I should have infinitely preferred to stay with her and the little boy,
who had completely won my heart. But the actor had already passed his
hand through my arm, and now led me out. Nothing was more painful to me
than this familiar contact with a man whom I had cursed a thousand
times in my heart, and who was now treating me so kindly and frankly
that I could not even have stabbed him with Macbeth's imaginary dagger.
We had scarcely reached the street, when he suddenly stopped, took off
his straw hat, and passed his large, well-shaped hand across his brow.
"I am extremely glad that you have come, Herr Doctor," he said in a
subdued voice. "I don't grudge my wife a little agreeable refreshment,
such as a visit from an old friend affords.
'She is a woman, take her all in all!
We ne'er shall look upon her like again.'
But we will not conceal it from each other, she is not exactly in her
sphere among us. Her eloping with me was a piece of magnanimous folly,
which she does not repent, it is true, she is too proud for that,
and--" here he straightened his shoulders and replaced his hat on his
flowing locks--"and too happy in her marriage with me. Nevertheless,
she is an aristocrat, and the best among us have a drop of gypsy blood
in our veins. If she could have resolved to act--with her appearance,
her superb voice--I am sure that she would now be completely absorbed
by her new profession, and it would have been a great gain to me. But
nothing would induce her to do this. Now she sits alone during the many
hours that I am occupied, for the boy is a little aristocrat, too, and
so quiet--I would rather have had a girl, you know. Girls can be used
in the business much younger, and there is no such need of educating
them. Well, as I said, it is only for her sake--she is really a pearl
of her sex, and never complains. But I should like to see her shining
in a suitable setting. Posterity weaves no garlands for the actor, and
his contemporaries only too often twine for him a crown of thorns.
That they wound her forehead, too, is painful to me. I am really a
kind-hearted fellow. It is not true that genius makes people wicked and
selfish. You will yet be convinced of it."
I replied that I should not have much time to become acquainted with
all his good qualities, as I intended to continue my journey the
following day.
In fact, all these disclosures made my heart so sore that I wished
myself a hundred miles away.
He instantly took my arm again and led me on. "We will discuss that
subject further. I will not impose any restraint upon you, but, you
know, temptation is really violence, and I think you will be able to
endure our society for a few weeks at least. Come to the theatre
tonight. It is not our worst performance. True, when I think of the
difficulties with which a traveling company must contend, and how
differently I might fill the office of a priest of art, had not envy
and intrigues forced me away from the great theatres--"
Here he launched forth into descriptions of his former triumphs, to
which I listened with only half an ear.
I remained only half an hour in the club-room, to which he conducted me
mainly to show the distinction he enjoyed among these worthy citizens.
His game of dominoes, at which I was merely a spectator, wearied me,
and his drinking three small glasses of rum to one cup of coffee
completely destroyed my dawning good opinion of him. I pleaded a
headache, which would not allow me to endure the smoke-laden atmosphere
of the room, and, as he was entirely absorbed in a conversation with
several enthusiastic admirers, he dismissed me without opposition by
one of his royal gestures of the hand.
I sauntered in a very miserable mood through the little city and out of
the gate.
* * * * *
The day was beautiful, the air had been cooled by a light shower while
we were drinking our coffee, and the neighborhood of the little town,
with its fields and meadows dotted with fruit-trees, was well worth
seeing. But my mind was closed against the perception of anything
pleasant.
I could not help constantly saying to myself: "So she lives here, with
this man, among these people! And she has before her a long life, which
can never again tend upward to the heights, but always downward, slowly
paralyzing the mind and soul."
For the unruffled cheerfulness of her manner at the table had not
deceived me an instant. True, the life she had led in her uncle's house
was by no means what she deserved. Yet, in those days, amid all the
oppression, all the repugnance to so much that was base, her eyes had
sparkled with joyous pride, and her head was held proudly erect on her
strong shoulders. Now it drooped slightly as though under an unseen
burden, and her large eyes often wandered to the floor as though
seeking something that was lost.
