It was in the evening hours of one of the next following days when two
ladies were seated in the garden saloon of the chateau; one was the
Baroness Grenwitz, and the other a young lady who had ridden over from
her seat in the neighborhood to pay a visit. The glass door which led
from the room into the garden was wide open, and showed immediately
before them a large lawn enclosed by tall trees, in the centre of which
a Flora, carved in sandstone, had now for a century and a half poured
stone flowers from her cornucopia. Within the room, which lay towards
the north, it was almost dark already; but outside, the evening light
was still lying warm on the green turf and the magnificent beech-trees
and oaks; and the outlines of the two ladies, as they sat near a table
pushed into the door, were sharply defined against the bright
background.
A greater contrast than that which they formed could hardly be
imagined. The Baroness Grenwitz was scarcely forty years old, but her
large, cold gray eyes, which she always fixed long and piercingly upon
those with whom she conversed, her lofty stature, far exceeding the
ordinary height of women, and especially her peculiar way of dressing,
made her sometimes look almost ten years older than she really was.
Whether from love of extreme simplicity, or, as others would have it,
from a love of economy which degenerated into avarice, she preferred
materials more famous, like the wedding-dress of the worthy wife of the
Vicar of Wakefield, for their durability than for other showy
qualities, and she chose a way of having her dresses made which could
not be called old-fashioned, because there never had been such a
fashion in existence. The first impression which she generally made was
that of imposing dignity; the careful observer noticed, moreover, in
her always perfect carriage, and especially in the unfailing quietness
of her deep, sonorous voice, and her carefully chosen language, which
was scrupulously free from any vulgar expression, a consciousness of
the impression she produced, and a desire not to break the charm by any
fault of hers.
We cannot say with certainty whether the lady who was with the baroness
really was overawed by her stately appearance, or merely appeared to be
so; this much only was evident, that she endeavored at that moment to
assume an air which harmonized neither with the expression of her
features nor with the costume which she wore. She was dressed in a
riding-habit of dark green velvet, which she had tucked up sufficiently
not to be troublesome in walking, and not to hide her small feet in
their elegant little boots. The tight-fitting dress set off to great
advantage the well-rounded outlines of her youthful form; and the
little round hat, now lying with the gloves and the whip on a small
table near by, must have been exceedingly becoming to the well-shaped
head with the rich brown hair, which, simply parted in the middle, was
falling in rich waves over forehead and ears, and was then gathered up
behind in a wreath. She is seated opposite the baroness, who is a
pattern of industry, and sews zealously on a piece of linen, which may
possibly become a napkin, while the visitor is busy embroidering a
cipher in another napkin. This is strange kind of work to be done in a
riding-habit, and the lady does not seem to be particularly fond of it;
at least she quickly throws up her head, when the baroness rises in
order to look for something in another part of the room, and shows a
pretty face, with soft, child-like features, and large brown eyes, full
of moist tenderness. Just now, however, the face bears rather the
expression of a wilful school-girl, when her rigid teacher's back is
turned for a moment.
"What were you saying, my dear Anna Maria?" asked the lady, bending
once more over her work as the baroness turned round.
"I was asking, dear Melitta, whether you had enough red yarn?"
Melitta looked as if she were going to say, "More than I want!" but she
contented herself with the reply: "I think I have enough."
The baroness had taken her seat again and continued the conversation,
which had been interrupted for a moment.
"Then there if little hope of complete recovery?" she said.
"Little or none," replied Melitta, "especially now, since his violent
attacks have ceased. Doctor Birkenhain writes that only a miracle can
save Carlo from insanity, and I presume that means simply, he is
irrevocably lost."
"It is a sad fate which the Almighty has decreed for you, my poor
Melitta," said the baroness.
Melitta shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing.
"It was in this very room," continued the baroness, taking it
apparently for granted that the subject could not be in any way painful
to Melitta, "that I saw Berkow the last time. I must confess that I
could not overcome a slight suspicion already, on the evening on which
he had that disagreeable quarrel with your cousin Barnewitz, when Baron
Oldenburg tried in vain to make an end to the trying scene."
Melitta von Berkow did not seem to be specially delighted with this
evidence of the admirable memory of the baroness; she became restless,
and asked, apparently without knowing what she was saying:
"Have you heard from Oldenburg?"
"The baron came back a week ago."
"Oh!" cried Melitta, in a tone which made the baroness look up from her
work.
"What is the matter, Melitta?"
"I am so awkward," said the latter, and pressed a tiny drop of blood
from a finger of her left hand. "So Oldenburg is back again? What
brings him back to us? Has he found Egypt as tiresome as our own
country here?"
"The contracts with his tenants expire next November, like some of our
own. I presume that was the cause of his return. He seems to have
become a greater misanthrope than ever. Griebenow, one of our men, met
him in the forest; he has not been here yet."
"Well, my dear Anna Maria, you will not mind, I am sure, that want of
attention on his part; you never were very good friends, I believe."
"I am not aware that Oldenburg ever desired to be a friend of mine. He
never had any friends. A man who openly scoffs at all religion, who
forgets the honor of his caste and the interests of his equals so far
as to speak in the National Assembly and at every meeting in favor of
all innovators; a man who apparently only comes among us in order to
laugh at us--such a man has only to blame himself if we bestow our
interest and our sympathy upon others who deserve it better."
"Well, I should not have thought that he was ever made to feel the want
of interest in himself. Nor will he be left without it now. I never
could understand why all the world took so much trouble about a man who
minds the world as little as he does."
"That is easy of explanation, dear Melitta. The Oldenburgs are one of
our oldest families; we cannot look on with indifference when the last
scion of such a race becomes a plebeian."
"Oldenburg will never be a plebeian," said the younger lady, with some
warmth.
"Why, dear Melitta, you take the baron's part very warmly. Would you
also defend his immoral way of living, and his love affairs with which
he has enriched the _chronique scandaleuse_ of this and other
districts?"
"I have never done anything immoral, as far as I know, nor approved of
it," said the visitor, with greater heat than before. "And as for Baron
Oldenburg's private life, I do not presume to judge it, because I know
nothing of it. However," she continued, after a short pause and in a
much quieter tone, "I should really be astonished if Oldenburg were
such a Don Juan as people make him out to be. You must admit, my dear
Anna Maria, that he has neither the beauty nor the address which are
commonly expected in such a character?"
"Now that is a point on which _I_ do not presume to judge," said the
baroness, with an effort to be ironical. "I leave that to you young
people."
"Young people!" exclaimed Melitta, laughing. She let her work fall into
her lap, and leaned back comfortably in her chair, looking at the
baroness, who worked on industriously, and showing much humor blended
with a goodly share of malice. "Young people? Do you know, dearest Anna
Maria, that I shall be thirty this very year? My Julius will be twelve
next month--only four years younger than your Helen. By the way, how is
the child? Is she to remain forever in the boarding-school in Hamburg?
How long has she been there now? Two--no, it is already three years!
and not once has she been back here all that time! You will not know
your own child any longer, dear baroness."
"The boarding-school is so very superior, everybody praises it so
highly, that I should blame myself if I did not leave the child there
as long as I can. But you seem to have forgotten, dearest Melitta, that
we saw Helen last year at Ostend; and since you seem to have such a
longing for the young lady, I will tell you in secret that you will be
able to see her here at Grenwitz this summer."
"This very summer? Why see there! Has that any connection with
Oldenburg's return? Pardon my indiscretion! But I recollect that some
years ago, when the baron came back from his first great journey, you
said a match with Oldenburg would perhaps not be objectionable to you."
"Then I did not know the baron as I have unfortunately learnt to know
him since. Nor would that fall in with my husband's wishes, who, I
believe, has promised Helen half and half to somebody else."
"To somebody else? Not to your worthy cousin Felix?"
"As I said before, I know nothing positive about it; Grenwitz is very
reserved; but I almost guess so, from the fact that he has procured for
Felix a year's leave of absence, and he is going to spend that year
here. They say his health is very much impaired."
"I hope not as much so as his fortune," said Melitta, dryly.
"His fortune? What do you know of his circumstances?"
