The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  'You may be right, sir.'

  'You can be damned sure I'm right. I've known Erzberg all my life. Now take yourself off somewhere and be useful. And get them to send me some more coffee on your way out.'

  XXII

  The Madman's Easel

  On a Sunday in the village of Knopsdorf, Father Septe spoke as usual from his pulpit. Because of events in the world, he said (referring to the Treaty, and the hope that the Rhineland would be restored to the Empire) it was more than ever necessary to be sure of the favour of the Almighty and his Saints. Therefore the good people of Knopsdorf must make their lives more pleasing in his sight and work for the restoration of the Church to its rightful place . . .

  And so forth.

  Maria, sitting at the front of the church with the Jürichs and Anna, thought no more of it than that it was a sermon such as she had heard a thousand times before. She felt she did well to listen to the end without yawning. She never dreamed that his words would lead to his arrest.

  The family were at lunch some days later when men came running to the door. There were soldiers at Father Septe's house, they said. Emilia cried out in horror. Ludwig rose from the table, hurriedly brushing away crumbs, and called for his horse. Emilia fetched his cloak herself and threw it round his shoulders, begging him at the same time to be careful. Everyone fussed to and fro until he was out of the door. And when he was gone, no one felt like finishing their meal.

  That afternoon, while they were all still waiting for news, Anna caught Maria in the little drawing room.

  'My dear,' she said in a low voice. 'I wonder if we should not think when we mean to leave?'

  'Leave, Anna? At a time like this? How could we?'

  'Well, I cannot see how we can help them more than we have. And I must think of your safety.'

  'I am sure all will be well, Anna,' said Maria determinedly. 'Ludwig has gone to speak with the soldiers. And whether it is well or not, we can help your cousins by being company to them in a difficult time. You know they are pleased to have us. And it has been a pleasure to be here. You cannot wish to say goodbye already.'

  'My dear, of course it is a pleasure for me. And yet it is no pleasure to think of what could happen here. Also I know it is hard for dear Emilia. She is worrying about Christmas, so. She has so little to offer us.'

  'Oh, perhaps we will not impose on them for Christmas. It will not be that long.'

  'What will not be that long? You are surely not still waiting for some silly package? If there had been anything, it would have been given to us by now. Perhaps it has already gone, by another way. Really, I hope that no one here has anything to do with such things. It must be very dangerous.'

  Dangerous indeed, thought Maria, when soldiers might march up and seize people without warning! Was that why there had been nothing – no messages, no signs, no urgent whispers in the dark? Was that why no one had called her aside or slipped a sealed packet into her hand? Because it was just too dangerous? Day had followed day, with frugal meals and little to do. And every day there was nothing.

  Or was it that no message had ever existed, except in her imagination and that of Wéry? Was she here on a fool's errand, after all?

  And how long could they remain safe?

  Yet still she smiled in Anna's anxious face, and said Not Yet.

  'I am sure you are right, Anna. Therefore let us enjoy our visit with a clear conscience. And yes, of course we cannot stay for ever. But in truth I think it would be wrong to think more of it now.'

  For whatever her regrets, she was here, and any day might bring the answer to her riddle. She would tempt fate here a little longer. She could always wait a little longer, if she could get what she came for.

  Ludwig returned some hours later, alone and dejected, to anxious cries from his wife. 'Dearest, are you all right? What happened? Did you find him? Is it well with him?'

  'With Septe? I confess I do not know. The soldiers were gone when I came to his house. I followed, thinking to overtake them and speak with their officer. But as I was passing through Bringen I learned that they had set upon a man there, and killed him.'

  'What – not Septe!'

  'No, my dear. It was an unfortunate gentleman from Kaiserslautern whom they met on the road. He was possessed, it seems, of a silver watch, and would not part with it when they demanded it of him. Several of the Bringen folk saw it happen, and I have their accounts.'

  'Horrible! Why do they act so? They are monsters!'

  'They are men, which may be much the same thing. But I recalled that I, too, was carrying my watch, and that even if I did overtake them I could do little good to Septe and maybe some harm to myself, given the mood they were in.' He sighed. 'I shall write to the General on both counts, all the same. I suppose they have taken Septe because of what he said last Sunday. It was unwise of him to talk of the Empire and the restoration of the Church. Any ragged informer might have twisted such words to earn himself a coin.'

  'They will deport him,' said Emilia sadly. 'They have done it before.'

  'There is still hope, my dear, if I am quick. Lady Maria, I must beg your pardon most humbly. But I think it will not be possible for us all to ride out this afternoon. In fact, I believe that for the time being it would be wise if we all remained as close as possible to the house.'

  'Of course, sir,' said Maria. 'We will do as you think best.'

  'I am obliged to you,' he said.

  She looked at him, and saw there the same polite calm that he had worn like a mask from the first day.

  They could not ride out. They could walk only short distances from the house, for fear of falling in with ill-disciplined soldiers. And there was no town to go to, with Mainz in imperial hands and the French soldiers ringing it outside. There was very little to do. Maria took to the library in the mornings, to spare her hostess from entertaining her. Most of the shelves were empty – Ludwig Jürich had sold many of his books, to pay for some levy from the occupying forces – but there was still pen, ink and a little paper, and she could compose closely-written letters to her father, who of all the people at home was now the one she missed most. She included covering notes to Dietrich, asking him to be sure that the letters were read out to Father, and demanding reports on Father's health.