My grief for her was so intense that it even crowded the old passionate
love into a corner of my heart, especially as I had taken a solemn vow
to see in her only the wife of another. Nay, I believe, if I had found
her perfectly happy, with head erect and laughing eyes, I would have
uprooted the weeds of envy and jealousy from my poor soul forever.
True, Uncle Joachim had said: "Whatever folly a woman like her may
commit, she will not allow herself to succumb to it." He knew her well.
But how much secret misery a human being may have to endure, even
though he or she "bears the inevitable with dignity."
Absorbed in these thoughts, I had walked a long distance, and was
already considering whether I should not let the "Ancestress" go, and
find some pretext for taking my departure that very evening, when I saw
Frau Luise herself, with her little boy, approaching me by the shady
path that led through a wood. The child was frisking merrily around his
mother, but she walked slowly with bowed head, and seemed to answer his
questions very absently. She had put on a small hat that had slipped
back from her head, and a blue sunshade rested carelessly on her left
shoulder. She came slowly forward without looking up, until the child
noticed me, and with a sudden exclamation ran to her and seized her
hand; then, with a friendly nod, she paused.
At first we talked of indifferent matters, the weather, the pretty
location of the city, and the superior fertility of the soil to that of
her native region. This brought us to the persons we had both known
there, and about whom she had been kept informed by Uncle Joachim. I
learned that my former pupil had been placed in the cadet barracks, and
that his sister was betrothed to Cousin Kasimir. Mademoiselle Suzon had
quitted the castle a few weeks after my departure, to return no more.
She passed quickly over this point, but a contemptuous curl of her
lower lip betrayed that she had been informed of the whole affair. A
young English lady had now taken the Frenchwoman's place; she did not
know whether she could play chess, but she seemed to fill her
predecessor's position satisfactorily in every other respect. Sometimes
the new pastor--the old one had gently fallen asleep in death--came to
the castle in the evening and held devotional exercises for an hour.
Everything else remained unchanged. The veteran peacock had spread his
tail for the last time the previous winter, and she was keeping some of
his feathers as a relic.
Then for a time we relapsed into silence. The dear child walked gravely
along between us, holding a hand of each. When we came out of the wood,
we saw a meadow thickly besprinkled with autumn flowers. "Run,
Joachimchen, and pick a beautiful bouquet for Uncle Johannes," said the
mother.
The child obeyed, climbing merrily over the little slope by the road.
"He is so bright," said Frau Luise, "he hears everything, and already
understands more than is well, or at least has his little confused
thoughts about all sorts of subjects. And I must tell you something
that is to remain a secret between ourselves. I have never so
thoroughly despised any one from the depths of my heart as Uncle
Achatz, and it was a punishment to me even to breathe the same air.
When I came to his house--only a few months after my mother's death--he
had the effrontery to persecute me with offers of love. He wished to
get a divorce and marry me. You can imagine that I longed to go out
into the wide world then; but pity for my aunt, who is a saint-like
sufferer, withheld me. During those sorrowful years I learned that man
has no other source of strength and peace than his conscience, his love
of truth, and the quiet communion with his God, who, it is true,
answers us not when we chatter to him overmuch, but when we listen in
the deepest silence. He commanded me to interfere when a good and
innocent person was shamefully insulted in my presence. 'The measure is
full!' cried a voice in my heart. 'You must no longer breathe the air
of this house, where all human dignity is trampled under foot.' So I
did what I could not help doing. I knew I was undertaking no easy task,
and those who charged me with frivolity never knew me. Now, with God's
assistance, I will perform it. And he has given me something that has
helped me through many a trying hour and will aid me year after year."
Her eyes wandered to the child, who had already gathered a handful of
flowers, and with sparkling eyes was holding them up to show them to
his mother.
"The dear little fellow!" I said.
"Yes, if I did not have him! He has never caused me a single sorrow. He
constitutes my entire happiness."
"Your _entire_ happiness, Frau Luise?"
The question had scarcely escaped my lips ere I regretted it. What
right had I to tear the veil she had drawn over her fate?
But she raised it herself.
