CHAPTER X

THE PRINCE DE HANSFELD

An immense chamber, occupying the whole of one wing in the Hôtel Lambert, formed the entire dwelling-place of Arnold de Glustein, Prince of Hansfeld, the mysterious personage, concerning whom so many strange conjectures and varied rumours were afloat.

And well might the aspect of the long gallery or chamber we are about to describe warrant the many charges of whimsical originality.

The moment chosen for introducing the reader to this strange abode is shortly after the sounds of the organ had ceased (to the extreme satisfaction of the princess), that is to say, about the hour when the pale light of a winter's day began to dissipate the mists of the morning.

Let the reader picture to himself a room nearly one hundred feet in length, with a ceiling crossed by large projecting beams, once painted and gilded, as well as the spaces between them. By a caprice of the prince all the windows had been closed up, except one high, long, and narrow Gothic casement, placed at the extremity of the gallery, and filled with panes of painted glass. The light thus admitted through this narrow opening produced a singular effect by struggling against the blaze of six wax-lights, burning in an ancient brazen candelabrum suspended from one of the joists by a silken cord, close to the window itself. Thanks to this method of lighting the place, that portion of that vast gallery was, day and night, supplied with a clear, soft light, while the remainder of the spacious chamber was lost in obscurity.

Nothing could be more singular than the gradual shading off of the light, which, at first entering all the more brilliantly as the rays were in a manner filtered through the high window with its variegated panes, decreased insensibly until it wholly disappeared in the distant recesses of the chamber, while the different objects it encountered on its passage, sharing in the effect of the diminishing brightness, assumed all manner of wild and fantastic forms; for instance, as the expiring light struggled towards the end of the gallery, its fading beams, striking against the designs wrought upon various suits of Damascus steel armour, seemed to send forth a shower of bright, scintillating sparks.

Almost beside the only small door which gave admittance into this gallery, and in one of its gloomiest corners, might be discerned a white mass resembling a human form. This was a skeleton attired in the most whimsical manner. On its head it wore a bishop's mitre; one hand leaned upon a beautifully ornamented sword, of the time of the _Renaissance_, while the other held a seven-stringed ivory lute, the base of which was supported on the knee; by a fanciful caprice, a wreath of roses (a great rarity at that time of year) of surpassing beauty and exquisite perfume, surmounted this lute. A mantle of white cloth, studded with the letters X and M, interwoven and embroidered in gold, hung in majestic folds over the hollow chest of the skeleton, and, falling in long-flowing drapery, allowed no part of its figure to be seen, with the exception of the lower part of the thigh and the whole of the right foot. This foot, remarkable for its smallness, was clad, as though in mockery, in a white satin shoe, whose silken sandals floated in long-streaming bows on the leg-bone, white and polished as ivory.

But if the eye of the spectator, becoming sufficiently accustomed to darkness, should thoroughly investigate the more minute parts of this singular object, he might be able to discern beneath the silken sandals and slipper of satin various dark-coloured spots, easily recognised as those formed by blood.

This strange and awful memento of mortality was placed upon a pedestal of ebony, exquisitely ornamented with bas-reliefs and inlayings of silver and ivory.

By one of those striking contrasts which abounded throughout the whole of this strange apartment, the ornamental part of the pedestal by no means assimilated with the osseous spectacle it supported. On the contrary, the perfection of Florentine art, as it was in the fifteenth century, seemed expended on this master-piece of carving and sculpture. Nevertheless, the pure and exquisite style of the ornaments, charming as they were, bore reference to the gloomy object whose base they decorated. The figure of the skeleton, leaning one hand on a naked sword, and with the other supporting a lute, its head bearing an episcopal crown, and its foot a woman's shoe, was to be seen amidst all the varied and artistical combinations of design.

Thus Cupids, supported by the fabulous birds so much in favour during the _Renaissance_, resembling the eagle in the head and wings, and the syren in the capacious folds of their tail, were introduced as bearing the hideous skeleton in their tiny arms.

In another part was represented a group of nymphs, whose chastely elegant attitudes would have reflected no discredit on the sculptors of Greece itself, sporting beneath the walls of the richest and most splendid _salons_, while busying themselves in preparing the toilette of the grisly phantom; one graceful creature holding the sword, another the lyre, and a third presenting the mitre.

In a corner of this exquisite specimen of Florentine skill, two nymphs, gracefully designed, were represented as holding between them the sandals of the shoe, while a little Cupid, nestled in this Cinderella's slipper, was employing it as a swing.

