Easter had come; the season of light and refreshment for universal
nature! Winter, as he departed, had shrouded himself in a veil of
gloomy mist, and spring followed close after fleeing abysmal clouds.
She had sent forth the blasts, her messengers, to arouse the earth from
its slumber; they roared above meadow and plain, waved their wings
around the mighty summits of the mountain ranges, and stirred the sea
to its depths. There was a savage conflict and turmoil in the air,
whence issued, nevertheless, a note as of victory. The blasts were
those of spring, and were instinct with life,--they heralded a
resurrection.
The mountains were still half buried in snow, and the ancient
stronghold that looked down from their heights upon the valley towered
above snow-laden pines. It was one of those gray, rock-crowning castles
that were formerly the terror of the surrounding country, and are now
for the most part deserted and forgotten, with naught but ruins to tell
of ancient splendour. This, however, was not the case in this instance:
the Counts von Steinrueck carefully preserved the cradle of their race
from decay, although otherwise they cared very little for the old pile,
secluded as it was from the world in the depths of the mountains. In
the hunting season only, when there was usually an arrival of guests,
life and bustle awoke the echoes within its ancient walls.
This year was an exceptional one, however. Guests, it is true, were
assembled here in the early spring, but upon a very solemn occasion.
The castle's lord was to be borne to the grave, and with him the
younger branch of the family was extinct in the male succession, for he
left behind him only his widow and a little daughter. Count Steinrueck
had died at one of his other estates, his usual dwelling-place, and
there the grand obsequies had been held, before the corpse had been
brought hither to be interred in the family vault very quietly and in
presence of none save the nearest of kin.
It was one of those stormy days in March when the entire valley is
filled with masses of gray clouds. The dim afternoon light penetrated
to the apartment which the dead Count had been wont to occupy during
his short autumnal visits to the castle. It was a long, rather low
room, with a single large bow-window, and its arrangement dated from
the time of the castle's magnificence. The dark wainscoting, the huge
oaken doors, and the gigantic chimney-piece supporting the Steinrueck
escutcheon, and sustained by pillars, had remained unchanged for
centuries, while the heavy antique furniture, and the old family
portraits on the walls, alike belonged to a long-vanished period of
time. The fire smouldering on the hearth could scarcely give an air of
comfort to the gloomy room, which, nevertheless, represented a bit of
history,--the history of an influential family whose fortunes had long
been closely allied with those of its country.
The door opened, and two gentlemen entered, evidently relatives of the
house, for the uniform of the one and the civilian's dress of the other
showed each conventional signs of mourning. In fact, they had just
returned from the funeral, and the face of the elder man had not yet
lost the solemnity of expression befitting the occasion.
"The will is to be opened to-morrow," he said, "but it will be a mere
form, as I am perfectly aware of its dispositions. To the Countess is
left a large income with Castle Berkheim, where she has always resided;
all the other estates go to Hertha, whose guardian I am to be. Then
come a series of legacies, and Steinrueck is bequeathed to me as the
head of the elder branch."
At the last words the younger man shrugged his shoulders. "That child
inherits an enormous property," he said. "Your inheritance is not
exactly brilliant, papa; I imagine this old castle with the forests
belonging to it costs almost as much as it yields."
"No matter for that; it is the ancestral stronghold of our family which
thus comes into our possession. My cousin could have left me nothing
more valuable, and I am duly grateful to him. Shall you return
tomorrow, Albrecht?"
"I had arranged to stay from home for a few days only, but if you
desire----"
"No, there is no necessity for your staying. I shall, of course, apply
for an extension of my leave. There is much to be attended to, and the
Countess seems so entirely dependent that I shall be compelled to stay
and assist her for a while."
He went to the bow-window and looked out upon the veiled landscape. The
Count had already passed the prime of life, but there was about him no
sign of failing vigour; his figure was fine, his carriage commanding.
He must have once been extremely handsome, and, indeed, might still
have been called so even at his age; his abundant, slightly-grizzled
hair, his quick, energetic movements, and his full, deep voice, as well
as the fire of his eye, gave him a decided air of youth.
His son was his opposite in all these characteristics; his figure was
slender, and he looked delicate in health. His pale face and thin
features gave the impression of timidity, and yet those features
certainly resembled his father's. Striking as was the contrast they
presented, the family likeness between father and son was unmistakable.
"The Countess seems to be an utterly dependent creature," he said;
"this trial finds her perfectly helpless."
"It is very hard for her, losing her husband thus after so short an
illness and in the prime of life,--sensitive natures are sure to be
crushed by such a blow."
"Still, some women would have borne it better. Louise would have
resigned herself with fortitude to the inevitable."
