IV THE STYR

John Ordham stood alone on the balcony before the throne room. Princess Nachmeister, shivering and twinging, had gone over to her own comfortable apartment, where, wrapped in a wadded dressing-gown, she could sit at her window and lose nothing of the concert. Ordham, for some time, was sensitively conscious of an unquiet spirit just round the corner of the castle. He could not hear a footfall, a sigh, but he knew that the lonely King was trying to surrender his tormented soul to the golden flood pouring upward from the white figure on the Marienbrücke, perhaps to the unearthly beauty of the night.

The full moon mounted slowly above the three snow peaks of the distant Alps. It turned even the lakes to sheets of silver, threw forest and unpowdered mountain tops into hard black outline against the deep blue of a sky that seemed to throb with a thousand responsive notes: the golden notes of every human song-bird that Earth had lost. The wind was still. Save for the roar of the waterfall, there was not a sound in the world but that great voice that seemed to fill it.

Ordham had waited breathlessly during the few moments that preceded her appearance, the intense stillness pounding in his ears. Then, by what sleight of body he could not guess, she seemed to dart suddenly up from the gorge below the bridge as she uttered the terrible shriek of Kundry when summoned by Klingsor from her enchanted sleep.

“Ach! Ach! Tiefe Nacht—Wahnsinn!—Oh!—Wuth!—”

Ordham fancied he recognized a note of genuine anger in her wild remonstrance, a bitter personal reproach. But she was artist before all, and when she passed on to her scene with Parsifal, her dulcet reminiscences of his infancy when she herself seemed to brood above him, the helpless anguish of the desolate wife and adoring mother, the maternal agony when the boy ran from her out into the world, the waiting, the savage cries of despair, the “dulling of the smart,” the ebbing of life—the strain of exquisite pity in which she told the youth that he was alone on Earth—Ordham shivered more than once, staring back into a brief past where he could recall little of maternal love, wondering how much he would care if he never saw his mother nor any member of his distinguished selfish family again.

The echoes gave back Parsifal’s brief lament; then the tall white figure on the bridge, although she did not move, seemed to bend her voice above the kneeling boy, summoning him to consolation. As it rose in seduction, in the insolent triumph of the passionate woman who knows that not for her is the balking of desire, it was so warm, so rich, so vast in its compass, that Ordham felt as if the golden waters were rising to suffocate him. When she paused so lingeringly on the final note of seduction, “Ersten kuss,” that the words seemed to live on and gather volume in the thrilling rebellious ear, and an angry cry burst from the balcony of the King:—

“Amfortas!—

?Die wunde! Die wunde!—

?Sie brent in meinen Herzen—

?Oh, Klage! Klage!

?Furchtbare, Klage!—”

he came as angrily to himself. It was the spell whose meshes he cared least to encounter, and he wondered how he could be sensible to it, even under the influence of music, so soon after breaking from an entanglement which the lady had taken with a seriousness incomprehensible to himself. He was in a mood which impelled him to close the eyes of the lover in him forever, and his real interest in Margarethe Styr began when the Princess Nachmeister told him that she was a woman of intellect and hated his sex. He by no means hated hers, but his mind was lonely, and his ego sought blindly for that companionship which all souls claim as their right, and generally go forth to other worlds still seeking.

The voice of the King ceased. Kundry burst forth again. The wild grief, the remorse of her awakened soul at her abandonment of Christ, then her passionate supplication for the joys and compensations of mortal love, hardly removed the impression, nor her promise to make the obstinate youth a god in her embrace. But when she hurled forth her curses, Ordham breathed more freely, although the furies of hell seemed to echo among the hills.

There was a brief pause. Then with a wild and startling transition:—

“Ho-yo-to-ho! Ho-yo-to-ho!

?Hi-ya-ha! Hi-ya-ha!

?Ho-yo-to-ho! Ho-yo-to-ho!”

Brünhilde’s jubilant cry sprang from peak to peak; then this strange woman’s vocal interpretation of the gulf that separated Wotan’s daughter from her sisters even before the War-father bereft her of her godhead; the gathering clouds of her approaching humanity; the eternal tragedy of woman’s sacrifice to man.

Styr passed from opera to songs, all, no doubt, selected by the King. Some were sonorous with deep religious feeling, others a long-sustained chaunt of sadness and despair; one alone was insolent with triumph and power. It seemed to Ordham that he was swept upward to the stars, those golden voices of dead singers once as great as this virile creature below him. His body was cold, his pulses were still, his brain was on fire. He had a vision of himself and this woman swirling together on a tide of song through the infinite paths of the Milky Way—invisible to-night under the violent light of the moon—then—up—up—through the gates of heaven—

But he was by character and training too cool and self-controlled to remain in a condition of mental intoxication for any length of time. He had glanced at the programme handed to him at the conclusion of dinner and knew that the songs were to end the night’s performance.

Ordham, constitutionally shy, albeit with the audacity which so often accompanies that weakness, possessed also what Napoleon called two o’clock in the morning courage. He had felt sure that were he suddenly to be introduced to the mysterious Styr he should turn cold to his marrow and long to bolt. But to meet her formally might prove impossible. To-night was his opportunity. He made up his mind that he would talk to her did she invoke the vengeance of the gods.

He hastily made his way out of the castle by the main entrance, ran down the slope of the great rock, skirted its base, and ascended through the forest to the bridge. He believed that the King would retire as soon as the concert was over, and that the singer would remain for a few moments to enjoy the extraordinary beauty of the night.

And so it happened. Styr, her engagement finished, but still exalted with the intoxication of song, after one long look about her, leaned both hands on the railing of the bridge and stared down into the wild depths below. The grip of the bridge on the rocks was none too secure; a landslip, such as occurred daily in the Alps, and she would lie shattered below. But she enjoyed the hint of danger and might have stood motionless for an hour, warm as she was in her white woollen draperies, had not a footstep made her move her shoulders impatiently. She supposed it to be a lackey with a superfluous wrap, and did not move again until aware that some one stood beside her on the bridge. Then she turned with a start and faced Ordham. She knew at once who he must be; Princess Nachmeister often talked of her favourite, and had told her that he was a guest at the castle to-night. His audacity in approaching her and in such circumstances took away her breath. But only for an instant. She drew herself up with a majesty few queens have had sufficient practice to attain. Her height nearly matched his—not quite; he thanked his stars that she was compelled to look up at him; and she did look the cold astonishment her lips would not frame.

“I could not think of letting you return to the castle alone, Countess Tann,” said Ordham, gently, “even if those lackeys were not too stupid to think of coming for you. I am sure this forest is full of peasants; they must have known of the concert. They may be harmless, but as the King’s only guest of his own sex, and as he is unable to look after you himself—I am sure you will forgive me. How could I remain quiet in the castle while you found your way back alone? I should be a barbarian.”

There was no trace of emotion or even of admiration in his face, merely the natural courtesy of a gentleman, perhaps a touch of boyish knightliness. And certainly he was a mere boy, Margarethe Styr reflected. In that white downpour, that has rejuvenated many a battered visage, he looked—she groped for the word—virginal. And his steady gaze had never wavered before the haughty inquiry of hers. This young man might or might not be as innocent as he looked, but his perfect breeding, which she instantly divined to be an integral part of him, appealed to the woman who had so often found polished manners a brittle veneer. Moreover, she was as amused at his ruse, which had not deceived her for a moment, as she felt herself compelled to admire his strategic cleverness. Then she abruptly asked herself the question that perhaps the immortal goddesses asked in their day, “Why not?” and bent her head pleasantly.

“Thank you,” she said. “Of course you are Mr. Ordham. Thank you many times for thinking of me. Shall we walk a little? I should not stand too long after singing.”

He was so taken aback by the swiftness of his triumph that diffidence overwhelmed him, and he stammered: “You are sure you would not like another wrap? I can fetch one in a moment.”

“I am very warmly clad. Do not bother.” She did not notice his relapse and asked him idly if he had enjoyed her singing.

“Oh—enjoy! Please do not tempt me into banalities. It was much too wonderful to talk about. I should like to talk to you—about a hundred other things. I know your voice—I have never missed one of your nights since I came to Munich. But I do not know you at all. This is the blessed opportunity.”

He had had time to recover himself, and he watched her intently. Her eyes, which had hung before his mental vision like two tragic suns, flashed with amusement.

“Do you know that I have lived in Munich for six years and not had five minutes’ conversation with any man alone, except on business relating to the Hof? Much less have I ‘known’ any one.”

“But you can’t go on forever like that. If you weren’t fundamentally human, you could not be a great artist; and if you are human, you must crave some sort of companionship. Are you never quite horribly lonely?”

“There is so much in life that is worse than loneliness.” Her voice sounded as dry as dust. “Moreover, it is an excellent rampart. But I am not lonely. I work constantly. Why do you set such a high value on human companionship?”

“I don’t think I do. I am often glad enough to get away from people. And I fancy I read a good deal more than I talk—and I am not sure that I don’t like the theatre quite as well as society. But, after all—there are certain wants—”

“We outlive so many of them!”

“Do we—permanently, I mean? I feel that sooner or later you would have flung down your barriers. It is mere chance that makes me the blessed first.”

“I wonder?”

“Whether it is chance or destiny?” He smiled as if at the audacity of his own words.

“Not at all. There is no such thing as chance, or any destiny but that which you make for yourself—that is, after you are old enough to know what you are about. I wondered if the human needs were stronger than the brain.”

