The Pride of Jennico 4

The Pride of Jennico 4

My castle rises boldly on the northernmost spur of the Glatzer Mounts,

and defiantly overlooks the marches of three kingdoms. Its lands and

dependencies, though chiefly Moravian, extend over the Bohemian border

as well as into that Silesia they now are able to call Prussian. North

and west it is flanked by woods that grow wilder, denser, as they

spread inwards towards the Giant Mountains. On the southern slopes are

my vineyards, growths of note, as I hear. My territories reach, on the

one hand, farther than can be seen under the blue horizon, into the

Eastern plains, flat and rich, that stretch with curious suddenness

immediately at the foot of the high district; upon the other hand, on

the Moravian side, I doubt whether even my head steward himself knows

exactly how much of the timber-laden hill-ranges can be claimed as

appertaining to the estate. All the peaks I can descry in a fine day

from these casements are mine, I believe; on their flanks are forests

as rich in game—boar and buck, wolf and bear, not to speak of lesser

quarry—as are the plains below in corn and maize and cattle—_que

sais-je?_ A goodly heritage indeed!

 

I promised myself many a rare day’s sport so soon as the time waxed

ripe. Meanwhile, my days were spent in rambles over the land, under

pretence of making acquaintance with the farms and the villages, and

the population living on the soil and working out its wealth for my

use, but in reality for the enjoyment of delicious sylvan and rustic

idleness through which the memory of recent Viennese dissipations was

like that of a fevered dream.

 

The spirit of my country-keeping ancestors lived again within me and

was satisfied. Yet there were times, too, when this freedom of fancy

became loneliness—when my eyes tired of green trees, and my ears

hungered for the voice of some human being whom I could meet as an

equal, with whom I could consort, soul and wit. Then I would resolve

that, come the autumn, I would fill the frowning stronghouse with a

rousing throng of gallant hunters and fair women such as it had never

seen before. Ay, and they should come over, even from old England, to

taste of the Jennico hospitality!

 

It was in one of these glorious moods that, upon a September day,

sultry as summer, although there was a touch of autumn decay in the

air as well as in the tints around me, I sallied forth, after noon,

to tramp on foot an as yet unexplored quarter of my domain. I had

donned, according to my wont (as being more suitable to the roughness

of the paths than the smallclothes, skirted coats, high heels and

cocked hat of Viennese fashion), the dress of the Moravian peasant—I

gather that it pleases the people’s heart to see their seigneur grace

their national garb on occasions. There was a goodly store of such

costumes among the cupboards full of hereditary habiliments and furs

preserved at Tollendhal, after the fashion of the country, with the

care that English housewives bestow upon their stores of linen. My

peasant suit was, of course, fine of cloth and natty of cut, and the

symmetry of the handsome figure I saw in my glass reminded me more of

the pastoral disguises that were the courtly fashion of some years

back than of our half-savage ill-smelling boors. Thus it was pleasant

as well as comfortable to wear, and at that time even so trifling a

sensation of gratified vanity had its price. But, although thus freed

of the incumbrance of a gentleman’s attire, I could not shake off the

watchful tyranny of János, the solemn heiduck who never allowed me to

stir abroad at all without his escort, nor, indeed (if my whim took me

far afield), without the further retinue of two jägers, twin brothers,

and faithful beyond a doubt. These, carbine on shoulder, and hanger on

thigh, had their orders to follow their lord through thick and thin,

and keep within sight and sound of whistle.

 

In such odd style of state, on this day, destined to begin for me

a new chapter in life, I took my course; and for a long hour or so

walked along the rocky cornice that overhangs the plains. The land

looked bare and wide and solitary, the fields lay in sallow leanness

bereft of waving crops, but I knew that all my golden grain was stacked

safely in the heart of the earth, where these folk hoard its fruits

for safety from fire. The air was so empty of human sounds, save the

monotonous tramp of my escort behind me, that all the murmurs of wind

and foliage struck with singular loudness upon my ear. Over night,

there had, by my leave, been songs and dancing in the courtyard of

Tollendhal, and the odd tunes, the capricious rhythm of the gipsy

musicians, came back upon me as I walked in the midst of my thoughts.

These melodies are fitful and plaintive as the sounds of nature itself,

they come hurrying and slackening, rising and falling, with as true a

harmony and as unmeasured a measure,—now in a very passion of haste,

and now with a dreamy long-drawn sigh. I was thinking on this, and on

the love of the Empress for that music (my Empress that had been when

I wore her uniform, ay, and my Empress still so long as I retain these

noble lands), when I came to a field, sloping from the crag towards

the plain, where an aftermath of grass had been left to dry. There

was a little belt of trees, which threw a grateful shade; and feeling

something weary I flung me down on the scented hay. It was on the

Silesian portion of my land. Against the horizon, the white and brown

of some townlet, clustering round the ace-of-club-shaped roof of its

church-tower, rose glittering above the blue haze. A little beyond the

field ran a white road. So I reclined, looking vaguely into the unknown

but inviting distance, musing on the extent of those possessions so

wide-spread that I had not as yet been able to ride all their marches,

ever and anon recognising vaguely in the voice of the breeze through

the foliage an echo of the music that had been haunting my thoughts

all day. Everything conspired to bring me pleasant fancies. I began

to dream of past scenes and future fortunes, smiling at the thought

of what my dashing friends would say if they saw _le beau Jennico_ in

this bucolic attitude, wondering if any of my Court acquaintances would

recognise him in his peasant garb.

