The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  'Could he not have given us an escort anyway?'

  'The men are not to be trusted without the officer.'

  'They seemed so small!' murmured Maria, looking out of the window as if she could still see them, unkempt and dwarfish, lounging by the roadside.

  Cousin Ludwig looked at her in some surprise. 'No smaller, I think, than many a beggar or peasant in Erzberg, Lady Maria. You may be used to your Prince's regiments, where men are – or were – recruited for their height. But France has swept its street and furrows for fighting men, and placed them under arms in tens of thousands. And now France requires us to feed them. Alas, a soldier's appetite does not diminish according to his stature!'

  'So many of the barns are ruined,' observed Anna, looking through the far window.

  'Soldiers have great need of firewood,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'Surely you have seen the same on the other bank.'

  'Yes, especially as we were passing Frankfurt. But not so many as this.'

  'They have been here longer. Yet it is better now than it was. Last year they were following the farmers into the fields, digging up the potatoes that had been planted for seed. So at the harvest of course both farmer and soldier went hungry.'

  'Senseless!'

  'Quite so. The soldier, cold and starving, can think only of the moment. And his superiors are little better. Did they take horses and cattle in Adelsheim?'

  'We were fortunate that they never came to Adelsheim,' said Maria. 'But the last time they marched into Germany they took many horses from the territories around Erzberg. Six hundred, I believe.'

  'Six hundred!' murmured Cousin Ludwig. Maria guessed he must be more used to hearing figures in thousands. 'Well, I fear that of those six hundred very few may now be alive. They gather them in great herds and move them to places where they believe they can use them. And then they discover that in those places there is not enough hay to feed them. So they give them the straw from the roofs of thatched houses for a few weeks, and after that the animals begin to die. It is the same with the cattle. And of course if any of the animals is diseased, the whole herd will suffer – and all the land after that.'

  'You seem well acquainted with their ways, sir.'

  Very well acquainted, Maria thought. Did he have reasons other than idle curiosity for watching the movements of the armies?

  He looked at her, mildly.

  'I am a recruit of theirs,' he said.

  'A recruit! For the soldiers?'

  'Quite so. Until this summer, the occupiers sent their own commissioners to rule these territories. I need not bother you with the kind of men those commissioners were. I suspect that most of them were selected for this task because they could not be trusted with any other. In the end even the generals saw that they were successful only in arousing resentment. So the much-lauded General Hoche hit upon the quite original and ingenious idea of requiring those who had served the former, despotic regimes to serve the liberating Republic in their former ranks and posts. I, as it happens, was a judge under the Elector. So I am again.'

  'I believe you consider this ironic, sir.'

  'Indeed I do. Nor am I over-fond of the green cloth my more enthusiastic colleagues adopt for their uniform – although it is sometimes a help in dealing with the soldiers. But perhaps it will not be for much longer. Now that Hoche is dead, the Directory considers his ideas capable of improvement. Once again we are to have a commissioner. What this means for my position and that of my colleagues, I cannot guess. Although I believe the new man is an Alsatian, and should therefore at least be competent in German. French is an elegant language for conversation, but to administer the law it is preferable to speak the language of the native dwellers.'

  'Perhaps peace will come soon, and the lands will be restored to the Empire.'

  'It is what we all pray for.'

  He worked for the French, she thought, watching his profile against the coach window. He was their helper. What did that mean? Could he nevertheless be the man she was looking for? What was it that was to pass from Jürich to Adelsheim, and thence to Erzberg?

  She did not know. She did not know who or what she was here for. She had had no chance to meet with Wéry before her departure. She had not dared to put messages into the hands of Adelsheim servants, or to risk another visit to his barracks herself. Now she was wishing that she had done. She was west of the Rhine, in a country teeming with a savage soldiery. She had nothing to guide her.

  And a wrong word might lead to something terrible: for herself, or worse, for Anna. It might even mean the death of the man she was looking for.

  She was going to have to be very, very careful.

  XIX

  The Name

  Cousin Ludwig's house was a square, pale villa on a low hill that was part-cloaked in oak trees. In the grey afternoon it had a plain, rather mournful look. Lights gleamed through the windows, but not many. The grass on the hillside was long, as if no flock had grazed there all autumn.