"No," she said, "you must not misunderstand me. The child is not the
sole blessing I possess, but he is really my only _entire_ happiness.
You do not yet know my husband thoroughly. He is a noble-hearted man,
and would do anything for my sake, so far as he could anticipate my
wishes. But his profession makes him see the world in a different
light, and think other objects desirable. That is usually the case
between married people, and must be accepted. Have you ever or anywhere
found entire happiness? We must strive to receive the patchwork with
our whole souls, then the gaps will be filled, and, as the words run in
Faust, 'the insufficient becomes an event.' Stay with us a few days.
You will then judge many things differently."
I did not know what to answer, but a cry of terror from the boy
relieved me from my dilemma. We saw him suddenly spring aside, stumble
over a clod of earth, and fall, still holding the flowers tightly in
his little hand. I was at his side in an instant, lifted him, and saw
that an ugly fat toad, which had jumped clumsily into the ditch, had
frightened him. He was still trembling in every limb, but already
smiled again and held out the bouquet to me.
"His nerves are so sensitive," said his mother, as she smoothed the
little bare head. "If he could only be more in the open air. But all my
time is so occupied that I can scarcely manage to spend an hour out of
doors with him every afternoon. And his father lives so entirely in his
art that he does not see it."
She became absorbed in her thoughts, while I walked by her side,
carrying the boy in my arms. He soon climbed on my shoulders and
pretended I was his horse, till his shouts and laughter even called a
smile to his mother's grave face.
Just before reaching the city, we again walked decorously side by side.
I took my leave outside the house. Should I see her at the theatre? No,
she always remained at home and her husband went with his colleagues to
the club-room, so she could not receive me, but hoped to see me early
in the morning, or at any rate at dinner.
I dared not at once bid her farewell forever; nay, I no longer believed
I should have the courage to set out on my return the next morning. The
child had won my heart.
* * * * *
Of course I spent the evening at the theatre. The hall of the
Schuetzenhaus had been hastily fitted up, and for the first time I
admired Gottlieb Schoenicke's skill in placing shabby and faded scenery
and properties in the best light. My free ticket admitted me to the
most desirable place, which consisted of three rows of rush-bottomed
chairs, but I purposely took my seat on one of the back benches where
the humbler folk, the tradesmen, and resident farmers of the little
town, gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the play. The house was
packed; the large receipts would have warranted a better illumination.
But it was the rule not to light more than eight lamps in the
proscenium and one on every other pilaster, and I must confess that the
illusion was more perfect than in the broad glare of the gas in the
theatres of the capital.
I do not intend to deliver a discourse on the drama, and shall avoid
adopting the style of the countless romances of theatrical life,
especially as--apart from the external differences caused by the
changed methods of travel--the lives of these strolling players have
remained essentially the same since the days of Wilhelm Meister.
Besides, they are perfectly familiar to the world in general and
possess little interest. Only, for truth's sake, I must observe that
the "renowned" Spielberg company did honor to their name. Spite of
inadequate accessories and acting, the wonderful drama created by a
classically poetic imagination, still under the influence of romance,
exerted a fascination which even the lachrymose specter of Madame
Selmar, and the hypochondriacal, sepulchral tones of her husband, who
played Count Idenko von Borotin, could not destroy. Spielberg was a
superb Jaromir, and I now understood that his fervent chest-voice might
irresistibly charm the heart of a girl of twenty. In the scenes with
Bertha particularly--whose character, as personated by Fraeulein
Victorine, had a touch of witchery--his tones possessed a pathos that
brought storms of applause from the audience which, however, on
appearing before the foot-lights, he acknowledged--as became so great
an artist--with merely a quiet bend of the head.
During the performance his eye had discovered me in my dark corner, and
ere he left the stage he made a significant gesture as if to say, "I
expect to meet you again." But this was by no means agreeable to me. I
only hated him the more because he had extorted from me some degree of
admiration; besides, I longed to be alone in order to determine whether
to go or stay.
