Sauntering up and down in the walks between the flower-beds, they only
recalled their first intention to go into the house when they came near
it a second time. They entered through the open door into a room whose
admirable proportions, and simple, tasteful decoration made at once a
most pleasing impression on Oswald. The tall chestnut-trees before the
windows kept the room shady and cool. The subdued light was grateful to
the eyes after the overwhelming sunshine of the garden. Comfortable
chairs in various shapes and sizes, American rocking-chairs, French
causeuses, a large grand-action piano, tables covered with books and
portfolios, scattered here and there over the large room, gave it,
amidst all the abundance of objects, something cozy, which contrasted
most delightfully with the stiff regularity at the chateau of Grenwitz.
"I am quite curious to see if anybody will come when I ring," said
Melitta, throwing her hat on a table and going towards the bell-rope;
"it is by no means impossible that we may have to go ourselves to the
pantry, provided always we can find the key."
She rang the bell and turned again to Oswald, who was looking at one of
the marble busts with which the walls of the room were adorned.
"How do you like that mask?"
"Very much indeed--it is the Rondanini Medusa."
"Ah! I see you are a connoisseur."
"At best only an amateur. I have seen a good deal in the capital and
elsewhere, but mostly only casts. It has been from boyhood up my most
ardent wish to make a pilgrimage to Italy, in order to be able to
worship at the feet of the great god Apollo Belvedere."
"Well, that is a very reasonable wish."
"Not so very reasonable, after all, if it is reasonable only to wish
what we can attain."
"Then it would be unreasonable to wish for some refreshments now, as
that does not seem attainable," said Melitta, in a playfully
complaining tone. "But do we not often obtain something from Fate,
merely because we wish for it most ardently, almost impertinently? Fate
grants us our wish, as a mother often does the piece of cake to the
importunate child, only to get rid of us."
"Fate is no capricious lady, but a hard, stony-hearted god, and if we
want anything of him we must be firm."
"That may be so with you men, and perhaps it is well it should be so,
else you would be too overbearing. But we women--what on earth would
become of us if we had to be firm like that when we want a little
happiness? We rather go to work and beg and pray, and when we are just
about to give up all hope and to despair of all happiness--why, just
then--you see, there comes Baumann, and with him a prospect that we may
get some refreshments."
The door opened, and the form of a tall, thin man appeared on the
threshold. He had quite a martial air with his old wrinkled face and
bushy eyebrows; a deep scar ran across the bald forehead, past the left
eye, and down the whole cheek, and his mouth was shaded by a heavy
iron-gray mustache.
"Madam," he said, in a voice which seemed to rise from a deep cavern.
"Ah, Baumann, is everybody out?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"But I did not say they might go out. Where is mam'selle?"
"In Fashwitz, ma'am."
"And John?"
"Gone to see the forester."
"And the maids?"
"In the village."
"My good Baumann, we should like to have some supper."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Can you get us some?"
"Hardly!"
"Or can you find the key to the pantry?"
"Will hardly be possible."
"My dear Baumann, you must really see what can be done."
"Yes, ma'am."
Thereupon the strange fellow turned on his heels and marched out again.
"Well, what do you think of my _maitre d'hotel_?"
"I think the man is a great original; but why did he look at me all the
time, with his big bright eyes?"
Melitta laughed.
"You must know that old Baumann was my father's servant, after having
made all the campaigns against Napoleon in his regiment. He has rocked
me, when I was a child, on his knees, has never left me since, and will
not leave me till I die or he dies. Twice he has saved my life, and,
without my knowing it or desiring it, shared every one of my sorrows,
and, I may say, every joy. If I were to say to him: Baumann, you will
have to go to Australia to-morrow for me! he would say: Yes, ma'am!
pack his things over night, and be on his way before sunrise. And if I
said: I cannot help it, Baumann, but you will have to die for me! he
would say, Yes, ma'am! and not move a muscle. But if I said to him,
_Please_ hear, Baumann, or call him _Mr._ Baumann, he would think our
friendship at an end. Now he is angry because I have not told him who
you are. When he will know that, and find out that I am glad to see you
here, he will be content again. Now mind what will happen. He will come
back to tell us that he can do absolutely nothing for us. Thereupon I
will give him the information about you, and make believe to go myself.
