The Origin of Sorrow (60 page)

46

Meyer had not seen so many powdered wigs in his entire life as paraded at Landgrave Wilhelm’s coronation ball, in the gold-painted great hall of the palace at Hesse-Kassel. Older men wore the traditional campaign-stye wig, full white hair falling down both sides of their head from a part in the center. Most popular was the Ramillies wig, the hair pulled back tightly into a braid that hung down the back, with just a single curl above each ear. A bowl-shaped toupee, with curls running around the back of the neck from ear to ear, was visible on some. Most striking, particularly on the younger men, was the new hedgehog style, in which the hair stood straight out on all sides, and leaned back, as if it were being blown by a breeze. How it got its name was clear, and only the most confident had adopted it so quickly. One of these was Carl Buderus. Meyer felt it a shame that the young man, for the decorum of the ball, had covered his own flaming locks. Perhaps, as treasurer to the Landgrave, he did not want to appear so young anymore. As for the women, Meyer thought many of their upswept wigs were ridiculous. It was as if they had tried to outdo one another in a contest for a prize. The wigs rose to enormous heights; many were entwined with looping ropes of pearls, or amethysts, or diamonds. These were the conservative ones. Younger women had all manner of plumes and feathers growing out of their wigs, a decoration, he was told, popularized by the reigning Queen of France. Most outrageous of all was a woman whose tall white wig was crowned by a model of a clipper ship under full sail. Who she was and why she had a ship on her head he determined to find out.

Nor had he ever seen such décolletage. The ball gowns of the women, no matter what shade of lavender or green or blue or white, whether of silk or velvet or taffeta, all were cut in a square deep below the neck, displaying surprising amounts of powdered bosom. The older women wore necklaces of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, often several tiers dangling, not only to flaunt their wealth but to distract from the mottled or wattled skin of their necks. The young, pretty ones had left their throats bare, so as not to detract from their appealing natural beauty while they had it. Of the gowns, many were brocaded and widely hooped, in the French style, their wearers seeming to glide upon layers of petticoats when they walked, as if wearing their own private oceans. A few gowns were narrower, in the less giddy style of Vienna. Meyer was not sure if this less flamboyant style attracted mostly older women, or if it made all women look older, and therefore wiser. He was trying to impress in his memory every detail of fashion, because Guttle would be eager to hear them, as would their daughters, and her sisters. He imagined what Guttle would look like got up in such finery. He sensed that she would feel embarrassed.

Everything about Hesse-Kassel was new and wondrous to him. On the second day of his journey he had entered the broad valley of the river Fulda; as he neared the city, steep hills rose on either side of the river. Half way up one of the hills stood the palace of the Landgrave, a great stone edifice with many turrets, much larger even than Wilhelm’s palace in Hanau. The throngs at Friedrich’s funeral had been exceeded only by those at Wilhelm’s coronation. To both events Meyer had worn the gray linen coat, vest and breeches in which he had married Guttle fifteen years earlier. They still fit well enough, only the breeches had required letting out at the waist, though not much; Guttle with her ever present needle had seen to it. For the first time, he had powdered his wig, so he would blend in with the Christian dignitaries. What was forbidden to the Jews in Frankfurt was not forbidden here.

At both events the Landgrave’s private militia had been much in evidence in their

blue and red coats, white breeches, high black boots, tall red hats with gold shields — the same uniforms, Meyer recalled from Ephraim Hess’s letters from America, that the Hessian troops had worn while fighting there. In the day between the funeral and the coronation he had roamed the streets of Kassel. It was the prettiest city he had ever seen, with magnificent buildings and museums and wide boulevards lined with trees, which ended at green parks. Clearly, the riches that had flowed into Friedrich’s coffers from the sale of soldiers to the English king had been put to use in Kassel, if not in the rest of the state of Hesse, where the peasants were as poor as anywhere. Hundreds, if not thousands of them had lined the road into the city, begging alms from the dignitaries arriving in their coaches. Against his instincts, Meyer had not thrown them any coins; he did not want to attract the eye of highwaymen who might be on the lookout for victims with money to spare. He had brought along enough cash to pay for the hotel room Buderus had reserved for him — only visiting nobles were put up in the palace — plus kosher meals in the Jewish quarter and other eventualities. At the last minute he had added a small extra pouch of gulden to mollify any highwaymen who might accost him.

