What the Swallow Sang: A Novel
by Friedrich Spielhagen · English · Gutenberg #34599 · 590,842 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: What the Swallow Sang: A Novel
Author: Friedrich Spielhagen
Release date: December 8, 2010 [eBook #34599]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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What The Swallow Sang
A NOVEL
BY
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY
MS.
TRANSLATOR OF
"_By His Own Might_," "_A Twofold Life_," _etc_.
NEW YORK
HOLT & WILLIAMS
1873
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
HENRY HOLT,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Poole & Maclauchlan, Printers,
205-213 _East 12th St_.,
NEW YORK.
What The Swallow Sang.
CHAPTER I.
"I won't give you any farther trouble, I can find what I want myself."
The sexton's wife looked at the gentleman in some little surprise, and
then glanced at the bunch of huge keys which hung in the door she had
just opened for the stranger.
"That's right; you need not be uneasy, I shall not stay long, and here
is something for your trouble."
He pressed a piece of money into her hand, and turned towards the door.
"The Herr Pastor has strictly forbidden it," said the woman.
"He will have no objection," replied the stranger. "I will leave a few
words for him."
He took his note-book and wrote a few lines. When he tore out the leaf
he perceived on the other side a little sketch which he had dashed off
that afternoon with a few hasty strokes, while his carriage stopped
before a village inn.
A smile flitted over his grave features.
"That won't do," he murmured. "And here again, everything is filled
with scrawls. Well," he added aloud, as he thrust the note-book back
into his pocket, "I will write from P----. Please tell him so;
farewell, my good woman."
The sexton's wife did not venture to make any reply, and turned away.
The stranger looked after her retreating figure a few minutes.
"Strange," he murmured, "it seems as if it would be committing a
sacrilege to utter my name aloud in this place! It was really a relief
to my mind that the woman did not know me. How we are all under the ban
of gloomy feelings which we should be ashamed to confess to others! To
be sure it is not strange that these emotions should almost overpower
me here; here, in this spot which should be my home, where my cradle
stood, and yet where I was not allowed to return until the grave had
closed over him to whom I owe my life."
He had taken a few noiseless steps within the church, and now pausing,
gazed around the narrow space. The sun, already low in the horizon,
cast through the round, leaden-cased panes of the lofty narrow windows
a mysterious light, which brightened or faded as the soft breeze raised
or lowered the branches of the ancient linden-trees outside the walls.
And thus, now clear now dim, but always sorrowful, the memories of his
early years swept through the stranger's mind as he stood motionless,
his eyes wandering over the massive white-washed walls, the few dusky
pictures hung here and there at far too great a height, the little
oaken font black with age, the altar with its two large brass sconces,
and the pulpit, whose desk was covered with a tattered cloth.
Everything was just as it used to be; he even remembered the holes in
the cover, only it was all very much smaller, more poverty-stricken and
tasteless than memory had pictured it. Yet this was the most favorable
light,--what must it be in the broad glare of day! And his gloomy,
sorrowful childhood,--what was it when he extinguished the magical
light of memory, when he saw it as it really was, as a cold fanatical
father had made it to the child so early bereft of a mother's love.
The traveller started from his revery as a sharp sound suddenly echoed
through the quiet church as if something had burst asunder. It was the
clock, which had just begun to strike. He passed his hand over his
brow, mechanically counted the strokes and listened to the rumbling
echo till the last sound died away. "Seven o' clock," said he; "it is
time for me to set out again."
He walked around behind the benches, up a side aisle, on the right of
the pulpit, until he reached the large iron door of the crypt. It was
fastened, but on both sides, affixed to the wall, were the mural
tablets of the pastors of Rammin, who had preached the gospel over the
coffins of their predecessors whom they were some day to join. He went
to the last stone and read the inscription, that here rested in God,
Gotthold Ephraim Weber, D.D., installed in 1805 as Pastor of St. Mary's
church in Rammin, born August 3d, 1780, died June 15th, 1833.
"Gotthold Ephraim Weber," murmured the stranger, "that is my name too,
and I am also a Doctor of Theology. That I would not remain where my
father placed me, but insisted upon taking the profession for which,
according to my best knowledge and belief, I was born, separated him
who now lies here from me forever. No, no, not that, at least that was
not the true cause! I never understood in your sense what is written
here: 'Blessed are those who die in the Lord.' We were never one, had
been separated long before we parted. Well, father, at least let there
be peace between us now. I wish with all my heart that you may have the
bliss in which you believed; and say: 'blessed are the--dead,' so you
certainly have the happiness in which I believe."
Gotthold made a gesture like one who holds out his hand in
reconciliation. "Let us have peace now," he repeated.
A little bird, which had perched for a moment in one of the openings
above the window, twittered so loudly that the sweet clear tones filled
the silent empty church.
"I will take it as an answer," said Gotthold.
He left the building as slowly as he had entered it, and went down the
broad path in the churchyard to a spot where, at a large iron cross,
which also bore the inscription, "Blessed are those who die in the
Lord," a narrow walk branched off towards the wall. Scarcely anything
had been altered in this older portion of the cemetery; he still
remembered every mound, every cross, every stone, and every epitaph;
there at last was what he was seeking--the grave with the low wooden
railing, the stunted weeping willow, the little slanting cross,
neglected as ever, or perhaps even more so--his mother's grave.
He had lost her so very young, when he was only four or five years old,
that he had scarcely the faintest shadow of personal remembrance; he
had never seen a picture of her, and his father only mentioned her name
when he said angrily: "You are just like your mother," yet perhaps for
this very reason his fancy had always busied itself very frequently
with this dead mother, who had been like him, and would certainly have
loved him as he loved her dear shadow, until it almost assumed a bodily
form. A dear, dream-like form, which came unbidden, and disappeared
when he would so gladly have detained it longer.
He plucked a few leaves from the willow, but scattered them over the
grave again.
"We need no mementos," he said; "we understand each other without any
outward tokens, and it shall remain as it is, decay silently and
gradually, as time wills. Who would be benefited by the most superb
monument I could order from Thorwaldsen's master hand? Not you--what do
the shades in Nirwana care for such earthly vanities--and not I. I
shall never stand upon this spot again, and to others the stone would
be only a stone. No, it is better so; it is in harmony with the place."
He looked up, and his artist's eye wandered over the graves, upon whose
long grass, swaying in the soft breeze, the setting sun scattered rosy
hues, to the ancient church, whose rude square tower still glowed in
the purple light, while the main building was already in deep shadow.
"This scene and hour would make a beautiful picture," said Gotthold,
"but I shall not paint it. That would efface it from my mind, and I
wish to hold it fast there forever."
He closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them did not look
around again as he walked slowly, with his hands behind his back,
through the narrow path to the gate. Suddenly he paused and
involuntarily extended his hand towards two little graves close beside
the path, whose inscriptions had caught his eye in passing. "Cecilia
Brandow," "Caroline Brandow." The date of the birth and death of the
children was also added in tiny characters, as small as the mounds
themselves.
A strange emotion thrilled his frame. He had thought this was over,
utterly effaced from his life, and that he could take the journey to
the bedside of his dying father, which had become a pilgrimage to his
parents' graves, without being disturbed by the vicinity of his early
love. Nay, just now when he came out of the church door, he had gazed
from this lofty stand-point over the wide landscape to the park of
Dahlitz, through whose dusky trees gleamed the white gables of the
mansion, and the past had remained mute. Now it flooded his soul like a
torrent which has suddenly burst its bounds. Her children--and she
herself was then scarcely more than a child! Her children. One, the
eldest, had borne her name--the name which ever since those days had
always had a peculiar, sacred association, so that he could never hear
or read it without a strange thrill. Cecilia! Her children! Strange!
Incomprehensibly strange! Incomprehensible as the death to which they
had so soon fallen victims! She had wept and knelt at these graves with
her husband beside her, the husband whose name was also inscribed in
gilt letters upon these tablets, and who asserted his paternal rights
in the Christian name of the younger: "Carl Brandow"! Did he too shed
tears for his children? It was impossible to think of Carl Brandow's
sharp, hard features wet with tears.
How the face of Gotthold's enemy--the only one he had ever had--rose in
almost tangible outlines before his mind, while a sharp pang ran
through the deep scar which, beginning under his hair, passed over the
right temple, across the cheek, and even divided the heavy beard, the
scar on whose account the sexton's wife, mindful of the words that
marked people should be avoided, had been so unwilling to leave the
stately stranger alone in the church. Was the wound going to bleed
again--the wound that man's hand had dealt when both were schoolboys?
Would it have been any miracle at that moment, when his heart was
throbbing so violently, as if to say: The wound I have been struck is
newer by some years, and much fresher and deeper, yet you see it is not
healed as you supposed, and never will be!
"Never," said Gotthold, "never! Well, at least I will not touch it.
And--the innocent children are not to blame, if there is blame
anywhere. I wish. I could call them back to life for you, poor Cecilia,
and may Heaven preserve those who I trust have been given you in their
place!"
A figure clad in black, with a low broad-brimmed hat and white
neck-tie, approached the churchyard from the parsonage. It was
doubtless his father's successor, the new Pastor, who had returned from
examining the school earlier than the sexton's wife expected, and come
in search of the stranger who had inquired for him, and then ordered
the church to be unlocked. In his present excited frame of mind
Gotthold would gladly have avoided this meeting; but the reverend
gentleman appeared to have seen him already, for he quickened his
steps, and, as Gotthold now approached him, held out both hands,
exclaiming: "Must we meet again under such sorrowful circumstances?"
Gotthold cast a puzzled glance at the beardless, plump white face of
the man who now stood before him, clasping and pressing his hands; his
watery blue eyes winking perpetually, either from emotion or because
the setting sun was shining into them.
"Don't you know me, my dear brother?" asked the reverend gentleman;
"didn't they tell you my name? August Semmel--"
"Surnamed Kloss,"[1] said Gotthold with an involuntary laugh. "I beg
your pardon, I really had not heard your name, and then I have never
seen you lately except in uniform, with a military cap on one side of
your head, and your face covered with a beard; it is really an
excellent mask."
Pastor Semmel dropped Gotthold's hands and hastily turned away, so that
he placed himself in shadow.
"A mask," he said, rolling up his eyes piously; "yes indeed! and, as I
now think, a very vain, not to say sinful one. I often scolded you then
because you would not enter our corps, although you sometimes did not
disdain to go to an ale--to amuse yourself with us, I mean; now I envy
you for having had the power of self-renunciation I lacked."
"So Saul has now become Paul," replied Gotthold smiling, "while my
journey to Damascus is still delayed."
"Yes, yes," said the Pastor. "Who would have thought it! The most
industrious of us all at school, the most indefatigable at the
university; always held up as a pattern by teachers and professors;
when in the fourth session already cram--preparing us older ones for
the examination, passing your own with great distinction, and all
this--"
"For Hecuba! No, dear Semmel, you must not revile my art, although I
freely admit I am but a poor artist as yet. But I can assure you of one
thing: it is easier to pass a creditable examination in theology than
to paint a good picture. I speak from experience; besides if I had
remained a theological student, who knows whether the son might not
have stepped into his father's place instead of you? That is to be
considered too."
"There would have been a terrible competition," said Herr Semmel,
"although on the other hand a prophet has little honor in his own
country; and to be frank, when I was a candidate here--after I left
Halle I spent four years in Lower Pomerania as a tutor in Count
Zerneckow's family, and afterwards came to Neuenkirchen to relieve the
old man, who had grown very garrulous, so that I thought I was
positively settled--but he has entirely recovered his powers again, and
so it happened very opportunely--what was I going to say? yes--when I
applied for this place a month ago, and thought it would be an
advantage to present myself as an intimate school and university friend
of my predecessor's son, I found the recommendation was not
satisfactory everywhere. Herr Otto von Plueggen of Plueggenhof--"
Gotthold could not help laughing. "I suppose so," said he, "I have
often punched his stupid head when he went to school in P."
"You know I was in the first class, while you were still in the
second," continued the Pastor in an apologetic tone, "and had entirely
forgotten that you must have known each other; but when, warned by my
experience with von Plueggen, I mentioned you more cautiously to several
others, I found a certain, what shall I term it? hostility would be
unchristian, but--"
"Let us drop the subject," said Gotthold somewhat impatiently.
"Certainly, certainly," replied the Pastor, "although you will be glad
to hear that I took advantage of this very opportunity to speak of your
generous gift to the poor of our parish, which--"
"But why did you do that when I particularly requested that my name
should not be mentioned?"
"Because it is written: 'Thou shalt not hide thy light under a bushel;'
and because it was the only way to silence the injurious report that
had become associated with your name."
"Injurious report?" asked Gotthold.
"Why yes, because people knew that for the last seven years, ever since
your uncle's death, you have been in possession of a large fortune, and
yet your father--"
"Good Heavens! what could I do," cried Gotthold, "if my father
obstinately refused all my offers? but I really cannot discuss this
matter any farther. Besides, it is high time for me to set out, if I
wish to reach P. in good season. Has Herr Wollnow arranged everything
my father left according to your wishes? Unfortunately, I could not
attend to it myself, since, as you have probably learned from him, I
fell sick on my journey, and was forced to remain several weeks in
Milan; but I wrote to him from there to carry out the wishes of my
father's successor in every respect."
"Without knowing who that successor was!" exclaimed Herr Semmel; "yes,
that's the way with you artists. Well, I have not been grasping. True,
there were many valuable books on theology in your father's library
which I would gladly have retained, and as you gave the purchaser
permission to set his own price--"
"That is all right, my dear Semmel, and now don't come a step farther."
"Only to your carriage, which I saw standing at the door of the inn."
"Not another step, I beg of you."
They were standing at the churchyard gate, which opened into the
village-street; but the Pastor seemed unable to release Gotthold's
hand.
"For your own comfort, and the honor of your old schoolmates, I must
add one remark in connection with our former subject of conversation.
All were not guilty of such uncharitableness--I may surely be permitted
to give it that name without being uncharitable myself. Some of them
spoke very warmly in your praise; no one more so than Carl Brandow."
"Brandow! Carl Brandow!" exclaimed Gotthold; "it is certainly--"
"Certainly only his duty, if he tries to make amends to you for an
offence committed in youthful thoughtlessness by everywhere asserting
the truth, and declaring that the demon of avarice is the very last
that could obtain dominion over you; and if your father died as poor as
he had lived, it was undoubtedly--"
"Farewell!" said Gotthold, extending his hand across the low door to
the Pastor.
"May God bless and keep you!" said the Pastor. "You ought to spare
another hour to spend with an old friend."
Gotthold said no more. He had withdrawn his hand with almost
uncourteous haste, and was now walking rapidly down the village-street,
with his hat pulled far over his brows. Herr Semmel looked after him
with a contemptuous smile on his fat face.
"The enthusiast!" said he; "it seems as if the ill-luck he has had has
turned his brain. But no matter. People must cling to the rich. Carl
Brandow is a sly fellow. He probably knows why, from the moment he
heard he was coming back, he took a new key, and cannot say enough in
praise of the man whom he once abused like a reed-sparrow. Perhaps he
wants to try to borrow of him. Well, he certainly needs a loan. Plueggen
says he is making his last shifts. He will be at Plueggenhof to-morrow.
My news will make quite an excitement."
CHAPTER II.
The long village-street was empty. Here and there an old woman appeared
in the doorway of one of the low straw-roofed huts, or a few half-naked
children played behind the tangled hedges in the neglected gardens;
every one else had gone to the fields, for this was the first day of
the rye-harvest.
The village-street was empty, and the swallows had free course. Up and
down they moved in their arrowlike flight, now on the ground, now
rising in graceful circles, straight lines, or zig-zag course,
chirping, twittering, and unweariedly fluttering their slender wings.
Gotthold paused, pushed back his hat, which he had drawn over his eyes,
and gazed as if absorbed in thought at the graceful little creatures,
which he had loved from his earliest childhood. While he stood watching
them, the angry displeasure roused by the Pastor's words gradually
yielded to a strange melancholy.
"What the swallow sang, what the swallow sang," he murmured. "Yes, yes,
it echoes through the village just as it did then:--
When I went away, when I went away,
I left well-filled chests behind,
But returning to-day, but returning to-day,
Naught I find.
"I thought I understood it--but I had only read it with my eyes, not my
heart, the heart of a lonely man, who after an absence of ten years
returns to the sacred scenes of his youth to find what I have found
to-day--the most painful memory of that which was once mine."
Up and down flew the swallows, now close to the earth, and now in a
lofty curve over a loaded harvest-wagon which had turned into the
principal street from an adjoining lane, and disappeared in a barn.
"How does it go on," said Gotthold:--
Back the swallows dart, back the swallows dart,
And the chests again run o'er;
But an empty heart, but an empty heart,
Fills no more.
He passed his hand over his eyes to brush away the tears which
constantly sprang into them, while a mournful smile played around his
lips.
"It would be an amusing spectacle to my Roman friends if they could see
me standing here crying like a schoolboy; and what would you say,
Julia? The same thing that you did when I translated the song: That is
all nonsense, my dear friend. How can a heart be empty? My heart has
never been empty since I knew I had one, and now it is full of love for
you, as yours is for me, you German dreamer. Then you stroked the hair
from my brow, and kissed me as only you can kiss. And yet, and yet! If
I loved you, Julia, it was only a feeble semblance of the passion I
once felt, as the pale East just gleamed with rosy light from the
reflection of the sunset glow in the western sky. I have parted from
you, and my heart did not quiver as it did just now when I read on her
children's gravestones the name of one now dead to me."
He extended his hands as if in benediction.
"Sing on your sweet sad song, innocent swallows! Go and return,
bringing Spring to the barren fields and empty human hearts! May Heaven
watch over you, my dear native meadows and beloved birthplace! In spite
of all, you are as sacred to me as the memories of my youth!"
The carriage was waiting at the door of the village-inn. The coachman
had merely loosened the curbs on the horses' necks, that they might eat
the bread chopped into little squares more easily. He now pushed aside
the movable crib, hastily gave them a drink from the half-emptied pail,
and when Gotthold came up was already standing with the reins in his
hand beside the door, which he opened with a friendly grin.
It was the first time he had shown his passenger such an attention.
They had passed over the long road across the island--Gotthold,
contrary to his usual custom, absorbed in gloomy thoughts, and by no
means dissatisfied with the taciturnity of the driver, who sat
motionless before him, hour after hour, his broad shoulders covered
with a blue linen coat, somewhat white in the seams, stooping
carelessly, and smoking a short pipe, which Gotthold did not forbid,
unpleasant as the sickly odor of the weed often was.
He might therefore have some reason to be surprised when, just after
they had left the village and were driving slowly along between the
cornfields, on the narrow by-way that led to the main road, the
broad-shouldered man suddenly turned, and showing his large white
teeth, said in his Platt Deutsch accent:
"Don't you know me, Herr Gotthold?"
"No," said Gotthold, laughing, as he looked into the smiling face of
the driver, "but you seem to be better acquainted with me."
"I've been thinking all the way whether it was you or not," said the
man; "sometimes I thought it was, and then again that it wasn't."
"You might have asked."
"Yes, you may well say so, but I didn't think of it; that would
certainly have been the simplest way. Well, it don't matter now; I know
you--by that!" said the driver, drawing the handle of his whip over his
face to mark the course of Gotthold's scar. "You ought to have been
known by it this morning, for one don't see such things every day; but
it's a long time ago, and such things often happen in war; besides,
with your thick beard and brown, face, you look just exactly as if you
had come from Spain, where no doubt they are fighting again; but when
you stopped just now in Rammin, and went up to the parsonage without
even asking a question, I said at once, 'Yes, it's certainly he.'"
"And you are--you are Jochen--Jochen Prebrow!" exclaimed Gotthold,
cordially extending his hand, which Jochen, turning half-round on his
seat, clasped no less heartily in his huge palm.
"To be sure," said he, "and you really didn't know me."
"How could I," replied Gotthold. "You have grown so tall and stout,
although indeed in this respect you have only fulfilled the promise of
your boyhood."