“I was thinking of mental needs when I spoke. Nothing is more human than the brain. One can get on without love, after one has had a dose or two of it, but not without striking fire from another brain now and again. From one brain in particular, I should say.”

“That is a curious speech for so young a man to make.”

“Perhaps I should not make it if I were ten years older. For the matter of that, do years count? We come into the world encased in traditions and are only happy when we have shed the last of them.”

She liked the way he walked beside her, seeming to protect her down the steep path without touching her. He carried himself with a quiet unconscious dignity, refreshing after the military strut of which she was artistically weary; and as he looked down at her with his kind smile and calm almost studious gaze, he attracted her more than any man had done for half his years. She also felt a curious mental excitement, a desire to talk very fast, which she attributed to the uncommon circumstances, but which she realized before long was the stimulating influence of that rarest of mortal contacts, a sympathetic brain. In days gone by she had found it easy to love, but she remembered few men she had cared to talk to. At the moment she shot up an inquisitive glance. Might he not be older than she had fancied? Nineteen he had looked on the bridge. Possibly he was nearer thirty. But she recalled that Princess Nachmeister had mentioned his age. Young men—with one tragic exception—had never interested her. But she was quick to read the human countenance; and she observed that if his eyes recorded nothing beyond the mood of the moment, the line from ear to chin, under the fine smooth English skin, was uncommonly long. It might indicate future character and present obstinacy; although there were no strong lines yet in the boyish sensuous mouth, soft and pouting in spite of its fine modelling. And although he had demonstrated that he could seize and hold a fort, there was no hint of obstinacy in his manner, which was very gentle and diffident. For the first time in her life she experienced a sensation of gratitude toward a member of the man sex, a sensation made up of many parts, and rising from dark corners of memory. It impelled her to say:

“Let us sit down. It is quite warm here in the forest.”

“You are sure you will not take a cold? I will give you my coat to sit on.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. Fortunately, these classic costumes commanded by the King are made of wool. Besides, I always dress warmly to sing in that Festsaal. It is colder there than out of doors.”

“Nevertheless, you were very angry when you began to sing.”

“Did you detect that? I hope the King did.”

Ordham, who had stretched himself at her feet—she had seated herself on a bench—looked steadily at her while they talked, wondering if she were beautiful or not, or if it mattered. Her head in poise and form was classic, her face oval, and her rather long nose thin and sensitive. But her eyes—those eyes that looked immense on the stage—were small, deeply set, dark, impenetrable, sullen, like the lower part of her face. Occasionally they lit up with amusement, and hinted of temper and other uncomfortable attributes; nor was there any suggestion of tenderness in the close mouth and strong jaw. In the second act of Tristan und Isolde she expressed every soft enchantment of womanhood, and Ordham for the first time fully realized what a great artist she was, for he could see no indication that any traces remained of those impulses that drive the race blindfolded, in this sullen almost angry shell. She looked like a fallen goddess, whom mortal passions had consumed, leaving but a vast regret for her lost godhead. No wonder she could play Brynhildr! There was nothing else in that imposing casket but brain, and although he could imagine the tigerish beauty of her youth, she fascinated him far more as she was. The world was full of soft passionate women—he hated the thought of them—and his mind, almost full-blown, imperiously demanded this particular brain as its mate. But he made no effort to lead the conversation into unusual channels. In conversation, for that matter, he was not skilful, and depended upon the inspiration of the moment.

Princess Nachmeister had said that a woman might be known by her lovers, but he judged people largely by what they read, and he asked Margarethe Styr if she took in all the reviews.

“Not one. To me this high plateau is the world. I do not know who is the President of the United States, or the Prime Minister of England.”

“Does your art really fill your life?”

“Almost. And I read a great deal, although no reviews, newspapers, and few novels.”

“And is this to go on forever? How do you define the word ‘life’?”

“All that I most wish to forget.”

“Then if you had not this wonderful voice, you would not live at all,” he adventured.

Her eyes gleamed, and for the moment she seemed about to turn the remark aside. But she looked at him unflinchingly, and finally answered, “No.”

“Then art does suffice. It is very interesting to learn that.”

“It once saved me from death—when I was almost dead. Every one else had succumbed. It was the knowledge of that golden wonder in my throat and the memory of the ecstasy in pouring it forth that kept the breath in my body.”

“Tell me about it!” He sat up eagerly.

She shook her head. “I never think of it. I cannot imagine what has brought it to my mind to-night.” She bent her head and looked at him keenly. “Yes, there is a slight resemblance,” she added thoughtfully.

“You are unfair. I am mad with curiosity. Tell me. Tell me.”

She asked him abruptly: “Do you find that I have a German accent? It is seven years and more since I have spoken with any one of my own tongue, and I am curious to know.”