"Hush, hush!" the Count interrupted him sternly as he turned away.
"Forgive me, sir; I know you do not like to be reminded, but to-day
such reminiscences will thrust themselves before me. Of right Louise
should now be the mourner here. She would hardly have been left with
only a large income. Steinrueck would have made her sole mistress of all
that he possessed; he used to submit to her in everything. How, how
could she reject him? And to sacrifice everything, name, home, family,
to become the wife of an adventurer who dragged her down to ruin! It is
enough to revive faith in the old legends of love-philtres; such things
can hardly be accounted for by natural means."
"Folly!" the Count said, coldly. "Our fate lies in our own hands.
Louise turned aside to an abyss, and it engulfed her."
"And yet you might, perhaps, have received the outcast again if she had
returned repentant."
"Never!" The word was uttered with uncompromising severity. "And,
besides, she never would have returned. She could go to destruction in
the disgrace and misery which she had brought upon herself, but Louise
never could have pleaded for mercy with the father who had thrust her
forth. She was my own child, in spite of all!"
"And your favourite," Albrecht concluded, with an outbreak of
bitterness. "I know it well; I have been told often enough that in no
quality do I resemble you. Louise alone inherited your characteristics.
Beautiful, intellectual, energetic, she was the child of your
affections, your pride, your delight. Well, we have lived to see
whither this energy led; we know how, at that man's side, she sank
lower and lower, until at last----"
"Your sister is dead," the Count interrupted him, sternly. "Let the
dead rest!"
Albrecht was silent, but the bitterness did not pass from his look; he
evidently could not forgive his sister for what she had brought upon
her family. There was no further conversation, however, for a servant
appeared and announced "His reverence the pastor of Saint Michael."
This arrival seemed to have been expected, for the servant, without
awaiting permission, ushered in the priest.
He was a man about fifty years of age, with perfectly gray hair, a face
expressing grave serenity, and dark-blue eyes, while his carriage and
manner bespoke the repose and gentleness befitting his calling.
Count Steinrueck advanced several steps to receive him, and greeted him
courteously but formally. The elder branch of the family was
Protestant, and as such had no especial consideration for a Catholic
priest. "I desire to express my thanks to your reverence," he began,
motioning the pastor to a seat. "It was the special wish of the widowed
Countess that you should conduct the funeral services, and on this
mournful day you have given her such loyal support that we are all
grateful to you."
"I only fulfilled my duty as a pastor," the ecclesiastic replied,
calmly, "and deserve no gratitude. But I come to you now, Count, to
make an appeal upon another subject, where my interference is uncalled
for and perhaps, in your eyes, unjustifiable; yet, since the late
melancholy event has brought you unexpectedly to our mountains, I could
not but request this interview with you."
"Let me repeat that I am at your service, Herr Pastor Valentin. If the
matter is of a private nature, my son will leave----"
"I pray the Count to remain," Valentin interposed. "He is aware of the
matter that brings me hither; it concerns the foster-son of the
forester Wolfram."
He paused as if awaiting an answer, but none was forthcoming. The Count
sat still, with an unmoved countenance, and Albrecht, although he
suddenly became attentive, was silent; therefore the priest was
compelled to proceed.
"You will remember, Herr Count, that it was through me that you
received intelligence of the boy's place of abode, coupled with the
request that you would befriend him."
"A request with which I immediately complied Wolfram took charge of the
child by my desire, as I informed you."
"True; I should indeed have much preferred to see the child in other
hands, although such was your disposition of him. Now, however, the boy
has grown older, and cannot possibly be left among such surroundings. I
am convinced that you could not desire it."
"And why not?" rejoined Steinrueck, coldly. "I know Wolfram to be
thoroughly trustworthy, and I had my reasons for choosing him. Do you
know anything to his discredit?"
"No; the man is honest, after his fashion, but rude and half savage in
his solitude. Since his wife's death he scarcely comes in contact with
mankind, and his household differs in no wise from that of a common
peasant. Such a one can scarcely be a good home for a growing boy,
least of all for the grandson of Count Steinrueck."
Albrecht, standing behind his father's chair, stirred uneasily; the old
Count frowned, and rejoined, sharply, "I have but one grandchild, my
son's boy, and I pray your reverence to keep this fact in mind in your
allusion to the matter under discussion."
The priest's gentle gaze fell grave and reproachful upon the speaker.
"Pardon me, Herr Count, but your daughter's legitimate child has a just
claim to be entitled your grandson."
"Nevertheless he is not such; that marriage had no existence for me or
for my family."
"And yet you acceded to my request when Michael----"
The Count started. "Michael?" he repeated, slowly.
"The boy's name. Did you not know it?"