"Yes, that's so," replied Jochen, "but my sergeant in Berlin always
said it was no vice."
Jochen Prebrow turned back to his horses. He had established the
identity between his stately passenger and the slender playfellow of
his childhood, upon which he had been reflecting all day, and was
perfectly satisfied. Gotthold too was silent; it moved him deeply to
think he could have travelled nearly all day with worthy Jochen, as if
he had been a total stranger.
Jochen Prebrow, the son of the Dollan blacksmith! The pleasant days
again rose before him when he left P. with Curt Wenhof for the
holidays, which must always be spent in Dollan, and Jochen stood on the
moor where the road branched off from the highway, waiting for them,
and waving his cap; Jochen, who was well aware that his good times were
coming with the pair, times of catching fish and snaring birds under
the care of old Cousin Boslaf, to say nothing of a thousand wild,
thoughtless pranks on land and sea for which Curt always undertook to
be answerable to his good-natured father.
"And the young master is dead too," said Jochen Prebrow, again turning
half-round on his seat, in token that having settled the principal
matter, he was now ready to proceed to details.
Gotthold nodded.
"Drowned sailing on the Spree," continued Jochen, "and yet he was
skilful as any sailor, and could swim like a fish; it was very queer,
but he told me that he should come to such an end some day." He filled
his pipe afresh.
"When did he tell you so?"
"He had come from Gr. to his sister's wedding, and afterwards was to go
to Berlin and show whether he had learned his lessons, and he would
probably have come off badly, for our young master was never fond of
study. So he told me about it when we came back from P., where the
wedding took place. I drove the carriage because old Christian was
sick, and then we went at full speed to Dollan, where a great breakfast
was served, and our young master had probably been drinking a little
too much when he came out to the stable, threw himself down on the
straw, and began to sob pitifully.
"What's the matter, young master?" said I.
"Ah! Jochen," he answered, "it's all up. I begged my father to let me
be a farmer, for he would never make a lawyer of me; but he says we
have nothing, nothing at all; he can't even pay my sister's dowry."
"Well, young master," said I, "that's not so very bad; you have a rich
brother-in-law now who can certainly give you some money."
"But he started up, sprang upon me, seized me by the throat, and shook
me till I was afraid for my life, crying: If you ever say another
word about that,--well, it was an ugly word for a man to call his
brother-in-law, especially our young master, who had always been so
good-natured, but I said to myself, He's been drinking too much; for he
wanted me to upset them when I drove them to Dahlitz; you know the
place, Herr Gotthold, just before you get to the smithy, when the moor
lies below you on the left, as you come down the hill. It's very easy
to upset a carriage there so that the people inside will never get up
again; but it's pretty queer business to upset your master's daughter
on her wedding-day, and even if I'd wanted to do it I didn't drive
them, after all, for Herr Brandow had ordered his own carriage with
four horses; and Hinrich Scheel, who was his coachman then and is now,
wouldn't upset them, for nobody can deny that he knows how to drive and
ride."
Jochen Prebrow cracked his whip, and the horses, which had been
advancing along the narrow by-way at a walk, trotted rapidly over the
smooth broad high-road.
A short distance on the left appeared Dahlitz, the fine estate once the
property of the ancient noble family to which Cecilia's mother
belonged, but which had long since passed into the possession of the
plebeian Brandow, and was now Carl Brandow's inheritance.
The highway, as Gotthold remembered, led directly through the estate,
and for a considerable distance farther ran close by the wall of the
park. His heart began to beat violently; his eyes wandered timidly
towards the house, whose white front was already partially visible
between the out-buildings. To pass so near her home, to let the only
opportunity he might ever be offered escape thus, never, never to see
her more!
Gotthold leaned back in the corner of the carriage, drawing the broad
brim of his hat farther over his eyes; he would fain have ordered
Jochen to turn back again. Meantime Jochen was driving on at a slow
trot; it would soon be over. But just as they were passing the gates an
empty harvest wagon came out so rapidly that the horses almost struck
Jochen's. The latter swore, the farm hand swore, and some one standing
in the courtyard swore also, Gotthold could not understand whether at
his own man or the strange coachman--probably at both; but it was not
Carl Brandow's clear voice, and the coarse fat man in top boots, who
strode heavily forward to the gate, certainly bore no resemblance to
Carl Brandow's slight, elastic figure.
Then Jochen again had a free passage for his frightened horses, which
he reined in with considerable difficulty as they passed at full gallop
by the low park wall, over which now and then one could obtain through
the trees and shrubs a view of the pleasure-grounds, and even
distinguish a broad handsome lawn which lay on one side of the mansion.
On this piece of turf was a swing, in which two little girls were just
being carefully pushed to and fro by their nurse, while a half-dozen
other children of all ages gambolled upon the grass, their fresh voices
ringing merrily on the quiet evening air. A stately lady moved among
the group, with a little man dressed in black beside her, apparently
the boys' tutor.
The picture was only visible a few seconds, but Gotthold's keen eye had
seized it down to the smallest detail, and it was still in his mind
when the carriage moved more slowly along the broad highway. His heart
had trembled causelessly; she no longer lived here. Where was she now?
He had not heard a word from home for so long--was she dead? She was to
him, of course, and yet, and yet--
"That Redebas is a coarse fellow," said Jochen taking the reins in his
left hand, "but he understands his business; he'll come out all right."
"So Dahlitz does not belong to Herr Brandow?" said Gotthold.
"Well, I declare," replied Jochen, pointing back with the handle of his
whip into the gathering twilight, "didn't you hear anything yonder
about what has been happening in this neighborhood?"
"Nothing, nothing at all, my dear Jochen. Who was to tell me?"
"To be sure," said Jochen, "writing isn't everybody's business, not
mine for instance, and where you have been I suppose there were very
few mails, and not much opportunity. My sergeant--he was one of the old
soldiers--was in Spain too in 1807 and"--
"But I have never been in Spain," said Gotthold, "I was in Italy."
This objection was both unexpected and unwelcome to Jochen. He had
fully made up his mind during the long hours that he had been
reflecting whether his passenger was the son of the Pastor at Rammin or
not, that if so, he must at any rate have come straight from Spain; for
he had heard that Gotthold had given up "preaching" and was now living
in a foreign country, and Spain was the only foreign country of which
he had ever heard. So he sank into a profound revery, puffing huge
clouds of smoke from his short pipe, and Gotthold, difficult as it was
for him to do so, was compelled to repeat his question, as to where
Herr Brandow was now living, several times.
"Why, where should he live except in Dollan?" said Jochen at last. "He
has come down from a horse to a donkey, but that's always so when
people want to sit so high in their saddles."
"And--and--his wife?"
It must be asked; but Gotthold's lips quivered as he put the question.
"Our poor young lady," said Jochen; "yes, when I drove her with four
horses to P. for the wedding, she didn't dream the splendor would so
soon be over. Yes, she is now in the old place again, and our old
master and the young master are both dead, and her two oldest children
too; she has only one left."
So she still lived, and lived in Dollan again, dear Dollan, the
forest-girdled, sea-washed spot where he had spent the happiest and
most wretched hours of his youth, the sacred and yet accursed place to
which his dreams had so often led him in joy or sorrow, so that he woke
with a happy smile on his lips, and also so often with tears in his
eyes! For a moment it seemed as if she had been restored to him, as if
the old days had returned. He saw the slender figure gliding through
the shrubs in the garden at twilight, while he stood at the little
gable window with a throbbing heart, hearing Curt repeat "mi" till he
threw the grammar on the table, declaring that he should never
understand the stuff, and they had better go down to the garden with
Cecilia. Gotthold passed his hand over his brow and eyes. Had he spoken
the loved name aloud? Had Jochen, who had resumed his interrupted story
in the old monotonous tone, mentioned her name? Jochen did not know
exactly how it had all happened, for he had been in Berlin with the
army when Herr Wenhof died, and young Herr Brandow came in possession
of Dollan in addition to his own estate of Dahlitz: then when Jochen
was released from military duty, as his father and older brother were
enough to attend to the business of the smithy, he took service as a
groom with Peter the innkeeper at Altefaehr, and only left the place
when he drove travellers to Stubbenkammer or some other part of the
island, which did not occur very often. Besides, it had never happened
that his way led to Dollan, or very near it, for what stranger would
want to travel so far away from the main road? He had not seen even the
smithy since, and if his brother had not come to Altefaehr once or
twice, would have known nothing about how things were now going in
Dollan. True, now he came to think the matter over, his brother had not
told him much more than he had already learned from others; for Herr
Brandow was famous for having the finest horses in all Rugen and Upper
Pomerania, and came every autumn to the races at Str.; the noblemen
would have hard work to beat him if he was only a plain citizen; and he
would be sure to win the prize among all the gentlemen riders this
year; for Hinrich had trained a horse for him whose match could not be
found. One thing was certain, Hinrich knew more about horse-flesh than
all the English trainers who cost the other gentlemen so much money put
together, while others hinted that there was something not quite right
about the matter, and Hinrich's squint eyes could make horses do
anything he pleased. That there were such things, he being a
blacksmith's son, knew very well; but it made a great difference
whether they were honest arts, such as his father understood for
instance, or whether another person he would not mention more plainly
had a finger in the pie. People don't cross mountains with him; he
makes them pay too dear for his extra horses. It had already cost Herr
Brandow his fine estate, and they said he could not even keep Dollan
much longer, and that the devil's horses were eating the hair from his
head. Did Herr Gotthold believe in such things?
"No, no, no," said Gotthold, starting from his corner and sitting
erect.
Jochen was obliged to fill his pipe, in order to think over quietly an
answer so different from what he had expected. Gotthold did not disturb
his meditations, but sat in silence, absorbed in thought, dreaming of
what was, what might have been and never would be! Never? Yes, but not
because fate does not will it; it is because human beings bring on this
destiny, because they prepare it for themselves, because in dreams
which thicken into realities, in wishes which become acts, they mould
their own fate. Did she not, on the evening when she, her father, Curt,
and himself, had made an excursion from Dollan to Dahlitz, return home
with the wish to become mistress of the place her mother's family had
so long possessed; How silently she walked through the stately
apartments, while her large sparkling eyes wandered thoughtfully over
the dark pictures on walls hung with faded silken tapestry, and the
numerous carved ornaments on the chimney-piece, which seemed to her
unaccustomed eyes a marvel of costliness! How softly she passed her
hand over the damask curtains in the sleeping-rooms, how she buried her
glowing face again and again among the flowers in the hot-house, as if
intoxicated by the heavy perfume. With what interest she listened to
that squint-eyed Hinrich, as he expatiated upon the merits of the noble
horses whose light chain halters clanked against the marble cribs, and
said it was such a pity for the young master to waste his time at the
agricultural school, when he could employ it to so much better
advantage here! And how indignantly she looked at the friend who
fancied himself so dear to her, when with jealous malice he observed
that Carl Brandow might come back all the sooner, since from all
accounts he showed the same industry at the college as he had formerly
done at school! Afterwards she had haughtily bantered the two friends
as they stood on the lawn, but when she sat down in the large wooden
swing--the same one where he had just seen the children--resting her
beautiful head on one hand, while she carelessly played with the
scarlet ribbons on her white dress with the other, and Gotthold
approached to put it in motion, she started up and said, laughing, that
such an ignorant girl ought not to trouble so learned a gentleman. He
did not suspect what bitter earnest was concealed under the jest, and
the next morning, when he was obliged to return with Curt to their
institution of learning, he slipped under her chamber-door a bit of
paper, on which he had written a free translation of one of Anacreon's
odes:--
Skittish foal, I prithee why,
Flashing fear from thy large eye,
Cruel, dost thou mocking flee?
"Fool! he nothing is to me."
Know for thee I soon shall bring
And about thy proud neck fling
The bridle, and with firm, tight rein,
Swift-racing, spur thee o'er the plain.
Tarry now 'mid pasture-ground,
Gayly frolic, lightly bound;
But, my skittish foal, take heed!
Thy right rider comes with speed.
The right rider! Alas! ere six weeks had passed, the right rider came!
It was a dark evening late in Autumn, like the present one. Men, women,
boys and girls were all out of doors, for it was Saturday night, and
the great wheat-field must if possible be mowed, the sheaves bound up
and piled in heaps. They had paused to rest for half an hour, while
waiting for the rising moon to disperse the dense clouds of mist and
enable them to resume their interrupted task. Curt and he had busily
helped the laborers, and even Cecilia tied up a few sheaves; then they
carried the people the beer Cousin Boslaf had drawn from the huge cask.
There had been shouting, singing, and jesting among the youths and
maidens, but all had now become silent, and Herr Wenhof thought if they
did not begin again soon the whole company would fall asleep, and then
he should like to see the person who could get them on their feet
again. But Cousin Boslaf said they must wait ten minutes longer until
the moon shone clear, and Cousin Boslaf knew best. It grew more and
more quiet, so quiet that the partridges thought every one had gone,
and began to call loudly for their scattered families; so quiet that
Gotthold fancied he could hear the beating of his own heart, as his
eyes rested on the graceful figure that sat close beside him on a
sheaf, so near that his hand might have touched her light dress, gazing
up at the moon, whose white light made her face look strangely pale.
But the dark eyes often flashed brightly from the pallid countenance,
and a strange emotion thrilled the youth, as if a ray from the
spirit-world had fallen upon him. Yes, from the spirit-world, where he
hovered with his beloved, far above all earthly tumult, far as the pure
fancy of a youth whose heart is full of a great, sacred love can soar.
Oh! God, how immeasurably he loved her! How his whole being was bound
up in this affection! How all his thoughts, feelings, emotions were
merged into, carried away by, this passion! How every drop of blood
that flowed through his throbbing heart glowed with this love! How
every breath that passed over his fevered lips ever murmured: I love
you, I love you!
And at this moment, when the heavens opened before his enraptured eyes
and he gazed into the region of the blest--at this moment the blow was
to fall, which closed the gates of the Paradise of his youth forever,
and destroyed for years his faith in the sacred feeling that dwells
securely in the human breast. "Some one is coming on horseback," old
Boslaf said, approaching the group, and pointing towards the forest. No
one else perceived anything; but that proved nothing, for the old man
could hear the grass grow. Cecilia started up, went forward a few
steps, and paused to listen, and Gotthold saw her press her hand upon
her heart. His own stood still.
He and Curt had not been to Dollan during the weeks before the
examination, now successfully passed, and he had heard nothing of all
that had happened there except that one day Curt casually mentioned
that Carl Brandow had returned; but now he knew everything. The horse,
whose rapid hoof-beats he also distinguished, was not bearing Carl
Brandow over the miles that intervened between Dollan and Dahlitz for
the first time. Now he knew what the altered expression of her
features, which had attracted his attention that day, meant--the dreamy
softness that suddenly yielded to a strange excitement; he knew all,
all,--that his temple was ruined, his sanctuary profaned. He stood
apart, unable to move, while the others surrounded the rider, who had
swung himself from his horse,--the slender rider, who now disengaged
himself from the group--but not alone! They passed close by without
noticing him, he with his arm thrown around her waist, bending down and
whispering to her, she nestling to his side, every line in their
figures clearly relieved against the bright moonlight; then he saw and
heard nothing more, and afterwards could only remember that he lay long
in a dull, terrible despair, in a place far from that spot, on the edge
of the dark forest, and then started up and staggered through the
silent, sultry woods as if in a horrible dream, sometimes crying aloud
like a tortured animal, until he at last emerged from them upon the
shore of the sea, which stretched before him in a vast, boundless
expanse in the shimmering moonlight. Here he again threw himself down
on the sand, but now tears came to his relief--burning tears which,
however, flowed more and more gently, as if the lapping of the waves
was a lullaby to the poor quivering heart. At last he rose to his
knees, extended his arms, and in a long, fervent prayer, to which the
roaring of the sea murmured an accompaniment, told the universal
mother, who will never desert her child, that he would always love
her with boundless affection. Just then old Boslaf suddenly stood
beside him,--he had not heard his approach, nor did the old man say
anything,--and they walked silently along the strand until they reached
the old man's lonely little house among the downs. There he made him a
rude couch carefully and silently, and mutely smoothed his damp hair
with his hand, when he lay down to rest for an hour and looked at the
moonlight which shone through the low window on the wall and glimmered
upon the weapons, stuffed birds, nets, and fishing-rods, until the
rustling of the treetops on the shore and the low murmur of the sea
lulled him to sleep.
Gotthold awoke from his dream. The carriage was standing still, and the
horses were snorting as they looked into the forest, through which the
road led for a short distance. It was perfectly dark, save that here
and there a ray from the moon, which had just risen, trembled through
the dense foliage of the beeches.
"Why, what's the matter with the cursed jades?" said Jochen.
There was a rustling and crackling in the thick underbrush on the
right-hand side of the road; the noise grew louder, approached nearer
and nearer, until, like a hurricane, a dark, compact, moving mass burst
through the bushes and crashed into the undergrowth on the other side.
It was scarcely seen before it disappeared, while the horses, in
frantic terror, reared in the harness and swerved aside, so that it was
only by the most violent efforts that the two men, who had sprung from
the carriage, could control them.
"The confounded wretches," said Jochen, "the same thing happened to me
once before in this very spot. The Prince ought to do something about
it; but it gets worse every year, and if old Boslaf didn't often thin
them out a little it would be unbearable. There, hark!"
The report of a musket rang through the forest at some distance on
their left, whither the wolves had taken their flight.
"That was he," said Jochen, in a low tone; "he only needs to whistle
and they run straight within reach of his gun. Yes, yes, Herr Gotthold,
you said just now that there was nothing of the kind; but you'll make
an exception of old Boslaf. He can do more than one trick which no
honest Christian can imitate."
"So the old man is still alive?" asked Gotthold as they drove
cautiously on through the forest.
"Yes, why shouldn't he be?" replied Jochen, "they say he can live as
long as he likes. Well, I don't believe that; his end will probably
come some day, though I may not be here; but this I do know, that
people who knew him fifty years ago say that he looked just the same
then as he does now."
"And he still lives in the house on the beach?"
"Where else should he live?" asked Jochen. They had emerged from the
forest and moorland upon the beautiful smooth highway, which, lined
with huge poplars, announced to the weary traveller the vicinity of the
capital. It was still an hour's journey, but the road sloped gradually
downward, and the horses, well aware that their long day's work was
over and their cribs close at hand, collected all their strength and
trotted briskly onward. The crescent of an increasing moon floated in
the deep blue sky, shedding a pure radiance; here and there a
flickering reddish light in the dark landscape marked the situation of
some mansion house or lonely peasant hut. And now a brighter glow
shimmered from the hill up which the road led. Stately houses gleamed
forth from amid the dark foliage of the trees and bushes, the horses'
hoofs rang upon a stone pavement, and a few moments after the carriage
stopped before the "Fuerstenhof," whose host welcomed the late arrival
with northern cordiality.
CHAPTER III.
Gotthold had expected to reach P. at an early hour; it was now nearly
ten o'clock, too late to pay the visit he had promised Herr Wollnow by
letter, yet in spite of the time the gentleman might perhaps be
waiting, and what he had to settle with him could be despatched in a
few minutes. Then the minor object of his journey would be accomplished
and he could set out again early the next morning; he would have
preferred to go on that night.
The ground seemed to be burning under his feet. The events of the last
few hours, the meeting with the playmate of his youth, and his
communications, had roused the greatest agitation in his mind. As he
passed down the quiet street towards the house of his business
acquaintance, he paused several times under the dark trees, gasping for
breath, and made a defiant gesture, as if he could thus repel the
ghostly throng of memories that hovered around him.
"Thank God that now at least you are sure not to meet an old
acquaintance again," he said to himself, as he rang the bell at the
door of one of the handsomest houses upon the market-place.
"Herr Wollnow is at home," said the pretty young servant-maid, "and--"
"Bids you a most hearty welcome," interrupted Herr Wollnow, who at that
moment came out of his counting-room, and extended a broad, powerful
hand to his guest. "I am very glad to make your acquaintance at last,
though I deeply regret that the occasion should be so sorrowful. Have
you supped this evening? No? Why, that is capital; neither have I. To
be sure, you must be contented with my company, at least for the
present; my wife has a meeting of her great society to-day. She did not
want to go, for she is very anxious to renew her acquaintance with you,
or rather make it, as I say; for you will hardly remember her. She
promised to be back again at ten o'clock; but I know what that
means,--we shall have an hour to ourselves."
