Saint Michael

"Why not? You can write simply that you are not well, and feel quite unequal to the duties of a hostess."

"That would make us perfectly ridiculous!" exclaimed Raoul. "The pretext would be seen through immediately; it would be an insult to Henri and his sister."

"I think so too," Hortense added.

"There I must differ from both of you," the general said, with emphasis; "and in this case I am the only one to be consulted. It is for you to recall the invitation as seems to you best. Recalled it must be, for I will not receive the Clermonts in my castle."

This was said in the commanding tone that always provoked the passionate woman. She arose angrily. "Am I to be compelled to insult my son's friends? To be sure they belong to my country, to my people, and that excludes them from this house. My Love for my home has always been cast up to me as a reproach, and Raoul's preference for it is regarded as a crime. Since his father's death he has never been allowed to visit France; his associates are selected for him as if he were a school-boy; he hardly dares to correspond with my relatives. But I am weary of this slavery; at last I will–"

"Raoul, leave the room," Steinrück interrupted her. He had not risen from his seat, and he had preserved an unmoved countenance, but a frown was gathering on his brow.

"Stay, Raoul!" Hortense cried, passionately, "stay with your mother!"

The young Count certainly seemed inclined to espouse his mother's cause. He walked to her side as if to protect her and to defy his grandfather, but at this instant the general also arose, and his eyes flashed. "You heard what I said! Go!"

There was such command in his tone that it put an end to Raoul's resistance. He found it absolutely impossible to disobey those eyes and that voice; he hesitated for an instant, but at an imperious gesture from his grandfather he complied and left the room.

"I do not desire that Raoul should be a witness to these scenes, which are unfortunately so frequent between us," Steinrück said, coldly, turning to his daughter-in-law. "Now we are alone, what have you to say?"

If anything could irritate the angry woman still more, it was this cold, grave manner which impressed her as contempt. She was beside herself with indignation. "I will maintain my rights!" she exclaimed. "I will rebel against the tyranny that oppresses both my son and myself. It is an insult to me to compel me to recall my invitation to the Clermonts, and it shall not be done, let the worst come to the worst!"

"I advise you, Hortense, not to go so far; you might repent it," the Count rejoined, and he was no longer self-possessed; his voice sounded stern and menacing. "If you want the plain truth you shall have it. Yes, it is of the first importance that Raoul should be withdrawn from influences and associations which I disapprove for my grandson. I relied upon Albrecht's repeated solemn assurance that the boy should have a German education. Upon your brief infrequent visits I could not satisfy myself upon this point, and unfortunately the lad was schooled for those visits. Not until after my son's death did I discover that he had blindly acceded to your will in this matter, and had intentionally deceived me."

"Would you reproach my husband in his grave?"

"Even there I cannot spare him the reproach with which I should have heaped him living. He yielded when he never should have yielded. Raoul was a stranger in his native land, ignorant of its history, of its customs, of everything that ought to have been dear and sacred to him. He was rooted deep in foreign soil. The revelation made to me when you returned with him to my house forced me to interfere, and with energy. It was high time, if it were not too late."

"I assuredly did not return to your house voluntarily." The Countess's voice was sharp and bitter. "I would have gone to my brother, but you laid claim to Raoul, you took him from me by virtue of your guardianship, and I could not be separated from my child. If I could have taken him with me–"

"And have made a thorough Montigny of him," Steinrück completed her sentence. "It would not have been difficult; there is in him only too much of you and of yours. I look in vain to find traces of my blood in the boy, but disown this blood he never shall. You know me in this regard, and Raoul will learn to know me. Woe be to him if he ever forgets the name he bears or that he belongs to a German race!"

He spoke in an undertone, but there was so terrible a menace in his voice that Hortense shuddered. She knew he was in terrible earnest, and, conscious that she was again defeated in the old conflict, she took refuge in tears, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.

The general was too accustomed to such a termination to a stormy interview to be surprised; he merely shrugged his shoulders and left the room. In the next apartment he found Raoul pacing restlessly to and fro. He paused and stood still upon his grandfather's entrance.

"Go to your mother!" his Excellency said, bitterly. "Let her repeat to you that I am a tyrant,–a despot who delights in tormenting her and you. You hear it daily; you are regularly taught to suspect and dislike me; such teaching bore fruit long since."

Harsh as the words sounded, there was suppressed pain in them,–a pain reflected in the Count's features. Raoul probably perceived it, for he cast down his eyes and rejoined in a low tone, "You do me injustice, grandfather."

"Prove it to me. For once repose in me frank and entire confidence; you will not repent it. I scolded and threatened yesterday; you have lately often forced me to do so, but nevertheless you are dear to me, Raoul, very dear."

The voice, usually so stern and commanding, sounded kindly, nay, even tender, and was not without its effect upon the young man. Affection for the grandfather from whom he had been estranged from boyhood stirred within him. He had always feared him, but at this moment he felt no fear. "And you too are dear to me, grandfather," he exclaimed.

"Come," said Steinrück, with a warmth rarely manifested by him, "let us have a pleasant hour together for once, with no adverse influence to interfere. Come, Raoul."

He put his arm around his grandson's shoulder, and was drawing him away with him, when the door was hastily flung open and Marion appeared. "For heaven's sake, Herr Count, come to the Frau Countess! She is very unwell, and is asking for you."

Raoul turned in dismay to hasten to his mother, but paused suddenly upon encountering his grandfather's grave look of entreaty. "Your mother has one of her nervous attacks," he said, quietly. "You know them as well as I do, and that there is no cause for anxiety. Come with me, Raoul."

He still had his arm about the young man, and Raoul seemed to hesitate for a few moments, then he tried to extricate himself. "Pardon me, grandfather; my mother is suffering, and asking for me. I cannot leave her alone now."

"Then go!" Steinrück exclaimed, harshly, almost thrusting the young man from him. "I will not keep you from your filial duty. Go to your mother!"

And, without even another look towards Raoul, he turned and left the room.

Saint Michael was one of the highest inhabited spots of the mountain-range. The quiet little Alpine village would have been utterly secluded had it not possessed a certain significance as a place of pilgrimage. The single dwellings lay scattered upon the pasture-lands and mountain-meadows, with the village church and the parsonage in their midst. Everything was contracted, plain, even shabby; the special church alone, which was the resort of pilgrims, and which stood upon a solitary height at a little distance from the village, had an imposing aspect. It had been founded by the Counts von Steinrück who had built this church, now old and gray, on the site of the ancient Saint Michael's chapel that had once stood here, and they had since often bestowed gifts upon it and had endowed it. Saint Michael was still the patron saint of the family to which he had so often given a first name. Its founder had been called Michael, and the name had been handed down from generation to generation ever since. Even the Protestant branch of the family, who had years previously left their ancestral home and settled in Northern Germany, preserved this ancient tradition, which, if it had no religious significance for them, still possessed an historic importance. Thus, the present head of the house was a Count Michael, and his son and grandson had been christened after him, although each bore another name by which he was commonly called. The interior of the church was not very remarkable; it showed the usual adornment of pictures and gayly-painted statues of the saint, often very imperfectly executed. But the high altar was an exception; it was very richly and artistically carved, and the two figures of angels on the sides of the steps with outspread wings and hands held aloft in prayer, as if guarding the sacred place, were exquisite examples of sculpture in wood. They with the altar were a gift from the Steinrücks, as were the three gothic windows in the altar recess, the costly stained glass of which glowed in gorgeous colour. The picture above the altar, however, a large painting, dated from a period of great simplicity in art. It had grown very dark with age, and was worn in spots, but its details were still distinctly to be discerned. Saint Michael, in a long blue robe and flowing mantle, the nimbus around his head, was distinguished as the warlike angel by a short coat of mail, but was otherwise of peaceful aspect. His sword of flame in his right hand and the scales in his left, he was enthroned upon a cloud, and at his feet crouched Satan, a horned monster with distorted features, and a body ending in a serpent's tail. Blood-red flames flashed upwards from the abyss, and a circle of cherubs looked down from above. The picture was entirely without artistic merit.

"And that is meant to betoken conflict and victory," said Hans Wehlau, as he stood gazing at the picture. "Saint Michael looks so solemnly comfortable on his cloud, and quite as if the Evil One below him were of no consequence; if Satan were wise he would snatch that sword just above the tip of his nose; that's no way to hold a sword! The saint ought to swoop from above like an angel, and seize and destroy Satan like a mighty blast, but he'd better not try flying in that long gown; and as for his wings, they are quite too small to support him."

"You show a godless want of respect in criticising pictures of saints," said Michael, who stood beside him. "You are your father's own son there."

"Very likely. Do you know I should like to paint a picture of that?–Saint Michael and the devil, the conflict of light with darkness. Something might be made of it if a fellow really set himself to work, and I have a model close at hand."