So I let the audience quit the hall, that I might not be accosted, with
provincial courtesy, by any of the inhabitants who chanced to notice
that I was a stranger, and was the last of all to emerge into the open
air.
It was a beautiful star-lit summer night, warm and still; the only
sound was the patter of the heavy dew trickling from the branches of
the trees in the Schuetzen Park. I paused outside, enjoying the same
sense of comfort we have while awake in bed between two dreams, in the
consciousness that we are still enjoying our bodily existence. Only the
day before yesterday I had been sitting on the bench in the parsonage
garden, beside the dear sensitive girl from whom the sudden outburst of
the flame of a hapless attachment had driven me, and to-day I was here
amid these totally unfamiliar surroundings, with the old fire once more
burning beneath the ashes, and must again save myself by flight if I
were not to perish utterly.
I saw the actors, who meantime had changed their clothes and washed off
their rouge, emerging from a little back door, heard their loud
conversation, and once even the call for "Doctor Johannes." Then the
little group dispersed under the trees toward the city, and, after a
sufficiently long interval separated us, I too set out on my way home.
Suddenly I heard a light footstep behind me, and a low, musical voice
said: "Are you in such a hurry, Herr Doctor, that you can't even look
round at a defenseless lady, far less offer her your arm and your
company?"
At the same moment a hand was slipped through my arm, and by the
uncertain starlight I looked into Victorine's big, mournful eyes.
"I was belated," she said, "and now I am glad to still find a
companion. Besides, I should like to become a little better acquainted
with you, for at dinner, when the manager's wife is present, my mouth
feels as though it were sewed up. Come, you needn't be afraid that
anything will be thought of it, if we are seen taking this nocturnal
promenade. We sha'n't meet even a cat, and you probably care no more
what Mrs. Grundy thinks of you than I do."
Her light tone, so strangely belied by her melancholy eyes, was
extremely repulsive to me: So I answered very coldly and a trifle
maliciously:
"I only wonder that Herr Daniel leaves the knightly service to
another."
"He!" she replied, with a short laugh, which, spite of her beautiful
voice, sounded very unmusical. "In the first place, he did not play
to-night, and was not even at the hall. And then, though he usually
pays me some little attention, we have had a quarrel to-day. You are
mistaken if you fancy he is in love with me. It's only old custom that
makes us keep together. His heart, such as it is, belongs to a very
different person."
"May I ask--?"
"Why not? It is an open secret. He's infatuated with Frau Spielberg,
though she's such a cold fish that it always makes me shiver merely to
look at her. She behaves, too, as if he were not in existence, and when
he gets into a rage about it he pours out his whole heart to me, and it
does him good to have me laugh at him. That is our whole relation.
Perhaps I ought not to speak to you so frankly about it. You are her
relative, and of course revere her as though she were a saint. But I
can't help it; she is insufferable to me, with her Canoness airs and
woful face the instant the company begins to be a little merry, and one
or another goes a shade too far. She ought to have kept away from the
stage. But she felt her human nature once when she threw herself into
Spielberg's arms. Why does she put on her governess manner now?"
As I made no reply--feeling disgusted by these blasphemies--she
chattered on, clinging still more closely to my arm.
"You see, even you yourself can not defend her. She is a positive
injury to the manager. He used to be such a pleasant, courteous man, a
genuine artist. Now he, too, poses as a Philistine and tutor, all by
the orders of his aristocratic wife. She would prefer to have the whole
company live in the same house, like a great cloister, to be able to
continually watch over them. And most of them are cowardly or obliging
enough to submit to it. But Herr Daniel, Herr Laban, and my
insignificant self don't care for such an institution for small
children. We always lodge at the hotel, and so you have the honor of
being only three doors away from me; your room is No. 6, mine No. 2. I
hope we shall be good neighbors."
I could not command my feelings sufficiently to enter into this light
tone, so I began to speak of something entirely different, and
praised--which I could do with a clear conscience--her acting that
evening.