Gotthold apologized for his late arrival, but said that he had thought
it better to come late than not at all, especially as he intended to
set out again early the next morning, if possible.
"I think you will allow us to keep you with us a few days," replied
Herr Wollnow; "yet time is money, as Englishmen say, so we will devote
the time Stine needs to prepare supper to money matters. I have set
everything right." Herr Wollnow invited Gotthold to take a seat upon
the sofa in the little private office, and sat down beside him in a
leather-covered arm-chair at the round table, on which various papers
lay arranged in the most methodical order.
"Here are the documents that concern your late father's legacies," he
continued. "I have had wonderfully little trouble in executing the
orders you sent me from Milan. The ready money amounted only to a few
thalers, and as to furniture and other household appurtenances, the
hermits of the Theban wilderness could not have possessed much less
than satisfied your father during the latter years of his life. The
only really valuable portion of his property was the library, and here
I took the liberty of deviating a little from your commands. You had
intended that the whole profit derived from the sale should be given to
the poor of the parish, and also that your father's successor should be
permitted to set his own price upon the books that pleased him,
undoubtedly in the supposition that the gentleman would make a proper
use of this favor. But that was not the case with Pastor Semmel. He
believed in making hay while the sun shone; he not only wanted all the
best, but wished to take advantage of the opportunity, and if possible
get them for nothing. In a word, your two intentions could not be
reconciled, and as I doubtless rightly supposed that the poor people
would be nearer your heart than the Pastor, although he made a great
ado about the intimacy that had existed between you at the university,
and I believe even at school, I offered everything, with the exception
of a few insignificant trifles I was obliged to leave with him, to a
respectable firm which dealt in secondhand books, and after
considerable bargaining came to an understanding with them. We obtained
a large sum, as I wrote you, and if you are as well satisfied as the
poor people in Rammin, I need not be ashamed of the way in which I
carried out your command."
An amused smile flashed from Herr Wollnow's dark eyes as Gotthold
warmly pressed his hand.
"I repeat, it was very little trouble," said he, "and I would have
taken a hundred times as much with pleasure for a man to whom I am so
greatly indebted."
"You so greatly indebted? To me?"
"To you, certainly. If, when you entered into the possession of your
property five years ago, you had withdrawn the ten thousand thalers
invested in my business, as I earnestly advised you to do, I might not
now be in the pleasant situation of being able to return the money to
you with my warmest thanks."
"For Heaven's sake," cried Gotthold, pushing back Herr Wollnow's
hand, which was extended towards a larger package fastened with an
India-rubber band.
"I have put aside the money at any rate," replied Herr Wollnow, "in
cash and in good bonds."
"But I don't want it now, any more than I did then."
"Well," said Herr Wollnow, "I cannot persuade you to take it as
earnestly as I did five years ago. To-day--I may venture to say it
confidently--the money is perfectly safe, and I can give you the
highest rate of interest. Then, when I was establishing a new business
here under very peculiar circumstances, and in consequence of the
impossibility of relying upon my business associates,--I mean the
capitalists of this place--a crisis might occur at any moment, I only
did my duty when I advised you to intrust your money, if not to more
honest, to safer hands. Well, you would not hear of it; would have me
keep the money; nay, I even believe I might have had it without
interest."
"You will admit, Herr Wollnow, that in so doing I carried out my
uncle's views."
"I don't know," replied the merchant. "Your uncle had a personal
interest in leaving the money in my hands. The great profits which
accrued to the business in Stettin through the new connections I
formed, and I may say created here, were so important that they far
outweighed the risk of a possible loss. But when your uncle gave you
the free disposal of the property by will, he acknowledged that an
artist's interests are and must be different from those of a business
man."
"Why yes, the interests of his art," replied Gotthold earnestly; "I
never had and never shall have any others. In this feeling, and this
alone, after I had recovered from my first astonishment, I joyfully
welcomed the rich inheritance that fell to my lot so unexpectedly."
"I know it," replied Herr Wollnow; "the assistance I have given from
your property to that poor deserving Brueggberg during the last three
years proves it, and he will not be your only pensioner."
"It has proved as fortunate for him as for me that help came in time,"
replied Gotthold.
He supported his head on his left hand, and mechanically drew
arabesques on a sheet of paper that lay before him, while he continued
in a lower tone:
"And it was also quite time for me. For two years in Munich I had
already devoted every hour and moment I could spare from the labor of
earning a livelihood, to art, beloved art, which is so infinitely
coy to a tyro, especially one who is compelled to begin after his
one-and-twentieth year. My strength was almost exhausted; I had seen
the last star of hope disappear; nothing bound me to life except a sort
of defiance of a fate which I thought I had not deserved, and the shame
of appearing to rush out of this world like a simpleton, in the eyes of
those who had aided me to live. How distinctly I remember the hour! I
had returned to my little attic room towards nightfall, from the studio
of a famous artist to which an acquaintance had procured me admittance,
with a soul filled to overflowing with the mighty impressions produced
by works of the greatest genius, and yet utterly exhausted, for I had
resolved a few days before to give up no more lessons, even if I
starved, and I was almost starving. I placed myself before my easel,
but the colors blended into one confused mass. The palette fell from my
hand; I staggered to the table to pour out a glass of water, and--there
lay the letter which informed me that I had been made the heir of a
relative whom I had never seen, and was the possessor of a fortune
which, at a casual estimation, amounted to more than a hundred thousand
thalers. What was more natural than that in this wonderful moment I
should make the vow: this shall belong to Art, and to you only so far
as you are an artist."
"Nothing is more natural and simple," said Herr Wollnow; "but that you
should have kept the oath, and I know you have done so, is--as we
children of Adam are now constituted--not quite so natural and simple.
But now, as the business matters are settled, we will, if agreeable to
you, talk more comfortably over a glass of wine."
Herr Wollnow opened the door of a spacious apartment handsomely
furnished as a half dining, half sitting room, and invited his guest to
take a seat at the table, which was covered with a snow-white cloth,
and furnished with all sorts of dainties served in valuable china, and
several bottles of wine. As Gotthold sat down, his eyes wandered over
several large and small oil paintings which were skilfuly arranged upon
the walls.
"Pardon an artist's curiosity," said he.
"I understand little or nothing of your beautiful art," replied Herr
Wollnow, as he fastened a napkin under his fat chin; "but my wife is a
great amateur, and, as she sometimes persuades herself, a connoisseur.
You must give her the pleasure of showing you her treasures. I am
afraid the little collection will not find much favor in your eyes,
with the exception of one picture, which I also consider a masterpiece,
and which is greatly admired by all who see it."
Gotthold would gladly have gone nearer to the paintings; one of them
which hung at some little distance, seemed strangely familiar, but Herr
Wollnow had already filled the green glasses with odorous Rhine wine,
and a robust elderly woman came noisily in with a platter of freshly
broiled fish in her red hands.
"Stine says that you were always particularly fond of flounders," said
Herr Wollnow, "and so she would not give up the pleasure of offering
you your favorite dish herself."
Gotthold looked up at the stout figure, and instantly recognized good
Stine Lachmund, who, during his boyhood, had almost kept the house at
Dollan in the place of its invalid mistress, and after her death
managed affairs entirely alone, yet had always maintained a good
understanding with the boys and all the world, in spite of the many
difficulties of her position.
He held out his hand to his old friend, who, after putting the platter
on the table, and wiping her red fingers on her apron in a most
unnecessary manner, grasped it eagerly.
"I was sure you would know me again," said she, her fat face beaming
with delight. "But goodness gracious, how you have altered! What a
handsome man you have grown! I should never have known you again!"
"So I used to be desperately ugly, Stine?" asked Gotthold, smiling.
"Why," replied Stine, with a grave, questioning glance, "you had
handsome blue eyes, it is true; but they always looked so large and
sorrowful that it made one feel badly, and then your little thin face
was divided by a scar from there to there--it looked terribly; such a
good boy, too, it was too outrageous--"
"All that has been forgotten long ago," said Gotthold.
"And a big beard has grown over it," added Stine.
"Yen can tell Line to bring in a bottle of the red seal," said Herr
Wollnow, who thought he perceived that his guest wished to cut short
this recognition scene. "You must pardon me," he continued, turning to
Gotthold, when Stine had gone out after again shaking hands, and the
pretty young maid-servant, who moved noiselessly to and fro, began to
wait upon the gentlemen, "you must pardon me for being unable to spare
you this little scene. The good woman was so delighted to hear of your
coming, and a man who returns home must make up his mind to meet
familiar faces at every step."
"I have experienced that to-day," replied Gotthold; "your wife, too,
you said--"
"Is proud of having known you when you were not a famous artist, but a
diffident boy about thirteen years old, who obstinately refused to take
part in a dance which some aristocratic mammas had arranged with
difficulty, and then joined it when he heard that no one else would
dance with little Ottilie Blaustein. She has never forgotten your
magnanimity."
"And she--Fraulein Ottilie--"
"Has been my wife for six years," said Herr Wollnow. "You look at me
with discreet astonishment; you have quickly calculated that the little
dancer of those days cannot now be much more than twenty-five, and
you set me down very correctly at some years over fifty--we will say
fifty-six. But we Jews--"
"Are you a Jew?" asked Gotthold.
"Of the purest descent," replied Herr Wollnow; "didn't you perceive
that, when I locked your money up in my desk so quickly just now? Of
the purest Polish descent, although out of love for my wife, who
declared that she had suffered enough from Judaism, and also from
business motives, I have taken the step, a very easy one for me, from
one positive religion which was indifferent to me, to another that was
no less so. But I was going to say that we Jews, or we men who are
educated in the Jewish faith, are as unromantic in regard to marriage
as everything else, but we keep to the law; I mean by that the law of
nature, which is not at all romantic, but very sober, and consequently
all the more logical."
"Then you think that a great difference between the ages of the husband
and wife is one of the laws of nature which should be strictly
observed?"
"By no means, only that under certain circumstances it is no
impediment."
"Certainly not, but--"
"Allow me to explain my opinion by some statistics. I am descended from
a very long-lived family. My grandfather--he could not tell either the
place or time of his birth positively--must have been more than a
hundred years old when he died, blind and crippled, it is true, but
with his mental powers almost entirely unimpaired. My father was
ninety. I, who no longer needed to toil and moil for myself, was able
six years ago, when in my fiftieth year, to marry, and thus I have the
expectation of seeing my little family, even if an addition should be
bestowed upon us, grow up to maturity, supposing that I attain my
eightieth year, to which, as you will admit, I have on the father's
side the most well-founded title."
Herr Wollnow rested his broad shoulders comfortably against the back of
his chair, and passed his hands over his high forehead and thick black
hair, in which Gotthold could not yet perceive the smallest thread of
gray. "That is," said he, "if I understand you rightly, marriage ought
to be in the first place arranged for the welfare of the children, and
therefore it is only necessary to consider the signs of the times in
and for which the children are born."
"Certainly," replied Herr Wollnow; "in the first place, I might almost
say in the first and last."
"And the husband and wife?"
"Ought and will find their pleasure in their love for their children,
their joy in the new fresh world which surrounds them, as well as a
sufficient compensation for all lost illusions, and a reward for the
anxieties and deprivations which necessarily spring from this love and
joy."
"And their own love, the love which brought them together, which
induced them to make this particular choice out of the countless
multitude of possibilities--the love which ever increases and must
continue to increase until it finally illumines every thought,
heightens every feeling, warms every drop of blood--would you take this
from marriage, or consider it as something which may or may not exist?
Never! 'Love is everywhere, except in hell,' says Wolfram von
Eschenbach. I know not whether he is right, but I do know that a
marriage where there is no love, nay, where love does not exist as I
understand it, is in my eyes a hell."
Gotthold had spoken with a passion which, eagerly as he strove to
suppress it, had not escaped the keen ears of his host.
"Let us change the subject," he said kindly, "and try another upon
which we shall certainly find it easier to agree."
"No, let us keep to this," replied Gotthold; "upon so important a
subject I am anxious to hear the opinion of a man whose judgment and
character I prize so highly--the full opinion; for I am sure you have
still much to say."
"Certainly," replied Herr Wollnow hesitatingly; "a great deal, but I
fear very little that will please you, as you now think of marriage. I
say as you now think, and beg you not to misunderstand me; for you, who
have grown up among romantic traditions, and, as an artist, are perhaps
especially disposed to take an ideal view of human affairs, can
probably not be induced to give up your preconceived opinion except by
your own experience. But no matter; I should need to be far less firmly
convinced of the justice of my own opinion than I am, or to esteem my
opponent less than I do if I allowed your last proposition to pass
without contradiction. You said that without love, as you so eloquently
described it, marriage would be a hell; I assert that this very love,
or rather the unrealized dream of this love, makes a hell of many, far
too many marriages."
"Unrealized," said Gotthold; "oh! yes, that is just what causes the
unhappiness."
"An unavoidable one, or at least in many cases not to be avoided. You
will admit that most marriages must commence with this illusion, which
is more or less vivid according to the nature and imaginative power of
the dreamer. There are so few persons who do not desire to be specially
rewarded for paying their debts to nature and society. When they
perceive that the question of marriage concerns a very different object
from the realization of their dreams, and that this object is the more
easily attained the less they give themselves up to fancies, the
majority, of course, will at first rub their eyes in some little
perplexity, but no longer take the affair tragically, but as it is; and
these are the marriages which I--with all due respect for humanity,
which certainly consists of average mortals--call average marriages,
and which in Germany, England, America, nay, even in France and Italy,
wherever I have wandered in the civilized world, I have always found as
much alike as two eggs. It is, take it all in all, very dry, but very
healthful prose; there is much modest quiet happiness, and of course
also much, very much sorrow; but none which would not befall a human
being as such. I mean the frail, easily injured creature at last doomed
to death--and very little which results from the marriage. But this
misery is found in overwhelming measure when people wish to realize,
nay to transform into a still more brilliant reality, the dream they
have enjoyed as lovers. How many heart-breaking conflicts, how many
vain struggles, how much strength wasted which was greatly needed for
far more important purposes, how much senseless and useless cruelty
towards one's self and others! You see I speak only of those who take
life earnestly, not of the multitudes of stupid people who are
incapable of any moral idea, nor of the, if possible, still greater
number of frivolous natures; who snap their fingers at all morality."
"I know it," replied Gotthold; "but why should not earnest, honorable
human beings, when they become conscious of their mistakes, seek to
cast out the errors that have crept into the score of their lives while
there is time?"
"In what way?"
"By restoring each other's freedom."
"Freedom? What freedom? The liberty of chaining themselves again as
soon as possible, of making another choice at once if, as is usually
the case, they have not previously done so; a new choice which will
probably prove no wiser, no more circumspect, than the first? Consider,
we are speaking of earnest, honorable human beings! Well, they
doubtless went earnestly and honorably to work in making their first
choice, and if, in spite of all their earnestness, they went astray
where they could choose freely and without embarrassment, they
certainly would the second time, when burdened by the weight of
self-created suffering, blinded by a treacherous passion. If a new
clerk begins the first calculation I allow him to make on an entirely
false principle, I may not send him away, but I never intrust any
important matter to him again without watching him. And--while there is
time--did you say? When is there time? Perhaps never, if two people
have belonged to each other body and soul--for earnest, honorable
people will give their souls to each other--perhaps never, and certainly
not after; and here I come back to the point from whence I started--after
the bond which thereby becomes a hallowed one has been blessed with
children. Believe me, I could make many other remarks upon this subject:
the chasm that severs the parents goes through the hearts of the
children; they will feel the gulf painfully sooner or later, and never
wholly cease to suffer from it, if--which to be sure is not always the
case--they have hearts."
"And will not a child's heart be torn," cried Gotthold, painfully
agitated, "will it not bleed at the thought of its parents who have
lived together in torment, and wasted away in this torture?"
"They would not have wasted away," replied Herr Wollnow, "if they had
come to an understanding with each other in my acceptation of the term;
if they had always said to each other, and kept faithfully in their
hearts the thought: for our children's sakes we must not despond, must
bear our sorrows, must sacredly keep the ledger of our lives, and, if
any error has actually crept in, calculate and calculate until we have
found it. Who in the world should be responsible for the result except
the person to whom the book was intrusted? And then there is also a
bankruptcy from which the unfortunate sufferer comes forth
impoverished, perhaps a beggar, with nothing to cover his nakedness
except the consciousness: you have done your duty, met your
obligations. Woe to him who cannot think this of his parents: well for
him who can think and say so; who by their graves can weep sorrowful
but sweet tears, and pass on in peace."
Gotthold's head was resting on his hand. Let us have peace, he had said
to his father's shade, and sorrowful but sweet tears had fallen from
his eyes upon his mother's grave. Would they have been less sweet if
she had left the father who could not make her happy, if she had sought
and perhaps found joy in another's arms?
Herr Wollnow's dark eyes rested upon his guest's noble features, now
shadowed by gloom and doubt, with an expression of mingled compassion
and severity. Had he said too much, or not enough? Should he be silent,
or ought he to say more, and tell the young man who so closely
resembled his mother, and yet had so much of his father's character,
the history of his parents?
Just then the door-bell rang, and at the same moment his wife's voice
sounded from the entry. She was a woman to quickly inspire other and
gayer thoughts in men's minds, even if the conversation had taken a
grave and critical turn.
CHAPTER IV.
"I beg you to excuse me a thousand, thousand times," cried Fran Wollnow
from the threshold of the door.
"That makes two thousand," said her husband, who with his guest had
risen to meet her.
"You shan't always reckon up everything, you bad man."
"But take no notice of anything--"
"And you shan't always interrupt me and spoil my prettiest speeches. I
had thought of the most charming things to say to our guest."
"Perhaps they begin with good evening?"
"Why, of course; good evening, and welcome, you are most heartily
welcome," said Frau Wollnow, extending two plump little hands to
Gotthold, and looking up into his face with the most eager curiosity in
her brown eyes. "Dear me, how you have grown, and how much you have
improved!"
Gotthold could not return the compliment. Ottilie Blaustein seemed to
him to have grown much stouter, but neither taller nor handsomer than
when he last saw her. Nevertheless the plump, somewhat flushed face
beamed with mirth and good-nature, and it was by no means difficult for
him to respond to the cordial greeting of his old acquaintance with no
less warmth. She begged the gentlemen to sit down again; she would,
with their permission, take a seat with them, and beg for a glass of
wine, for she had been obliged to talk so much that evening that she
was very thirsty. Then she instantly started up again, and asked her
husband in a half whisper whether he had already showed it to him, in
reply to which mysterious question Herr Wollnow smilingly shook his
stately head. "I would not spoil your pleasure," said he.
"You good Emil!" she exclaimed, hastily kissing her husband on the
forehead, and then turned to Gotthold. "Come, I must give you a proof
that you obliged no ungrateful person when you enabled the little
Jewish girl to join the dance. See, I bought this in remembrance of
you, and would have purchased it if it had been as worthless as it is
valuable, and as dear as the price for which I obtained my treasure was
nominal."
She had seized a candle, and now led Gotthold to the landscape which
had already attracted his attention, even across the room. The latter
started, and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of surprise and
pain.
"It is Dollan, isn't it?" said Ottilie.
Gotthold made no reply; he took the candle from the lady's hand, and
held it so that the light fell upon the picture, which was hung rather
too high. Yes, it was the very one into which he had painted his love
and anguish, the picture of which he had just spoken to Herr Wollnow,
that had been upon his easel on the evening which had made such a
wonderful change in his life. To prove to himself that he had
irrevocably broken all ties with his past, and must now begin a new
phase of his life and struggles, he gave away the sketch and did not
destroy the picture, but very prosaically presented it to an
exhibition, from which it went to another, then to a third and fourth,
and was finally sold, he did not know where or to whom, nor did he wish
to know; it should disappear to him. And yet during all this time he
had been unable to shake off the recollection of this picture. He could
have painted it again from memory, but it would not have been the one
hallowed by so much suffering. And he must find it again, here and now,
when his soul was already so full of the magic fragrance which
everything he saw and heard bore to him from the days when every breath
that swept across "his brow or fanned his cheek, exhaled the odor of
pine trees, of the ocean, and of love.
