Hon. Marie Hay

'Memories that make the heart a tomb.'

There is solace to the mourner in the sound of rushing waters; most of all can the stricken soul find a short oblivion in the ceaseless chant of the ocean's mighty surging; and by the tumult of a great river human unrest is soothed ineffably.

At Schaffhausen the Rhine falls in giant cascades, roaring and dashing against those rocks which, legend says, Wotan flung into the river in his mighty rage against a poor husbandman who had drowned himself and his lowly wife because her mortal beauty had excited the desire of the amorous wanderer.

White, whirling foam, and above a thin, glistening, veil-like mist made of the myriad drops flung up from the water's impact; but here too the eternal poet, Legend, has wrought a delicate phantasy: this mist he calls the breath from the lips of the Rhine-maidens who sing for ever beneath the foam.

An enchanted place this Schaffhausen, guarded by the great white Alps whose pure crests rise in awful majesty to high Heaven. And here it was that the GrÄvenitz dwelt after she left Wirtemberg, and here Time the consoler healed her bruised heart and her crushed pride. She dwelt in the small castle which Zollern had given her and where her marriage with WÜrben had been solemnised. Her soul rested from pain, but there were torturing ghosts of the past around her: Eberhard Ludwig, Madame de Ruth, Zollern, her unkind brother, even the fraudulent attorney SchÜtz, and the ridiculous figure of her name-husband, Nepomuk WÜrben. Yes, all her life's denizens had vanished. Death or absence had swallowed them; only she, the central figure, remained.

She was memory-haunted, who herself was but a memory.

Her great healthfulness endured, but sometimes she suffered from strange swoons. 'It is from the heart,' said the apothecary whom Maria called in.

'God knows—heart affliction!' said the GrÄvenitz bitterly, when they told her of this verdict.

Years passed, and still she lingered at Schaffhausen, though she often promised herself to journey to Berlin armed with that 'Letter of Royal Protection' which Zollern had procured for her from Prussia's first King Friedrich i. But she shrank from bringing her cause before Friedrich Wilhelm i., the blustering monarch who had played so unexpected a rÔle in her life. She accounted him as the destroyer of her happiness, for she believed that it was he alone who had influenced Eberhard Ludwig against her, and had induced him to banish her. Woman-like, she threw the blame of her lover's action entirely upon the adviser.

She hankered after her beautiful Freudenthal, and she dreamed of returning thither. Deeming herself forgotten, she believed she would be safe in Wirtemberg. Also the fierce torrent of the people's rage had been diverted to another channel, their hatred sated with their vengeance on another favourite. SÜss Oppenheimer, who had saved her from imprisonment, had paid the penalty of his own crimes; in his expiation he had borne the brunt, and, for the time, appeased the people's wrath against favouritism.

Karl Alexander of Wirtemberg was dead, and his son, a child of some twelve years, was Duke of Wirtemberg. He resided in Stuttgart with his mother, a princess of the House of Thurn and Taxis.

Ludwigsburg was deserted, the palace closed; the busy crowd of merchants, clothiers, perruquiers, dressmakers, which had flocked to the new centre of gaiety, had vanished. The GrÄvenitz had heard that Ludwigsburg was like a city of the dead, with grass-grown streets and deserted houses. Surely she, who belonged to that forgotten past, was forgotten also? She longed to return and once more to view the scenes of her dead glory. But the years passed, and she lingered in Switzerland.

In 1740 she heard of the death of Friedrich Wilhelm i. of Prussia, and of the accession of his much-tried son—that Friedrich whom the world was justly to call Great. A fresh hope sprang up in the GrÄvenitz's heart. This young man, so noble, so just, so cultured, would he not give her justice? She would journey to Berlin and present the Letter of Royal Protection; he would recognise her claims, and induce the Wirtemberg government to give her back her Freudenthal.

The headman of the canton of Schaffhausen supplied her with the necessary travelling papers. 'A lady of quality and her serving-maid journeying to Berlin on court business,' it was certified therein; no mention of the names of GrÄvenitz or WÜrben, which might have awakened dangerous memories.