During these fanciful preparations the skeleton, reclining on a Grecian couch, and half hidden by its flowing draperies, looked on, smiling with a ghastly smile at the sportive dances of the nymphs, whilst with its bony fingers it grasped a bouquet of roses presented by a group of lovely children. A small tripod of silver gilt, most elaborately wrought, was placed at the base of this pedestal, for the double purpose of serving as a lamp, and, likewise, a burner of perfumes.

If the remainder of the furniture of this spacious gallery was less remarkable for its incongruous mixture of gloomy and sportive ideas, it was not less worthy of notice from its singular combination; some of the articles meriting close attention from their extreme rarity, the others claiming observation from the extraordinary mutilation they had undergone.

A painting, placed in one of the divisions of the gallery, where but a dim, religious light stole in, represented a female of exquisite beauty, and by the freshness of the colouring, the half-concealed light, the perfect grace of the design, and softness of touch, it was easy to recognise the masterly hand of Leonardo da Vinci; but, alas! instead of the liquid, clear, expressive eye, to which that unrivalled artist had doubtless almost communicated life, two sharp, fine stilettos, or sharp, glittering blades of steel, shot forth from the sockets whence the eyes had been ruthlessly, barbarously torn. Could this fearful mutilation have been a mournful, yet ferocious jest, upon the ancient maxim in mythology, that "_the eyes of beauty dart forth mortal arrows?_"

It was impossible to view this outrage to a work of art, in itself a master-piece, without considerable indignation; but this sentiment was quickly forgotten in the admiration excited by a small white monument close adjoining, the ornaments of which were borrowed equally from the pagan and Christian mythology.

In a scroll, supported by Loves and Angels, were traced in letters of gold the names of Phidias and Raphael, beneath a sort of _Prie-Dieu_, the worn state of whose velvet cushion sufficiently attested its constant use, as though some fervent admirer of those two great and immortal geniuses was in the frequent habit of invoking their mighty inspirations in humble, supplicating entreaty, or of pouring forth his gratitude for the ineffable enjoyments which a taste for the sublime and beautiful is calculated to bestow upon man. And, indeed, various copies or engravings of the most celebrated cartoons of Raphael, placed side by side with fragments from the Parthenon, selected with perfect taste and correctness of judgment, gave evident proofs of an intimate acquaintance with, and a passion for, the fine arts, wholly irreconcilable with the barbarous mutilation of which we have before made mention.

But, in proportion as the enlightened part of the gallery was approached, so did the objects in this so singularly selected abode of the Prince de Hansfeld change their character; the nearer they drew to the light, the greater was their splendour. For instance, near the window was to be seen a rare collection of Indian and Eastern arms, sabres of silver encrusted with coral, poniards, whose hilts were studded with precious stones, were sheathed in scabbards of crimson velvet, richly wrought in gold. The blue steel of Damascus bent beneath its golden case, glittering with emeralds and rubies; while Indian bucklers, bearing bas-reliefs of silver gilt, sparkled with the dazzling constellations of bright gems they presented, forming one bright, glowing, scintillating, luminous mass, to which the light admitted by the painted window added still more glowing and varied hues, while language would fail in describing the splendidly curious articles of gold, enamel, and carving, piled in gorgeous confusion upon the mother-of-pearl shelves placed immediately in the close vicinity of the window.

The flood of light let down by the many-coloured window, and reflected back by the dazzling objects on which it fell in rainbow hues, resembled a cascade of sparkling brilliancy to which the sun lends every prismatic shade.

This comparison seemed so much the more striking, as, immediately beneath the window, and occupying the arched space under it, stood a large organ. Two figures, three feet high, of angels, sculptured in ivory, supported the keyboard of the instrument, which was also of ivory. The rest of the body of the organ, whose summit reached the window itself, was composed of Gothic panels of finest ivory, carved with the fineness and delicacy of lace, without in any way detracting from the sonorous depth of the instrument. Four light and graceful Caryatides, adorned with golden crowns and ornamented with precious stones, separated the panels and supported a frieze of solid stones, represented a garland of flowers, fruit, and leaves, the cherries being formed of cornelian, the plums of amethyst, the apricots of topaz, blue-bells of lapis, with leaves of malachite and hyacinths of aqua marines,--shone with all the brilliancy and natural look of the fruits and flowers so skilfully imitated.

This organ, ten feet high and five wide, occupied the entire space beneath the long painted window, let into one end of the gallery.

The space which remained at each side of the window was filled up to the ceiling with the innumerable rich and gorgeous articles we have elsewhere described.