"And how do you suppose I obtained it?" said Frau Wollnow; "and
especially how do you suppose I found out it was yours; for you know
we do not judge from the style, or at least I did not at that time.
But when people are to have a piece of good fortune! So I said to
Cecilia Brandow, whom I--it is now six years ago, and I had just been
married--met at the wool market in Sundin, I had almost said; but of
course only the gentlemen went there, and we drove in with them on
account of the exhibition, where I met her. We had so much to say,
like any two friends who had not seen each other since they left
boarding-school--you perhaps do not remember that Cecilia and I were in
the same boarding-school at Sundin--or at least I had a great deal to
say, for I found Cecilia very quiet. I believe she had lost her second
child only a short time before. We were separated by the crowd, and I
at last found her again in one of the most out-of-the-way rooms,
standing alone before this picture with her eyes full of tears, which,
as I came up, she tried to conceal."
"Good Heavens!" said I; "isn't that--"
"Yes," she replied; "and it is by him."
"By whom?"
"In a word, she had recognized it instantly, and would not admit that
she was mistaken when I told her the 'G. W.' in the corner might be
Heaven knows whom. You see I didn't understand much about pictures
then--now when I--but your hand trembles, you cannot hold the
candlestick any longer."
"Let me have the picture," said Gotthold; then perceiving that the
husband and wife were looking at him in surprise, he added calmly,
replacing the candlestick upon the table: "The painting is really not
worthy to be hung among your other pictures, which are excellent. It is
the work of a pupil, and moreover was painted from memory after a very
hasty sketch, I will promise you another and better one of the same
place, which I will make on the spot if you will--"
"Oh! that would be delightful, that would be splendid," exclaimed Frau
Wollnow. "I will hold you to your promise: another, not a better one,
you can't make it better, that is impossible; but to have a picture
painted on the spot by the most celebrated landscape painter of the day
will be a triumph of which I can boast all the rest of my life. Give me
your hand upon it!" She held out both hands to Gotthold.
"Well," said Herr Wollnow, "the bargain is made, and now according to
the good old custom we will seal it with a drink. You see, Herr
Gotthold Weber, woman's wit surpasses priestly cunning. I might have
preached a long time to induce you to remain here; my wife comes, and
the timid bird is caught. Well, I am glad of it, heartily glad."
"And how delighted Cecilia will be," cried Frau Wollnow. "My poor
Cecilia! she really needs something to divert her thoughts a little,
and this will be so pleasant." Gotthold turned pale. When he made his
over-hasty promise, the thought of thus creating a convenient pretext
for seeing Cecilia again had certainly been farthest from his mind.
"I think we can spare our friend the trouble of the journey," said Herr
Wollnow, "and you will be perfectly well satisfied with a copy."
"You certainly know that we are not talking about a copy, but a new,
entirely new picture," exclaimed Ottilie. "But you understand nothing
about it, my dear Emil, or he doesn't want to understand."
"I only do not want to send our friend away again immediately, but to
keep him with us."
"Tell the truth, Emil, tell the truth," said Frau Wollnow, shaking her
finger at him. "The fact, Herr Weber, is simply that he can't bear
Brandow, Heaven knows why. To be sure I can't either, and have no
reason for it except that he always teased me at the dancing lessons in
his malicious way. But I care nothing about him, only his angelic
wife."
"And since husband and wife are one--"
"If everybody thought as you do, dear Emil--and I too, of course; but
there is no rule without an exception, and the Brandow marriage is one
so thoroughly bad and unfortunate that I really do not see why we--"
"Should talk so much about it," said Herr Wollnow; "and it is all the
more unnecessary, as our guest can probably take no special interest in
the subject."
"No interest," cried Ottilie, clasping her hands; "no interest. Pray,
Herr Gotthold--how I keep falling into the old habit--excuse me--but
do tell this man, who thinks Goethe's 'Elective Affinities' in bad
taste--"
"Pardon me, I said immoral--"
"No, in bad taste; the evening of the day before yesterday, when we
were talking about it at the Herr Conrector's, and you made the
unprecedented assertion that Goethe had committed a perfidy--yes, you
said perfidy--when he made the only person in the whole novel who
uttered anything truthful about marriage-the mediator--a half
simpleton."
"But what do you want with your elective affinities!" exclaimed Wollnow
almost angrily.
"He don't believe in them," said Ottilie triumphantly, "and says that,
like ghosts, they only haunt the brains of fools. But the fact is, he
only pretends to think so, and secretly believes in them more than many
other people; and now he is troubled, as a child is afraid of ghosts,
at the thought that you will go to Dollan and see your old friend
again."
"How absurdly you talk," said Herr Wollnow, scarcely concealing his
painful embarrassment by a forced smile.
"Why, we have talked of nothing else all the evening in our little
society," cried Ottilie. "You must know, Herr Gotthold, that there are
three members of our dancing class here besides myself--all married
now: Pauline Ellis--well, she perhaps will not interest you; Louise
Palm, the girl with the brown eyes--we always called her Zingarella;
and Hermine Sandberg--you know, that handsome girl, it is a pity that
she was a little cross-eyed and stammered. We knew everything,
everything down to the smallest particulars, especially your duel with
Carl Brandow--"
"At which, however, so far as I can remember, none of the ladies you
have mentioned were present," said Gotthold.
"Good!" exclaimed Herr Wollnow.
"No, it isn't good," said Ottilie pouting; "it isn't at all good or
kind in Herr Gotthold to make fun of the faithful friendship people
have kept for him for so many years."
"That was very far from my intention," replied Gotthold. "On the
contrary, I feel highly honored and greatly flattered that my humble
self furnished such charming ladies with a subject for conversation,
even for a few moments."
"Go on with your jibes."
"I assure you once more that I am perfectly sincere."
"Will you give me a proof of it?"
"Certainly, if I can."
"Well then," said Ottilie with a deep blush, "tell me how the duel
chanced to take place, for I will confess that one said one thing, and
another another, and at last we found out that nobody knew. Will you?"
"Very willingly," said Gotthold.
He had noticed Herr Wollnow's repeated attempts to give the
conversation another turn, and thought he could perceive that his
host's former remarks had not been so entirely unpremeditated as they
had at first seemed. Had Frau Wollnow told her husband a romance to
suit her own fancy, and made him play Heaven knows what ridiculous
part? He must try to put an end to such rumors, and believed that the
very best way of doing so would be to fulfil Frau Wollnow's wish, and
tell the story with the utmost possible frankness, as if it concerned a
third person.
These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind as he slowly raised the
glass of wine to his lips. He sipped a little of it, and then said,
turning to Frau Wollnow with a smile:--
"How gladly, honored lady, would I begin my story with the words of
Schiller: 'Oh! queen, you wake the unspeakably torturing smart of the
old wound, but it won't do, it won't do. True, when there is any sudden
change of weather I have a twinge in the wound, but it is by no means
unspeakably painful; and at all events at this moment I feel nothing at
all, except the profound truth of the old saying, that young people
will be young people, and will play youthful pranks, oftentimes very
foolish ones. To this latter category undoubtedly belongs my combat
with Carl Brandow, which did not, however, as you suppose, originate in
the dancing lessons, but was only brought to a decisive issue there,
after it had long been glowing under the ashes, and even threatened
once before to break out into light flames. The first cause was this.
In our fifth form it was an old custom, most sacredly observed, that an
open space should be reserved between the first bench and the
lecturer's chair for the 'old boys,' which no 'new boy' was permitted
to enter before the close of the first term, on pain of a severe
thrashing. Carl Brandow, it is true, belonged to the 'old boys,' indeed
the very old boys; for he had been in the fifth form three years, but
was still on the last bench, although if I remember rightly, he had
already passed his eighteenth birthday. I was one of the 'new boys,'
one of the latest comers indeed; for I had just entered at Michaelmas,
a lad of fourteen, to the no small annoyance of my father, who had
prepared me himself, and expected I should be at once enrolled among
the first classes. It was not without reason, for when at the end of
the first week, according to custom, the rank of the different scholars
was assigned from the result of certain exercises we called
extemporalia, mine proved to be without fault, and I was transferred to
my well-earned dignity of _Primus omnium_ with a certain degree of
ceremony. And yet I was not even now to be permitted to cross the space
before the first bench! From the first moment I had felt this
prohibition as an outrage; now I openly declared it to be one, and said
that I would never submit to it, but on the contrary demanded the
abolition of the brutal rule, not only for myself but all the new boys,
whose champion I considered myself.
"In thus wording my demand I had really been guided only by my own
intuitive sense of justice, without being actuated by any other motive;
but the result proved that I could not have done better if I had been
the most crafty demagogue. Standing alone, I should have had no chance
of accomplishing my bold innovation; but now my cause was the cause of
all, that is of all the 'new boys,' and chance willed that our numbers
were exactly the same as those of the other party. Even in regard to
bodily strength, which boys so well know how to rate according to age,
we might probably have compared tolerably with them, and the little
that was wanting would have been well supplied by the enthusiasm for
the good cause which I unceasingly labored to arouse--if it had not
been for Carl Brandow. Who could withstand this eighteen-years-old
hero, slender and strong as a young pine? He would rage among us like
Achilles among the Trojans, and strew the field--a retired open space
in a little wood behind the school-house--with the bodies of the
enemies he had hurled to the ground; for it was agreed that whoever in
struggling should touch the earth with his back was to be considered
conquered, and desist from the battle, which was to be decided in this
manner before the eyes of six honorable members of the first class, who
accepted the office of umpires with a readiness deserving of
acknowledgment.
"Yet there was no retreat, even if we, which was not the case, had
thought of making one. The hour arrived--one Saturday afternoon, on
which we had contrived to evade the watchfulness of the teacher--and I
do not believe that soldiers ordered to assault a battery vomiting
death and destruction can feel more solemn and earnest than did we. I
may say, especially I. I had caused the struggle; I had involved all
the brave boys in it; I felt responsible for the result, and for the
disgrace in case of defeat--an event which seemed more probable every
moment. That I was determined to do my utmost and strain every nerve is
a matter of course. I hoped and prayed the gods that Carl Brandow might
fall to me--for the antagonists were to be drawn by lot, and only he
who had conquered his opponent was permitted to choose from among those
who had vanquished theirs until all was decided. I do not remember
whether the senior boys, who devised these ingenious rules, had copied
from Sir Walter Scott; I only know I have never read the famous
description of the tournament at Ashby, in Ivanhoe, without being
reminded of that Saturday afternoon--the shady forest glade, and the
boyish faces glowing with courage and ardor for the combat.
"And, as in the tournament of Ashby, a wholly unforeseen accident in
the person of the Black Knight, the _Noir Faineant_, saved the hero's
otherwise hopelessly lost cause, so it was here.
"Among the new boys was a lad of sixteen, with a frank honest face,
which would have been handsome if it had possessed a little more
animation, and the large earnest blue eyes had been a shade less
dreamy. Although not tall, he was powerfully built, and we should
perhaps have reckoned upon his assistance had not his indolence seemed
to us to be very much greater than the strength he might possess, for
he had never given any proof of it; and in reply to our eager questions
about how he rated himself, merely shrugged his broad shoulders in
silence."
"Curt Wenhof!" exclaimed Frau Wollnow.
"Yes, Curt Wenhof, my poor dear Curt," continued Gotthold, whose voice
trembled at the recollection of the beloved friend of his youth. "I can
see him now, as, after throwing his adversary to the ground as easily
as a binder casts the sheaf behind him, he stood there as idly as if he
had nothing more to do with the affair. I had also hurled my antagonist
down and was just rising, gasping for breath, when Carl Brandow, who
meantime had disposed of two or three, rushed upon me. 'Now,' I thought
to myself, 'you must make it as hard for him as possible.' I did not
dream of victory. But at the same instant Curt sprang before me; the
next moment the two opponents had seized each other, and at the first
grip Carl Brandow perceived that he had to deal with an adversary who
was at least his equal in strength and courage, and, as the result
proved, greatly his superior in coolness and endurance. It was a
beautiful spectacle to see the two young athletes wrestling together--a
spectacle we all enjoyed, umpires, victors, vanquished, and combatants;
for by a silent agreement we had all formed a wide circle around them
and watched every phase of the conflict with hope, fear, and loud
cheers, according to the side to which we belonged, until at last a
wild shout of exultation rang from my party, as Curt Wenhof raised his
opponent, whose strength was utterly exhausted, and hurled him upon the
turf with such violence that the poor fellow lay half senseless, unable
to move.
"The conflict was decided, so said the seniors, and in truth it was;
who would have ventured to cope with Carl Brandow's conqueror? In the
joy of my heart I embraced the good Curt, vowed an eternal friendship
with him, and then turned to Carl Brandow, who meantime had risen from
the ground, and, as the leader of one party to the representative of
the other, offered him my hand, expressing the wish and hope that an
honorable peace might follow the honorable struggle. He took my hand,
and I believe even laughed, and said he was not a fool to grieve over a
thing that could not be helped."
"That's just like him," cried Frau Wollnow eagerly, "friendly and
agreeable to your face, and malicious and cruel behind your back."
"You see my wife has already taken sides," said Herr Wollnow.
"Already!" exclaimed Fran Wollnow. "Why, I never thought or felt
otherwise; I have always been against him, and certainly had good
reason for it; I should like to know what would have become of me at
those dancing lessons, if you had not come to my assistance so kindly.
I shall never forget it, and it was all the more noble in you, because
you cared nothing about me, but were in love with the beautiful
Cecilia, which I never suspected."
"I fear it would be useless to contradict you."
"Entirely useless. I can see you now starting from the chair beside me,
pale with anger and trembling in every limb, when Carl Brandow kissed
Cecilia, and she burst into tears."
"And had I not reason to be angry!" exclaimed Gotthold. "It was an
agreement among us young people that the kisses which were ordered in
the games of forfeits were to consist in pressing the lips upon the
hand. All were bound by it, even Carl Brandow; and until then the
compact had been inviolably kept. I had a right not to suffer this
insolent breach of the bargain, or permit it to pass unpunished,--a
double right, since during the last year I had been to Dollan with Curt
so often, and was on such friendly terms with the brother and sister,
especially as Curt, as you may remember, in his indolent way, would not
share the dancing lessons, and I might therefore be permitted to
consider myself the legitimate protector of my friend. Moreover, Curt,
whom I had with great difficulty pulled through the examination for the
senior class, was not in favor with the teachers; a flagrant breach of
the peace such as would now be necessary, would undoubtedly have caused
him to be suspended; and finally I will confess I thought Carl Brandow
intended to vex and insult me by his impertinence, and resolved to take
up the gauntlet and fight out the battle for Curt as he had appeared
for me. It was all youthful folly, my honored friends; I blush even now
when I think of it, and so I will relate what remains to be told in as
few words as possible.
"The preparations for the duel--for us proud seniors it must of course
be a genuine duel"--continued Gotthold, "were conducted with all
possible secrecy. Only those immediately concerned,--that is, the
principals and seconds, to use this classic expression,--knew the place
and hour. It was not difficult to procure weapons, for in spite of the
strictest commands, there were at least half a dozen pairs of rapiers
among us. Carl Brandow had one, and his particular friends told
wonderful stories of his skill; but Curt was also the fortunate
possessor of two good swords, with whose terrible clatter we had often,
when at Dollan, startled the quiet woods from their repose. I had a
quick eye, and, spite of my fifteen years, a firm hand, and Carl
Braudow was probably no little surprised when, at the decisive moment,
he found his despised opponent so well prepared; at least, he grew more
restless and violent every moment, and thus made it possible for me,
although he was really greatly my superior in skill, not only to hold
my ground but even to change my posture to one of attack, and deal him
a blow on the shoulder so deep that the blood flowed through the
sleeve. The seconds shouted to us to stop. I instantly lowered my
rapier, but in his frenzy of rage at his mischance he heard the shout
and saw my gesture no more than I saw and heard anything of what
happened to me during the next four weeks."
"He is said to have struck twice," observed Frau Wollnow; "the last
time when you were lying on the ground."
"I do not believe it and never shall," replied Gotthold; "our seconds
had certainly lost their heads and could not afterwards say positively
how the affair had happened. But now, my clear Madam and Herr Wollnow,
I fear I must have, exhausted your patience and will take my leave.
Good Heavens! Twelve o'clock already! It is unpardonable!"
"I could have listened all night," said Frau Wollnow, with a deep sigh,
as she also, but very slowly, rose from her chair. "Ah! youth, youth!
people are never young but once."
"Thank God," said Gotthold gayly; "otherwise people would be compelled
to play their foolish pranks twice."
"Who is so old as to be safe from folly," said Herr Wollnow, with a
grave smile.
"You!" exclaimed his wife, embracing him. "You are much too old and far
too wicked. People must not only be young, but also good, like our
friend here, in order to be so badly rewarded for all his goodness. I
can imagine how it went to your heart when Cecilia, married this
Brandow. That sweet innocent girl of seventeen wedded to him! Ah! when
we see such things it is enough to make us lose faith in mankind
forever."
"This faith is not so frequently to be found either in Israel or
elsewhere," said Herr Wollnow.
"Will you go?"
"I am going already, my dear Madam."
"Oh, dear! now you are beginning too. I meant to say, will you really
go to Dollan?"
"I must do so now, even if I were not obliged to go on account of the
picture."
"Why?"
"To restore my faith in mankind, at least the part most important to
me, myself," replied Gotthold, with a smile, whose derision did not
escape Herr Wollnow.
"I am very much displeased with you," said the latter, as he re-entered
the dining-room, after accompanying Gotthold to the door.
"With me?"
"What must the man think of me? What a meddlesome awkward fellow he
must consider me. It is a real piece of good fortune that I went no
farther."
"But what have I done?"
"Why did you never tell me this famous narrative of your youth, from
which it is very evident that he loved and probably still loves your
friend Cecilia, as you call her, although I have never seen anything of
the friendship."
"Do you really think so?" exclaimed Fran Wollnow, starting up and
throwing her arms around her husband; "do you really think so? Did he
tell you so?"
In spite of his vexation, Herr Wollnow could not help laughing.
"I should probably be the last person whom he would choose for his
confidant, especially now, after I, stupid oaf, have been hammering
away upon this subject for the last hour."
"On this subject? I really don't understand you, Emil."
"Don't understand me! Gracious, you clever soul! How difficult it is
for women to see their way in matters they proudly condescend to
consider their own. Don't understand me? Well, I can assure you that
yonder enthusiast understood you perfectly, and will be on his way to
Dollan early to-morrow morning."
"Well, I can't see any particular harm in that," said Frau Wollnow.
"Why should not those two meet again, after so many years, even if they
really do still love each other? I will give poor Cecilia the pleasure
with all my heart--she needs consolation so much."
"As much as her worthy husband needs money. Day after to-morrow is the
last day of grace for his note of five thousand thalers which is
deposited with me. Perhaps he will help both: he has the means to do
so."
"Oh! Emil, your everlasting prose is unbearable."
"I never promised you that you would find me a poet."
"Heaven knows that."
"It would be better for me if you knew it."
"Emil!"
"I beg your pardon. I am really so much annoyed that I can't help being
spiteful. But that conies of meddling with other people's affairs. Let
the fools do as they please, and come to bed."
CHAPTER V.
When, after a night of torturing restlessness, Gotthold suddenly awoke
from his heavy morning sleep, the sun had already been shining through
the white lace curtains of his chamber for several hours. "Thank God,"
he said aloud, "morning has come, and with the morning everything will
doubtless look brighter."