Once more her way lay through the spring-radiant land. Fate had caused her to wait for the blossom, it was her destiny always to see Wirtemberg clothed in the fairest raiment. She journeyed through the smiling valleys, she passed beside the peaceful Neckar river. Her way led her near to Rottenburg, and she turned from her road to visit the Neuhaus. Here she found ruin. Madame de Ruth had bequeathed her property to Zollern, and while he lived the place had been tended with pious care; but he too was dead, and the Neuhaus had passed to an heir-at-law who knew not, and if he had known, would not have comprehended, the loving memory which caused the dilapidated mansion to be treasured. It is always so; there is no sadder thing than the melancholy of a place, once sacred and beloved, which has fallen into the chill hands of the indifference of another generation.

The Neuhaus was turned farm: the upper rooms were used as hay-lofts, and in that long, panelled living-room, which had seen Wilhelmine von GrÄvenitz's strange marriage, a peasant woman cooked, scolding her brood of children. She stared at the GrÄvenitz.

'Oh yes! this is my husband's farm. What do you want with me? See the house? There is not much to see,' she said suspiciously. A gulden changed her tone.

'Certainly; look if you like,' she said, and followed the sad visitant from room to room, hands on hips, and shrill voice explaining how the rats were so bad in the house that she and her husband would have to leave next month.

'Is there a grave here? a grave surrounded by a stone wall? No? But it was consecrated ground, it cannot have been destroyed?' The GrÄvenitz spoke quietly, but she could have wept aloud.

Yes, the woman said, there was a bit of walled-off land, but it did not belong to them. There was a gate, and they had not the key. Perhaps there was a grave there; the grass grew so high you could not tell. She led her visitor through the neglected garden which Spring, the glorious gardener, had yet made fair with blossom and the budding lilac. The GrÄvenitz peered through the bars of the graveyard gate. Ah, thank God! who sends Spring to garnish the graves of the forgotten dead! The tombs were hidden by a fair coronal of waving grasses, and the redthorns above made a baldaquin more beautiful than the work of man's hand.

'Forgotten, yet so peaceful,' she murmured as she turned away.

'Did you speak, lady?' said the peasant woman; but the GrÄvenitz shook her head.

'Only to myself; only to myself always now,' she answered.

At TÜbingen no one paid heed to the traveller, but she did not venture up to the castle. She might have dared it, for none would have remembered her, or recognised in the tall, white-haired woman the beautiful young courtesan who had held mock court in the ancient university castle. She learned that no Duke had resided there for many years, it was entirely given up to the students and their grave professors.

'But the state-rooms? I heard that there were fine apartments in the castle, where princes and their courts held high revel?' she queried of the innkeeper.

'Eh! all those are dismantled now, Madame,' returned the man. Dismantled—the word rang in her ears. Yes; the very scenes of her glorious past were changed.

Through the shadowy TÜbingen forest she journeyed onwards. She commanded her driver to turn aside before Stuttgart, and thus she passed along by-roads to Ludwigsburg.

The sun was still high in the heavens when she entered the well-remembered avenue of shady chestnut-trees. Here too Spring had been busy, crowning the trees with bloom. A regal decoration for her home-coming, she thought.

At the stately town-gate her coach halted, and for the first time in her life she paid toll upon entering Ludwigsburg. Her eyes sought the monogram sculptured on the stone gate-pillars: 'E. L.' entwined in graceful curves on a rounded shield upheld by playful amorini. How well she remembered when Frisoni had brought her the drawings for this device. Would her Excellency wish her chiffre to appear in the design? the Italian had asked, and she had rejected the proposal, she hardly knew why.

Her coach lumbered down the Ludwigsburg street. It was in a deplorable condition, and the heavy carriage jolted and swung from side to side. The houses which bordered one side of the street were closed and shuttered, and their blank windows seemed like sightless yet imploring eyes gazing towards the deserted palace gardens.