“It is a colour rather than an accent—that is to say—I always express myself very badly—as if you had dyed your native American with brown and crimson, and at the same time rounded off the thin edges. But I should not take you for a German. Is that what you wish?”

“Not in the least.”

“But Princess Nachmeister intimated that Munich was the passion of your life, or something of that sort.”

“Well, it is one of them, certainly; and for a while I was so grateful to Germany, so enchanted with my new life, that I deliberately tried to make myself over into a German, put myself into the r?le, as one does on the stage. I succeeded for a time, but all that is past. Once an American always an American, I fancy. And the longer I live in Europe the more American I become. Don’t ask me to define this. It is merely an instinct—perhaps a jealousy of birthright. I may never return to the United States. I know nothing of her affairs. But—well, my essence was compounded in that great country. She could put Germany into her pocket and not hear it rattle. It may be that—the physical vastness of the country—that holds me. I am only thinking out loud—I have never attempted to analyze why I finally admitted that Europe could inspire me with everything but a new patriotism, but I have a fancy that it is only snobs that become thoroughly Europeanized. Titles are a form of intoxication to republicans as well as to the bourgeoisie of monarchical countries. But after all, they work less harm than absinthe and cognac, so why be too severe? If one must have human weaknesses, let us be content merely with making fools of ourselves and save our livers and our nerves.”

Ordham laughed. “I was sure you were a monster of charity! But I hardly understand your loyalty to the United States. If your blood is Hungarian, what matters your birthplace? No Englishman feels a sentiment for the American flag because he happens to have been born under it.”

“Who told you I was of Hungarian parentage?”

“Everybody.”

“My mother was a Hungarian—emigrant. I have caused that story to be circulated about Munich, for I was tired of their nonsense. If you have any curiosity on the subject—I have not the vaguest idea who my father was. My mother, I have reason to believe, was of aristocratic blood on her father’s side, but she was a natural child, of course, and a vagrant.”

“Are you trying to disenchant me?” Ordham felt a little angry; he was, in truth, too much of a Briton and a born diplomatist to relish such plain speech.

“Perhaps. But, to be quite honest, not entirely that. It is rather a relief to fling the bare facts into somebody’s teeth. When you have been shut up within yourself for many years, it suddenly becomes necessary to lift the lid and let the steam escape. Of course I cannot give all the facts to the public. It would not be fair to the King, in the first place. Moreover, when I set foot on German soil and assumed the name of Margarethe Styr, it was with the firm intention of beginning life over again. I had no scruple about holding my tongue on many subjects. I brought to the Germans the equivalent of all they could give to me. We are quits. I experience a kind of defiance now and again, a desire to assert my complete liberty and independence by proclaiming the truth from the housetops. But of course I do nothing of the sort.”

She did not ask him to keep her counsel, and he volunteered no promise, two facts that must have struck them as significant had either been in the analytical temper. But Ordham was wondering if she would ever tell him the whole story; and she, if the excited stir of her mind were due to the unwonted occurrence of talking to a young man alone in a forest at night, after eight years of almost complete disassociation from his sex; or if it were merely the usual nervous aftermath of song. But she had no time to define her sensations at the moment. There was a rapid step in the forest. Out of the shadows emerged the King’s personal footman, Meyr, who announced that his Majesty’s coach was in the courtyard, ready for the customary midnight drive, and that his Majesty requested the pleasure of the company of the Gr?fin Tann and Herr Ordham.

“I won’t go,” said Ordham, in English. “I wish to stay here and talk to you. Please don’t get up.”

“Not even for the pleasure of talking to you would I risk being dismissed out of Bavaria to-morrow. This is the sovereign that takes no excuse. And why should I deny him? Has he not made me what I am? And do you realize that a great honour is being conferred upon you?—upon us both? So far as I know, he has never invited any one to drive with him at night before.”

“I will go for the sake of remaining with you, and only hope it may prove half as interesting as our talk would have been.”

He walked beside her down the hill, grumbling all the way. In the upper courtyard was a large open coach, bountifully gilded, to which six white horses were harnessed. On two were postilions; an outrider carried an unlighted torch. A footman was on the box beside the coachman, but there was none behind. Ordham’s eyes sparkled as he put on without further protest the overcoat and hat with which his apologetic servant awaited him; and had they been less under control, would have danced a moment later when the King’s valet came hastily from the castle with the announcement, which surprised no one but the English stranger, that his Majesty found himself too indisposed to go out that night, and begged that his guests would use the carriage at their pleasure. Countess Tann, whose maid had muffled her in a white hood and cloak, half turned from the coach, but she suddenly found herself handed in and Ordham seated beside her.

“This is quite wonderful!” he cried, as the horses seemed to make a flying leap over the drawbridge. “And I thought this visit was to be a failure. Blessed be the fates!”

And in spite of all that followed he never recalled that p?an.