In the afternoon before the coronation ball, Meyer had found Buderus surveying the offices of the royal treasury. Pleased to see him, Buderus had given Meyer a tour of the palace, and of terraced gardens that rose behind it step-like into the hills. The final terrace was dominated by a tall cylinder of stone that overlooked the city. Crowning this monument was a statue of a man, almost naked, wielding a huge club.

“Of whom is that statue?” Meyer had asked. “Surely not the first Landgrave.”

Buderus had laughed appreciatively. “I’m afraid not. That’s Hercules.”

“Ah. The Greek god.”

“Well, not exactly. He was the son of a god and a mortal woman.”

“Like your Jesus.”

Hesitant, considering, Buderus did not respond directly. “He was the strongest man who ever lived.”

“And he is up on that stone because?”

“As a symbol of power, I imagine.”

Meyer turned and surveyed the magnificent palace below them. “With all this money, who needs symbols?”

Buderus led him back down through the terraced gardens. Leafy plants of every description, whose names Meyer did not know, perfumed the air, the unaccustomed sweet scents making his nostrils itch. “At a time like this,” Meyer said, “it would be out of place to ask how much the Crown Prince will be inheriting. I say that just so you know I am interested in doing business with the new Landgrave.”

“It would also be premature. It will take time to do a reckoning. Let me say that I never doubted your interest.”

“Of course. But if an expert were to make a premature guess, he would say … ?”

Buderus glanced about to make sure they were alone. “He might say, at the low end, forty million gulden.”

“That is a nice low end. And at the high end?”

“A hundred and twenty million.”

Meyer paused, and inhaled deeply.

“This height can take your breath away,” Buderus said.

“Yes. May I sit here on the terrace for a bit?”

“Of course. If you have trouble finding your way out, there are guards everywhere. Shall I see you and your wife at the ball tonight? I don’t believe I’ve met her.”

“My wife is not with me.”

“Most women love these things. She’s not ill, I hope.”

“She does not have a pass to leave the Judengasse.”

Buderus closed his eyes, frowned. “Of course. That was thoughtless of me.”

“It is life that is thoughtless.”

When Buderus had disappeared inside the palace, Meyer sat on a wooden bench and looked about. A hundred and twenty million gulden! Even forty million! If he could handle even a small fraction of Wilhelm’s investments, he could become a rich man. But did he envision himself one day living in a mansion draped in gold, framed by gardens, manned by servants? He did not. Life in the Judengasse did not encourage such thoughts. What he did envision was the iron chest in his counting house overflowing with cash, so much so that he had to pile another strong box on top of the first, then another beside it, until there was hardly room to turn about. Enough money to double or triple his business, to give shares to the boys as they came of age, to give nice dowries to the girls when they married.

“Excuse me. Aren’t you Meyer Rothschild?”

The question drew him back to the present, to the ballroom to which he had descended as to a golden magnet, where an orchestra dressed in gold and red was playing, where the wigs and the décolletage were dancing, where he was sipping from a flute of champagne, where in front of him a beautiful woman stood, wearing a powdered white wig bedecked with strings of pearls, her powdered bosom floating white under his eyes from within a purple dress of the finest silk. The quality of fabrics he could tell just by looking.

“Excuse me, have we met before?” She looked familiar, but . . .

“That’s wonderful! You don’t recognize me.” The woman laughed musically. “I’m Dvorah. From the Judengasse.”

“Dvorah Schlicter? Of course! I just didn’t … ”

“You expect red hair!”

“Yes, that’s it.” His heart was fluttering uncertainly, at once glad to see her, guilty to be speaking with her.

“It’s Madeleine von Brunwald now, of course. And the hair is still red under the wig.”

“I just didn’t expect … you live in Berlin… of course, you are a Countess now. All the nobles must have been invited.”

They had to speak loudly over the music. Couples were dancing sedately just a few feet from them. Dvorah looked about. “Is Guttle here?”

“Already you’ve forgotten the laws of Frankfurt? What has it been, nine years?”

“Don’t be cross with me. Of course I have not forgotten. I guess I was just hoping, since you are here … ” She shrugged.

The dance ended. People began moving about, selecting partners for the next.

“Will you dance with me?” Dvorah asked.

“Where is your husband. Paul, isn’t it?”

