On the Night of the Seventh Moon (8 page)

“You are more afraid of yourself, I think.”

“Will you please say clearly what you mean?”

“Lenchen, I have thought of you constantly since that night when we supped together and it ended there.”

“How could you possibly think it could end any other way?”

“Easily—and so did you.”

“I . . . I do not indulge in such adventures, I assure you.”

“The assurance is unnecessary. I know it.”

“But of course you cannot say the same. Such adventures are commonplace with you.”

“There has never been an adventure like that one. You made it unique and now here we are again. Lenchen, stay with me. Don't ask me to take you back to your cousin's house.”

“I must. She will be frantic with anxiety.”

“Is that the reason . . . the only reason?”

“No. I want to go back because . . .”

“Because you have been brought up by the nuns, but if I were your husband you would be very happy riding off alone with me.”

I was silent. “It's true, Lenchen,” he cried. “They have instilled these
ideas into you. You have chosen the path of respectability—or at least it has been chosen for you; and no matter what ecstasy, what joy, what pleasure I could give you it would always be incomplete unless you were my wife.”

“You are talking nonsense,” I said. “Please take me home.”

“It could have been so perfect,” he said. “I know that, and it must not be less than perfect. Lenchen,” he went on sadly, “there has never been such a night as that when we met. I dreamed of it; every time the mist fell I wanted to ride out and look for you. It was absurd, wasn't it? But you want to go home so I will take you.”

He turned the horse and we rode in silence. I was held tightly against him and I was happy. I knew now that I loved him. He had excited me as no other person ever had or I was sure ever could; but when he turned the horse toward the village I loved him because although I was inexperienced I was conscious of an almost uncontrollable desire which he held in check by tenderness for me and which seemed to me the very essence of romance—and that was what told me that I loved him.

I could hear the shouts of revelers as we approached the town. I saw the glow from the flares; one or two people passed us—couples mostly, on their way to the forest. We did not go right into the
Altstadt
but skirted it and I directed him to my cousin's house.

He sprang out of the saddle and lifted me down; as he did so for a few seconds he held me in his arms and kissed me tenderly this time.

“Good night, little Lenchen.”

I felt an impulse to tell him that we must meet again, that it was because I was worried about Ilse that I wanted to go in. But it wasn't only that. I did not know who he was. I did know though that it was not unusual for him to take a woman to the hunting lodge; I knew that the silk nightdress and the blue velvet robe had probably been put there for one of them, and that he had intended that I should provide him with the same brief amusement as others had.

But my guardian angel had saved me and now I had saved myself—unwillingly, reluctantly, it was true, but I knew that I was right.

He did not suggest another meeting. He let me go; and before I reached the porch I heard his horse's hoofs on the road.

Ilse dashed out of the house.

“Helena! Whatever has happened?”

I told her the story. I had lost her. I had lost my shoe. One of the revelers had brought me home.

“I've been beside myself,” she cried. “I couldn't think what to do for the best. I roamed about looking for you then I thought I had better come back here and get a search party together.”

“It's all right now, Ilse. I was worried about you. I came back as soon as I could.”

“You must be exhausted.”

Exhausted! I was exhilarated and depressed, exultant and frustrated. My feelings were in a whirl.

She looked at me oddly.

“Go to bed,” she said, “and I'll bring you up some hot milk. It'll make you sleep.”

Nothing would make me sleep that night.

I lay there going over it all. The words he had said, the implications; he had wanted to take me to the hunting lodge. I wondered if Hildegarde was there.

And then as I went over every detail I said to myself: I've lost him now. This is the second time. I shall never see him again.

One thing I knew was that all my life I should be haunted by him. I should never forget him.

 

I slept late next morning for I had only dozed fitfully throughout the night until dawn and then fallen into a deep slumber.

The sun was streaming into my room when I awoke and a great sadness descended on me. He had gone; he had explained as clearly as he could that since I could not be his companion of a night or so it was better that we should part.

I dressed lethargically and took breakfast on the little terrace at the
back of the house but I had little appetite. I said I would go for a walk into the town during the morning and perhaps do a little shopping for Ilse.

When I returned to the house Ilse came to the door. There was a strange look on her face, as near to excitement as I had ever seen her.

She said, “There is a visitor to see you.”

“A visitor?”

“Count Lokenburg.”

I stared at her. “Who on Earth is that?”

“Go and see.” And she drew me toward the sitting room, opened the door and pushed me forward. She shut the door on us so that we were alone, which seemed a strange thing for her to do. At home I should not have been left alone with a man—and here the codes of behavior were as strict as those at home—perhaps more so.

But already I had seen him. He looked incongruous in this little room; he filled it with his presence.

“I've discarded my headdress,” he said. “I hope you recognize me without it.”

“You . . . Count Lokenburg! What are you doing here?”

“I am sure Aunt Caroline would be shocked at your manner of greeting a visitor, and you usually set such store on not shocking her.”

I felt the color rising in my cheeks and I knew my eyes were sparkling, I was so happy.

“I can't think where Ilse is,” I stammered.

“Obeying orders.” He took my hands. “Lenchen,” he said, “I've been thinking of you all night. And you, have you been thinking of me?”

“Almost all night,” I admitted. “I did not sleep till dawn.”

“You wanted to come with me, didn't you? You were calling out for me to abduct you and carry you away to the lodge. Confess it.”

“If it could have happened and then not have happened . . . and could have been a sort of dream . . .”

“Impossible, my darling. But you were frightened, and that was the last thing I wanted. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything . . . but you must be equally eager and willing. It's no use otherwise. You must want to come to me as much as I want you to.”

“Is that one of your conditions?”