Then we shall have peace. But you must look friendly when I mention you
to him, you hear?"
"Don't fear, madam. I will be friendly, and smile as mildly as one of
Guido Reni's angels."
The door opened once more. The old servant entered, marched into the
room, remained standing precisely on the same spot as before, and said,
looking again at Oswald:
"No possibility whatever, ma'am!"
"But, Baumann, that is a great pity. Here is Doctor Stein, who has
specially come over from Grenwitz, and on foot, too, to talk with Mr.
Bemperlein about Julius. And now both have driven out, and we cannot
offer him a mouthful to eat or a glass of wine. And I myself have eaten
nothing, as you know, since the morning, and am almost perishing for
hunger."
Oswald found it difficult to keep the smile, which he had been ordered
to show, from degenerating into broad laughter as he saw how the old
man's face grew brighter and brighter with every word which Melitta
uttered. At last he turned his look from one to the other, as if he
were going to say: Well, you see, young people, after all, you can do
nothing without old Baumann! Then he said:
"Well, as to the cellar-key, I have that in my pocket, ma'am."
"To be sure, and how about the key to the pantry?"
"Barely possible that mam'seile has put it again under the doorsill,
although I have warned her against that many a time."
"Won't you look, Baumann, if it is there?"
"Yes, ma'am."
As soon as the door had closed after the old man, Melitta threw herself
laughing into the rocking-chair.
"Did I not tell you?" she cried, rocking to and fro, joyous as a child
that has had its will; "did I not tell you?"
Oswald had taken a seat opposite to her, at the large round table, on
which an open album and drawing materials lay scattered about. His hand
was playing with the pencil while he looked at Melitta, lost in
thought.
"Are you going to draw my likeness?" asked Melitta.
"I wish I could."
"Why not? There is my album."
"That does not help me. You will have to teach me first how to draw
directly with the eye."
"Ah, that is exactly what I always wish I could do. How often, when I
am interested in a face, a figure, or a landscape, have I thought: Now
you will hit it! and when I try to fix it on the paper, clear as it is
before my eye, it is nothing but a caricature."
"I am sure your album will say the contrary. Is it permitted to look at
it?"
"Not generally, but you may. In fact, it has no value but for myself;
for I find there not only what I have drawn, but also what I have
wished to draw. Besides, my album is a kind of diary. I probably
commenced this one shortly before my Italian journey."
"Then you have been in Italy?"
"Two years ago, with my cousin Barnewitz and his wife. I wish you had
been with us; first, on your account, for you deserve to see Italy, and
then, on my account, because I should then not have been condemned to
wander through the most beautiful landscapes and the richest
collections alone, or in company with figures of wax. I used to tell
then, as I always do, everything to my album, which received patiently
what no one else cared to listen to."
Melitta had risen and placed herself by Oswald's side, who wanted to
get up in order to give her a chair. But, in order to prevent that, she
laid her hand lightly on his arm and let it rest there an instant--an
instant only, and yet it was long enough to make Oswald's hand tremble
and his voice shake when he said, turning over the leaves:
"These sketches must have been made before the journey to Italy. Here
is the mysterious pond, at the edge of which I slept and dreamt this
afternoon."
"You have not told me yet what you dreamt?"
"Yes, I told you all sorts of sweet foolish things."
"Of course about a lady?"
"Yes."
"Ah, then I must not ask for more?"
"Ah, how charming!" exclaimed Oswald, as he turned over a leaf. "How
snugly ensconced this cottage lies in the forest. The old pine-trees
stand around like gigantic guardians. The beech-tree spreads its mighty
branches over it like a protecting deity. And here the creepers,
climbing up and waving before the low windows, as if they were
whispering: You are ours. And how dreamily that brook creeps along
between reeds and ferns and down the deep green meadow in the
foreground! That is a beautiful idea," said Oswald, looking up to
Melitta from the book.
"And as you have found it all out so nicely, I will show it to you this
very evening!"
