What a strange feeling it is when we enter, in travelling, at early
morn the streets of a town! The sun is gilding the steeple, the air is
fresh and cool, the birds are singing in the linden-trees before the
old gable-houses on the market-place--nature is awaking and blooming
forth in morning beauty--and men are still lying in the bonds of sleep,
within their musty, oppressive chambers. The traveller can hardly
understand why no shutter opens, and no smiling face appears, to enjoy
with him the glorious morning.... It is the same feeling which
overcomes the lover who has just been assured of the return of his
love, who looks around with beaming eye, and would like to press
flowers and all to his overflowing heart. But the flowers do not mind
him, and the people have the same everyday faces, worn with care or
heavy with sleep and evil dreams. The sun of his love, which rouses him
to a new life, has neither light nor heat for the others in the musty,
oppressive chambers of their joyless, unloving existence.
Oswald felt this as he awoke on the following day, after a short,
restless sleep, which had rolled like a Lethe stream over the
recollections of the day before. But the soul receives impressions
which no sleep can efface, unless it be the last, the eternal sleep;
and thus he also had scarcely opened his eyes when the image of that
glorious woman stood bright and clear before his soul. What had
happened, up to that moment when the Venus image floated down to him in
the forest chapel, he had forgotten; what had happened afterwards, till
he had pressed Melitta once more in his arms, not far from the
carriage, to which she had accompanied him through the forest, he knew
it no more. But the kisses which he had given and received were still
burning on his lips; the sweet breath which had mingled with his own
was still there, and the loving eyes that had rested on his were still
shining brightly before him. Oh, those eyes, sparkling with animation,
those two bright stars which the morning dawn cannot efface, how they
still shone, and sparkled, and pursued him everywhere! He saw them when
he closed his eyes; he saw them when he looked out of the window up to
the bright morning sky; he saw them when he lost himself in the blue
shadows which filled the spaces between the tall trees down in the
silent, dewy garden. He felt as if he could have wept unto death, as if
he could have shouted for joy, as if his whole being might float away
like a harmony of sweet sounds.... There are moments in our life when
our bodies seem to us a mockery. We would like to fly away, and we are
chained to the spot; we would pour forth a world of sensations in
eloquent words, and our tongue stammers; we would like to be entirely
different, and we remain the selfsame men. Oh, that is a torment equal
only, perhaps, to that of a person in a trance, when they close the
coffin and he cannot raise a finger nor move his lips to tell them--I
am alive!... Oswald slipped on tiptoe into the boys' room. He wanted to
see at least one dear face, Bruno's face. The first dawn was peeping
into the room through the closed curtains; it was quite cool there.
Bruno had again left the window open all night, as he liked to do.
Oswald closed it, for the morning air was blowing in and Bruno's face
was heated by a restless dream. Again he was lying there, as in the
first night when Oswald saw him, with his arms crossed on his breast,
dark defiance on his weird, beautiful face. But when Oswald kissed him
on his forehead he did not open his eyes, as before, to smile upon him
in blissful dreams; he did not open his lips, as before, to whisper to
him the touching words: I love you! the dark brows almost met, and pain
contracted the proud lips. At any other time Oswald would have looked
upon this as a mere accident, but now, in his momentarily softened
humor, it pained him. "Is he still angry," he thought, "because I left
him at home yesterday? Does he feel that he has no longer all my love?
And yet, do I not love him all the more now?" He pushed the hair gently
from the boy's forehead; he wrapped the covering closer around his
delicate limbs, and crept out of the room again, with heavy heart. A
sad anticipation of a great sorrow passed through him. Was it to happen
to him, to Bruno, and alas! perhaps, even to her, after this blessed
happiness! He hastened down into the garden to breathe more freely in
the open air, and wandered about in the walks and avenues, and shook
the dew from the branches into his feverish face, and looked with his
dim, wearied eyes into the pious, childlike eyes of the flowers. In the
kitchen-garden he found the gardener at work. He was a man, at least,
and Oswald longed to hear a human voice. He spoke to the man, a thing
he had never done before; he asked him if he was married? Whether he
had any children? Did he love his children very much? The man gave him
those awkward, half answers, which such people generally return to our
questions--it is not that they feel less than the higher classes, but
they are not accustomed to analyze their feelings and to clothe them in
appropriate words. It is this which often gives them the appearance of
indifference. He became more talkative when he was questioned about his
work; he spoke with delight of the glorious weather, magnificent
sunshine, alternating with warm rains and thunder-storms. But Oswald
only heard him half, and left the old man suddenly, who lifted his cap,
looked after him in astonishment, shook his head and continued his
work. Oswald wandered on and on restlessly, but soon the garden felt
too confined; he passed through the open space enclosed by the high
wall, and hurried out into the fields, from the fields into the forest,
and on and on towards the roar which fell upon his ear, first
indistinctly, then louder and louder.
