Book: Villa Elsa

S >> Stuart Henry >> Villa Elsa




Gard was glad to go home through the heart of Germany. Jena, Weimar,
Erfurt, Eisenach!--the land of Goethe, Schiller, Luther. While these
figures were discarded from the blatant pageantry of the armed
Empire, the landmarks associated with them remained to satisfy the
vision, and he could tell of them to dear old ignorant Rebner who
would be waiting to hear of his beloved Deutschland which existed no
more. Afterward, Heidelberg; the trip down the Rhine to the spires
of Cologne; and then Aix at the western border, where that august
sovereign slept in a haunting majesty, wrapped in the mystic
grandeur of the Dark Ages. It was the most fitting and impressive
place on the frontier from which to bid adieu to Germania.

In gratitude for his recovery Gard made handsome presents to
everyone at Loschwitz, accompanied by the conventional _Edelweiss_.
Villa Elsa, in turn, was profuse in its expressions and little acts
of good will. Herr Bucher gave him a queer pipe, and the boys
furnished the smoking tobacco. These gifts were to while away the
lost hours on the tour. From Frau came a flask of cognac for use in
case he were dizzy on the trains. Fraeulein bestowed on him one of
her tiny etchings showing the Elbe with the Schiller Garden where
all had spent so many evenings.

Gard's route, his through ticket to the sea, his traveling clothing,
were subjects of daily conversation at the table. Although the
family were entirely obliging, Rudi, odd to say, occupied himself
the most about the trip. He seemed wonderfully keyed up and more
full of military talk even than usual. He insisted on seeing about
time-tables, hotels to be recommended, the favorite dishes and brews
to be called for at each stopping place for local tone.

Kirtley was pleased over his friendly attentions. He wished to leave
with good feelings all around.

When Rudi helped him get his trunk from the store room, Gard's
forgotten passport fell out and excited the other's curiosity.

"I've never seen an American state paper before," he remarked,
puffing a cigarette. "What a droll looking affair! So different from
ours. Would you mind if I just glanced at it?"

"Certainly not." Anderson's suspicions of the young German glanced
through Kirtley's mind. But Rudi was a thick-headed boy, and what
could he or anyone accomplish with a passport? Gard had scarcely
been called upon to use it. It had been treated almost as a blank
formality, an empty courtesy.

"You don't have to show it in German towns--only at the frontier? Am
I right?" inquired Rudi after he had minutely read it through as if
he had been an official.

"Only at the frontier." Gard grew wary. This knowing and recent
familiarity was not becoming entirely agreeable. It would be prudent
to mystify the son.

"But of course something _might_ happen in a German town and I might
need it. So it's always convenient to have about."

"Where are you going to carry it, then?" pursued the other, handing
back the ribboned paper.

"Would you think my grip would be the place?"

"Your grip? Yes, that's just like me. I always shove everything into
my grip at last. See here, now. I have none of my papers about me.
All in my grip--even in the house." Rudi opened to view his inside
coat pocket in testimony, as if he were an important individual.
Gard shifted ground again.

"I don't know. I may carry it in my pocket--with my ticket. What if
I leave it in my trunk after all? I shall have to open up at the
border anyhow."

The subject of the passport kept in Rudi's mind. Three days later he
called out to Gard:

"I have been thinking it over and I believe you should carry your
passport in your grip. It may slip out of your pocket while you are
dozing in the train."

"Danke schoen!" said Gard.

The parents also took great interest in the matter. The paper ought
to be examined by the German authorities. Was it not Herr Kirtley's
credentials to the German nation? Nothing would answer but that Herr
Bucher and Rudolph should take it in town and see that the proper
officials were duly cognizant. It was another evidence to Gard that
a Teuton is not content until his Government is given an
opportunity to approve. The document seemed so vital to Villa Elsa
that Gard mentioned it to Anderson in the way of gossip.

"Don't leave it in your trunk or grip," cautioned the elder. "Keep
it on your person. Sew it on your shirt, by golly. One never needs a
passport, you know, and then you need it like the devil. I've heard
of two or three persons this month who got separated from their
passports and were in trouble. Something seems to be really going on
under the surface. But spring is the classic time for war as well as
love to break out."