"Nonsense!" she interrupted, "you can't be in earnest; for, between
ourselves, I played abominably to-night, I was so vexed by the scene
with Daniel, whom I had been lecturing because he confessed his
jealousy of you. Besides, I hate such sentimental parts, which
unfortunately I have to play most frequently. Before I joined
Spielberg's company--I was still very young--I was very fond of acting
the merry little coquettes, the gayer they were the better, and best of
all were parts like those of Parisian grisettes. But the manager
thought my face exactly suited the heroines of tragedy, so now I am
continually obliged to moan and roll my beautiful eyes toward heaven,
as, for instance, to-morrow in 'Cabal and Love.' I have finally become
indifferent to it, and, after all, we learn to act best the characters
most unlike our own."
I did not feel at all tempted to enter into a conversation upon the art
of acting and its higher demands with this girl. Meantime we had
reached our hotel, at whose open door the waiter received us with a
meaning face. I had evidently risen in his esteem, since I had the
honor of escorting the youthful leading lady home the very first
evening.
On our way up-stairs she said: "I don't know whether I can venture to
invite you to drink a cup of tea with me. I should be obliged to send
you away in half an hour at any rate, for I must read over my part of
Luise Miller once more before I sleep."
I excused myself, on the plea that I had a letter to write. She quietly
shrugged her shoulders.
"As you please, Herr Doctor, or rather, as you must. I forgot that you
are a kinsman of Frau Spielberg. So good-night, and no offense!
'Thou'rt ill, ah, return,
Return to thy room!'"
she declaimed from the role of Bertha, then dropped me a mocking
courtesy and glided into the door of No. 2.
* * * * *
I ordered supper to be brought to No. 6, not because I was hungry, but
to show the waiter that I had not availed myself of the favor of this
envied neighbor. Then I stood a long while at the open window, gazing
out into the narrow street and at the opposite houses, the homes of the
worthy citizens who led their quiet lives so contentedly, without
dreaming of tempests like those that raged in my heart and brain.
One light after another disappeared, the footsteps of some belated
pedestrian echoed less and less frequently from the pavement below; at
last no sound arose save the hoarse voice of the night-watchman calling
the tenth hour. The house, too, which was so slightly built that its
walls told every secret, had become perfectly still. I was just
unpacking my knapsack to make my toilet for the night, when I heard in
the corridor a stealthy step which stopped a few doors away from mine,
then a low knock, and after a short time a suppressed voice said,
"Victorine. Open the door! I have something to tell you!"
Of course, I could not hear the answer. The colloquy lasted some time,
the request for admittance being several times repeated, sometimes in
urgent, sometimes in coaxing tones, ere the closed door opened and was
noiselessly shut again.
The study of the role of Luise Miller would scarcely be pursued in
company.
This incident had the effect of sending me to bed, firmly determined to
turn my back as speedily as possible upon a world to which I did not
belong. I woke in the morning with the same resolution, and only
hesitated whether I should be expected to take a verbal farewell or
might depart with merely a written one.
But, while I was sitting at breakfast pondering over this weighty
question, some one knocked at my door, and a personage of no less
importance than Konstantin Spielberg himself entered.
Though he had sat up till late in the night with several of the town
dignitaries and some of his colleagues, and had drunk a great deal of
liquor, he looked so fresh, so full of strength and cheerfulness, that
again I could not help admiring him. He first kindly reproached me for
having so slyly deserted him the evening before. It had been my own
loss; he would have made me acquainted with some very intelligent
people; and his colleague Laban's witticisms had been like a perfect
shower of fireworks. But I should be forgiven if I would do him a great
favor.
"A favor?" I asked. "If only I have time to grant it. I shall leave in
half an hour."
That would be impossible in any case, he answered, arranging his locks
before the mirror. I must see him that night as the President; it was
one of his best parts, though he had resigned Ferdinand to Herr Daniel.
But, if I really had any friendly feeling for him, I must help him out
of a great difficulty. The prompter was to play Luise Miller's mother.
Gottlieb Schoenicke usually filled her place on such occasions, but
owing to his carouse the night before he had become so hoarse that he
could scarcely utter an audible word. So, if the performance was to
take place, I must consent to fill this part and accompany him to the
rehearsal at once.
