BERTHA VON MASSENBURG.
After a long ride with Fritzchen, Egon returned to the castle later
than usual. As they rode into the courtyard a dusty carriage was
standing before the carriage-house, and old Wenzel informed them that
the Fraeulein from Berlin had arrived a little while before.
During the ride the talk of his lively young pupil had left Egon small
time for reflection, and he really felt a desire to be alone for a
time. Much as he usually enjoyed the evenings spent with the family, he
preferred to pass this one in his own room, and he suspected also that
his kind employers would be quite willing to dispense with his society
upon this particular occasion. He therefore commissioned Fritzchen to
tell his father that he would not intrude upon the family this evening,
but would remain in his own apartments. Scarcely had he reached them,
however, before Fritz made his appearance to say that his father had
sent him to tell Herr Pigglewitch that he could not possibly intrude,
and that he should expect him at the tea-table. After giving his
message the boy hurried away, declaring that he must go instantly to
his 'lovely new cousin.' She seemed to have quite supplanted his adored
tutor, for the while, in the child's affections.
Of course Egon could not but comply with Herr von Osternau's expressed
desire. Reluctant as he was to confront Bertha von Massenburg, he knew
that he must meet her sooner or later, and he resigned himself with the
best grace possible to the inevitable. He dressed quickly and repaired
to the tea-room.
Before he reached it he heard the notes of a popular _Conzertstueck_
played with great execution. He paused in the corridor and listened. He
knew the thing well enough, he had played it several times himself, but
always with distaste, for he did not like this style of music, but he
listened attentively, for he knew how much practice it must have
required before it could be rendered thus clearly and brilliantly.
He did not listen long, for there could be, he thought, no better
moment in which to enter the room unnoticed than just when every one
was occupied in listening to the music; he softly opened the door and
entered.
His first glance fell upon the performer, whose back was towards him,
his second upon a tall mirror opposite that reflected her face and
figure. Involuntarily he stood still.
He had heard that Bertha von Massenburg was beautiful, and Herr von
Sastrow's letter had confirmed the report, but the image reflected in
the mirror amazed him by its wondrous, transporting beauty,--beauty
consisting not only in faultless regularity of feature, but much more
in the strange loveliness of expression, in the gentle smile of the
delicately-chiselled mouth, in the dark, fiery eyes that sparkled
beneath long lashes, in the grace which informed every motion of the
full yet slender figure. A piano-player is seldom graceful in the
exercise of her art, but with Bertha von Massenburg even the rapid
movement of hands and fingers as they flew over the keys seemed natural
and beautiful; therein lay one charm of her playing, and yet, masterly
as it was, it lacked something,--it lacked depth of feeling. Was it
really lacking? or was there no opportunity for its revelation in a
brilliant drawing-room piece of music, which was calculated to display
merely the execution and skill of the performer?
Egon remained standing near the door, after bowing to Herr and Frau von
Osternau, and exchanging glances in the mirror with Lieschen, who stood
with her back to him, turning over the leaves for her cousin. At last
the piece was concluded; the performer arose, and was greeted with
enthusiastic applause from the Lieutenant, who advanced from the recess
of a window. Herr von Osternau also expressed his admiration of the
performance. "Brilliant indeed," he said. "You are an artist, not a
_dilettante_. You will have all the more pleasure in making the
acquaintance of another artist in our Fritz's tutor, Herr Pigglewitch,
whom I beg leave to present to you."
The smile which Egon's assumed name when first heard was sure to
provoke hovered upon Bertha's lips as she turned to the tutor, looking
at him with evident interest and curiosity. Her glance took in his
entire figure, his movements, his bow upon being presented, in short,
she observed him so closely as almost to embarrass him, as she said,
easily, "My kind uncle pays a very high compliment to my indifferent
performance in ranking me with you, Herr Pigglewitch,"--the smile
deepened on the charming mouth. "I have heard that you are a true
artist, and had I known that you were standing behind me I might have
hesitated to continue my performance and subject myself to your
criticism."
She had seen Egon in the mirror upon his first entrance, and he knew
that this was so, for their glances had met. "I hate falsehood!"
Lieschen had said. Why was Bertha untrue? Where was her inducement to
be so? Had untruth become to her a second nature, as to so many women
of the world of society? Egon suddenly felt himself transported to the
old life which he knew so well,--Herr von Osternau's pleasant room
changed to a brilliant ball-room, and before him stood one of the
ball-room puppets whom he so hated and despised, particularly when they
tried to make themselves attractive by flattering him.
Involuntarily he stood more erect. The disdainful smile which Lieschen
had so disliked, and which she had not seen of late, appeared on his
lips as he replied, "Is it possible that you fear criticism, Fraeulein?
A mastery of technique is the ideal of our modern art. You are
certainly aware that the sternest critic would not withhold his
recognition of the brilliancy of your execution, but must pronounce you
a virtuoso indeed."
"A virtuoso? My kind uncle called me an artist, and I was proud that he
did so."
"Who makes such subtile distinctions nowadays? The virtuoso is the only
true artist. He alone represents the true modern ideal; he is never led
astray by the genius, now so out of fashion, of wearisome classical
music."
Her eyes flashed. "You think you can interpret this genius, or you
would not pass such a criticism upon modern art," Bertha replied,
sharply. "Pray take my place at the piano. He who pronounces such
sentences must justify them by his own performance."
Her cheek flushed slightly as she spoke, her dark eyes glowed, she
seemed to Egon at the moment enchantingly beautiful. Her tone and her
words were not those of a ball-room puppet. Bertha was not of them,
then; she could be vexed and angry and could transgress conventional
forms, as was proved by her request to him and by its manner.
