 | CHAPTER XV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
That stand'st between her father's ground and mine
Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne.
Midsummer Night's Dream:
“'Odds my life, but this goes off with a grace,
brother Peter!” exclaimed the Baron de Willading,
as he followed the vine-dressers in their retreat,
with an amused eye—“If we have much more like
it, I shall forget the dignity of the bürgerschaft,
and turn mummer with the rest, though my good
name for wisdom were the forfeit of the folly.”
“That is better said between ourselves than performed
before the vulgar eye, honorable Melchior.
It would sound ill, of a truth, were these Vaudois
to boast that a noble of thy estimation in Berne
were thus to forget himself!”
“None of this!—are we not here to be merry,
and to laugh, and to be pleased with any folly that
offers? A truce, then, to thy official distrusts and
superabundant dignity, honest Peterchen,” for such
was the good-natured name by which the worthy
bailiff was most commonly addressed by his friend;
“let the tongue freely answer to the heart, as if
we were boys rioting together, as was once the
case, long ere thou wert thought of for this office,
or I knew a sorrowful hour.”
“The Signor Grimaldi shall judge between us:
I maintain that restraint is necessary to those in
high trusts.”
“I will decide when the actors have all played
their parts,” returned the Genoese, smiling; “at
present, here cometh one to whom all old soldiers
pay homage. We will not fail of respect in so
great a presence, on account of a little difference
in taste.”
Peter Hofmeister was not a small drinker, and
as the approach of the god of the cup was announced
by a flourish from some twenty instruments
made to speak on a key suited to the vault of
heaven, he was obliged to reserve his opinions for
another time. After the passage of the musicians,
and a train of the abbaye's servants, for especial
honors were paid to the ruby deity, there came
three officials of the sacrifice, one leading a goat
with gilded horns, while the two others bore the
knife and the hatchet. To these succeeded the
altar adorned with vines, the incense-bearers, and
the high-priest of Bacchus, who led the way for
the appearance of the youthful god himself. The
with a garland of generous grapes, bearing a
cup in one hand, and a vine entwined and fruit-crowned
sceptre in the other. Four Nubians carried
him on their shoulders, while others shaded
his form with an appropriate canopy; fauns wearing
tiger-skins, and playing their characteristic
antics, danced in his train, while twenty laughing
and light-footed Bacchantes flourished their instruments,
moving in measure in the rear.
A general shout in the multitude preceded the
appearance of Silenus, who was sustained in his
place on an ass by two blackamoors. The half-empty
skin at his side, the vacant laugh, the foolish
eye, the lolling tongue, the bloated lip, and the
idiotic countenance, gave reason to suspect that
there was a better motive for their support than
any which belonged to the truth of the representation.
Two youths then advanced, bearing on a
pole a cluster of grapes that nearly descended to
the ground, and which was intended to represent
the fruit brought from Canaan by the messengers
of Joshua—a symbol much affected by the artists
and mummers of the other hemisphere, on occasions
suited to its display. A huge vehicle, ycleped the
ark of Noah, closed the procession. It held a wine-press,
having its workmen embowered among the
vines, and it contained the family of the second
father of the human race. As it rolled past, traces
of the rich liquor were left in the tracks of its
wheels.
Then came the sacrifice, the chant, and the
dance, as in most of the preceding exhibitions, each
of which, like this of Bacchus, had contained allusions
to the peculiar habits and attributes of the
different deities. The bacchanal that closed the
scene was performed in character; the trumpets
in which it had arrived.
Peter relented a little from his usual political reserve,
as he witnessed these games in honor of a
deity to whom he so habitually did practical homage,
for it was seldom that this elaborate functionary,
who might be termed quite a doctrinaire in his
way, composed his senses in sleep, without having
pretty effectually steeped them in the liquor of the
neighboring hills; a habit that was of far more
general use among men of his class in that age
than in this of ours, which seems so eminently to
be the season of sobriety.