All reluctance and pleas of my unfitness for this responsible post were
futile. And as, in the depths of my heart, I had sought some pretext
for being _compelled_ to stay, at least for one more day--ere I took my
leave, never to return--I finally allowed myself to be dragged away,
and half an hour later was standing behind the scenes with the
prompter's book in my hand.
Tall Herr Laban greeted me very cordially, and told me he yet hoped to
see me appear in different parts. It was a pity to waste my gifts:
figure, play of expression, voice, and taste for acting, all urged me
toward the stage, and the company was in great need of new talent for
the characters which he himself, now _invita Minerva_--he pronounced
the words with a faultless accent--was compelled to fill, though Nature
had originally intended him for a comedian.
Victorine gave me a careless nod, and studiously held aloof. Her friend
treated me with marked hostility, and was the only person who
constantly found fault with my prompting, for which the manager quietly
reproved him. Most of the members of the company performed their parts
at the rehearsal indifferently enough. Frau Selmar, however, personated
her Milford with a clear voice and through every shade of meaning, and
Laban gave an extremely clever performance of his Hofmarschall Kalb.
Gottlieb Schoenicke remained invisible. Whether he was sleeping off his
intoxication, or the story of his condition was merely a fiction to
induce me to act with them, I have never been able to determine.
After the rehearsal the actors unceremoniously dispersed; the manager
had some arrangements to make in the dressing-room, and I was no little
surprised when allowed a glimpse of this holy of holies to find only a
single, tolerably large room, divided by a few screens and a sheet hung
over a rope, into two dressing-rooms, one for the men, the other for
the women. In the broad light of day all this disorderly collection of
mirrors, rouge-pots, and clothes-presses looked uncanny enough, and I
hastily beat a retreat. But, as I was passing through the empty
auditorium of the theatre, I saw with astonishment Frau Luise sitting
on one of the rear benches.
"You here?" I exclaimed. "And absent yesterday evening? Do you attend
such unattractive rehearsals?"
"I never go to the theatre during the evening performances," she
answered, rising. "I will not allow the suspicion that I do not
consider the acting of the company worth looking at, so I sometimes
come to the rehearsals, which also serves the purpose of enabling me to
call my husband's attention to many points when we are alone. True, it
is of little use," she added, with a resigned smile; "these second-rate
people, among whom we are placed, are the very ones that have an
exalted opinion of their own talent and knowledge of art. But I feel in
a certain sense responsible for the acting of my husband, who is a
genuine artist, and I know that my opinion is not a matter of
indifference to him.
"Besides, dear friend," she added, after a pause, "you can not imagine
how lonely I am. So completely without society, except the company at
the dinner-table, I sometimes feel the necessity of sharing some sphere
of life, even though I might desire it to be a different one."
Then she thanked me for having granted her husband's request, and we
left the theatre together. On our way, while she frequently glanced
back to see if her husband were not at last following us, I told her
that I had determined to continue my journey to-day, and now positively
intended to take my departure on the morrow.
"You are right," she answered. "What should detain you here? You are
not fitted for these surroundings."
Then, after a pause, she added: "Write to me if you change your
residence. I should always like to know where you are to be found, for
I have one earnest desire, which I have long secretly counted on you to
fulfill. When you have a parish, or a good wife, such as I desire for
you, I should be glad to put my son in your charge."
"Do you intend to part with the child?"
"Yes, dear friend," she replied, her brows contracting with an
expression of pain. "How I am to bear it I do not know. But my
resolution is fixed. He must grow up in a perfectly pure atmosphere.
While he is a child, I guard him myself. But how long will that be?
Even now it is almost impossible for me to reconcile all my duties.
When I go to the rehearsals I am compelled to trust him to Kunigunde,
who is an excellent person, but does not always take the right course
with him, and he shall not accompany me to the theatre. It would be
worse than if I were to give him brandy to drink, instead of milk."
Then we grew silent. "Poor woman!" a voice in my heart continually
repeated; "you are indeed lonely."
