The Swedish Cavalier

by Leo Perutz

  “And you?” she said despairingly, holding him close. “Didn’t you swear to abide with me till death do us part? How shall I endure the time without you, and what do I care for your king, to whom glory has always meant more than any woman alive?”

  “Do not speak so of His Majesty’s noble person,” he told her. “I yearn to stay, my dearest, but it cannot be. The time has come for me to buckle on my sword. I leave you with a heavy heart, God knows, but my king has summoned me.”

  She wept all that day and throughout the night that followed. In the morning a benumbed serenity came over her. She went to the closet and took out the blue Swedish tunic with the brass buttons and red collar, the elk-leather breeches, the yellow gauntlets, the sword with the leather hilt, the feed bag, canteen, and cavalry pistols. And when she saw them all arrayed there, she was assailed by a vision of the day when the Swedish cavalier had come to meet her in the sunlit garden with his hat beneath his arm.

  “May God in His mercy preserve both you and your king,” she said softly, stroking the threadbare blue tunic, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Maria Christine came skipping into the stable to find Wryneck seated on his wooden chest in the gloom, mending an old saddle-girth. She watched him at his work for a while before broaching the subject that filled her with such alarm and curiosity.

  “My father’s off to the war, did you know?”

  “Yes,” said Wryneck, “and I and my comrade are riding with him.”

  “That makes three of you,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Why are all three of you going, like the Three Wise Kings?”

  “So that, when two say nothing, there’ll be a third to listen to them.”

  “Is it far to the war?” she asked.

  “Give me a yardstick and I’ll measure it out,” he told her.

  “And when will you return?”

  “When you’ve worn out three little pairs of shoes, that’s when.”

  “But I want to know the day of your return,” she insisted.

  “Run into the woods and ask the cuckoo,” Wryneck advised her. “He’ll tell you the day.”

  “What will you do in the war?” she asked.

  “I’ll line my pockets,” he replied. “My empty purse is a burden to me. I carry it more easily when it’s full.”

  “Mother’s weeping,” she said. “Many men go to war and never return, she says.”

  “That shows you war’s a good thing,” Wryneck argued. “If it were a bad one, they’d all return in a trice.”

  “Why is Mother weeping, then?”

  “Because she can’t ride with us.”

  “Why can’t she?”

  “On account of the weather. What would she do at the war when it rains and snows?”

  Maria Christine stamped her foot. “But I don’t want my father to be at the war when it rains and snows. He’s put on his old blue jacket, and it’ll be wet through in a minute. He must return home before the bad weather comes.”

  “Don’t be angry,” Wryneck told her. “I’ll see what I can do about it.”

  “You must help me,” she said, clambering on his knee. “I know you can. I won’t have my father staying away at the war, do you hear? Don’t pretend to be deaf! You know all manner of tricks. Make him come home again.”

  “You behave as if my only duty is to do your bidding,” Wryneck said, laughing. “You could wheedle a lost soul out of the Devil himself. Leave my beard alone, you’ll pluck it out by the roots. Now listen: if you truly wish your father to come back from the war, take some salt and some earth and put them in a little bag.”

  “Salt and earth,” she repeated. “What kind of earth? Black earth, red earth?”

  “Earth is earth, be it red or yellow, black or brown. Put the salt and earth in a little bag and stitch it into your father’s blue tunic between the cloth and the lining. But you must do it by moonlight, and no one must see you with the needle and thread in your hand, nor must any dog bark nor any cock crow, or the spell will be broken and you must start all over again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Salt and earth concealed in a garment,” Wryneck pursued, “are so potent a spell that he’ll think of you day and night. They’re stronger than any bell-rope–they’ll bind him to you so tightly that he’ll never rest, day or night, until he’s back with you once more. Can you remember all that?”

  “Yes,” she said in a tremulous voice, for her heart quailed at the thought that the spell must be cast at dead of night. “Fill a little bag with salt and earth and then, with needle and thread.