“This is not amiss, of a verity;” observed the
contented bailiff, as the Fauns and Bacchantes
moved off the sward, capering and cutting their
classical antics with far more agility and zeal than
grace. “This looks like the inspiration of good
wine, Signior Genoese, and were the truth known,
it would be found that the rogue who plays the
part of the fat person on the ass—how dost call
the knave, noble Melchior?”
“Body o'me! if I am wiser than thyself, worthy
bailiff; it is clearly a rogue who can never have
done his mummery so expertly, without some aid
from the flask.”
“Twill be well to know the fellow's character,
for there may be the occasion to commend him to
the gentlemen of the abbaye, when all is over.
Your skilful ruler has two great instruments that
he need use with discretion, Baron de Willading,
and these are, fear and flattery; and Berne hath
no servant more ready to apply both, or either, as
there may be necessity, than one of her poor
bailiffs that hath not received all his dues from the
general opinion, if truth were spoken. But it is
well to be prepared to speak these good people of
the abbaye fairly, touching their exploits. Harkee,
a warm citizen in thy every-day character, or my
eyes do us both injustice.”
“I am, as you have said, Monsieur le Bailli, a
Vévaisan, and one that is well known among our
artisans.”
“True, that was visible, spite of thy halberd.
Thou art, no doubt, rarely gifted, and taught to the
letter in these games. Wilt name the character
that has just ridden past on the ass—he that hath
so well enacted the drunkard, I mean? His name
hath gone out of our minds for the moment, though
his acting never can, for a better performance of
one overcome by liquor is seldom seen.”
“Lord keep you! worshipful bailiff, that is
Antoine Giraud, the fat butcher of La Tour de
Peil, and a better at the cup there is not in all the
country of Vaud! No wonder that he hath done
his part so readily; for, while the others have been
reading in books, or drilling like so many awkward
recruits under the school-master, Antoine hath had
little more to perform than to dip into the skin at
his elbow. When the officers of the abbaye complain,
lest he should disturb the ceremonies, he bids
them not to make fools of themselves, for every
swallow he gives is just so much done in honor of
the representation; and he swears, by the creed of
Calvin! that there shall be more truth in his acting
than in that of any other of the whole party.”
“'Odds my life! the fellow hath humor as well
as good acting in him—this Antoine Giraud! Will
you look into the written order they have given
us, fair Adelheid, that we may make sure this artisan-halberdier
hath not deceived us? We in
authority must not trust a Vévaisan too lightly.”
“It will be vain, I fear, Herr Bailiff, since the
characters, and not the names of the actors, appear
in the lists. The man in question represents Silenus
and all the other circumstances.”
“Well, let it be as thou wilt. Silenus himself
could not play his own part better than it hath
been done by this Antoine Giraud. The fellow
would gain gold like water at the court of the
emperor as a mime, were he only advised to resort
thither. I warrant you, now, he would do Pluto,
or Minerva, or any other god, just as well as he
hath done this rogue Silenus!”
The honest admiration of Peter, who, sooth to
say, had not much of the learning of the age, as
the phrase is, raised a smile on the lip of the beauteous
daughter of the baron, and she glanced a
look to catch the eye of Sigismund, towards whom
all her secret sympathies, whether of sorrow or of
joy, so naturally and so strongly tended. But the
averted head, the fixed attention, and the nearly
immovable and statue-like attitude in which he
stood, showed that a more powerful interest drew
his gaze to the next group. Though ignorant of the
cause of his intense regard, Adelheid instantly
forgot the bailiff, his dogmatism, and his want of
erudition, in the wish to examine those who approached.
The more classical portion of the ceremonies
was now duly observed. The council of the
abbaye intended to close with an exhibition that
was more intelligible to the mass of the spectators
than anything which had preceded it, since it was
addressed to the sympathies and habits of every
people, and in all conditions of society. This was
the spectacle that so engrossingly attracted the
attention of Sigismund. It was termed the procession
of the nuptials, and it was now slowly
advancing to occupy the space left vacant by the
retreat of Antoine Giraud and his companions.
