The Swedish Cavalier

by Leo Perutz

  “Papa,” she piped in a tone of reproof, “why don’t you come? Mother sent me–the dishes are on the table.”

  “Is this your lordship’s little daughter?” Wryneck asked very deferentially, not wishing the child to see how closely acquainted he was with the lord of the manor.

  “Yes,” said the Swedish cavalier, “it is.”

  Maria Christine surveyed the two ragged figures for a while, quite undaunted, then plucked again at her father’s sleeve.

  “What men are these, Papa? Are they good men? I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They’ve come looking for work on the estate,” he replied curtly.

  Wryneck knelt down beside his former captain’s daughter and engaged her in conversation.

  “Little princess,” he said, “your face is as pink and white as the loveliest of tulips. You can hop from foot to foot, so I see, but what else can you do?”

  Maria Christine stood on a stone to make herself look taller.

  “I can say the alphabet,” she told him, “and I can dance the courante and sarabande and play the clavichord, though not very well–I’ve only just begun to learn it. What can you do?” “I can do all manner of things,” Wryneck declared. “I can shoe a goose and pick fleas off a hedgehog. I make coloured aprons for grasshoppers, and fish jump out of their ponds when I whistle.”

  Maria Christine stared at him with parted lips and eyes like saucers. Then she pointed to Veiland.

  “And he, what can he do?”

  “He can make short sausages out of long in a trice,” Wryneck replied, laughing. “That’s his best trick, but he can also bray like a donkey and hiss like a goose. What’s more, he can imitate the sound of a cat and a dog fighting.”

  “I should like to hear a cat and dog fighting,” said Maria Christine.

  Veiland needed no second bidding. He began to purr, yap, hiss, growl, bark, howl, and snarl angrily, and when he was done and the dog ran off whimpering, Maria Christine clapped her hands and hopped from foot to foot in a transport of delight.

  “You mustn’t go, either of you–I won’t have it. No cat or dog could do better. You must stay here on the estate, but remember: the workfolk eat at noon and six o’clock sharp, and anyone who isn’t there betimes with his mug gets no ale.”

  Her father was astonished to see how promptly and trustfully she had taken to the two ragged fellows, and his heart grew lighter. Neither of the men who had shown off their foolish tricks for her benefit would ever betray him, he was sure of that now. He saw them for what they truly were: two poor comrades in adversity who had come, not to destroy his happiness, but because they hoped that they would fare better at his door than by begging a morsel of bread from a stranger. Banished by a child’s laughter, the thought of murder receded from his mind.

  “Because my little daughter has bidden you welcome,” he said, “you may remain. All else apart, I think it better for you to be near me than far away. Now go to the farmhands’ quarters and get yourselves a bowl of cabbage soup with bacon in it, and when you’ve eaten I’ll see how best to employ the pair of you. There are sheep to be sheared and oats to be sown and stones to be culled from the fields, and the orchard will soon have need of a watchful eye. Meantime, God go with you, but bear one thing in mind: old tales are not worth the telling.”

  He walked off with Maria Christine skipping along beside him. His two new farmhands watched him until he disappeared into the house. Then Wryneck heaved a sigh.

  “Did it strike you? He said not another word about the money or his offer to share it with us. Methinks our pitcher got broken on the way to the well. We weren’t destined to fill it after all, and must remain poor.”

  Veiland, who could hear a horse whinny three hours’ march away and a cock crow at two leagues, shook his head.

  “I’d rather have it so,” he said. “When he spoke of the money and bade us come with him, my legs refused to budge for some strange reason. From now on I shall spend my days bending and toiling and culling stones from the fields and supping off cabbage soup with bacon in it. I can’t say why, God knows, but I’d rather it were so.”

  The two new farmhands were seldom seen together because Wryneck wielded dandy-brush and curry-comb in the stables while Veiland worked in the fields at ploughing, sowing, and harrowing. They remained friends, however, and spent every evening in the stables playing cards, drinking their measure of wine together, and generally seeing eye to eye. They had little to do with the other workfolk, but when Wryneck espied Maria Christine from afar he would whistle to her to come to him in the stables. The wooden chest he kept there always held some new surprise for her, whether it was a reed pipe or a monkey with movable limbs carved from a block of wood and painted in divers colours.