"No; I did not see the child when it was given to Wolfram to educate."
"There could be no question of education with a man of Wolfram's lack
of culture, and yet much might have been effected by it. Michael had
been neglected and allowed to run wild in the uncertain life led by his
parents. I have done what I could for him, and have given him all the
instruction that I could, considering the seclusion of the forester's
lodge."
"Have you really done this?" There was displeased surprise in the tone
of the question.
"Certainly; no other instruction was possible in that seclusion, and I
could not for a moment suppose that the boy was to be intentionally
degraded and intellectually starved in that solitude. Such a punishment
for his parent's fault would have been too hard."
There was stern reproof in the simple words, and they must have hit the
mark, for an angry gleam flashed in Steinrueck's eyes. "Whatever your
reverence may have learned of our family affairs, your judgment with
regard to them must be that of a stranger, and as such some things may
seem incomprehensible to you. It is my duty, as the head of the family,
to preserve its honour intact, and whoever assails and attaints that
honour will be thrust forth from my heart and home, though such assault
proceed from my own child. I did what I was forced to do, and in case
of a like terrible necessity I should act similarly."
The words were uttered with iron determination, and Valentin was silent
for a moment, probably feeling that no priestly admonition could affect
such a nature. "The Countess Louise has found rest in the grave," he
said at last, and his voice trembled slightly as he uttered the name,
"and with her also the man to whom she was wedded. Her son is alone and
unprotected, and I come to ask for the boy what you would not refuse to
any orphaned stranger commended to your care,--an education which will
enable him in future to confront life and the world. If he remains in
Wolfram's charge he is entirely excluded from anything of the kind, and
will be condemned to a half-savage existence in some lonely mountain
forest lodge, a life no higher in aim than that of the merest peasant.
If you, Herr Count, can answer to yourself for this----"
"Enough!" the Count angrily interrupted him, rising from his chair. "I
will take the matter into consideration and decide definitively with
regard to your _protege_. Upon this your reverence may rely."
The pastor arose on the instant; he perceived that the interview was at
an end, and he had no desire to prolong it. "My _protege_?" he
repeated; "may he be yours also, Herr Count,--he surely has a right to
be so." And with a brief, grave inclination of his head to each of the
gentlemen, he left the room.
"A most extraordinary visit!" said Albrecht, who had hitherto been
silent. "What right has this priest to meddle in our family affairs?"
Steinrueck shrugged his shoulders. "He was formerly our cousin's father
confessor, and now occupies a confidential position with his family,
although he lives high up in a lonely Alpine village. He and no other
must attend Steinrueck's body to the grave. I shall make him understand,
however, that I am inaccessible to priestly influence. I could not
quite deny myself to him, since it was he who some time ago asked my
aid for the orphan boy, any more than I could refuse the aid he asked."
"Yes, the boy had to be cared for, and it has been done," Albrecht
coolly assented. "You attended to the matter yourself, sir. This
Wolfram--I have an indistinct remembrance of the name--was once a
gamekeeper of yours, was he not?"
"Yes; my recommendation procured him his position as forester with my
cousin. He is taciturn and trustworthy, troubling himself little
concerning matters beyond his ken. He never asked what my relations
with the boy intrusted to him were, but did as he was bidden, and took
him home."
"Where he belongs, of course. You do not contemplate making any
change?"
"That remains to be decided. I must see him."
Albrecht started, and his features betrayed surprise and annoyance.
"Wherefore? Why have any personal contact with him? One keeps as far as
possible out of the way of such disagreeable matters."
"That is your fashion," the Count said, sharply. "Mine is to confront
such evils, and contend with them, if necessary, face to face." He
stamped his foot in a sudden outburst of anger. "'_Intentionally_
degraded and intellectually starved as a punishment for his parent's
fault!' That this priest should say it to my face!"
"Yes, it only remained for him to undertake the defence of the
parents," Albrecht interposed, disdainfully. "And they called their boy
Michael. They presumed to give him your name,--the ancient traditional
name of our family. The insult is apparent."
"It may have been the result of repentance," Steinrueck said, gloomily.
"Your son is called Raoul."
"Not at all; he was christened by your name, which he bears."
"In the church register! He is called Raoul; your wife has seen to
that."
"It is the name of Hortense's father, and she clings to it with filial
devotion. You know this, and you have never found any fault with it."
"If it were the name alone! But it is not the only thing foreign to me
in my grandson. There is no trace of the Steinrueck in Raoul, either in
face or in character; he resembles his mother."
"I should not reckon that against him. Hortense has always been
considered a beauty. You have no idea how many conquests she still
makes."
