"Herr Baron," I replied, "I am very grateful for your kindness, but I
have never had any idea of entering the estate of matrimony."
The baron took out a book, turned the leaves, and then said, still in
the same tone of gracious familiarity:
"That I can easily believe, my dear Weissbrod. Young people do not
always think of the consequences of their acts. But an honest man, and
especially a servant of the gospel, will not hesitate to recognize the
obligations he has undertaken. As I said, I do not reproach you for
having permitted the matter to go so far. But, after the scene of
yesterday evening, which could not remain secret, you will perceive
that it is your duty to protect the honor of the lady you have
compromised, and this can only be done by a speedy marriage."
He shut the volume and restored it to its place. Then, turning quickly
and gazing at me with an inquisitorial expression, as if I were a
convicted criminal, he smoothed his beard with his white hands.
But, thanks to the indignation which took possession of me at the
perception of this base farce, I maintained sufficient composure to
look him squarely in the face and answer coldly:
"I do not know what has been told you, Herr Baron. But, for the sake of
truth, I must declare that it never entered my mind to carry on any
love affair beneath your roof, and that my conscience absolves me from
any obligation."
I saw that he turned pale, and with difficulty repressed a violent
outburst of rage. At last he said:
"How you are to justify yourself to your conscience is your own affair.
Mademoiselle has told me, with tears, that yesterday evening you took
advantage of a moment's physical weakness, by which she was attacked,
to embrace her, an act that did not occur without witnesses. I am
disposed to judge such an impulse of gallantry leniently, on account of
your youth and the attractiveness of the lady. But, as she is alone and
defenseless in the world, it is my duty to protect her reputation, and
I therefore give you the choice between proposing for her hand within
twenty-four hours or resigning your position in my house, and with it
all your prospects for the future. You must not make your decision in
your first embarrassment. When we return this evening from our drive,
there must either be a note from you in the young lady's room
containing your proposal, or in mine your request for a vacation, as
family affairs summon you as quickly as possible to Berlin. This
request--unless you should change your mind while away--you must follow
after a time with a petition for your final dismissal. You see that,
even though you have forfeited my esteem, I treat you with Christian
forbearance, but at the same time, as I am a foe to scandal and have
confidence in you, I trust you will avoid any cause of vexation. I will
now leave you to consider your own future, and wish you good-morning."
He nodded with affable condescension and, without waiting for an
answer, left the room.
I was scarcely alone ere the repressed indignation that had been
seething within me found vent in a convulsive laugh, and I felt tempted
to rush after my noble patron and loudly inform him, outside the door
of his clever accomplice, that I was not the dull simpleton they
believed me, but saw through their preconcerted man[oe]uver, and was
not at all disposed to let a bridle be thrown over my head. Fortunately
I remembered that I did not possess a particle of proof, and should
only make my cause worse by uncorroborated assertions. So I strove to
calm myself, showed my pupil, who came bounding joyously in to bid me
good-by, a cheerful face, and embraced him, a caress he received with
innocent surprise, not suspecting that I was taking leave of him
forever, and then watched from my window the departure of the family,
which took place with the usual ceremony. In the servants' presence the
baron always treated his wife with chivalrous courtesy, lifted her into
the carriage himself, saw that she had the pillows for her back and the
rug for her feeble knees, and always asked if she was comfortable, and
whether she would not prefer to have the carriage open.
Mademoiselle Suzon helped him with kittenish suppleness. Spite of the
nocturnal attack of faintness, her usual smile rested on her lips, and
not a single upward glance at me intimated that above her lodged the
robber of her honor, the man on whom depended the weal or woe of her
future life.
* * * * *
As soon as the carriage had disappeared in the elm-avenue, I prepared
to pack my effects, except my books, which I could not take with me
without revealing my determination never to return. I do not know what
impulse of prudence induced me to enter into the cunning farce my
shrewd employer had marked out for me. Perhaps it was consideration for
the kind mistress of the house or for my little pupil. The others
certainly had not deserved to have me conceal the truth. After locking
my trunk, I sat down and wrote the note to the baron, which was
disagreeable enough for me. With great difficulty I resisted the
temptation to inform him, on another sheet, that his hypocritical words
had not blinded me in the least to the real motive of his conduct. But
I deemed it more dignified to leave him to his own conscience, and, if
the matter was as I firmly believed, he would be sufficiently punished.
Several other farewells were before me--my worthy pastor, old Mother
Lieschen, with whom since the Canoness's departure I had chatted a
short time on many evenings, and finally my honored patron, Uncle
Joachim. I made the leave-taking with the first two as brief as
possible. I felt reluctant to use deception toward the good old pastor,
and yet I could not tell him the whole truth. But, spite of his eighty
years, his eyes were still keen enough to perceive the real state of
affairs, so that a shake of the hand was sufficient to make us
understand each other.
Mother Lieschen was not in her hut. I could only leave a farewell
message, in which I wrapped a small gift of money. Uncle Joachim I
found in the fields, where he was overlooking the laborers in place of
the steward, who was ill.
I thought it needless to maintain any secrecy toward him. He listened
quietly, and his sharp, expressive features showed no signs of
surprise.