Meantime we had returned to the town, and then something happened,
whose memory even now makes my heart throb faster.
When we entered the courtyard of the commandant's residence, my
companion's first glance sought the windows of her room. She suddenly
grasped my arm as if to save herself from falling, and I asked in alarm
if she were ill. But, as I looked up, a thrill of horror ran through my
frame also. For at the open window I saw the child, who had climbed out
on the sill, clinging with one little arm to the sash and stretching
out the other toward a drooping chestnut bough, whose ripening nuts had
probably roused his longing. As in his eagerness he held one little
foot suspended in the air, he seemed fairly hovering aloft with but the
feeblest support, and an icy chill crept down my back.
Suddenly I heard the mother say in her gentlest voice: "Wouldn't it be
better for me to get you the beautiful chestnuts, Joachimchen? You
shall have a whole handful, if you are a good boy and climb down again
at once. Do what your mother tells you, my darling. I am coming up
directly. Then you shall show Uncle Johannes how to make a chain of
chestnuts."
The smiling boy looked down at us, nodded to his mother, cautiously
drew first his foot and then his arm back from the giddy height, and
quickly disappeared inside the dark frame of the window.
My own heart had fairly stopped beating. When I could breathe again, I
wanted to tell my companion how much I admired her for having had
courage to repress any cry of terror that might have startled the
little one and perhaps hurled him to destruction. But the words died on
my lips, for the next instant she had thrown her arms around my neck,
and, with her face hidden on my breast, burst into such convulsive sobs
that I was forced to exert all my strength, to support the tall, noble
figure in its helpless emotion.
She did not regain her self-control until we heard steps in the
gateway, then, still clinging to my arm, she hurried into the rear
building and up the stairs. "Not a word about it to anybody!" she
whispered. At the top she stood still, panting for breath, and passed
her hand over her eyes. At last she rushed to her room, on whose
threshold the child met her, and clasped her sole happiness in her arms
with a cry of rapture in which all the pent-up excitement of the
mother's heart found utterance.
When, soon after, her husband entered, nothing but her unwonted pallor
and a tremor, which still ever and anon ran through her limbs, could
have betrayed to him that anything unusual had occurred. He, however,
in his jovial self-satisfaction, was so exclusively absorbed in
himself--having just purchased a new neck-tie which he meant to wear at
dinner--that he noticed no change in her. And there was no one else at
the table who took any special heed of her, except a young girl of
fourteen--the daughter of the Selmar couple--who had been too ill to
appear at dinner the day before. She went to Frau Luise, pressed her
hand affectionately, and anxiously asked if she were well. "Oh!
perfectly well," replied the happy mother, smiling, as she kissed the
girl's cheek and inquired about her own doings. The dinner passed off
very much like the one of the previous day, except that the manager
regretted he could not drink my health in a glass of wine as a token of
gratitude for my admirable prompting. But the rigid law of the
household prohibited all spirituous drinks until the evening--and he
cast a glance of comic terror at his wife.
I saw that she found it difficult to maintain her assumed cheerfulness,
and when we rose her knees trembled. So I suggested in a low tone that
she should lie down for a time and trust the boy to me for the
afternoon. She assented with a grateful glance and pressure of the
hand.
When, at the end of a few hours, I brought the child--with whom I had
formed the closest friendship--back to his mother, I found her sitting
by the very window at which she had gazed with so much horror. She was
still quiet and pale, like a person just recovering from a dangerous
illness, but I had never seen her look more beautiful and charming, and
felt that the duty of self-defense required me to take leave of her
now. I could not come to her room after the play, so we shook hands
without uttering what was oppressing each heart; I kissed the child,
for the last time as I supposed, and, in a mood well worthy of
compassion, left these two beloved beings expecting never to see them
again.
