The Count of Nideck Part 22

The table fairly groaned beneath its burden of dishes ranged everywhere with lavish profusion. Bottles of all shapes and sizes, cobwebbed and redolent of the Castle's earthen vaults, were dotted all about, with gla.s.ses of as various patterns beside them, and long-stemmed pipes lay beside the plate of each smoker, while an army of small dishes, the contents of which I could not even guess, were ranged the length of the board. Directly in the centre of it all, in an enormous platter of flowered china, rested the head of the ill-favored boar, swimming in a lake of white wine sauce.

The meal progressed; the merriment increased. To-night there was license everywhere, and each one enjoyed himself after his own manner. Healths were emptied with marvellous rapidity till I felt my head reeling with the fumes of the wine and the intoxication of happiness.

An hour pa.s.sed. The Count, Odile, and I, were toasted at intervals of every few minutes. I wondered how long this state of things could continue successfully. I looked about me.

There was Sperver, a little distance down the table, with his thin forehead and bristling gray head, his eyes shining and his mustache wet with wine; at his right sat Knapwurst and on his left Marie Lagoutte.

His cheeks were a good deal flushed, and on his breast sparkled the badge of his office; it was a pleasure to see his honest, happy face.

Marie Lagoutte was even more loquacious than was her wont; her large, cotton cap was pushed very much to one side, and she drank first with one and then with another with the greatest impartiality.

Knapwurst, squatting in his armchair, his head on a level with Sperver's elbow, looked like an enormous cabbage. Then came Tobias Offenloch, so red that he looked as though he had dipped his face in the wine before him. His wig rested against the chair-back, and his wooden leg was stuck straight out before him under the table. Further on, Sebalt's long, melancholy face stood out in grotesque relief, smiling faintly into his gla.s.s.

There were, besides the musicians, the serving-men and women, domestics and hangers-on,--all that little world, in short, which lives and flourishes around great families as the moss, the ivy, and the convolvulus cling about the forest oak. Their eyes were moist with wine-begotten tears. The Vine of Bacchus wept freely everywhere. The light of the great bronze lamp shed over all its beautiful amber tint and left in the shadows the old gray walls where hung in wreaths the trumpets, bugles, and horns of the former lords of the Castle. The scene was like a glimpse from ages past.

The roof rang with songs and shouts, and ballads long lain dormant in the minds of the singers now came forth and woke the startled echoes of the Castle.

For my part, I did little else but listen and occupy myself with the faces about me; for thanks to the exercise of the morning and my long inhaling of the old wine, smelling of vervain and cypress, that mounted to my brain, and clothed all things for me in vague, unreal beauty, I was in that wholly receptive mood which disaffects even the semblance of effort.

So I listened with entire complacency to the singularly successful efforts of the entertainers, who were elated to an unusual degree by every circ.u.mstance of the occasion.

The evening wore on. The boar's head had disappeared; the array of small dishes was reduced to a ma.s.s of indistinguishable debris; one set of bottles had been emptied and replaced by another, and our pipe-bowls were aglow.

At this point the Count suggested that we should have music. The musicians, having enjoyed their fill of food and wine, and burned out a generous pipe, hastened to comply.

Taking up their instruments, they moved over before the hearth, where seats had been arranged for them in the form of a semicircle. They seated themselves, and began to put their instruments in tune.

It was a picturesque sight, these sons of the Black Forest seated in the dim light of the hall,--the old harper, bent with years, leaning over his instrument; next him a short, thick-set fellow, whom his comrades called Black Pierre, pa.s.sively supporting his 'cello, and gazing about him curiously at the unfamiliar objects in the room; at his side the handsome, jovial-looking flute player, a picture of rugged health and careless good humor; while next in line came a man of medium stature, whose indistinctive features were rendered more so by the large creases in his cheeks, made by supporting his violin, which he held firmly beneath his square chin, while he tightened the horse-hair of his bow; and finally, to complete the semicircle, the clarinet player, a slight, sunburned boy, scarce turned eighteen, unmistakably a member of one of those numerous Gypsy bands whose camps are always to be found in the plateau of the Rothalps between Alsace and Lorraine.

The music began, and in justice to the vagabond players it must be said that it was of no ordinary degree of excellence. All the fire and pathos of their lawless natures was blended in the melody; now low and sad and tender as the reveries of old age itself; then rising and swelling into a burst of pa.s.sion and longing that bewildered and electrified you; then in the midst of all this followed a lively measure, persuasive and careless, that in turn gave way to a waltz, foolish, palpitating, wanton.

I sat enchanted, my eyes roving over the faces of those around me.

Odile, too, seemed to find the strains a fitting accompaniment to her thoughts, for she nodded approvingly at me from time to time, and once I thought I saw a tear hang on her eyelash. However, that may have been mere imagination, as I invariably become sentimental with my third bottle.