The words were uttered in seeming jest, but they met with no response
in the manner of the old Count, who remained grave and cold. "That
probably accounts for her attachment to the scene of such triumphs. You
spend more time in France with her relatives than you do at home. Your
visits there are more frequent and more prolonged as time goes on, and
there is some talk now, I hear, of your being attached to our embassy
in Paris. Then Hortense will have attained her desire."
"I must go wherever I am sent," Albrecht said in self-exculpation, "and
if they select me----"
"What? playing your diplomatic game with me?" his father interrupted
him harshly. "I know well enough what secret wires are pulled, and the
position is but an insignificant one. I expected better things of your
career, Albrecht. There were paths enough open to you whereby to attain
eminence, but to do so needed ambition and energy, neither of which
qualities have you ever possessed. Now you are applying for a position
which you will owe entirely to your name, and which you may occupy for
a decade without advancing a step,--and all in obedience to the wishes
of your wife."
Albrecht bit his lip at this reproof, uttered as it was with almost
brutal frankness.
"In this respect, papa, you have always been unjust; you never
regarded my marriage with any favour. I thought myself secure of your
approval of my choice, and you have all but reproached me for bringing
home to you a beautiful, talented daughter from one of the most
distinguished----"
"Who has never been other than a stranger to us," Steinrueck interrupted
his son. "She has never yet perceived that she belongs to us, not you
to her. I could wish you had brought home to me the daughter of the
simplest country nobleman instead of this Hortense de Montigny. It is
not good, the mixture of hot French blood in our ancient German race,
and Raoul shows far too much of it. Stern military discipline will be
of use to him."
"Yes,--you insist that he shall enter the army," said Albrecht, with
hesitation. "Hortense is afraid--and I fear also--that our child is not
equal to much hardship. He is a delicate boy; he will not be able to
endure such iron discipline."
"He must learn to endure it. Your delicate health has always excluded
you from the service; but Raoul is healthy, and it is high time to
withdraw him from the effeminating effect of pampering and petting. The
army is the best school for him. My grandson must not be a weakling; he
must do honour to our name; I'll take care of that."
Albrecht was silent; he knew his father's inflexible will. It still
gave him the law, husband and father though he were, and Count Michael
Steinrueck was the man to see that his laws were obeyed.
* * * * *
"I can't help it, your reverence; the fellow is a trial. He knows
nothing, he understands nothing; he wanders about the mountains from
morning to night, and grows stupider every day. He'll never make a
decent forester; 'tis all trouble lost."
The words were spoken by a man whose appearance betrayed his forester's
calling. He was provided with gun and hunting-pouch, and was sturdy and
powerful of frame, with broad shoulders and coarse features. His hair
and beard were neglected, his dress--a mixture of hunting and peasant's
costume--was careless in the extreme, and his speech was as rude as his
exterior; thus he confronted the priest. The pair were in the parsonage
of Saint Michael, a small hamlet high up among the mountains, and a
place of pilgrimage. The priest, seated at his writing-table, shook his
gray head disapprovingly.
"As I have often told you, Wolfram, you do not understand how to treat
Michael. You can never do anything with him by threats and abuse; you
only make him shyer, and he is already shy enough in his intercourse
with human kind."
"That all comes from his stupidity," the forester explained. "The boy
does not see daylight clearly; he has to be shaken hard to rouse him,
since I made your reverence a promise not to beat him again."
"And I hope you have kept your word. The child has been much sinned
against; you and your wife maltreated him daily before I came here."
"It did him good. All boys need the stick, and Michael always needed a
double portion. Well, he got it. When I stopped, my wife began; but it
never did any good,--it never made him any the cleverer."
"No; but he would have been ruined by your rough treatment if I had not
interfered."
Wolfram laughed aloud. "Ruined? Michael? Not a bit of it. He could have
borne ten times as much; he's as strong as a bear. It's a perfect
shame; the fellow could tear up trees by the roots, and he lets himself
be teased by the village children without ever stirring a finger. I
know right well why he wouldn't come along with me to-day, but chose to
follow me. He won't come through the village; he chooses to come the
longer way, through the forest, as he always does when he comes to you,
the cowardly fellow!"
"Michael is no coward," said the pastor, gravely. "You ought to know
that, Wolfram; you have told me yourself that there is no controlling
him when he once gets angry."
"Yes, he's right crazy then, and must be let alone. If I didn't know
that he's not all right here"--he touched his forehead--"I'd take him
in hand, but it's a terrible cross. It's strange, too, that he shoots
so well, when he sees the game, though that's not often. He stares up
into the trees and the sky, and a stag will run away right under
his nose. I'm not curious, but, indeed, I'd like to know where the
moon-calf comes from."