  One bright December day, the shortage of paper forced her to finish her latest letter about an hour before noon. She rose to her feet, thinking that she might walk in the garden, which was pleasant enough, if she averted her eyes from the beds that were gone to ruin because the gardeners had vanished. She left the library and stepped into the corridor.

  It was at that moment that a servant came out of a door to her left. He was a tall, sad-eyed man, in a livery doublet with a wig that did not fit him very well. She had seen him often about the house, and waiting on the family at table.

  He stopped when he saw her, his hand in the act of closing the door. There were rooms beyond. She had not been in there.

  She had not been in there because these were the doors to Maximilian's quarters.

  Maria had grown accustomed to the idea that one of the Jürichs lived apart from the rest of the household, and was not seen. She took her cue from her hosts, for whom the thing was a part of their lives. She had heard them speak of him, two or three times, when he was demanding things that were not to be had, or that would have to be sought in the towns further down the Rhine. She was curious, but she had not asked about him directly because she felt that it might be indelicate. In a way, she supposed, it was not very different from how things were at home, with Father. Father could be unnerving for strangers, until you came to know him.

  Only at night, when the fetters of reason loosened, might she turn in the darkness and think that a madman paced in the house in which she lay.

  The servant was carrying a bowl of water, and had a towel over his shoulder. In the bowl were a razor and traces of lather. He had been shaving the man in the room, and now had finished. So presumably the man would now be made pre
sentable, as Father was made presentable every morning at home.

  Normally, it was possible to see him, Cousin Ludwig had said.

  Perhaps she should ask Cousin Ludwig first. He had said that there would be arrangements to be made.

  But she had understood that those arrangements were simply to ensure that someone else was present. A footman would do. And here was a footman, arrested in the doorway, looking at her as though expecting her to say something. There was yet an hour to go before noon. And if she turned and walked away down the corridor, even to seek out Cousin Ludwig, it would be because she was afraid.

  She took a step towards the footman.

  'Is he . . . Is it possible to call on him?' she asked.

  Wordlessly, as if this were exactly what he had been expecting, the man stepped back through the door. She followed.

  She stood in a little room, almost a corridor. At the further end there was another door. The man knocked softly at it and went in, motioning her to stay where she was. She heard the soft murmur of voices from beyond. There was a faint smell in the air: tantalizingly familiar, and yet she could not identify it.

  She waited. In the room there was a chair, a small chest, and little else. On one wall was a painting.

  It was a painting of the head and shoulders of Christ, in his last agony upon the cross. Set upon a background of pastoral scenes, the dying face occupied almost half the canvas. It was painted crudely, with the flesh glowing yellow, as if someone close by was holding a lamp. The wounds of the thorns were a dirty brown-red; they looked foul and messy. The whites of the eyes showed huge. The mouth was open in a soundless cry of pain. Maria thought it a small obscenity that the Saviour should be shown with so many teeth missing.

  The more she stared at the horrid thing, the more she hated it. It seemed to her that the man in the picture was not merely dying but had died. The face was as insensible to the agony stamped upon it as was a coin to its king's head.

  She stared at it, and looked away. But she could not keep her eyes off it. Again they were drawn back to it: to that horrible portrait of pain.

  What joy could there have been in making such a thing?

  The servant reappeared in the doorway, beckoning. She followed him into a large, sunlit room. Instantly the smell was stronger. The air reeked with it, and she knew it. It was oil paint.

  It was a big room, the twin of the dining room at the other end of the house. A range of long windows to her right and in the wall opposite let in the day.

  Between the windows, and all around the walls, above and below one another, were paintings. And they were all the same. Each one showed the face of Christ, in agony on the cross. Fifty – a hundred – faces of the tortured man rolled their eyes on those walls: over and over again, in relentless, shadowy oils, the same howl of pain.

  The artist himself was working at an easel in a corner of the room, where two windows gave him light. He had not looked up. He did not seem to have noticed her.

  He was in his shirtsleeves, and his dark hair was tousled. Heavy brows frowned from his face at the painting in front of him. He resembled his uncle very little. After waiting a moment she walked over towards him. There had been a carpet in the room, but it was gone. Her feet sounded loudly on the wooden floor. Still he did not look up.

  She stopped.

  'I hope, sir, that I find you well,' she said.

  The man paused. He looked not at her, but at the space in front of him. After a moment he went back to painting.

  It was so rude that it was not rude.

  Yes, she thought. Clearly it was better that this man did not take meals with the rest of the house.

  'I'm well,' he said. His eyes followed the minute movements of the tip of his brush. After waiting for more, Maria stepped around to look over his shoulder.

  There was the face of Christ again, starker than ever as it lolled on the plain canvas where no background had yet been coloured in. The brush was making tiny, pale strokes in the white of the left eye. The man leaned into his work. His body and hand and eye all were intent on the easel before him. She waited to see if he would explain what he was doing. But he did not. He ignored her and carried on.