There came in front the customary band, playing
the festivities of Hymen. The lord of the manor,
or, as he was termed, the baron, and his lady-partner
led the train, both apparelled in the rich and
quaint attire of the period. Six ancient couples,
the representatives of happy married lives, followed
by a long succession of offspring of every age,
including equally the infant at the breast and the
husband and wife in the flower of their days, walked
next to the noble pair. Then appeared the section
of a dwelling, which was made to portray the
interior of domestic economy, having its kitchen,
its utensils, and most of the useful and necessary
objects that may be said to compose the material
elements of an humble ménage. Within this moiety
of a house, one female plied the wheel, and another
was occupied in baking. The notary, bearing
the register beneath an arm, with hat in hand,
and dressed in an exaggerated costume of his profession,
strutted in the rear of the two industrious
housemaids. His appearance was greeted with a
general laugh, for the spectators relished the humor
of the caricature with infinite goût. But this sudden
and general burst of merriment was as quickly
forgotten in the desire to behold the bride and
bridegroom, whose station was next to that of the
officer of the law. It was understood that these
parties were not actors, but that the abbaye had
sought out a couple, of corresponding rank and
means, who had consented to join their fortunes in
reality on the occasion of this great jubilee, thereby
lending to it a greater appearance of that
genuine joy and festivity which it was the desire
of the heads of the association to represent. Such
a search had not been made without exciting deep
interest in the simple communities which surrounded
Vévey. Many requisites had been proclaimed
to be necessary in the candidates—such as beauty,
the bride; and in her partner those qualities which
might fairly entitle him to be the repository of the
happiness of a maiden so endowed.
Many had been the speculations of the Vévaisans
touching the individuals who had been selected to
perform these grave and important characters,
which, for fidelity of representation, were to outdo
that of Silenus himself; but so much care had been
taken by the agents of the abbaye to conceal the
names of those they had selected, that, until this
moment, when disguise was no longer possible, the
public was completely in the dark on the interesting
point. It was so usual to make matches of this
kind on occasions of public rejoicing, and marriages
of convenience, as they are not unaptly
termed, enter so completely into the habits of all
European communities—perhaps we might say of
all old communities—that common opinion would
not have been violently outraged had it been known
that the chosen pair saw each other for the second
or third time in the procession, and that they had
now presented themselves to take the nuptial vow,
as it were, at the sound of the trumpet or the beat
of drum. Still, it was more usual to consult the
inclinations of the parties, since it gave greater
zest to the ceremony, and these selections of couples
on public occasions were generally supposed to
have more than the common interest of marriages,
since they were believed to be the means of uniting,
through the agency of the rich and powerful,
those whom poverty or other adverse circumstances
had hitherto kept asunder. Rumor spoke
of many an inexorable father who had listened to
reason from the mouths of the great, rather than
balk the public humor; and thousands of pining
hearts, among the obscure and simple, are even
now gladdened at the approach of some joyous
gates of the prison to the debtor and the criminal,
or that of Hymen to those who are richer in constancy
and affection than in any other stores.
A general murmur and a common movement
betrayed the lively interest of the spectators, as
the principal and real actors in this portion of the
ceremonies drew near. Adelheid felt a warm glow
on her cheek, and a gentler flow of kindness at
her heart, when her eye first caught a view of the
bride and bridegroom, whom she was fain to believe
a faithful pair that a cruel fortune had hitherto
kept separate, and who were now willing to brave
such strictures as all must encounter who court
public attention, in order to receive the reward of
their enduring love and self-denial. This sympathy,
which was at first rather of an abstract and vague
nature, finding its support chiefly in her own peculiar
situation and the qualities of her gentle nature,
became intensely heightened, however, when
she got a better view of the bride. The modest
mien, abashed eye, and difficult breathing of the
girl, whose personal charms were of an order much
superior to those which usually distinguish rustic
beauty in those countries in which females are not
exempted from the labors of the field, were so
natural and winning as to awaken all her interest;
and, with instinctive quickness, the lady of Willading
bent her look on the bridegroom, in order
to see if one whose appearance was so eloquent
in her favor was likely to be happy in her choice.