He was soon dressed, and standing at the open window. How familiar the
scene was to him. There was the circular space, with its grass-grown
walks, and the little obelisk in the centre, surrounded by pleasant
white houses with pretty gardens; yonder the stately schoolhouse, from
whose open windows the singing of the boys rang out so distinctly upon
the quiet of the Sabbath morning, that he fancied he could distinguish
the words of the hymn. On the right hand, peering between the houses,
and rising above their roofs, appeared the dark green foliage of the
huge trees in the royal park, and far away on the left, between other
dwellings, gleamed a portion of the lake, and the tiny islet--just at
this moment sparkling in the sunlight--which lies before the large
island. He had seen the beautiful picture hundreds and hundreds of
times just as he saw it now, when, after the morning service was over,
he stood at the window of the school-house with Curt, his eyes
wandering towards the region where beloved Dollan lay; and even as now
it allured him from the narrow walls of the room out into the sunny
fields, the shady woods, and by the blue lake. These lights, these
shadow, this brilliant azure hue had kindled in the boy a pure desire
to reproduce, to counterfeit what lay so clearly, though in such
complicated lines before him, and so deeply stirred his heart with
strange forebodings. They had been his first teachers in the wonderful
language of lines and colors; and fluently as he had since learned to
speak it, he was still indebted to them for all that he had attained.
Had he not felt yesterday, when he drove through the familiar scenes,
heavy as was his heart, that all his toil and labor in beautiful Italy
had been more or less vain, and he had always painted only with his
eyes and hand, never with his heart; spoken a beautiful, musical, but
foreign tongue with difficulty, instead of his native language; and
that here, and here only, in his native country, and beneath his native
sky, could he become a true artist, who does not utter what others can
say as well or better, but what he alone can express, because he is
himself what he says.
But could home really still be home to him after all that had happened,
all he had experienced and suffered here? Why not, if he only saw it
with the eyes with which he endeavored to see the rest of the world; if
he wished to be nothing more than what, in his good hours, he believed
himself to be--a true artist, living only in his ideal creations,
behind whom everything that fetters other men lies like an
unsubstantial vision, and for whom, when in evil plight, there is a God
to whom he can tell what he suffers. Yes, his art, chaste and severe,
had been his guiding-star in the labyrinth of his early days, his
talisman in the misery and poverty of the years he had spent in
Munich, his refuge at all times; and she should and would continue to
be so--would cling loyally to him if he was faithful to her, and ever
throned her reverently on high as his protectress, his adored goddess.
The boys' song died away. Gotthold passed his hand over his eyes, and
turned back into the room just as there was a loud knock at the door.
"What, is it you, Jochen?"
"Yes, Herr Gotthold, it is I," replied Jochen Prebrow, after putting
the coffee-tray he had brought in as carefully on the table as if it
had been a soap-bubble, which would break at the slightest touch. "Clas
Classen, from Neuenkirchen, or, as they call him here, Louis, had just
gone down cellar when you rang, and I thought the coffee would taste
none the worse for my bringing it."
"Certainly not; I am very much obliged to you."
"And besides, I wanted to ask when I should harness the horses."
"I shall remain here a few days," replied Gotthold.
At these words a smile began to overspread Jochen's broad face, but it
instantly vanished again as Gotthold continued: "So you must drive on
alone, old friend."
"I should like to stay here a few days too," said Jochen.
"And you cannot unless I keep the carriage? Then I will, and, what is
of more value to me, you; and we will go on at once to Dollan, which I
suppose is what you want. Or do you think the horses ought not to be
left so long?"
Jochen had no anxiety on that score. His good friend, Clas Classen,
whom the people here had the strange custom of calling Louis, would
willingly undertake the care of them and see that they had all they
needed, but why did Herr Gotthold walk when they had horses and
carriage on the spot?
"But I should prefer to walk," said Gotthold.
"Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison," said Jochen
rubbing his thick hair. "But there's still another difficulty in the
way: you will find the nest empty."
"What do you mean?"
"They passed through here an hour ago, both the gentleman and lady,"
replied Jochen. "I was sitting in the coffee-room and they stopped at
the door."
Gotthold stared steadily at Jochen. She had been there, so near him,
under the window at which he had just been standing, and he might have
seen the pure face again as Jochen saw it, who spoke of it as coolly as
if it were a thing that might happen every day.
"And did you speak to her, Jochen?" he said at last hesitatingly.
"The lady remained in the carriage," said Jochen; "but he came in to
drink a little rum, and as there was nobody else in the room, and I had
just got some out of the cupboard for myself, I helped him to it; and
then he asked where I came from, and I told him I was here with a
gentleman, but I thought we should go on to-day as soon as he was up.
He asked if I knew the gentleman; but of course I didn't; for, thought
I, the friendship between those two was never very great, and the less
one has to do with Herr Brandow the better. Wasn't I right? Well, and
so one word led to another, and he took out his watch and said he was
going to Plueggenhof and should probably stay there till to-morrow
evening, and then he drank his rum, which he will perhaps pay for when
he comes back, and away he went; he had a pair of splendid bays,
thorough-breds, especially the saddle-horse. You would have been
delighted with them, for you are a judge of horses; I saw that
yesterday."
Gotthold's eyes were still fixed steadily upon the floor. She would not
even know that he had been here.
Be it so! He had not intended, even for a moment, to cross her path;
and now the way was open, perfectly open; he could carry out
unhindered, and without any pain, the plan he had formed yesterday when
he returned from the Wollnows' through the park to the inn.
An hour afterwards the two men were walking along the road to Dollan,
at first upon the highway, then by side paths and short cuts, every
foot of which Gotthold knew.
He walked on, lost in dreams of the days that had fled and could never
return, while far above his head the larks sang unceasingly, the black
crows stalked over the quiet fields abandoned to Sabbath solitude, the
bright-plumaged jays fluttered over the moors, and above the border of
the distant woods an eagle wheeled in majestic circles. Jochen, who had
taken nothing except Gotthold's dressing-case and paint-box tied up
with his own little bundle in a gay cotton handkerchief, generally
loitered a little behind and did not disturb his silent companion by
any undue loquacity. Jochen had his own thoughts, which to be sure did
not dwell upon the past but the future, thoughts he would gladly have
uttered, only that he knew not how to guide the conversation in that
direction. But they were approaching nearer and nearer to the corner of
the woods, where he must part from Gotthold for the day, and if he
wished to hear his opinion at all, now was the time. So he took heart,
overtook his companion with a few long strides, walked on a few minutes
by his side in silence, and was not a little startled himself when he
suddenly uttered aloud the question he had mutely repeated a hundred
times: "What do you think about marrying, Herr Gotthold?"
Gotthold paused and looked in astonishment at the worthy Jochen, who
also stood still, and whose broad face, with its staring eyes and
half-open mouth, wore so singular an expression that he could not help
smiling.
"What put that into your head?"
"Because I want to get married."
"Then you must know about it far better than I, who do not."
Jochen closed his lips and swallowed several times, as if he had taken
too large a mouthful. Gotthold was now forced to laugh outright.
"Why, Jochen," he exclaimed, "why are you so mysterious to an old
friend? I will gladly give you my best advice, and if I can, and you
care about it, my blessing also, but I must first know what the matter
is really about. So you want to be married?"
"Yes, Herr Gotthold," said Jochen, taking off his cap and wiping the
drops of perspiration from his brown forehead; "at least I don't
exactly, but she says she has always wanted me."
"That is something, and who is she?"
"Stine Lachmund."
"But, Jochen, she is at least fifteen years older than you."
"She can't help that."
"No, certainly not."
"And then she is a capable woman, who has a good stout frame and strong
bones, only it is a little hard for her to move about because she has
rather too much flesh now, but she says that would probably go off if
she had more work to do than she has at the Wollnows', where life is
altogether too easy."
"Well, if she thinks so herself."
"Yes, and then she has put by a pretty sum of money at the Wollnows',
and her old father and mother at Thiessow,--you know, Herr Gotthold, we
sailed over there once with the young master, and there was a terribly
high sea outside, so that we got there as wet as cats, and old Lachmund
thought we must really have had a ducking."
"And then he made us a stiff glass of grog," said Gotthold.
"And our young master drank a little too much, and played all sorts
of pranks in the old man's long jacket, with his sou'wester on his
head--that was a jolly time, Herr Gotthold." Jochen had lost the thread
of his story, but Gotthold kindly prompted him, and he now went on to
relate that the old couple, rich people for their station in life, who
had kept a sort of inn in the large fishing village, at last wished to
resign the sceptre they had so long and obstinately held to their only
daughter, and give themselves up to repose for the rest of their days,
on condition that she should instantly marry some good man.
So Stine Lachmund, whom Jochen had visited in the kitchen at the same
time that Gotthold had been calling upon her master and mistress, had
reported, and asked Jochen whether he would be her husband.
"For you see, Herr Gotthold," continued Jochen, "she don't take to
everybody, and she has known me, as one might say, all my life, and
knows I am an orderly, sober man, who understands how to take care of
horses, knows enough about farming, and can even manage a boat, if it
doesn't blow too hard."
"Then so far everything would be perfectly suitable," said Gotthold,
"but now we come to the principal thing: do you really love her?"
"Yes, that's just it," replied Jochen thoughtfully. "She asked me
herself last night, and what was I to say?"
"The truth, Jochen, nothing but the truth."
"I did, Herr Gotthold, I did tell the truth. 'Not yet,' I said, and
then she laughed and said that would do no harm, all that would come
right if the woman and the man were well-behaved. I must ask you, you
would give me the right advice."
"I?"
"Yes, you would know about it; you had always been a good man,
and--and--"
"And?"
"And if you had married our young lady, she would have been a great
deal better off than she is now; yes, and, Herr Gotthold, I only saw
her side face this morning through the window, as she sat alone in the
carriage; but this I must say, she doesn't look over happy, and Stine
says she has not much reason to. Do you think so too, Herr Gotthold?"
"I don't know, I hope"--replied Gotthold, "people talk so much,--but we
were speaking about your offer."
"Yes, and what do you say now?"
"What is there to be said? If you feel inclined, marry Stine, who is
certainly a worthy, honest girl, and may you both be as happy and
prosperous as you deserve."
They had seated themselves in the shade at the edge of the wood, in
order to carry on this important conversation quietly, but now Gotthold
rose, hastily seized his travelling case and paint-box, which Jochen
had laid on the grass beside him, warmly shook the hard brown hand of
his companion, and entered the forest without casting another glance
behind. Jochen looked after his retreating figure, then took his own
little bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and began to ascend the
moor, above whose topmost crest the roof of his father's smithy was
just visible.
CHAPTER VI.
Gotthold hurried restlessly through the forest with hasty steps, as if
he had not a moment to lose. But it was only the tumult of sore,
sorrowful thoughts, that drove him on and would not leave him, any more
than the swarm of flies which had entered the woods with him and
hovered about his head, now rising, now falling, now lingering behind,
now flitting on before.
"To think that I must always hear it, everywhere, and from all
tongues," he murmured, "as if I were responsible for it; as if it were
a reproach to me that she is not happy! Happy! Who is? Perhaps the
infallible people who can recite, their moral multiplication table
forward and backward like this Wollnow, the wise, self-righteous
Pharisee; or like good Jochen, to whom fifteen years more or less in
his Stine is of no consequence, provided a good maintenance is
guaranteed him. But on the other hand--am I happy? Are thousands and
thousands of others, who have scarcely a greater fault than that they
are men, men with hearts that feel and sympathize, suffer and
compassionate? A curse upon compassion and sympathy! They make us the
pitiful creatures we are. What are you rustling, venerable beeches,
which for centuries have strewn your withered leaves each Autumn over
the soil of this forest, only to shine forth again in Spring in the
full beauty of your green foliage? What are you murmuring, little
brook, as you carry your clear brown water to the sea as busily to-day
as when I played upon your bank, a merry boy, and thought it a heroic
deed to leap across you from shore to shore? Alas! in the rustling, the
murmur, I hear the same song that the swallow sang yesterday, the song
of the eternal youth of Nature, which is ever the same, always equally
strong, equally beautiful; and of the transitoriness, the frailty of
men, who prolong a sorrowful, yet greedy existence by fear and hope,
eat this shadowy food until death, and yet are happiest while their
hearts can still hope and fear, their hearts which can never again be
filled if once emptied, or if they fill and throb once more, fill with
contempt, throb with indignation, that they could ever have been so
foolish as to beat anxiously in blended hope and fear. Well, I no
longer hope, so I need not fear even the view that awaits me yonder."
From the broader, but completely neglected road that had hitherto
followed the course of the forest stream, and, turning to the right,
still pursued its windings deeper into the woods to the sea, a
foot-path branched off to the left and led upward, at first between the
trunks of huge trees, but gradually through more and more stunted
underbrush, which finally dwindled into heather and broom that covered
the whole crest of the hill to its highest point, where the men of
ancient times, in memory of one of their princes, had reared a huge
monument of massive blocks of stone, now covered with thick moss, and
partly buried in the earth. It was the spot from which Gotthold, with
an unsteady hand, had made the colored sketch he afterwards used for
the painting that hung in Frau Wollnow's room.
And now he stood there again, after ten long years--in, the shadow of
one of the blocks of stone which protected him from the burning rays of
the sun, while before him stretched the landscape with whose wondrous
beauty the boy's eyes had never been satiated. Ah! Time had not
obliterated a single charm; nay, it seemed as if the hour was expressly
adapted to show him the Paradise of his youth in all its magic.
The hour of noon! The brilliant sunlight bathed the tops of the
beeches, over which his eyes wandered to emerald meadows and golden
cornfields--the meadows and fields of Dollan, which lay like a quiet
sunny Eden among the shaded, wood-covered hills that enclosed it on all
sides. Amid the meadows and fields, relieved against the darker foliage
of the trees in the garden, appeared the straw thatched roofs of the
farm buildings, and the tiled roof of the long, low mansion-house, in
whose red gable he could distinctly perceive the tiny window of the
little room he had occupied with Curt whenever he went to Dollan. What
memories that little window evoked! It seemed as if his eyes were fixed
upon it by some magic spell, and could scarcely turn away either to the
right, where the hills opened and afforded a view of the blue sea upon
which the distant white sails glittered like stars, or to the left, to
glance over the wide brown moorland, upon which the lonely smithy stood
under an ancient oak, the only tree in the shadeless waste, above whose
verge towered other wood-crowned heights which closed the view on the
land side.
The hour of noon, the hour of the great Pan! Not the faintest breath
stirred the shining air; motionless were the dazzling white clouds upon
the steel blue vault of the heavens; motionless the tops of the trees,
the blossoming bushes, even the long blades of grass. Not a sound
disturbed the profound stillness; even the locust, which had chirped
among the stones of the giant's monument, was silent, perhaps terrified
by the brown serpent, which, with its head upraised and its round
glittering eyes fixed steadily upon Gotthold, lay motionless upon one
of the masses of rock a few paces off, with the rest of its scaly body
buried in a dense mass of heather. He had not noticed it before, and
now perceived it with a sort of shudder. It seemed as if the torpor
into which Nature had sunk had been embodied; as if the spirit of
loneliness and desolation had assumed a material form. Woe betide you
when the loneliness of yonder mansion with its neglected garden, the
desolation of this remote valley, so far away from all human society,
stares at you with those cold, cruel eyes; when you listen in the
stillness for a beloved voice, and hear only the blood seething in your
temples, and the heavy, anxious throbbing of your heart.
Avaunt, fiend, avaunt!
He raised his staff; the serpent disappeared; when he reached the rock
upon which it must have been lying, he could see nothing but the
swaying of the flowers through whose closely interwoven roots it was
gliding away.
Or was it only an illusion of his excited fancy, and did the flowers
bend to the soft breeze that now breathed through the hot air, growing
constantly stronger and stronger, so that a rustling and murmuring
arose in the forest behind him, the treetops at his feet began to
whisper, and at last the cool fresh wind from the sea blew over the
panting earth.
The spell was broken; Gotthold again looked at the landscape; but now
with the eye of the artist, who is seeking to obtain the best view of
his subject.
"I chose the morning light then, if one can call it choice; it was a
mistake and I must arrange the atmospheric effect artistically, but the
sun should be at a moderate height above the horizon, almost directly
over the smithy; that will be about six o'clock, and I can have what I
need until eight. I think it will prove a picture which might satisfy
others as well as yonder talkative lady."
CHAPTER VII.
Gotthold collected his luggage; then it occurred to him that he might
just as well leave his colors there. So he placed the box on the rock
where the serpent had lain, in the dense shadow, and went down the
hill, along the woodland path, to the long ravine through which the
stream rippled to the sea, and at whose mouth, in the little inlet
between two steep overhanging cliffs, stood Cousin Boslaf's lonely
little house. In the old days at Dollan it had gone by the name of the
beach-house, nor was the title used only there; the name was in all
mouths, especially those of the ship-masters, to whom it was a welcome
landmark on that dangerous coast even by day, and still more at night,
when the warning light in Cousin Boslaf's window streamed through the
yawning night over the dreary waste of waters to the helpless mariner.
The brilliant glow extended a long distance, thanks to the huge arched
tin dish which the old man had fastened behind the lamp, and whose
spotless brightness rivalled polished silver. This light had now burned
seventy years, to the joy of shipmasters and fishermen and the honor of
the worthy man who kindled it night after night at no one's bidding,
but in simple obedience to the dictates of his own kind heart.
Seventy years, and probably more rather than less; no one had counted
them. Ever since the oldest man in that neighborhood could remember,
Cousin Boslaf had lived in the beach-house--was it strange that he
should be a half-mythical personage to the younger generations? He
almost seemed so to his own relatives in Dollan, among whom he lived;
in whose society, at least, he spent many hours; whose joys and sorrows
he shared in his quiet way, and to whom his history was known; at least
Curt's father had known and related it, Gotthold could not remember
the occasion, and whether he had told the boys or--what was more
probable--communicated it to some friends over a bottle of wine, and
the boys had secretly listened in some corner.
It was long since Gotthold had thought of this story, which reminded
him of a time when many a beech-tree that now reared its stately head
far above the wanderer f did not exist. But now it once more came back
to his memory, down to the smallest details, which he really knew not
whether he had heard at that time, imagined since, or now first learned
from the rustling of the forest giants, and the murmur of the brook
that accompanied his steps.
"When we were under the Swedish rule," so all the stories of those days
began, there lived on the island two cousins named Wenhof--Adolf and
Bogislaf--both equally young, equally strong and handsome, and equally
in love with a charming young lady, whom her father would give only to
a rich man, for the simple reason that he had nothing but his noble
blood and the great estate of Dahlitz, which was loaded with debts to
an amount exceeding its value. The two cousins, it is true, did not
belong to the nobility, but they had descended from a very good old
family, and the Lord of Dahlitz would have made no objection to either,
except the one he was unfortunately obliged to make to both, namely,
that they were, if possible, poorer than himself. In fact, neither
possessed anything except a good rifle with the hunting equipments
belonging to it, and a pair of stout boots, whose thick soles crossed
the thresholds of their many friends on the island, where they were
everywhere welcome companions in the hunt or at the board. Of equal
height, and almost similar cast of features, they also did everything
alike, or so nearly alike that the hospitable, cheery land-owners saw
one enter the courtyard no less gladly than the other, and were still
better pleased when both appeared, which was almost always the case,
for the two cousins loved each other much more warmly than most
brothers, and as for their passion for the beautiful Ulrica of Dahlitz,
their hopes of possessing her were so small that it was not worth while
to quarrel about it.
Just at that time something happened which at one blow completely
altered their situation, or at least the situation of one of them.
A very wealthy and eccentric uncle in Sweden died, who, besides his
property in that country, had an estate on the island to bequeath,
namely, beautiful Dollan, which at that time included the forest down
to the sea-coast, and all the land across the wide moor to the
Schanzenberge. This estate he now left to the two cousins, or rather to
one of them, for according to the singular wording of the will it was
to go to the one whom a jury of six of his acquaintances should
pronounce the "best man." Everybody laughed when this strange condition
was made known, and the cousins laughed too. But they soon became very
serious when they considered that not only Dollan was at stake, but
Ulrica von Dahlitz, whom her father would joyfully give in marriage to
the owner of Dollan. It was strange to see the two cousins, who had
hitherto been inseparable, now begin to take separate paths, and, when
they could not avoid each other, measure each other with grave,
questioning, almost hostile looks, which seemed to say: I am the better
man.