“He’s over there, talking with some friends. He was thrown from a horse last week during a hunt. His leg is badly bruised, he’s leaning on a crutch. And I do so love to dance.”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

He was thinking: speaking with her is one thing. To dance — that would break faith with Guttle. Seeming to read his face, Dvorah did not insist. He was grateful for that. Instead, he asked her about the wigs and fashions on display. It was a good choice of subject, Dvorah seemed to know everything about fashion from her life in Berlin. But she soon turned the subject.

“You and Guttle have a lot of children. I get letters from my mother.”

“We have six. Another on the way. And you?”

“Paul and I have two, a boy and a girl.”

An awkward silence fell between them. All safe subjects had been completed. Meyer tried to think of a way to excuse himself.

“Meyer … ” She put her hand on his arm. “I stood up for Guttle at your wedding, though I could hardly stand. Why is she being so stubborn all these years? When you are not?”

“I can’t speak for Guttle. Perhaps it’s because I am not a mother.”

“That’s cruel. Here I thought you were being nice.”

“You asked me, Dvorah. I should say, Countess.”

Already he was feeling a slight nausea, the beginning of indigestion. When he returned home, would he tell Guttle of this encounter? She would get upset. But if he did not, she might hear of it from some one else. From Dvorah’s mother. That would be worse.

“Let me ask you something.” He had lowered his voice. Dvorah leaned close, as if expecting some intimacy from the lane. Her face was inches from his, her bosom brushed his lapel, her perfumed powder made him light-headed. “That woman over there. With the boat on her head. Do you know who she is?”

Disappointed, Dvorah glanced away. “That’s Wilhelm’s mistress, Rosalie Ritter. She’s Swedish. Mother of seven of his children.”

“I didn’t know he had so many.”

“That’s only with her. The rumor is there are seventy, altogether.”

“The Crown Prince? Does he have such a handsome face? Does he cut such a dashing figure?”

“You’re funny, Meyer Rothschild. It’s not his face or his figure that’s on his millions of gulden.”

Meyer’s eyes sparkled, the skin beside them crinkled with delight. That was something Guttle might have said. He had often wondered, in the old days, at the depth of her friendship with Dvorah. Perhaps there was more to Dvorah than he had noticed back then, something obscured by her buoyant shapeliness. Something that perhaps had blossomed when removed from Guttle’s shadow.

“Come, let me introduce you to Paul.” Taking his hand, she led him across the ballroom. They passed beside the mistress with the clipper ship atop her wig. From up close Meyer could see, on the deck and climbing the masts, tiny Hessian soldiers. He could not help but smile at her taste; she was flaunting at his coronation the source of Wilhelm’s inheritance.

They approached a gentleman who was leaning on a wooden crutch. Dvorah introduced Meyer to her husband, and to the man with whom he was conversing, a clean-shaven fellow in a blue coat and yellow breeches. Both were sipping champagne. “Meyer Rothschild, an old friend from Frankfurt, this is Wolfgang von Goethe.”

“The writer,” Meyer said, offering his hand. Goethe nodded politely, but did not see — or pretended he did not see — the proffered hand. Ignoring Goethe’s slight, or trying to, Meyer said, “Dvorah here is your most violent reader.”

“Yes, I know that story.”

Dvorah lightly slapped her husband’s arm. “Paul! I asked you never to tell about that.”

“I didn’t. And Herr Rothschild, my wife’s name is Madeleine, if you please.”

“Paul didn’t tell me,” Goethe assured her. “It was Mendelssohn himself, years ago. He found it quite amusing, in retrospect. They say he’s dying now, poor fellow, from a disease of the nerves. He made quite a name for himself, for a Jew.”

Meyer Amschel studied the flute of bubbling liquid in his hand, as if trying to decide if his cautious self should respond, or if he should let the champagne speak. He was tired of acting properly. The drink declined to wait for his decision. “You’re a learned man, Herr Goethe. Do you have a problem with Jews?”

Goethe, too, had been drinking champagne, had consumed several flutes, and his response was unthinking, something he had said many times before, in different company, as if it were a little joke. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to marry one.”

The three listeners tensed. Goethe realized his mistake. “Present company excepted, of course. The Countess has long since renounced the heresy into which she was born.”

Seeing Dvorah’s face redden, and emboldened by the poet’s faux pas, Meyer said, “There is talk that some cities may end the prohibition on marriages between Christians and Jews.”