In age, personal appearance, and apparently in condition
of life, there was no very evident unfitness,
though Adelheid fancied that the mien of the maiden
announced a better breeding than that of her companion—a
difference which she was willing to ascribe,
however, to a greater aptitude in her own
than that which belongs to man,
“She is fair,” whispered Adelheid, slightly bending
her head towards Sigismund, who stood at her
side, “and must deserve her happiness.”
“She is good, and merits a better fate!” muttered
the youth, breathing so hard as to render his
respiration audible,
The startled Adelheid raised her eyes, and strong
but suppressed agitation was quivering in every
lineament of her companion's countenance. The
attention of those near was so closely drawn towards
the procession, as to allow an instant of unobserved
communication.
“Sigismund, this is thy sister!”
“God so cursed her.”
“Why has an occasion, public as this, been
chosen to wed a maiden of her modesty and
manner?”
“Can the daughter of Balthazar be squeamish?
Gold, the interest of the abbaye, and the foolish
éclat of this silly scene, have enabled my father to
dispose of his child to yonder mercenary, who has
bargained like a Jew in the affair, and who, among
other conditions, has required that the true name
of his bride shall never be revealed. Are we not
honored by a connexion which repudiates us even
before it is formed!”
The hollow stifled laugh of the young man thrilled
on the nerves of his listener, and she ceased the
stolen dialogue to return to the subject at a more
favorable moment. In the mean time the procession
had reached the station in front of the stage,
where the mummers had already commenced their
rites.
A dozen groomsmen and as many female attendants
accompanied the pair who were about to take
the nuptial vow. Behind these came the trousseau
dowry of the bride which applies to her personal
wants, and the last is an offering of the husband,
and is figuratively supposed to be a pledge of the
strength of his passion. In the present instance
the trousseau was so ample, and betokened so much
liberality, as well as means, on the part of the friends
of a maiden who would consent to become a wife
in a ceremony so public, as to create general surprise;
while, on the other hand, a solitary chain
of gold, of rustic fashion, and far more in consonance
with the occasion, was the sole tribute of
the swain. This difference between the liberality
of the friends of the bride, and that of the individual,
who, judging from appearances, had much
the most reason to show his satisfaction, did not
fail to give rise to many comments. They ended
as most comments do, by deductions drawn against
the weaker and least defended of the parties. The
general conclusion was so uncharitable as to infer
that a girl thus bestowed must be under peculiar
disadvantages, else would there have been a greater
equality between the gifts; an inference that was
sufficiently true, though cruelly unjust to its modest
but unconscious subject.
While speculations of this nature were rife
among the spectators, the actors in the ceremony
began their dances, which were distinguished by
the quaint formality that belonged to the politeness
of the age. The songs that succeeded were in
honor of Hymen and his votaries, and a few couplets
that extolled the virtues and beauty of the
bride were chanted in chorus. A sweep appeared
at the chimney-top, raising his cry, in allusion to
the business of the ménage, and then all moved
away, as had been done by those who had preceded
them. A guard of halberdiers closed the
procession.
That part of the mummeries which was to be
enacted in front of the estrade was now ended for
the moment, and the different groups proceeded
to various other stations in the town, where the
ceremonies were to be repeated for the benefit of
those who, by reason of the throng, had not been
able to get a near view of what had passed in the
square. Most of the privileged profited by the
pause to leave their seats, and to seek such relaxation
as the confinement rendered agreeable. Among
those who entirely quitted the square were the
bailiff and his friends, who strolled towards the
promenade on the lake-shore, holding discourse,
in which there was blended much facetious merriment
concerning what they had just seen.