He turned suddenly, and looked his friend full in the face, in a way that provoked Michael to say, "What are you thinking of? I surely have–"

"Nothing angelic about you! No, most certainly not; and among the heavenly host, hovering in ether in white robes and palm branches, you would cut a comical figure. But to swoop down upon your enemy with a flaming sword and put him to rout like your holy namesake would suit you exactly. Of course you would have to be idealized, for you're far from handsome, Michael, but you have just what is needed for such a figure, especially when you are in a rage. At all events, you would make a much better archangel than that one up there."

"Nonsense!" said Michael, turning to go. "Moreover, you must come now, Hans, if you mean to walk back to Tannberg. It is four good leagues away."

"By that tiresome road, which I shall not take. I am going through the forest; it is nearer."

"Then you will lose your way! You do not know this country as I do."

"Then I will find it again," said Hans, as they walked out of the church into the open air. "At least I shall not be received in Tannberg by an angry face. I am glad my father has gone, and I think the whole household breathes more easily. At the last he hung over us all like a thunder-cloud; we always had to be prepared for thunder and lightning."

"It was certainly better for him to shorten his stay and go home," Michael rejoined, gravely. "Irritable and angry as he was, there was always danger of a decided breach, which should be avoided at all hazards. I advised him to return home."

"Yes, you protected me to the best of your ability. You and my aunt stood beside me like two angels of peace and shielded me with your wings, but it did not do much good after all, my father was too angry. You were the only one who could get along with him."

"And so you regularly sent me into action when there was anything to be done."

"Of course; you risked nothing in the engagement. My father always treats you with respect, even when you disagree with him. It's odd,–he never had any respect for me."

"Hans, be sensible; do stop jesting for a while. I should suppose you had reason enough to be grave."

"Good heavens! what am I to do? I never had the slightest talent for the part of a grovelling sinner. At least you have contrived to extort a gracious permission that I should remain in Tannberg while your leave lasts, and when we go home the storm will have somewhat blown over. But here is the path; my love to my uncle Valentin. I have, as my father's son, 'compromised' him again by my visit, but he would have it. Au revoir, Michael."

He waved his hand to his friend and struck into a side-path leading down the mountain. Michael looked after him until he vanished among the hemlocks, and then took his way back to the village.

He had been at Saint Michael for several days, and on the previous day Hans had paid a short visit. It had been a rare and much-desired gratification for the pastor, who regretted keenly that his nearest relatives should hold themselves aloof from him. Any intercourse with his brother, who was a declared opponent of Romanism, was made a reproach to the priest. The two met only at intervals of years, when the Professor visited his relatives in Tannberg; and in the fact of their correspondence might perhaps be found the reason why Valentin Wehlau was left in a lonely secluded Alpine village, and–forgotten.

Michael, however, had of late years frequently visited his old friend and teacher, but Lieutenant Rodenberg was an entire new-comer for the inhabitants of Saint Michael, who scarcely remembered the shy, awkward boy from the forest lodge,–indeed, they had seldom seen him. He had been looked upon as a relative of Wolfram's, bearing the forester's name, and the lodge had long since passed into other hands. Count Steinrück had found a better and more profitable situation for his former huntsman upon one of his ward's estates, perhaps as a reward for rendered service, perhaps because, upon his visits to his castle, he did not wish to be reminded by Wolfram's presence of the past. At all events, the forester had left this part of the country nearly ten years previously.

When Michael re-entered the parsonage, which he had left half an hour before in its usual solitude and quiet, he found it in a state of unusual turmoil. The old servant was bustling about in her kitchen, among her pots and pans, as if some festival were in preparation. Two young peasant girls from a neighbouring farm were running to and fro; the upper rooms were being aired and arranged; the peaceful household seemed to be turned topsy-turvy, and as Michael entered the study the sacristan was taking a hurried leave of the priest, with much importance of mien.

Nothing was changed in the little room; the same monastic simplicity reigned within it; the whitewashed walls, the huge tiled stove, the carved crucifix in the corner, even the old pine furniture, were all the same; time had left them unchanged. Not so their owner.

The pastor had grown much older. Whilst his brother, who was in fact several years his junior, still preserved his youthful freshness and vigour, the priest produced the impression of old age. His form was bent, his face furrowed with wrinkles, his hair white, but the same mild lustre shone in the eyes which at times made one forget the weariness and age evident in the man.