"I have seen it coming," he said at last, sending forth vehement puffs
of smoke from his short pipe. "The farce is excellent, though no longer
perfectly new; such things have frequently occurred before, though the
exit is usually different. Well, I'm not anxious about you, Sir Tutor,
and I shall at least have the advantage of no longer seeing that
intriguing woman's face opposite. Believe me, my dear friend, I, too,
would gladly take to my heels and try to earn my bit of daily bread
elsewhere, even if it should be as head-groom or steward on the estate
of one of my former equals and boon companions. But there is my
sister-in-law, poor thing. Who knows what her pious husband might
do, if the last person in whose presence he is obliged to control
himself should go away? You know the proverb about us natives of the
Mark--that, though we never burned a heretic, we never produced a
saint. Well, if there were a Protestant Pope, he should canonize that
poor martyr for me on the spot."
Then, after we had shaken hands, he called me back again.
"You must do me the favor to keep this whole abominable story a secret,
Sir Tutor," he said. "I could not blame you if you blazoned it abroad,
for, after all, you are the one who is injured, and, if we can get no
other satisfaction, to rage and call things by their right names
relieves the bile. Still, remember that the honorable man who has thus
injured you bears the same name as our Luise, to say nothing of myself.
True, the girl has made haste to lay it aside. If you should ever meet
her in the outside world, give her a tender greeting from Uncle
Joachim, and tell her to bestow a sheet of letter-paper on him. Well,
may God be with you, my dear friend! Heads up always, then we see the
sun, moon, and stars, and not the wretched worms that crawl on this
foul earth."
As he uttered these words, he clasped me affectionately in his arms,
and kissed me on both cheeks. Then, turning abruptly away, he went back
to his work.
In the afternoon I sat in the self-same butcher's cart in which I had
made the journey to the castle. Krischan maintained a diplomatic
silence, though I could not doubt that, like the other servants, he was
perfectly aware of the nocturnal incident and its unpleasant
consequences. Yet I perceived that the popular voice was not against
me, for several times on the way I was obliged to refuse a drink from
the worthy fellow's bottle. In the village, too, many tokens of a
friendly and respectful disposition fell to my lot.
Yet, though this time the bays did not have the heavy box of books to
drag through the sand, and my conscience was no weightier burden than
it had been six months before, the drive, spite of the bright October
weather, was a dismal one, and my heart was far from singing hymns as
it had longed to do on the former occasion.
I could not help constantly reflecting that a few weeks before the one
woman who attracted all my thoughts had passed over this very road to a
future which I could paint only in the blackest hues.
* * * * *
I can not shake off the fear that in the preceding pages, which
concerned my insignificant self, I may have been too verbose. Should
this really be the case, I may confidently assert that the error is not
due to the garrulity, or even the self-love, of a lonely man, but the
desire of a conscientious biographer to omit nothing that could throw
more light upon the acts of his heroine.
During the time immediately following her marriage, she disappeared
entirely from the horizon of my own pitiful existence. I will therefore
make my account of the succeeding years until she reappears as brief as
possible.
My good old aunt in Berlin received me with her former love and
kindness, though somewhat surprised that she must once more shelter in
her little back-room the clerical nephew whom she had expected to
speedily see shining as a brilliant light of the church in the
glittering candlestick of a parish, while he now again seemed to be a
dim little flame with a big "thief" in it.
True, she did not suspect the real state of the case concerning this
"thief"--the hapless love for a woman who had utterly vanished that was
secretly consuming me. I did not deny it to myself for a moment. I knew
too well that all the joyousness of youth was irretrievably lost to me;
and, as I perceived that the consolations of religion were powerless in
my condition, I fell away more and more from my theological vocation,
and during the first months gave myself up to a very God-forsaken,
brooding idleness.
I carefully remained aloof from the circle of my former companions. I
felt that the experiences of the past six months had separated me from
them forever. Even in my outward man I had changed so much that two of
my former most intimate friends passed close by me in the street
without recognizing in the tall fellow with closely cropped hair, clad
in a light summer suit and a straw hat, the apostle of yore, with his
long locks parted in the middle, and clerical black coat.
On receiving my definite request for a dismissal, the baron, closely as
he usually calculated, had sent me six months' extra pay as tutor,
which I did not return, though I could not help regarding the modest
sum as a sort of hush-money. Having been turned out of the house
without any fault of my own, I thought myself entitled to some
compensation.
This money, which I was not compelled to use for my own support, since
my kind aunt feasted me as though I were the prodigal son, I devoted to
one exclusive purpose, for which probably no theological candidate
waiting for his parish ever used his savings--I went to the theater
every evening.
True, my longing to hear the great Milder was not fulfilled. I do not
know whether she was dead or had merely retired from the stage.
But I heard other admirable singers, among whom Sophie Loewe and the
fair-haired Fassmann made the deepest impression upon me, and in the
drama I was just in time to admire the famous Seydelmann, and
afterward, perhaps wrongly, rave over Hendrichs, though I never saw the
latter enter without a feeling of aversion, which did not vanish until
he had acted for some time. He reminded me, both in personal appearance
and in many gestures, of another actor, whom I hated from my inmost
soul because I believed that he was to blame for the darkening of the
star of my life.
