darkness of the Riddarsholm Church, the clustered captured flags, the massed, mute drums, the two torn, bloody coats, the armour on the wooden horsemen, the silver and copper coffins, his inner ear listened to the strong chords, the ruthless demands of the gods, the music of Gluck.

"You are bold," he said smiling. "You dare to be, because of my wretched position, you know that I am in the power of ministers who are—scarcely secretly even—the servants of Russia, that Sweden is abandoned to that monstrous empire, that Prussia and Denmark hope to join in my own spoilation, that my one ally, France, wavers—perhaps withdraws. You know, doubtless, the money the Tzarina spends to keep the Riksdag in her interest you know the shameful corruption and disloyalty among the factions who rule, the moral anarchy, the futile complexities of the decayed and rotten constitution, yes, you know all this, the common talk of the common tavern."

"I did not come here to tell you that, Sire."

"No, rather, perhaps, to tell me what is said of me. I am helpless, incapable of assisting my people, a puppet on the throne of Gustaf Vasa, of Gustaf Adolf, of Karl XII, a petit maître from Versailles, worthy only to direct a theatre, to design an opera scene, to saunter through a masquerade."

"I do not think that, sire, and you know it. Your balls and fêtes, your concerts and card parties do not deceive me. Your elegant idleness is a disguise for your severe intentions. Your Majesty indeed appears helpless—you have only a few friends, as the Sprengtporten and their followers, but you have yourself, sire."

"You are indeed extremely bold," replied the King smiling with a tranquil grace. "I admit to nothing. You have put your self in peril. Sprengtporten and his brother are daring men of iron intentions. To discover their plots—if they do plot—is to do a dangerous thing."

"I might have expected to be shot," said Toll.

Gustaf III glanced at the pair of pistols in the open case.

"To be assassinated? We all risk that. A fate that I have always particularly dreaded. But Sprengtporten does not intend that for you, or he would not have sent you to me."

"He accepted me as an accomplice, Sire."

"What did you offer?"

"A vigorous scheme. Your Majesty's revolt is to begin in Finland—where Sprengtporten is a landowner and where his regiment, the Nyland Dragoons, is at present, his intention is to take, by surprise, the fortress of Sveaborg—Finland then under his heel, he would sail to Sweden and meet your Majesty at Erstawir, and overcome Stockholm by a night storming, the Senate would be arrested, and a new constitution given to Sweden. Count Karl Scheffer is in this enterprise, it is not known to many beyond him and your Majesty's brothers." Toll turned his steady placid eyes, slightly narrowed with irony directly on the King. "Your Majesty still has sufficient power to deny this, to have me arrested—and disposed of."

"Yes, I have that. You are a resolute man. What suggestions do you claim to have made to Baron Jakob Sprengtporten?"

"I made these, sire—a sham revolt seemingly against your Majesty will take place in Kristianstad which will declare against the Government. Prince Karl will march against the rebels with all the forces of the South, reaching Kristianstad he will join the rebels, and return to Stockholm to meet Baron Jakob Sprengtporten—his start will be eleven days as winds off the Finnish coast may be contrary."

"Captain Hellichus, commander of the garrison at Kristianstad is not in my confidence," remarked the King; he was slightly flushed, though the eastern chamber, from which the sunlight was receding was chill; he rose and fingered the baldric that was embroidered with the crowns, lions of Sweden, Gotland and the horseman of Finland. "Who then, is to rouse Scania?" he added.

"I shall do that," replied Toll, who stood respectfully by his chair.

"You are a formidable man. I perceive that it is useless to dissimulate with you. I must either silence you or accept you as a confederate. I know the first simple rules of politics, though perhaps you do not think so. I should have you put away. But I despise murder," said the King.

Toll was silent, still standing at attention, his powerful figure and drab attire appearing alien in the gracious, charming elegance of the superb chamber: the King's background was the roses quivering in the gentle sea wind on the panes of the tall window, the red petals, the dark green leaves, the blue sky were all losing colour with the fading light; his supreme elegance and distinction, both natural and perfectly trained were entirely unselfconscious, the man and his manners were one; he shone and glittered from intangible brilliance as well as from the rosettes of diamonds at his throat and the sapphires buttoning his sea-green satin coat.

"Baron Sprengtporten desires no confederates—if he plots, M. Toll."

"Sire, he has accepted me."

"What reward do you expect—if the supposed design succeeds?"

"The same as that which your Majesty expects—to see Sweden liberated."

"You flatter me," said the King. "And I am used to that—not so cockered as you suppose, perhaps." His long hand went out to the pistols, touched the dark gray steel, damascened with gold. "I admit that what you say is true," he added swiftly. "I do intend to overturn the state, to make myself master in Sweden, to save her from Russia. Exactly as you have discovered. You are shrewd and able. I trust you are honourable. Sprengtporten will watch you."

"But your Majesty will not, any more than your Majesty would lie to me. I can do as I have promised."

"And I can do nothing until I receive the French subsidy," said Gustaf III. "I wait for it now, M. de Vergennes has been delayed by the bad roads, yes, I was waiting when you came. What I received last January was soon spent."

Toll asked. "Will the revolution be after the Coronation, sire? I hear your Majesty has at last given way in the matter of the oath."

"Certainly, I have signed their absurd and humiliating manifesto—what does that matter, since I intend to do away with the Senate? The Coronation is to be on the 29th of this month—we cannot be ready before then," he spoke with easy confidence as if to a friend of long standing.

Toll looked at him very keenly, he was appraising every detail of his bearing, manner and appearance and the King knew it. "Do you admire the music of M. Gluck?" he asked. "You are interested in my Opera House, dedicated to the muses of the North? It is almost finished. Now, you had better go. I am watched. Again, what do you expect as a reward—when we succeed?"

Toll smiled brilliantly. "If I succeed, I am sure your Majesty will not forget me. If I fail I shall not require anything."

"A prison grave for each of us if we fail," said the King. He recalled the two bloody coats—Gustaf Adolf—Karl XI both shot, but in battle, he looked at the pistols. "Better in the field," he slightly shuddered. "A palace revolution! No glory in that—but there is no other way. It has been successful in Copenhagen," he faced the other man's knowledge of what this meant to him whose unwanted wife was sister to the imbecile King of Denmark.

Toll accepted the challenge.

"The family of your Majesty's gracious mother," he said with a tact that appeared spontaneous candour, "have cleared an adventurer from the footstool of a throne. It was clever to choose a masquerade for the arrests."

"We play in a masquerade all the time, M. Toll. The only ease from pretence is when we are in mask and domino."

"I know little of such diversions, sire. One warning I dare to make. Prince Karl is very much the cavalier of Mademoiselle Aurora Lowenhjelm, and she is Count Fersen's favourite niece."

"Ah." Gustaf III gave the swift steady look that was the nearest he showed of surprise, save to his intimates. "Report to Baron Sprengtporten. Tell him I approve your plan, if I failed in Stockholm it would be well to have the south and a great fortress to retire to—as you know so much, know this, I do not intend to be defeated, save by our common enemy, death, it is total hazard—red—black, all on one throw."

Toll paused before the curtain:—"Your Majesty's enemy most to be dreaded is Baron Pechlin—your chief flatterer."