Then he stepped out from under the beech-trees, which formed a dense
canopy overhead with their broad branches, upon the chalk cliffs, and
the holy, eternal sea lay before him, vast and infinite. Far out the
white combs of the waves glittered in the light as they came on with
irresistible power, and broke at his feet with incessant thunder amid
the enormous rocks on the beach--wave after wave, ever new ones and new
ones, innumerable, overwhelming, marvellous. Not a sail was to be seen
in the whole view, only, far on the horizon a dark trail of smoke was
moving slowly from east to west It came from the smoke-stack of a
steamer--who knows from whence? and whither bound? Above the foaming
breakers white gulls were fluttering; now they threw themselves
screaming into the briny flood, and now they reappeared and winged
their way whither? High up in the air a sea-eagle was drawing his
majestic circles, higher and higher, till it appeared to Oswald's eye
but a black moving point. But even the magnificent sight of the sea
could not fill Oswald's heart to-day. The ocean is not as large and not
as deep as the heart of man; and however he had formerly admired the
music of the waves, he had heard a more marvellous music a few hours
ago. He envied the eagle, however. "One beat of your powerful wings and
you fly over forests and fields far off to Melitta's house."
He started up and hastened back to the chateau, up to the top of the
tower; perhaps he could see Melitta's house from there; and he shouted
with the joy of surprise as he really could discern the uppermost
gable-end of her house rising just above the edge of the forest. He
shuddered with mysterious delight; he felt as if he had touched the hem
of her garment. In love, as in religion, everything is mystical. Why
are millions of faithful believers strengthened when they turn their
faces to the East at prayers? Why is it a comfort to lovers merely to
stretch out the hand in the direction of the beloved one?
The hour at which Oswald usually began his lessons had struck. He went
to his room, but he did not find the boys, who, contrary to the rules
of the house, were still down stairs at breakfast. His own breakfast
was on the table.
Somebody knocked gently at the door, and the old baron entered, holding
a bundle of papers in his hand. After the first words of polite
inquiry, he excused himself on account of the unseasonable
interruption, and said:
"You could do us (he never said me, since he was unable to think of
himself without his wife), you could do us a great favor, doctor."
"I presume it is in connection with the papers which you hold in your
hand, baron?"
"Yes, yes. You know that Grenwitz and Stantow will have to be rented
again at Michaelmas. Now we should like to have the two farms surveyed
anew, as the plats which were made twenty-five years ago are very
indifferent. The first letter, therefore, which we would beg you to
write for us, is to a surveyor. His name is Albert Timm, and he lives
in Grunwald. You would ask him to come immediately, in order to make
some arrangement. The second letter is for our lawyer, also in
Grunwald. Anna Maria wants him to revise the contracts. Here is a copy
of the last. Anna Maria has marked on the margin what changes she
desires in the new contracts. If you could copy this document for
us--it is asking a good deal----"
"Give it to me, baron. When do you want the papers?"
"If you could write them till dinner-time? We have told the boys that
they would drive down to Stantow with us. You do not object?"
"I suppose it is all right."
"Well then, good-by, doctor, and pardon our troubling you with these
matters. But you know, Anna Maria----"
"No excuse, baron."
Any one who has ever been in the state of mind in which Oswald had
been, before the baron came to him with his formidable request, will
readily understand why the young man hurled the whole package of papers
contemptuously into a corner as soon as he was alone again.
He threw himself on the sofa and closed his eyes to dream of Melitta.
But the more he tried to recall the image of the beloved, the more
obstinately the wrinkled face of the baron presented itself instead.
Then again it would change into the face of the Brown Countess; then
the Reverend Mr. Jager made him a face, and suddenly Bruno was standing
before him, clad in long, flowing white garments. Oswald tried to laugh
at the mad masquerade, but when he looked at the boy's face his laugh
died on his lips, his hair stood on end, he shivered with cold--that
waxy-white complexion, contrasting so strangely with the bluish-black
hair, the wide open fixed eyes, a nameless something in those
lack-lustre, broken, and yet eloquent eyes--that was not Bruno, that
was Death, Death in person, under the beloved form of Bruno! Oswald
started up with a wild cry. The terrible vision had vanished, but it
took several minutes before the young man could convince himself that
it had been only a vision. He had seen everything so very distinctly;
every piece of furniture in the room, the ray of the sun that came in
at the window, and the atoms of dust dancing in the light.
Suddenly he heard the cracking of a whip and the grating of wheels on
the gravel before the great portal of the chateau. The baron was riding
off with the boys.
