“I suppose your mother told you the legends of our forests.”
“She talked about it when we were together sometimes. I loved the stories of Thor and his hammer. Do you know the one where he went to sleep with his hammer beside him and one of the giants came and stole it and they said that they would only give it back if the Goddess Freya became the bride of the Prince of the Giants. So Thor dressed up as the Goddess and when they laid the hammer on his lap, he grasped it, threw off his disguise and slew them all. So he came back to the land of the gods with his hammer.”
He laughed with me.
“It was not strictly honest, I must say,” I went on. “And those giants must have been rather blind to have mistaken mighty Thor for a beautiful goddess.”
“Disguises can deceive.”
“Surely not to that extent.”
“Do have some more of this. It’s Hildegarde’s very special sauerkraut. Do you like it?”
“Delicious,” I said.
“I’m delighted that you have such a good appetite.”
“Tell me about yourself. I’ve told you about me.”
He spread his hands.
“You know that I was in the forest hunting boar.”
“Yes, but is this your home?”
“It’s my shooting lodge.”
“So you don’t actually live here?”
“When I am hunting in this area I do.”
“But where is your home?”
“Some miles from here.”
“What do you do?”
“I help look after my father’s lands.”
“He’s a sort of landowner with an estate to look after. I know.”
He asked me about myself and I was soon telling him of Aunt Caroline and Aunt Matilda.
“The ogresses,” he called them. He was amused about the greyhound story.
He talked about the forest and I knew that it fascinated him as it did me. He agreed that there was an enchantment about it which comes through so clearly in the fairy stories. From my childhood I had been aware of the forest through my mother’s accounts of it and he had lived near it; so it was agreeable to be with someone who understood my feelings as he so clearly did.
He was interested that I could recount stories of the gods and heroes who, long long ago legend had it, lived in the forests when the lands of the north were one and the gods ruled in the days before Christ was born and brought Christianity to the world. Then the heroes of the North lived and died—men like Siegfried, Balder, and Beowulf and one could often believe that these spirits still existed in the heart of the forest. His conversation fascinated me. He told me the story of Balder the beautiful who was so good that his mother, the Goddess Frigg, made every beast and plant of the forest take an oath not to harm him. There was one exception—the evergreen plant with the yellow green flowers and white berries. The mistletoe was hurt and angry because the gods had condemned it to be a parasite and Loke, the mischievous god, had known this, and had thrown the twig of this parasite sharp as an arrow at Balder. It pierced his heart and killed him. The lamentation of the gods was great.
I sat drinking in his words, glowing with the excitement of the adventure, a little lightheaded from unaccustomed wine and more excited than I had ever been in my life.
“Loke was the God of Mischief,” he told me. “The All Father often had occasion to punish him, for Odin was good and it was only when his wrath was roused that he was terrible. Have you visited the Odenwald? No? Then you must one day. It’s Odin’s Forest and in this country we have this Lokenwald which is said to be Loke’s Forest. And here in this neighborhood only we celebrate the Night of the Seventh Moon when mischief is abroad and is routed with the coming of dawn. It’s an excuse for one of our local celebrations. You’re getting sleepy.”
“No, no. I don’t want to be. I’m enjoying it all too much.”
“You have ceased to fret about tomorrow, I’m glad to notice.”
“Now you have reminded me.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject quickly. Did you know your Queen quite recently visited our forest?”
“Yes, of course. I believe the forest enchanted her but this is the home of her husband. She loves the Prince as my father loved my mother.”
“How can you know—you who are so young and inexperienced.”
“There are things one knows instinctively.”
“About devotion?”
“Love,” I said. “The great love of Tristan and Iseult, of Abelard and Heloise, of Siegfried and Brynhild.”
“Legends,” he said. “Real life may not be like that.”
“And my parents,” I continued, ignoring him, “and the Queen and her Consort.”
“We should consider ourselves honored that your great Queen married one of our German Princes.”
“I believe she felt herself honored.”
“Not by his position, by the man.”
“Well there are so many German Princes and dukes and little kingdoms.”
“One day there will be one mighty Empire. The Prussians are determined on that.” He went on: “But let us talk of more intimate matters.”
“I have the wishbone,” I cried. “Now we can wish.”
I was delighted that he had not heard of the custom so I explained it to him. “You each take an end by your little finger and pull. You wish and the one with the larger portion gets the wish.”
“Shall we try it?”
We did. “Now wish,” I said. And I thought, I want this to go on and on. But that was a stupid wish. Of course it could not go on and on. The night had to pass. I had to go back to the convent. At least I could wish that we met again. So that was what I wished.
He had the larger piece. “It’s mine,” he cried triumphantly. Then he reached across the table and took my hands; his eyes were very brilliant, almost tawny in the candlelight. “Do you know what I have wished?” he asked.
“Don’t tell me,” I cried. “If you do it won’t come true.”
He bent his head suddenly and kissed my hands—not lightly but fiercely and I thought he was never going to release them.
“It must come true,” he said.
