Linnet: A Romance
dashing her hopes to the ground, as Rue and Florian expected, had only
produced on her simple little mind a general impression that now, by the
blessed Madonna’s aid, her Engländer might turn up any day, anywhere. In
that innocent hope, born of the age of faith, she sang her best with a
will, and charmed her audience, looking hard at the door all the while,
to see if, peradventure, her Engländer would enter. And when no
Engländer came, she comforted her soul with the thought that Andreas had
said there were twenty-nine other hotels in Meran and Obermais—at any
one of which, no doubt, that dear friend might be stopping. Her heart
wasn’t crushed—not the least bit of it—and her trust in the blessed
Madonna on the Britannia metal pendant that hung round her neck was as
vivid and as childishly unquestioning as ever. Our Dear Frau had brought
her her lover at Innsbruck; Our Dear Frau could bring him her just as
well at Meran here.
She sang three times. Each time the audience applauded vociferously. The
Austria, you see, is mainly frequented by Germans. Now, your German is
musical; he has little reserve; he loves a good noise; and he’s never
afraid of displaying his feelings. Moreover, the little party in the
_salon_ that night was largely composed of Viennese or Bavarians; they
understood the zither and the Tyrolese songs; they were to the manner
born, good judges of execution. Franz Lindner’s feather curled once
more, quite as perkily as ever, when they applauded the bravado of his
facile playing. Philippina smiled and bobbed, a wicked twinkle in her
eye, when they cried “Bis!” to the loudest and sauciest of her jodels.
But at each of Linnet’s songs, her hearers grew silent, then burst as
she ceased into uproarious approbation. She was the heroine of the
night, the black swan of the party; not often had they heard such a
voice as hers at so humble a performance.
When all was finished, ’twas Linnet’s task to hand round the plate and
make the little collection. She hated the work, but ’tis always imposed,
and with sound commercial reason, on the prettiest girl of the troupe,
so it naturally devolved upon Linnet to perform it. Even good-humoured
Philippina admitted without dispute her claim to the function. Hot in
the face, and ill at ease, Linnet walked round the room in a maze of
confusion, with her little silver salver. She offered it first to the
rich Jew banker from Frankfort-on-the Main, with the diamond pin, and
the seals on his watch-chain. Now, your pretty face is a mighty opener
of your purse-strings. The rich Jew banker, holding out one fat thumb
and forefinger gingerly, after a second’s hesitation (for ’tis hard to
part with so much money at once) dropped a ten-florin piece in good
Austrian gold, plump into the middle of the silver salver. It fell with
a ring. His example was contagious. Christian Freiherrs could not stand
being beaten in their appreciation of vocal art by Jewish financiers
from Frankfort. People who meant to give one florin now gave two; people
who meant to put off on their wives the duty of dispensing the family
bounty now drew out their purses and became their own almoners. Linnet
had never seen a gold piece in her life before; when she finished her
round, bowing low, that night, there were three of them on the salver.
Andreas Hausberger eyed the plate with a carefully-suppressed smile of
subdued satisfaction. His mouth never moved; only the corners of his
eyes betrayed his emotion. But that evening’s haul had far-reaching
consequences—for him and for Linnet. He saw in a moment he had found
indeed, as he thought, a treasure. He didn’t need the assurances of the
rich Jew banker, and the lady amateur with the tortoise-shell eyeglasses
who came from Berlin, that Linnet should be placed at once for
instruction in a proper conservatorium. He saw for himself, from the
effect she produced on the audience that night, she would yet do
wonders. As Linnet left the Austria, Andreas held her cloak for her. But
it wasn’t mere gallantry. “Wrap your throat round well, Linnet,” he
said, with much zealous care. “For Heaven’s sake don’t take cold. The
air on the hills in the daytime won’t hurt you; but after sitting in
these crowded, over-heated rooms, the night fogs are so bad for you.”
The goose that lays the golden eggs deserves to be well tended.
CHAPTER XVI
SCHLOSS TYROL
“Where shall we go to-day?” Will inquired next morning, as they sipped
their early coffee at the Erzherzog Johann. He was already hard at work
on his projected operetta, but ’twas a fad of his to compose in the open
air; he went out for a long stroll every morning with Florian, and sat
on the hillsides, jotting his thoughts down with a pencil, exactly as
they occurred, face to face with Nature.
“Rue won’t meet us to-day, she says,” his friend answered with a yawn.
“Her nerves are tired after her walk of yesterday. So, for my part, I
vote we go and see Schloss Tyrol. It inspires me, that place,” Florian
went on, warming up—for he had been reading his guide-book. “It has the
interest of a germ, a nucleus, a growing point. I like to think that
here we stand before the embryo of a State—the very heart and core of
the evolving Tyrol. We watch its development, so to speak, from its
central cell. It’s the evolution of law, of order, of authority. The
robber chiefs of that high stronghold perched aloft on the hills”—and
Florian extended one small white hand, as was his wont when he
perorated—“are the centre round which clusters by successive degrees
the whole Tyrolese and Austrian history. I see them pushing their power
in concentric rings from their eagle’s eyrie on the crags above the
valley of the Adige, to Botzen and the Brenner, the basin of the Inn,
the Bavarian March, the entire Eastern Alps, from the Engadine to the
Dolomites. Their Schloss there is the original and only genuine Tyrol.