In the bottom of his heart each was obliged to confess, and did
acknowledge, that the matter was at least very doubtful; and so thought
and said the six judges whom the two cousins had chosen, and whose
decision they had promised to obey. But all six were blameless young
men, who set about their difficult task very gravely and solemnly, and
held long, very long consultations, during which immense quantities of
good old red wine were drunk, and a vast number of pipes was smoked,
until they at last came to the following conclusion, which was
universally praised as a wise and perfectly suitable one.
The cousin who should best perform six tasks to be given by the judges,
should be considered by them and the world the best man.
The cousins would now have been in a very unfortunate situation, if the
judges had obtained their wisdom from any philosophical or learned
book; but no one of them had even thought of such a thing. The best
man, according to their standard, would be he who, in the first place,
should be able in the presence of the judges, within forty-eight hours,
to put a three-years-old stallion, which had never been mounted,
through the four principal paces--the walk, the trot, the gallop, and
the run; secondly, cross the moor of Dollan, from the manor-house to
the old smithy, with a team of four fiery young horses, going at full
gallop, on a certain line; thirdly, swim from the shore to a ship
anchored a German mile away in the offing; fourthly, from sunset to
sunrise--it was in June, and the nights were short--drink a dozen
bottles of wine; and fifthly, during that time play Boston with three
of the judges without making any great mistakes. But if, as was almost
expected, the judges even then could not decide, the cousins were to
have twelve shots with a rifle at a target placed at a distance of two
hundred and fifty paces, and the one who could hit the centre most
frequently should be "the best man," and the owner of Dollan.
This sixth and last trial was really a last resource, upon which the
judges had decided very unwillingly; for every child knew that Bogislaf
was not only the better shot of the two, but the best on the whole
island; still the matter must be settled in some way, and as Adolf,
perhaps hoping that he should win the prize before that test was
reached, made no objection to number six, everything was decided and
the contest could begin.
It began and continued as had been universally expected. The two young
sons of Anak rode their horses, guided their carriages, swam their
mile, drank their twelve bottles of wine, and played their Boston with
such equal skill and faultlessness, that the most scrupulous eye could
detect no difference in the merit of the performance, and with heavy
hearts the judges were obliged to proceed to the last trial, whose
result was not doubtful.
And heavy, heavy as a hundred-pound weight poor Adolf's heart might
well have felt in his brave breast, when he appeared on the ground on
the momentous day. He was very much depressed, and the secret
encouragement of the judges, who wished him well, did not cheer him.
"It is all useless now," he murmured.
But, strangely enough, Bogislaf seemed no less moved, nay, even more
agitated than his cousin. He was pale, his large blue eyes looked dim
and sunken, and his particular friends noticed, to their horror, that
when the cousins shook hands, as they always did before every contest,
his hand--his strong brown hand--trembled like that of a timid girl.
The cousins, who were to fire alternately, drew lots; Adolf had the
first shot. He was a long time in taking aim, raised and lowered his
gun several times, and finally hit the last ring but one.
"I knew it beforehand," he said, covering his eyes, and would have
liked to stop his ears; but he listened intently, and drew a long
breath, when instead of the "centre" he expected, the number of the
last ring on the target was mentioned, and repeated in a loud tone by
one of the judges.
Was it possible? Well then, there was still hope. Adolf collected all
his powers; he shot better and better, three, four, six, nine, and ten,
and again six and ten; and Bogislaf always remained one ring behind
him, neither more nor less--always one ring.
"He is playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse," the judges said
to each other after the first three shots had been fired.
But Bogislaf grew paler, and his hand trembled more and more violently
at every trial, and only grew steady at the moment when he discharged
the gun; but he was always one ring behind Adolf, and now came the last
shot, the worst Adolf had made. In his terrible excitement he had just
grazed the outer edge of the target; if Bogislaf now hit the centre, he
would be the victor: the result of the long struggle, the magnificent
estate, the beautiful bride--all, all depended upon that one shot.
Pale as death, Bogislaf stepped forward, but his hand no longer
trembled; firmly, as if his arm and the gun were one, he took aim, the
glittering barrel did not swerve a hair's breadth, and now the report
crashed upon the stillness. "It has hit the mark," said the judges.
The markers went forward and sought again and again, they could not
find the bullet; the judges also went to the spot and searched and
searched, but they could not find it either. The unprecedented, almost
incredible thing had happened--Bogislaf had not even hit the target.
The judges looked at each other in perplexity, and for poor Bogislaf's
sake scarcely ventured to utter what must be said. But Bogislaf went up
to his cousin, who stood with downcast eyes, as if ashamed of his
victory, seized his hand, and evidently wished to say something which
did not escape his pale, quivering lips. But it could not have been a
curse, for he fell sobbing on Adolf's neck, pressed him to his heart,
then released him, and without uttering a word, strode away and
disappeared.
He remained absent. Many supposed he had killed himself; others
declared that he had buried himself in the northern part of Norway amid
the ice and snow to hunt bears and wolves; and they were perhaps right.
At all events, he was not dead, but after an absence of several years
suddenly appeared on the estate of a friend who had been one of the
judges, and here his cousin Adolf and his young wife Ulrica met
him--quite accidentally, for they had not heard of his return, and the
young wife was so startled that she fell fainting on the floor, and was
restored to consciousness with great difficulty. To be sure, she had
always been one of those who believed Bogislaf dead, and had already
had several discussions on the subject with her husband, who always
asserted the contrary. It was said that this was by no means the only
point of difference between the husband and wife, and there were in
truth many things which did not increase the happiness of the young
pair. True, the extravagant old Lord of Dahlitz, who had sold his
property to a Herr Brandow--Carl Brandow's great-grandfather--and then
lived very contentedly on his son-in-law for several years, was now
dead, but the daughter had inherited her father's expensive tastes, and
Adolf was anything but a good economist.
This last quality certainly did not prevent him from doing what the
simplest gratitude required;--and therefore--in spite of his wife's
opposition--he invited poor Bogislaf to visit him at Dollan and remain
as long as possible. At first Bogislaf positively refused, and with
good reason. The cause of the result of the shooting match had now
transpired! It was known that the evening before the contest Ulrica had
sent her cousin and most intimate friend, Emma von Dahlitz, a poor
orphan who lived with her wealthy relatives, to Bogislaf with the
message: she would never, never, though everybody should declare him to
be the best man, accept him for her husband, but Adolf, whom she always
had loved, and always should. Then Bogislaf, as he no longer had any
hope of winning the girl he loved, generously resigned to his cousin a
property which no longer had any charm for him.
He long refused to accept his fortunate cousin's invitation, but
finally came--for only a week. But the days had become weeks, the weeks
months, and the months years, so that this was now the fourth
generation which had known old Bogislaf Wenhof, or, as he was commonly
called, Cousin Boslaf, in the beach-house of Dollan. He had removed
there at the end of the first week, after purchasing it, together with
the few fields and meadows belonging to it, for a very small sum from
the government, which had originally built it for a watch-house; but
though the beach-house did not really belong to Dollan, but was Cousin
Boslaf's own property, Cousin Boslaf clung to Dollan all the more
closely, so closely that the constant intercourse had filled the heads
of the people with all sorts of superstitious fancies, in which the old
man sometimes figured as the good, and sometimes the evil genius of
Dollan, and especially the Wenhof family. Alas! even if he were the
good genius, he had been unable to prevent the ruin of the house, or
withhold the son of Adolf and Ulrica, who had many of the Dahlitz
traits of character, from selling Dollan to the convent of St. Juergen
at the close of the preceding century, after which he was glad to
remain as a tenant where he had once been master. Cousin Boslaf had not
been able to prevent that, or any of the other things which had
happened from that time to the present day.
"But what does this mean?" said Gotthold to himself. "How can one let
his healthy brain become so bewildered by the rustling of the forest,
the murmur of the stream, and these old tales! I believe the serpent
has bewitched me with its cold glittering eyes, and I am still under
its spell. But its reign is over now. There is the sea gleaming through
the boughs, my own beloved, beautiful sea! Its fresh breath will cool
my hot brow. And he, the old man who lives yonder, and who learned so
early the meaning of the harsh word sacrifice; who renounced power,
wealth, and woman's favor that he might not lose his own manhood, was
probably the better and wiser man."
Still following the course of the stream, which, now that it was so
near its mouth, grew more noisy and impatient, falling in many a
miniature cascade as it hurried plashing and murmuring down the ravine,
overgrown with huge clumps of ferns and the most luxuriant grass,
Gotthold, a few moments after, reached the shore. On the right hand,
almost at the extreme point of the promontory, which, covered with
large and small stones like the rest of the coast, ran out several
hundred paces into the sea, stood Cousin Boslaf's house. The old flag,
which Gotthold had remembered from his boyhood, still fluttered from
the tall staff on the gable roof. It had originally been a Swedish
banner, but in the course of years the wind and weather had so dimmed
its colors, and made so many repairs necessary, that the authorities
could not have taken umbrage at this relic of foreign rule, even if
they had troubled themselves particularly about Cousin Boslaf's
actions. This, however, they had never done, so the old flag fluttered
and rustled and flapped merrily in the fresh breeze, which blew still
stronger as Gotthold now stood before the low dwelling, built partly of
unhewn stone from the shore, whose only door was on the side towards
the land. The door was locked; he could not look into the little
iron-barred windows on the right and left, which lighted the kitchen
and store-room, for they were considerably above a man's height, close
under the roof; and the strong iron shutters were put over the two
larger windows in the front of the house, which faced the sea.
Evidently Cousin Boslaf was not at home.
"To be sure," said Gotthold, "after an absence of ten years we can't be
surprised not to find a man who was eighty years old at the time we
left him."
And yet he could not believe that the old man was dead. He had just
been thinking of him so eagerly, seen him so distinctly in his mind's
eye--the tall, slender figure, walking with long, regular strides, as
he had so often beheld him. No, no, the old man belonged to the race of
giants; he had surely outlived this little space of time.
And then the house and its surroundings--the little front yard enclosed
by a walk, the tiny garden bordered with shells--did not look as if
they had been left for any length of time. Everything was in order and
painfully neat, as the old man used to keep it; the little bridge in
the creek to which he fastened his boat had even been lately mended
with new pieces of wood, carefully dovetailed together. But the boat
had gone; undoubtedly cousin Boslaf had rowed out to sea in her. To be
sure, it was not his custom, but the old man's habits might have
altered during the last few years.
The afternoon was already far advanced; the walk through the ravine to
the beach-house had occupied more time than Gotthold expected. He would
wait for Cousin Boslaf an hour longer, and then return to the giant's
grave, paint until sunset, claim the hospitality of the smithy for the
night, and early the next morning--it was to be hoped with better
success--seek out his old friend once more. Then he could reach Prora
at noon, and after taking leave of the Wollnows, drive on with Jochen
without delay. He had thought yesterday of finishing the picture in
Prora; but they would pass through the place to-morrow evening on their
return from Plueggenhof, so Jochen had informed him, and he would not
trust a second time to the chance which had saved him from meeting Carl
Brandow that very morning.
The young man had thrown himself down upon the shore under the shadow
of the beeches, which here extended to the very brink of the steep
cliff. Accustomed as he had been on his sketching excursions to satisfy
himself for a whole day with a piece of bread and a drink from his
flask, he now felt no hunger; but he experienced far more fatigue than
he had usually done after longer walks. As he lay there with the
beeches rustling over his head, and the waves breaking on the stony
shore beneath with their monotonous cadence, his lids gradually fell
over eyes wearied by long gazing over the boundless waste of waters.
CHAPTER VIII.
A few hours later, Carl Brandow and Hinrich Scheel were riding over the
moor from the smithy to Dollan, the same road which they had passed
over in the opposite direction not ten minutes before. They rode at a
quick trot, the groom a few dozen paces behind his master, though not
from any feeling of respect, and certainly not because he was worse
mounted. On the contrary, his horse was a magnificent brown animal of
the purest blood, far more valuable than his master's half-breed, so
valuable in fact, that any passer-by would have wondered how such a
noble animal could be ridden upon such an ordinary occasion. But
Hinrich Scheel was no ordinary rider; he noticed every movement of the
horse upon the rough road as carefully as if he were training it upon a
smooth race-course; not the smallest awkwardness was suffered to pass
unnoticed; it had just been guilty of a trick for which it must be
punished; and that was the reason why he had remained a little behind.
Suddenly Carl Brandow drew his rein, and half turning said, over his
shoulder, "Are you perfectly sure you saw him?"
"I told you I passed within a hundred paces of him," answered Hinrich
Scheel sulkily; "and I had plenty of time to look at him too; I believe
he stood up there an hour, as if he had taken root."
"But why did that scoundrel of a Jochen say just now that he didn't
know where he was?"
"Perhaps he doesn't."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
They rode on a short distance side by side; the master staring gloomily
straight before him, and the groom from time to time casting a sly
glance at him from his squinting eyes. Then he urged his horse still
nearer and said:
"Why should he know? I don't know why you are running after him as a
cat chases a mouse."
"Bah!"
"Nor why you came back from Plueggenhof so soon, have ridden the horses
half to death, and gave me a louis-d'or when I told you I had seen
him."
"I'll give you six if you'll tell me where I can find him," cried Carl
Brandow, turning eagerly in his saddle.
"Where you can find him? Why that's easy enough; with the old man in
the beach-house yonder."
"Where I cannot seek him."
"Without having the old man send a bullet through your body. Six
louis-d'or! I think I should wait a long time for the money. But I will
tell you where you can find him without the gold, if you'll let me ride
Brownlock across the bog."
"Are you crazy?"
"I will cross it faster than you can cross the hill. Can I go?"
Before them the road ran in a tolerably steep ascent over a hill, an
outlying spur of the Schanzenberge on the left, which stretched some
distance into the moor. On the right of this hill a broad tract of
marshy land extended across the moor to the forest, where it found an
outlet in the stream whose course to the sea Gotthold had followed that
afternoon. The summit of the hill had undoubtedly sunk into the marsh
years before, for the long mound of earth divided it like a wall, which
at the time it was engulfed had doubtless been very steep, but in the
course of years had been so much washed away by the trickling of water
down the hillside that, it now formed an irregular slope, along whose
upper edge ran the old carriage road, while farther up the acclivity
large stones made the way impassable for vehicles, although horsemen
and pedestrians might wind through. The condition of affairs had
probably not been so bad when Bogislaf and Adolf Wenhof were obliged to
drive their horses along here at full gallop, for now no man in his
senses would pass the spot in a carriage except at a walk, and Jochen
Prebrow was perfectly right when he said that it would have been easy
for him--or any one else--to execute Curt's wild order, and hurl the
young pair down the slope into the bog on their wedding day.
The riders had stopped their horses; Carl Brandow looked up the hill
and over the marsh.
"You are crazy," he said again.
"Crazy or not," exclaimed Hinrich Scheel impatiently, "it must be done.
I went to Salchow this morning to hear what Mr. Thompson had to say.
The fellow always knows everything, and declares that they have
enclosed a piece of marshy ground in the race-course for Brownlock's
special benefit, because they think he is too heavy to cross it, and
you'll be obliged to take a wide sweep around. Well, sir, if you make
the victory so easy for Bessy, Count Grieben and the other gentlemen
will be very well satisfied, and I can be satisfied too."
"You would be no better, suited than I," said Brandow, and then
muttered between his teeth: "everything is all of a piece now."
"Shall I?" said Hinrich Scheel, who probably perceived his master's
irresolution.
"For aught I care."
A ray of joy flitted over Hinrich's ugly face. He turned the horse,
which had long been champing his bit impatiently, and galloped a
hundred paces to the left, to the edge of the marsh, then paused and
shouted:
"Ready?"
"Yes!"
"Now!"
Brownlock sprang forward with a mighty leap, and then flew over the
marshy ground. Again and again his light hoofs broke through the thin
covering of turf, so that the water dashed high into the air, but his
wild speed did not lessen, on the contrary it seemed to increase, as if
the noble animal knew a bottomless gulf was yawning under him, and that
he was running for his own life and that of his daring rider. And now
the quaking soil grew visibly firmer. The deed scarcely believed
possible had been accomplished, Brownlock had crossed the marsh, and
would cross any other. "There is no doubt now," muttered Brandow, "I
can accept every bet; and am I to let Plueggen have the animal for the
paltry sum of five thousand thalers! I should be a fool! Besides, he
probably was not in earnest; but the money must be forthcoming, even if
I should have to steal or commit a murder for it. Holloa!"
He had not turned his eyes from Brownlock, as he rode across the hill
at a gallop without noticing where he was going, until his chestnut,
accustomed to pass this place at a walk, recoiled from the edge so
suddenly that the gravel and pebbles rolled down the slope.
"Holloa!" cried Brandow again, as he soothed the frightened animal, "I
came very near committing the murder on myself."
He rode down the other side of the hill more cautiously, and then
dashed up to Hinrich, who was galloping up and down the edge of the
bog, trying to soothe the snorting racer.
"What do you say to that, sir?"
"That you are a capital fellow; and now, since you have had your own
way, where do you think I shall find him?"
"On the giant's grave," said Hinrich; "I went up there after he had
gone away, and found a thing like a box. There was a little key
sticking in it, and it held his painting tools, as I saw. The box had
been put carefully in the shade; but about six o'clock the sunlight
will fall where the shadow rested this morning, and I think he will be
on the spot at that time."
"And why didn't you tell me so at once?"
"You may be satisfied that I didn't tell you," answered Hinrich,
tenderly patting Brownlock's slender neck. "You wouldn't have known
that you are, I don't know how many thousand thalers richer than you
supposed."
"It is six o'clock," said Brandow, looking at his watch.
"Then ride on and find him. I must take Brownlock home. Shall I tell
Frau Brandow that we shall have a visitor this evening?"
"I don't know that yet myself."
"She would be so delighted."
"Be off, and hold your tongue."
A repulsive grin overspread Hinrich's grotesque face, and he cast a
piercing glance at his master, but made no reply, turned Brownlock, and
rode slowly away.
"I might just as well tell him everything," said Carl Brandow to
himself, as he turned his horse's head and rode over the moor towards
the forest. "I believe the damned fellow sees through me as if I were
glass. No matter; everybody must have some one on whom he can depend,
and certainly I could not have done without him this time. I've no
desire to invite the stupid fellow, but it is one chance more, and I
should be a fool to hesitate long in my present situation."
Carl Brandow dropped the reins on his horse's neck as he rode slowly up
the rough forest path at a walk, and drew from his pocket a letter
which he had found on his return home, half an hour before:
"Dear Sir:--I hasten to inform you that, as I expected and told you, it
was unanimously decided by the convent yesterday not to give an
extension of credit, upon any account, but on the contrary to hold you
to the promise given, both verbally and in writing, and require the ten
thousand on the day it becomes due. I am very sorry to be obliged to
write this to you, after what you told me in confidence; but I firmly
believe that--with your excitable nature--you have considered your
situation more desperate than it really is. In any case, I think it is
better for you to know where you stand, and be able to use the week
that still remains to discover new resources, if the old ones are
really so entirely exhausted.
"I intend to pay you a short visit on the 15th, as I must go to several
estates at that time, and can, if agreeable to you, take the money back
with me and save you the trouble of a journey here. Perhaps my wife
will accompany me. She is very anxious to see Dollan, of whose romantic
situation I have spoken so enthusiastically, and also renew her
acquaintance with her old friends--Frau Wollnow in Prora and your
wife--after an absence of so many years. Do you require any stronger
proof of my conviction that you can separate the messenger from his
message, and that both to you and your lovely wife, I am as ever, Your
sincere friend, Bernhard Sellien."