I said: “I can tell you what I wished because I lost, so mine doesn’t count.”
“Please tell me then,” he said.
“I wished that we should meet again and we should sit at this table and talk and talk and I should wear a blue velvet robe and have my hair loose.”
He said: “Lenchen . . . little Lenchen . . .” very softly.
“Lenchen?” I said. “Who is that?”
“It is my name for you. Helena is too cold . . . too remote. For me you are Lenchen . . . my little Lenchen.”
“I like it,” I said. “I like it very much.”
There were apples and nuts on the table. He peeled an apple for me and cracked some nuts. The candles flickered; he watched me from across the table.
And suddenly he said: “You have grown up tonight, Lenchen.”
“I feel grown up,” I said. “Not a schoolgirl any more.”
“You will never be a schoolgirl again after tonight.”
“I shall have to go back to the Damenstift and be one.”
“A Damenstift does not make a schoolgirl. It is an experience. You are sleepy.”
“It’s the wine,” I said.
“It is time you retired.”
“I wonder if it is still misty.”
“If it were would you be reassured?”
“Well then of course they would know I could not get back and it would be stupid to worry because there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it.”
He went to the window and drew back the heavy velvet curtain. He peered out. “It is worse than ever,” he said.
“Can you see it then?”
“Since you came down in your blue robe I have seen nothing but you.”
The excitement was almost unbearable, but I laughed rather foolishly and said: “Surely that’
s an exaggeration. When you were pouring the wine and serving the chicken you saw that.”
“Precise pedantic Lenchen,” he commented. He rose: “Come, I will take you to your room. I can see the time has come.”
He took my hand and led me to the door.
To my surprise Hildegarde was there. She was fussing with a candle.
“I will show the young lady the way, Master,” she said.
I heard him laugh and mutter something about her being an interfering old woman from whom he endured too much.
But he let me go with her. She led the way to the room in which I had changed, where a fire was now burning in the grate.
“The nights are chilly with the mist about,” she said.
She set down the candle and lighted those in their sconces over the dressing table. “Keep the windows closed against the mist,” she said. I saw that a white nightdress was laid out on the bed and I wondered vaguely why they had such a thing because I did not believe the pretty silk garments belonged to Hildegarde.
She looked at me earnestly. Then she drew me to the door and showed me the bolt. “Bolt it when I have gone,” she said. “It is not always safe here in the heart of the forest.”
I nodded.
“Make sure,” she said. “I shall be uneasy and unable to sleep if you don’t.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Good night. Sleep well. In the morning the mist will have cleared and you will be taken back.”
She went out and listened while I bolted the door.
“Good night,” she called.
I stood leaning against it, the excitement making my heart pound. Then I heard a footstep on the wooden staircase.
Hildegarde spoke. “No, Master. I’ll not have it. You may turn me out. You may have me flogged but I’ll not have it.”
“You interfering old witch,” he said, but he said it indulgently.
“A young English girl . . . a schoolgirl from the Damenstift . . . I’ll not have it.”
“You’ll not have it, Garde?”
“No, I’ll not have it. Your women . . . if you must, but not a young and innocent girl from the Damenstift.”
“You’re worried about the old nuns.”
“No, about innocence.”
There was silence. I was afraid and yet expectant. I wanted to run away from this place and yet I wanted to stay. I understood. He was one of the wicked barons. He was no Siegfried. He had not told me his real name. This was his hunting lodge. Perhaps his home was one of the castles I had seen high above the river. “Your women if you must,” she had said. So he brought women here and finding me in the mist he had brought me here to be one of them.
I was trembling.
Suppose Hildegarde had not been there. In the fairy tales the wicked giants kept the Princess captive until she was rescued and emerged unscathed. But this was not a castle, it was a hunting lodge; and he was not a giant he was a virile man.
I took off the velvet robe and looked more like myself. I undressed and put on the silken nightdress. It was soft and clinging, so different from the flannelette we wore at the Damenstift. I lay down and could not sleep; after a while I thought I heard a step on the stair. I rose and went to the door and stood there listening. That was when I saw the handle slowly turn. If Hildegarde had not insisted on my locking the door it would have opened then.
I stared at it in fascination; I listened. I could hear breathing. A voice—his voice—whispered: “Lenchen . . . Lenchen . . . are you there?”
I stood there bewildered, my heart thumping so that I was afraid he must hear. I was fighting an inexplicable impulse to draw the bolt.
But I did not. I kept hearing Hildegarde’s voice: “Your women . . . if you must . . .” And I knew that I dared not unlock the door.
I stood there trembling until I heard his footsteps die away. Then I went back to bed. I tried to sleep but it was a long time before I did.
I awoke to a hammering on my door and Hildegarde calling “Good morning.”
I opened my eyes and saw the sunshine streaming into the room.
I unbolted the door to find Hildegarde there, with a tray on which was coffee and rye bread.
“Eat this and dress immediately,” she commanded. “We must get you back to the Damenstift without delay.”