The bailiff soon drew his companions around
him, in a deep discussion of the nature of the
games, during which the Signor Grimaldi betrayed
a malicious pleasure in leading on the dogmatic
Peter to expose the confusion that existed in his
head touching the characters of sacred and profane
history. Even Adelheid was compelled to
laugh at the commencement of this ludicrous exhibition,
but her thoughts were not long in recurring
to a subject in which she felt a nearer and a
more tender interest. Sigismund walked thoughtfully
at her side, and she profited by the attention
of all around them being drawn to the laughable
dialogue just mentioned, to renew the subject that
had been so lightly touched on before.
“I hope thy fair and modest sister will never
have reason to repent her choice,” she said, lessening
her speed, in a manner to widen the distance
between herself and those she did not wish
to overhear the words, while it brought her nearer
to Sigismund; “'t is a frightful violence to all
maiden feeling to be thus dragged before the eyes
solemn as that in which she plights her marriage-vows!”
“Poor Christine! her fate from infancy has been
pitiable. A purer or milder spirit than hers, one
that more sensitively shrinks from rude collision,
does not exist, and yet, on whichever side she turns
her eyes, she meets with appalling prejudices or
opinions to drive a gentle nature like hers to madness.
It may be a misfortune, Adelheid, to want
instruction, and to be fated to pass a life in the
depths of ignorance, and in the indulgence of brutal
passions, but it is scarcely a blessing to have
the mind elevated above the tasks which a cruel
and selfish world so frequently imposes.”
“Thou wast speaking of thy mild and excellent
sister?—”
“Well hast thou described her! Christine is
mild, and more than modest—she is meek. But
what can meekness itself do to palliate such a calamity?
Desirous of averting the stigma of his
family from all he could with prudence, my father
caused my sister, like myself, to be early taken
from the parental home. She was given in charge
to strangers, under such circumstances of secrecy,
as left her long, perhaps too long, in ignorance of
the stock from which she sprang. When maternal
pride led my mother to seek her daughter's society,
the mind of Christine was in some measure formed,
and she had to endure the humiliation of learning
that she was one of a family proscribed. Her gentle
spirit, however, soon became reconciled to the
truth, at least so far as human observation could
penetrate, and, from the moment of the first terrible
agony, no one has heard her murmur at the
stern decree of Providence. The resignation of
that mild girl has ever been a reproach to my
own rebellious temper, for, Adelheid, I cannot conceal
dared include in my wicked imprecations, in very
madness at this blight on my hopes! Nay, I have
even accused my father of injustice, that he did
not train me at the side of the block, that I might
take a savage pride in that which is now the bane
of my existence. Not so with Christine; she has
always warmly returned the affection of our parents,
as a daughter should love the authors of her
being, while I fear I have been repining when I
should have loved. Our origin is a curse entailed
by the ruthless laws of the land, and it is not to
be attributed to any, at least to none of these later
days, as a fault; and such has ever been the language
of my poor sister when she has seen a
merit in their wishes to benefit us at the expense
of their own natural affection. I would I could
imitate her reason and resignation!”
“The view taken by thy sister is that of a female,
Sigismund, whose heart is stronger than her
pride; and, what is more, it is just.”
“I deny it not; 't is just. But the ill-judged
mercy has for ever disqualified me to sympathize
as I could wish with those to whom I belong.
'T is an error to draw these broad distinctions between
our habits and our affections. Creatures
stern as soldiers cannot bend their fancies like
pliant twigs, or with the facility of female—”
“Duty,” said Adelheid gravely, observing that
he hesitated.
“If thou wilt, duty. The word has great weight
with thy sex, and I do not question that it should
have with mine.”
“Thou canst not be wanting in affection for thy
father, Sigismund. The manner in which thou
interposedst to save his life, when we were in that
fearful jeopardy of the tempest, disproves thy
words.”
“Heaven forbid that I should be wanting in natural
feeling of this sort, and yet, Adelheid, it is
horrible not to be able to respect, to love profoundly,
those to whom we owe our existence! Christine
in this is far happier than I, an advantage that
I doubt not she owes to her simple life, and to the
closer intimacies which unite females. I am the
son of a headsman; that bitter fact is never absent
from my thoughts when they turn to home and
those scenes in which I could so gladly take pleasure.