Gard decided to follow Anderson's advice and keep the parchment in
his innermost pocket. He also checked his trunk through to the
frontier, contrary to Rudi's suggestion. He said nothing of these
changes, yet he was far from thinking that the hand of the Goth
would dare to reach out after him--a friendly foreigner and guest
leaving this peaceful hearthstone, so effusive in its amicable
leave-takings.

Just before his departure he felt something of a restraint in the
household. He attributed it to the social stiffness of the German.
This increases when intercourse comes to a point. Affecting moments
jolt hard in him--moments when embarrassment is natural to all
humans.

At the gate, for the last time, the Herr was energetically smoking
his long pipe. The Frau frequently wiped her sweating face with a
handkerchief. The boys kept kicking away the dogs whose barking half
drowned the parting words. Gard said good-by, too, to the old linden
by his window. How one can miss a tree!

And Elsa! He flattered himself she looked a mite regretful that he
was going. She was starting for her class when she joined the
topsy-turvy group by the gate and waved her creamy hand. Her small
straw hat, wreathed fatiguingly in roses, clung desperately to her
head in the awkward way German women have of wearing headgear, and
made her, despite her blossom-like attractiveness, seem quaint and
so truly German like the rest. She looked to Gard as pink and blonde
as the year before when he had first been dazzled by her glistening
hair.

On crossing the river he could see her moving down their meadow path
where Heine had sung to him, her etching materials under her arm.
One last look at the row of knightly castles rimming the heights
above her and at the storied Elbe at her feet as she hurried along!
He gulped down a small something in his throat, and turned his face
toward the station.

After all, Dresden had been a year of his life.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

A JOURNEY


At Eisenach, bound for Frankfort, the train guard punched Kirtley's
ticket and showed him into a compartment that was empty save for a
military figure engaged in reading a large newspaper, holding it
firmly with gloved hands before his face. Although the day was warm,
an army cap was clapped down low on the head.

Gard sank back on the cushions and closed his eyes. He was somewhat
fatigued from having climbed the Wartburg whose castle, famed in the
history of Luther, lay asleep there like a long and oddly shaped
beetle. He soon fell into a doze. When he became conscious again,
his companion's countenance was buried as before in the paper.
Underneath it, gray trousers and large boots protruded in Kirtley's
direction as if to ward off any familiar approach.

That editorial page must be extensive and absorbing, Kirtley
commented to himself as he whiffed the refreshing breeze that came
in his window from Hesse close by on the west. In a delicious
half-dreaminess he thought the stranger turned the journal and that
a reddish, be-whiskered visage, with a flat, wide-lobed nose, popped
into view for a second.

The motionless reading, nevertheless, continued for the remainder of
the trip. To the sweet July zephyr and the snug landscapes flitting
by, the soldier paid no heed. How German this was!--Kirtley mused.
The Teutons are a wintry race and often take their summer joys in a
hard, hyperborean fashion. He could not but admire this example of
physical constraint. The iron rigors of Prussian drill had made the
best army in the world.

Or perhaps this was some queer, abnormal chap. Gard remembered
fragments of stories he had heard of comic or tragic happenings in
the separated, locked compartments of continental trains. But the
tales were too vague in his mind to pique any anxiety. He roused
himself and took up his German newspaper. Muffled war scares. Always
war scares more or less in evidence. How dull the Teuton journals
would be without them! Dog days were coming and brains were no doubt
effervescing.

The forty-eight hours in the rich old capital on the Main were full
and Kirtley had almost forgotten his peculiar fellow traveler from
Eisenach. What was his amazement, after his guard had punched his
transportation and closed him into his compartment in the train for
Heidelberg, to find the same individual seated alone again in the
corner, engrossed in his voluminous and stationary paper!

This began to be disturbing. Gard was not more brave than the
average mortal, but fear had not really been born into his bones.
Was this some weird affair? Was it a spy at work, combining German
earnestness with German farcicalness? The ludicrous extremes of Jim
Deming's experience flashed over Kirtley's mind. But he felt as full
confidence in his innocence as had Jim, and he had not given a
Cinderella party.

It was a short run to the celebrated university town on the Neckar
through ancient Hesse. What would Gard do? This was a nonsensical
situation. He decided to crack it open, find out what it was all
about. He summoned his best German and formally addressed a casual
remark to the stranger. No answer. He did not hear.

"Oh, deaf! Probably dumb too!" Gard exclaimed to himself. His next
move was to step across to the other window for the evident purpose
of throwing out something. A lurch of the train caused him to
stumble against the high boots. They remained motionless. He
discovered that the eyes behind the paper were fixed in a stare.