"What! This is not a fancy picture?"
"Oh no! Perhaps those ducks hiding in the rushes from the hawk up
there. The brook is the outlet of your mysterious lake in the forest."
"Ah, and thus only a continuation of my dream," said Oswald, turning
over leaf after leaf.
A loose leaf fell into his hands. It had on it the head of a man in
profile, drawn in beautiful bold lines. In a corner stood the letters
A. V. O. and a date.
"That leaf will drop out," said Oswald.
"Let it drop, then!" replied Melitta.
The tone in which she said these few words was so peculiar, so entirely
without the ordinary sweetness of her voice, that Oswald involuntarily
looked up at her. He saw that her beautiful brows were contracted as if
in anger, and her lips trembling. He looked down again instantly, and
was about to put the leaf back in its place, when Melitta laid her hand
on his arm and said:
"How do you like the head?"
A storm rose in Oswald's heart. He might have thrown himself instantly
at Melitta's feet to cry out: Do I not love you, Melitta? How can you
ask my opinion about a man whom you have loved, whom you perhaps still
love? But he checked himself and said, with apparent calmness:
"It is the head of a man who recalls to me Tasso's words:
'And if all the gods united
To bring him gifts to the cradle,
The Graces, alas! were not there.'
This man can never be happy, because he will never desire to be happy."
"And that is why this man will drop out of my life as this leaf drops
out of my album. If one could kill memory as one can destroy a paper,
it would no longer be here. But since that cannot be done, let it stay
there. Go on!"
The storm in Oswald's heart had passed by. Like a soft spring breeze
the thought came to him: She could not and would not tell you that if
she did not think you deserved her confidence and her friendship. And
he felt a sense of unspeakable happiness in this thought. It was one of
those solemn, sublime moments which flash once or twice through the
night of every man's life--one of those moments when we see the heavens
open, and the angelic choir go up and down singing. Peace! Peace! unto
our ready heart ...
In this blissful disposition he looked over the other drawings which
Melitta had made during her Italian journey--landscapes in clear,
well-defined lines; sketches from cities, palaces, streets, and ruins;
between, a lazzaroni face or a dreamy girl's countenance. Then came
studies from the antique, generally very painstaking studies; then
again some subject was drawn over and over till it satisfied Melitta's
keen criticism. A head of the Venus of Milo was particularly fine. On
one of the following pages was the whole statue.
"Where did you draw that?" asked Oswald. "Surely not from a copy?"
"No, from the original! had become half a Catholic in Italy, and when I
saw the lofty form in the Louvre in Paris, I said to myself, This, and
no other, is your saint! Oh, you cannot imagine how beautiful she is!
how beautiful and good! and this expression of heavenly goodness, which
is not found in any other Venus, not, in fact, in any other antique
head, but only in the Venus of Milo, touched me even more deeply than
her heavenly beauty. When I saw that statue I felt for the first time
in my life how it might be possible to _pray_, to pray sincerely,
earnestly, before an image made by the hand of man. Why do you look so
solemn and thoughtful? Here, take that pencil and write under the
statue what you have just been thinking, for I saw you were making
verses."
Oswald took the pencil which Melitta offered him, half in earnest, half
in jest, and wrote, with a trembling hand, while Melitta was looking
over his shoulder:
Away in Paris, in a lofty hall,
Amid the forms of ancient gods untold
Of fairest marble, and like marble cold,
She thrones on her high pedestal.
She, whom in secret, silent lawn,
When dreamy mists were floating o'er the brook,
Anchises in his mighty arms once took,
Till she escaped from him at early dawn.
The goddess died. They found the fair remains
And bore the lovely corpse up to the fane,
Where, altho' dead, she in her realm still reigns.
But ah! the faithful pray to her in vain!
No more her godlike face to bend she deigns,
Prefers eternal calmness to maintain!
Oswald put down the pencil and looked up at Melitta. His glance met
hers. For a few moments their eyes rested upon each other as if they
wished to read in each other's souls.
Then old Baumann appeared in the door leading to the adjoining room,
from which the clinking of plates and glasses had been heard for some
time; he had a napkin on his arm, and said, as solemnly as the statue
in Don Giovanni:
"Ma'am, dinner is ready!"
"Quick, come before our porridge is cold," called out Melitta.
"Let me only look at these few leaves," said Oswald. "I see there are
but a few more."
"There is nothing worth looking at there," said Melitta, almost
impatiently.
"Why, here is the Park at Grenwitz," exclaimed Oswald, as he turned
over the last leaf in the act of rising. "The lawn behind the chateau.
Here the Flora, there Bruno in full career----"
"And here are you!"
"Where?"
"There."
"That misty outline?" said Oswald, pointing at a spot by the side of
the Flora where the faint traces of a figure were still perceptible,
which had been rubbed out.
"That misty outline?" laughed Melitta. "I wished to draw you as you
really looked, but I did not succeed. Now you shall appear as Erlkoenig,
who tries to catch Bruno--bodily, I mean, for his soul is yours
already. How in the world did you manage to tame the wild leopard in so
few days?"
"Only by a little sincere affection. Shakespeare calls flattery an
infallible means to catch men; but I think love is a much safer one,
and at the same time much nobler."
"And is not love the greatest flattery?"
Oswald and Melitta had exchanged these words while they were going into
the adjoining room, a lofty, beautiful room, filled with old-fashioned
furniture of great value. In the centre stood a small round table, on
which refreshments were set out most invitingly. Old Baumann stood
straight, like a taper, his napkin on his arm, behind one of the two
high-backed, richly carved arm-chairs, and waited for some
acknowledgment of his signal merits and for further orders.
"Well, what does our magic table have to offer?" said Melitta, sitting
down, and inviting Oswald, by a gesture of the hand, to follow her
example.
"Cold roast meat--preserves--charming, Baumann! Mam'seile will be angry
that we could do so well without her."
"The housekeeper has come back from Fashwitz," said Baumann, opening a
bottle at a side-table.
"I dare say she has never been away," whispered Melitta, smiling. "What
have we to drink for our guest, Baumann?"
"Steinberger Cabinet, forty-two," said Baumann, filling Oswald's glass
with the golden wine.
"And for myself?"
"Fresh spring water, perhaps a little raspberry-juice," replied
Baumann, coolly, placing the bottle, with the cork in it, before
Oswald.
"That will not satisfy me to-day, Baumann! How is it about our
champagne?"
"No more, ma'am."
"But they sent us a box only the other day?"
"Has never been opened. Is down in the cellar."
"Ah, what a pity!" cried Melitta. "And I am almost perishing with
thirst, and must needs have such a desire for champagne just to-day!"
"Well, well," said Baumann, comforting her, "maybe we can manage it."
Whereupon he marched out.
"You see, I have to beg for everything in my own house," said Melitta.
"But why do you not eat? And what a little piece you have taken! The
worst, too, in the dish! Oh, what unpractical creatures you men are! I
see I shall have to take pity on you."
And although Oswald assured her that he had no appetite at all, she
insisted upon helping him to the best that the table offered.
"You do not like it," she said at last, quite sadly, when she saw that
the young man hardly touched the dishes. "Are you unwell?"
"I was never better in my life. But have you never felt as if eating
and drinking were the most superfluous things in the world, and as if
the gods of Olympus themselves, who only needed nectar and ambrosia,
were the most wretched creatures, because they ate and drank?"
"Oh, yes! I have often felt so," replied Melitta. "I remember I felt so
when my aunt took me to my first ball. But that is long, long ago, and
since then my feelings have, as far as I remember, never had anything
to do with my appetite."
In spite of this boast, however, Melitta also treated everything on the
table, except some preserves, as a mere show-dinner. The sweet fire
which made her bosom rise, and gave new lustre to her beautiful eyes,
needed no food from the hands of Ceres. For the first time that day
there were pauses in the conversation. Neither ventured to speak of
that which filled their hearts to overflowing, and everything else
appeared so little, so insignificant! They were both overcome by an
embarrassment which they in vain tried to conceal under an assumed
indifference. Both felt that a strong, unseen hand was gently lifting
the mask which we all use in daily life to hide our real faces. When we
hear the voice of the god of love, asking us in our paradise: "Where
art thou?" we conceal ourselves and dare not answer ...