By successful robbery, which is the basis of all the divine rights of
governments, they become the masters and lords of a mighty province;
they dictate peace and justice to obedient villagers; they stand out in
course of time as an earthly providence. But what were they at first?
Why, a den of thieves! There you have the whole evolution of morality in
a nutshell—the rule of the strong, established and maintained by
continued aggression. So I will see Schloss Tyrol; I will be a pilgrim
at the shrine; I will refresh myself at the fount of law and order as it
exists and envisages itself for these innocent mountains.”
“It’s an interesting place,” Will replied, taking no notice of Florian’s
gush, “and it’s well worth visiting. I’ve seen it before. I’ll sit on
the rocks outside and write, while you go in and look at it.”
So after breakfast they started up the narrow old road, paved in places
with cobble-stones, and overarched in its lower slopes by graceful
festoons of trellised vines, that leads from Meran along a shoulder of
the hills to the earliest home of the counts of Tyrol. ’Twas a true
South Tyrolese November morning. It froze hard through the night, and
the ice still lay thick on the pools by the wayside; but in that keen,
crisp air, and with that cloudless sky, the sun overhead blazed as warm
as summer. Up the Passer valley to their right, as they mounted, the
villages and churches on the slopes of the Ifinger stood out in dazzling
white against their dark green background. The little mountain path,
bordered as usual by countless petty crucifixes and whitewashed shrines,
wound in continuous zig-zags up the face of the Küchelberg, a wedge of
rounded rock that overlooks the town, draped with vineyards on its
sides, and worn smooth on its summits by the titanic ice mills of the
glacial epoch. The chapels in particular excited Florian’s interest.
“There’s more religion to the square mile in the Tyrol,” he said, “than
in any other country I ever visited!”
They rose by slow degrees till they reached the long hog’s back which
separated the wild Passer glen from the wider and more luxuriant Adige
valley. Florian stood still to gaze. Tier upon tier of vines, in endless
galleries, roofed the southern slope as with one leafy arbour; the long
shoulder itself on whose top they now stood was green with pastures, and
watered by plashing artificial leats which had worn themselves deep beds
like natural streamlets. The music of falling water accompanied them all
the way; the cow-bells tinkled pleasantly from the fields on either
hand; and the views, as they walked along the crest of the ridge,
looking down into the two valleys with their villages and klosters,
their castles and towers, seemed infinite in the variety of their beauty
and interest. Above soared the bare peaks of the Muthspitze and the
Tschigatspitze; to the east rose the fissured summits of the cloven
Dolomites; the white mass of the Lanser Ferner closed the glen to
westward.
After nearly an hour’s walk, as they approached the little village of
Dorf Tyrol on the hill-top, they passed a huddled heap of wayside
boulders, over whose ledge the stream that had accompanied them so far
on their road tumbled from a small sluice in a bickering cataract. Two
girls were seated on the brink of the torrent with their backs turned
towards them. As the young men approached, one of the girls looked
round, and gave a start of surprise. “Why, Linnet,” she cried in German,
“here he is again!—your Engländer!”
Linnet turned, with a crimson flush on her nut-brown face, to think that
Philippina should speak so openly of Will, as of some one that belonged
to her. But her cheek, to say the truth, was hardly redder than Will’s
own, as he heard himself so described by the laughing _sennerin_ as
Linnet’s Engländer. He couldn’t conceal from himself, however, the fact
that he was glad to meet Linnet under whatever circumstances. With a
wondering heart, he went up and took her hand. “Why, when did you come
here?” he asked, all astonished.
“The day before yesterday,” Linnet answered, tingling.
“And she sang last night at the Austria,” Philippina put in, with her
good-humoured smile, “and made a great success, too, I can tell you
that; and took, oh, ever and ever so much money. Herr Andreas is so
pleased. He goes chuckling to himself. I think he thinks Linnet will
make his fortune.”
“And how long do you stop here?” Will inquired, half-anxiously,
half-eagerly.
“About a month,” Linnet answered, looking deep into his eyes, and
keeping down the rising tears as well as she could in her own. “And you,
Herr Will? how long do you mean to remain here?”
“A month or six weeks,” Will replied with a thrill. Then he added,
gazing hard at her, in spite of Florian, “so I hope we may still have
many chances of meeting?”
Florian flung his fragile form at full length on the heap of stones by
their side, and began to laugh unrestrainedly. “Well, it’s no use
fighting against fate,” he cried, looking up at the blushing pair, with
philosophic indulgence for the errors and foibles of youth and beauty
and the poetic temperament. “You must go your own way, I suppose. I
retire from the contest. I’ve done my very best, dear boy, to preserve
you from yourself; but the stars in their courses seem to fight against
Sisera.” He extended both his small hands with paternal unction. “Bless
you, my children,” he cried, theatrically. “Be happy. Be happy.”
“Which way are you walking?” Will asked in German, to cover his
confusion.
“Well, we were going towards the Schloss,” Philippina replied, smiling.
“But the climb’s rather stiff, so we sat down for awhile by these
stones, just to rest on the hill-top.”
“The finger of fate again!” Florian cried, much amused, raising his
hands deprecatingly. “Well, Will, there’s no help for it; I see they