But the world represented on the stage, the creations of the authors
themselves, captivated me far more than any individual artist--so
bewitched me, indeed, that I do not remember having opened a
theological work or even visited a church during the year and a half I
spent in the capital. The hypocrisy whose bitter fruits I had tasted
had disgusted me with the delicious wine pressed in the Lord's
vineyard, till, with a sort of defiant rebellion, I fled to the world
of illusion irradiated by the foot-lights.
No one will marvel that, in this mood, I even essayed my own powers as
a dramatic author. Of course, it was no less a personage than Julian
the Apostate whom, during five acts, I made atone in iambics for having
desired to restore to honor the ancient Pagan gods. I still retained
enough of the theologian to place Venus lower than the mother of the
Saviour. Yet between the lines glimmered so skeptical a view of the
world that this _exercitium_ in ecclesiastical history certainly would
not have been reviewed _cum laude_ at my old college.
I had just finished the shapeless _opus_, and was considering whether I
should offer it to a "rational artist," like Eduard Devrient, for his
opinion, when a sorrowful event suddenly stopped my dramatic career.
My loving nurse and supporter fell ill, and at the end of a few days I
was obliged to accompany her to her last resting-place. As she had
lived upon a small annuity, her whole property consisted of old
furniture and a modest wardrobe. I myself had spent all my money except
a few thalers. Therefore, it was necessary to again obtain a firmer
foothold than the boards of the theatre, which could not be my world.
A few private pupils whom I secured helped me out of my most pressing
need. Meanwhile, I industriously watched the papers for advertisements
for tutors, and almost every week sent to the addresses mentioned a
letter containing copies of my testimonials and references, including
the name of my first employer, but to my grief and anger I invariably
received a refusal. Knowing myself to be so well recommended, it was a
long time ere I could understand these persistent failures, till at
last, one sleepless night, when anxiety about my immediate future
sharpened my wits, I hit upon the most natural solution of the
enigma--my former employer, in reply to inquiries about me, of course
gave the most unfavorable information, thereby refuting his written
testimony, partly to prevent my relating in a new position the true
cause of my dismissal.
Therefore, when a tutor--who must also be musical--was wanted for two
boys seven and eight years old on a country estate near the frontier of
Pomerania, I quickly formed my resolution, borrowed from an actor,
whose acquaintance I had made, the money to pay my traveling expenses,
and hastened to wait upon my future employer in person.
I found the position to be everything I could desire. The owner of the
estate was a vigorous, thoroughly aristocratic, that is, noble-minded,
man of middle age, who was deeply interested in agriculture, and had
therefore left the education of his two sons exclusively to his
admirable wife, until they had outgrown her feminine care and teaching.
When I had explained my situation, and told him enough of the cause of
my short stay with the baron to enable the shrewd man to perceive my
innocence, without suspecting the whole truth, we soon agreed that I
should come on trial for a quarter. These three months became three
years, and, as neither found any reason to complain of the other, I
should probably have grown old and gray in this beautiful part of my
native land, had not the strange wandering star of my life suddenly
appeared again in the firmament and lured me into new paths.
I had entered upon my office of tutor without any thought of ever
moving into the neighboring parsonage. This was partly because I had
become doubtful of my vocation as a preacher, and partly because I did
not grudge the excellent man who now filled the place the longest
possible life, which indeed he needed in order to leave his six young
daughters--who had early lost their mother--alone in this dreary world
without anxiety.
The oldest, Marie, was just sixteen when I entered upon my duties in
the family of Herr von N----. Never have I known a more exemplary girl
than this pure and lovely young creature, who, spite of her extreme
youth, took the whole burden of the housekeeping and the education of
her younger sisters on her slender shoulders, without even seeming to
feel its weight. Her violet eyes and waving light-brown locks gave her
a claim to beauty, especially when she smiled and her teeth glittered
bewitchingly between her pouting lips. Had I not been afflicted with so
obstinate a heart, I should undoubtedly have lost it to this charming
child of God, and now be settled as a worthy pastor and father of a
family in some village in the Mark. But my thoughts, spite of my utter
hopelessness, clung so steadfastly to one image that for a long time I
went in and out of the worthy pastor's house, and ate many a piece of
cake Marie had baked, without seeing the merry little housekeeper in
any other light than as the well-educated daughter of a man to whom I
became more and more indebted for my own development.
For, while a country pastor who enters his pulpit every Sunday for
twenty years usually lets his spiritual armor grow tolerably rusty with
the flight of time, this admirable man, in his quiet gable-room, had
taken the most eager interest in all the struggles which in those days
agitated the theological world, had entered deeply into the historical
investigations of the Tuebingen School, and instantly fanned to a bright
blaze the scientific interest which, during my rage for the theater in
Berlin, had become completely extinguished--a blaze, it is true, that
consumed to a sorry little heap the last scraps of orthodoxy with which
I had covered my nakedness.
This is not the place to enter more fully into this spiritual question
now struggling in the pangs of its birth. Only I must say that I looked
up with actual reverence to this man who, from the depths of his warm,
thoroughly evangelical nature, drew the strength--spite of casting
aside the dogmatic traditions, whose foundations had been shaken in his
soul--to beneficently fulfill his duties as pastor and proclaim the
Word, without being faithless to its spirit.
I was not granted this gift, rooted in the purest philanthropy, and
therefore capable of helping each individual to salvation in his own
way. I was exclusively occupied with my own redemption, and, as I had
entirely relinquished the idea of a parish, and for the present gave
myself no anxiety about any other profession, I spent these three
years, so far as my secret yearnings for my lost love permitted, very
happily, and daily passed several hours with my teacher and friend, who
treated me like a younger brother, and let me share without reserve
everything that occupied his mind.
It was inevitable that I should be on the most familiar terms with his
children also. From the first I had placed myself on a footing of merry
banter, and asked the little girls to call me Uncle Hans. Marie
persisted in addressing me as Herr Johannes. Yet an innocent
familiarity, like that of blood relations, existed between us, and
seemed to continue undisturbed when the child had matured into a
maiden, and the eyes of the girl of nineteen gazed into the world with
a dreamy earnestness that would have given a person better versed than
I in reading the human heart much food for thought.
I noticed that she had lost some of her former vivacity, but was so
unsuspicious that I jested with her about it, and drew no inference
from her silence and blushes. True, the idea occurred to me that the
young bird was fledged and longed to quit the overcrowded nest. But, as
I knew with whom she associated, and that none of my employer's guests,
who sometimes visited her father, had made the slightest impression
upon her, I ascribed her changed demeanor to some anxiety of
conscience--she often rummaged among her father's books--rather than
any affair of the heart.
That I myself might be the cause never entered my dreams. All vanity
had been shorn away with my beautiful fair locks, for with cropped hair
I seemed to myself anything but attractive, and, since I had been
obliged to atone for the bold hope of making an impression on the heart
of the sole object of my adoration, by the keen disappointment of her
marriage, I did not consider myself created to be dangerous to any
woman.
So, one morning, when I had vainly sought my pastor in his study to
return him a volume by David Friedrich Strauss, and on entering the
little garden saw Marie sitting on a bench, holding in her lap a dish
of green beans which she was preparing for the kitchen, I greeted her
with a jest, though I noticed her tearful eyes, and asked if I could
sit beside her a moment.
She nodded silently, and moved to make room for me. I commenced an
indifferent conversation, but secretly resolved to question her, like a
true uncle, about the cause of her melancholy. Her only friend, the
daughter of a neighboring pastor, had just become engaged to a young
agriculturist. I began with that, and asked if there was genuine love
on the part of the girl, to whom I also had become attached. Marie,
without looking up from her work, replied that this was a matter of
course. How could people stand before the altar, and form the sacred
tie, if there was no real love? Why, I answered, many a girl hopes that
love will come after marriage, and only weds for the sake of having a
home of her own, a husband, and children. True, I did not believe Marie
capable of such conduct. She would never put this little hand--and as I
spoke I patted the delicate little fingers resting on the beans--into
that of a man whom she did not love with her whole heart.
Again I felt a violent tremor run through her slender figure; she made
a visible effort to calm herself, but suddenly let the dish fall from
her lap, tears streamed from her eyes, and, stammering almost
inaudibly, "Excuse me, I don't feel well!" she rushed into the house as
if flying from Satan himself.
I remained sitting on the bench as if a thunderbolt had struck me. It
was long ere I could calm myself sufficiently to pick up the dish and
carefully collect the scattered green pods.
What would I have given to be able, with a clear conscience, to follow
the dear child, take her little cold hands in mine, and utter words
which would have had the power to dry her tears.
But, deeply as my heart glowed with tender sympathy for this youthful
sorrow, I did not doubt an instant that I should be doing her a far
heavier wrong if I tried to console her without the "real love" than if
I left her uncomforted.
At last, after vainly waiting in the hope that she would come back and
turn the affair into a jest, I rose in great perplexity and went
thoughtfully back to my employer's house, here also called the
"castle," though it had no feudal aspect.
As soon as I was alone in my little room--my pupils were waiting for
their lessons in the school-room--I went to the mirror and carefully
scrutinized my face. Even now I could find in it nothing that seemed
calculated to disturb the peace of a young girl's heart. The
conversations with the dear child, which I could remember also
contained nothing captivating, and, as I had again and again said that
I should probably remain a bachelor all my life, I could not help
acquitting myself of all blame in the sweet girl's unfortunate passion.
Yet the sudden discovery so agitated me that I felt unable to give my
Latin lesson. I dictated a written exercise to the lads, and, while
they were at work upon it, sat down by the window with the last
newspaper, which had just been brought in, not to read, but to have
some pretext for pursuing my idle and fruitless thoughts.
But, as my eyes wandered absently over the columns of the paper, they
were abruptly arrested by a name which glared in large letters amid the
small type of the advertisement.
_Konstantin Spielberg_.
How long a time had passed since I had either heard or read that name!
In Berlin, where ever and anon--always blushing as if I were betraying
my secret--I had inquired about this object of my silent hate, no one
seemed to know whether he was alive or dead. He appeared to have won no
special repute as an artist, and, since his withdrawal to the
provinces, his former colleagues, several of whom I knew, had heard
nothing about him. As such wandering stars only diffuse their light in
their immediate vicinity, the small local sheets that came to us made
as little mention of him as the large journals of the capital.
Now, in his erratic course, he had come so near us that I could not
avoid suddenly discerning him with the naked eye.
There stood the notice. "Konstantin Spielberg, with his renowned
dramatic company, has arrived in St. ----," the nearest Pomeranian
capital to us, "and intends, during the next six weeks, to give
performances to which respected citizens, the nobility, and the
art-loving public are invited."
At any other time this intelligence would undoubtedly have agitated me,
but without stimulating me to any decision. In the strange situation in
which I found myself since my last interview with my friend's daughter,
this shadow from former days seemed to me like a sign from Heaven. I
instantly resolved to repress all the emotions contending in my soul
and convince myself, with my own eyes, how this man's wife fared, and
whether she needed any assistance from the friend whose confidence she
had certainly sorely betrayed.
I went at once to my employer and requested him to give me a week's
vacation. Both physically and mentally I was in a strangely upset
condition, which perhaps was only due to stagnation of the blood, and
would be relieved by a short pedestrian excursion.
My request was granted without hesitation, and that very afternoon I
found myself, with a light knapsack on my back, but my heart doubly
burdened by two hopeless love-affairs, on the sunny highway that led to
the Pomeranian frontier.
* * * * *
I might have reached my destination that night. But, swiftly as I had
commenced my walk, after the first hour it became difficult for me to
put one foot before the other. I constantly repeated to myself: "How
will you find her? And how will she look when you suddenly take her by
surprise without having previously inquired whether your visit would be
agreeable or not? Quite probably she will shrink from you, as if you
were a ghost recalling a time she would prefer to have buried, and you
can be off home again.
"What then? And what is to be done about the other, whom you really
never ought to see again, if you desire to be an honest man."
Under the influence of such thoughts I stopped, at the end of a few
hours, at a respectable village tavern, the last in the territory of
the Mark, and spent the sultry night uncomfortably enough in the thick
feather-bed. The next morning I continued my snail's pace. Never in my
life had I felt more plainly, and with deeper shame, how pitiful a
thing is our much-lauded free-will. For in fact I was nothing more than
a puppet which a child pulls by a string, and it made the matter none
the better because the boy whose plaything I was had gay wings on his
shoulders and wrote his name Cupid.
It was about ten o'clock when I reached the little city--a place as
ugly, dreary, and lifeless as any other Pomeranian town on an August
morning. But, as I walked over the rough pavement of the main street,
my heart throbbed as if I were entering some enchanted city, where in a
crystal castle I should find the princess in a giant's power, and,
after perilous adventures, secure her release.
I first inquired at the hotel, fully expecting that I should find the
"renowned" traveling company had lodgings there. But, when I had thrown
my knapsack into one chair in the public-room of the "Black Eagle" and
myself into another, and the waiter had brought me half a bottle of
Moselle, I was better informed at once.
The actors had spent only one night with them, and the very next day
hired the back of the commandant's house for a month. Until six years
ago a regiment of infantry had been stationed here, and the colonel had
occupied Count X----'s old house facing the Goose-Market. When the
regiment was ordered to another garrison, the house was not rented
again. Now the manager had hired the back building, formerly used for
the offices and adjutant's residence, at a very low price. The
performances were given at the Schuetzenhaus near the Stettin Gate. The
actors were splendid and drew large crowds.
"Does the manager's wife play too?" I asked, and, as I spoke, my hand
trembled so violently that part of the wine was spilled from my glass.
No. The manager's wife never appeared. It was said that she was a lady
of noble birth, who had run away with her present husband. But she was
a very beautiful lady, and nobody could tell any evil of her. Did not I
want something to eat? The _table-d'hote_, at which there was nobody
now except one commercial traveler, would not be ready for two hours.
I rose after hastily swallowing a single glass, let the officious youth
brush my hat and clothes, and then requested him to direct me to the
actor's residence. Perceiving my interest in him, he brought me the
bill for that night's performance. The "Ancestress," a tragedy by
Grillparger, with spectral apparitions: first row, six good
groschens[3]; second row, five silver ones; pit, two good ones;
children, half price; commencement at six o'clock. I read the names, of
which I knew only the manager's: Jaromir--Manager Konstantin Spielberg.
An uncomfortable feeling of mingled cowardice and repugnance again
overpowered me. For a moment I actually hesitated whether I should not
strap on my knapsack again and walk straight out through the opposite
gate. But the puppet was fastened to its platform, and the naughty boy
pulled till his toy was obliged to roll where he wanted it to go.
The Goose-Market was a rectangular piece of ground, in which grew dusty
acacia-trees. On one of the narrow sides stood the colonel's former
residence, a by no means ugly two-story building, in the style of the
reign of Old Fritz, with a flight of steps leading to the door, and a
stone escutcheon on the cornice above. But all the windows were closed
with shutters, and a cat lay asleep in the sentry-box beside the steps.
My waiter led me to the side entrance, whose door was unlocked, and
through the wide gateway into the shady court-yard, in whose center a
large chestnut-tree spread its boughs in front of the windows of the
rear building. "Please go up the stairs at the back," he said.
"Somebody is always at home; but, if you want the manager, you'll find
him now at the rehearsal. A very diligent artist, as the president of
the district court says, and the rest of the company do well, too. But
our little city deserves it, for everybody here raves about art. Well,
you will see for yourself."
He bowed affectedly and left me alone, which made me very happy. For
the accursed throbbing of the heart grew madder than ever, and I was
forced to lean against the trunk of the chestnut ere I was able to walk
through the court-yard.
The lower story of the back building seemed to be wholly occupied by
stables and coach-houses. In the upper one, all the windows stood open,
and their freshly washed panes glittered all the more brightly from the
contrast to the thick dust on the doors and sills. At last I plucked up
courage and mounted the dark stairs.
I came to a long, tolerably wide corridor, and wandered helplessly past
several closed doors. Behind one of them I heard the rattling of pans
and dishes; that must be the kitchen. I did not wish to summon a
servant, so I stole softly on. And now I paused before a door through
which I heard the sound of a woman's well-known voice--only a few
words, but I felt by the hot tide which coursed through my veins that
it had not lost its power over me during the four or five years of
separation. And now I summoned up my resolution like a hero and
knocked. Some one called "Come in," and I suddenly stood inside the
apartment, confronting my old, inevitable fate.
* * * * *
She was sitting at the open window, and the sunbeams, piercing the
foliage of the chestnut, flickered over her figure, leaving her head in
shadow. At the first glance I saw that she had grown even more
beautiful--a little stouter and more matronly, of course--but her face
was still more instinct with intellect, and her nose had actually
lengthened a trifle. She wore her hair in the same fashion as in her
girlhood, only she had fastened over the coil behind a black-silk
crocheted net, whose ends were knotted at her neck. No one would have
perceived either her lineage or her present dignity as wife of the
manager by her plain, dark-calico dress. But in her lap she held a
red-velvet royal mantle--very threadbare, it is true--trimmed with
gold-lace, in which she was mending a long rent, and a pile of knights'
costumes, satin bodices, and plumed caps lay in a clothes basket beside
her chair.
"Good Heavens, Johannes!" I heard her suddenly exclaim. The royal
mantle slipped from her hand, and she rose to her full-height, fixing
her large brown eyes on me exactly as I had feared--as if a ghost had
rudely startled her from her quiet thoughts.
A little boy, about four years old, who had been playing with a Noah's
ark on a piece of carpet at her feet, sprang up at the same time,
seized her hand, and was now staring at me with mingled shyness and
curiosity.
At first I could say nothing. I was gazing steadily at the little fair
head--her child, and her very image.
She seemed to notice it, and, as if to disguise her first feeling of
embarrassment, she bent over the little fellow, saying, "Go and shake
hands prettily with the gentleman, Joachimchen. He is a dear uncle, and
it is very kind in him to have sought out your mother again."
But the child clung timidly to her arm, and would not approach me.
"Yes, it is I, Frau Luise," I stammered at last, in some confusion. "I
wanted, as my way brought me near you--. But you are looking so
well, Frau Luise. How do you do? You are happy, I see--and the dear
child--does Uncle Joachim know that he bears his name? He would surely
be pleased."
"Won't you sit down, Herr Johannes?" she replied. "The sofa over yonder
is very uncomfortable. Bring a chair, and let us sit near the window.
And now tell me whence you have come and what has brought you to us."
I did as she requested, while she resumed her interrupted work and
listened intently. The child had pushed his toys aside, and, when I
held out my hand, shyly laid his soft little fingers in it. But I soon
drew him close to my side, and, ere ten minutes had passed, he was
sitting on my knee, patiently letting me stroke his hair while I
described my life.
True, I dared not make even the most distant allusion, to the one
thought around which everything else had turned in the course of the
years, and which had now brought me here. But women are sensitive, and
have the gift of reading in our eyes and catching from broken tones the
very thing we are most anxious to conceal.
She, however, did not do this.
"I am heartily glad to see you again at last, dear Herr Johannes," she
replied, when I had paused. "I have always valued your friendship, and
was very sorry that you had perhaps formed a false opinion of me when I
disappeared so suddenly. If you stay with us a few days, you will see
that I could not have done otherwise. My husband, too, will be glad to
make your acquaintance. I have told him about you. True, you will not
be able to judge correctly of his talent as an artist. His surroundings
are not worthy of him, and he can not appear in his best parts in these
little towns. But you will learn to value him as a man."
I made no reply. I could not tell her that I greatly doubted the
latter, and did not even desire it. My aversion to her husband was as
much a part of my reverence for her as the thorn is a portion of the
rose.
"Put the boy down again," she said. "You will tire the gentleman,
Joachimchen."
The little fellow had begun to pull my whiskers with his slender
fingers, which gave me great pleasure.
"Let him stay, Frau Luise," I said. "Shall I tell you a story, little
Joachim? Or, shall we play together?"
"Play!" replied the dear child, and his earnest eyes sparkled. He slid
quickly from my lap and again knelt on the carpet where the little
menagerie lay, heaped in motley confusion. I sat down beside him and
began to arrange the animals in pairs on the floor, asking my little
playmate the name of each. He scarcely missed one.
"He is remarkably far advanced for his age," I said to his mother, who
sat at her work, looking down at us with a quiet smile.
"He has associated entirely with grown persons," she replied. "I hope
it will not always be so. I shall try to obtain some companions for him
this winter. We shall then spend several months in the same place."