  The Swedish cavalier they shunned as far as possible, for they no longer regarded him as their equal. To them he was now the noble lord of the manor, and they feared that he might one day regret having taken them into his service. Whenever he came to inspect the stables or they unwittingly happened to cross his path, they stood at attention like soldiers before their lieutenant. Neither their manner nor their speech betrayed that they shared a secret with him.

  They persevered in this way of life until one night, a year later, the Swedish cavalier’s fortunes were laid in ruins by a bolt from the blue.

  He was entertaining some noblemen from the city that evening, and it was somewhat later than his wont when he got up from the table and asked his guests to excuse him while he conducted a rapid tour of inspection. He had left the house and was studying the weather when Wryneck accosted him. The man clearly had something to say but did not know how to begin, and the Swedish cavalier, being pressed for time, grew impatient.

  “Well, what is it?” he snapped. “Haven’t you eaten your fill?”

  “Yes indeed, your lordship,” said Wryneck. “We had millet gruel and red sausage at noon and, just now, beer soup and bread and cheese for supper. With all due respect, however, I came to apprise your lordship of another matter. Someone has expressed a humble desire to speak with your lordship. I not only know him, I know that your lordship is acquainted with him. He came post-haste–his carriage is waiting outside the gate–and I fear that his presence bodes no good.”

  “Who the devil is it?” the Swedish cavalier demanded. “Be brief, I’ve no time to waste.”

  “I didn’t recognise the man–it was too dark,” Wryneck replied, contradicting himself. “Your lordship will see for himself who it is.”

  The Swedish cavalier’s voice sank to an angry whisper.

  “Out with it, fellow! Is it the Bloody Baron?”

  “No, as God’s my witness,” Wryneck whispered back. “May it please your lordship, it’s the Brabanter. I was afraid to say so, being forbidden to tell old tales because your lordship has no wish to hear them.”

  The Swedish cavalier turned away with an impatient gesture and made for the gateway. The Brabanter stepped out of the shadows into the lanternlight.

  No one would have recognised him as the villain of yore. He looked like a man alive to his own importance and the universal esteem in which others held him. He wore silken hose, breeches of cherry-red velvet, and a black camisole richly embroidered with silver thread. A sword hung at his side and a lorgnette dangled from the gold chain around his neck. His movements were measured, and every word he spoke was imbued with quiet, imperturbable dignity.

  “A very good evening to you,” he began. “You can scarce believe your eyes, from the look of you. I doubt if you expected us to meet again.”

  “I always knew that you would not deprive me of your friendship,” the Swedish cavalier rejoined in a faintly mocking tone. “Well, what news? What brings you here? Did you come to talk of bygone days?”

  “No,” said the Brabanter. “My visit is occasioned by present circumstances. But let me look at you, Captain! I rejoiced to hear that you had so nobly acquitted yourself in your present station. Everyone admires you and utters your
name with respect. I say that because it’s the truth, not for courtesy’s sake.”

  “Many thanks,” said the Swedish cavalier. “I’m honoured that you should take such a friendly interest in my doings. And you? How do you earn your living?”

  “In trade,” the Brabanter replied. “How would the mouse fare without its oaten straw? I’ve made my fortune by buying and selling at a modest profit. My capital remains untouched.”

  “And in other respects? How do you employ your time? Have you a wife and children?”

  The Brabanter shook his head. “No. I could have had a physician’s daughter but thought it more beneficial to remain unwed. In the evenings, when I’ve dispatched my correspondence, I go to the theatre or an assembly. There I converse with friends or sometimes, pour passer le temps, indulge in a hand of cards. On Sundays, whenever the weather is fine, I take my ease in the garden. That is how it has been hitherto. Now, however, I’ve converted all I own into money, even the furniture and paintings in my house, and am leaving the country.”

  “For myself,” said the Swedish cavalier, “I think it likely that I shall grow old and grey here on my estate. The master must be stronger than his land, so they say, but it often turns out that the land proves stronger than its master–it clings to him and won’t let him go. Being at liberty to visit foreign lands, unlike me, you’re truly to be envied.”