"P. S. I have just learned something that greatly interests me, and may
perhaps interest you also. Gotthold Weber, the distinguished artist
whose acquaintance I made two years ago in Italy, and with whom you, as
you afterwards informed me, have been intimate ever since your school
days, passed through Sundin to-day on his way to Prora, where he
intends to spend some time. He will undoubtedly seek you out, or
perhaps you will seek him. He belongs to the class of people whom we
are glad to find, even if we are obliged to go out of our way to do
so."
Carl Brandow laughed scornfully as he put the letter back into his
pocket and took up the reins again.
"I believe the devil has his finger in the pie. Ever since I have known
that the man will come here, I have been pursued by the thought that
he, and only he, can save me. Why? Probably because only a fool would
take the trouble, and he is the greatest one I ever knew. And while I
drove by under his very nose this morning, everybody rushes forward to
put me on the track he so carefully conceals. It was plain that the man
Jochen dared not tell where he was, either this morning or just now,
but he belongs to the class of people for whom we are willing to go out
of our way. And what a charming surprise it will be for her, if I can
bring him to her."
Again the rider laughed, even more bitterly than before, then stopped
suddenly, gnawing his under lip with his teeth as he struck with his
riding-whip at the overhanging boughs.
"How pale she grew when the parson blundered out the news. Of course
she did not wish it to be noticed, of course. But unluckily we observe
everything in a person with whom we have enjoyed the pleasure of daily
intercourse for nine or ten years! How she looked when I took my
departure so soon after, as if she knew the cause, and how silent she
was on the way, although I exerted all my powers of pleasing. She no
longer believes in my amiability, nor I either; but I have so often
vexed her about the man that I might surely make him afford her
pleasure for once. And if, as is very probable, the silly swain is
playing at hide and seek more on her account than mine--why it will be
all the easier to lead him by the nose, and the affair will be all the
more amusing. But, to be sure, I must catch him first. Well, we shall
see directly."
Carl Brandow swung himself from the saddle, fastened his horse's bridle
to a tree, and began to ascend the narrow foot-path through the wood to
the giant's grave.
CHAPTER IX.
Gotthold had already been working for half an hour with the zeal of an
artist who has enthusiastically seized upon his subject, and must take
advantage of the present hour, which will not return. Though sky,
earth, and sea should adorn themselves at to-morrow's sunset with the
same brilliant hues, though the hill should cast the same deep shadows
upon the valley and ravines--he would not stand upon the same spot
again to replace what had been forgotten, and complete what had been
begun.
So he sat upon one of the lower stones of the giant's grave, drinking
in, with an artist's glowing eyes, the beauty of the scene and hour,
and with an artist's busy hand creating an image of this beauty. The
colors on the palette seemed to mingle of their own accord, and every
stroke of the brush upon the little square of canvas brought the image
nearer its original with a speed and certainty which astonished the
artist himself. Never before had any work progressed so rapidly, never
had design and execution met so lovingly, never had the enthusiastic
feeling of power made him so happy.
"Is it possible the dream that here alone I can reach the standard I am
destined to attain may be something more than a dream?" he said to
himself, "and is the hidden wisdom of the ancient myth of Antaeus to be
proved again in me? But to be sure we are all sons of earth; it is not
our mother's fault if we struggle toward the distant suns, in whose
strange glow our waxen wings quickly melt. I was such an Icarus
yonder." "Yes, yes," he exclaimed aloud, "Rome, Naples, Syracuse, you
Paradises of artists, what is this poor slip of earth in comparison
with you! And yet to me it is more, so much more, it is my home."
"To which an old friend bids you heartily welcome," said a clear voice
behind him.
Gotthold started and turned.
"Carl Brandow!"
There he stood, his slight, elastic figure resting against the very
block upon which the serpent had lain that morning; and his round, hard
eyes, whose piercing gaze was fixed upon him, reminded Gotthold of the
staring eyes of the reptile.
"To be sure it is I," said Carl Brandow, as he came forward with a
smile intended to be friendly, but which was as cold as the hand he
held out to Gotthold, and in which the latter hesitatingly placed the
tips of his fingers.
"How did you find me here?" asked Gotthold.
"I am an old hunter," replied Brandow, showing his white teeth.
"Nothing escapes me so easily, especially on my own ground. But I will
not boast. The matter was really simple enough. I knew several weeks
ago that you were coming, and this afternoon I heard, when with
Plueggen, of Plueggenhof, Otto Plueggen, we used to call him Straw
Plueggen, you know, to distinguish him from his younger brother, Gustav,
Hay Plueggen, who has inherited Gransewitz--I was saying: I heard from
our new Pastor that you had been in Rammin yesterday evening, and had
driven on to Prora. Of course Plueggen, at my request, instantly sent
his carriage to bring you to Plueggenhof; you were no longer there, but
had set out on foot with Jochen Prebrow for Dollan. Well, of course I
did not remain in Plueggenhof a moment longer, although we had just sat
down to the table to receive you with full glasses. I drove my horses
half to death, and nearly killed my poor wife with fright, in order at
least to meet you on the way, in case you had been cruel enough not to
wait for our return. We arrived and asked for you before we got out of
the carriage: no one had been there. My wife and I looked at each other
in horror. 'There is somebody sitting on the giant's grave,' said my
factotum, Hinrich Scheel, who now came up to the carriage; 'I saw him
there this noon.' 'It's not impossible,' said my wife, that 'he has
learned on the way that we were not at home, and, industrious as usual,
is making use of the time. It was always one of his favorite spots.' I
said nothing, but ran up to the gable-room with my spy-glass, and saw
what Hinrich, in spite of his squint eyes, had seen without any glass;
ran down again, jumped on a horse, and--find here what I sought. That
painting is wonderfully beautiful, really splendid; but now pack up
your traps, if you please! Another day is coming, and this is enough,
and too much for the present. From noon until now is certainly long
enough, even for an artist. How delighted my wife will be!"
Carl Brandow had already thrown Gotthold's travelling bag over his
shoulder, and now seized the box which the latter had been arranging.
"One moment," said Gotthold.
"You can safely trust me with your treasures."
"That is not the point."
"What is it then?"
Gotthold hesitated; but there was no time for deliberation.
"It is this," said he; "I cannot accept your invitation, kindly as it
is expressed and honestly as, I wish to believe, it is meant."
"For Heaven's sake, why not?"
"Because in so doing I should wrong myself, and, in a certain sense,
you also. Myself: because I could not stay in Dollan, in your house,
without being at every step, at every moment, a prey to the most
painful memories; and who would not willingly spare himself such a
trial, if he could avoid it? You: because--it must be said, Brandow! I
have always considered you my enemy, and my sentiments towards you have
been no friendly ones, even up to this very day, this very hour. Who
would invite a man who is not well disposed towards him to his house!"
"Is it possible?" cried Brandow. "Then that straw head of a Plueggen and
the Parson may have been right when they said: 'He won't come!' 'He
will come,' said I, 'if only to prove that he is still the generous
fellow he always was!' No, Gotthold, you must not give me the lie, if
only on account of those silly fellows, and people like them, who would
then have another fine opportunity to make merry over Carl Brandow, who
always aims very high and then comes out at the little end of the horn.
Well, unhappily there is something in it: I am no longer what I was
once, but a poor devil who must learn to be modest; but this time I
won't be, just this time. And now your hand, old enemy! there, that's
right! I knew you better than you knew yourself."
They began to descend the hill, Brandow, who insisted upon carrying
Gotthold's luggage, still talking eagerly in his hasty, often
incoherent manner, Gotthold silent and vainly trying to shake off the
bewilderment that clouded his brain and oppressed his heart; he had
tried to be frank, perfectly frank; but he had not been so: he had not
said the last thing because he could not, because he must appear like a
fool, a coxcomb, if he did, and like a rude unmannerly boor if he did
not, and simply answered: I will not. But would not even that have been
better than for them to meet again?
Gotthold stood still, and threw back his coat and vest; he felt as if
he were stifling.
"It's terribly sultry here in the wood," said Carl Brandow. "It would
have been much nearer if we had gone down the other side, and then
crossed the fields; but we were obliged to make this circuit to get my
horse. There stands the rascal, stamping his shoes off in his
impatience. Now then, en avant!"
Brandow threw the bridle over his arm and Gotthold took a portion of
his luggage, so they walked quickly through the woods by a cross path,
which soon brought them out into the fields. At a short distance, only
separated from them by a few meadows and a broad field of rye, stood
the manor-house, already partly in the shadow which the hill on the
left-hand side of the moor cast far into the valley, while the tops of
the taller trees in the garden and the crests of the huge poplars,
which enclosed the grounds on the three other sides, still glowed in
the light of the setting sun. The little window of the gable-room
glittered and flashed back his rays. Gotthold could scarcely turn his
eyes away; he fancied every moment that it must open and Cecilia appear
and wave her white hand towards him with a gesture of warning: no
nearer, for God's sake, no nearer! And then it seemed to him as if he
were once more back in the old days, when he used to come out with Curt
to spend a precious Saturday afternoon and delightful Sunday, and in
their impatience to reach their goal they ran the last part of the way
at full speed. At every step his agitation increased; he scarcely heard
what his companion was saying to him.
But Carl Brandow was only talking in order to conceal from his guest
the anxiety that oppressed him. Would it not have been better to have
told her of his design, even at the risk of her opposition, or, still
worse, of affording her pleasure? Ought he not at least to have taken
advantage of the last opportunity, and prepared her for the visit by
Hinrich Scheel, instead of expressly commanding him to be silent? Or
would the clever fellow once more, as he had often done, follow his own
counsel and guide an ill-managed affair into the right course? And yet,
what could happen if he suddenly appeared before her with him? Would
she give him the lie in the presence of her guest, say she had known
nothing about his visit, and her husband had told an untruth? It was
certainly possible; but woe be unto her if she did so.
"Here we are," said Carl Brandow, as they reached the old linden before
the door. "Welcome to Dollan! Welcome!"
He had spoken in a very loud tone, standing in the open doorway, and
now shouted, raising his clear voice to its highest pitch, "Hinrich,
Fritz!--where are they all?"
But there was no movement within the house, and no one appeared in the
courtyard.
"It is always just so on Sundays," said Brandow, "Everybody runs wild,
especially if the master is away from home. Rike! Hinrich! Fritz!"
A half-grown lad, in a dirty red waistcoat and top boots, now came
running across the courtyard, and at the same moment a young girl
appeared from the house. Brandow received both with angry words. The
girl answered pertly: she had been with the mistress, who could not
quiet the child; it was still crying about its arm; and the boy
muttered as he took the horse's bridle: he had been obliged to help
Hinrich about Brownlock; he was threatened with the colic.
"Deuce take it!" cried Brandow; "that damned Hinrich, this is what I
get by letting him have his own way! I must leave you alone a moment,
or will you come with me?"
Brandow did not wait for Gotthold's reply, but hurried across the
courtyard with long strides. He must know what was the matter with
Brownlock. And then: Cecilia had enough to do in the nursery; she would
not come out at present.
"What is the matter with the child?" asked Gotthold.
"She fell down just as the mistress got home, and has probably broken
her arm," said the girl, who had been gazing curiously at the stranger
with her merry gray eyes, and now hurried back into the house.
CHAPTER X.
Gotthold followed her through the entry and into the sitting-room on
the left, and would gladly have entered the adjoining chamber, from
which, as the girl opened and closed the door, the wailing of a child
and a woman's voice consoling it were distinctly audible. It was her
voice,--somewhat deeper and more gentle, it seemed to him, than in the
old days, but he had only distinguished a few tones above the moaning
of the child.
"Poor thing," he murmured, "poor child, if I could only help it."
His hand was extended towards the handle of the door, but instantly
fell again. If the girl had told her he was there, she would probably
come out for a moment; at any rate Carl must soon return.
He stationed himself at the open window and looked across the empty
courtyard towards the building Brandow had entered. How could he stay
so long! He again turned back into the room, which was already
beginning to grow dark, and his eyes wandered mechanically over the
furniture and pictures, many of which he thought he recognized, while
his ear was strained to catch the sounds from the next room. But
everything there had now become quiet, and in the stillness the old
Black Forest clock ticked so loudly--he had not noticed it before--the
evening breeze whispered in the linden before the window, and then once
more he heard nothing except the blood beating in his temples.
Had any misfortune happened? Was the child--he must have some
certainty.
But just as he took a step forward, the door opened and Cecilia
entered. The girl had told her nothing about the stranger; she came to
get a piece of linen from her work-basket, which stood in one of the
windows. The shadows fell heavily over Gotthold, and she did not see
him--her eyes were turned towards the window--until she had almost
reached him, when she suddenly paused, extending both hands in terror
towards the dark figure. The light of the setting sun streamed full
upon her pallid face, from which the large dark eyes stared with a
strange glassy look.
"It is I, Cecilia!"
"Gotthold!"
He did not know that he held out his arms; the next moment he would not
have been able to say whether she had really rested upon his breast.
When he was again conscious of what was passing around him, he was
standing beside her at the child's little bed.
"The girl was playing with Gretchen just before we came home--she fell
with her arm under her; I thought she had only bruised it; but it has
grown worse and worse, she cannot move it, and cries at the slightest
touch; I think she has broken it here above the wrist."
Gotthold had bent over the child, who gazed at him in surprise, but
without the least alarm. He thought he was looking into Cecilia's eyes.
"Are you the new doctor?" asked the little girl.
"No, Gretchen, I am not a doctor, but if you love your mamma you will
let me take hold of your arm."
"It hurts so," said Gretchen.
"I won't be long."
Gotthold took the little arm and moved it at the shoulder and
elbow--the child made no resistance; then he passed his hand carefully
down the lower arm to the joint and bent the wrist a little. The child
uttered a low cry. Gotthold laid the arm gently back on the coverlet
and stood erect.
"I think I can assure you that the arm is not broken; it is nothing
more than a severe sprain. I should like to put on a bandage, which
will relieve Gretchen's pain, because it will prevent her from moving
the joint. That will be sufficient until the doctor comes. May I?"
He had spoken in a low tone, but the child heard.
"Let him do it, mamma," she said; "I like the new doctor a great deal
better than the old one."
A few large tears ran down Cecilia's pale cheeks, and Gotthold's own
eyes grew hot. He asked whether she had a certain kind of bandage which
he described; one was brought, exactly what he needed. As he rolled it
he said:
"It is fortunate, that during the years I spent in study I visited, in
the interests of my art and also from real love of the profession,
various anatomical and other medical colleges. I have already been
able, on several occasions, to make my little knowledge useful, when no
other aid was at hand and the case was rather worse than this. I
repeat, there is not the least danger, and I would, if necessary,
undertake to effect a cure without the least hesitation."
"I have perfect confidence in you."
Gotthold's lips quivered. They had always addressed each other by the
familiar "thou," nor had he, either in dreams or waking visions, called
her by any other title during the last ten years.
The bandage was adjusted to Gotthold's satisfaction. Gretchen,
exhausted by weeping, and now entirely free from pain, had laid her
head on her pillow and seemed about to fall asleep. Gotthold left the
chamber and went back to the sitting-room. While groping about in the
dark for his hat, the most singular sensation overpowered him.
He had not forgotten that he wished to find Brandow and tell him of the
child's condition, but it seemed as if the intention was entirely
unnecessary; as if Carl Brandow cared as little about the child as he
did about Carl Brandow's horse; as if only he and Cecilia had anything
to do with it, and as though this had been not only during the last
quarter of an hour, but always, and could never be different.
Oppressed by this strange bewilderment, he stood motionless, and only
regained his senses when Cecilia entered quietly, but hastily, held out
both hands to him, and said in a low, rapid tone:
"I thank thee, Gotthold, and--I noticed that the formal 'you' wounded
thee, but the girl was looking at us in such astonishment; she repeats
everything, and besides, it must be, but once--for the last time--I
wanted to speak in the old way, as thou wert here once more."
"That sounds, Cecilia, as if you[2] had not wished me to come."
She had now released her hands, which he had clasped firmly in his own,
and thrown herself into a chair by the window, supporting her head on
her hand. He went up to her.
"Cecilia, did you not wish me to come?"
"Yes, yes," she murmured, "I have longed to see you again--for
years--always; but you ought not to have come; no, you ought not to
have come!"
"Then I will go, Cecilia."
"No, no," she exclaimed, hastily raising her head, "I do not mean that.
You are here--the mischief is done. And now you can stay--you must stay
until--"
She paused suddenly. Gotthold, who was following the direction of
her eyes, glanced through the open window and saw at the end of the
court-yard Carl Brandow talking with Hinrich Scheel, whom he now left
and came hurriedly towards the house.
"He has returned already," she murmured; "what will you say to him?"
"I don't understand you, Cecilia,"
"He hates you."
"Then I don't know why he sought me out and gave me such a pressing
invitation to his home, which I certainly had never intended to enter."
"He sought you out--invited you--that is impossible."
"Then he meant to make me--us--but that is no less impossible."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Impossible!" she said, "impossible!"
A strange, sad smile flitted over her pale face.
"Then everything can remain as it was," she said, "it is all right."
"Holloa!" cried Brandow, who had seen them both at the window, and now
quickened his already hasty steps and eagerly waved his hand.
He entered the room immediately, after calling from the door: "Ah! so
you have found her already! Isn't this a surprise, eh? What am I to get
for it? Ah! a man must be cunning. Not a word to the wife, who would
make all sorts of well-meant objections about old enmity and other
long-forgotten follies; and then tell the friend she will be on
tenter-hooks till I bring him home. That's the way to catch one's
birds!"
He laughed loudly.
"You will wake Gretchen," said Cecilia.
"Yes, what is the matter with her?" asked Brandow, lowering his voice.
"I hope it is nothing serious, a false alarm, as it was with Brownlock,
or--where are you going, Cecilia?"
She had risen and entered the next room, closing the door behind her.
Gotthold informed Carl how he had found the child, and what he had done
for the present.
"But shall we need to send for the doctor at once?" said Brandow.
"I do not think it absolutely necessary," replied Gotthold, "but if you
are at all anxious--"
"I anxious? God forbid! It would be the first time in my life. I leave
all that to my wife, who, if the child is in question--oh! here you
are! Gotthold says we need not send for Lauterbach immediately, and
besides it would be of very little use; he is never to be found on
Sundays. I shall be obliged to drive over early to-morrow morning and
then I can bring him back with me. Don't you think that will do?"
"Will you look at Gretchen again?" said Cecilia. She did not glance at
her husband, but addressed Gotthold, who followed her, leaving the door
open behind him, in the expectation that Brandow would go with them;
but he had paused half way. Gnawing his under lip, he looked through
the open door at the pair, who were now standing one on each side of
the child's little bed, bending over it, so that in the dusk their
faces seemed to touch. Were they not whispering: "he has deceived us,"
or something of the kind? No, it was Rieke who had spoken. "The girl
shall keep a sharp watch for me. So far everything has gone better than
I could expect."
He went slowly into the room; involuntarily pausing a moment upon the
threshold, which he had not crossed for a long time, and shrinking from
a bluish light that suddenly filled the apartment, now almost dark. But
it was nothing--only the first flash of lightning from a thunder-storm
which had risen at the close of the sultry day. Thunder rolled in the
distance, the trees in the garden swayed to and fro, and a few heavy
drops of rain plashed against the window-panes.
The storm had long subsided and the night was far advanced when
Gotthold, treading softly and carefully, shielding his light with his
hand, crossed the wide garretlike entry, lumbered with all sorts of
articles, towards the gable-room, which had been assigned him as his
sleeping apartment. Brandow, with whom he had been sitting until this
time over a bottle of wine in the room on the right-hand side of the
entry, which had always been appropriated by the master of the house,
had wished to accompany him, but Gotthold declined: he could find the
way; two pairs of boots made more noise than one, and he remembered
that footsteps on the upper floor sounded remarkably loud at night.
"Well then, go alone, you stickler for everybody's comfort," said
Brandow laughing, "and remember, sleep off all thoughts of going away
to-morrow; I tell you once for all I won't hear of it. I'll stop for
Jochen Prebrow as I pass the smithy to-morrow; he can sit on the box
with my Fritz, and I'll bring your luggage out to you. I shan't let you
leave under a week, and if I had my way you should stay here always.