Just at that moment the door opened and her husband entered. He paused
as he saw the strange group at the window, but, when I rose, and his
wife mentioned my name, came forward with outstretched hand, saying, in
the beautiful baritone voice he used in personating his heroes:
"How do you do, Herr Candidate? We are old acquaintances, for you were
among the spectators at my disastrous appearance at the castle. It
certainly was not one of my brilliant parts, and the only hand that
moved to clap, wounded me. But, for the sake of the happy afterpiece, I
still remember the day with joy and gratitude. Do I not, dear wife?"
He had taken his wife's hand and raised it to his lips. I could not
help owning that his chivalrous bearing suited him admirably. Though he
had just passed his fortieth year, his appearance was still youthful
and winning; there was not a gray hair in his locks _a la Hendricks_;
the expression of the pale, finely-chiseled features was a trifle
self-complacent and triumphant, but unmistakably kind. Even his
conspicuous dress--a short, black-velvet coat trimmed with braid,
yellow nankeen trousers, and a red-silk kerchief knotted loosely around
his throat--was becoming. One thing, however, I did not like: he nodded
to the child with sarcastic condescension, and, after a careless "How
are you, lad?" took no further notice of him. The boy, too, quietly
continued his play as if a total stranger had entered.
The great artist instantly asked me familiarly if I felt inclined to
change the pulpit for the stage, since it was well known that an actor
can teach a pastor. Luise had told him that I was musical; as he meant
in time to add operettas to his list of attractions, he could make me a
sort of conductor, unless I should prefer to fit myself to be an actor.
I would find it pleasant with him; his wife could bear witness that he
did not make amends for the petticoat government he was under at home
by tyranny behind the scenes.
His jesting tone did not seem to be exactly agreeable to his wife. At
least she did not enter into it, but gravely continued to mend the
crimson robe. But he was evidently in the best possible humor. While
pacing up and down the spacious room with the slow strides of a stage
hero, he cast a proud, well-satisfied glance into the mirror that hung
above the sofa every time he passed it, talked of the rehearsal from
which he had just come, and trivial annoyances which he had smoothed
according to his wishes.
"You will make the acquaintance of the members of our company
immediately," he said, turning to me; "and I hope you will find them by
no means the worst sort of people. We must live and let live. My wise
wife, who in the shortest possible time has transformed herself into a
perfect mother to the company, has made the arrangement that we are all
to dine together at noon, not at the hotel where food is dear and bad,
but here under her wing. At first it was inconvenient to many of them.
But they soon perceived it to be an advantage in every way. They obtain
for a very small sum, which is deducted from their salaries in advance,
good and abundant food, support themselves honestly, and contract no
debts at the hotel. Besides, we have an opportunity of discussing at
table many points concerning the evening performance which did not
occur to us at the rehearsal."
A square-built personage, with a white cap surrounding her flushed
face, entered and announced that dinner was ready.
"Here, my honored friend, you see the artist who provides for our
physical support--Fraeulein Kunigunde--the mistress of the kitchen and
larder, who in her leisure hours renders us priceless services as
mistress of the wardrobe.--Fraeulein Kunigunde, I have the honor to
present to you Herr Dr. Johannes, a distant relative of my wife, who
would fain convince himself whether our car of Thespis merits the
renown it enjoys in all the region where Low German is spoken. I hope
you have some nice dish for us."
The embarrassed creature courtesied silently and vanished, settling
her cap. She evidently supposed me to be some distinguished
stranger, before whom she would not willingly have appeared in her
working-clothes. The artist, after a parting look in the mirror,
passed his hand familiarly through my arm, saying: "You won't object
to my suppressing your title of Candidate and promoting you to that
of Doctor in presenting you to my colleagues. Among these frivolous
folk, theology plays the part of Knecht Ruprecht,[4] or must encounter
disrespectful badinage. Your surname, too, would give cause for
witticisms. So let us keep to the Christian one. Then it will be
thought that you consider it a duty to your aristocratic relatives to
be known on the stage only as Johannes."
I was about to protest against his taking possession of my person in
this arbitrary fashion, but he had already opened the door of the
adjoining room, and, as Frau Luise, who led the boy by the hand, cast a
glance at me as she passed, which seemed to indicate that I need not be
too rigorous, I entered without further scruple into the part thus
forced upon me, and from which I fancied I could escape at any moment.
* * * * *
The dining-room was a long apartment with three windows. Its walls were
perfectly bare, and the old white-lace curtains made them seem still
more cold and unhomelike. A narrow table, whose uneven width betrayed
that it had been formed of several sets of boards, occupied the center;
its cloth was not fine, but exquisitely clean. About fourteen rude
wooden chairs were ranged around it, all as yet unoccupied, and the
number of guests, who stood chatting together in the window-niches,
seemed still incomplete.
I was presented, as an old friend of the family and embryo student of
the dramatic art, first to a married couple, Herr and Frau Selmar, who
eyed me in unfriendly silence. These two oldest members of the company,
as I afterward learned, were in a chronic state of dissatisfaction with
everything and everybody except themselves. Probably there is no class
of persons among whom the type of character embodying cureless,
arrogant pride, may so frequently be found as amid the older dramatic
artists, whose profession compels them to attach value to their
personality, to long passionately for momentary triumphs, and to be on
their guard against any rivalry. Herr Selmar, who took the parts of the
stage fathers and blustering old men, considered himself still young
enough for the lover's roles in which the manager shone, and his faded
wife, who years before had bewitched all hearts by her personal charms
as much as by her acting, could not now feel satisfied to fill the
characters of old women and mothers.