The adventure was over. The bright morning had dispelled it. Now the music had to be faced.
I drank the hot coffee and swallowed the bread; I washed and dressed and in little more than half an hour I went downstairs.
Hildegarde was wearing cloak and bonnet, and outside was a trap drawn by a strawberry roan.
“We must go at once,” she said. “I sent Hans off as soon as it was light with a message to say that you were safe.”
“How good you are!” I said, and I thought of what I had heard last night and how she had saved me—though I am not sure that I had wanted to be saved—from the wicked Siegfried.
“You are very young,” she said severely, “and should take great care not to get lost again.”
I nodded and we went out to the trap. “It is almost eight miles,” she said, “so quite far to go. But Hans will have explained.”
I looked around for Siegfried but he was not there. I felt angry. He might have come to say goodbye.
I got into the trap rather lingeringly but Hildegarde was brisk. I gazed back at the house—it was the first time I had seen it clearly. It was of gray stone with latticed windows—smaller than I had imagined it. I had seen similar houses before and had heard them referred to as shooting lodges.
Hildegarde whipped up the horse and we took to the road. Progress was slow for the way was often steep and the road sometimes rough. She did not speak much but when she did I gathered that she was anxious for me not to talk about my adventure. She managed to convey discreetly that I should not talk of Siegfried. Hans had delivered a message. The implication would be that Hildegarde’s husband had found me in the mist and taken me home. They had looked after me until I could be taken back. I understood what she was implying. She did not want the nuns to know that a wicked baron had found me and had taken me to his shooting lodge for the purpose of seducing me. There! I had faced the true facts, for it was really obvious that that had been Siegfried’s intention. But Hildegarde had saved me.
She clearly adored him while disapproving of him. I could understand that too, and I agreed that it would be wiser to tell my adventures from a slightly different angle.
So we reached the Damenstift. What a fuss there was! Schwester Maria had clearly spent the night weeping. Schwester Gudrun was silently triumphant. “I told you that it was no use expecting good behavior from Helena Trant.” Hildegarde was warmly thanked and blessings showered upon her and I was seated for a long time in Mutter’s sanctum but I scarcely heard what she said. So many impressions crowded into my mind that there was no room for anything else. Myself in the blue robe; the way his eyes had glowed when we pulled the wishbone and the sound of his voice vibrating and passionate outside my bedroom door. “Lenchen . . . little Lenchen.”
I continued to think of him. I would never forget him, I was sure. I thought: One day I shall go out and find him waiting there.
But nothing like that happened at all.
Three barren weeks followed, lightened only by the hope that I should see him and made wretched by the depressing fact that I did not, and then news came from home. My father was seriously ill. I must go home at once. And before I could leave came the information that he was dead.
I must leave the Damenstift altogether. I must go home at once. Mr. and Mrs. Greville who had brought me home on that other occasion had kindly offered to come and fetch me and take me back.
In Oxford, Aunt Caroline and Aunt Matilda were waiting for me.
TWO
Back in England it was the beginning of December with Christmas almost upon us; in the butchers’ shops there were sprigs of holly round the trays of faggots, and oranges in the mouths of pigs who
managed to look jaunty even though they were dead. At dusk the stallholders in the market were showing their goods under the flare of naphtha lights and from the windows of some shops hung cotton wool threaded on string to look like falling snow. The hot chestnut seller stood at the street corner with his glowing brazier and I remembered how my mother could never resist buying a bag or two and how they used to warm our hands as we carried them home. She liked best though to bake our own under the grate on Christmas night. She had made Christmas for us because she liked to celebrate it as it was celebrated in the home of her childhood. She used to tell us how there would be a tree for every member of the family lighted with candles and a big one in the center of the Rittersaal with presents for everyone. Christmas had been celebrated for years and years in her home, she used to say. We in England had also decorated fir trees when the custom had been brought from Germany by the Queen’s mother and later strengthened by Her Majesty’s strong association with her husband’s land.
I had looked forward to Christmases but now this one held no charm for me. I missed my parents far more than I had thought possible. It was true I had been away from them for four years but I had always been aware that they were there in the little house next to the bookshop which was my home.
Everything was changed now. That vague untidiness which had been homely was lacking. Aunt Caroline would have everything shining as she said “like a new pin.” In my unhappy mood I demanded to know why there should be such desirability about a new pin, which was what Aunt Caroline called “being funny.” Mrs. Green, who had been our housekeeper for years, had packed her bags and left. “Good riddance,” said Aunt Caroline. We only had young Ellen to do the rough work. “Very well,” said Aunt Caroline, “we have three pairs of hands in the house, why should we want more?”
Something had to be done about the shop, too. Obviously it could not be carried on in the same manner since my father’s death. The conclusion was reached that it would have to be sold and in due course a Mr. Clees came along with his middle-aged daughter Amelia and bought it. These negotiations went on for some time and it emerged that the shop and its stock would not yield so very much once my father’s debts had been paid.
On the Night of the Seventh Moon Page 3