Oswald walked hurriedly up and down in his room.
"Why must I see that fearful vision just to-day? Must Bruno die, die
before me, in order that I may love Melitta? Is it impossible to love a
boy and a beloved one at the same time, and with equal fervor? Is the
heart of man so small that one sentiment must crowd out another to find
room there? and is faithlessness a law of nature?"
The young man had calmed down, but the ambrosial beauty of the summer
morning had disappeared. The sun was without beauty for him; the song
of the bird was no longer sweet to his ears; the overflowing fountain
of joy in his heart was dried up.
You are just in the right frame of mind, he said to himself, to do the
dry piece of work; and he picked up the papers in the corner where he
had thrown them. He sat down at his table and began to write. First the
letter to the surveyor--that was easy enough; the letter to the lawyer
also came happily to an end, though not without a few secret
imprecations; but in order to make a copy of the two contracts he
required all his patience. The work was tedious enough, but what
annoyed him far more were the notes of the baroness, in which she tried
to explain her reasons for the changes she desired to be made. The rent
was raised in both cases to double the amount, a fact which excited
Oswald's astonishment all the more, as he had heard the steward say
repeatedly: Mr. Pathe, the tenant of the two farms, is an exceedingly
industrious, able, and economical man, and yet he is so situated that a
single bad year must ruin him infallibly. In one note she said: "Mr. P.
is a negligent monsieur, and his fine steward W. is not much better.
The kinder one is to such people the lazier they grow." In another:
"The rent payable in kind, and to be delivered at the chateau, must in
any event be doubled, for we can safely assume that we receive after
all only half what is due, while the other half remains in the hands of
these people." The following words were marked out, but so that they
could still very easily be read: "If anything should be left unused, it
can easily be sold every Saturday in the market town." In another
place: "Could it not be stipulated that the stewards, headmen,
housekeepers, etc., of the tenants must be confirmed by the baron? We
would then know what sort of people we have to do with, and we would
have some hold on their honesty."
"And these men have a fortune of millions!" said Oswald, and angrily
threw down his pen. "Let somebody else copy that stuff! Am I to be the
most humble tool of these selfish, haughty, heartless aristocrats?"
And the young man's heart grew heavier and heavier. It was not the
first time he was reminded of the awkwardness, the inconsistency of his
present position. And what had induced him to accept it, except his
friendship for Professor Berger, whose advice he had followed, contrary
to his own conviction? He remembered that he had not answered his odd
friend's last letter. So he sat down and wrote:--
"'There is nothing wrong in the world except a contradiction'--this is,
if I remember right, one of your pet maxims, and the fundamental law by
which you judge all men's doings. Well, then! You were altogether wrong
to persuade me to accept this position, for it consists, in whatever
light you may look at it, of nothing but contradictions. I to instruct
others, who need instruction myself! I, the enemy of the aristocracy,
who hate all nobles, in the bosom of a noble family--half friend and
half servant! And what is still worse is, that I see myself share the
enjoyments of this aristocratic life as if it were all harmless, and I
had never trembled with awe at the words: 'The son of man hath not
where to lay his head.' Were not these words written for me also, who
think no cushion too soft, no carpet too yielding, no dish too
delicate, and no wine too costly? I, who, far from being disgusted
at such luxury, not only disdain gulping it down at once, but
savor it slowly, thoughtfully, and accept it as something that is
self-understood, as something I was born and bred to enjoy. Can it be
that the great baroness was right the other day when she said that all
so-called friends of the people, now and in ancient times, had only
thought of their own interest? One, she said, sells his principle a
little dearer than the other--one takes money for his apostasy, another
place, a third something else--but that is all the difference. Then I
objected, of course, vehemently--it was in the first days of my stay
here--but I do not know whether I would have the courage to do so now.
For, my friend, I think of Marie Antoinette, and think if another woman
as beautiful and as bright as the unfortunate queen, a woman with the
eyes, the sweetness of voice, the charms of--well, of my ideal, of the
woman I could love, I would have to love--if she said to me: Abjure
your principles and I will love you!--Oh God! She will not say so, she
cannot say so, for I must believe that in the fairest body dwells the
fairest soul; but, if she should be so imbued with the prejudices of
her class--how then? Oh, I feel, I know I should not be able to resist
her words, her tears; I know that my proud strength would melt like wax
under the fire of her glances and the warmth of her kisses; that I
should not be able to tear myself away from her soft words; that my
oppressed heart would have no word of anger and of scorn to utter, but
only the one word: I love you!
"You smile: oh, my dear friend, why can a mere supposition excite me to
such a degree? You think such fantastic hot-house plants cannot thrive
in the cool air of reality. Well, the whole thing is but a problem, and
would to God it could remain problematical forever."