Seated before this ivory organ was the Prince de Hansfeld. He wore a long tunic of black woollen, loosely confined round the waist, a sort of black velvet cap but half concealed his hair, portions of which, escaping, fell in long, light locks upon his shoulders, which were somewhat bent. His long, loose sleeves were thrown back almost to the elbows during the rapid passage of his long thin fingers over the keys of the instruments, displaying hands and arms while and polished as marble, but unnaturally small and wasted. The finger-nails, even though well shaped, hard, and polished as agate, possessed not that roseate tint so sure a harbinger of good health, but were surrounded by a pale, blue circlet; while the head of the prince, slightly thrown back, proved that his eyes were cast upwards towards the ceiling.

After having paused for some time, the Prince de Hansfeld recommenced playing, but in an extremely low key.

Whether it were the superior excellence of the mighty organ or the skilful hand that touched it, it is certain that never did sounds so full, so soft, yet so sonorous, breathe forth in notes of melancholy sweetness, amounting almost to passionate expression.

It would be wholly impossible to trace the source of those feelings which found vent in passages at once so thrilling, yet soul-saddening, now plaintive as a sigh, yet sweet and touching as the smile bestowed by a mother on her infant, then breaking forth again in strains harmonious, vague, unfinished, capricious as the thought which, flitting through the mazes of a saddened imagination, suddenly glows with the pure, rapturous whispering of hope, whose finger points from troubled clouds to the clear, serene azure of summer skies. And the hardest heart must have owned the influence of those delicious sounds, descending in gentle melody like a flood of happy tears. In the solemn stillness of the night the rich, full sounds of the organ pealed forth in grander majesty, and ascended unto heaven itself, even as the incense of the heart.

There was one particular strain which occurred frequently and at regular intervals during these inspired performances. To convey a notion of the ideas which were called up by this enchanting passage, played on the highest and most _glassy_ notes of the instrument, it will be requisite to evoke the most youthful, smiling, and joyous images, such as these.

Like each pearly drop as it hangs on the soft, green moss, or the roseate colours of an early spring morning.

All that is soft and gently soothing in the mild silver beams of the moon, as during a delicious summer's night she plays amid the dark shadows of the thick woods, whose wavy branches keep time to the delicious warbling of the nightingale.

All the happiness, pure joy, and innocent hope, poured forth by the innocent maiden of sixteen summers, as in the fulness of her youthful delight she warbles her pleasure at seeing, in company with her adored mother, the rising sun gild the summit of the tall trees at the moment when the flowers unfold their leaves and expand their perfumed blossoms.

All the pleasing, yet serious reveries, which possess our minds as we contemplate the countless scintillations of the starry worlds revolving in their course in unlimited space.

But no words can adequately describe the poetical images invoked by that sweet and gentle melody which, stealing in at intervals, appeared to cast a bright and serene charm over the gloomy style of the compositions performed by the prince.

The descriptions of pieces chosen by the prince savoured, indeed, of his own peculiar character; they breathed, indeed, the very ideality of German moodiness, the soft fancies of Mignon, not altogether that which conjured up so many graceful fantasies, but, rather, the gloomy whisperings which invoked the pale shade of Leonora.

The sadness of Arnold was so far peculiar to himself that, although perfectly resigned to his sorrow, he harboured neither anger nor bitterness of spirit.

His greatest delight seemed to be in modulating the exquisite passage we have alluded to; to it he clung with the fondness and tenacity we are apt to feel for some dear object of our early recollections.

The sharp, shrill, and prolonged sound of a bell made the prince start as though painfully aroused from his reverie.

At the harsh sound of the bell he suddenly discontinued his strain. And the last vibrations of the organ died away in the vast gallery like an expiring sigh.

Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless.

The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney.

Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.

The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron.

With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,--

"Is that you, Frank?"

"Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,--"take the box, will you?"

"You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince.

"Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door--you shall see me from head to foot."

"Oh, no, no!--not to-day."

"Come, come, my dear boy, you are low-spirited--I know it. But take the box; I bought the bread at one place and the fruits at another."

The prince stretched forth his hand and eagerly took a small mahogany casket bound with steel, which was passed to him through the wicket.

"Good night, or, rather, good day, Arnold."

"Adieu, Frank."

And with these few, hasty words, the wicket was quickly closed.

Not far from the door was a bed composed of two thick and silky bear-skins, spread over a large divan. On this couch Arnold seated himself, placing the box on a small, curiously wrought ebony table, on which lay a pair of loaded pistols. Taking a key, which was also on this table, he opened the casket, which contained merely a small loaf just fresh from the oven, and some winter fruits.

The prince regarded these eatables, worthy of an anchorite, with a species of mistrust, as though his suspicions struggled with his appetite. However, he broke the loaf in half, and after closely examining it, and even smelling it, he lifted it to his lips, but suddenly changing his intention, he threw it from him with terror, then, concealing his face in his hands, Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly.