"Good-night, Frau Luise," I said. "You will see me again to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Certainly. To-morrow, and every day until you yourself send me away.
Perhaps I may yet make myself useful here--though not as conductor."
* * * * *
After that night I no longer led my own life.
My existence seemed only valuable when I made myself a slave, soul and
body, in Frau Luise's service, coming to her aid wherever her own grand
and lofty strength failed.
In reality I was making no sacrifice by this self-abnegation. For,
as I have already confessed, my own aims and purposes had vanished,
as a light on which a nocturnal traveler depends suddenly proves a
will-o'-the-wisp, and flickers into a marsh mist. I felt averse rather
than inclined to enter a pulpit, and I had not sufficient love or
talent for any art or science to induce me to devote my life to it.
Clearly, as though written on the wall by some spectral hand, the
sentence stood before me: "You are a mediocre man from whom the world
has nothing to hope in the way of happiness or enlightenment. Rejoice
if some good human being can warm his hands by your little flame."
I also perceived the correctness of my opinion by the fact that this
discovery, instead of wounding me, created a sense of peace I had
hitherto lacked. Rarely have I awaked in a mood so joyous, feeling as
it were new-born, as on the morning after I had placed myself at the
service of this noble woman. And the difficulties in regard to my
former occupation which still embarrassed me were to be dispelled in
the simplest way.
With my breakfast a letter was brought in, which had been forwarded
from the estate I had left, as I had said I should remain in this place
for several days. A former fellow-student, a very admirable and
intelligent man, wrote that some weakness of the throat compelled him
to give up his profession as a preacher. Until he could determine how
to shape his future life, he desired to seek a position as tutor in a
family, and begged me to aid him as far as possible. I instantly wrote
to my employer, informing him that I could not return to his house for
reasons which at present I could disclose to no one, but which he would
certainly approve if I could ever confide the whole truth to him. At
the same time I proposed in my place the college friend, for whose
character and education I could amply vouch.
I took leave of him and his whole family, who had become so dear to me,
and requested him to send my property to me except the books, which I
would leave for the present in my successor's care. Then I wrote a few
cordial lines to my friend the pastor. As I added the farewell message
to his dear daughters, the sorrowful face of the eldest again appeared
before me in the most vivid hues, and her earnest eyes seemed to say:
"You do not know what happiness you are losing."
But I was proof against any temptation to return.
Early that very morning I hurried to Herr Spielberg's rooms. He
received me in a Turkish dressing-gown, with his brightest face, and,
when I inquired how he had slept, answered, laughing: "You probably
expected to find me a quiet fellow, cousin. But you must know that
champagne and I are on the best of terms. When we do fall out, however,
champagne always gets the worst of it; or to quote Julius Caesar:
'We were two lions litter'd in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible.'
"But, good-morning. I hope you haven't slept off overnight what we
arranged yesterday. How much salary did I promise you? I don't
remember. But I won't play the rogue to you at any rate."
I told him that I would remain only on two conditions: first, that I
should have entire liberty to do nothing except what I felt competent
to accomplish; and secondly, that there should never be any question of
wages. I had saved enough, during my three years as a tutor, to live
without earning anything for a time.
He made no reply, only shook his ambrosial locks thoughtfully and
struck my shoulder with his hand, like a prince accepting the homage
and service of a vassal. Then he called his wife, who was in the
adjoining room, dressing the boy.
She entered with her usual calm expression and, avoiding my eyes, held
out her hand. The boy ran to me and threw his arms around my neck.
"What do you say, dear," cried the artist, "he has really determined to
stay. Of course, it is solely on your account, for he would not throw
up his profession for my sake. Well, I hope you will treat him kindly.
'This lad--no angel is from sin more free,
Craving thy favor, I commend to thee.'"
With these words he rose, smiling, leaving me to decide whether the
quotation referred to my character of Fridolin, or to Joachimchen, who
expressed great delight on hearing that Uncle Johannes would take him
to walk immediately.
After her husband had left the room, Luise came to me and said in a low
tone: "I can not approve your decision, Johannes. But I am so weary
that I have not the strength to combat it."
* * * * *
I shall avoid giving a minute description of the time that now
followed. No one can feel disposed to pursue the destinies of such a
strolling company, the alternations of good and evil fortune, or the
coming and going of its members, in greater detail--nay, even for
theatrical history the list of its plays would have no value, as it was
not at all regulated by the spirit of the time, nor even by the
fashion, but patched together from new stock and shabby rubbish, as
chance and the difficulties of stage-setting permitted.
During the first few months the enterprise remained in about the same
stage of prosperity as I had found it. Then, by the withdrawal of the
Selmars and their charming daughter, it fell several degrees, soon rose
again by advantageous engagements, and then declined in consequence of
our worthy stage-manager's being made helpless for months by a fall
from a high scaffold. These fluctuations corresponded with the ebb and
flow in the cash-box, and, but for the wise economy of the manager's
wife, there would often have been a failure in the payment of salaries.
But the name of Spielberg always possessed sufficient attraction to
fill the house tolerably well, and make amends for the recreant
members. The most faithful were those from whom I should have least
expected loyalty--Laban, who, with all his apparent frivolity and
jesting, felt a sincere and warm reverence for Frau Luise, and the
young couple, whose stay, it is true, was due to less honorable traits
of character.
How they were to regard me, and in what manner my position as dramatic
"maid of all-work" was to be interpreted, at first caused them much
perplexity. They soon learned that I was not working for money. My sole
pecuniary profit consisted in my paying no board, as Frau Luise would
not permit any other arrangement, and occasionally, when lodgings for
all could be hired, I was not allowed to pay for my sleeping-room. In
return, I made myself as useful as I could, coached green beginners in
their parts, sometimes stood at the side-scenes or crouched in a
subterranean box with the prompter's book in my hand, copied parts,
arranged plays so that ten characters could be compressed into six, and
only drew the line of my services at the one point of obstinately
refusing to undertake to act any part, no matter how trivial.
At first they attributed this to arrogance, of which, spite of his
unassuming helpfulness, they credited the "doctor" with a large share.
But, after I had once told them that I cherished too lofty an idea of
art to sin against it by bungling work, I rose no little in their
esteem, and even Spielberg, who never ceased saying that I was a genius
in disguise, let me alone.
The suspicion that I was following the company as a secretly favored
admirer of the manager's unpopular wife had of course at first
suggested itself, even to the better natures among them. But the calm
irony with which the great artist crushed all allusions to such a
relation did not fail to produce its effect, as well as the perfectly
unembarrassed demeanor of the suspected woman herself, and my own
Fridolin countenance, which expressed anything rather than the secret
triumph of a favored lover.
And, indeed, I was not on a bed of roses.
Not to mention that I was forced to purchase the happiness of being
daily in her society, and making myself indispensable to her by a
hundred little services, at the cost of witnessing her suffering,
which, it is true, she bore like a heroine, but which nevertheless
constantly consumed her strength and youth--it was a most painful thing
to be compelled to witness her husband's steady progress toward the
ruin to which the unfortunate man opposed less and less resistance. At
first I had endeavored not to lose sight of him after the play was
over, striving--in the outset with mild, afterwards with the most
earnest remonstrances--to recall him from his fatal passion. As he had
a gentle, yielding nature, I succeeded several times in doing so. But
Daniel, who with fiendish cold-bloodedness played the part of his evil
genius, soon made him disloyal to his best resolves and vows, so, at
the end of a few weeks, I was forced to let the evil pursue its course.
For a time the leonine constitution of which he boasted resisted the
effects of his nocturnal debauches, at least so far that no traces of
them were visible the following morning. Then, in the consciousness
that he stood in need of forgiveness, he was courteous and affectionate
throughout the day, like a little boy who fears punishment, and paid
his wife all sorts of charming little attentions.
But as his weakness gained more and more control, and his nervous
strength began to fail, he no longer took any trouble to deceive us
about his condition, and instead of showing repentance and
embarrassment, after spending half the day in bed suffering from the
effects of his intoxication, he tried to conceal his evil conscience
under an air of boastful defiance, and bluntly declared that genius
required great stimulants, and need not be restrained by Philistine
rules.
Of course, with such irregularities, which soon became the rule, no
firm, careful management of the company was possible. By degrees all
business cares and responsibilities were shifted to my insignificant
self. It was enough if the sick lion crawled out of his den an hour
before the performance, rolled his bloodshot eyes in front of the
mirror, and then made his somewhat husky but all the more tragic voice
resound through the theater till the puzzled spectators left the house
with the acknowledgment that he had "roared well" again, and no one
could easily outdo him in shaking his mane.
Nevertheless, in this disorder, the company lost its power of
attraction more and more, and were obliged to change from place to
place more frequently, and these numerous journeys increased the
expenses and demoralized the members. I did what I could to stay the
ruin, and, besides a silent clasp of the hand from the woman I loved, I
was rewarded by the confidence and devotion of most of my colleagues.
Only two, who watched the mischief with quiet malice, showed me their
aversion more openly, the more honestly I tried to save the tottering
car of Thespis from breaking down.
These two, of course, were Daniel and Victorine.
For a long time the cause of their evident dislike was a mystery to me.
For the insolent young fiend could not long suppose that he had been
supplanted in the favor of the object of his secret worship by the
faithful squire, and his publicly-acknowledged sweetheart, disagreeable
as she was to me, I treated with the utmost courtesy. The real purpose
of both, and the reason I stood in their way, did not dawn on me until
afterward.
Daniel's passion for the pure and proud woman was of the nature of
those feelings with which fallen angels survey their former heavenly
companions. He could not forgive her being so unapproachably far above
him. To drag her down, gloat over her humiliation, take vengeance for
the coldness with which she passed his hellish ardor by--this was the
diabolical idea that haunted him day and night. He well knew it was
madness to hope for its attainment so long as our wandering life
pursued its usual course. But, if everything were thrown into
confusion, the husband utterly ruined, the wife overwhelmed by poverty
and despair, he relied on conquering the helpless woman, and, with
Satanic energy, grasping her when mentally broken down as his sure
prey. Whoever strove to check this development of the tragedy he could
not fail to hate.
He had such power over Victorine that she shared this mood--though the
infernal plot affected her too. Besides, I had made her forever my foe
by remaining wholly indifferent to her charms. I will pass over the
proofs I might bring forward, not because I am ashamed of my _role_ of
Joseph, but, even without this, I shall have occasion to speak of
myself more than is agreeable to me.
* * * * *
I should have led no enviable existence, had not Heaven itself provided
some consolation and strengthened my heart.
Whenever we settled for a few months in one of the larger cities, I
always obtained a piano, which was placed in Frau Luise's room, or, if
there was no space there, in the dining-room--she still maintained the
rule of having the meals in common, though the Round Table constantly
dwindled--and here we passed our only hours of pure, unshadowed
happiness. For, when she sang and I accompanied her, the narrow walls
seemed to expand, the earth, with everything base and unlovely it
contained, to sink beneath us, while we ourselves floated in a sunny
atmosphere where everything was harmony and peace, love and hope, and
every wound that bled secretly healed at once as though touched by the
hand of some enchanter.
We did not permit ourselves this delight daily, only on Sundays and
when, for some reason, there was no acting. The boy, meantime, sat in a
little chair and never turned his eyes from his mother while she sang;
or I took him on my knee while I played the accompaniment, and he gazed
wonderingly at the keys. At last I began to give him a few lessons on
the piano, and was amazed to see how easily he understood everything.
Oh, that child! He became more and more the one unalloyed delight of my
life, for unmixed happiness in the society of his mother was impossible
for me.
Afterward, during my long life as a teacher, I had an opportunity to
observe many hundred boys, and to this companionship I owe a thousand
pleasures. But neither before nor after did I ever meet a child like
Joachimchen.
He was no prodigy in the usual acceptance of the word. No technical
talent, no intellectual gift developed with extraordinary power or
precocity, and, even in music--the only instruction I began in his
sixth year to give him regularly--he made no remarkable progress.
But the quality this young creature possessed to a far greater degree
than other children of his age, was the subtlety and accuracy of his
mental perceptions, by which he infallibly distinguished truth from
semblance--a, if I may so express it, moral clairvoyance which enabled
him to give the most striking opinions of persons and things without
any precocious conceit. No trace of child-like vanity, no desire for
praise, marred this innocent faculty of his soul. He was like a clear
mirror, which reflected in their real outlines the images of everything
that surrounded him. Any one whom he loved was sure to be pure and
good; for everything base and sordid, though it approached him under
the most flattering guise, instantly repelled him.
Yes; there was a well-spring of cheerfulness in this little human being
which, in proportion to the delicacy of his physical condition, became
the more refreshing to him and those who best loved him. His thoughtful
views of the world, and the luster of the large eyes in the little
palid face, would have roused our anxiety, had not shouts of mirth
often issued from the narrow chest, while even in his quieter moments
there was no trace of sickly peevishness or weariness. The little
naughtinesses, almost invariably seen in an only child who is deeply
loved and spoiled, were foreign to his nature. A sign, a word would
guide him. It was only in the society of other children that I
frequently perceived a shade of reserve and fretfulness in his manner,
so I persuaded his mother not to force him into their companionship. On
the other hand, he was all the more vivacious, even to the verge of
ungovernable delight, when we took him out to walk. He chased all the
butterflies, made friends with all the little dogs he met, and, mounted
on a hobby-horse, galloped along, swinging his little riding-whip.
Everybody loved him, though he was very chary of his caresses. He was
shy only with his own father.
Often at dinner--the only time he spent a whole hour with him--I saw
him fix a watchful gaze upon Spielberg, just when the latter in his
most radiant mood was pouring forth high-sounding speeches about art
and artists. The boy never uttered a word, though often, to the delight
of the others, he made one of his quaint, penetrating remarks to some
member of the company. Never, either to me or his mother, did he
mention his father's name. But the latter, whose face always beamed
with the consciousness that he was impressing every one, evidently
avoided meeting the child's eyes, and, when he felt their gaze on him,
became so confused that he often hesitated in the middle of a sentence
and lapsed into silence. I do not remember, during all the time that we
lived together, a single instance when he showed the boy any
tenderness, or troubled himself in the least about him.
* * * * *
I had agreed with Frau Luise that, on account of the child's delicate
constitution and sensitive nerves, he ought to be guarded from all
mental excitement, though he was now six years old, an age when
children usually begin to Study the alphabet and primers. To train him
in the use of his hands, I gave him easy lessons in drawing, which he
greatly enjoyed, let him practice daily half an hour on the piano, and
sing with his clear little voice intervals and simple songs. During our
walks I told him Bible stories, which, whatever may be thought of their
historical value, ought--as the most venerable traditions from the
earliest days of the Christian world--to be given every child for his
journey through life, as well as the fairy lore of our nation.
Yet I was obliged to limit even this elementary instruction, because
the boy's unusually vivid imagination transformed everything which was
intended merely to serve for amusement into solid food for his mind.
For instance, he became as much excited over the history of Joseph and
his brothers as a grown person would have been by a novel. I directed
his thirst for knowledge exclusively to natural objects, so far as my
defective education in this department permitted, and everything seemed
to be going on admirably when a slight attack of fever roused our
anxiety.
The company had settled in one of the larger cities on the shore of the
Baltic, where they were doing an excellent business. So the plan of
instantly departing, and perhaps breaking up the threatening disease by
a change of climate, could not be entertained. Besides, the physician,
whom the mother questioned, did not consider the case serious,
attributed all the symptoms to the child's rapid growth, and prescribed
a different diet and certain strengthening measures which seemed to
have a good effect.
We had formerly divided the care and training of the boy in such a
way that he was never left a moment without his mother or myself.
Now she would not allow me to take her place except for an occasional
half-hour, and even at dinner remained in her room, while we were
served by Kunigunde. For a long time she had given up the sleeping-room
to her husband's sole use, and contented herself with an uncomfortable
couch made up every night on the sofa, while the child's little bed
stood close by her side.
He could not be allowed to see the condition in which his father
usually returned at midnight.
One morning she received me with an anxious face. Joachimchen was
reluctant to leave his bed, complained of headache, and did not want
his breakfast. The doctor, whom I instantly summoned, soothed her as
much as he was able. The fever had not increased, perhaps some childish
disease was coming on, which would produce a favorable change in his
whole physical condition. He prescribed some simple remedy, and we felt
a little relieved.
He became no worse in the evening. But I had told Spielberg that I
could not perform my duties that night, and, as the play had been acted
hundreds of times, I really was not needed behind the scenes.
When at ten o'clock I felt the pulse of the child, who was lying in an
uneasy slumber, I thought there was no occasion to fear a bad night,
and persuaded his mother to lie down in order to save her strength. I
would sit up a few hours longer, as I had some alterations to make in a
new play, which was then creating a sensation--I believe it was the
"Son of the Wilderness"--in order to adapt it to the scanty strength of
our company.
My room in the private house where we had taken lodgings was on the
same floor as the manager's, and I could be summoned by the faintest
call. But for several hours everything remained quiet, and I was just
thinking that I might venture to go to bed when I heard the drunkard's
heavy footstep on the stairs. He had wished the sick child a good
night's rest, with evident sympathy, and even now seemed to remember
that he must enter softly. Nor did it surprise me that he did not go
directly to his own sleeping-room as usual, but gently raised the latch
of his wife's door. He wants to inquire how the boy has rested, I
thought.
I had just closed my book and was preparing to retire for the night
when I heard the door of Frau Luise's room thrown open, Spielberg's
voice faltering unintelligible words, and shrill moans and cries for
help from the boy which sent a thrill of terror through every nerve.
But I had no time to reach my door, for at the same instant it was
flung wide open, and the unfortunate mother, clad only in the white
dressing-gown in which she was in the habit of lying down when
Joachimchen needed any special care, darted in, her face death-like in
its pallor, holding the wailing child in her arms.
"Protect us! Save the child!" she cried, with a terrified gesture, and
as she rushed to my bed, drew back the curtains and hastily laid the
boy, whose slender frame was convulsed with sobs, on it, she whispered,
with a glance of intense fear: "He will follow us! Bolt the door! O,
God, this too!"
She had thrown herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping her
darling's quivering form closely in her arms, pressing her lips to the
little pale face, and murmuring in confused words that he must be
quiet, nobody would hurt him or his mother, he had only been dreaming,
now he must go to sleep again, and his mother and Uncle Johannes would
stay with him all night.
The child did not cease moaning, struggled into a sitting posture in
her arms, and cast an anxious glance around the room as if he feared a
pursuer. And in fact some one knocked at the door, but very timidly,
and, as none of us answered the request to open it, silence followed,
and we heard the steps retire and the door of Spielberg's room open and
close.
But there was no improvement in the child's condition. He tossed
convulsively to and fro, his eyes rolled without any sign of
intelligence, and his face burned with fever.
"I will get the doctor, Frau Luise," I said. "I hope it is only a
crisis." She made no reply, but gazed fixedly at the little one's
distorted features, and endeavored by her embrace to control the
convulsions that shook the slight frame.
We found them still in the same state when I at last brought the
physician.
The worthy man, who felt the most sincere reverence for the poor
mother, made every effort to conceal his alarm. When, after a few
hours, during which he had watched the very trivial success of his
remedies, he took his leave, promising to return early in the morning,
and I lighted him down the stairs, he pressed my hand with a heavy
sigh. "Poor woman!" he said. "The child does not suffer at all; it is
not conscious. But how the mother is to bear--"
"So you have no hope--"
"There is inflammation of the brain, more severe than I have often
witnessed. But nature is incalculable. Do you know how it happened that
his condition changed for the worse so suddenly?"
I answered in the negative. It was not until long afterward that I
learned what had occurred in the brief interval between the father's
entrance and the mother's flight.
Spielberg had returned home with a clearer head than usual. When he
entered his wife's room, she half arose from the sofa and laid her
finger on her lips. By the light of the dim night-lamp he approached
the child's bed, softly touched the little sleeping face, gazed at it a
short time, and then turned to his wife, whispering: "He is doing
admirably." She merely nodded, and when, in an impulse of his old
tenderness and sympathy with her anxiety, he held out his hand, she
kindly returned the clasp. He sat down on the edge of the bed and told
her in a low tone that the play had been much applauded and the
receipts large. When she asked him to go to rest, as talking might
disturb the child, he answered that he was not tired, but felt inclined
to have a short chat with his beloved wife. When she shook her head, he
moved nearer, and, putting his arm around her, begged her to go into
the next room with him for a little while. It was so long since they
had had a confidential talk, and there was rarely time for one during
the day. The more he urged, the more firmly she declined, till he
finally threw both arms around her and whispered: "If you don't come
voluntarily, I will use force! You are my wife!"
Then, as she resisted with desperate strength, he fairly lifted her up
and was carrying her away, when a shriek from the child's bed suddenly
made him loose his hold. The boy was sitting up, staring with dilated
eyes at the nocturnal scene, and stretching out his little arms as if
to aid his defenseless mother. The next instant he had sprung from the
bed, climbed on the sofa by his mother's side, and, thrusting his
father away with his little clinched hands, screamed: "You sha'n't kill
my mother! Go away! You sha'n't hurt her!--" till, exhausted by terror,
the chivalrous child succumbed to a severe attack of fever.
* * * * *
The boy lay in the same condition all night, without a single interval
of consciousness. We had not removed him to his own little bed; my
room, situated at the end of the corridor, was quieter than his
mother's. Neither of us left him. His father had come in early in
the morning, but, as he found the child apparently calm and received
only curt answers from his wife, who did not vouchsafe him a single
glance, he soon went away again. For the first time his unshadowed
self-complacency had deserted him. He hung his head like an unjustly
accused criminal before the judge, whom he can not hope to convince of
his innocence.
The physician had returned very early. He uttered no word of
discouragement, but his troubled face, after he had examined the child,
so oppressed my heart that I could not even venture to ask a question.
But when I went out with him he pressed my hand, whispering: "If he
survives the night--but we must be prepared for everything."
The actors, who were all very fond of the little fellow, stole to the
door, tapped gently, and asked me for news of him. The only one who
entered the room was Daniel. He bowed silently to Frau Luise, and then
stood a long time at the foot of the bed; but, after a hasty glance at
the little invalid, he fixed his glowing dark eyes on the mother, who,
still robed just as she had fled to me yesterday, sat beside the child,
now hovering between life and death. At first she took no more notice
of the intruder than of anything else that was passing around her.
Suddenly she seemed to feel his scorching gaze, and looked up; the
blood crimsoned her pale cheeks, and she flashed a single glance at the
man she so detested. His head sank, as if he had been struck by an
arrow, and he glided on tiptoe out of the room.
Victorine alone did not appear. She had never showed any affection for
the child, and, besides, was to have a benefit that night, for which
she wished to freshen her costume by many little devices.
No one thought of dinner. Kunigunde brought Frau Luise some food, which
she did not touch. I myself hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls in the
kitchen. Spielberg, who after the rehearsal had again inquired for the
child, went to the hotel with the others.
So the evening approached. The boy's condition remained unchanged,
except that the fever increased, and every remedy used seemed
powerless. After a bath, however, which the doctor himself helped to
give, he seemed somewhat quieter, and lay still and pale in my large
bed, the dear little face only occasionally distorted by a slight
convulsive quiver.
The father entered in street dress. For the first time his wife looked
at him, and her lips parted in a question--her voice sounded hoarse and
hollow after her long silence.
"Are you going to act to-night, Konstantin?"
He went up to the child and touched its pale forehead.
"He is better. His forehead is perfectly cool. I will come back as soon
as the play is over."
"He is _not_ better. If, meanwhile--"
She could not finish the sentence.
He looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away to hide the
tears the unhappy mother's voice brought into my eyes.
"If I could be of any assistance here," he said, hesitatingly; "it
costs me a hard struggle to leave you, but you will find that the night
will pass quietly, and to-morrow we shall be relieved of all anxiety."
"To-morrow!" she repeated, dully. "You are right; to-morrow we shall be
relieved of all anxiety."
Turning abruptly away, she bowed her face on the pillow of the little
boy, whose chest was beginning to heave painfully.
The artist had already gone to the door, but stopped, saying: "Since
you prefer it, I will give up the performance. I am so agitated that it
would be a poor piece of acting; and then--if he is really--no, it is
better so. They must do as well as they can. Farewell!"
I felt how deeply each one of these careless words wounded her. But no
sound or look betrayed that she was conscious of anything save her
maternal anxiety.
Yet--when, half an hour later, a boy brought a note in which was
scrawled in pencil, "I had entirely forgotten that it is Victorine's
benefit. Unfortunately, it has been impossible for me to induce her to
give me up, and, besides, we have a very crowded house. Let us bear the
inevitable with dignity. Konstantin"--I saw by the gesture of loathing
with which she crushed the sheet and flung it into the corner, that the
wife possessed a vulnerable spot as well as the mother.
Still she uttered no word of comment, and the next moment seemed to
have entirely forgotten it.
For the brief armistice produced by the bath had expired. The last
struggle began. It lasted only a few hours, then all was over. The
brave little heart had ceased to beat.
The mother sat like a statue of despair beside the bed, holding the
little white hand, which no current of blood would ever again warm, and
gazing fixedly at the closed eyelids and livid mouth distorted by pain
that would never more utter any merry words. It was as still around us
as though the night was holding its breath, in order not to rouse the
mother's agonized heart from its beneficent stupor. I had thrown myself
into a chair in a dark corner, and felt as though I were sinking deeper
and deeper into the bottomless abyss of the vast enigma of the world.
From time to time I was forced to struggle with the temptation to rise,
go to the poor woman, fall on my knees before her, and plead: "Keep
your heart firm that it may not break. If you follow him into the
grave, I shall perish too."
But I conquered this selfish impulse. What mattered what happened to
me! What mattered anything, since this child no longer breathed!
The window stood open, the still night air--it was early in June--stole
into the room, but, as the house stood in a quiet side street, rarely
bore with it the sound of a human voice or a passing footstep. The play
must be over, and, with silent indignation, I expected to see the
artist return home to-night in the same condition as yesterday. But I
had done him injustice.
His footstep echoed from the street below as firm and full of stately
majesty as when he trod the boards in his most exalted characters.
Beside it was another, which I should instantly have recognized as
Daniel's elastic tread, even had not his voice been audible also. The
words were unintelligible. But he must have been telling some amusing
story, for his companion's resonant laugh interrupted him several
times. They did not cease talking till they reached the door of the
house.
His wife started at the sound of the laugh, and rose. The little
lifeless hand slipped from her clasp. She passed her other hand over
her brow and her lips moved, but I did not understand what she was
saying, and I only saw that her eyes were sullenly fixed on the floor.
Her husband entered softly. "O, God!" he exclaimed, as he glanced at
the bed. "It is over!" He pondered a moment to find something to say to
his wife, then with a deep groan went to the boy and was about to bend
over him. But he started back as the mother suddenly stood before him,
with her tall figure drawn up to its full height.
"You shall not touch him," she said, in a harsh, hollow tone. "Go, at
once--we have nothing more in common with each other. May God forgive
you for what you have done! Go, go!" she repeated, in a louder tone,
as he made a gesture of entreaty--"I will not bear one word from
you--here--by this bed--in this hour--"
"Luise!" he exclaimed wildly.
"Hush!" she replied sharply, "I pity us both, you as well as myself. I
know you do what you cannot avoid. But go, go! Something is rising in
my soul--something terrible. If I should see you before me longer,
poor--comedian, I might utter words I should repent to-morrow."
Spielberg tottered out of the room. But, as soon as he had closed the
door behind him, his wife sank down beside the couch of her dead child,
and a convulsive sob burst from her sorrow-laden heart.
* * * * *
(Here in the manuscript follow several pages, in which a detailed
account is given of everything that happened during the next few days.
After so many years, every little circumstance was still present to the
narrator, and his grief for the boy, his sympathetic insight into the
soul of the hapless mother, burst forth with such renewed strength that
he felt a sorrowful relief in again conjuring up, incident by incident,
these melancholy recollections. But we will not take up the thread
again until after the earth has closed over the little coffin, which
was wholly concealed under the garlands bestowed by the actors and some
kind people among the inhabitants of the little town. The mother, who
could not be prevented from walking in the funeral procession, had
watched with tearless eyes, as if they were "burned out," her "entire
happiness" placed in the grave--the father had displayed a pathetic
emotion, whose extravagance touched no one. The next evening a comedy
was again played, and the great artist did not miss a word of his
part.)
* * * * *
The fortunate star of the renowned company of artists seemed to have
vanished when the child's eyes closed.
The audiences at the theater daily diminished, two of the most useful
and indispensable members broke their contract and left the manager
in great embarrassment, he himself, after having exerted some little
self-control during the first period of mourning, plunged still more
madly into his nocturnal carouses, and, when I earnestly remonstrated,
asserted with tragic affectation that he had no other means of drowning
his grief. Recently he had even smuggled a bottle of strong liquor into
the dressing-room, contrary to his own rule, prohibiting the use of
wine or spirituous drinks of any kind during the performances. So it
happened that he sometimes declaimed his lines with a stammering
tongue, and lost the last remnant of his authority over his company and
effect upon the public.
I watched the increasing trouble with deep anxiety; but the mute
abstraction in which the unhappy wife passed her days tortured me still
more. At last I ventured to speak to her on the subject, and it seemed
as though she had only been in an apparent death-trance, which was
broken by the first tender word, the first touch of a friend's hand.
"I thank you, Johannes," she said, and for the first time her dull eyes
grew wet with tears. "You are right, I must try to control my grief. It
is not death which has clutched me in his bony arms and stifled every
breath. Life, dear friend, is far more cruel; I cannot break the chains
and bonds in which it has fettered me. But even a convict who drags an
iron ball by a chain must perform his task. It was cowardly and
childish to neglect my daily duties. Only have a little patience with
me; I will hold up my head again."
From that moment she resumed all her duties to the company, managed the
money matters, kept an eye, with Kunigunde's assistance, on the
wardrobe, sent the members word that she would again provide the
dinner, and only shrank from one thing--occasionally attending a
rehearsal as usual.
She again treated every one pleasantly, but never spoke a word to her
husband except when he addressed her. Her misfortune had drawn the
members of the company nearer to her; the women, especially, showed her
many little attentions, except Victorine, who held aloof as before, and
no longer even appeared at the Round Table.
But, when darkness came, she always went to the graveyard and remained
there an hour alone, declining even my companionship with a silent
shake of the head. But we met each other several other times when she
was returning home, and walked silently side by side, absorbed in the
same thoughts, which needed no utterance. I only remember that I once
asked her how she could reconcile this pitiless blow with God's
fatherly kindness. She stopped and, raising her tearful eyes to heaven,
answered:
"Never for one moment have I doubted him. Spite of all the burdens that
weighed upon me, I was the most blessed among women, and God is wise
and just. He lets the tree of no earthly happiness grow into heaven.
But, for the very reason that he took the child from me, I know that he
has not deserted me. If he had left him to me, and he had some day seen
with his innocent eyes the ugly world around us as it really is, and
been permitted only the choice between scorning it or becoming akin to
it, who knows what he would have decided, and either course would have
made both him and me wretched. Now I have buried him here in my heart,
in all his purity and loveliness, and may love him forever, far better
and more fervently than when I still clasped him in my arms. And,
though this love is full of sorrow, neither time nor fate has any power
over it, and for this I thank God, whom I always know near to me when I
go down into the depths of my own heart and feel the dear child living
on there."
What answer could I have made? My whole philosophy became pitiful and
humble before the pious trust of this strong soul. She received the
news calmly, when one day at table her husband said that they would be
obliged to change their residence. The receipts were miserably poor,
and he had had an invitation from the magistrates of the next town on
the coast to give a series of plays, lasting several weeks.
As he spoke, he cast a side-glance at his wife, as though fearing she
would object to leave the place where her child lay buried. He had long
since fallen into the habit of discussing no subjects, when alone with
her, except those required by absolute necessity.
To his surprise she simply assented. Even, when, three days after, we
departed and I drove through the gate in the same carriage with her and
the worthy lady whose young daughter played the _ingenues_, while
Spielberg, with Daniel and Victorine, formed the rear-guard, she had
strength enough to give no sign of the emotions which must have
assailed her in parting from the little grave.
But the hopes with which we had struck our tents were not to be
realized. Just at that time a panic occurred in commercial circles that
made itself felt in the seaport no less than in the large North German
commercial towns. People kept their pockets buttoned, and even the
renowned artist could not open them.
He became so irritated by this state of affairs that, to punish the
ingratitude of the age, he intentionally hid the light of his art under
a bushel, and played his parts with such haughty negligence that even
the few patrons of the theater, who had known his reputation, shook
their heads, and transferred their favor to the less famous members
of the company. Victorine was the admiration of the young merchants;
the _ingenue_ previously mentioned turned the heads of the older
school-boys; Daniel, whose acting, even when most negligent, always had
its interesting moments, found favor with the critics in the two local
papers--yet, nevertheless, the receipts were so small that the company
would have been compelled to disband had not Frau Luise's wise economy
provided a reserve fund for such contingencies. She paid the salaries
as regularly as ever, and kept the wardrobes and other requisites in
decent order, without receiving any special thanks from any one.
* * * * *
I myself was entirely out of funds. Two and a half years of this
wandering life had devoured my savings, I could scarcely be seen in my
shabby clothes, and, though protected from any anxiety about food, had
not even the small amount of pocket money required for trifling wants,
so that I was sometimes seized by a mood of despairing melancholy, and
should undoubtedly have been up and away some day had I not known how
indispensable I had become. If I left the company, everything must
go to ruin. I could tell myself, without vanity, that the breach of
my--unwritten--contract would be equivalent to fracturing an axle in
the car of Thespis.
Moreover, was I not bound body and soul to this woman, considering
myself transcendently rewarded if she held out her large, firm hand to
me in the evening and said, "Good-night, dear friend!"
