"Not so fast, Cziko," cried Oswald, loosening his coat from the thorns
of a bush; "have a little consideration for my state of civilization."
The boy went more slowly, but always kept at a distance from the
stranger. Oswald tried in vain to engage him in a conversation, whilst
he was busy pushing the branches aside, through which the boy had just
slipped before him like a wildcat. Thus they might have been walking on
for a quarter of an hour when they found themselves suddenly in a small
wood, which probably belonged already to the park of Berkow. The
paths were carefully kept; here and there a well-chosen seat, or a
weather-beaten Hermes pillar; everywhere traces of the hand of man.
Then they came to a wider road, which was probably the continuation of
that road on which Oswald had walked at first, and soon after to a pair
of iron gates, which opened upon a fine court-yard. Cziko stopped
suddenly; he pointed silently to the gates, bowed with crossed arms to
Oswald, and ran back into the bushes, behind which he was almost
instantly concealed.
"A mysterious beginning," said the young man to himself, as he walked
slowly, almost hesitatingly, towards the gates. "I wonder if it is the
after-effect of my strange encounter with those gypsies, or an
anticipation of what is to befall me here which gives me such a strange
feeling. Perhaps I had, after all, done better to accept the carriage
which the old baron offered me yesterday. I might have escaped the
minister and his Primula, and, at all events, I should not arrive here
in a sadly neglected and disordered costume, after the manner of a
vagabond, but in state, drawn by two magnificent bays. Well, well! A
man is a man for a' that, and Melitta, if I am not grievously mistaken,
prefers the kernel to the shell of the nut."
He opened the gates, which were not locked, and entered the court-yard.
A huge Newfoundland dog who had been lying on the grass rose slowly
when he heard the gates grating on their hinges, and came up to Oswald
wagging his tail. "Well, here at least I meet with a kindly welcome,"
said the young man to himself, caressing the enormous animal. On the
right hand he noticed a bright garden, separated by a low fence, in a
line with the front of the mansion. It was a low house of two stories,
very simple, but rather picturesque, thanks to a massive stone balcony
over the front-door, and two superb linden-trees just in front. The
three other sides of the large square were filled with offices and
farm-buildings. A low fence and a row of dwarf fruit-trees formed a
line of division between the court-yard and the lawn immediately before
the house. As Oswald walked along the front of the house, he saw the
high windows open; but there seemed to be nobody in the fine rooms
beyond. The front-door was also open, and allowed him to look into a
noble hall with a floor of colored marble. A large hall-clock alone
broke the deep silence with its slow ticking. The court-yard even was
buried in silence. The whole place looked deserted, and only the
sparrows were twittering and making quite a noise in the linden-trees,
and the swallows flitted low under the eaves to their young in the
nests, and then as swiftly shot back again for more food.
"There is probably no one at home," thought Oswald. "You have made the
long journey for nothing. Or can you perhaps tell me where your
mistress is, my good dog? Shall we look in the garden?"
The dog looked as if he had understood Oswald's question, and trotted
off towards a gate close by the house, which evidently led into the
garden; there he stopped and looked round at the stranger.
"Then she is in the garden?"
Oswald opened the gate. The dog ran before him past a number of
flower-beds into a narrow walk with hedges on either side, down to a
flight of steps, which led through the hedge upon a kind of terrace.
There he once more looked round at Oswald. Then he ran up the steps.
Oswald followed.
The creature had disappeared in a group of tall, blooming shrubs. In
the mean time the young man had advanced a few steps, and there a
picture presented itself to his eyes which fixed him motionless to the
spot. He looked upon a small open space which was framed in on two
sides by the tall hedges that enclosed the whole terrace. In the centre
a huge pine-tree with broad-spreading branches rose in full might like
a lance. At the foot of the tree, and upon the carpet of brown leaves,
stood a round garden-table and a few chairs. In one of these chairs
Melitta was sitting, surrounded by the soft dreamy light of the summer
afternoon, her head resting on one hand and the other mechanically
caressing the dog, who was pressing closely to his mistress. She wore a
white dress, which fell in graceful folds around her, and concealed her
shoulders and her bosom but just enough to betray their charming
outlines. On the table lay a glove, a broad-brimmed straw hat, and an
open book.
She was sitting there so deep in thought that she did not hear Oswald's
light step till he was standing before her. Then she threw up her head,
and scarcely suppressed a cry of delighted surprise as she saw the man
actually before her with whom her thoughts had been so busy just now.
For a moment the blood stopped in her heart, and then, rushing forth
with vigor, it poured out upon her cheeks a rich glow of purple.
"See there!" she said, quickly rising and offering Oswald her hand.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said the young man, reverently carrying the
fair trembling hand, which lightly rested on his, to his lips, "if I
come unannounced----"
"But not unexpected, to interrupt your _dolce far niente_ and so forth,
and so forth"--interrupted Melitta. "Come, come, no phrases, if you
please. Leave that to our empty-headed young gentlemen. Sit down and be
thankful that you find me at all. Bemperlein and Julius have given you
up long ago, and are away to pay a visit in the neighborhood; so you
must be content with myself. That is your just punishment."
"If the punishment is just, it is fortunately also very mild," replied
Oswald, "and I submit to it with all the humility required of a
penitent sinner."
"You do look like a penitent sinner! But, seriously speaking, why do
you come so late, and----"
"In such a condition? Seriously speaking, I could not come sooner and
could not come otherwise. Walking on foot and over utterly unknown
roads----"
"But why did you undertake that?"
"I am fond of such undertakings."
"Then we are kindred spirits. Well, go on!"
"And meeting on the road an old woman, who delivers lectures on
immortality, a country parson, who preaches on the same subject, and a
literary lady, who tells in sweet verses what she has heard from the
beasts of the field, and----"
"Oh, you poor man!" cried Melitta, clapping her hands.
"Losing my way afterwards in the forest, falling asleep on the edge of
a swamp, dreaming there all kinds of sweet, foolish things, finding
upon awaking a gypsy standing before me, who tells me my fortune,
getting her boy to show me the right way, and finding upon arriving at
your enchanted castle no one who could lead a stranger to the lady of
the house, but an amiable dog, who listens as attentively as if he
understood every word we say--do you not think that doing all this
requires at least as much time as I have taken to tell it to you?"
The dog laid his head confidingly on the lap of his mistress and looked
up at her. "Art my brave Bonc[oe]ur," she said, caressing her pet,
"doest honor to thy name. Thou watchest nicely over house and home, and
knowest full well that nobody else does it but thou and Baumann. Do you
know that you excite my deepest interest by your encounter with the
nut-brown countess, I mean the gypsy woman, and with her daughter
Czika--for it is a girl, as I must tell you, to the honor of your
sagacity."
"A girl, the Czika?"
"The Czika is a girl, you may rely on it. Where did you meet the two?"
"About a quarter of an hour's walk from here, in the forest, near the
same lake, on the banks of which I had fallen asleep."
"Then it was upon my own soil--I am glad of that."
"You seem really to be deeply interested in the fair mother and her
still fairer daughter. I recollect now that the child was much too
beautiful for a boy. How does the gypsy woman get the name of the
nut-brown countess?"
"Ah," laughed Melitta. "That is a long story, and one of those foolish
undertakings of mine, in which I sympathize with you. It is now about
six years since Isabel came for the first time into this district. She
was then about twenty years old--perhaps, for she herself does not know
her age accurately. Her child, the Czika, was four years old, that she
knew, for she was her own child and not a stolen princess."
"How do you know that?"
"From the striking likeness between mother and daughter, which must
have struck you also. Both of them were at that time extremely
beautiful; in fact, I have never seen anything like it. I do not think
any one could have remained unmoved by the sight of this youthful
mother with her magnificent child, which in the theatrical costume and
the dark, abundant curls might pass as easily for a boy as for a girl.
I have seen the like of it only in Murillo's paintings, with their
sunny glow and fierce passion. It so happens that I fancy I know
something of picturesque beauty, and try my hand occasionally at
painting myself--so they set me drawing all day long, and I went to
work on gypsy heads from morning till evening. I forgot to tell you
that I kept the two gypsies for a few days here at Berkow. On one of
these days I was obliged to give a large party. And--now comes the
folly of the thing--in order to get a joke a tour absurd people here, I
dressed Isabel up in the richest costume that I possessed, and handed
the Czika over to my chambermaid, to deck her out, and then I
introduced the two as the Countess of Kryvan, with her little
daughter Czika, whose acquaintance I had made the year before at a
watering-place, and who had just arrived from Hungary to pay me a
visit."
"And what did the company say?"
"They were delighted. I had previously made it known that Isabella
belonged to the old Magyar nobility, who had pledged themselves never
to use any other language but the national tongue, and occasionally a
little Latin."
"Did the people really believe that, and did the gentlemen try to keep
up the conversation in Latin?"
"You can make our people believe anything you choose; and as for the
gentlemen, Latin is Greek to them. Isabella, I can assure you, took her
seat on the sofa with almost regal dignity, and our greatest people in
the neighborhood overwhelmed the countess with attentions, regretting
again and again their inability to speak Latin, and thus to enjoy the
interesting and attractive conversation of the great lady. The little
girl was taken from lap to lap, and almost smothered with titbits and
with caresses. In fine, the comedy was played successfully to the very
last scene, and for several days afterwards the whole neighborhood was
full of the 'nut-brown countess,' as they took it into their heads to
call the friend of Melitta von Berkow. Well, how do you like my story?"
"To be candid, only so-so. I enjoy the mystification of your
high-mighty visitors with all my heart, but I confess I feel rather
pained to see a poor helpless woman made the toy of the rich and the
great simply because she is poor and helpless."
Melitta looked full at Oswald and replied, without the slightest trace
of resentment:
"Now look, that is nice in you to think so, and I think it still nicer
that you tell me so openly. But I told you beforehand it was a foolish
thing I did; and afterwards I felt heartily sorry for it, and did all I
could to make amends for the evil consequences which followed. Only
listen, and see how the matter ended. I had, of course, presented the
Brown Countess with all the things which she and the Czika had worn
during the comedy. The poor woman, not knowing what to do with the
plunder, tried to sell it in the next town. They thought she had stolen
the things, and demanded that she should explain how she had come in
possession of such a wardrobe. That she could not do, for she had
forgotten my name and the name of my place, and besides, nobody could
understand her jargon. The justices, therefore, in their wisdom,
concluded to put the Brown Countess into jail as a vagabond and a
thief, until the matter should be cleared up in some way or other.
Unfortunately, I had myself left a few days before for a watering-place
in the neighborhood, and whilst I was there enjoying the fresh sea air
in full draughts, the poor woman had to suffer for weeks in a damp
prison cell. Alas! and these people value freedom above all things! You
see, I shall never forgive myself for all this! It was only after my
return that I heard, by a mere accident, of what had happened. Of
course, I did at once all that could be done. I drove myself into town
and opened the prison-doors to my Brown Countess. But how I found her
changed! Pale, emaciated, worn out, she looked as if every week of her
imprisonment had cost her a year of her life. Little Czika looked, if
possible, still worse. I took both of them back with me to Berkow; I
nursed them and comforted them; I made them presents, and tried all I
could to make amends. But repentance came here, as usually, too late.
Little Czika had been grievously injured by the damp air of the jail.
She fell, soon after her arrival here, in a raging fever, and I thank
God to this day that she escaped with her life. What could I have done
if she had died!"
Melitta was silent, and something like a tear glistened in her eyes.
But the next moment she laughed again, and said:
"Well, after all, she did not die, but grew as fresh and bright as
before, and played with my Julius till she recovered her red cheeks and
bright eyes. The children had become exceedingly fond of each other,
and I should have liked nothing better than to keep the little girl
here and have her educated with Julius. The child showed remarkable
talents; she was a perfect genius for music. The Brown Countess I
should have kept as my waiting-maid, or anything she might have
accepted. I offered to let her arrange her mode of life as she chose,
if she would only consent to stay here. But it was the old story of the
frog and the golden chair. For a few weeks she stood the quiet life,
pretty well; and one fine morning she had disappeared--she and the
Czika. Afterwards they have repeatedly come back to this country, but
they have never visited me here. Isabel is either still angry with me,
or she is jealous of me and afraid I might steal her little Czika. And
yet she ought to see that I mean it well with her. The people in the
village have my orders to do all she may desire; the keeper has been
directed not to molest her in the forest, and I myself have abstained
from seeking her out, because I do not wish to frighten her away
altogether. That is my story of the Brown Countess. Are you still angry
with me?"
"What right have I to be so?"
"Well, you frowned just now in a way which made me feel like a very
wicked sinner."
"You are pleased to jest. What can my opinion matter to you?"
"More than you pretend to think, in your half-assumed modesty. A woman
always thinks much of a man's opinion, because she feels instinctively
that his head thinks more soberly and thoroughly, though not as quickly
as her own. And for you learned gentlemen we have a special respect.
You have all of you, about the eye and the corners of the mouth,
something mystical, something unfathomable, something----"
Oswald could not help laughing.
"Yes, you may laugh as you choose. You may not think so, but we, we are
afraid of your learning, even when we try to make fun of one or the
other among you, who is good-natured enough to offer himself for our
amusement There is my Bemperlein, my faithful, good Bemperlein. Well,
he is most assuredly no genius, and knows as much of the world as I
know of Greek, and yet I invariably succumb when we dispute. That vexes
me, when I compare him with our country gentlemen! There are handsome,
very handsome men among them, and they look remarkably well in their
militia uniforms, with their light mustaches, their sunburnt faces, and
bright blue eyes; but in evening costume they look stupid. They are as
stupid and lifeless as the faces of horses and dogs. The only one among
them who has been to college looks as if he belonged to another world."
"Who is this ph[oe]nix?"
"Baron Oldenburg."
A shadow passed over Melitta's animated face as when a cloud drifts
rapidly over a sunlit landscape. She looked for a few moments straight
before her, as if she had lost the thread of the conversation. Then,
awaking from her dream, she said:
"Yes--as I said before--that is why I want Julius to go to school. But
here I chatter and chatter and do not even ask you if you are hungry
and thirsty, and yet you must be so after all your travels on highways
and byways. Come, we will go in and see if we cannot hunt up somebody
to bring us some refreshment. I want it as much as you do, for I just
remember that I have not dined to-day. Have you never been in the
house?"
"Yes, at least in the great hall; I asked a large old clock if I might
present myself before the lady of Berkow, but it answered: Non-sense!
Non-sense! so I went away again."
Melitta had risen and put on her straw hat, without troubling herself
about the ribbons, of which one hung down on her bosom, and the other
on her back; now she said, smiling, while Oswald had picked up the book
and was looking at the title:
"I suppose you also read something in all you see?"
"Yes, generally. This book, for instance, tells me: My mistress would
have done better not to read me, since there are so many better books
that she might read."
"Alas! we poor creatures who live in the country, we must read what the
circulating library or the bookseller sends us. But why do you dislike
these _Mysteres_?"
"In the first place, it annoys me to find them wherever I go. In
Grunwald the book was lying on every table; I was not two days at
Grenwitz before it followed me there, and here I must find it even in
your house. I have never been able to read farther than the second
volume, and here you are, to my amazement, already in the fourth. How
_can_ you take an interest in this Chourineur, this _maitre d'ecole_,
this Chouette and all the other rascally people? Surely, not half as
readily as in the beasts of a menagerie, for these are at least God's
own creations, whilst those men are nothing better than the misshapen
children of the wanton imagination of a used-up poet's brains."
"You may be right," said Melitta, as they were coming down from the
terrace. "It is perhaps a real misfortune that such books are written,
and a greater one yet that we, and especially women, whose education
and training are every way grievously neglected, find after all a kind
of pleasure in them. For the rest, I accept all that Sue says of that
canaille as gospel truth, as I do with the reports of travellers in
distant lands and the marvels they have seen on shore and on board
ship. I believe him perhaps all the more readily, as he paints that
sphere of society in which I live, partly at least, with great truth,
fulness, and accuracy."
"You do not really think _Rudolphe, grand duc regnant de Gerolstein_,
to be true to life?"