  “Is anyone in the world to be envied?” the Brabanter replied. “When I reflect on the strange vicissitudes in my life, past and present, the futility and impermanence of worldly pleasures become all too plain. Everything passes, just as a candle goes out when its time is up. We’re merely a ball in the hands of fickle Dame Fortune. The higher she tosses us into the air, the harder we fall.”

  “Your philosophising merits admiration,” said the Swedish cavalier, “but it’s of no use to me. I’ve no time for such things. I have to provide for my wife and child and the many workfolk on my estate.”

  The Brabanter did not speak for a moment. Then, in a low, urgent voice, he said, “Listen, Captain. It grieves me to have to tell you this, but I bring bad news. You must leave here.”

  “Why, what’s up?” the Swedish cavalier demanded, as yet with no trace of alarm or concern in his voice.

  “You must leave here,” the Brabanter repeated. “Go at once. The Bloody Baron is after you.”

  The Swedish cavalier shrugged.

  “The Bloody Baron?” he said with a curt laugh. “If that’s all it is . . . Let him come, I don’t care. What does he know of me?”

  “Of the master of Kleinroop not much,” the Brabanter replied, “but he knows all about the Desecrators and their captain, for Red Lisa has turned traitor. That’s why I urge you to leave at once.”

  Just then, Maria Agneta’s voice rang out across the darkened courtyard.

  “Christian, where are you? We’ve been waiting so long. Your guests are grumbling at you for deserting them in favour of the stables.”

  She had opened a window and was leaning out. A hubbub of laughing, disputing voices issued from the room behind her.

  “I’m coming, dearest,” the Swedish cavalier called, “be patient a little while longer.” He turned back to the Brabanter.

  “You spoke of Red Lisa. What of her?”

  “Is that Madame de Tornefeld?” the Brabanter inquired, peering through his lorgnette.

  “Yes, that’s my wife. She’s the best, the purest, most saintly woman alive, and what am I?”

  “Sublime, adorable!” the Brabanter murmured, pursing his lips admiringly as Maria Agneta left the window and disappeared from view. “You should commission a portrait of her in oils, gouache or tempera,” he added. “Please convey my apologies for failing to present mes hommages

  “What of Red Lisa?” the Swedish cavalier insisted. “Quickly, you heard her call me.”

  “Our luck is out, Captain,” the Brabanter told him. “Red Lisa took up with a corporal in the Bloody Baron’s dragoons, who are quartered at Schweidnitz, and married him. It wasn’t long before her love for you turned to hatred. The corporal is a youngster, and she wishes him to gain promotion, so she sent a message to the Bloody Baron

  “Where is he?” the Swedish cavalier broke in. “Is he still a captain of dragoons?”

  “He was in Spain and Hungary, and latterly on official business in Vienna, but now I’m told he’s on the way to Schweidnitz. He’s a colonel now, and Red Lisa boasts that she’ll deliver us into his hands. Her corporal has already been promised an officer’s commission, she says, and we can count ourselves lucky if we’re branded on the forehead and sent to serve His Majesty in the galleys. Put your affairs in order and begone, Captain. You’ve everything to fear from her thirst for revenge.”

  The Swedish cavalier knit his brow and stared up at the lantern over the gateway.

  “The matter’s bad enough,” he said at length, “but it could be worse. Why should I go? I’d do better to remain where I am. Red Lisa knows nothing about me. She’ll go looking for me on the highroad, in taverns, at markets and fairs–wherever humble folk congregate–but not on a manorial estate.”

  “Captain,” said the Brabanter, “you surprise me greatly. You speak as if you’d banished your five senses to the East Indies. Red Lisa knows very well where to look for you. Didn’t you often let slip that you aspired to become a nobleman? Once, when you lay sick with the fever and she was bathing your face with vinegar-water, you upbraided the workfolk you saw in your dreams, calling them an idle, shiftless, thieving crew and warning them that you would rule them with a rod of iron when you returned to the estate a year hence. Such were the thoughts that exercised your mind. On the day we parted, Red Lisa told me that anyone wishing to find you would only have to go the rounds of the manor houses. That’s why I urge you to

  “How can she hope to find me?” the Swedish cavalier interposed, but a note of uncertainty had crept into his voice. “There are many hundreds of manor houses in Pomerania, Poland, Brandenburg and elsewhere.”