Valentin looked pained at these words, but he replied, calmly, "That
can hardly interest you. Do not put such ideas into Michael's head, or
he might ask you questions which you cannot answer."
"He's too stupid for that," asserted the forester, with whom his
foster-son's stupidity seemed to be an indisputable article of faith.
"I don't believe he knows that he was ever even born. But Tyras is
barking,--he must see Michael."
In fact, the dog was barking joyously, the sound of approaching
footsteps was heard, and in the next instant Michael entered the room.
The new-comer was a lad of about eighteen, but his tall, powerful
figure, with its awkward movements, showed nothing of the grace and
freshness of youth. The face, plain and irregular in all its lines, had
a half-shy, half-dreamy expression that was hardly attractive. The
thick, fair curls were matted around the temples and brow, below which
looked out a pair of eyes deep blue in colour, but as vacant as if no
soul enlightened their depths. His dress was as sordid and neglected as
the forester's, and in his entire appearance there was absolutely
nothing to attract.
"Well, have you come at last?" was his foster-father's gruff reception
of him. "You must have gone to sleep on the way, or you would have been
here long ago."
"I came through the forest," replied Michael, going up to the priest,
who kindly held out his hand to him.
Wolfram laughed scornfully. "Didn't I tell your reverence? He didn't
dare to go through the village,--I knew it."
Michael paid not the slightest heed to the apparently well-grounded
accusation, being well used to such treatment from his foster-father,
who now took his hat and made ready to go.
"I must go up to the fenced forest," he said; "it looks badly there:
more than a dozen of the tallest trees are torn down; the Wild Huntsman
has made terrible work there lately."
"You mean the storms of the last week, Wolfram?"
"No, it was the Wild Huntsman, your reverence. He is abroad every night
this spring. The day before yesterday, as we came through the wood at
dusk, the whole mad crew swept by not a hundred yards away. They raged
and howled and stormed as though all hell had broken loose, and I
suppose a bit of it had done so. Michael, stupid fool, would have
rushed into the thick of it, but I caught his arm in time and held him
fast."
"I wanted to see the demon at close quarters," said Michael, quietly.
The forester shrugged his shoulders. "There, your reverence, you see
what the fellow is! He runs away from human creatures and such like,
but he wants to be right in the midst of things which make every
Christian shudder, and cross himself! I really believe he would have
joined the phantoms if I had not held him back, and then he would now
have been lying dead in the forest, for he who joins the Wild
Huntsman's chase is lost."
"Will you never be rid of this sinful superstition, Wolfram?" said the
priest. "You pretend to be a Christian, and are nothing better than a
heathen. And you have infected Michael, too; his head is full of
heathenish legends."
"It may be sinful, but it's true for all that," Wolfram insisted. "I
don't suppose you see anything of it. You are a holy man, a consecrated
priest, and the ghostly rabble that haunt the forest at night is afraid
of you, but the like of us see and hear more of it than is agreeable.
Then Michael is to stay here?"
"Of course. I will send him back in the afternoon."
"Good--by, then," said the forester, tightening the strap of his gun.
He bowed to the priest, and departed without taking further notice of
his foster-son.
Michael, who seemed to be perfectly at home in the parsonage, now
fetched various books and papers from a cupboard and arranged them on
the writing-table. Evidently the wonted instruction was about to begin,
but before it could do so the sound of a sleigh was heard outside.
Valentin looked up in surprise; the rare visits that he received were
almost exclusively from the pastors of secluded Alpine villages, and
pilgrims were scarcely to be looked for at this time of year. Saint
Michael was not one of those large and famous places of pilgrimage
whither the faithful resort in crowds at all seasons. Only the poor
dwellers on the Alps brought their vows and supplications to the
secluded hamlet, and only upon church festivals was there any great
gathering there.
Meanwhile, the sleigh had drawn up before the parsonage. A gentleman in
a fur coat got out, inquired of the maid who met him at the door
whether the Herr Pastor was at home, and forthwith made his way to the
study.
Valentin started at the sound of the voice, and then rose with
delighted surprise in every feature. "Hans! Is it you?"
"You know me still, then? It would be no wonder if each of us failed to
recognize the other," said the stranger, offering his hand, which was
warmly grasped by the priest.
"Welcome, welcome! Have you really found me out?"
"Yes, it certainly was a proof of affection, the getting up to you
here," said the guest. "We have been working our way for hours through
the snow; sometimes fallen hemlocks lay directly across the road,
sometimes we had to cross a mountain torrent, and for a change we had
small avalanches from the rocks. And yet my coachman obstinately
insisted that it was the high-road. I should like, then, to see your
foot-paths; they must be practicable for chamois only."