They felt almost relieved when old Baumann came in, bringing the merry
child of Champagne in its silver cradle filled with ice, which he
placed before Oswald on the table. How he could have succeeded so
suddenly in bringing the desired wine from the deep cellar and out of
the box, this was one of those enigmas which the old man loved dearly,
and which he considered, beyond the power of man to divine. Opening the
bottle with skilful hand, he filled the foaming wine into the tall
graceful glasses, and looked highly pleased when his mistress drank the
sweet beverage almost with eagerness, and then, holding up her empty
glass, exclaimed: "_Encore_, Baumann! and take a glass for yourself and
drink our guest's health!"
The old servant did as he was ordered, filled a glass at the sideboard,
and then drawing nearer to the table, he said:
"First your health, ma'am! for that I value above all. And may God
always let your eyes shine as brightly as they do now! And then your
health, sir! And may Heaven bless your coming into this house, so that
nothing but peace and happiness may follow it. And that is old
Baumann's hearty wish."
Then he slowly emptied his glass, throwing back his head, until his eye
looked straight at the full-cheeked angel in the stucco ornaments of
the ceiling; and placing the glass again on the sideboard, he went to
the window; turning his back to the company, as if he did not wish to
interrupt their conversation any further.
The presence of the old servant and the fiery wine had loosed the
tongues once more, and made the glances bolder. They chatted,
apparently quite at ease, about indifferent things, until Oswald
reminded Melitta of her promise to show him to-day the cottage in the
forest.
"Did I promise?" asked Melitta. "Well, then I suppose I have to do it,
although I am almost sorry for it, for you do not believe in my saint,
and are therefore not worthy to enter into my chapel."
"Your saint?"
"The great lady of Milo. I must tell you now also how great my
enthusiasm was for the deity. After my return home, the memory of the
beautiful statue in the Louvre pursued me so persistently that I did
not rest till I had procured an excellent copy from Paris. But as I did
not dare to set up my saint here in the house, I had her carried to the
cottage in the forest, which thus became a forest-chapel. Whenever
visitors come to Berkow, the key is lost; when I am alone I spend days
and nights there, especially when the world has annoyed me more than
ordinarily; or when I desire to be rather alone, than to have such
company as I do wish to have."
"I should not have expected such hypochondriacal caprices in you."
"Why not?"
"Because you look--can look so good and so cheerful."
"And do you not know that cheerful eyes weep most readily?"
"I should not like to see you weep for anything in the world; I believe
I should forget how to laugh forever."
And again their glances met and their souls kissed each other.
"Well then, come!"
"We shall have a thunder-storm," said old Baumann, from his window,
without turning round.
"We shall be there long before it comes up," replied Melitta, who had
already risen. "And if you are not more afraid of a thunder-storm than
I am--or are you afraid?"
Oswald smiled.
"Then that shall not keep us. Besides, I do not see a trace of a
thunder-storm," she said, in the door of the garden room.
At the same moment a blue shadow swept over the garden, and a few
swallows flew past the door, twittering and almost grazing the ground.
"Had we better not go?" said Melitta, who had already crossed the
threshold, turning back to Oswald.
"I am not afraid of the storm," replied Oswald, not looking at the sky,
but into her eyes.
"And the forest is so beautiful after a storm," said Melitta. "Good-by,
Baumann! When the carriage comes from Grenwitz, send it over to the
forester. Tell the coachman to report at the cottage."
Baumann looked after the two until Melitta's white dress had
disappeared in the bushes.
Seeing him stand there on the threshold of the house, the tall old man
with his white beard and scarred face, crossing his strong arms on his
broad chest, and thoughtfully looking with his bright, truthful eyes
into the distance, one would have imagined a better guardian could not
be found. But alas! the house was empty; the beloved mistress had gone
away, into the storm-threatening twilight, with the stranger, a man
whom she did not know yesterday! And he, the faithful servant, sighed
deeply as he went slowly back to the supper-room, with bent head, and
then began to clear the table. "The gracious gifts of heaven scarcely
touched!" he murmured. "I do not like that. When young people are not
hungry, they have mischief brewing. And the wine hardly tasted! There
is the bottle more than half full ... and to-morrow it is unfit for the
table ... to-morrow." The old man sat down by the table and rested his
careworn gray head in his wrinkled hand. "But young people don't think
of to-morrow. To-morrow the young gentleman with the soft voice and the
large blue eyes is back again at Grenwitz, and who knows where the day
after to-morrow finds him? But old Baumann is here--to-morrow and the
day after to-morrow, and when the guests are gone the house looks very
differently, and when they sweep it they find ... Yes, yes--old Baumann
sees what no one else sees, and hears what no one else hears. Ah!
Baumann, I wish I were dead! ah, Baumann, why did you carry me
that day out of the fire? Now she says; I am not afraid of the
thunder-storm! and Baumann! don't send the carriage for us. Hm, hm! I
ought not to have consented; I ought to have taken her aside and said
to her: Look here, child, so and so; think of this and that! ... But
when I see the little one so happy, so cheerful--as in those days when
she was riding her pony, a little girl of twelve, and she said: Please,
please, dear Baumann, let us have a race now; why, I never could say no
to her, and away we went as fast as the creatures would run. She had
the same big, brilliant eyes again to-night, and she looked just as
rosy and fresh again! Poor, poor child! Yes, yes. You wanted to see if
all the windows are properly closed; it is only on account of the
thunder-storm!"
Oswald and Melitta hastened joyously, like children coming from school,
out of the house through the green avenues to the gate, which led from
the garden into the meadow. Behind the sloping meadow lay the forest.
Close by the gate, and for some distance along the garden, there was a
pond, half bog, and here and there a few willows on the banks; for the
waters of the brook were caught here by an old dam and turned around
the court-yard, from which they ran merrily down through the village.
Even the meadow had become partly boggy, and in spring was often quite
under water; now large stones served as a kind of rough bridge at the
very wet places.
"The path is rather rustic for city gentlemen," said Melitta, skipping
lightly, like a gazelle, from stone to stone; "we children of nature
are accustomed to such things. I might have led you the longer way
through the park and the forest, but you ought to learn to know also
the dark sides of Berkow."
"Well, if this is a dark side of Berkow, I do not wish for the sunny
sides," said Oswald, smiling, pausing on one of the stones and taking
off his hat to wipe his forehead. For the air was oppressive, the blue
shadows had passed, the sun shot fiery rays from the edge of the
forest, and they had been walking fast.
"Already tired?" said Melitta, also pausing and taking off her hat, so
as to push her full brown hair backwards. "Come, the faster we run the
sooner we shall be in the shade in the forest. I will count one, two,
three, and he who gets there first----"
"Well?"
"Oh, we'll see. One, two, three--oh!"
Melitta had sprung from the stone upon which she stood on a lower one,
and fell, with a cry of pain, on her knee. In a moment Oswald was by
her side.
"Great God! What is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing! I have sprained my foot a little in jumping
down; it will soon be over."
She rested on Oswald's arm, pale, and pressing her lower lip between
her teeth to control her pain. But her color returned as she looked up
at Oswald.
"Do not trouble yourself," she said--and her voice sounded sweeter than
ever. "You have won the wager. Well! now I can walk again."
She was about to withdraw her arm from Oswald's arm, but he was not
willing to let his captive escape so easily.
"You cannot walk without support, and will you not grant me the
pleasure to render you this slight service?"
"I am only afraid the way is unpleasant enough to you; the sun is so
burning. Oh!"
A false step made Melitta sink down once more.
"We shall have to stop here," she said.
"I will carry you the few steps to the wood. There you can at least
rest in the shade."
Melitta smiled. "I am not as light as a doll."
"And I am not as weak as a girl of ten," answered Oswald, who seized
Melitta around the waist, and lifting her up carried her safely, as the
mother carries her child, on the last stones up to the edge of the
forest, where the broad branches of the beeches gave shade and
coolness. There he let her glide gently from his arms on the thick moss
and remained standing before her. Melitta had no longer resisted as
soon as the young man had boldly lifted her up; she felt very quickly
that he was strong enough to carry her, and she thought it folly not to
make the burden as easy as possible to him by clinging closely to his
arms.
"How strong you are!" she said, now looking up at him with admiration.
Oswald's heart beat high, and his bosom rose, more from inner
excitement than from the exertion. He still felt the elastic form which
he had pressed in his arms, the soft hair playing around his face, and
the sweet breath that had fallen upon his brow.
"Under such circumstances it would be difficult not to be strong," he
said.
"But confess, it has tired you? Come and sit down here; there is room
for more than two on this moss sofa."
Oswald sank down into the soft moss by the side of Melitta, who was
leaning against the trunk of a beech-tree; he rested his head on his
arm and looked thoughtfully in her cheerful face. Was the dream near
the pond about to be fulfilled? Is the dear face about to bend down and
to kiss him, as it did in the dream? Oswald was overcome by the strange
feeling as if he had gone through all this once before; as if he knew
the place from of old, the tall dark forest, from which came the
pecking of a woodpecker, the meadow before him, with the red evening
lights touching up the tall grass, the silent garden yonder, and from
the green foliage the gray chateau of Melitta rising on high. He felt
as if he had seen Melitta often in former years, as a boy, when he had
been deep in a beautiful fairy tale, till at last the sweet princess
stood bodily before him. And Melitta also must have felt something like
it, for quite at her ease, as if he had been her brother or her
husband, she took his hat off and pressed her delicate fragrant
handkerchief repeatedly on his warm brow and on his blue dreamy eyes.
Oswald seized the white hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Your hand I must return, but the handkerchief I can really not give
you back," he said.
"Then keep it as a souvenir of this hour. But now let us go on. It is
quite a distance yet to the forest chapel, and the sky looks really
threatening now."
Melitta leaned on Oswald's arm as they followed the narrow path, which
led first under beeches, and then through a young plantation on one
side and tall old pine-trees on the other side, deeper into the forest.
The sun poured its fiery red rays over the low branches of the tall
trees; a little bird was pouring out soft plaintive melodies, as if it
were taking leave of the sun and of life itself. Then the purple glow
became extinct on high; the little bird was silent, and shade and
silence surrounded the loving couple. But the shades became darker and
more threatening, and the silence was strangely broken by the groaning
and creaking of the pine-trees, which stretched and strained their
powerful limbs as if they wanted to try their strength to defy the
storm that was rising over the forest. And now it began to whisper and
to whistle mysteriously in the bushes; dry leaves flew up and drifted
along, as if in mad anxiety, before the whirlwind, which beat down the
green waves on high, twisting the crowns of the beech-trees as in a
wild dance, bending low the tall tops of the pine-trees and starting
the whole forest to its remotest depths from its pleasant repose. The
pale gleam of lightning shot across the sky, and big warm drops began
to fall through the leaves.
Melitta had come up close to Oswald, whose heart was exulting in the
storm. Pressing the beloved one with one arm to his side, he stretched
out the other one, as in defiance to the tempest-torn sky. "Go on, go
on," he murmured through his firmly closed teeth; "I am not afraid of
thee.... How, is your courage already exhausted? Oh! it is so beautiful
in the stormy, thundering forest!"
Melitta did not say a word; without raising her eyes from the ground,
she hurried forward faster and faster, until the forest opened upon a
large clearing; and there lay before them the forest chapel, just at
the moment brilliantly illumined by the red flashes of lightning. A few
steps more and they were under the projecting roof of the cottage. It
was built in the style of Swiss houses, and a jewel of a cottage.
Melitta quickly walked up the steps which led to the low veranda, took
a small key from a pocket in her dress, unlocked the lock, but instead
of opening the door she leaned trembling against the door-frame. She
was pale; her strength seemed to be gone; she pressed her hand on her
heart. Thus she stood when Oswald turned his eyes from the steaming
meadow--a sight which always filled him with a peculiar kind of
delight--to her again.
"Great God! what is the matter? Are you unwell?"
"Oh! nothing, nothing!" she said, gathering herself up at the first
sound of his voice. "I have run too fast; now it is better already.
Come in!"
She opened the door and Oswald entered. But he drew back startled when
he saw in the mystic twilight within a tall white figure, which seemed
to float down from out of the wall.
"What is that?" he exclaimed, in his first surprise.
"What?" said Melitta, who was opening the windows to let the fresh air
into the hot room, full of the fragrance of flowers.
"The Venus of Milo!" cried Oswald, and a voluptuous shudder passed over
him.
"My saint! Did I not tell you? Well, how do you like the chapel?"
It was not a very large but a very high room; on the right and on the
left a window looking out upon the veranda; opposite the door, in a
niche and upon a low pedestal, the image of the goddess. A few
comfortable garden-chairs, a _chaise longue_, a table covered
with books, papers, drawing material, a half-finished embroidery,
riding-whip and gloves, in picturesque disorder--this was the whole,
simple but suitable, furniture of the room.
"Did you get very wet?" asked Melitta, throwing her hat on the table,
without waiting for an answer to her first question. And then:
"Go away from the window; you will take cold. Come here, or rather, sit
dawn on the lounge and rest yourself."
And again:
"If I only could find something for you! But--to be sure I can make tea
for you. Where are the tea-things, I wonder? Here--no, there, in the
cupboard."
All this she said hurriedly, as if pressed by an inner painful
restlessness, while she was walking up and down in the room with quick,
unequal steps.
Oswald took her hand.
"First of all, I pray, take care of yourself; that little rain will not
hurt me, I assure you. Your dress is damp, and your thin boots are not
made for the wet grass on the meadow."
"Oh, as for me, I am easily helped. I have everything I need in the
next room."
"The next room!"
"Yes! Did I not tell you that I often spend a night here? That door
leads into my dressing-room."
"Then go at once and change your dress."
Melitta drew her hand from the young man's hand, and went without
saying a word; she disappeared through a door close by the statue,
which Oswald had not noticed before. He threw himself into one of the
arm-chairs, and rested his head on his hand; then he started up again,
leaned against the window, and stared with troubled eyes into the rain
and storm; then he walked hastily up and down in the room; at last he
threw himself down before the pedestal of the goddess and cooled his
hot brow against the marble feet.
The rustling of a dress close by him aroused him from his feverish
dream.
"Melitta!" he cried, looking up at her with tears of happiness in his
eyes. "Melitta!"
She bent down to him and kissed him softly on the forehead; then she
rushed away, threw herself into an arm-chair, and sobbed as if her
heart were breaking.
Oswald knelt down before her; he seized her knees; he pressed his
glowing face on her dress; he kissed her dress, her hands. "Melitta!
sweet one, dear one, don't cry! How can you cry when you make me so
inexpressibly happy? Your tears kill me, Melitta! Dear, dearest
Melitta! Take my heart's blood, drop by drop. Are not my blood, my
life, my soul, all your own? Melitta, I shall never cease to thank you
for this moment; do you hear, Melitta, never, never, by----"
"For God's sake! do not swear," cried Melitta, starting up and placing
her hand on his mouth. Then she took his head and kissed him
passionately on brow and eyes and lips.
And again she started up and walked with rapid steps up and down the
room. "Oh! my God, my God!" she cried, wringing her hands. She hastened
towards the door, as if she wished to flee, but she broke down before
she reached it. Oswald caught her in his arms and carried her to the
sofa. He covered her cold hands, her trembling lips, with glowing
kisses; a cry of joy arose from his breast when the rigid form at last
began to move once more.
She raised herself partly, and fixing her eyes upon him with an
expression of ineffable love, she said in a low voice, low yet firm,
as when a patient asks his physician whether it will end in life or
death----
"Oswald, listen to me! Do you love me now, at this moment, as you think
you can love a woman upon earth?"
"Yes, Melitta!"
"Well, then, Oswald, I love you, now and forever!"
The storm had passed; the refreshed, fragrant forest was silent again
and at rest, and over the forest rose brightly from the purple evening
sky the beautiful star of Venus.