  'I am a visitor,' she said, speaking slowly and clearly, as though she was addressing her father. 'I came with your cousin Anna Poppenstahl.'

  'Yes,' said the man. 'I know.'

  A few strokes later he said, 'Hartmann.'

  'Sir,' said the servant, still standing by the door with the bowl in his hand.

  'I need more fine brushes.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You must get me some.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  There were many, many brushes on the table beside the painter. There were others littered around the room. Why did he want more? A paintbrush – even such a thing as a paintbrush – must be terribly expensive in the war-ravaged Rhineland. Surely Ludwig Jürich had better things on which to spend his money than more paintbrushes!

  The servant, Hartmann, had remained by the door. He could not leave until she did. The painter had not noticed. But in a moment he would. And then what? Would he fly into a rage? The servant was in a difficult position. Perhaps she should leave. The man was not going to speak. She had seen him now. She understood the distress of the house. Why stay longer than she needed to?

  The man went on painting. She stepped away from the easel and looked at some of the paintings on the wall.

  They were not all exactly the same. She could pick out occasional slight differences between one face and another – in the light, in the fall of the hair, in a shadow applied too clumsily. There were different backgrounds too. They were mostly views of countryside, with hills and towns in the distance, with kings and legionaries and angels grouped in allegories in the mid distance and tiny figures scurrying like ants across the landscapes behind them. But all interest in such details failed before the face. The face, and the agony of Christ.

  She thought of all the bare walls of the house, stripped of paintings when Ludwig and Emilia had had to sell them. They had not chosen to replace what they had lost with any of these. Small wonder.

  'Why have you done so many that are so like each other?' she asked.

  Again that pause, as if his mind had to travel a long, long way back from where it had gone in order to answer.

  'It's what you see that matters.'

  'Thank you,' she said.

  After a few moments more she stole out of the room. The servant followed, balancing his bowl in one hand while he closed the door. In the corridor she turned to him.

  'Let me pay for his brushes,' she said.

  The servant looked at her in surprise.

  'Did he not instruct you to buy brushes?' she asked.

  'He did, my Lady. I go to Koblenz for them.'

  'Come, then. Your master has so many things to bear, and brushes must be expensive even when you can find them. Let me give these as a gift. And you can add some brighter colours, if you think he will use them. You may tell him they are from me.'

  'Very good, my Lady.'

  After that, she sought out her hostess and they walked together in the garden.

  'He was always passionate, where Ludwig is moderate,' said Emilia. 'He joined the republicans in Mainz after the Elector fled. He had such high hopes for the new state. Of course, under the French the republicans split. There were purges. He found he could trust so few people. Ludwig went to the city to beg him to leave, but he would not. Then the Austrians and Prussians besieged the city. It was a terrible time for all of us, for Ludwig was trapped in the city with him, and so was Hofmeister. The danger to them was very great, for Ludwig and Hofmeister were former officials of the Elector, and if the republicans had found them they would have been driven out of the city to starve between the lines, as so many others did. So Maximilian was hiding them, and putting himself at risk of a treason charge. When surrender was near he and some friends tried to open negotiations with the Imperial force, but it was already to
o late. The French left the city, and the townspeople turned on the men who had brought them the republic. He would have been killed if Ludwig had not saved him.

  'Think of it – to have had dreams that you could better the lot of your fellow men. And then to see everything you did corrupted and become crimes, until you are hunted by the very people you have sought to help! And of course what he paints now comes from the things he saw then.'

  'He said to me "It's what you see that matters",' said Maria sombrely. 'I suppose he meant that it is what you have seen.'

  'I suppose so.'

  XXIII

  The Scent of Danger

  'Here,' said Bergesrode, in the antechamber at dawn. 'It's taken a while to emerge but you had better see how it went.' He passed some sheets of closely-written paper across his desk.

  Wéry took them. They were a draft, with many corrections and notes in the margins. He did not recognize the writing. But the first page began: 'Testimony of Major Jean-Marie Lanard, formerly of the 16th Demi-Brigade of the Line of the so-called French Republic' The words 'so-called French Republic' had been deleted and in their place the words 'country of France' had been inserted, 'written small between the lines.

  Wéry glanced up at Bergesrode, surprised. But Bergesrode was already absorbed, or was pretending to be absorbed, in Wéry's own summary of the latest reports from around Wetzlar. Wéry looked down at the transcript again.

  On being invited to proceed, Major Lanard stated that, in accordance with orders received in the course of the twenty-second of April, his company, together with two other companies of his battalion and a battery of field guns, marched through the night to occupy the ridge to the east of the bridge at Hersheim. This they achieved without encountering the enemy . . .

  The words 'the enemy' had been deleted and in their place a note was added in the margin 'forces of the Empire'.

  . . . his company, stationed in the centre. While overseeing this manoeuvre, he received a further message to attend a meeting with his company commander and the commanders of the other companies, and of the battery. At this meeting he was informed of messages from his brigade headquarters with news of the Armistice at Loeben and orders to observe a ceasefire with [enemy] Imperial forces . . .