  “By moonlight, mark you, not candlelight,” Wryneck warned her. “Don’t forget that. The moon was new eleven days ago–it’s still waxing. Now could be the time.”

  That night, when the moon had risen above the copper beeches and alder bushes in the garden, Maria Christine slipped out of bed. From under her pillow she took the sachet of salt and soil, a small pair of scissors, and a needle and thread. Then she stole out of her bedchamber and tiptoed silently upstairs. Another few steps, a brief pause outside the door to reassure herself that all was quiet, and she made her way, with a pounding heart, into the room where her father’s blue tunic lay draped over an armchair.

  The big room was not entirely in darkness. Moonlight streamed through the window, picking out various objects. The brass buttons on the blue Swedish tunic gleamed faintly. Maria Christine took a step forward and gave a little start at the sight of her reflection moving in the mirror on the wall. As soon as she grasped that she was alone in the room, she drew a deep breath and took the tunic from the chair. It was surprisingly heavy. Clasping it to her, she half-carried, half-dragged it to the window and crouched down beside it with bated breath, fearful lest some dog might bark or cockerel crow and render all her surreptitious labours in vain. But the dogs and cockerels held their peace, so she spread the tunic across her lap and picked up the scissors.

  Although the dogs and cockerels were asleep at this hour, her mother and father were still awake. Maria Agneta was sitting in the Long Room, her face pale and tear-stained, while her husband stood in front of the fireplace with folded arms.

  As he gazed into the dying embers, his thoughts returned to the moment when he had first set eyes on Maria Agneta, here in this very room. It was here that she had stood, a poor girl duped by all around her, complaining that her sweetheart had forgotten her and their love. It was here, too, that he, the Bloody Baron’s helpless captive, had first been smitten with the presumptuous idea that she must become his wife, and that he would make a better nobleman than the youth in question, both in her eyes and in those of the world at large. What others were born with, he had been compelled to fight for and procure by devious, daring, illicit means. There now remained but one last thing for him to do: having been granted seven years of life as a nobleman, he was duty-bound to die like one. That death he had resolved to seek in the Swedish army, and he was grateful to Providence for sparing him an ignominious end on the gallows.

  “Our workfolk are good, honest, skilful souls,” he told Maria Agneta. “You need only husband your resources and you’ll want for nothing.”

  “Nothing save you, my dearest,” she said in a low voice, “but that you give no thought to.”

  “You must also ensure,” he went on, “that the household, stables and fields are thriftily administered without in any way being neglected. Never spend more than the estate brings in. Get rid of useless livestock without delay. Don’t be overhasty with the summer sowing–it’s better to wait for fine weather. And never forget: one field well ploughed and manured yields more than two in poor condition.”

  “How am I to think of all that,” she said plaintively, “when I shall be living in constant dread? My heart will be eaten away with fear.”

  But his thoughts had already turned to his flock of sheep, which had made him a tidy profit. He was just explaining to Maria Agneta that good grass alone produced good wool and advising he
r on how to protect the flock against scours and scabies when he stopped short, startled by a sound that seemed to come from the adjoining room. He put a finger to his lips.

  “What was that?” he said. “Did you hear it? Who in the house would still be awake at this hour?”

  “No one,” Maria Agneta replied. “A gust of wind must have caught one of the shutters.”

  But he thought he heard floorboards creaking underfoot. Taking the candlestick from the table, he went to the door and flung it open.

  “Hey!” he called. “Who’s there?”

  The little girl’s heart had thumped at every stitch, for she could hear her father’s voice quite close at hand. She had completed her work at last without interference from dog or cockerel, and was thankfully draping the blue tunic over the armchair once more, when something heavy tumbled to the floor beside her.

  Maria Christine flinched at this inexplicable noise and made quickly for the door, only to collide with a chair. She grimaced with pain, close to tears, and rubbed her hip and knee before hurrying on. She lost a slipper in her haste and paused, wondering what to do for the best. Then she found the missing slipper, stepped into it, and darted out of the room just as her father called “Who’s there?”

