The Florian Signet

by John Burke

  ‘Why ask me?’ I protested. ‘If you intended all along to turn right, then why –’

  ‘I’m not sure that I did intend to turn right.’

  I laughed; but was not sure that I found it very funny.

  After a while he said, reminiscently: ‘My father was sad when he was no longer permitted to drive his own equipage.’

  ‘Because of illness?’

  ‘Because of promotion. When he became General Haynau’s second-in-command he was told it was unfitting for him to play the coachman. Only on leave, in the grounds of his own estate, might he indulge himself.’

  ‘You have rigorous codes of correct behaviour in your country.’

  ‘Do not fear, Leonora. Few of them need affect you. Or us. Even my father was fortunately not exalted enough to be governed by the protocol of Court levees and rituals. We escaped all but certain military formalities.’

  ‘Such etiquette must be awfully restricting.’

  He shrugged; but something within would not let him be entirely flippant and dismissive. ‘Those chosen to attend on the Emperor preserve a great tradition, and do so with dignity. The rest of us are the better for our own lesser disciplines. Each plays a part in maintaining the equilibrium of the Empire.’

  Coming from anyone else it could have sounded heavily pontifical. But there was no denying the pleasure and sincerity in Jan’s voice.

  ‘I tried to mould my career on my father’s,’ he said. ‘His was cut damnably short. He and my mother were killed when their coach turned over on a mountain road in midwinter.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You’ve never told me much about your family.’

  ‘No. And it is time, is it not? Time for you to know what you . . . to know all there is to know about me.’

  But when he went on, he added little that had not come out during his stay in Ely. His Army career had ended with the wound at Sadowa, leaving him to take up new studies later in his career than most young men.

  ‘I have had little time for anything but my work since then.’ He appraised the road ahead, then turned a brief glance on me. ‘I like to think the time is near when I may plan for more happiness and a little less duty.’

  I felt absurdly at his mercy – not physically, though I was overwhelmingly conscious of his presence beside me, the strength of his hands and the sturdy, virile resolve of the man; but somehow caught up by him, in danger of being surrounded by him, feeling that long ago he had decided the moves and was confidently urging me into making each successive one of them.

  It would be so easy, and surely so pleasurable, to surrender to him.

  But there was a sour note in that coaxing harmony. The few things he had said about his own background, and the intimations of his views on life and on his country, made it all too clear that he would be no ally of such as Count Florian. Any vague idea I might have had of their possibly being in league with each other was swept away.

  ‘You look very grave,’ said Jan. ‘Have I distressed you with anything I have said?’

  ‘No. Assuredly you have not.’ Only with the problems left unspoken, I thought to myself. Aloud I went on: ‘You know you are giving me things to think about.’

  ‘Ah, so. It is true.’ He shifted again, as if to deny the memory of that wound which had changed the course of his life. ‘I plead guilty, yes. So I must let you think and not interrupt.’ He clicked his tongue cheerfully against his teeth, and the mare quickened her trot. ‘But it is permitted to guess which way your mind turns?’

  I could only hope that he would not guess too accurately at the turns and convolutions of that mind. I had a sense of duty to match his own; but I doubted whether he would approve of it. That duty to Count Anton Florian had to be discharged before I could allow myself to respond to any of Jan’s advances. Once I was free of the signet ring and the story of Caroline’s death, I would be free of Count Florian and free to listen to Jan: to listen, and to make my decisions.

  When all the excuses for delay were used up, what would those decisions be?

  *

  On our return, Jan set me down in the main courtyard while he drove on to the stables. I sauntered idly back to the gateway, thinking I would wait for him so that we might go indoors together. Perhaps that was in itself an admission of my growing dependence on him, my sheer need for his presence.

  He had been right about the dilapidated condition of the castle. Parts of the outer fortifications had sagged inwards here and crumbled into misshapen heaps on the cobbles. Some must have lain like this for some time, since spiky grass and a number of dried-up flowers sprouted from their mounds. Others were still white and dusty.

  A large, gashed stone lay at an angle against one heap, stacked more tidily in a corner than the rest. I saw the edge of a pattern on it, and a line or two which I seemed to recognize. When I bent over it I saw that the centre of the design had been defaced, but a ragged outline was still identifiable. The more I looked, the stronger the picture became. I prodded the stone with my foot to shake some of the dust and grit away.

  The chipped, scarred figure was that of a man stamping on flames and driving his sword down into them.

  I went out on to the road and examined the left gatepost. It was in pretty poor condition, but still supported a number of heraldic emblems. Where the largest of these must once have been there was now a newer, squared-up, featureless slab of stone.

  I was crossing the courtyard again when Jan came to fetch me.

  ‘You are inspecting the ruins?’ he said. ‘I tell you, I think we will be happier in Kirchschlag.’

  His eyes followed my gaze, and he stiffened.

  ‘Is this the Countess’s family crest, or something of the kind?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Disgraceful the way this rubbish is left about! But she has so few staff – can afford so little, poor Aunt Sophie.’

  ‘It looks like St Florian,’ I persisted.

  ‘So. You know of St Florian.’