  “She’ll not have far to seek,” the Brabanter replied. “The Bloody Baron need only make inquiries and he’ll soon discover that you came here seven or eight years ago with your saddlebags full of money. Once his suspicions have fastened upon you and he confronts you with Red Lisa so that she can testify against you, what then? Waste no time–do as I am doing. I’d rather be content with a pittance than live in constant danger. Take my advice and get away from here, Captain. People dwell beyond the mountains too, you know.”

  “Yes,” the Swedish cavalier said quietly, “I should go, I suppose, but my heart won’t let me.”

  “Stay, then, and get yourself branded and hanged!” the Brabanter burst out. “Why did I trouble to speak at all? There’s none so deaf as won’t hear.”

  He took a watch from his fob, a repeater of enamelled gold, and held it to his ear.

  “I must go, my coachman awaits me,” he went on more calmly. “Why should I vex myself? It’s your neck that’s at stake, not mine. I’ve told you all, so you’ve been warned. If you come to grief, it’ll be no fault of mine.”

  They walked in silence down the avenue of maples to the Brabanter’s carriage. The coachman saluted and climbed on the box. The Brabanter got in. Leaning out of the window, he spoke in a voice too low to be overheard.

  “I respect your courage, Captain. You mean to stay and weather the storm, but I’m sorry for your daughter’s sake. She’ll have to live out her life in the knowledge that her father was branded on the forehead with the wheel and gibbet and sent in chains to the galleys. And now, Captain, fare you well. Allans! Coachman, drive on!”

  The Swedish cavalier stood watching the carriage as it receded into the darkness. The Brabanter’s words had pierced him to the heart like a stiletto. He knew now that he must go he must go for his child’s sake, but where to?

  And then, as he stood there listening to the sound of wheels fading in the distance, he had a momentary vision.

  He saw himself mou
nted on his dun charger in his blue Swedish tunic, one cavalryman among many. They were riding across a vast expanse of open heath with carrion crows circling in the sky above, which was heavily overcast. All around him voices were singing the Swedish anthem, cannon thundering, torn banners fluttering, musket balls thudding into the serried ranks. One of them struck him, and with an inexpressible feeling of contentment, he slid from his horse to the ground.

  That night he told Veiland and Wryneck what he had learned from the Brabanter and bade them hold themselves in readiness to accompany him to the Swedish war. They greeted the news with delight and drank a toast to their captain’s health, for they had long since grown weary of working on the estate and welcomed any change in their way of life. Eager for a return to the good old days when they had roamed the countryside like hawks in search of prey, they hoped that the war would enable them to replenish their pockets with loot under their captain’s command.

  It was a sad moment for the Swedish cavalier and an even sadder one for Maria Agneta when he told her that he must join the King of Sweden in the Ukrainian steppe for service against the Muscovites. She stared at him, uncertain if she had heard him aright, and he was obliged to tell her a second time: like other Swedes residing abroad, he had last night received express orders from the King’s headquarters to join the Swedish army forthwith, escorted by two well-mounted servants.

  She burst into tears. Racked with sobs, she accused him of thinking only of martial glory and of his king, who meant everything to him, whereas she herself counted for nothing. His love for her was dead, she declared.

  He disputed this, but he could not tell her the truth: that concern for her and their child’s good name and future happiness had compelled him to sever his destiny from theirs, and that, far from seeking martial glory in the Swedish army, he hoped to find the honourable death that would be denied him if he remained at home.

  “My dearest darling,” he told her time and again, “you know that my love for you is anything but dead. It burns within me constantly. You’re my good angel and my joy, and nothing will ever make me profess otherwise, but go I must. For seven years I’ve stood idly by. Now my king has issued the summons for which I had always to be prepared. Don’t weep, dearest. Didn’t you promise me, in love and good faith, to accept good and ill alike at my hands?”