  Man and wife stood in the doorway for a few moments, he with the candlestick raised, she nestling anxiously against him. All at once, as he moved his arm, the candlelight fell on the copper-bound cover of a book lying on the floor beside the armchair. Maria Agneta hurried over and picked it up.

  “That was it,” she said. “That was what made such a noise as it fell. The cat must have tried to pull your coat off the chair and the book slipped out of the pocket. It looks a hundred years old–it smells of mildew.”

  The Swedish cavalier had forgotten all about Tornefeld’s arcanum during his years of prosperity. He regarded it thoughtfully.

  “It’s a bible that belonged to Gustavus Adolphus, the celebrated hero,” he told her. “He had it beneath his corselet when death laid him low. I was instructed to deliver it into the young king’s own hands, but I doubt if it’ll bring me much honour, it’s in so sorry a state, with its stained, worm-eaten pages. I fear His Majesty will set little store by such trash.”

  He shrugged, but took the book notwithstanding and tossed it on to the table beside his cavalry pistols and yellow gauntlets.

  At dawn two days later, when the fish-pond and meadows were still wreathed in mist, the Swedish cavalier rode out of the courtyard with Veiland and Wryneck. His leavetaking had been a sad and painful one, and when Maria Agneta embraced him for the last time and commended him to Christ’s all-powerful protection with quivering lips and tremulous voice, it was all he could do not to tell her that they were parting for ever.

  The little girl, who was still asleep, did not wake when he kissed her lightly on the lips, brow, and eyelids.

  PART FOUR

  The Nameless Man

  THE HOUR WAS LATE, and the Swedish cavalier was sitting over a half-empty mug of beer in the dank tap-room of a Polish inn. Though fatigued by his three days’ ride through forest and marsh, he felt no desire to sleep. The landlord’s dog lay stretched out on the flagstones, twitching as it dreamed of chasing hares, foxes, and wild boar. The landlord himself, who spoke only Polish, sat drinking with Veiland and Wryneck in a corner. He was on tenterhooks because his wife had gone into labour, and the other two were advising him on what to do for her. He should give her honey-water and pounded myrrh to drink, they told him, but he couldn’t understand them and kept asking what they wanted.

  The lamp was burning low. When silence fell in the taproom, the woman’s moans could be heard above the wind that whistled and rustled and whispered among the branches of the trees surrounding the inn.

  Veiland and Wryneck drained their glasses of brandy and left the tap-room preceded by the landlord carrying a candle. The wooden stairs creaked under their tread. The Swedish cavalier sat motionless with his head bowed, for ever thinking of the estate he had left behind. Now that all was still, the familiar sounds and voices that had rung in his ears throughout the day returned to haunt him. For moments on end he heard disjointed snatches of the gossip exchanged by his peasant women as they sat rippling flax of an evening; the creak of the courtyard gate; the draw-well’s plaintive groan; the cooing of doves as Maria Agneta coaxed them back to the dovecote; the hiss of the grindstone; the bellow of an ox being harnessed to a waggon; the clatter of clogs and milk pails; his overseer predicting a storm in the night; and, ever and again, the piping voice of Maria Christine calling piteously for her father and refusing to believe that he had ridden off.

  He sat up abruptly, took Gustavus Adolphus’ bible from his pocket, and tossed it on the table in front of him.

  “You’ve undergone a wondrous transformation,” he told it. “Once upon a time you egged me on from one escapade, one adventure, to the next. You bedazzled me day and night with the fortunes in gold and silver that lay strewn about the countryside and encouraged me to hunt them down. You showed me all that was there for the taking, but now, hour after hour, you blight my eyes with visions of all that I’ve lost for ever. Leave me in peace, I tell you. Stop tormenting me or, as true as there’s a God above, I’ll hurl you into the fire. I’ve had enough of you.”

  He fell silent, staring into space. Then he ran his hand over the old book’s copper-bound cover.

