The Youth of the Great Elector Part 32

"Well, Master Gabriel Nietzel, here you are," said Count Schwarzenberg, greeting the painter, who had just entered, with a gracious nod. "And it must be granted that you are a very punctual man, for I agreed to meet you here at Spandow by twelve o'clock, and only hear, the clock is just now striking the hour."

"Most gracious sir, that comes from my already having stood an hour before the gates of your palace, waiting for the blessed moment to arrive when I might enter. I have been gazing this whole hour up at the dialplate of the steeple clock, and it seemed to me as if an eternity of torture would elapse while the great hour hand slowly, oh, so slowly, made its circuit of sixty minutes."

"You are a queer creature!" cried Count Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders. "Romantic as a young girl, full of virtuous desires, and yet not at all loath to commit certain delicate little crimes, and to pa.s.s off copies for originals, and that not merely pictures on canvas, but pictures in flesh and blood as well. For what else is your Rebecca but the copy of a respectable, decent matron, whom you thought to smuggle in as an original, while in reality she is nothing but a copy."

"In the eyes of the law and the Stadtholder perhaps, but not in the eyes of G.o.d and of him who loves her more than his life and his eternal salvation, for he is ready, in order to possess her, to renounce even his honor and his peace of conscience. Oh, your excellency, be pitiful now and let me see my Rebecca. You have given me your word, and you will not be so cruel as to break your promise."

"I promised you nothing further than that I would intrust certain damaged pictures to you for repairing, and that I would show you a picture which might perhaps be familiar to you--that was all. I shall perform my promise, and that immediately. But first, just tell me how you are progressing with the painting I ordered of you. Perhaps you have already with you some sketch of it? It would be peculiarly pleasant to me, for on the day after to-morrow I give a _fete_ in my palace at Berlin, and it would be quite opportune if I could then lay the sketch before the dear Electoral Prince, who is to honor the _fete_ with his presence. He is a connoisseur, and interests himself greatly in such things. Say, then, how comes on your sketch, and can it be completed by that time?"

"It can, n.o.ble sir! But it is not possible for me to speak about that now, for my thoughts are wandering and my heart beats as though 'twere like to burst. If I am to become a reasonable man once more, let me--first of all--"

"See the picture which I promised to show you?" interposed the count.

"Well, then, you shall see it, Master Gabriel Nietzel. Remember, though, that I only show it to you on condition that you examine it in silence. So soon as you shall venture to speak to it, it vanishes, and you see it never more. One has to prescribe strict regulations to you, for you are such an odd fellow, freely entertaining bad thoughts, but shrinking from bad deeds like an innocent child. But you shall prove to me by deeds that you are in earnest about making amends for your crime against _me_, the world, the laws, and the Church. Only when you have done the right thing shall you again obtain your beloved and your child, and may depart unhindered from this country. Mark that, Master Nietzel; and now come.

Follow me to my picture gallery."

He nodded smilingly to the painter, and led the way out of the cabinet and through a suite of magnificent apartments. At the end of these they entered a s.p.a.cious, lofty hall, whose walls were hung with great paintings.

"This is my picture gallery," said the count on entering; "now look and be silent!"

Gabriel Nietzel remained standing near the door, and leaned against one of its pillars. He could proceed no farther, his knees shook so, and all the blood in his body seemed to concentrate in head and heart. He shut his eyes, for it seemed to him that he must expire that very moment. But finally, by a mighty effort of will, he conquered this pa.s.sionate emotion, slowly opened his eyes, and ventured to cast a weary, wandering glance through the hall. How wonderfully solemn this broad, handsome room seemed to him, and how devout and prayerful was his mind! A mild, clear light fell from the gla.s.s cupola above, which alone illuminated the hall, and displayed the pictures on the walls to the best advantage. In the middle of the room, beside the splendid porphyry vase standing there upon its gilded pedestal, leaned the tall, athletic form of Count Schwarzenberg, casting a long, dark shadow upon the s.h.i.+ning surface of the inlaid floor.

Gabriel Nietzel saw all this, and yet he felt as if he were dreaming, and that all would vanish so soon as he should venture to move or step forward. The count's voice aroused him from his stupefaction.

"Now, Master Nietzel, come here, for from this point you can best survey the pictures, and judge of their merits."

Nietzel advanced with long strides, breathless from expectation, blissful in hope. Now he stood at the count's side, and lifted his eyes to the pictures. With one rapid glance he swept the whole wall. Paintings, beautiful, costly paintings, but what cared he for _them_? Glorious in the pomp of coloring, and perfect in their truth to nature, they looked down upon him out of their broad gilt frames, but he had no senses for _them_.

His eyes fastened again and again upon that broad, ma.s.sive gold frame which hung opposite him in the center of the wall. The painting which this frame inclosed could not be seen, for it was hidden from view by the green silk drapery hanging before it, and at the side of the frame was suspended a string. Gabriel Nietzel saw nothing of the paintings, he only saw the green curtain, only the string which kept it fast. His whole soul spoke in the glance which he directed to them.

Count Schwarzenberg intercepted this glance and smiled.

"You are certainly thinking of Raphael's exquisite Madonna," he said, "and because that is always seen from the midst of a green curtain, you suppose, probably, that behind this curtain must also be concealed a Madonna and Child. Well, we shall see some day. Stay in your place, stir not, speak not, and perhaps a miracle will take place, and you shall behold _una Madonna col Bambino_ of flesh and blood. But silence, man, for you well know how it is with treasure diggers: as soon as you speak, the treasure vanishes. Now, then, look and stand still!"