The driver halted. She heard him shouting to one of the rare passers-by in this dead city, 'Where is the inn?' She made a movement forward and would have called through the window, 'The inn is further down the street,' but she checked herself, remembering that she must betray no knowledge of the town she had created.

It was a daring thing, this visit to Wirtemberg. Who could tell if some one might not recognise her and set a howling mob upon her? The law would not interfere with her; she had been pardoned, and was merely passing through the country on her journey to Berlin, but some remnant of hatred might linger in the peasants' memory.

When she reached the inn the innkeeper looked hard at his guest. Did he recognise her? she wondered.

'Is this Ludwigsburg?' she asked, feigning ignorance.

'Yes, lady. Whom have I the honour of serving?'

She gave some name at random, adding: 'I am travelling from Austria and Switzerland home to Berlin.' Then she inquired concerning the palace. Could a stranger visit the gardens? Did the reigning prince reside in that beautiful palace? and so on, questioning like an inquisitive traveller.

If she wished she could see the whole place, she was told. The new gatekeeper was a very friendly fellow; he would let her into the gardens if she gave him a trifle to purchase a drink of wine. She ordered a meal and pretended to eat, though the food choked her, but she dared not show undue eagerness to visit the palace. At length the dreary subterfuges were over; she had intimated her intention of passing the night at the inn; she had been shown the guest-chamber; she had pretended to rest, and now she was free to repair to her sorry sight-seeing without incurring suspicion.

Evening fell over Ludwigsburg, yet the rounded roofs of the palace were still kissed by the departing sunshine, when she walked up to the gateway through which she had so often driven in ceremonious state surrounded by the splendid Silver Guard. A squat-figured, broad-faced Wirtemberger stood in the gateway, smoking a huge carved wood pipe of rank tobacco. The blue smoke rose in spirals from the pipe bowl, and the man blew clouds of a browner hue, the delicate blue-grey of the smoke spoiled from the admixture of human breath.

The man watched the GrÄvenitz's approach without offering greeting or comment.

'Are you the gatekeeper?' she asked.

'Yes, that I am,' he grunted ungraciously. Good Heavens! how she would have had him flogged if he had spoken to her thus twelve years ago! She looked at him steadily.

'I am a stranger, and would fain visit this famous palace,' she said.

'Have you an order from the court? I cannot let strangers enter without one,' he returned gruffly.

'No, I have no order. Will you let me see the gardens, at least?' He shook his head and continued smoking.

'See, I will give you something for your trouble, but I must see the gardens.' She held out two golden pieces. 'Take these, and let me enter,' she said imploringly.

The man's manner changed. This must be some great lady if she could pay him in gold when he would have let her in for a few groschen. Well, these travellers often had strange fancies; and if it pleased her to pay so much for so small a thing!—He took the money and moved aside.

'Go in, go in, lady! Shall I come round with you? I have heard tell all about the old days here: I can show you where Duke Eberhard Ludwig lived, and where the Duke Karl died. I will go fetch the castle keys.' She shuddered. 'No! no! I do not wish to see; I will only walk in the garden. Do not disturb yourself,' she said hastily, and passed on. The gatekeeper followed her a few steps: 'You can see the gardens of La Favorite, if you wish; you need only walk straight from the north terraces and you will come to La Favorite,' he called after her. How strange it was to be thus directed by a newcomer, told the way, shown what she had planned and devised yard by yard. She nodded to the man. 'I thank you, I shall find my way,' she answered.