He nodded.

I said: “You didn't tell me who you were.”

“Siegfried sounded so much more to your taste.”

“And then Odin or Loke. And all the time you are this count.”

“A hero or a god is more impressive than a count.”

“But a count is more real.”

“And you prefer reality.”

“If there is going to be any permanency there must be reality.”

“My practical Lenchen, you know I'm obsessed by you.”

“Are you?”

“Your smile is radiant. You know I am, as you are with me.
I
make no conditions.”

“Conditions?”

“You understand, Lenchen. If we had made our vows before a priest you would not have said ‘Go back.' You would have said ‘Go on'; and your eagerness would have equaled my own. Confess it. You don't hide your feelings one bit. I know what you are thinking all the time. It's there in your face, your lovely young face. I know every detail. I have dreamed of it every night and seen it every day since I found you in the forest. I love you, Lenchen, and you love me, and love like ours must be fulfilled. That is why we shall make our vows before the priest and then you will have no fears. You will be free to love. You will not see Aunt Caroline in your mind's eye raising shocked hands; there will be no worrying about nuns or your cousin. Nothing but us, and that's how I wish it to be.”

“You are asking me to marry you?”

“And what do you say?”

I did not have to answer. As I said, I betrayed myself.

 

“Tomorrow,” I said. “How can it be tomorrow? People don't marry like that.”

Here they could, he told me. He would arrange it. If he commanded
a priest to marry him that priest would obey him. It would be a simple ceremony. The priest would come into the house, either this or the hunting lodge. It had been done before. I could safely leave everything to him.

I was bemused. I could not get rid of the idea that I was in the company of a supernatural being. Perhaps that's how it always is when one is in love. The loved one is unique, of course, but more than that, perfect. Everything had changed, the whole world seemed to be mad with joy. The birds sang more joyously, the grass was greener, the flowers more beautiful. The sun shone with a new warmth, and the moon, honey-colored, lying a little on its side—still almost full, wise and benign to lovers—seemed to be laughing because Helena Trant loved Count Lokenburg and all difficulties were to be swept aside by the priest before whom they were to make their vows to love and cherish until death parted them.

“But how is it possible?” I asked Ilse and Ernst when he dined with us that night. “Surely marriages cannot be arranged like that?”

“Ours is a simple ceremony,” explained Ilse. “It is often performed in the house of the bride—or the bridegroom if that is more convenient. The Count is a man of great power in these parts.”

A man of great power! I was fully aware of that. Ilse spoke his name with reverence.

“It seems so sudden,” I said without any real protest and not really wanting to inquire too deeply into the ethics of the matter because I only wanted to be assured that the marriage could take place.

Ilse brought up hot milk when I was in bed; she seemed to think it necessary to cosset me a little. All I wanted was to be alone to think of this wonderful thing which had happened to me.

A message came from the Count in the early morning. The marriage was to be celebrated at the hunting lodge. He had the priest waiting there. Ilse and Ernst were to drive me over. It was a three hours' drive but they made no difficulty about it; they seemed somewhat overawed by him. His name was not Siegfried but Maximilian in fact. I had laughed when he told me.

“It sounds like one of the Holy Roman Emperors.”

“Why shouldn't it?” he demanded. “That's what it is. Don't you think I'm worthy to be named after such people?”

“It suits you admirably,” I told him. “I could never call you Max. It doesn't fit you. Maximilian, you see, is rather like Siegfried in a way. It suggests a leader.”

“Maximilian!” I said his name to myself a hundred times that day. I kept telling Ilse that I seemed to be living in a dream; I was afraid that I would wake up to discover that I had imagined everything. Ilse laughed at me.

“You are bemused,” she said.

Then I told her how I had been lost in the mist and how Maximilian seemed like some sort of god, quite unreal. But I didn't go into details about that night in the forest and how the handle of my door had turned and the presence of Hildegarde had made all the difference.

I packed my case and we set out for the hunting lodge. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when we reached it. There was a grove of firs quite near which I remembered vaguely noticing on the morning when Hildegarde had taken me back to the
Damenstift.
We came to the two stone posts on either side of the gate; and as we drove through them I saw Maximilian on the steps under the porch.

He came toward us hurriedly: and my heart leaped with joy at the sight of him as I believed it always would for the rest of my life.

“I expected you half an hour before,” he said reproachfully.

Ilse replied meekly that we had left in good time.

He took my hand and his eyes gleamed as they swept over me; I was so happy because of his impatience.

What happened next was like a dream, which made it easy afterwards for me to wonder whether that was what it really had been.

The hall had been arranged to look rather like a chapel and waiting there was a man whose black garb proclaimed him to be a priest.

“There is no point in delay,” said Maximilian.

I said I would like to comb my hair and change my dress before I was married.

Maximilian looked at me in tender exasperation but I was allowed my own way and soon Hildegarde was taking me up to the room I remembered so well where I had spent that night so long ago.

I said: “Hildegarde, how good it is to see you again.”

She smiled but she did not appear to be very happy about our meeting. She had a habit of shaking her head so that she looked like some prophet of evil. At least that was the impression I had. I was too excited to think much about her though. There I was in that room with the window looking out on the pine trees. It seemed filled with the faintly resinous odor which I never failed to associate with that room in the hunting lodge. I felt again the almost unbearable excitement which I had experienced on that other occasion and which I was to find could only be inspired by one man in the whole of life.

Alone I washed and took a dress from my bag. It was slightly crumpled, but it was my best dress; it was of a green silky material with a monk's collar of velvet of a slightly darker shade of green. Not exactly a wedding dress but more fitting for the occasion than the blouse and skirt in which I had traveled.