by Leo Perutz
It was only when his arms were about the child, a creature of flesh and blood, that the shadow lifted from his soul.
He loved his wife as dearly as he had loved her from the first–his affection for her was proof against the all-consuming ravages of time–but his love for little Maria Christine, his daughter, was fiercer still and tinged with painful unease. Hers was the face he looked for first on coming home, and his eyes lit up with enduring joy at sight of her.
Sometimes, when he had spent all day in the fields and returned home late, he would tiptoe to Maria Christine’s bedside and sit there in silence, listening to her breathe. Not that he meant it to, the intensity of his gaze would obtrude on the little girl’s dreams and wake her. She would sit up pouting and close to tears, and then, seeing her father, fling her arms around his neck. To earn his release he had to sing her some nursery rhymes–always the same ones, for he could remember very few. He sang of the wolf on Shrove Tuesday, and of the Angelic Host, and how the tailor stood at Heaven’s gate, and how the beggar man celebrated his wedding, and of the hen that refused to lay any eggs. “Strike it dead, strike it dead! It lays no eggs and eats my bread,” sang the Swedish cavalier, and the hen would come fluttering over the edge of the bed in search of crumbs, and the Shrove Tuesday wolf that didn’t care for meat lay idly at the little girl’s feet, and the tailor and the beggar man pranced among the chairs, and Herod peered through the bedroom window. Herod came from the Twelfth Night Song, which Maria Christine liked best of all, and she often began it herself in a piping treble.
Kaspar, Balthazar, Melchior sweet,
King Herod’s beard grows down to his feet . . .
Then the Swedish cavalier would add his deep voice to hers, and the two of them would sing so softly that no one else in the house could hear.
Swiftly they rode over hedges and stiles,
in seven hours five hundred miles.
When Herod’s palace came in sight
the king looked down and shone a light.
“Kaspar, Balthazar, Melchior, stay!
Whither away, friends, whither away!”
“We ride as fast as any wind
the Virgin and the Child to find.”
“Kaspar, Balthazar, Melchior fine,
bide and take a brandy wine.”
“Nay, ride we must, an it you please,
to Bethlehem, the place of peace.”
“Thy countenance is ever bright . . .” Maria Christine’s little voice began, but that was from another song altogether. Sleep descended, muddling her thoughts until it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Her father rose and tiptoed to the door as quietly as he had come, and after him flitted the strange creatures that had briefly populated the room: the wolf, the chicken, the tailor, the beggar man. Last of all to disappear was Herod of the long beard.
It was March, in other words, that season of the year when “the thread on the distaff snaps,” as the peasants say, meaning that work in the fields must begin. The light was fading, snow clouds were scudding across the sky, and crows cawed harshly in the still leafless maple trees. Upstairs in the manor house, the Swedish cavalier was pacing the Long Room while Maria Agneta sat beside the fire studying the copperplate engravings in a compendium of garden flowers, her brown hair tinged with red by the glow from the blazing logs. The village schoolmaster was seated near the window with Maria Christine, endeavouring to teach her the art of spelling, but the little girl kept peeping at the corner where her wooden toys, a horse and cart, lay temporarily discarded. Standing between the door and the table, cap in hand, were two men from the village: a tenant farmer come to beg some seed-corn, and the carpenter, whom the Swedish cavalier had summoned to discuss the building of a new grain loft above his stables. While the carpenter was calculating how much money he should ask to defray the cost of labour, wine, meat, bread and cheese for himself and his apprentices, the farmer launched into his litany for a second time.
“I have a great favour to ask of your lordship, being eager to sow my field with rye.”
The Swedish cavalier interrupted his perambulations and paused in front of the man.
“You come here every year for bread and seed-corn,” he said angrily. “You could feed yourself and your cow with your land and still save seed-corn enough to carry on your husbandry at a profit, but no! You sit drinking in the tavern from early morning onward, and when you’re not in the tavern you’re lying beside the stove at home. No wonder you never prosper! Thirst you know how to conquer, but when hunger threatens you come running to me.”
The farmer knew that he had to ride out the storm before getting his half-bushel of seed-corn. He bowed his head and let the tirade flow over him, twisting his rabbitskin cap in his hands. After a while he began again:
“It being ancient custom that the lord of the manor should gladly and willingly hearken to his peasants’ requests, greeting them in a friendly, earnest manner as befits a Christian gentleman, I have a great and important favour to ask of your lordship in respect of seed-corn. I only wish to borrow some.”
“There goes another,” said Maria Agneta, who, because the light was almost gone, had laid aside her book of engravings and walked to the window. “That’s the third this week, God save us. Why do so many die there, and has my lord bishop no graveyard on his estate?”
“No,” the schoolmaster told her. “He has naught but forges and smelting furnaces and numerous mines and galleries, St Matthew’s Pit being the largest. Men are at liberty to die on his estate, but his bailiff sends them for burial to the villages round about.”
Outside in the fading light a wretched funeral procession could be seen descending the hill to the highroad. A man bearing a cross came first, followed by an elderly priest. Then came a scrawny nag pulling the cart on which the wooden coffin reposed. There were no mourners in sight.
“I’m told,” the carpenter volunteered, “that His Grace wishes to install a new pleasure-garden at his residence in Franconia, complete with pools and waterfalls, grottoes and fountains, Chinese pavilions and an orangery. That will cost money, but the diocesan coffers are empty. Accordingly, a new bailiff has been engaged. He has reduced the workers’ rations. They now get no lard and only half a pound of bread a day, but they’re compelled to work as hard as ever.”
“Perhaps my lord bishop is ignorant of what goes on,” said Maria Agneta. “Perhaps he should be told.”
“He knows it only too well,” the schoolmaster told her. “Folk hereabouts call him ‘the Devil’s Ambassador,’ and not without good reason. He has an imperious disposition–he wishes his household to surpass that of any secular prince in splendour. For his taste, no bailiff or pit-master could be hard enough on those poor souls.”
The Swedish cavalier stood at the window, gazing in silence at the cart as it bore its burden slowly along the highroad with the old priest going on ahead.
“There’s war on every side,” the schoolmaster continued, “and that, to the diocesan estate, is a godsend. Charles of Sweden and the Muscovite Tsar need an abundance of artillery, heavy and light, together with musket barrels, cuirasses and sword-blades. The bishop’s chimneys belch smoke and his forges are aglow with red-hot iron. Heavy-laden waggons leave there for Poland every day.”
“The diocesan estate is the last refuge of the doomed and the damned,” the farmer said quietly from beside the door. “There’s no escape–none but a merciful death.”
All at once, carried away by the potency of his memories, the Swedish cavalier began to speak.
“Tending the limekilns,” he said, “that’s the worst work of all. Some are stone-breakers who loosen the rock with heavy crowbars and break it off with their bare hands, others smash it with iron mallets. They swallow dust, day after day, until, only a few years hence, they start to spit blood and waste away. God have mercy on them, likewise on those that are fettered to the carts that haul the crushed rock to the kilns and remove the burned lime. Each kiln has five glowing stokehol
es . . .”
“But Christian,” Maria Agneta said in astonishment, “how do you know all this? You speak as if you yourself had been a stone-breaker in the bishop’s inferno.”
“In the old days,” he replied, “when I was riding courier on the highroad, I encountered many poor thieves and vagrants who told me of it.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “In front of the kiln is the furnace, which has two blazing mouths, one to receive firewood, the other for the removal of red-hot ashes and embers. The furnace needs three to tend it: the fireman, the stoker, and the raker. The stoker has to heat the furnace by degrees. He feeds it first with shavings, then with bundles of brushwood, then with split logs which he scatters and distributes with his iron fork. The raker rakes the glowing debris from the furnace, so he has to be good at withstanding heat. Sometimes, however, when there’s a wind blowing, the fiery breath of the furnace sears his face and hair, and his screams can be heard a long way off. The fireman regulates the fire. The flames are almost black with smoke at first, but then they change colour, becoming dark red, violet, blue, and, last of all, white. When the flames are white and the rock has turned a pretty pink, the firing is successful. The fireman must always keep his eye to the peephole, for if the fire fails to spread properly, let alone goes out, the batch is spoiled and the overseers thrash the fireman and his assistants with their whips. In winter, when the three men stream with sweat at their work in front of the glowing stokehole, and they step out into the icy air, Death comes to summon his victims. And when one of them is summoned and sinks to the ground with burning cheeks, every breath like a dagger-thrust in the ribs, all he gets for his pains is, ‘Out of the way! If you’re sick, lie down, draw your last breath, and die. Who needs you? No one!”
He fell silent. Maria Agneta lit the lamp. Maria Christine, who had fled the schoolmaster’s primer and tiptoed off to play with her toys, could be heard urging her wooden horse along with jubilant little cries of “Gee-up!” Meanwhile, down on the highroad, the makeshift hearse was passing the manor house.
The Swedish cavalier bowed his head, and his lips moved in a silent prayer.
“Who’s there, Papa?” Maria Christine inquired from her corner. “I can see you speaking, but I cannot hear you.”
“I’m saying a Paternoster for a poor man’s soul,” he replied. “Who knows, he may have been some noble flower that withered and died before its time. Come and pray with me.”
He picked up the child in his arms and returned to the window. Looking down at the highroad, Maria Christine caught sight of the horse-drawn cart. She laughed delightedly and broke into more cries of “Gee-up!”
“Enough of that,” her father told her with a frown. “You’re to say a Paternoster for a poor man’s soul, didn’t you hear?”
His voice had an unfamiliar, frightening ring. Close to tears, the little girl put her arms around his neck and repeated the words of the Lord’s Prayer while the coffin-laden cart passed by in the dusk and disappeared from view.
*
At noon one day, when the carpenters had almost completed their work and the Swedish cavalier was crossing the farmyard with a caulking-iron in his hand, he saw two men standing in the gateway. His blood ran cold and his heart pounded madly, but he gave no sign of it and made to walk past them with an indifferent air, as if they were strangers to him. Six years had elapsed since their last meeting, he reflected, so it was possible that mere chance had brought them to Kleinroop, and that they would fail to recognise him. But no, they stepped forward and barred his path. Veiland whipped off his leather cap, and Wryneck, bowing and sweeping the ground with his hat, hailed him with a broad smile on his bearded face.
“God’s thunder, Captain, you swagger along looking as high and mighty as if you were third in rank only to the Emperor himself. Don’t you know your old comrades any more?”
“Mark how glad he is to see us,” grumbled Veiland. “He couldn’t be more so. I told you before we came: uninvited guests are like cabbage without lard–no one relishes them. I never expected you to hasten to the butcher and pick out the best joint of veal to roast in our honour, Captain. Grant us a night’s lodging in your stable or root cellar and I’ll be quite content.”
“Not I,” said Wryneck. “He used to be our captain, when all’s said and done. Have we fallen into disfavour with him? Captain, I’ll bide here with you, and if you’ve need of someone to bid you good morning every day and ask, ‘Did your lordship sleep well?’, let that be my allotted task. You won’t find me neglectful.”
The Swedish cavalier still said nothing, but order was slowly returning to the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. As he saw it, fate had delivered him into the hands of two erstwhile comrades who were now his mortal enemies. There was nothing he could do but steal away, renouncing house and home, wife and child, field and meadow, and hide himself in some foreign land, there to forget all that was dear to him. His fear and fury, torment and despair overflowed.
“You scoundrels!” he burst out in a choking voice. “Can’t you leave me in peace? I thought the Devil had carried you off long since. What concern are you of mine?”
“Why so vehement, Captain?” Wryneck said reproachfully. “You call me a scoundrel, yet I’ve always been the best of comrades to you. I was sure you’d give us shelter in brotherly love and good faith. We’ve fallen on hard times, can’t you see?”
“But I made you rich to the tune of many hundreds of thalers and ducats,” the Swedish cavalier hissed. “Where are they?”
“They vanished down our gullets to no purpose,” Wryneck told him.
“Man’s three greatest afflictions, Captain,” sighed Veiland, “are wenching, dicing, and drinking. I should have tossed a little of my money into running water, as the custom is. Covetous Satan would then have had his share, but now he has it all. The Devil sets up shop wherever there’s a barrel and spigot.”
“And when all was gone and we could keep the wolf from the door no longer,” Wryneck added in conclusion, “we took to the road once more with staff and satchel.”
The Swedish cavalier stared into space. He was breathing quickly, and an angry, menacing light shone in his eyes. He wouldn’t go–no, he couldn’t abandon the house and estate, he must stay and cling with both hands to all that he had wrested from heaven and earth. These two men here, Veiland and Wryneck, were obstacles to his continuing good fortune. If they came to grief, the fault would not be his–after all, who had asked them to come? He must silence them for ever, and at that thought he braced his arms and the caulking-iron grew heavy in his hand.
“Who showed you the way here?” he asked. “How did you know where to find me?”
“The Brabanter told us,” Wryneck explained. “He’s become a merchant at Ratibor–he trades in dyewoods and all manner of spices such as cinnamon, ginger, nutmegs, cloves and pepper. He has attained high office and sits in the council chamber–you should see how his fellow townsfolk respect him! The first time we came he welcomed us most heartily, sent his minions out of the room and closed the door behind them. We sat there drinking wine by the bottle and eating our fill of all there was, and when we departed he gave us each ten thalers to drink his health with. When next we called on him, however, we had to beg him on bended knee before he would toss us a guilder across the table with many a ‘would if I had it.’ Then came the third time. ‘What, are you here again, you pests?’ he bellowed. ‘It’s money, always money with you! Do you mean to bankrupt me? Go to our captain, who’s become a nobleman and lives on his estate–he possesses all that a man could wish for.’ And then he told us where you could be found.”
“May the Devil reward him!” the Swedish cavalier hissed between clenched teeth. “And who told him I was here? I didn’t shout it from the rooftops.”
“He caught sight of you at the horse fair in Oppeln a year or eighteen months since,” said Wryneck. “While sitting over a glass in the ‘Golden Crown’ he saw you strolling across the marketplace, arm in arm with
sundry persons of quality. He knew you at once, so he took the landlord aside and asked him who you were and where you lived, and the landlord told him. He also said you breed the finest foals for many miles around.”
The Swedish cavalier had made up his mind. The men in question had proved themselves good comrades and survived many dangers in his company, but fear and rage outweighed all else. They had wormed their way back into his life, so he must make them disappear for ever, these two first and then the Brabanter. His thoughts turned to a lonely spot not far from the manor house. It was there in the gully, where the stream flowed between clumps of willow, that the deed would be done.
“So now there are three that know who I was,” he said, half to himself. “I must have a care, or there’ll soon be a hundred.”
“What the deuce are you saying?” cried Wryneck, who had caught the last few words. “I’ll vouch for the Brabanter as I would for myself. Were all the headsmen in the Holy Roman Empire to come and cut his hide in ribbons for a wager, he would never betray you.”
“That’s true, I won’t deny it,” the Swedish cavalier replied with every appearance of relief and satisfaction. “Now listen: I have my money buried in a safe place not far from here, and I’ll share it with you for old friendship’s sake. Take a shovel each and come with me.”
He pointed to some garden tools hanging on a nearby wall. Veiland, looking surprised and thoughtful, made no move to obey, but Wryneck hurled his hat in the air and shouted for joy.
“Hallelujah! Glory to be God! All our troubles are over, thank heaven! A long and happy life to you, Captain!”
The Swedish cavalier beckoned to them to take their shovels and follow him, but he turned to find himself confronted by Maria Christine, who had come up behind him unheard. She tugged at his sleeve.