  They were welcomed by Cousin Ludwig's wife, Emilia, a round-faced woman with a bright trill in her voice. She was probably some years younger than her husband and might in other times have been gay indeed. She bobbed deferentially to Maria and embraced Anna with a laugh. She laughed and embraced her again when the hampers were swayed down from the coach and carried in for the household to inspect the contents: pickles, pâtés, ox-tongue, wines, coffee, dried fruits and sweetmeats.

  'Wonderful!' she cried. 'You clever things! How did you smuggle it all through?'

  'Ludwig spoke to the soldiers, and all seemed to be well.'

  'Oh!' Emilia looked at her husband. For a moment her smile had dropped. There was something like weariness in her eyes. 'I hope there was no risk, sir.'

  'Not much,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'And there will be none at all if only we can dispose of it before our General hears of it. We shall have a dinner party tonight, my dear, if you are willing. Hofmeister will come, I am sure of it. So will Septe, if we can get a message to him before Vespers. I think also . . .'

  'I have no cards, of course. It is difficult to get them.'

  'Of course. But a message may be passed as easily by mouth. Shall we say eight o'clock? That will give our guests time to recover from their journey. And no word of our sudden good fortune. It is a dinner party in honour of our visitors. Let them suppose we have dug our last vegetables from the garden for the occasion.'

  Maria was looking around her. The hallway was very bare, and the glimpses she had of the drawing room beyond were the same. There seemed to be no paintings on the walls, or curtains in the windows. The fire was lit, but the supply of logs beside it looked rather poor. The hall would have benefited from lamps and candles on this grey afternoon, but none were lit. She must not remark it. She must not, by one wrinkle of her forehead, let them see that she was used to more light and wealth and beauty than this. They would know anyway.

  'Is Maximilian in the house?' asked Anna.

  'Oh!' said Emilia. Once again she was looking at Ludwig, and the weariness was back in her eyes. 'You have not explained . . .'

  'Not yet,' said Ludwig. 'There were many happier things to speak of. Anna, my dear, my nephew is in the house, but he rarely leaves his rooms.'

  'Is he still unwell?'

  'He is not unwell. In fact, he has never been unwell, in body. But he keeps to his rooms and will not willingly leave them.'

  'He has been like this since the siege of Mainz,' said Emilia.

  'Is it – is it possible to see him?' asked Anna, blinking anxiously.

  'Normally, yes. If you wish I shall make arrangements.'

  'Arrangements?' repeated Maria.

  'He is perfectly safe,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'That is to say, he is not violent. But I prefer that his footman should be in attendance.'

  'Come, my dear,' said Anna, rallying. 'Of course there is no need to worry.'

  And everyone was smiling again. Smiling, bravely.

  'Magnificent!' cried Father Septe, eyeing the long dini
ng table on which were loaded the offerings from Erzberg.

  'What our General would give to see this!' exclaimed Hofmeister, an elderly, stout gentleman in an old-fashioned wig and frock coat. 'Eh, Jürich, let us strike a blow for freedom tonight, hey?'

  'For freedom, or for liberty?'

  'Feed me like this, man, and you may report me as you like. Or Kaus can do it for you. Run to your masters, hey, Kaus – after you've eaten perhaps?'

  The fourth man, a thin, hollow-eyed gentleman in green, smiled sadly. 'There is no prohibition, so far as I know, on enjoying a dinner in the Republic. It is not our business to wonder whence . . .'

  'Republic? Republic, he says. Now sir, which republic is it today? Is it the Cisrhenian still? Or some other one? Is there to be another referendum? Please heaven, no! One exercise in democracy is enough! Did I tell you when they came up to make my village vote . . . ?'

  'I believe you did . . .'

  'Just four cowhands came forward, and none of them knew where to sign, so the clerk had to do it for them! The rest of the village all shut their doors. So back the clerk came with a troop of French dragoons to explain it was the right of every free man to vote for the Republic, and vote they must. No, sir, not for the Elector. One does not elect Electors, ha ha! For the Republic – the Cisrhenian Republic, that not half of us have heard of and not a man among us can pronounce!'