  ‘I saw a dedication to him somewhere when we were over here before. But Countess Lomnica never mentioned the name in connection with her own family.’

  ‘She would have no reason to do so. No more reason than thousands of other families. As the patron saint of firemen, you will find his image on half the buildings in the land.’ He laughed. ‘To us, the name of Florian immediately means the fire-plate of the largest Viennese insurance company.’

  A fire-plate – carved in old stone? I tried not to show my scepticism.

  I must have betrayed some of it, for Jan said: ‘Does the name Florian mean something different to you, then – something special?’

  ‘I doubt if most people in England have even heard of him.’

  I resolved to be more cautious from now on and to ask no more direct, dangerous questions.

  When I awoke next morning my room was brighter than it had been so far. From the window I soon saw the reason. Snow had fallen during the night and was settling into a fine but tenacious carpet. A few flakes still drifted past the window, and seemed thicker on one of the distant ridges.

  I spent part of the morning writing a descriptive but emotionally non-committal letter to my mother, and added florid good wishes from the Countess and from Jan without bothering to consult them on the exact wording.

  When I went in search of a means to despatch this, I heard their voices through a door opening on to the hall.

  ‘I will not delay longer. I have kept my promise, I expect you to keep yours.’

  ‘But to go so soon –’

  ‘There will be time enough afterwards, you can have him to yourself when this is all over.’

  I pushed the door, and the Countess turned to me with a crooked, unconfident smile.

  ‘A letter? Ah, you wish . . . it is to your dear mother? Oh, but I wish to send my good wishes, I must –’

  ‘I took the liberty of including them,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘So thoughtful, yes.’ She glanced at Jan. �
��Then I must go and prepare?’

  ‘Please, Aunt Sophie. I think it is wise.’

  He saw her to the foot of the stairs and kissed her cheek. I would have sworn that she flinched. When she was half-way up the flight he turned to me and said:

  ‘The signs are that snow will fall more heavily. I think we must be on our way. Roads in these forests can be too easily blocked. I prefer we are in my own region before we are snowed in.’

  ‘You mean I could be trapped, unable to get home to England?’

  ‘That would be no great hardship – for me.’

  ‘When must we leave?’

  ‘Regrettably it is too late for us to reach the afternoon train to Budweis. Also, arrangements at the other end would be difficult. But we must rise early tomorrow and set off for the morning train, and I will telegraph so that we are met. You will not be too disturbed by this?’

  ‘The Countess is the one who may be disturbed. I feel perhaps I should have found my own companion, someone less –’

  ‘It was her own suggestion. She is happily occupied, I vow it is so. She enjoys being always in confusion!’

  I went to find Betka and work out some kind of semaphore to indicate that she must have everything packed and ready first thing in the morning. Some invisible messenger must already have told her, since I found her with two cases open, comparing the space available with the coats and dresses hanging in the wardrobe.

  I pointed out the clothes I wished to wear for the journey, and by a number of dramatic gestures, thrusting things away from me and closing the wardrobe door and the lid of the trunk, managed to convey that she should not pack the other things too soon and so leave them in their creases.

  She interpreted the message, and did a little pigeon-toed curtsy.

  I tried to ask her whether her family lived in the neighbourhood, and whether she was pleased or sad to be going away for a while; but although she watched the movements of my lips with undisguised wonder, the effort of translating from my slow German into her head and then framing coherent replies was beyond her.

  Had there really been no alternative to supplying me with a maid who could understand only the simplest duties and could not answer my simplest question?

  Next morning I saw the wisdom of Jan’s decision. A deepening pall of whiteness shrouded the hills. Far down in the valley two diminutive black figures were setting up a wavering line of hurdles by the roadside to break the drift of the snow. I did not know how persistent such snowfall would be in this country, but it was easy to envisage those lanes becoming impassable.

  Betka had come to my room before first light and completed the packing. With time to spare before we left, I took a last stroll round the courtyard. Large white flakes drifted across my shoulders and would have settled on my bonnet if I had not regularly brushed them away.

  The heaps of collapsed masonry were snowy hummocks, their contours and carvings masked now.

  Wind drove a sudden flurry through the gateway, and I took shelter under the overhang of the main building’s upper story. At its far end it turned over a covered walk like a miniature cloister. I realized that on the other side must be that smaller courtyard which had been shut off since my last visit.

  I ducked in between the arches. Only an intermittent puff of snow stung my cheek or lay briefly on my arm.

  The wall made no attempt to match the graceful arcade through which I had come. It was uncompromisingly bare save for a large, iron-studded door and one rusted grating half obscured by cobwebby trailers which shivered in the wind. I took a few steps to bring me level with the grating, and pushed myself up on tip-toe to peer through.

  The little courtyard appeared to be deserted. Snow thickened the battlements beyond it. Then, so alarmingly close that I nearly let out a gasp, the shoulder of a coat crossed my line of vision. The Countess’s voice said something I could not catch about knowing what had to be done.

  A younger voice, a man’s voice, said: ‘If you think there can be any trust in such people –’

  ‘It is done. You will wait, and . . .’

