I commend my spirit, for Thou hast redeemed me, Thou God of truth.)—When one thinks that it was the general belief in that age that the whole ducal race had been destroyed and blasted by Sidonia's sorceries, it is impossible not to be affected by these melancholy yet resigned and Christian words of the last orphaned and childless representative of the ancient and illustrious house of Wolgast.]
But to continue. The Duchess embraced the fine young Prince, who still continued talking of the dance they must have next day. It was time now for his gracious mother to give up mourning for her deceased lord, he said.
But her Grace would not hear of a dance; and replied that she would continue to mourn for her dear lord all the rest of her life, to whom she had been wedded by Doctor Martinus. However, the Duke repeated his entreaties, and all the young nobles added theirs, and finally Prince Ernest besought her Grace not to deny them permission to have a festival on the morrow, as it was to honour her birthday. So she at last consented; but old Ulrich shook his head, and took her Grace aside to warn her of the scandal which would assuredly arise when the young nobles had drunk and grew excited by Sidonia. Hereupon her Grace made answer that she would take care Sidonia should cause no scandal—"As she has refused to learn her catechism, she must not appear at the feast. It will be a fitting punishment to keep her a prisoner for the whole day, and therefore I shall lock her up myself in her own room, and put the key in my pocket."
So Ulrich was well pleased, and all separated for the night with much contentment and hopes of enjoyment on the morrow.
CHAPTER XII.
Of Appelmann's knavery—Item, how the birthday of her Highness was celebrated, and Sidonia managed to get to the dance, with the uproar caused thereby.
Before I proceed further, it will be necessary to state what happened a few days before concerning Prince Ernest's chief equerry, Johann Appelmann, otherwise many might doubt the facts I shall have to relate, though God knows I speak the pure truth.
One came to his lordship the Grand Chamberlain—he was a shoemaker of the town—and complained to him of Appelmann, who had been courting his daughter for a long while, and running after her until finally he had disgraced her in the eyes of the whole town, and brought shame and scandal into his house. So he prayed Lord Ulrich to make the shameless profligate take his daughter to wife, as he had fairly promised her marriage long ago.
Now Ulrich had long suspected the knave of bad doings, for many pearls and jewels had lately been missing from her Grace's shabrack and horse-trappings, and the groom, who always laid them on her Grace's white palfrey, knew nothing about them, though he was even put to the torture; but as Appelmann had all these things in his sole keeping, it was natural to think that he was not quite innocent. Besides, three hundred sacks of oats were missing on the new year, and no one knew what had become of them.
Therefore Ulrich sent for the cheating rogue, and upbraided him with his profligate courses, also telling him that he must wed the shoemaker's daughter immediately. But the cunning knave knew better, and swore by all the saints that he was innocent, and finally prevailed upon Prince Ernest to intercede for him, so that Ulrich promised to give him a little longer grace, but then assuredly he would bring him to a strict account.
And Appelmann drove the Prince that same day to Grypswald, to find out more musicians for the castle band, as the march of Duke Bogislaff the Great was to be played by eighty drums and forty trumpets in the grand ducal hall, to honour the birthday of her Highness.
One can imagine what Sidonia felt when the Duchess announced that as she had refused to learn the catechism, and was neither obedient to God nor her Grace, she should remain a strict prisoner in her own room during the festival, as a signal punishment for her ungodly behaviour. But her maid might bring her food of all that she chose from the feast.
Sidonia first prayed her Grace to forgive her for the love of God, and she would learn the whole catechism by heart. But as this had no effect, then she wept and lamented loudly, and at length fell down upon her knees before her Grace, who would, however, be neither moved nor persuaded; and when Sidonia threatened at last to leave her room, the Duchess went out, locked the door, and put the key in her pocket. The prisoner howled enough then, I warrant.
But what did she do now, the cunning minx? She gave her maid a piece of gold, and told her to go up and down the corridor, crying and wringing her hands, and when any one asked what was the matter, to say, "That her beautiful young lady was dying of grief, because the Duchess had locked her up, like a little school-girl, in her own room, and all for not knowing the catechism of Dr. Gerschovius, which indeed was not taught in her part of the country, but another, which she had learned quite well in her childhood. And so for this, her poor young lady was not to be allowed to dance at the festival." The maid was to say all this in particular to Prince Ernest; or if he did not pass through the corridor, she was to stop weeping and groaning at his chamber-door, until he came out to ask what was the matter.
The maid followed the instructions right well, and in less than an hour every soul in the castle, down to the cooks and washerwomen, knew what had happened, and everywhere the Duchess went she was assailed by old and young, great and small, with petitions of pardon for Sidonia.
Her Grace, however, bid them all be silent, and threatened if they made such shameless requests to forbid the festival altogether. But when Prince Ernest likewise petitioned in her favour, she was angry, and said, "He ought to be ashamed of himself. It was now plain what a fool the girl had made of him. Her maternal heart would break, she knew it would—and this day would be one of sorrow in place of joy to her; all on account of this girl."
So the young Prince had to hold his peace for this time; but he sent a message, nevertheless, to Sidonia, telling her not to fret, for that he would take her out of her room and bring her to the dance, let what would happen.
Next morning, by break of day, the whole castle and town were alive with preparations for the festival. It was now seven years—that is, since the death of Duke Philip—since any one had danced in the castle except the rats and mice, and even yet the splendour of this festival is talked of in Wolgast; and many of the old people yet living there remember it well, and gave me many curious particulars thereof, which I shall set down here, that it may be known how such affairs were conducted in old time at our ducal courts.
In the morning, by ten of the clock, the young princes, nobles, clergy, and the honourable counsellors of the town, assembled in the grand ducal hall, built by Duke Philip after the great fire, and which extended up all through the three stories of the castle. At the upper end of the hall was the grand painted window, sixty feet high, on which was delineated the pilgrimage of Duke Bogislaff the Great to Jerusalem, all painted by Gerard Homer; [Footnote: A Frieslander, and the most celebrated painter on glass of his time.] and round on the walls banners, and shields, and helmets, and cuirasses, while all along each side, four feet from the ground, there were painted on the walls figures of all the animals found in Pomerania: bears, wolves, elks, stags, deer, otters, &c., all exquisitely imitated.
When all the lords had assembled, the drums beat and trumpets sounded, whereupon the Pomeranian marshal flung open the great doors of the hall, which were wreathed with flowers from the outside, and the princely widow entered with great pomp, leading the little Casimir by the hand. She was arrayed in the Pomeranian costume—namely, a white silk under-robe, and over it a surcoat of azure velvet, brocaded with silver, and open in front. A long train of white velvet, embroidered in golden laurel wreaths, was supported by twelve pages dressed in black velvet cassocks with Spanish ruffs. Upon her head the Duchess wore a coif of scarlet velvet with small plumes, from which a white veil, spangled with silver stars, hung down to her feet. Round her neck she had a scarlet velvet band, twisted with a gold chain; and from it depended a balsam flask, in the form of a greyhound, which rested on her bosom.
As her Serene Highness entered with fresh and blushing cheeks, all bowed low and kissed her hand, glittering with diamonds. Then each offered his congratulations as best he could.
Amongst