  'Gentlemen,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'I hope all differences may be put aside at my wife's table.'

  'Oh, do not worry yourself, Jürich. Kaus and I know each other very well.'

  'Very well,' sighed Kaus. 'If dear Hofmeister did not chide me about republics, I should fear he were ill. Though a more sensitive soul might spare me in my disappointment at the reluctance of my countrymen to see reason.'

  'Reason!' cried Father Septe. 'Reason, he calls it!'

  'Gentlemen,' said Ludwig, a little more firmly. 'The ladies are seated, and await us.'

  At the ladies' end of the table Emilia Jürich sat with Anna on her left and Maria on her right, and Madame Hofmeister and Madame Kaus beyond them. Madame Hofmeister and Madame Kaus were Emilia's sisters, all with the same cheerful round faces. They rolled their eyes and shook their heads at the sparring of their husbands, but filled their own conversations with laughter. Maria wondered if there was not indeed something hysterical about their laughter, brought on by the imported food and drink, and the thought that one day – soon, God send! – the Empire and France would sign a treaty, the world would be at peace, and all the things now before them would be commonplace again.

  Certainly they did not want to talk of politics or privation or war. But they were eager to hear Anna talk of Bohemia, where she and the Adelsheims had taken refuge with the funny old Count Effenpanz during the months when French armies had been marching deep into Germany. And they laughed with real delight when they heard that Count Effenpanz went about his rooms bald and wigless and had spent many hours trying to teach them all about his collection of butterflies. 'Bless him!' they cried.

  Maria nodded and smiled through the conversation, ate and drank little, and listened. She liked the three sisters, but did not suppose that any of them could be the person she had come to find. Of the men present . . .

  It would not be Hofmeister. He was too outspoken. He wore his heart on his sleeve, an enemy of the Republic and a supporter of his Prince. Perhaps it was Father Septe. He had a dark, square head, frowned a lot and looked more thoughtful than Hofmeister. But his sympathies, too, were obvious. He did not seem to be a man with anything to hide. And as a priest he would be under suspicion anyway. That left Cousin Ludwig, calm and moderate at the head of his table, and the lean-faced Kaus, who still believed in the republic. These looked more like men who could hide things, and who could deal in secrets. She would not have thought that Wéry would correspond with allies of the French. But perhaps their politics were only a pretence: one that a man like Kaus could feed carefully by permitting himself to be Hofmeister's butt?

  It was no use guessing. She could not – dared not – approach anyone on the basis of a guess. She must make herself known, in a way that only the person she was looking for would understand. And there was only one thing that would do.

  In a lull in the conversation at the men's end of the table, she broke gently into the talk around her and said the name 'Wéry'.

  Instantly, it seemed, she was rewarded.

  'Wéry!' echoed Hofmeister. 'Ay, there's a man I envy!'

  'Who?' asked Kaus.

  'Wéry. The Brabançon who came to us in Mainz. He warned us of French perfidy and he was right. But no one listened to him – or to me either! You remember him, Jürich?'

  Ludwig gazed at the man peaceably. 'I believe so. What of him?'

  'Oh,' said Maria. 'We were talking of what it is to live for a while in another country, and I remarked that sometimes it is instructive to hear a foreigner speak of your own country to you. The things that impress them are often surprising. Major Wéry, I recall, mentioned a particular dance we do in Erzberg, for example.'

  'Then I am sure you should teach it here,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'Dances that impress should not be kept a secret in Erzberg.'

  'Oh!' said Maria. She waved her hand lightly as if to dismiss a compliment. Now that she had Wéry's scent, she did not want to lose it. 'But, sir,' she addressed Hofmeister. 'One sees so many exiles, and there is often something sad about them. Why would you envy this one?'

  'Why? For his youth, and his lack of responsibilities, which allow him to do that which he most wishes, which is to curse and confront in arms this wretched barbarity that afflicts us and has betrayed us – I ask your pardon, brother Kaus, but so it is and so the night will tell you when you wake in the small hours. Wéry may make his stand freely, and reckon the likely cost only to his own bones and body. Would that I could do as he!'

