Effi spent the whole day out in the park, because she needed to take
the air. Old Dr. Wiesike of Friesack approved of it, but in his
instructions gave her too much liberty to do what she liked, and
during the cold days in May she took a severe cold. She became
feverish, coughed a great deal, and the doctor, who had been calling
every third day, now came daily. He was put to it to know what to do,
for the sleeping powders and cough medicines Effi asked for could not
be given, because of the fever.
"Doctor," said old von Briest, "what is going to come of this? You
have known her since she was a little thing, in fact you were here at
her birth. I don't like all these symptoms: her noticeable falling
away, the red spots, and the gleam of her eyes when she suddenly turns
to me with a pleading look. What do you think it will amount to? Must
she die?"
Wiesike shook his head gravely. "I will not say that, von Briest, but
I don't like the way her fever keeps up. However, we shall bring it
down soon, for she must go to Switzerland or Mentone for pure air and
agreeable surroundings that will make her forget the past."
"Lethe, Lethe."
"Yes, Lethe," smiled Wiesike. "It's a pity that while the ancient
Swedes, the Greeks, were leaving us the name they did not leave us
also the spring itself."
"Or at least the formula for it. Waters are imitated now, you know.
My, Wiesike, what a business we could build up here if we could only
start such a sanatorium! Friesack the spring of forgetfulness! Well,
let us try the Riviera for the present. Mentone is the Riviera, is it
not? To be sure, the price of grain is low just now, but what must be
must be. I shall talk with my wife about it."
That he did, and his wife consented immediately, influenced in part by
her own ardent desire to see the south, particularly since she had
felt like one retired from the world. But Effi would not listen to it.
"How good you are to me! And I am selfish enough to accept the
sacrifice, if I thought it would do any good. But I am certain it
would only harm me."
"You try to make yourself think that, Effi."
"No. I have become so irritable that everything annoys me. Not here at
home, for you humor me and clear everything out of my way. But when
traveling that is impossible, the disagreeable element cannot be
eliminated so easily. It begins with the conductor and ends with the
waiter. Even when I merely think of their self-satisfied countenances
my temperature runs right up. No, no, keep me here. I don't care to
leave Hohen-Cremmen any more; my place is here. The heliotrope around
the sundial is dearer to me than Mentone."
After this conversation the plan was dropped and in spite of the great
benefit Wiesike had expected from the Riviera he said: "We must
respect these wishes, for they are not mere whims. Such patients have
a very fine sense and know with remarkable certainty what is good for
them and what not. What Mrs. Effi has said about the conductor and the
waiter is really quite correct, and there is no air with healing power
enough to counterbalance hotel annoyances, if one is at all affected
by them. So let us keep her here. If that is not the best thing, it is
certainly not the worst."
This proved to be true. Effi got better, gained a little in weight
(old von Briest belonged to the weight fanatics), and lost much of her
irritability. But her need of fresh air kept growing steadily, and
even when the west wind blew and the sky was overcast with gray
clouds, she spent many hours out of doors. On such days she would
usually go out into the fields or the marsh, often as far as two
miles, and when she grew tired would sit down on the hurdle fence,
where, lost in dreams, she would watch the ranunculi and red sorrel
waving in the wind.
"You go out so much alone," said Mrs. von Briest. "Among our people
you are safe, but there are so many strange vagabonds prowling
around."
That made an impression on Effi, who had never thought of danger, and
when she was alone with Roswitha, she said: "I can't well take you
with me, Roswitha; you are too fat and no longer sure-footed."
"Oh, your Ladyship, it is hardly yet as bad as that. Why, I could
still be married."
"Of course," laughed Effi. "One is never too old for that. But let me
tell you, Roswitha, if I had a dog to accompany me--Papa's hunting dog
has no attachment for me--hunting dogs are so stupid--and he never
stirs till the hunter or the gardener takes the gun from the rack. I
often have to think of Rollo."
"True," said Roswitha, "they have nothing like Rollo here. But I don't
mean anything against 'here.' Hohen-Cremmen is very good."
Three or four days after this conversation between Effi and Roswitha,
Innstetten entered his office an hour earlier than usual. The morning
sun, which shone very brightly, had wakened him and as he had
doubtless felt he could not go to sleep again he had got out of bed to
take up a piece of work that had long been waiting to be attended to.