 

Ah me, how eternally and lovingly I thought of my proud and brilliant

self then!...

 

I cannot recall how soon this musing became deep sleep, but sleep

I did and dream—a singular, vivid dream, which was in a manner a

continuation of my waking thoughts. I seemed to be at a great _fête_ at

the Imperial Palace, one of the countless throng of guests. The lights

were brilliant, blinding, but I saw many faces I knew, and we all were

waiting most eagerly for some wonderful event. No one was speaking, and

the only sounds were the rustling and brushing of the ladies’ brocades

and the jingle of the officers’ spurs, with over and above the wail

of the czimbalom. All at once I knew, as we do in dreams, what we

were expecting, and why this splendid feast had been prepared. Marie

Antoinette, the fair young Dauphine of France, the memory of whose

grace still hangs about the Court, had come back to visit her own

country. The crowd grew closer and closer. The crowd about me surged

forward to catch a glimpse of her as she passed, and I with the rest,

when suddenly my great-uncle stood before me, immensely bestarred and

beribboned in his field-marshal’s uniform, and with the black patch on

his eye so black that it quite dazzled me.

 

“Na, Kerlchen,” he was saying to me, “thou hast luck! Her Imperial and

Royal Highness has chosen the young Jennico to dance with ... as the

old one is too old.”

 

Now I, in common with the young men about me, have grown to cherish

since my coming to this land a strange enthusiasm for the most womanly

and beautiful of all the Empress’s daughters, and therefore, even in my

dream, my heart began to beat very fast, and I scarce knew which way

to turn. I was much troubled too by the music, which went on always

louder and quicker above my head, somewhere in the air, for I knew

that no such things as country dances are danced at Court, and that I

myself would make but a poor figure in such; yet a peasant dance it

undoubtedly was. Next, my uncle was gone, and though I could not see

her, I knew the Princess was coming by the swish of her skirt as she

walked. I heard her voice as clear as a silver bell. “_Où est-il?_”

it said, and I felt she was looking for me. I struggled in vain to

answer or turn to her, and the voice cried again: “_Où est-il?_” upon

which another voice with a quaver in its tones made reply: “_Par ici,

Altesse!_”

 

The sound must have been very close to me, for it startled me from my

deep sleep into, as it were, an outer court of dreams. And between

slumber and consciousness I became aware that I was lying somewhere

very hot and comfortable; that, while some irresistible power kept

my eyes closed, my ears were not so, and I could hear the two voices

talking together; and, in my wandering brain believed them still to

belong to the Princess Marie Antoinette and her attendant.

 

“It is a peasant,” said the first voice: that was the Princess of

course. There was something of scorn in the tone, and I became acutely

and unpleasantly conscious of my red embroidered shirt. But the other

made answer: “He is handsome,” and then: “His hands are not those of a

peasant,” and, “_Regardez ma chère_; peasants do not wear such jewelled

watches!” A sudden shadow fell over me and was gone in an instant.

There was a flicker of laughter and I sat up.

 

During my sleep the shade of the sun had shifted and I lay in the full

glare, and so, as I opened my eyes, I could see nothing.

 

I heard the laughter of my dream again, and I knew that the mocking cry

of “_Prenez garde, Altesse!_” that still rang in the air did not belong

to my sleep. But as I rubbed my eyes and looked out once again, I

caught first a glimpse of a slender creature bending over me, outlined

it seemed in fire and shimmering between black and gold. My next glance

filled me with a woeful disappointment, for I declare, what with my

dream and my odd awakening, I expected to find before me a beauty no

less bewitching than that of her Royal Highness herself. What I beheld

was but a slim slip of a creature who, from the tip of her somewhat

battered shepherdess hat to the hem of her loosely hanging skirts, gave

me an impression of being all yellow, save for the dark cloud of her

hair. Her skin seemed golden yellow like old ivory, her eyes seemed to

shoot yellow sparks, her gown was yellow as any primrose. As she bent

to watch me, her lip was arched into a smile; it had a deep dimple on

the left side. Thus I saw her in a sort of flash and scrambled to my

feet still half drunk with drowsiness, crying out like a fool:

 

“_Où est son Altesse? Où est son Altesse?_”

 

She clapped her hands and turned with a crow of laughter to some one

behind me. And then I became aware that, as in the dream, there were