Creeks where the trouts splash
The fate of one of Napoleon’s Marshals, we will not give his name so as not to irritate historians and pedants, deserves to be told to you, who often complain about the deficiency of human feelings.
The Marshal was still young. Slight grey hair and the scar on his cheek added a special appeal to his face. His face grew dark from constant deprivation and campaigns.
The soldiers loved the Marshal; he shared with them the burdens of the war. He often slept in a field near the fire, wrapped in his cloak awakening from the raucous voice of the trumpet. He drank from the same flask as the soldiers and wore the shabby uniform coat covered with dust.
He did not see or know anything other than exhaustive crossings and battles. It had never occurred to him to stoop in the saddle and simply ask the peasant about the name of the field his horse treaded upon or to discover what was so famous about those cities taken by his soldiers for the glory of France. Continuous war taught him taciturnity and negligence for his own life.
One winter the Cavalry Corps of the Marshal located in Lombardy had been ordered to shift to Germany immediately and join the “big army.”
On the twelfth day the corps found itself in a small German town. The mountains covered with snow gently gleamed in the night. Beech forests stretched around and only the stars twinkled in the sky among the universal stillness.
The Marshal was staying at the inn. After a plain dinner, he sat by the fireplace in a small hall and sent away the subordinates. He was tired and desired solitude. The silence of the town deeply buried in snow, reminded him somewhat of childhood or rather of the latest dream he saw which may never have happened. The Marshal was aware that soon the Emperor will launch a decisive battle. Perhaps he was annoyed by his unusual longing for the silence and calmed himself thinking that silence is something that is much needed ahead of the sweeping rumble of the forthcoming attack.
People get entranced by fire. The Marshal looking unblinkingly at the burning logs in the fireplace failed to notice the entrance of the elderly man with a thin bird-like face. He wore an old patched blue tail-coat. The stranger neared towards the fireplace to warm his chilled hands. The Marshal raised his head and asked discontentedly:
- Who are you, sir? How come you appeared here so imperceptibly?
- I am a musician, my name is Baumweis, replied the stranger.
- I entered quietly because in this winter night one would unwittingly wish to move without any noise.
The musician’s face and voice seemed agreeable and after a brief thought the Marshal said:
- Come and sit by the fire, sir. Frankly, my life rarely affords me such quiet evenings and I will be happy to talk to you.
- Thank you, said the musician, but if you allow me, I’d rather sit at the piano and play. It’s been two hours now that I am haunted by one musical theme. I desperately need to play it, and my room upstairs has no piano.
- Very well... – said the Marshal, although the silence of this night is a lot more enjoyable than the most divine sounds.
Baumweis approached the piano and started playing very softly. The Marshal at this moment imagined that he heard the voices of the deep and light snow around the town, it was as if the winter itself sang; together with all branches of the beech trees heavy from snow, even the fire it seemed jingled in the fireplace.
The Marshal frowned and glanced at the logs, noticing that it’s not the fire jingling but the heel of his jackboot.
- I already started imagining some devilry, said the Marshal. - You must be a hell of a great musician?
- No, replied Baumweis and stopped playing. - I usually play for an amusement during weddings and other festivities at the houses of our young princes and famous nobles.
The creaking sound of runners emerged at the porch. The horses neighed.
- Oh well, Baumweis got up, - those are after me. Allow me to say goodbye.
- Where are you going? - asked the Marshal.
- A forester lives in the mountains, two leagues from here, answered Baumweis. He is currently hosting our lovely national singer Maria Cherny. She is hiding here from the vicissitudes of the war. Today Maria turned twenty-three years old and is having a small dinner party. And what party can do without an old ballroom pianist?
The Marshal arose from his chair.
- Sir, he said, my corps leaves tomorrow morning. Would it be discourteous of me to join you and spend the night at the house of the forester?
- As you wish, replied Baumweis and cautiously bowed, however failing to hide his distinctive astonishment at the words of the Marshal.
- However, not a word to anyone about it, - warned the Marshal. I come out through the back door and join you in the sled next to the well.
- As you wish, - repeated Baumweis, and he bowed again and left.
The Marshal chuckled. He didn’t drink any wine that evening, but somewhat carefree drunkenness overwhelmed him with extraordinary force.
- To the winter! –he exclaimed to himself.
- To hell with it! To the forest, to the night mountains! Perfect!