At a quarter past eight he rang. Johanna brought the breakfast tray,
on which, beside the morning papers, there were two letters. He
glanced at the addresses and recognized by the handwriting that one
was from the minister. But the other? The postmark could not be read
plainly and the address, "Baron von Innstetten, Esq.," showed a happy
lack of familiarity with the customary use of titles. In keeping with
this was the very primitive character of the writing. But the address
was remarkably accurate: "W., Keith St. 1c, third story."
Innstetten was enough of an official to open first the letter from
"His Excellency." "My dear Innstetten: I am happy to be able to
announce to you that His Majesty has deigned to sign your appointment
and I congratulate you sincerely." Innstetten was pleased at the
friendly lines from the minister, almost more than at the appointment
itself, for, since the morning in Kessin, when Crampas had bidden him
farewell with that look which still haunted him, he had grown somewhat
sceptical of such things as climbing higher on the ladder. Since then
he had measured with a different measure and viewed things in a
different light. Distinction--what did that amount to in the end? As
the days passed by with less and less of joy for him, he more than
once recalled a half-forgotten minister's anecdote from the time of
the elder Ladenberg, who, upon receiving the Order of the Red Eagle,
for which he had long been waiting, threw it down in a rage and
exclaimed: "Lie there till you turn black." It probably did turn into
a black one subsequently, but many days too late and certainly without
real satisfaction for the receiver. Everything that is to give us
pleasure must come at the right time and in the right circumstances,
for what delights us today may be valueless tomorrow. Innstetten felt
this deeply, and as certainly as he had formerly laid store by honors
and distinctions coming from his highest superiors, just so certainly
was he now firmly convinced that the glittering appearance of things
amounted to but little, and that what is called happiness, if it
existed at all, is something other than this appearance. "Happiness,
if I am right, lies in two things: being exactly where one
belongs--but what official can say that of himself?--and, especially,
performing comfortably the most commonplace functions, that is,
getting enough sleep and not having new boots that pinch. When the 720
minutes of a twelve-hour day pass without any special annoyance that
can be called a happy day."
Innstetten was today in the mood for such gloomy reflections. When he
took up the second letter and read it he ran his hand over his
forehead, with the painful feeling that there is such a thing as
happiness, that he had once possessed it, but had lost it and could
never again recover it. Johanna entered and announced Privy Councillor
Wüllersdorf, who was already standing on the threshold and said:
"Congratulations, Innstetten."
"I believe you mean what you say; the others will be vexed. However--"
"However. You are surely not going to be pessimistic at a moment like
this."
"No. The graciousness of His Majesty makes me feel ashamed, and the
friendly feeling of the minister, to whom I owe all this, almost
more."
"But--"
[Illustration: SUPPER AT A COURT BALL
_From the Painting by Adolph van Menzel_]
"But I have forgotten how to rejoice. If I said that to anybody but
you my words would be considered empty phrases. But you understand me.
Just look around you. How empty and deserted everything is! When
Johanna comes in, a so-called jewel, she startles me and frightens me.
Her stage entry," continued Innstetten, imitating Johanna's pose, "the
half comical shapeliness of her bust, which comes forward claiming
special attention, whether of mankind or me, I don't know--all this
strikes me as so sad and pitiable, and if it were not so ridiculous,
it might drive me to suicide."
"Dear Innstetten, are you going to assume the duties of a permanent
secretary in this frame of mind?"
"Oh, bah! How can I help it? Read these lines I have just received."
Wüllersdorf took the second letter with the illegible postmark, was
amused at the "Esq.," and stepped to the window that he might read
more easily.
"Gracious Sir: I suppose you will be surprised that I am writing to
you, but it is about Rollo. Little Annie told us last year Rollo was
so lazy now, but that doesn't matter here. He can be as lazy as he
likes here, the lazier the better. And her Ladyship would like it so
much. She always says, when she walks upon the marsh or over the
fields: 'I am really afraid, Roswitha, because I am so alone; but who
is there to accompany me? Rollo, oh yes, he would do. He bears no
grudge against me either. That is the advantage, that animals do not
trouble themselves so much about such things.' These are her
Ladyship's words and I will say nothing further, and merely ask your
Lordship to remember me to my little Annie. Also to Johanna. From your
faithful, most obedient servant, Roswitha Gellenbagen."
"Well," said Wüllersdorf, as he folded the letter again, "she is ahead
of us."
"I think so, too."
"This is also the reason why everything else seems so doubtful to
you."