  “You may be right,” he said, as if the dead king’s bible had answered him. “How could I ever, from one day to the next, forget the sound of my dearest wife’s voice and my daughter’s joyous laughter, her singing and weeping? And why should I go to the war? You speak the truth. My hand is better suited to a peasant’s spade then a soldier’s musket. What would I do in the Swedish army? Burn villages, destroy peasants’ grain and drive off their cattle, go foraging in farmhouses, frighten poor folk to death, harass them with oaths and curses: ‘Bring out all you possess, you scum!’ I’d be a fool to play the soldier for Charles of Sweden’s sake, what with digging trenches, charging the enemy, and riding my horse into the ground. If Charles has a quarrel with the Tsar of Muscovy, that’s his affair. He can live with him in peace or enmity, as he pleases. What do I care?”

  The wind whistled, the dog barked in its sleep. The Swedish cavalier stared fixedly at the book in front of him.

  “I’ve played a man’s game, you know that,” he said softly. “Am I to give it up for lost because of a wench that cannot forget?”

  He thought of Red Lisa and how she had once truly, whole-heartedly loved him. She had been as devoted to him as any dog obedient to the very look in its master’s eye. Could he not contrive to rekindle the embers of the love she had borne him? The longer he debated this question, the more hopeful he became of mastering his destiny once more. The game, so it seemed to him now, could still be won.

  “I must make the attempt, there’s no other way,” he told himself. “If I succeed, I can return to my estate and these few days of misery will be no more than a bad dream. If not, the executioner may put an end to a nameless man.”

  Footsteps could be heard. The stairs creaked, the door opened, and Veiland and Wryneck appeared. He swiftly replaced the arcanum in his pocket.

  “Why roam about so?” he demanded angrily. “Get some sleep while there’s still time. We ride before daybreak.”

  “Are you really so eager to depart, Captain?” Wryneck asked. “There’s a new Christian soul in the house, didn’t you hear him bawling? A boy child, and the landlord, in his delight, has offered to ply us with food and drink for two whole days. Why shouldn’t we take our ease? We’ll get to the war in good time–it’ll not run away from us,”

  “We’re not going to the war,” the Swedish cavalier told him. “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll turn back and ride to Schweidnitz, where the dragoons are quartered, but my business is not with them. I’ve a matter of life and death to discuss with Red Lisa.”

  Wryneck stood there for a moment, transfixed with amazement, bu
t he soon had some advice to hand.

  “If you speak with her, Captain, fork out a thaler or two. Red Lisa always did think poverty the worst of vices. Spend a little money to prevent the worst from happening and you’ll get off cheaply.”

  “To hell with that!” cried Veiland. “Listen to me, Captain: no long speeches, a stone about her neck, and into the river with her, that’s my advice.”

  “Enough said,” the Swedish cavalier told him firmly. “I’ll shut her mouth one way or another, even if my blood bespatters the headsman’s axe in consequence. This is my last chance, and I mean to take it. I’m staking my life on this throw.”

  “You’re not dicing for hazelnuts, Captain, I know,” said Wryneck, “but I’m not afraid on your account. You always were a daredevil. In days gone by, running the gauntlet ’twixt life and death was your favourite pastime.”

  Hidden among bushes on the river bank an hour’s ride from Schweidnitz stood a day-labourers’ hut that had remained unoccupied for years. Here the three men bivouacked. They also found a barn in which to stable their horses, and at nightfall Veiland set off for the town to discover where Red Lisa and her corporal were lodging and when best to confront her.

  “You’ve always been an excellent scout,” the Swedish cavalier said as he sent him on his way, “so your part in this affair is paramount. Beware of letting her see your face, though–she would recognise you at once. You may have shaved your cheeks and chin, but you mustn’t think you’re greatly changed in appearance. Demonstrate your skill by all means, but do so with caution. Everything depends on you.”

  “Let him go and rest easy,” said Wryneck. “Knowing Veiland as I do, I also know there isn’t a tree in all Silesia he’d care to hang from.”