He put on his cloak and quietly left the inn through the garden. He found the sled next to the well with Baumweis already waiting for him. The horses snorting swept past the guard at the outskirts of the village. The guard habitually, albeit with delay raised his rifle to the shoulder and saluted the Marshal. For a long time he kept listening to the chit-chat of the bells as they went further away and at last shook his head: - What a night! Ah, if only I could have one sip of mulled wine!
Horses raced across the ground forged with silver. The snow melted on their hot muzzles. The forests lay enchanted by the frost. Black ivy strongly enfolded the trunks of the beech trees, as if trying to warm and keep running the life-giving juices inside.
Suddenly the horses halted near the creek. The creek did not freeze. It foamed and roared along the rocks, flowing down from the mountain caves, the forest full of the windfall and frozen leaves.
Horses drank from the creek. Something flashed in the water beneath their hooves as a brilliant stream. They jumped and stampeded at a gallop along the narrow road.
- the trout, said the charioteer. – Jolly fish!
The Marshal smiled. The state of drunkenness continued. It still lasted even when the horses brought the sled to a clearing in the mountains, to the old house with the high roof.
The windows were widely lit. The charioteer jumped down and opened the cloth of the sled.
The door opened wide and the Marshal together with Baumweis entered, dropped the cloak in the low room lit by the candles and stopped at the doorstep. There were a few well-dressed women and men in the room.
One of the women stood up. The Marshal looked at her and realized that it was Maria Cherny.
- Excuse me, said the Marshal and slightly blushed. – I am sorry for the unwelcome intrusion. But we soldiers have neither family nor holidays, nor peaceful joy. Allow me to have a little warmth next to your fire.
Old forester bowed to the Marshal, and Maria Cherny instantly approached, glanced into the Marshal’s eyes and held out her hand. The Marshal kissed her hand, which seemed to him as cold as an icicle. Everyone was silent.
Maria gently touched one cheek of the Marshal, drew her finger along the deep scar and asked:
- Was it very painful?
- Yes, the Marshal replied confusingly, - it was a powerful saber strike.
Then she took his hand and led him to the guests. She introduced him to them, being all shy and radiant, as if she was presenting her fiancé. Whispers of perplexity ran among the guests.
I don’t know, dear reader, if I need to describe to you the appearance of Maria Cherny? If you, just like me, were her contemporary you should have probably heard about the fair beauty of that woman, her light gait, capricious but captivating disposition. There was no man who dared to hope to be loved by Maria Cherny. Perhaps only people like Schiller, could have been worthy of her love.
What happened next? The Marshal stayed at the house of the forester for two days. Let’s not talk about love, because we still do not know what it is. Maybe it is the deep thick snow falling all night long, or winter creeks where the trouts splash? Or is it laughter and singing and the smell of the old resin before the dawn, when the candles are almost burnt down and the stars are pressing through the window glasses to shine in the eyes of Maria Cherny? Who knows? Maybe it is touch of a bare arm upon the rough epaulet and the fingers stroking the cold hair and the old patched tail-coat of Baumweis? It can be masculine tears about what heart had never expected: the tenderness and care, incoherent whisper among the forest nights? Maybe it is the return of childhood? Who knows? And maybe it is the despair before parting when the heart falls apart and Maria Cherny frantically strokes the wallpapers, the tables and the door leaves of the room that had witnessed her love? And maybe, finally, it is the cry and unconsciousness of a woman when behind the windows in the smoke of the torches and sharp cries of the command Napoleonic gendarmes get off their saddles and burst in the house to arrest the Marshal on the personal order of the Emperor?
There are stories that flash out and vanish like the birds, but remain forever in the memory of people who became their unwilled witnesses.
Everything remained the same. The forests still rustled during the wind and the creek circled in small maelstroms the dark foliage. The axe’s sound still echoed the same in the mountains and the town ladies chattered gathering around the well.
However, it was the same forests and slowly falling snow and the glitter of the trouts in the creek that forced Baumweis to take out of the back pocket his old, though lily-white handkerchief and press it to his eyes and whisper an incoherent sad words about the short love of Maria Cherny and about how sometimes life itself turns into music. Though Baumweis whispered despite the heartache, he was glad of being a participant in this story and that he experienced the emotions rarely affordable to the poor old pianist.
1939
No comments:
Post a Comment