"You are right. It has been going through my head for a long time, and
these simple words with their intended, or perhaps unintended
complaint, have put me completely beside myself again. It has been
troubling me for over a year and I should like to get clear out of
here. Nothing pleases me any more. The more distinctions I receive the
more I feel that it is all vanity. My life is bungled, and so I have
thought to myself I ought to have nothing more to do with strivings
and vanities, and ought to be able to employ my pedagogical
inclinations, which after all are my most characteristic quality, as a
superintendent of public morals. It would not be anything new. If the
plan were feasible I should surely become a very famous character,
such as Dr. Wichern of the Rough House in Hamburg, for example, that
man of miracles, who tamed all criminals with his glance and his
piety."
"Hm, there is nothing to be said against that; it would be possible."
"No, it is not possible either. Not even _that_. Absolutely every
avenue is closed to me. How could I touch the soul of a murderer? To
do that one must be intact himself. And if one no longer is, but has a
like spot on his own hands, then he must at least be able to play the
crazy penitent before his confreres, who are to be converted, and
entertain them with a scene of gigantic contrition."
Wüllersdorf nodded.
"Now you see, you agree. But I can't do any of these things any more.
I can no longer play the man in the hair shirt, let alone the dervish
or the fakir, who dances himself to death in the midst of his
self-accusations. And inasmuch as all such things are impossible I
have puzzled out, as the best thing for me, to go away from here and
off to the coal black fellows who know nothing of culture and honor.
Those fortunate creatures! For culture and honor and such rubbish are
to blame for all my trouble. We don't do such things out of passion,
which might be an acceptable excuse. We do them for the sake of mere
notions--notions! And then the one fellow collapses and later the
other collapses, too, only in a worse way."
"Oh pshaw! Innstetten, those are whims, mere fancies. Go to Africa!
What does that mean! It will do for a lieutenant who is in debt. But a
man like you! Are you thinking of presiding over a palaver, in a red
fez, or of entering into blood relationship with a son-in-law of King
Mtesa? Or will you feel your way along the Congo in a tropical helmet,
with six holes in the top of it, until you come out again at Kamerun
or thereabouts? Impossible!"
"Impossible? Why? If _that_ is impossible, what then?"
"Simply stay here and practice resignation. Who, pray, is unoppressed!
Who could not say every day: 'Really a very questionable affair.' You
know, I have also a small burden to bear, not the same as yours, but
not much lighter. That talk about creeping around in the primeval
forest or spending the night in an ant hill is folly. Whoever cares
to, may, but it is not the thing for us. The best thing is to stand in
the gap and hold out till one falls, but, until then, to get as much
out of life as possible in the small and even the smallest things,
keeping one eye open for the violets when they bloom, or the Luise
monument when it is decorated with flowers, or the little girls with
high lace shoes when they skip the rope. Or drive out to Potsdam and
go into the Church of Peace, where Emperor Frederick lies, and where
they are just beginning to build him a tomb. As you stand there
consider the life of that man, and if you are not pacified then, there
is no help for you, I should say."
"Good, good! But the year is long and every single day--and then the
evening."
"That is always the easiest part of the day to know what to do with.
Then we have _Sardanapal_, or _Coppelia_, with Del Era, and when that
is out we have Siechen's, which is not to be despised. Three steins
will calm you every time. There are always many, a great many others,
who are in exactly the same general situation as we are, and one of
them who had had a great deal of misfortune once said to me: 'Believe
me, Wüllersdorf, we cannot get along without "false work."' The man
who said it was an architect and must have known about it. His
statement is correct. Never a day passes but I am reminded of the
'false work.'"
After Wüllersdorf had thus expressed himself he took his hat and cane.
During these words Innstetten may have recalled his own earlier
remarks about little happiness, for he nodded his head half agreeing,
and smiled to himself.
"Where are you going now, Wüllersdorf? It is too early yet for the
Ministry."
"I am not going there at all today. First I shall take an hour's walk
along the canal to the Charlottenburg lock and then back again. And
then make a short call at Huth's on Potsdam St., going cautiously up
the little wooden stairway. Below there is a flower store."
"And that affords you pleasure? That satisfies you?"
"I should not say that exactly, but it will help a bit. I shall find
various regular guests there drinking their morning glass, but their
names I wisely keep secret. One will tell about the Duke of Ratibor,
another about the Prince-Bishop Kopp, and a third perhaps about
Bismarck. There is always a little something to be learned.
Three-fourths of what is said is inaccurate, but if it is only witty I
do not waste much time criticising it and always listen gratefully."
With that he went out.