_It was a stuffed figure!_

A mere puppet. And yet a thrill of alarm, for the first time, shot
through Gard. It was not reassuring. He thought of Rudi. Was this
some official prank young Bucher had set going? It would be like
him. He must be a spy, as Anderson had insisted. Was the son trying
to act with confederates far away over here near the Rhine?

The passport! Rudi and the family knew all about it. Kirtley felt in
his inside shirt pocket. He was relieved to find the parchment still
there. How foolish he would have been to leave it in his grip, as
Rudi had urged! A traveler couldn't be with his grip every moment.
But why was such a paper considered valuable by the Secret Service?

As he returned to his seat, Kirtley gave the legs a kick "just for
luck." He could not help laughing. The burlesque! The Germans were
certainly a curious people. This was like some fantastic tale of
Hoffmann with its marionettes and other childish stuff so dear to
the race.

It came over him that this image was thus being conveniently
transported from one town to another for some show--some Jarley
waxworks. But how, then, about that other form in the train from
Eisenach? It had certainly been alive. Had he not seen it turn its
paper? Yet, was he sure? He had been half asleep and might have
imagined it.

As he revolved the matter in his mind, he was less and less
positive. At any rate, how explain the fact that this exact figure
had been on the two trains and that each time he had been with it
alone? How was it known here what trains he would take? Only the
Buchers were advised.

Whether a silly hoax or a performance of the tremendous sleuth
system of Germany, Gard was too unsettled to enjoy fully his brief
sojourn at Heidelberg. He decided to trip up any pursuers. Instead
of resuming by rail his journey to Mannheim, according to that
section of his ticket, he took an auto. For every reason that would
be pleasanter. He could see to better advantage the far-famed,
vine-clad valley of the Neckar where it merges into the wide and
noble plains of the Rhine.

From Mannheim he went by boat as proposed. His be-whiskered friend
did not put in an appearance and Kirtley congratulated himself on
the riddance. The more he reflected, the less he made any sense out
of it. Coincidence, practical joke, spy system at white heat,
hallucination--all suggestions seemed equally untenable.

At Cologne he found the newspapers full of discussions about war. On
the trip he had not read much. He was either sight-seeing,
traveling, weary or sleepy. For that matter, the public generally
was not aware that fearful hostilities were imminent, and he gave
the subject no keen notice.

There is not much to view in the city of odors--Coleridge's city of
"two and seventy" smells. Only the cathedral. Although the museum
is mediocre Gard dropped in there at noon to fill in his time. After
wandering about he became aware that there was, in the distance,
another visitor whose occasional shuffling footsteps first attracted
his attention among the eye-obstructing objects. Then he saw, at
times, a bulky form bending over some curiosity and contemplating
it.

As Kirtley had no companion on his journey, except the military
scarecrow, he felt a touch of lonesomeness and was glad when he
gradually approached near enough to see that this person was a
kindly looking German who had the wondering air of a sight-seer. In
their leisurely itineraries they at last met in front of a small
bronze copy of a Roman horse marked with italics in Gard's guide
book.

The other looked, too, as if he wanted to speak, and his cheerful
countenance invited Kirtley's readiness to visit with someone. The
stranger was in appearance a prosperous man of about thirty-five,
blond, with a very small curling mustache under a small nose. Though
he kept smiling he still said nothing, as if doubtful of a first
advance.

Gard hesitated, then broke the ice.

"I don't know anything about Roman horses," he essayed. "I can't
tell whether this is a good thing or not." The other was affably
relieved and was soon pouring out information about the animal.

"Excuse me," he ventured, "but I raise horses on my estate and I
know a little about them. The Roman horse was, of course, smaller,
shorter, stockier, than our modern type. Small heads, short necks,
built closer to the ground. Just like the Roman himself. This is a
splendid example."

Seeing that Gard followed him he began again with:

"Excuse me." And he plunged into a minute, quite exhaustive,
discussion of the Latin specimen before them, as they walked round
and round to view it from all angles. Kirtley had never before
realized there were so many points--fine points--about this familiar
quadruped. The German showed why this animal could not speed, could
not make nearly as many miles a day as his present successor. But,
like the Roman, he had endurance and he was undoubtedly easier to
handle. There were the withers, the haunch, the hock, and a score of
other features upon which Gard's new acquaintance held forth,
introducing almost every remark with his rather embarrassed "excuse
me."

The astonishing Teuton erudition again! Gard had to marvel at it
once more. This German was, by rare exception, ingratiating. They
finally introduced themselves. Herr Furstenheimer of Wuerttemberg--a
farmer. Gard concluded he did not dislike Germans of the south.
Their temperaments, voices, manners, are somewhat softer than those
of the north.

"I haven't been in Cologne in twenty years," Furstenheimer
explained. "Just stopped off. I wonder if you--I see you too are a
tourist--happen to be going my way. Excuse me, but that would be
odd, wouldn't it?"

"Yes--I'm bound for Rotterdam."

"Rotterdam--- why so am I!" ejaculated the German in a happy moment.
"I'm on my way to visit my sister there. I haven't seen her for
years. It's really shameful. What train do you take?"

"The two o'clock. I wish you might be going along. One gets somewhat
bored traveling alone."

"I'm the same way. I like company. I had intended going on
to-night, but this Cologne one hears so much about is
disappointingly dull, isn't it? Nothing to see." They conversed in
German to Kirtley's linguistic satisfaction.

"But I'm stopping off at Aix-la-Chapelle," he had to say. "That's at
four. Then I'm taking the late train."

"What is there at Aix? I don't remember."

"I want to see Charlemagne's tomb."

"Oh, _so_? That can't be duller than Cologne, can it? I don't see
that I would be losing any time by it either. I'll tell you what
I'll do. If I decide to join you--and I hope I shall--you'll see me
at the two o'clock. But if I don't--well, Aufwiedersehen!--let us
hope--and I am delighted to have met you."

Gard was gratified when the sociable Wuerttemberger arrived at the
station. They went on to Aix in a compartment full of _militaires_.
The countryside, swimming in the sunlight, lay tidy and dimpling in
the gentle arms of a peace and prosperity that made the newspaper
talk of a campaign seem unreal and preposterous.

Furstenheimer appeared to have only the interests of a small
land-holder, and gossiped about his farm, his horses and prices. He
was not apparently concerned about the war excitement. Agriculture
in Wuerttemberg was more important. Like most Germans, whether there
was war or no war, seemed much the same thing with him. Either must
be taken naturally and philosophically like a state of Nature.
Furstenheimer was not fond of being away from home. To be frank, his
brother-in-law in Rotterdam had got into financial straits and his
own sister was ill. They had become almost strangers in the long
separation. And that was not right, _was_ it? He really had had to
go.

When they arrived at Aix--the German Aachen--they decided to leave
their grips in an inn, across the station Platz, so that they could
conveniently dine there and be near at hand for the express. Then
they started for the cathedral which, with its eleven centuries,
loomed under a lofty octagon from a low hill.




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE


In a few minutes the two travelers reached the side portal of the
hoary temple. It represented the seat of Charlemagne's political and
ecclesiastical power--the capitol of the ancient Franks. The door
was closed. A service was being held. It would be out at five
o'clock.

To occupy the interim Gard and his new friend went over to the
neighboring town hall, located on the site of the emperor's palace.
They found it a gay Gothic edifice, the roof flanked by two pert
towers. Inside they tiptoed about with silent respect in the immense
coronation gallery--one of the largest rooms in the world. Here the
medieval German emperors were crowned and imperial diets held.

When the tourists returned to the cathedral they met two young,
clean-shaven Germans, obviously travelers like themselves, also
wishing to enter. One was tall, the other short. While waiting for
the audience to file out, the four struck up a casual conversation
about the edifice. Gard, full of his guide book, was pleased to
inform them on a subject of which they pleaded ignorance.

They sauntered into the somber, august interior. Above were the
impressive stained glass windows, high-flung in the octagon.
Kirtley's binocular, strung over his shoulders, came in handy to the
others. The Germans seemed somewhat posted on stained glass (Teuton
erudition!) and with Gard's binocular they went off for an
inspection from the exterior.

He preferred to remain and contemplate alone the solemn scene about
him. It was an hour he had looked forward to. He wanted to recall
what he had read of this historic spot and the epic and romantic
associations here of the most celebrated of Carolingians.