  'What sir!' cried Madame Kaus, with mock horror. 'Will you leave us, leave my sister and her children, and go east to throw your body on the top of some rampart?'

  'No, my dear,' said Hofmeister. 'It is this that I am saying. My heart is divided. But of course the greater part remains here, and here I remain, where I shall resist – forgive me again, brother Kaus – in such ways as I may. Let my General demand of me meat for his table and wine for his glass. Let his clerks requisition my saddle-leather. Let them call for the bells and the shoes and whatever they like. Let them levy – what is it up to now – fifteen million livres?'

  'Twelve million,' said Ludwig.

  'Twelve million livres, if you like. I shall send them the worst and least of what I have, and write them long wearying letters of poverty and injustice, and find for every Rhinelander and against every Frenchman that comes before me in my court. And I shall make believe that my pen is a musket and my desk a rampart east of the Rhine.'

  'Very well,' said Kaus. 'But does this not hasten the moment when the army wearies of our administration and once again imposes its own?'

  'Let them, sir,' said Hofmeister, and the redness of his face spoke of wine. 'It will be a relief to me!'

  'I suggest that in this you indulge yourself still. The lot of the people would surely be worse.'

  'The lot of the people, sir, would have been better if our Elector still sat in Mainz and we had all been let well alone! Hey, Jürich. Do you read your Bible these days? Come, tell me that you do.'

  'For the most part I read the ancients,' said Ludwig. 'Especially when the air is bright and the news good. But yes, when the day darkens I find no consolation at the shrines of Reason. Then I will take myself to Scripture instead. I am sure that I am not alone in this.'

  'Ay, sir, but the psalms – the Misericordiam et judicium – you have read it of late?'

  'I believe I know it . . .'

  'Read it, sir! The Archduke Charles – saints strengthen his brave young arm – would have us all read it! It is God's word, but also the word of the Archduke and his brother the Emperor to us here. He that practices deceit will not dwell in
my house; he that tells lies will not stand in my presence . . . They shall not be suffered to remain, brother Kaus. Of that you may be certain!' He finished, flushed, leaning across the table to point his finger at the chest of the thin, green-clad man opposite him.

  Kaus did not answer. He glared back at his brother-in-law.

  'Gentlemen,' said Cousin Ludwig gently, rising to his feet. 'Let us remember that nights have dawns and wars have peace at the end of them. May ours not be far off.'

  'Amen!' said his wife.

  'And I think it is right that we drink a toast. To our guests, with our gratitude for what they have brought us, and for their presence most of all.'

  'Our guests,' cried the women, and Septe. Someone clapped.

  Ludwig remained standing. 'I have another to propose,' he said.

  'Ah sir,' said Hofmeister. 'Now let us hear who you cleave to. The Elector or the Republic, I care not. But be bold. If you are not, I will name you a trimmer!'

  'Indeed, I shall be bolder than you think, brother. My toast is to Germany.'

  'Ho!' cried Hofmeister in surprise. 'And what may that mean?'

  'I will drink to Germany, if I am allowed,' said Kaus, looking down at his fingers.

  'Well . . .' said Hofmeister. 'Well, as you are my host – to Germany, then.'

  'To Germany,' the diners repeated.

  'To Germany,' said Maria. She had never drunk such a toast. But in that instant, in that place, the word had a meaning that she had not felt before. She had no very clear idea of what it was. She sensed a mass of neighbourhoods, spreading out from the place in which she stood: people, people and more people, unreachable and unembraceable. And it was only from here that she could see that they were all one – here in the huge shadow of something that they were not.

  Later, when they gathered again in the bare and partly furnished drawing room, Maria made sure that she spoke with each guest, contriving, by all her art and wit, with her rank, and with every device that she had ever seen employed in the salons of Erzberg, to be alone with them one after another, if only for moments. She dropped her fan for Septe, her handkerchief for Kaus. Each was returned to her gallantly, and without the scrap of paper she had been half-hoping for. No one gave her a sign, or hissed a rendezvous under the pretence of telling her some gossip. She finished the evening in the corner with Madame Kaus, listening to Hofmeister once again berating the woman's husband on the far side of the room.