And now she was free to wander in the past, free to suffer the exquisite pain of memory. She walked slowly on. How the trees had grown! And the little lilacs she had planted—they were tall bushes now. The paths were grass-grown, the water in the basin of the fountain on the south side was covered with weeds and thick green slime, the large stone vases which stood round the basin were moss-covered. The lichen hid the medallions on the vases, the medallions which bore her sculptured portrait. There were the clumps of rose peonies she had planted—in bud too—she would never see them flower again. On, through the gardens to the courtyard where grass grew between the paving-stones. The palace windows were closed and shuttered. No sound broke the stillness of this deserted dwelling-place. The thought came to her that only herself, a ghost of past glories, and perhaps the sinister spectre of the White Lady, moved about the dead palace. She passed on. The door of the main entrance on the ground floor of the Corps de Logis stood ajar. Strange that it should be so in this shut house. She entered; no, it could not matter even if the doors had stood wide open, for the hall was entirely empty—not a chair or table for a thief to drag away! And the well-remembered staircase, leading to Eberhard Ludwig's apartments, was boarded up with rough deal planks.

The air struck chill and tomblike in the entrance-hall, yet the GrÄvenitz lingered. Yes; there from the ceiling her own face looked down at her in two bas-reliefs. In one the face was smiling with half-open, voluptuous lips, and the eyes, a little drooping, told of some delicious thrill of passion. Opposite this was the figure of Time, winged and frowning, with huge scythe-blades in his mighty hands. She shuddered; those relentless blades had indeed mown down the little day of her love's triumph. What devil had prompted the Italian Frisoni to illustrate this terrible truth upon the very palace built to honour her?

Across the entrance-hall she saw another bas-relief, again her face, but serious this time, looking fixedly, gravely upwards—the expression of one who aspires, of one who would compel Destiny. Facing this was a medallion bearing a ducal crown in the centre, the scroll-work round this medallion was made of giant thorns, and a peering, mocking satyr's face peeped out from the thorn wreath.

Had the Italian dared to mock her thus? And in the old days she had not noted the insolent meaning underlying the beautiful designs! How she would have revenged herself upon the artist!

She turned away. After all, the man had spoken truly in his sculptured allegory: Time, and Change, and Death are more mighty than Love, than Joy, than Power. She mused on, and unconsciously her wanderings, led by old custom's memory, brought her to the vaulted arcade beside the door of the east pavilion where she had dwelt. Here, too, her own face met her in the bas-reliefs. Graceful designs of musical instruments, emblems of her taste, and everywhere laughing Cupids held wreathed flowers, viole d'amore, harps and lutes around the mistress-musician's voluptuous face.

The carven stone held for ever the memory of Eberhard Ludwig's homage in the beauteous picturing of Love, Laughter, Music—all that she had wielded with such potency to charm; and she knew that the sneering artist-architect had hidden everywhere the figure of Time the Avenger; sometimes she had called him the Consoler, but she knew him better now as the Eternally Pitiless, waiting to reap his harvest—the flowers reaped with the wheat.

Suddenly the full message came to her: 'All things wither, but the remembrance of the sinful light of love is bitter pain, whereas the memory of the pure woman is sweet with children's tears.' She had read the words in some book, they smote her now. In an agony of weeping she leaned her head against the stone picture of Music, Love, and Laughter, and her own young face. 'O God! O God! have I not atoned by pain?' she moaned.

A soft evening breeze came stealing round her. Nature could give no answer to her fearful questioning, but the gentle Spring wind kissed her on lips and brow. She rose and took her way to the terrace. Here, too, was ruinous neglect—grass-grown paths, moss-covered sculptures, untended plants. She looked up at the windows of the rooms which had been Eberhard Ludwig's; they were closed and shuttered.—Dead, everything was dead!

She hurried on towards La Favorite, her ChÂteau Joyeux. Here again was ruin, and here also her own face met her sculptured everywhere—smiling, young, and indifferent to the ruin. The flowering parterre was untended, but the lilacs and the redthorn-trees made the garden fair. The long Spring twilight faded, night drew near—and the GrÄvenitz turned away. 'Farewell,' she said aloud, 'the night comes! Farewell, Spring!'

That night Maria could not induce her beloved mistress to taste food. 'I am so weary, Maria, let me rest. I think God will give me sleep,' she said, and the faithful peasant woman left her.

In the morning Maria found her resting still. God had given her the Great Sleep.

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press