In the mosaic flooring at his feet, as he sat down, was the
tombstone which (in the tradition) lies above the imperial victor
who sits below waiting with his scepter in his hand and his white
beard ever growing--the king of the Middle Ages. How many, many
potentates, great and small, during all the intervening centuries,
had bowed their heads and spoken words of reverence in the presence
of the only sepulchre remaining _in situ_ and intact of the
world-conquerors of antiquity! Of all these reputed soliloquies,
that of Don Carlos, in the spacious Alexandrines of Victor Hugo in
"Hernani," Gard remembered as being the most famous. He had heard
what a long and impressive recital it always is as one of the tests
of the dramatic actor at the Theatre Francais.

His thoughts ran on. Without Charlemagne's military successes, his
widespread reorganizations, the political and civil grandeur of his
acts, his picturesque journeys, his union of church and state, what
would the Dark Ages have been? In its mountains of fact and luring
mists of fable he had stood mighty and solitary, inspiring its
imagination, its legends, its superstitions, its songs. He was its
compelling figure. He it was who unified medievaldom and laid the
bases of what had since governed in western Europe and prevented it
from remaining a vast region of large and small tribes fighting
among themselves. And he alone, among the powerful military
chieftains of the old, old past, had died both peacefully and
undefeated.

Why, then, has he faded from view? This was an interesting question
to Kirtley. Why has Caesar so outshone Charlemagne? Why are Homer and
Vergil, in comparison, coming ever more to the fore? Why has Dante
become the masterly profile of medievalism?

A significant answer had before occurred to Gard. These four
personages could _write_ marvelously well while Charlemagne could
scarcely even write his name. Had he been a great author, why would
not his fame be burning brightly like theirs? In every institution
of education their classic language is kept before both youth and
professor. Their cults accordingly grow. While the Frank so largely
shaped the Middle Ages and furnished leading motives for its
background, the Italian merely pictured it.

And yet the latter has become its most distinct luminary. His art
has surpassed in renown the medieval sword and crown. His pen is a
constant self-advertiser while those emblems of state fall to the
ground. Though every spot associated with the lives of Caesar, of
Vergil, of Dante, is sought by student and sage, the tomb of
Charlemagne is being forgotten. Who knows that it exists or cares?
And is it all because he had no literary skill? A gigantesque
character, surrounded by his romantic paladins--Roland, Oliver,
Ganelon and the rest--his face turned alike toward west, east and
south--to France and Germany and Italy--he nevertheless has long
been sinking into the ever-darker shadows of a dulled obscurity....

Gard's friend and the other two Germans presently returned and
interrupted his ruminations. They had seen their fill and were
anxious to escape from this gray cavern of a dim oblivion. Outdoors
the party of four found the sun shining, but rain clouds were
hovering in the east. The strangers had plenty of time as they were
without a fixed itinerary. They were very agreeable and it was
suggested that all dine together. Would not a stroll in the environs
be meanwhile a suitable diversion?--out toward the attractive
Lousberg and its belvedere?

Herr Furstenheimer had indicated an inquiry to Kirtley as to whether
he would like to join the other two. Upon his signifying
affirmatively, the four walked northward. The flat face of one of
the young men Gard fancied he had seen before. It was, however, of a
somewhat familiar Teuton variety and lost in the maze of all the
German visages he had seen.

They idled along, recounting their exciting experiences in
traveling. Gard told of the wax image in the train as the singular
incident he had to offer. As it did not appear to appeal to the
curiosity of his companions, he dropped the subject. The Germans are
used to the grotesque and egregious.

At intervals the company changed about by twos, their hats coming
off frequently in the warmth of the evening. On reaching the top of
a small ascent, a summer inn there invited to cooling drinks. It was
a low-storied, straggling construction, with a large green yard and
trees. There were no guests as yet for the approaching meal time.

The cathedral acquaintances took one side of a table under the
branches, and the companionable Furstenheimer with Gard faced them.
With the beer they began comparing the parts of the world they
hailed from. Kirtley belonged to that distant land--America!
Incredible! He had traveled so far. It was a country the two
newcomers wished to visit. They could not credit the surprising
things they had heard concerning the United States. All was so odd
there.

The smaller German, with the broad face, having lost no time in
being full of compliments about Kirtley's accent, went on:

"You Americans learn our language better than we do yours. I could
never get the th in my school. You seem to _do_ everything so
differently in America, too. Now, there's your great game of cards,
for instance. I was on a boat once going down the Danube and some of
your compatriots were playing it. They called it--ach Gott!--what
did they call it? _You_ know."

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