Balthazar may have meant a kindness when
he caused me to be trained in habits so different
from his own, but, to complete the good work, the
veil should never have been removed.”
Adelheid was silent. Though she understood
the feelings which controlled one educated so very
differently from those to whom he owed his birth,
her habits of thought were opposed to the indulgence
of any reflections that could unsettle the
reverence of the child for its parent.
“One of a heart like thine, Sigismund, cannot
hate his mother!” she said, after a pause.
“In this thou dost me no more than justice; my
words have ill represented my thoughts, if they
have left such an impression. In cooler moments,
I have never considered my birth as more than a
misfortune, and my education I deem a reason for
additional respect and gratitude to my parents,
though it may have disqualified me in some measure
to enter deeply into their feelings. Christine
herself is not more true, nor of more devoted love,
than my poor mother. It is necessary, Adelheid,
to see and know that excellent woman in order to
understand all the wrongs that the world inflicts
by its ruthless usages.”
“We will now speak only of thy sister. Has
she been here bestowed without regard to her own
wishes, Sigismund?”
“I hope not. Christine is meek, but, while neither
word nor look betrays the weakness, still she
feels the load that crushes us both. She has long
accustomed herself to look at all her own merits
through the medium of this debasement, and has
set too low a value on her own excellent qualities.
Much, very much depends, in this life, on our own
habits of self-estimation, Adelheid; for he who is
prepared to admit unworthiness—I speak not of
demerit towards God but towards men—will soon
become accustomed to familiarity with a standard
below his just pretensions, and will end perhaps in
being the thing he dreaded. Such has been the
consequence of Christine's knowledge of her birth,
for, to her meek spirit, there is an appearance of
generosity in overlooking this grand defect, and it
has too well prepared her mind to endow the youth
with a hundred more of the qualities that are absolutely
necessary to her esteem, but which I fear
exist only in her own warm fancy.”
“This is touching on the most difficult branch
of human knowledge,” returned Adelheid, smiling
sweetly on the agitated brother; “a just appreciation
of ourselves. If there is danger of setting
too low a value on our merits, there is also some
danger of setting too high; though I perfectly
comprehend the difference you would make between
vulgar vanity, and that self-respect which
is certainly in some degree necessary to success.
But one, like her thou hast described, would scarce
yield her affections without good reason to think
them well bestowed.”
“Adelheid, thou, who hast never felt the world's
contempt, cannot understand how winning respect
and esteem can be made to those who pine beneath
its weight! My sister hath so long accustomed
herself to think meanly of her hopes, that the appearance
of liberality and justice in this youth
feelings in his favor. I cannot say I think—for
Christine will soon be his wife—but I will say, I
fear that the simple fact of his choosing one that
the world persecutes has given him a value in her
eyes he might not otherwise have possessed.”
“Thou dost not appear to approve of thy sister's
choice?”
“I know the details of the disgusting bargain
better than poor Christine,” answered the young
man, speaking between his teeth, like one who repressed
bitter emotion. “I was privy to the greedy
exactions on the one side, and to the humiliating
concessions on the other. Even money could not
buy this boon for Balthazar's child, without a condition
that the ineffaceable stigma of her birth
should be for ever concealed.”
Adelheid saw, by the cold perspiration that stood
on the brow of Sigismund, how intensely he suffered,
and she sought an immediate occasion to
lead his thoughts to a less disturbing subject.
With the readiness of her sex, and with the sensitiveness
and delicacy of a woman that sincerely
loved, she found means to effect the charitable purpose,
without again alarming his pride. She succeeded
so far in calming his feelings, that, when
they rejoined their companions, the manner of the
young man had entirely regained the quiet and
proud composure in which he appeared to take
refuge against the consciousness of the blot that
darkened his hopes, frequently rendering life itself
a burthen nearly too heavy to be borne.
| CHAPTER XV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |