But Ordham soon dismissed the shortcomings of a city he hoped to revisit many times in the course of his life. A crowd of peasants trooped through the Siegesthor, which he was leisurely approaching on his way to the villa of Countess Tann. They had come down from their village in the Bavarian Alps to assist in the festivities of Schwabing, and were now bound for one of the humbler cafés of the city. They were in gala attire; the women homely, shapeless, sunburnt, their plastered hair surmounted by a flat round hat that looked like a lid, and probably represented Fashion making her first essay in headgear; the thick full skirt swayed as if hooped, its ugliness offset, however, by the short-waisted white bodice over which was laced a silk or velvet corselet, much decorated with silver chains, buttons, brooches, filigree, and seed pearls. The short skirts revealed large flat feet made conspicuous by their proud owners with white open-work stockings, and low shoes fitted with tassels, bows, and silver buckles. The men were straighter, better set up, improved by their coats of tan. They wore short black leather trousers embroidered with green, lively waistcoats, white shirts, black velvet jackets embroidered with green, and almost as much silver as the women. Their thick knitted stockings of grey and green exposed both knee and ankle, and all wore the little green Alpine hat with its eagle’s feather, and smoked a pipe a yard long with a painted bowl. On the whole they were vastly more attractive than the average young Münchener with his high collar, red face, tight and ill-cut Sunday clothes.
Suddenly, far down the Leopoldstrasse, which continues the Ludwigstrasse beyond the arch, appeared a cloud of dust. From it emerged mounted police. They galloped down the highway, waving the crowds to the pavements, the vehicles to the very curbs. This could mean but one phenomenon, and although Ordham coloured with annoyance at being swept aside with the rabble, he stood up in his cab to obtain a better view. A moment later, escorted by a cavalry guard in brilliant uniforms, a carriage became visible, its six horses galloping as if pursued by the furies of hell. Ordham held his breath, expecting an accident in the tunnel of the Siegesthor, but the carriage shot through without swerving a hair’s breadth; and as Ludwig stood suddenly upright, all that vast concourse, that now so rarely saw their King, set up a shout that made even the old cab horses start and paw the ground.
“Heil! Heil! Unserem König, Heil! Hoch Ludwig! Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!”
A flush rose to the heavy pallid face of the King, and his beautiful restless eyes sparkled, he smiled graciously. But he was always the conscious actor, and as the carriage flew up the street, as if the horses indeed were winged, he stood with his arms folded, his head high, as if already on a pedestal instead of in a bounding vehicle. Little wonder the Bavarians adored a monarch ever able to furnish them with impromptu theatricals. They cheered and yelled, waved hats, parasols, and handkerchiefs, until the Englishman felt the blood racing in his own veins. No doubt it raced in the King’s. The hearts of the Bavarians never wavered in their loyalty to this romanticist, who to the last had something of the immortal gods in his make-up. Had he shown himself spectacularly during those fatal days when arrest impended, but while escape from Neuschwanstein was still possible, his capital would have flocked to his standard and intimidated the ministry. But Ludwig had cultivated the tragic attitude too long.
The King vanished almost as quickly as he had come. Ordham’s cab ambled on its way: through the Siegesthor, along the still half-rustic Leopoldstrasse, and into the village of Schwabing. Here the narrow zigzag streets, the rural lanes, the riverside, the little beer gardens, were as thronged as the city, while opposite, in the Englischergarten, there were glimpses of another crowd which completed the impression that every house in Munich must be deserted.
Few villages in the high Alps are more picturesque than Schwabing, which still has its old mill, and the tower of whose white church, perched high, swells into one of those graceful spheres that form links in an invisible chain through the blue of Bavaria, Austria, and Hungary to the land of the Turk. About the church were many graves; and a few old women in black, hatless, bent, were praying there.
XVIII
THE SYSTEM’S FLOWER
Countess Tann’s house faced a street so narrow that had not her walls been high and her opposite neighbour’s abode humble she would have been forced to keep her curtains drawn. It was on the very edge of the village, and her garden extended along the highway beyond. There were few flowers in the garden, for Bavaria is not the land of flowers, but there were many trees; and wide gates at the back could be rolled apart to frame a picture of the Isar and the Englischergarten.
The front gate was of wrought iron and afforded glimpses of the secluded little park and of the villa’s ornate façade. Ordham rang the bell several times before the old butler sauntered out, half asleep, and informed the impatient visitor that the Frau Gräfin was driving, but had left instructions to admit Mein Herr, should he call and be disposed to wait.
Ordham sent his kutscher to a near-by beer garden and followed the servant to the gallery. He declined coffee until the return of the hostess, and old Kurt opened a box of cigarettes and departed to ponder upon the marvel of a young man in the house. The maids were gallivanting or there would have been high discussion.