Valentin smiled. "You are the same old fellow,--always sneering and
criticising. Leave us, Michael, and tell the gentleman's coachman to
put up his horses."
Michael left the room, but not before the stranger had turned and
glanced at him. "Have you set up a famulus? Who is that dreamer?"
"My pupil, whom I teach."
"You must have hard work to gel anything inside that head! That
fellow's talent would seem to lie solely in his fists."
As he spoke the guest had taken off his furs, and was seen to be a man
about five or six years younger than the pastor, of hardly medium
height, but with a very distinguished head, which, with its broad brow
and intellectual features, riveted attention at the first glance. The
clear, keen eyes seemed used to probe everything to the core, and in
the man's whole bearing there was evident the sense of superiority
which comes of being regarded as an authority in one's own circle.
He looked keenly about him, investigating the pastor's study and
adjoining room, both of which displayed a monastic simplicity; and as
he turned his eyes from one object to another in the small apartment,
he said, without a trace of sarcasm, but with some bitterness, "And
here you have cast anchor! I never imagined your solitude so desolate
and world-forsaken. Poor Valentin! You have to pay for the assault that
my investigations make so inexorably upon your dogmas, and for my works
being down in the 'Index.'"
The pastor repudiated this charge by a gentle gesture. "What an idea!
There are frequent changes in ecclesiastical appointments, and I came
to Saint Michael----"
"Because you had Hans Wehlau for a brother," the other completed the
sentence. "If you would publicly have cut loose from me, and thundered
from your pulpit against my atheism, you would have been in a more
comfortable parsonage, I can tell you. It is well known that there has
been no breach between us, although we have not seen each other for
years, and you must pay for it. Why did you not condemn me publicly? I
never should have taken it ill of you, since I know that you absolutely
repudiate my teachings."
"I condemn no one," the pastor said, softly; "certainly not you, Hans,
although it grieves me sorely to see you so greatly astray."
"Yes; you never had any talent for fanaticism, but always a very great
one for martyrdom. It often vexes me horribly, though, that I am the
one to help you to it. I have taken good care, however, that my visit
to-day should not be known; I am here _incognito_. I could not resist
the temptation to see you again on my removal to Northern Germany."
"What! you are going to leave the university?"
"Next month. I have been called to the capital, and I accepted
immediately, since I know it to be the sphere suited to me and to my
work. I wanted to bid you good-by; but I nearly missed you, for, as I
hear, you were at Steinrueck yesterday at the Count's funeral."
"By the Countess's express desire I officiated."
"I thought so! They summoned me by telegraph to Berkheim to the
death-bed."
"And you went?"
"Of course, although I gave up practice long ago for the professorial
chair. This was an exceptional case. I can never forget how the
Steinruecks befriended me, employing me when I was a young, obscure
physician, upon your recommendation, to be sure, but they placed every
confidence in me. I could, indeed, do nothing for the Count except to
make death easier, but my presence was a satisfaction for the family."
Michael's entrance interrupted the conversation. He came to say that
the sacristan wished to speak for a moment with his reverence, and was
waiting outside.
"I will come back immediately," said Valentin. "Put away your books,
Michael; there will be no lessons to-day."
He left the room, and Michael began to gather up the books and papers.
The Professor watched him, and said, casually, "And so the Herr Pastor
teaches you?"
Michael nodded and went on with his occupation.
"It's just like him," murmured Wehlau. "Here he is tormenting himself
with teaching this stupid fellow to read and write, probably because
there is no school in the neighbourhood. Let me look at that."
And he took up one of the copy-books, nearly dropping it on the instant
in his surprise. "What! Latin? How is this?"
Michael did not comprehend his surprise; it seemed to him quite natural
to understand Latin, and he answered, quietly, "Those are my
exercises."
The Professor looked at the lad, whose dress proclaimed him a mere
peasant, scanned him from head to foot, and then turning over the
leaves of the book, read several lines and shook his head.
"You seem to be an excellent Latin scholar. Where do you come from?"
"From the forester's, a couple of miles away."
"And what is your name?"
"Michael."
"Your name is that of the hamlet. Were you named after it?"
"I don't know,--I think I was named after the archangel Michael." He
uttered the name with a certain solemnity, and Wehlau, noticing it,
asked, with a sarcastic smile, "You hold the angels in great respect?"
Michael threw back his head. "No, they only pray and sing through all
eternity, and I don't care for that; but I like Saint Michael. At least
he does something: he thrusts down Satan."
There must have been something unusual either in his words or in his
expression, for the Professor started and riveted his keen eyes upon
the face of the lad, who stood close to him, full in the sunlight that
entered by the low window. "Strange," he murmured again. "The face is
utterly changed. What is there in the features----?"