  I heard no more, and in any case did not wish to eavesdrop. But as she moved aside I saw the profile of a man, just for a second or so, as he closed in on her. It was a young face, to match the voice – but seamed and twisted out of true by some anguish which remained on my mind like a terrible echo . . . an anguish which might have been due to some old pain or to the momentary wrench of some argument.

  He was gone.

  I turned back, found my way into the building again; and, when the Countess joined Jan and myself in readiness for our departure, I tried to detect some revealing echo in her own features.

  All that struck me – and struck me most forcibly – was the similarity between the young man’s nose and hers, and between their high, craggy foreheads. I wondered why she should once have spoken so warmly of introducing me to her son and now should be keeping him hidden away. For who else could that have been but Michael?

  It took us an hour to reach the railway station on the main line between Carlsbad and Prague. I felt a mild regret that we were not going into Carlsbad itself: my weeks there had been none too happy, yet I was conscious of a nostalgic interest. Also I was pricked by a futile fancy that Count Florian might still be waiting in the vicinity for a message, while here was I due to travel far away to start the complicated delivery of that message.

  But there was no choice. I was in Jan’s charge.

  From a corner seat by the window I watched the countryside unroll. The hills shaded down gradually on either side of the track until we were out on a wide plain, under an are of vast grey sky. Farm buildings crouched in exposed fields. There were few hedges but here, too, hurdles had been erected along some roads to contain the snow. We passed strung-out villages, little factory towns, and one great plantation of smoking chimneys.

  In Prague we had to change stations, and the sight of those soaring spires as we drove through the city made me want to stay a while and explore. But Jan was set on reaching our destination without delay; and somewhere down there was a blacksmith I must meet.

  I noticed that some names and inscriptions on shop fronts were in German, some in Czech, and some in both.

  ‘The old language is permitted, then?’ I commented.

  ‘The Empire shelters any number of different races.’ Jan glanced at the frontage of a restaurant we were just passing. ‘If it pleases them to preserve some native usages, it does little harm. Better that than leaving them to foment revolution. The Emperor has applied a most tolerant policy in recent years. We can only hope it achieves a worthy response.’

  We reached Budweis in the late afternoon. Twilight made it difficult to pick out the contours of the land as we drove out of the town on the last stretch of our journey. Ridges and furrows in the sky, which at first I took to be cloud, could be a range of hills. Confirming this, after we had gone some distance the road began to climb and the horses slithered once or twice before settling to a steady pace. Flecks of snow were scattered like white flints on dark earth. The light of a rising moon glinted in a necklace of ponds below.

  ‘Fish-ponds,’ explained Jan beside me. ‘They were dug by the monasteries many centuries ago, and every successive landowner has added to them and re-stocked them. We are far from the sea: we rely on what can be bred in our meres.’

  Kirchschlag was upon us without warning. In the thickening dusk I had seen no village, not even a few outlying buildings. One moment we were on a road above a darkly rushing stream; the next, a wooden bridge rumbled under the wheels of the carriage and a stone pillar cast a deep shadow into my lap. Then the horses slowed to a halt, torches flickered against a high wall, the door on my side was snapped open, and a liveried footman held a lantern high.

  The courtyard was wider than that at Fasanenburg. Above it, a slender tower thrust towards the evening sky, bulging at the top with a gallery which made it look like an unusually graceful factory chimney.

  ‘Welcome,�
� said Jan. ‘Welcome to Kirchschlag.’

  Another footman standing on the top step of a porticoed entrance clicked his heels and stood to attention as we walked in, more like a sentry than a house servant.

  The entrance hall’s proportions were in keeping with the courtyard. A wide marble staircase led straight up to a spacious landing and divided to right and left below a large portrait of the Emperor Franz Josef.

  There was another, barely perceptible, click of heels. A small man with an empty left sleeve tacked to his jacket held out, in his right hand, a telegram.

  ‘Herr Hauptmann . . .’ I heard the word ‘dringend’, and then something which sounded like ‘Schlenter’ or ‘Schernin’.

  Jan took the telegram, growled something in an undertone, and waved the man away.

  ‘Ja, Herr Sieghart.’

  This time the name was articulated very clearly and loudly.

  I heard the hiss of indrawn breath between Jan’s teeth. He stared at the wording of the telegram; and his expression was not unlike that dazed, incredulous expression I had seen on his face that day in Ely.

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Wrong?’ He stood rigid for a second, then crushed the paper in his palm. ‘Oh, on an estate like this there is nothing but responsibility – and interference.’ He took my arm. ‘Let me take you to the guest wing. It will have been made ready for you. And your girl Betka shall come, and when you are ready you can come down and join me. And tomorrow we explore my home, yes?’

  As we mounted the staircase I said: ‘What did that man of yours call you? It wasn’t a word I recognized.’

  ‘These old military titles – they are very faithful, they still insist on using them, though I tell them I am no longer –’

  ‘Schlenter, or something like that. But probably I misheard. And in any case it’s none of my business.’

  He stopped. ‘But it is, as you say, your business. Everything here is for you to know. Or that is what I am daring to hope.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, really it doesn’t. I don’t know what made me ask.’