He stepped across to the wall and grasped the string. The curtain flew back and--there she stood, the Madonna with the Child in her arms, so beautiful, so instinct with life and warmth, as only nature has ever painted and art imitated from nature. There she stood with that richly tinted olive complexion, with those transparent, softly reddened cheeks, with those full crimson lips, with those large black eyes at once full of mildness and fire, and with that broad and n.o.ble brow full of depth of thought and yet full of repose. And in her arms that sweet child, that vigorous boy so full of life, loosely clad in his little white s.h.i.+rt, that left bare his plump arms and firm legs. Roses were on his cheeks, dimples in his chin, and in the great black eyes lay the deep, earnest look, full of innocence and wisdom, that is sometimes peculiar to children.

The painter had sunk upon his knees, stretching out both arms to the picture, and from his eyes the tears flowed in clear streams over his cheeks. But indignantly he shook them away, for they prevented him from seeing the Madonna, _his_ Madonna. Prayers he murmured up to her, prayers of love and confidence, supplications for steadfastness in danger, for courageous perseverance during separation. But he ventured not to address them audibly to the beloved Madonna, for he knew that a mere word would have s.n.a.t.c.hed her away from him.

And she, she knew it too, and therefore she also was silent. Only with her eyes she spoke to him, and the tears which flowed from her eyes gave eloquent reply to his. Thus they looked at one another, at once full of bliss and pain. The child, which until now had sat quiet upon its mother's arm, silent and as if in deep thought, suddenly began to move. Its large eyes were fixed upon the man who lay there on his knees, and, whether it were the result of an involuntary movement or the instinct of love, it spread out its arms and smiled.

"My child, my darling child!" screamed Gabriel Nietzel, springing from his knees and rus.h.i.+ng forward with outstretched arms. But the frame with its living picture hung too high--his arms could not reach it, his lips could not touch that smiling, childish mouth to press upon it a father's kiss of blessing and seal of love. "My child!" he cried again, and now, since love had once opened his lips, silence could no longer be maintained.

"Rebecca, my beloved," he cried.

"Gabriel, my beloved," sounded down.

"You have broken your word!" cried Count Schwarzenberg angrily, and he vehemently drew the string, so that the green curtain hastily rustled together. But it was in vain. A rounded, powerful female arm thrust it back, and now it was no more a Madonna with her Child who looked forth from the green curtain, but a glowing creature, a wife flaming with indignation and love, with defiance and grief.

"n.o.body shall hinder me from looking at you, from speaking to you!" she cried. "I _will_ see you, Gabriel. I _will_ tell you, that I love you and am true to you. I _will_ tell you that I would rather go barefoot through the world, begging with you and the child, than to live longer in this count's grand castle, amid splendor, without you. Gabriel, rescue me from this place; do all that they require of you, only take me away from here."

"Rebecca, I will rescue you, for I can not live without you--without you the world is a desert to me. You are my sun and the light of my life."

"Gabriel, release me, while yet there is time. They will make a Christian of me, and I shall renounce my faith and my salvation, in order to be with you again, but afterward I shall die of repentance."

"Rebecca, I shall release you, and I too am ready to renounce my salvation in order to be with you. But I will not die of repentance, for I shall have you again, and when I look upon you and the child I shall feel no repentance."

"Gabriel, release me, give back to me my happiness, my home, my family.

For you are all that to me, and without you the world is a desert."

"Without you the world is a wilderness, Rebecca. Swear to me that you love me!"

"I swear to you, by the G.o.d of my fathers, that I love you!"

"And would you love me if the whole world despised me?"

"What matters the world to me? Would I still love you? I would love you more fervently yet if all the world despised you, for then you would be like me. They despise me too, and turn away contemptuously from me, and yet I have done nothing bad."

"Would you love me, Rebecca, even if I had committed a crime?"

"What do men call crime? Do they not say that you commit a crime in loving me? Would they not say, too, that the priest who blessed our union was a criminal? Be whatever you may, do what you will, I shall love you still.

Your soul is my soul, and my heart is your heart. Release me, Gabriel, release me!"

"I will release you, Rebecca; in four days you shall be free, and we shall journey away from here, and return to Italy, never to leave it again."

"To Italy!" rejoiced she--"to my home! Oh, my Gabriel, I shall not merely love you, I shall wors.h.i.+p you--you will be to me the Saviour, the Messiah, in whom my people have hoped so long! I--"

"Now that is enough," cried Count Schwarzenberg, who had been silent hitherto, because he felt well how much Rebecca's words forwarded his own plans. "Now that is enough of refractoriness! Come, Gabriel Nietzel, and you, Rebecca, step back, or I shall have your child taken away, and you shall never see it again!"

"Go, Rebecca, go!" cried Gabriel Nietzel cheerfully. "You remain with me, even if you go, and I shall still see and speak to you when I am far from you. Four days only, and then we shall be reunited!"

"I am going, Gabriel! I shall spend all these four days praying for you--to your and my G.o.d!"

"Sir Count!" cried Nietzel in cheerful tones--"Sir Count, let us now return to your cabinet. I have something important to communicate to you."

He cast not another look up at the curtain; he had no longer any sense of pain in her disappearance, but this was his one absorbing thought, that in four days he would again embrace his Rebecca, and that it lay in the power of his own hands to deserve her. With firm steps he followed the count, who now again led him out of the hall and into his cabinet.

"Well, speak, Master Gabriel!" cried the count; "what have you to say to me?"

Nietzel drew a paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to the count.

"See, your excellency, here is the sketch of the painting I am to make for you."

"Truly, a precious sketch," said Schwarzenberg, examining the paper attentively. "That looks like a Holy Supper."

"It is no Holy Supper, but a very unholy dinner."

"In the middle of the table I see sitting a man and a youth. The man wears a crown upon his head and the youth wears a princely coronet."

"It is the Elector and the Electoral Prince," explained Gabriel Nietzel.