He obeyed, dominated by her glance. He took her place at the piano, but
for a few moments his hands rested idly upon the keys and his eyes were
downcast. The glow in those large black eyes recalled to him the memory
of old days which he had thought half forgotten, when suddenly the eyes
into which he gazed turned, in his vision, from black to dark, melting
blue, and were filled with sympathy for the mental struggles through
which he was constantly passing. The spell of the moment that had
summoned up the past was dissolved; he belonged again to the peaceful
present. Involuntarily the hands upon the keys began to give expression
to the gladness that arose within him. He played he knew not what, the
various melodies awoke and resolved themselves to harmony beneath his
touch, he played as if in a dream, uttering in tones all that he would
have said to the lovely child to whom he owed a new and delicious
content of soul,--exulting words of joy, gentle words of gratitude,
tender words of love.
"Bravo! bravo!" The Lieutenant, desirous of showing his impartial love
of art by applauding the detested tutor, clapped his hands loudly. His
'bravo!' roused Egon from his dream as the last notes died away.
He arose. His first glance sought Lieschen, who had been standing
behind him, and, who involuntarily held out her hand to him, while
tears stood in her frank eyes.
Bertha seemed no less affected. "Thank you," she said, and her voice
faltered. "I promise you that you never shall hear a drawing-room
performance from me again."
"Splendid! wonderful!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Herr Pigglewitch, you
have surpassed yourself, you never played so delightfully before. It is
your work, Fraeulein von Massenburg. Of course, Herr Pigglewitch did his
best not to disgrace himself before such an artist. You must play us
something else, Herr Pigglewitch."
But this Egon was not to be induced to do, and to cut short the
Lieutenant's persistence he closed the piano, and just in time, for
Frau von Osternau at that moment called them to the tea-table.
Herr von Sastrow had declared that Bertha von Massenburg could be
charming if she chose to be, and she certainly chose to be this
evening; she captivated every member of the Osternau family, even, at
last, Lieschen and Frau von Osternau, in spite of their prejudices. She
did not appear to notice that at first Frau von Osternau's manner was
but coolly courteous, and that Lieschen scarcely spoke at all, and
never addressed her. She talked on innocently and gaily, and was so
cordial and amiable that Frau von Osternau could not but abandon her
reserve, and Lieschen became herself once more. As for the head of the
house, Bertha had charmed him from the very first, while the Lieutenant
was quite enraptured by her, although she paid him less attention than
she bestowed upon any other of the little circle. She was more gracious
even to the tutor than to Cousin Albrecht.
Indeed, the manner in which she included Egon in the conversation was
especially pleasing to Herr von Osternau. In every word which she
addressed to the young man she showed the estimation in which she held
so accomplished a musician. She said not one flattering word to him
with regard to the pleasure he had given her, but there was a
respectful acknowledgment of his superiority in the way in which she
listened to everything that he said when the conversation turned upon
modern music.
With infinite tact she avoided dwelling upon her late stay in Berlin
when the Lieutenant clumsily alluded to it. She spoke of her uncle von
Sastrow with the greatest affection, but speedily contrived to change
the subject.
The evening passed delightfully. The head of the house was late in
giving the sign for retiring, and did so at last only in view of his
wife's admonition that it was time to bid good-night, since he
generally paid for so pleasant an evening by some hours of
sleeplessness.
"Well, Emma," he said when he and his wife were again alone together,
"do you now think that Bertha will be a disturbing element in our
little circle? I fancy you are cured of your prejudice against her."
Frau von Osternau did not immediately reply, perhaps she would gladly
have been relieved from the necessity of doing so, but when her husband
repeated his question she said, "I have not yet made up my mind about
Bertha. I confess that so long as I was with her, and listened to her
gay, innocent talk, and looked into her dark, sparkling eyes, I was
charmed with her; she captivated me as she did you and Albrecht and
Herr Pigglewitch, and even Lieschen, who finally treated her as
affectionately as she used to do when Bertha visited us years ago. But
now that she is no longer present, and that I am not subject to the
magic of her eye, I am doubtful about her. Was her amiability from the
heart? She seems unaffected, but is she so in reality? I must defer
giving you my opinion of Bertha until we have known her longer."
The same doubt that troubled the gentle mistress of the castle
tormented Egon, as he paced his room to and fro, pondering upon the
evening he had just passed. Frau von Osternau was right in saying that
Bertha had captivated him; she seemed to him so wondrously beautiful
that even Lieschen's lovely image paled beside her.
"If you had seen her a while ago you would not have fled from Berlin,
and she would have been your wife," he said to himself, and his
imagination ran riot in picturing what might then have been his future.
To call that exquisite creature his own, to love her and be loved in
return, to spend his life beside her,--the thought quickened his pulses
and his temples throbbed.
He opened the window. The cool night air refreshed him. As he looked
out into the black night of the garden, two strips of light were marked
distinctly upon the dark lawn. The one was thrown there by the light in
his room. Whence came the other? Involuntarily he wondered, whence? Ah,
from Lieschen's window. Was she too gazing out into the dark night? Her
image suddenly arose in his soul as clear and distinct as Bertha's, it
looked at him reproachfully, the lips parted to say, "I detest nothing
so much as falsehood!" He almost heard the words.
Clearer and more brilliant grew Lieschen's fair and lovely image, while
Bertha's faded into night and darkness. He turned from the window
calmed and cheered.