* * * * *
When the evening performances ended, amid great applause--which most of
the company had honestly deserved, even Victorine, whose Madonna eyes
were obliged to make up for the deficiencies in her soul, while
Daniel's acting, in its fervent sensual vehemence, if it did not depict
the "German stripling," presented a very attractive young hothead--I
attempted to again slip out unnoticed, but was detected by the
manager's watchful eye, and, as tall Laban joined him, was helplessly
carried off between them and dragged to the club-room. Protest as I
might, Spielberg insisted upon treating me, and while doing so
presented me to his acquaintances in the little town with great
ceremony as a young dramatic student, whom he hoped to secure for his
own stage. Meantime, one bottle of doubtful red wine followed another,
and while I took a very moderate share I marveled at the celerity with
which the great actor emptied one glass after another at a single
draught, without the slightest flush appearing on his face. During all
this time his stories of various events in his theatrical career seemed
inexhaustible, and his frank delight in his own genius sparkled so
innocently in his eyes, that it was impossible to feel vexed with him
or avoid listening with a certain interest to his marvelous anecdotes,
as one would to the tales of the "Arabian Nights."
At last the regular guests had all dispersed, even Laban had departed,
but the great actor still detained me and made a sign to the sleepy
waiter, upon which he instantly set a bottle of champagne upon the
table. "It's no-use, cousin," he said, in a sonorous bass voice, which,
it is true, now sounded a little husky; "we have a solemn act to
perform. I have vowed not to go to bed until I have drunk to a pledge
of fraternity with you in foaming sack. Come and pledge me! You are a
fine fellow, only you haven't yet found it out yourself. When you have
been in my company a few weeks, you will strip off the chrysalis and
wonder at yourself as your wings bear you from flower to flower. Even
if you often fly too near a light and scorch yourself a little, that is
better than your pastoral tepidity. Your health, my heart's brother!
Let us drink eternal friendship!"
Spite of my intense reluctance, I could not avoid his cordial embrace.
Then he grew quieter, and, with apparent business-like gravity, began
to discuss the capacity in which I was to enter his company. He spoke
of new pieces its members were to study, the revision of older ones,
for which he himself lacked time, and finally of his plan for including
light operas in his repertory, for which he could not dispense with a
conductor.
I listened without protesting, save by interjections and shrugs of the
shoulders. Meantime, he emptied the bottle almost alone and called for
a second, but I rose and resolutely declared I was going home.
"A plague on all cowardly poltroons!" he cried, staggering to his feet.
"Virtue exists no more!" Then followed a torrent of classical
quotations in a voice that made the windows rattle. Yet his gait was so
unsteady that I hastily sprang forward to support him. When we were in
the dark street, he passed his arm around my shoulders and tottered
along the road like a blind man. "Say nothing to her about it,
brother," he stammered, "nothing about the champagne. She hates
champagne, though in other respects she's a good wife; it's pure
jealousy, ha! ha! She thinks my heart belongs to the Widow Clicquot--a
worthy dame, in truth, who never reads me a curtain-lecture, but
her purse must be filled with gold if we want to win her favor, ha!
ha!--and the father of a family, you know. Never get married, brother!
'Long hair, short wits,'" and he began to sing the champagne aria in
the midst of the death-like silence of the Goose-Market.
When, with some difficulty, I at last succeeded in getting him up the
stairs to his lodgings, he became as still as a mouse, and trembled
from head to foot. "Don't tell her!" were the last words he whispered.
Then, forcing himself to stand erect, he gently opened the door.
"Good-evening, my angel," he stammered, and was going up to her to
embrace her. She silently rose and looked at him with a sorrowful gaze,
which suddenly seemed to sober him. "Well, well," he said, "it's hardly
one o'clock--we don't act to-morrow--I've done a good business, too,
haven't I, cousin? He'll stay with us, sweetheart; I've engaged him as
dramatist and conductor, at a monthly salary of twelve thalers for the
present--that will please you, I think. But now good-night, cousin! I'm
perfectly sober, only I couldn't tell the town how one becomes
President. So I'm going to take a long sleep, for the torture of the
day was great."
Amid all the confusion of his brain, he still retained sufficient
chivalrous courtesy to take his wife's hand and kiss it. Then he
staggered through the side door into the sleeping-room, and we could
hear him fall on the bed without undressing.