"That I do not know; but I do know that stories like that of the
Marquis d'Harville and his wife occur almost daily in actual life."
Oswald made no reply; he recollected what he had heard about the
relations between Melitta and her husband, and how the latter had now
been for seven years the victim of incurable insanity. A faint
suspicion of the painful scenes that must have preceded the actual
crisis, the fearful catastrophe, overcame him; he regretted having
touched unconsciously the curtain that hid so dark a family drama. But
at the same time he was filled with deep, unspeakable sympathy for the
charming woman who was condemned to lead a lonely, mournful life in
this green wilderness, in spite of all her youth and beauty. What were
to her youth and beauty and wealth without love! and did she obtain
that love which she deserved so well, and for which she yearned so
ardently, she whose gentle, longing eyes betrayed an unfathomable depth
of tenderness and passion?
Sympathy is the first-born brother of the sweet sister Love. While
Oswald was pitying the fate of the fair lady, he felt how a spring of
painfully sweet feelings gushed forth warm from his heart and filled it
to overflowing. And if old classic love was born in the foam of the
waves, romantic modern love not unfrequently prefers the soft, perfumed
air of a luxuriant garden full of sweet flowers and fragrant foliage.
Voluptuous shadows dwelt in the cozy bowers; the afternoon sun lay
dreamily upon the green lawns; the birds were singing joyously in the
dense crowns of mighty trees, butterflies were dancing merrily above
the sun-drunk forests of bright flowers.
Slowly the two tall companions sauntered through the green gardens, now
stopping to admire a rose-bush, which outshone all its neighbors in its
exuberant splendor, and now following with the eye a squirrel, as it
merrily flew from branch to branch and from tree to tree. More and more
Oswald began to feel as if he were walking in a glorious dream, as if
he were only dreaming of all this sunshine, this fragrance of flowers,
this singing of birds--as if he were only dreaming of Melitta's sweet
voice and Melitta's love-speaking eyes--and Melitta also felt as if she
were seeing to-day very differently with her eyes, and hearing very
differently with her ears. The strange man, to whom she was showing her
possessions, looked so familiar to her; she felt as if she had known
him many many years, as if she had known him all her life. On the other
hand, the things she had seen every day for long years, looked to her
almost strange now. So true is it that, after all, man takes most
interest in his fellow-man, and understands nothing else as well in the
whole range of his surroundings. For the sake of a single human soul,
which chimes in harmoniously with our own, we cheerfully throw
overboard all the plunder which in idle hours, and when higher
enjoyments are wanting, has to fill up our life. And if this is true
for men, it is doubly so for women. They know but one kind of bliss
upon earth: to love; and only one happiness: to be loved. Melitta's
heart, which for years had been forced to content itself with
superficial affections and empty flirtations, was yearning after a
true, deep passion. When the young man now raised his half-reverent,
half-defiant glances with sincere admiration and an almost caressing
devotion to her face, and wove around her a magic net, whose meshes
were constantly drawing more closely, she felt far too happy not to be
heartily grateful towards him who afforded her such sweet enjoyment.
Thus she felt ineffably happy, and yet also more seriously inclined
than she was accustomed. The storm of wild passion, which was gradually
rising on the horizon of her soul, cast its dark shadows in advance on
her sun-lit mind, and the first cold breath tore the veil which time
had slowly woven over so many a bright picture of past days. While
Oswald was sketching a plan of education for Julius, such as seemed to
him best, he accidentally came to speak of his own life; allowing the
beautiful woman to catch many a glimpse of the innermost recesses of
his heart. She felt this as a sign of his love and his veneration for
her, and was deeply moved by it. Many thoughts which the young man
presented to her in his lively manner with pleasing eloquence, had been
suggested to her once before, and in almost the same words, by a man
who had been very dear to her, and whose uncommon character had
attracted and enchained her active mind while his roughness had
repelled and offended her gentle disposition. Here, now, she found once
more the roses whose voluptuous fragrance had then intoxicated her, but
without their thorns; here she found what she had so painfully missed
in those days: beauty of form, grace of motion, and harmony of speech.