"I only repeat what the world says. You must agree, my dear, that if
the _chronique scandaleuse_ has something to say about Oldenburg, it is
far more eloquent about Felix, and the lieutenant surely has furnished
topics enough."
"Felix is very young."
"Not younger than Oldenburg."
"Five years."
"One would not think so upon looking at him. But then he has lived
rather fast."
"One could really imagine, my dear Melitta, that Felix was nearer to
you than he really is. Candidly, I should like to know what you think
of this match, if Grenwitz should not abandon the project."
"Well, then--I should consider it a misfortune, a very great
misfortune, and in proportion as Helen is beautiful and innocent; what
in all the world can suggest to the baron such a match? For I shall
never believe that a mother could consent to such a union, which cannot
fail to make her daughter inexpressibly unhappy."
Melitta had risen and cut the air with her riding-whip, as if she
wished to say: That is what he deserves, who offers to aid in such a
piece of rascality. Her tall, slender form looked a different being
from her who had been timidly bending over her work or negligently
reclining in her easy-chair. Even the features of her face seemed to
change, and to become sharper, older; the fire in her large eyes blazed
forth ominously. The mention of this match had evidently struck a chord
in her soul which vibrated painfully through her whole system. She
continued in the same excited tone:
"Felix is notoriously a fast young man. How can such a man feel love?
And even if Helen's beauty, her youth, and her innocence should for a
time get the better of his exhaustion, that would not last long. A man
like him, thoroughly _blase_, never becomes again a real man, and can
Helen ever love such a person? And is life worth anything without love?
And can you prevent all the misery that must needs spring from such a
match? I know----"
The young wife suddenly stopped and walked rapidly up and down the
room. Then, after a short pause, she said:
"And what external advantages can such a match have? Felix has
satisfied his excessive vanity at the expense of his fortune as well as
of his health. His estates are mortgaged beyond their real value; and
he has, as far as I know, no expectations."
"Except that in case Malte should die, which God prevent! he would
inherit the Grenwitz fortune," said the baroness.
"Ah! indeed," replied Melitta, with a strange emphasis. This last
remark of the baroness had presented the whole matter in a new light to
the generous woman; it was a ray like the light from the dark lantern
of the thief, which falls upon the strong-box he is about to steal. But
she took good care not to let the baroness see what was going on in her
heart, and continued in an unconcerned tone, throwing herself once more
into the easy-chair:
"I hope Malte will not be so kind to the creditors of Felix as to die
before his time. I see he is getting stronger visibly, and if you would
only give the boy a little more liberty----"
"Liberty!" exclaimed the baroness. "Must I hear that word again? I give
him as much liberty as a sensible mother ought to give her child. My
opinion is that a man who, like Malte, will have a large fortune at his
command, cannot learn too soon to obey, to economize, and to deny
himself all that is superfluous and unnecessary. We have in our nephew
Felix an example of the sad effects of too great indulgence."
"That is very true," said Melitta; "but----"
"We had, if I am not mistaken, agreed to avoid all discussion on the
subject of education," said the baroness, with a smile of superiority.
"I know what I am doing, and I hope, with the help of God, to carry it
out successfully."
"By the way, did I tell you that I mean to send my Julius, a few days
hence, to the college at Grunwald?"
"What a venture again!" replied the baroness. "That is the kind of
public education, as they call it, which Baron Oldenburg enjoyed when
he was young, and you see what the results are. To be sure, private
tutors have their dark sides also."
"You have a new one, I believe?" said Melitta, who had risen and was
leaning against the door-frame. "How is he?"
The baroness shrugged her shoulders.
"But what a question, to be sure," said Melitta, laughing. "He is
probably like all the rest: terribly learned, awkward, pedantic, a
bore. Bemperlein, Bauer--they are all after the same pattern. I should
know a tutor at a hundred yards. Ah! who is that young man, crossing
the lawn there with Bruno?"
The question remained unanswered, for at that moment Mademoiselle
Marguerite entered the room, and the baroness rose to give her some
orders. Melitta turned round, but the baroness had left the room with
the words, "Pray excuse me!" Melitta was alone, and had to find the
answer to her question for herself. She drew a little back behind the
door and examined the form of the unknown young man.