At this moment Valentin reappeared, and, seeing the book in his
brother's hand, asked, "Have you been examining Michael? He is a good
Latin scholar is he not?"
"He is, indeed; but what good is Latin to do him in a lonely forest
lodge? I suppose his father is too poor to send him to school?"
"But I hope to do something for him in some other way," said the
pastor; and as Michael took his books to the cupboard he went on, in a
low tone, "If the poor fellow were only not so ugly and awkward!
Everything depends upon the impression that he makes in a certain
quarter, and I fear it will be very unfavourable."
"Ugly?--yes, he certainly is that; and yet a moment ago, when he made
quite an intelligent remark, something flashed into his features like
lightning, reminding me of--yes, now I have it--of Count Steinrueck."
"Of Count Steinrueck?" Valentin repeated, in surprise.
"I don't mean the man who has just died, but his cousin, the head of
the elder branch. He was in Berkheim the other day, and I became
acquainted with him there. He would consider my idea an insult, and he
would not be far wrong. To compare Steinrueck, dignified and handsome as
he is, with that moonstruck lad! They have not a feature in common. I
cannot tell why the thought came into my head, but it did when I saw
the fellow's eyes flash."
The pastor made no reply to this last observation, but said, as if to
change the subject, "Yes, Michael is certainly a dreamer. Sometimes in
his apathy and indifference he seems to me like a somnambulist."
"Well, that would not be very dreadful," said his brother.
"Somnambulists can be awakened if they are called in the right way, and
when that lad wakes up he may be worth something. His exercises are
very good."
"And yet learning has been made so hard for him! How often he has had
to contend with storm and wind rather than lose a lesson, and he has
never missed one!"
"Rather different from my Hans," the Professor said, dryly. "He employs
his school-hours in drawing caricatures of his teachers; my personal
interference has been necessary at times. He is too audacious, because
he has been such a lucky sort of fellow. Whatever he tries succeeds;
wherever he knocks doors and hearts fly open to receive him, and
consequently he imagines that life is all play,--nothing but amusement
from beginning to end. Well, I'll show him another side of the picture
when once he begins to study natural science."
"Has he shown any inclination for such study?"
"Most certainly not. His only inclination is for scrawling and daubing;
there's no doing anything with him if he scents a painted canvas, but
I'll cure him of all that."
"But if he has a talent for----" the pastor interposed.
His brother angrily interrupted him: "That's the worst of it,--a
talent! His drawing-masters stuff his head with all sorts of nonsense;
and awhile ago a painter fellow, a friend of the family, made a tragic
appeal to me,--Could I answer it to myself to deprive the world of such
a gift? I was positively rude to him; I couldn't help it."
Valentin shook his head half disapprovingly. "But why do you not allow
your son to follow his inclination?"
"Can you ask? Because an intellectual inheritance is his by right. My
name stands high in the scientific world, and must open all doors for
Hans while he lives. If he follows in my footsteps he is sure of
success; he is his father's son. But God have mercy on him if he takes
it into his head to be what they call a genius!"
Meanwhile, Michael had put away his books, and now advanced to take his
leave. Since there was to be no lesson, there was no excuse for his
remaining any longer at the parsonage. His face again showed the same
vacant, dreamy expression peculiar to it; and as he left the room
Wehlau said in an undertone to his brother, "You are right; he is too
ugly, poor devil!"
* * * * *
The Counts of Steinrueck belonged to an ancient and formerly very
powerful family, dating back centuries. Its two branches owned a common
lineage, but were now only distantly connected, and there had been
times when there had been no intercourse between them, so widely had
they been sundered by diversity of religious belief.
The elder and Protestant branch, belonging to Northern Germany,
possessed entailed estates yielding a moderate income; the South-German
cousins, on the contrary, were owners of a very large property,
consisting chiefly of estates in fee, and were among the wealthiest in
the land. This wealth was at present owned by a child eight years of
age, the daughter whom the late Count had constituted his sole heiress.
Conscious of the hopeless nature of his malady, he had summoned his
cousin, and had made him the executor of his will and his daughter's
guardian. Thus had been adjusted an estrangement that had existed for
years, and that had its rise in an alliance once contracted, only to be
suddenly dissolved.
Besides his son, the present Count Steinrueck had had another child,--a
beautiful, richly-endowed daughter, the favourite of her father, whom
she resembled in character and in mind. She was to have married her
relative, the Count now deceased; the union had long been agreed upon
in the family, and the young Countess had consequently spent many weeks
at a time beneath the roof of her future parents-in-law.
But before there had been any formal betrothal between the young
people, there intervened with the girl of eighteen one of those
passions which lead,--which must lead--to ruin, not because of
difference of rank and social standing, not because of the consequent
estrangement of families, but because they lack the only thing that can
confer upon a union a blessing and endurance,--true, genuine affection.
It was an intoxication sure to be followed by remorse and repentance
when, alas, it was too late.
Louise became acquainted with a man who, although of bourgeois
parentage, had worked his way into aristocratic circles. Brilliantly
handsome, endowed with various accomplishments and a winning grace of
manner, he succeeded in gaining entrance everywhere; but he was one of
those restless, unsteady beings who can never adjust themselves for
long to any environments. Possessed by a positive greed for the
luxuries and splendours of existence, he had no capacity for attaining
them by his own energy; he was an adventurer in the truest sense of the
word. He may have loved the young Countess sincerely, he may have only
hoped to achieve social position through her means; at all events, he
contrived so to ensnare her that she resolved, in spite of the certain
opposition of her father and of her entire family, to become his wife.
When the Count learned how matters stood, he took them in hand with an
energy that was indeed ominous. He believed that by commands and
threats he could bend his daughter to his will, but he only aroused in
her the obstinacy which she had inherited from himself. She utterly
refused to yield him obedience, opposed resolutely all effort to carry
out her betrothal to her cousin, and, in spite of every precaution,
contrived to hold communication with her lover. Suddenly she
disappeared, and a few days afterwards news was received that she had
become the wife of Rodenberg.
The marriage was perfectly valid, in spite of the haste and secrecy
with which it was contracted; Rodenberg had arranged and prepared
everything. He reckoned upon Count Steinrueck's final acknowledgment of
his daughter's husband: he would not surely cast them off; he trusted
to the father's affection for his favourite child, but he did not know
the Count's iron nature. Steinrueck replied to the announcement of the
marriage by an utter repudiation of his daughter; he forbade her ever
again to appear in his presence: for him she was dead.
He persisted inexorably in this course until his daughter's death, and
even after it had taken place. At first Rodenberg made several attempts
to induce his wife's father to grant him an interview, but he soon
perceived the uselessness of any such attempt; the Count was neither to
be persuaded nor coerced, and since all sources of aid were thus cut
off, the man plunged with his wife and child into a Bohemian mode of
life harmonizing with his lawless nature.
What followed was the inevitable result,--misery and want, a gradual
sinking into ruin; the lot of the wife beside the husband for whom she
had sacrificed name, home, and family, when all hopes founded upon her
and upon her wealth had vanished, can easily be imagined. She was true
to her nature, and clung to the man whom she had married, without one
attempt to obtain help from her father, knowing that even her death
would be powerless to effect a reconciliation. She and her husband had
now been dead for many years, and the wretched family tragedy was
buried with them.
* * * * *
An entire week had passed since the funeral at Steinrueck. Count
Michael, who occupied the rooms that had been his cousin's, was sitting
in the bow-windowed apartment, when he was told that Wolfram the
forester had arrived in obedience to his desire. The Count was in full
uniform, being about to ride to a neighbouring town, where the
sovereign's brother had instituted a memorial celebration. Of course
every one of consequence in the country around had been invited to take
part in the ceremonial, and the lord of Steinrueck could not refuse to
be present on the occasion, although, in view of the family
bereavement, he was to withdraw before the subsequent festivities. The
hour for his departure was at hand, but there was still time for his
interview with the forester.
As he sat at his writing-table he took from one of its drawers the star
of an order set with large brilliants. As he was about to fasten it on
his breast he saw that the ribbon was loose, and as Wolfram entered at
the moment, he laid it in the open case on the table.
The forester was in full dress to-day, and really looked well. His hair
and beard were carefully arranged, and great pains had been bestowed
upon his hunting-suit; nor did he seem to have forgotten the demeanor
required in presence of his former master, for, with a respectful bow,
he paused at the door until the Count motioned to him to approach.
"Ah, here you are, Wolfram," he said, kindly; "I have not seen you for
a long time. Is all going well with you?"
"Pretty well, Herr Count," the forester replied, standing as straight
and stiff as a ramrod. "I earn my wages, and the late Count was
satisfied with me. I never have a chance to leave the forest year out
and year in, but we get used to that and don't mind the loneliness."
"You were married, I think; is your wife still living?"
"No; she died five years ago, God rest her soul, and we never had any
children. Some people advised me to marry again, but I didn't want to.
Once is enough for me."
"Was your marriage not a happy one, then?" asked Steinrueck, with a
fleeting smile at the forester's last remark.
"That depends on one's way of looking at things," the forester replied,
indifferently. "We got along pretty well together; to be sure, we
quarrelled every day, but that's to be expected; and then if Michael
interfered we both fell upon him and made up with each other."