But you'll take good care not to do that; such a life would be
unendurable to a man of the world. Well, I have complained of my fate
more than is seemly; but in the presence of a man of your stamp, one is
too painfully reminded of what he might perhaps have made himself, and
what he has finally become. Good night, old fellow, and pleasant
dreams!"
And now Gotthold stood at the open window in the cosy old gable-room.
But eagerly as he inhaled the night breeze, which blew fresh and cool
through the trees, still dripping with rain-drops, it did not lighten
his heart, which throbbed heavily and painfully in his panting breast,
like a sleeper whose brain is oppressed by some painful dream. Was it
not all a mad dream that he was standing in Dollan in the gable-room,
gazing at the dim light which fell upon the dark shrubbery from the
window below him, the window of the room where she had slept when a
girl, and in which she now watched beside the bed of her child, her
child and his--
Gotthold sank into a chair beside the window, and pressed his hands
upon his burning brow.
A gust of wind which sighed through the rustling trees roused him
from his painful reverie. He started up with a shiver. His limbs
trembled as if in a fever. He shut the window, and threw himself in
the darkness--the light he had brought with him had gone out long
before--upon the bed. It was the very same one in which he had so often
slept when a boy and a youth, and it stood in the same place. He had
noticed that when he entered the room. Now he thought of it again, and
remembered the last time he had lain here--ten years ago, in the early
morning after the night, the first part of which he had spent in the
beach-house with Cousin Boslaf, and a few hours after, when they were
awake below, he was to go down and bid them farewell forever--then too
he; had turned his burning head first on one side and then the other
upon the pillows, and had been unable to find rest anywhere.
"After wandering through the wide world so long to be whirled back to
this little room, the same as I was then! No, not the same! Poorer,
much poorer!
When I wandered away, away, away,
Coffers and chests were heavy;
As homeward I turn my steps to-day,
Everything is empty.
"Empty, empty!" he murmured, as if his burning, wakeful eyes could read
the cheerless words from the white wall opposite to him, on whose bare
surface the first gray light of dawn was struggling with the darkness
of night.
CHAPTER XI.
A succession of quiet days had passed over quiet Dollan, and each one
was to have been the last Gotthold spent upon the estate, but there was
always some reason why another was added. Once it was the unfinished
sketch, which must be more nearly completed; then Gretchen wept so
bitterly because Uncle Gotthold was going that morning, when it was her
birthday; on Thursday the rye was cut, the farm hands had a little
festival in the evening, and had arranged all sorts of amusing sports
in which, through old Statthalter Moeller, they begged Gotthold to help
them a little; on Friday a young architect arrived, who wanted to show
a plan for the new house, and Brandow was very anxious to have
Gotthold's opinion about it; the next day his departure could not be
thought of, because Brandow would be absent on business all day long,
and the day after the Herr Assessor Sellien had promised to come with
his wife, and Otto and Gustav Plueggen, Herr Redebas, from Dahlitz, and
several other neighbors would arrive; there was to be quite a little
company; Brandow had written to everybody that Gotthold would be there,
everybody was anticipating the pleasure of meeting him, and, in a word,
nothing could be said about going away before Monday, and on Monday
they would discuss the subject again.
It was Saturday afternoon; Brandow had ridden away in the morning and
told Gotthold that he should not return before evening. The business
must have been very urgent which could call the master away from his
estate on such a day. Brandow was very much behindhand in getting in
his rye, and moreover did not even have an inspector, though he had
repeatedly complained to Gotthold of the stupid old Statthalter Moeller,
on whom he could not depend at all, so the crowd of laborers who were
to-day employed in the fields and barn were left entirely to
themselves. Gotthold had offered to take control of them, if Brandow
was obliged to go away; but the latter, although he knew that Gotthold
really understood the business, and that the people were fond of him
and would have willingly obeyed him, most positively declined the
proposal.
"It's bad enough for me to be compelled to commit the rudeness of
leaving you alone all day; more than that you must not require. So long
as it is possible to avoid it, you know I am not accustomed to
incommode my friends."
With these words he had ridden away, and Gotthold had taken his
painting utensils, in order to have an excuse for leaving the house and
wandering through the woods and along the sea-shore; he strolled
restlessly on without any definite purpose, until he recollected that
he had heard from the old fisherman, Carl Peters, of Ralow, that Cousin
Boslaf would return from his expedition to Sundin this very evening.
Carl Peters must know, for the old man had given him the key of the
beach-house, that he might light the lamp in the evening and keep watch
at night; besides, Carl Peters' son had accompanied Cousin Boslaf on
his expedition. So Gotthold went to the beach-house and sat down to
wait on the bluff in the shadow of the beeches; but the sea broke upon
the shore with such a melancholy, monotonous cadence, the sunny hours
dragged along so slowly, and besides, if he wanted to tell her that he
had decided to leave Dollan to-morrow instead of Monday, this was the
right time.
"The mistress is in the garden with Gretchen," said pretty Rieke; "you
know her favorite seat."
Gotthold looked quietly at the girl, who hastily averted her face. The
last remark was at least superfluous, for the garden was not so large
that any one could not easily find the person he sought; but moreover
Rieke had spoken in a tone which jarred upon Gotthold's ear. He had
often thought the girl's merry gray eyes wandered from him to Cecilia,
and from Cecilia back to him, with a watchful glance, and she had
several times entered the room quickly, or approached them elsewhere,
always with the question whether they had called her. He had remembered
Cecilia's words on the first evening of their meeting, "She repeats
everything," and mentally added: "She shall have nothing to tell."
"Well, her amusement will be over to-morrow," he thought to himself, as
he went slowly up the walk, bordered on each side with hedges, towards
a small spot, also surrounded with hedges and adorned with beds of
flowers, where Cecilia usually remained at this hour with her child.
Gretchen came running to meet him as soon as she caught sight of him.
"Where have you been, Uncle Gotthold? What have you brought me?"
He was always in the habit of bringing the child some rare flower,
oddly shaped pebble, or other curiosity on his return from his rambles;
but to-day, for the first time, he had not thought of it. Gretchen was
very indignant "I don't love you any more," she said, running back to
her mother; "and mamma shan't love you either!" she exclaimed, raising
her little head from her mother's lap.
Gotthold, after greeting Cecilia, had seated himself at a short
distance from her on another bench, as he always did if she did not
invite him to take his place beside her. She had not done so to-day,
and scarcely looked up from her work when she silently gave him her
hand. It had made a painful impression upon him, but as he watched her
quietly, he thought he noticed that her eyelids were red. Had she
wished to conceal the traces of recent tears, to hide the fact that she
could still weep, that the cold expressionless glance with which she
now seemed to look beyond him towards the child, who was playing at the
other end of the glade, was not the only expression of which the eyes
which had formerly beamed with such a gentle light were now capable?
"I can bear it no longer," the young man murmured to himself.
He had risen and approached Cecilia, who, as he came up, drew her dress
away, although there was plenty of room on the large seat.
"Cecilia," he said, "I have given a half-promise to stay until Monday,
but it occurred to me that the Selliens, if they come to-morrow, will
probably spend the night here, and perhaps some of your other guests,
and as your accommodations are somewhat limited;--"
"You wish to go!" interrupted Cecilia; "why not say so plainly?"
She had looked up from her work, as Gotthold began to speak, with a
quick, pained glance that cut him to the heart; but when she answered,
her voice sounded perfectly calm, though a little hollow, and she even
smiled as she took up her sewing again.
"When do you wish to go?" she added after a pause, as Gotthold, unable
to reply, was still silent.
"I thought of leaving early to-morrow morning," he answered, and it
seemed as if some one else had uttered the words. "Carl told me that he
should send a carriage to town then."
"Early to-morrow morning!"
She had dropped her work in her lap again, and for a moment covered her
eyes and forehead with her left hand, while the fingers of her right,
which rested on the work, trembled slightly; then her hand fell
heavily, and she stared fixedly at the ground with a frowning brow, as
she said in the same hollow tone: "What reason should I have to keep
you?"
"Perhaps because you might be glad to see me here," answered Gotthold.
He thought she had not heard the words, but they had been distinctly
audible; the pause only lasted until she was sure that she could speak
again without bursting into tears. She would not, dared not weep, and
now regained her self-control.
"You know I am," she replied; "but that is no reason for wishing to
keep you. I feel too well how unpleasant life is here, how monotonous,
how tiresome to all who are not accustomed to it, and one cannot become
accustomed to things in a few days, it requires years, long years. So I
invite no one--I cannot believe anybody takes pleasure in coming; and I
detain no one--I can easily imagine that a guest is glad to go. Why
should I treat you differently from others?"
"There is no reason, if I am no more to you than others."
"More? What does that imply? Oh! you mean because we knew each other so
early in life, because we were friends when we were both young? But
what does that signify? What is youthful friendship? And do we remain
the same? You have done so perhaps, at least in the principal thing,
but I certainly have not; I resemble the Cecilia of those days as
little as--as reality resembles our dreams; and besides--I am married;
a wife needs no friend, has no friend, if she loves her husband, and if
she does not--"
"Let us suppose the latter case," said Gotthold, as Cecilia suddenly
paused.
"The case is not so simple as it seems," she answered, examining the
stitches in her sewing; "yes, many cases may be imagined. For instance,
it is very probable that he loves her, and even a woman of very little
nobility of character is rarely insensible to and ungrateful for true
love; but granted that he does not love her, loves her no longer,
perhaps never has loved her--well, then everything will depend upon how
the wife is constituted. Perhaps she is not proud, and therefore not
ashamed to confess her unhappiness to a friend, who might then venture
to become her lover; or if she is proud, she will do--I know not what,
but certainly she would conceal herself in the deepest chasm in the
earth, rather than give way and say, no matter to whom, I am unhappy!"
"And if that is not necessary, if her misery is written on her brow,
looks from her eyes, speaks in every tone of her voice?"
Something flitted over Cecilia's face like the shadow of a cloud; but
she smoothed her work with special care, as she answered in a
passionless, almost monotonous voice:
"Who can say that? Who is so wise that he can read upon the brow of any
human being the thoughts that are passing within, without ever
deceiving himself or making another's face the mirror of his own
beloved vanity? But we have fallen into a very disagreeable
conversation. Tell me, instead, where you are going when you leave
here, and where you expect to live in future? You will not return to
Italy? It seems to me you told me so a short time ago."
"Thanks for your interest in me," replied Gotthold, with trembling
lips; "but I have made no definite plans as yet. When I left Rome, it
was certainly with the desire to remain here in the North, at least for
some time, and try whether home could ever become home again to me; but
the attempt will probably not succeed, nay, I think has already
failed."
"It seems to me that this is rather too soon to decide such a
question," said Cecilia; "but the matter is probably of importance only
to us; you fortunate artists have your home in your art, and you take
that with you wherever you turn your steps."
"And yet, I think, we can have our art only at home," replied Gotthold.
"That is?"
"That is, that only in his home can the artist reach the highest point
his talents will enable him to attain. I have formed this conclusion
from the history of all arts, which have only prospered when the
artists had the good fortune to be supplied with subjects furnished by
the country of which they were citizens and the time in which they
lived-for in this sense, time is also the artist's home: I mean: when
they had the good fortune, and of course the power also, to be able to
freely develop their talents on their native soil, and upon subjects
furnished by their home. I have also drawn this inference from my own
observation, which has taught me that those who were unable to find any
materials for their art at home--subjects identified with the place and
time--were no true artists, but either dilettanti and imitators, or
positive charlatans, who deceived with their artificial productions,
destitute alike of life and merit, only the great multitude--the
beggarly crowd--to which they, in the inmost depths of their natures,
certainly belonged."
When Gotthold first began to speak upon this subject, which at that
moment was very far from his thoughts, he had only wished to soothe the
tumult of his soul, or at least to conceal it from the pale woman by
his side; then, carried away by the theme, he had spoken with a certain
earnestness, and at last with a freedom of which, a moment before, he
would not have believed himself capable. And so, at first absently, but
gradually with more eagerness, Cecilia had listened; a ray of the old
fire flashed from her dark eye as she asked,
"And does this apply to you?"
"It does; that is, it was a misfortune that through my unhappy quarrel
with my father, and in consequence of several sorrowful memories upon
which it is not worth while to enter here,--it was a misfortune that I
was, in a certain measure, banished from my home at the moment when I
could least dispense with it: the flowers I had sought for in the
meadows when a child; the trees under which the boy played, through
whose tops he saw the sunbeams glide and heard the rain patter; the
skies which at one time could laugh so brightly and anon look so
unspeakably gloomy, so infinitely dreary; the sea, over whose smooth
surface, gleaming in the sunset, or billows black with storm, the fancy
of the youth had hovered, sailed out to the regions of the Blest, and
the mournful, misty realms of his dreams of battle and conflict and
early heroic death: all this--I mean the things and the dreams--I might
have been able to paint, to the pleasure and delight of others, in
whom, by my pictures, I might have awakened memories of their own
childhood, boyhood, and youth; what I paint now I have not drawn from
my own soul, have not painted, cannot paint with my whole heart, so how
can it, at best, be anything more than sounding brass?"
"Then why are you artists so eager to go to foreign lands?" asked
Cecilia.
She seemed once more the intelligent young girl, whose radiant dark
eyes reflected the restless ardor of her mind, from whose lips fell
silvery laughter, and then grave, earnest words.
"I think this eagerness is often blind and foolish," replied Gotthold,
"and, at any rate, I would always advise a young artist not to go to
Rome until his own ideas are firmly fixed, or he will be a mere
plaything of the winds and clouds. Goethe had written his works on
German art, and long been a master of it, when he went to Italy; so he
could quietly compose his Faust beneath the pines in the garden of the
Villa Borghese, and return laden with the rich treasures of his
observations of the country, the people, and the events which for
centuries had taken place beneath its glorious skies, and yet remain to
the very depths of his artist soul precisely the same as he was before.
It is just the same in the republic of the arts as in the state,
Cecilia. What citizen could understand the great relations of the
government who had not first practised his powers of vision upon the
smaller affairs of the parish; who could render any valuable service to
the parish, who had not learned to rule his own household; who could
manage his house, direct and govern his family, who did not know how to
rule and guide himself?"
Gertrude had come up while Gotthold was speaking; Cecilia lifted her
into her lap, and the child sat there silently, as if she knew she must
not interrupt. Now, as Gotthold paused, she said, "Mamma, I want Uncle
Gotthold to be my papa!"
A deep flush crimsoned Cecilia's face, and she hastily tried to put
Gretchen down, but the child would not give up the point so easily. She
threw her right arm around her mother's neck, and said, coaxingly,
"Can't he, mamma; he has such pretty blue eyes, and is always kind to
you, and papa is often so horrid; can't he, mamma?"
Cecilia hastily rose with the child in her arms, and took a few paces
forward, as if she wished to fly from the place. But her knees
trembled, she could go no farther, and was obliged to put Gretchen
down, who, alarmed by her mother's impetuosity, ran away crying, but
the next moment forgot her grief at the sight of some bright-hued
butterflies which fluttered before her over the flower-beds. Cecilia
still stood motionless with her face averted.
"Cecilia!" said Gotthold.
He had approached her, and tried to take the hand that hung by her
side. She turned, and the face of Medusa confronted him.
"Cecilia!" exclaimed Gotthold, again extending his hands.
She did not draw back, she did not stir; the rigid features were
motionless, except for the quivering of the half-parted lips, and then
the words came slowly, like the last drops of blood from a mortal
wound.
"I do not need your sympathy, do you hear? I have given you no right to
pity me, neither you nor any one else. Why do you torture me?"
"I shall not torture you long, Cecilia; I have told you I am going."
"Why don't you go then? Why do you speak to me of such things? To me?
You will drive me mad, and--I won't go mad."
"This is madness, Cecilia," cried Gotthold passionately. "If you do not
love him--and you do not, you cannot--no divine, and certainly no human
law, compels you to remain, to pine, to die in nameless misery. And he
loves you no better than you do him."
"Did he tell you so?"
"Is it necessary?"
"On your honor, Gotthold, did he tell you so?"
"No, but--"
"And suppose he did love me, for all that, and--I loved him? How can
you dare speak to me as you have spoken? How can you dare give me the
lie by your silence, humiliate me so deeply in my own eyes! Is this
your boasted friendship?"
Gotthold bent his head and turned away. Gretchen came to meet him.
"Where are you going, Uncle Gotthold?"
He raised the child in his arms, kissed her, put her on the ground, and
went on.
"Why is Uncle Gotthold crying, mamma?" asked Gretchen, pulling her
mother's dress. "Papa can't cry, can he, mamma?"
Cecilia made no reply; her wide tearless eyes were fixed on the spot
where Gotthold had disappeared between the beeches.
"Forever," she murmured, "forever!"
CHAPTER XII.
When Gotthold reached the little wooden gate, which, shaded by a
half-decayed linden-tree, afforded egress through the rough hedge on
this side of the garden, he paused and glanced cautiously over the
sunny fields towards the forest. He could not have endured to meet any
one just now, perhaps be obliged to stop and answer a greeting or
question. But he saw no one; all were in the great rye-field, where
they had been toiling all day; the path to the forest was open.
The sun shone with a fierce burning glow, and the heated air quivered
over the wheat, which was already beginning to ripen, and whose stout
stalks were unstirred by the faintest breeze; countless cicadas chirped
and buzzed noisily on both sides of the narrow path that wound through
the fields; a large flock of wild pigeons circled at no very great
height in the air, and as they wheeled with lightning-like speed, the
moving cloud glittered in the rays of the setting sun against the clear
blue sky like a shield of polished steel.
Gotthold saw all this, because he was accustomed to live with nature,
and even felt the electricity that pervaded the atmosphere, but only as
being perfectly in harmony with the conflict that oppressed his heart.
Shame had long since dried the burning tears grief had forced from his
eyes; shame for having, by his want of self-control, produced this
scene, in which, after eight long days of torture, he had finally
played the undignified part of the third person, only to learn that she
still loved this man, and her unhappiness consisted in the knowledge
that she was not as much beloved by him as she desired to be. "On your
honor, Gotthold, did he tell you so?" In what a despairing tone she had
uttered the words! How the dread of hearing a "yes" had disfigured her
beautiful face! "Is this your boasted friendship?" Yes, his friendship,
with which he had been troublesome to her years before, with which he
was troublesome now, only that he could no longer hide himself behind
its mask as in those days, only that he no longer had the poor
consolation of being able to slip away unnoticed and unperceived, as he
had done that night.
He had lain here on the edge of the forest, under the great beech-tree,
in the darkness of the night, and plucked up the moss, and cursed
himself and the whole world because, by the pale light of the moon, he
had seen two happy lovers. Now the sun glared broadly upon his couch of
pain, as if it wished to show him how childish his grief had been, and
that he should have reserved his despair for this hour. She had been
happy! Gotthold tried to laugh, but the sound that came from his
tortured breast was a cry, a dull moaning cry like that of a wounded
animal. Even so had he wailed when he tottered along this very path
through the sultry woods that night, and the trees danced around him in
the dim moonlight like mocking spectres. Now they stood in brazen
sun-steeped ranks, and seemed to say: What do we care for your
self-created anguish, you fool!
And what do I care for your misery! said the sea, which, now as he
emerged from the forest upon the bluff, stretched before him in a
blackish-blue expanse, as if petrified in its unapproachable majesty.
He had seen it under this aspect once before, one afternoon when he had
been wandering along the rocky cliffs of Anacapri, and it had given him
the subject for one of his best paintings; but now he only bestowed a
passing thought upon it, as the memory of the cool forest shade and
murmuring fountain by which he sat a short time before, flits through
the burning brain of a sun-scorched wanderer on a dusty highway.
Below him in the little inlet, which had been toilsomely dug in the
rocky shore, were the boats which belonged to the estate. During the
last few days he had often used the smaller one to row to various
places along the coast, and had the key of the chain by which it was
fastened to the stake in his pocket.
Broader and broader grew the shadow which fell from the shore upon
the sea and overtook Gotthold, as with powerful strokes he began to
row across the wide bay, at whose extreme southern point stood
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