They had just been venting their irritation concerning some jealous
grievance to each other, and I admired the good-natured cheerfulness
with which the manager gradually soothed them. True, he was most ably
assisted in doing so by the droll quips interposed by a tall, thin man
of uncertain age, dressed in a greenish summer suit. The latter was
presented to me as Herr Laban, comedian of the company, and as, spite
of my uncomfortable mood, I could not help laughing heartily at his
quaint jests, a sort of friendly familiarity instantly arose between
us, and he took the seat next me at table.
Frau Luise sat at the head, and on a high cushion in the chair at her
right was the little boy, who managed his knife and fork very prettily
from his miniature throne. Her husband occupied the seat at her left,
then came the Selmar couple, I sat next the child, and with tender
delight rendered him all sorts of little services. A few of the lesser
lights of the company joined us, and, just as the soup was served, a
dilatory pair appeared, in whom I recognized the young man and his
companion who had attracted my attention while sitting on the bench in
front of the village tavern.
"Herr Daniel Kontzky--Fraeulein Victorine."
With a silent bow to the manager's wife, they sat down opposite to me,
and seemed to recognize my face. At least, they exchanged a few
whispered words before beginning to eat, which they did with affected
haste and indifference, entering into no conversation with any of their
colleagues. They evidently desired to give the impression that they
considered themselves far superior to their present associates, and had
only strayed among them by chance.
While the simple but very excellent food was handed around--Fraeulein
Kunigunde brought in the dishes, placed them at the ends of the table,
and left those who sat nearest to pass them farther--I had time enough
to study the two youngest and most interesting members of the company.
They had improved during the five years--at least, so far as their
personal appearance was concerned. The young man, now probably about
six and twenty, had a remarkably handsome face, whose swift play of
expression instantly betrayed the actor. I afterward learned he was the
child of a Hebrew father and a Polish mother. From the latter he
inherited the passionate fire of his eyes and the feminine delicacy of
his complexion, as well as his small hands and feet. He wore a light
summer suit of the latest fashion, and had a ruby ring on his little
finger. But, notwithstanding his soft tenor voice, his laugh was
sneering and disagreeable, and I noticed with surprise that he
sometimes cast a side glance at Frau Luise which expressed open
dislike, while her lip curled whenever their eyes chanced to meet.
Fraeulein Victorine's face puzzled me still more. It revealed a two-fold
nature, at once aspiring and sordid. Nothing could be more charming
than her large, mournful gray eyes, under delicate black brows, and her
little nose seemed to have been stolen from some Greek statue. But the
mouth belied this refinement of nature. Spite of her youth, it was
flabby and prematurely withered, and, even when it remained firmly
closed, one expected nothing to issue from it save commonplace and
repulsive words. Her little figure was the daintiest, and at the same
time the most perfectly rounded that could be imagined, and she
understood how to set off its charms in the best light.
At first I was myself deluded as I watched her melting Madonna gaze
wander so disconsolately over the company, and read in it a touching
legend of lost youth and premature contempt for the world. But, as soon
as she began to whisper with her neighbor, an expression of coldness
and insolence rested on her face that was intensely repulsive to me.
I will mention here the other members of the Round Table: A graybeard
of fifty, vigorous and stoutly built, in the dress of a workman, who
was introduced to me as stage-manager, machinist, and Inspector
Gottlieb Schoenicke--a queer fellow, who told me the very next day that
he was a misunderstood genius, and, if he were only allowed to play
King Lear once, the world would perceive what serious injustice had
been done him for years; and his neighbor, a stout, plain, middle-aged
woman, who filled the office of a prompter, but was often pressed into
the service as an actress to play women of the people, Hannah in "Mary
Stuart," nay, if necessity required, even the mother of Emilia Galotti.
All these worthy actors and actresses behaved during the meal like
mutes, and I thought I noticed that the presence of Frau Luise, whose
kindness they regarded as condescension, embarrassed them. The only
person whose manner displayed dignified ease was the manager himself,
who did not let the conversation drop, first discussing all sorts of
technical questions with the tall comedian, then turning to me and
asking minute questions about the present condition of theatrical
affairs in Berlin. I could not help secretly owning that he did not
lack culture and sound judgment; and a certain enthusiasm for great
models, whom he had studied on the stage, though it was expressed in a
somewhat sentimental manner, and rather too abundantly garnished with
classical quotations after the manner of actors, also did him honor.
Besides, he ate very little and very gracefully, and always offered his
wife the best pieces, which she declined with a blush.
Frau Luise said little, devoted herself to the child, and thanked me
with a half smile for my services to him.
When the delicious plums and early pears, that formed the dessert, had
been eaten, she rose from the table. A hasty "May the meal do you
good!" was uttered on all sides without shaking hands, and in two
minutes the whole company had dispersed. The manager, after again
kissing his wife's hand, beckoned me to accompany him. "I must first of
all take you into better company," he declaimed with his sonorous
laugh. "I drink my coffee every day at the club-house, where all the
rich dignitaries meet. You won't object to my taking your 'kinsman'
away from you, Luise?"