After a little the music began again. This time it was Schiller's "Brigands," and this more ambitious undertaking was rendered with a spirit and understanding hardly to be looked for in those who rarely aspired higher than the audiences of the inns, or the woodcutter's gatherings in the shambles of the forest.

I glanced once more about me. Everyone's eyes were fastened on the flooring. Even the frowzy scullion, who winced as he became conscious of my gaze, and pa.s.sed the back of his hand across his nose apologetically, seemed lifted for the moment from his pots and kettles to loftier thoughts. Other pieces followed; there were those to suit every mood and fancy. The Count was enthusiastic in his applause at the end of each number, and demanded more, while the others expressed their satisfaction with clapping and stamps on the stone floor.

When at last the music came to an end, the players were rewarded with generous gold pieces by the master, and returned well satisfied to the table to wear away what little was left of the night, in wine and conversation.

The hour was late. The old clock ticked on in the chimney-corner, and groaned in its casing as its heavy weights ran out their length. The fire fell on the hearth; the great yule logs of the early evening had given out their substance, and now were crumbling away into ruddy embers and soft, flaky ashes. And still the merriment continued, still gla.s.ses were filled and drained, and still the call for songs and stories went on.

At length, at that hour when fatigue begins to a.s.sert itself over inclination, when vitality is low, and the shadows become deeper, colder, and the night more mysterious, then it was that the Count exclaimed:

"Each one shall sing a final song except Knapwurst, for he has a voice like a bull-frog, but he is first in story-telling in all Alsace! When it comes his turn he shall tell us a story. Sperver, you shall begin with the song of Black Hatto the Burgrave!

"I am the king of these mountains of mine."

And the steward, rising and standing like the figure of the wild huntsman in the heather, thundered forth the song with wonderful effect.

The entire room joined in the chorus, and the old suits of mail fairly creaked and trembled with the sound.

"Bravo!" cried the Count. "n.o.bly done, Sperver! It is your turn now, Becker! Sing what you like!"

Becker, whose arm had stolen unperceived around Gretchen's waist, got up hastily, in some embarra.s.sment, and steadying himself against the table, complied with a species of madrigal, proclaiming the virtues of la.s.ses of the present, and claiming in a loud refrain that they were quite the equal of those of the olden times. And in truth they were, judging from the fair faces at intervals about the board, sitting with their eyes veiled by long, drooping lashes, as sleep and the wine were now stealing over them. The kennel-keeper's tribute to their charms served to arouse them, however, and they stole shy and gratified glances at each other as he sang.

After Becker, the Gypsy youth followed with a herdsman's jodel, and so the round was gradually completed.

The clock struck two from its niche in the corner. The last embers flared up and fell. The lamp burned low.

"A story from Knapwurst now!" exclaimed the Count; "and then the day is done!"

A complete silence succeeded; Knapwurst's quaint relations were favorites, it seemed.

The dwarf, half-tipsy as a result of his liberal potations, rested his elbows on the table, and with his fists dug into his hollow cheeks, and his eyes staring out of his head, he began in a harsh, monotonous voice:

"Bernhard Hertzog relates that the Burgrave Hugh, surnamed the Wolf, the founder of Nideck, having become old, used to cover his head with a sort of hood that fell down about his shoulders, which he wore over his steel helmet when engaged in combat; when he wished to breathe more easily, he removed the helmet and covered his head with the hood alone, the scallops of which hung down about his waist. Up to the age of eighty-two, Hugh still wore his armor, though he could hardly breathe in it. Then he sent for Otto of Burlach, his chaplain; Hugh, his eldest son; Berthold, his second son; and his daughter, Bertha, of the red hair, the wife of a Saxon chief named Zaan, and said to them, 'Your mother, the she-wolf, has bequeathed to you her claws; her blood is mixed with mine, and it will be born again among you from century to century, and weep among the snows of the Black Forest. Some will say, 'It is the moaning of the wind!' Others, 'Hark! The owl hoots!' But it is your blood, mine, and the blood of the she-wolf who made me to murder Elfreda, my first wife before G.o.d and the Holy Church! Yes, she has perished by my hand. Cursed be the she-wolf, for it is written, 'I will visit the crime of the father upon the children, unto the third and fourth generations;' aye, until justice be done.' And old Hugh died.

From that day the north wind has sobbed, and the owl has hooted, and the lost traveller by night knows not that it is the blood of the she-wolf bemoaning her crime. 'And she will bemoan it,' says Hertzog, 'from century to century, until that day when Hugh's first wife, Elfreda, shall reappear in the form of an angel at Nideck, to pardon and console.'"

The dwarf paused, and silence succeeded, which lasted for a full minute; then he continued, with drunken gravity, pointing his long forefinger at Odile:

"There is she who was to return to pardon and console. She has returned.

At this moment she is sitting beside the Count, our master! Look, sirs!

Do you not recognize her? Is it not she? Henceforth the lords of Nideck may rest in peace, for justice is done, and the good angel of this n.o.ble house has returned."

THE END.