Still, these miserable circumstances oppressed me more and more, and
one day, when I met in the street a college friend who meanwhile had
had a prosperous career, and while on a business journey had come to
our Pomeranian coast, I bore his look of compassionate surprise with a
bitter laugh, and willingly accepted his invitation to share a bottle
of wine with him that evening at his hotel and make a general
confession.
I had made no confession for years, and it was months since a drop of
wine had moistened my lips. So only a single glass was needed to lure
from me an unreserved acknowledgment of my wretched plight.
There was but one thing I carefully concealed--the strongest chain that
bound me to this miserable existence, my mad, hopeless love for this
woman. Yet, had the hand of a god suddenly aided me to tear myself
free, what could I have done with my liberty? To what occupation in
civil life should I have found the door open, I, a runaway Candidate of
theology, who had not disdained to play the part of factotum to a
company of traveling actors for two years and a half.
So when, toward eleven o'clock, I took leave of my former comrade, we
were no wiser concerning my future, and what I had to hope and fear
from it, than in the beginning.
He had told me, with a shake of the head, that there must be some love
affair in the matter, and correctly understood my shrug of the
shoulders. But, as he had been to the theater the night before, he
seemed undecided between Victorine and the young _ingenue_.
"Let me sleep over the affair," he said at last, as he went out into
the hall with me--we had had our wine in his chamber, as there was
much noise and confusion in the public room below--"I sha'n't see you
to-morrow, because I must leave very early, but I will write as soon as
a good idea occurs to me."
I pressed his hand and thoughtfully descended the stairs. In going up,
two hours before, I had seen in the public room below Luise's husband
and several actors, among them Daniel, who was inseparable from the
manager. Meantime, eleven o'clock had come, but they had not yet
separated, and I wished at any cost to avoid meeting them. But, just as
I was stealing softly past the door, it was thrown open, and my friend,
tall Herr Laban, staggered out, supported by one of the younger actors.
Both were in the gayest humor. "Look there, look there, Timotheus!" he
shouted, laughing. "Where the deuce hast thou been hiding"--he always
used 'thou' to me--"while we have been seeing the most capital farce
played here? You have missed a great deal, I can tell you, Doctor; and,
in not saying good-night to your traveling friend over our heads, you
have stood very much in your own light. Isn't that so, Juvenil?"
The young man laughingly agreed that it had been a splendid joke--no
comedy of errors had ever amused him so much.
I tried to pass on with some careless remark, but Laban seized my arm
and, while we helped him down the last steps, began to tell me the
story in his comical way.
They had drunk several glasses when Daniel began to boast of his talent
for imitating living persons, and instantly gave several proofs of this
ability by copying the voice and gestures of the landlord and some of
the regular guests, to the delight of the whole company. Spielberg
alone had sat in his heroic grandeur, looking on with an air of
contemptuous dignity, and finally remarked that such monkey tricks,
which dazzled the public, were easy, and besides found their limits in
certain figures whose majesty rendered them, as it were, unapproachable
for mimicry. Did he include himself among them? the insolent fellow
asked, and, when the great man nodded silently, he laid a wager that he
would personate him so exactly that he would hardly know whether it was
himself or his double. They ordered a bottle of champagne, and then
Daniel led the manager into the next room. After a short time the door
opened again, and Spielberg strode in. Everybody asked whether Daniel
was not ready or had given up his wager. "That young man promises much,
and does nothing save to make fools of honest Thebans," was the reply,
after which he approached the table with his stately walk, shook the
bottle in the ice and exclaimed: "A plague on all cowardly poltroons!"
Then they first discovered that it was Daniel, and not the great actor
himself, and even then it was only the little hand he owes to his
Polish blood that betrayed him. But, just as there was a general burst
of applause and laughter, the door again opened and a second Daniel
appeared, in a gray summer suit and Polish cap, with his cat-like tread
and feminine movement of the hips, so that the uproar and clapping of
hands grew louder than ever--for nobody had ever imagined the manager
possessed such a talent. This, however, was merely the beginning of the
farce. Each continued to play the character of the other: Daniel in the
belaced velvet coat, with straw hat pulled over his forehead, toasted
his image, amid constant quotations uttered in his resonant voice, and
Spielberg, with all the Harlequin tricks the other was in the habit of
using on the stage, never let the laughers stop to take breath, so that
each of the two had won and lost the wager. But, when they had broken
the neck of the second bottle, Daniel suddenly became silent, went to
Spielberg, and whispered something which made the manager look puzzled.
But his double seized his arm and led him out. When after a long time
they did not return, we asked for them, and the waiter said that after
whispering together for some time the two gentlemen had left the hotel
arm in arm.
I do not know why I could not laugh at this amusing trick. But I
hastily took leave of the two actors, whose room was on the top floor
of the hotel, and, in a most uncomfortable mood, passed out into the
street just as the clock in the nearest church-steeple struck eleven.
Though I felt no inclination to sleep, a strange anxiety urged me
homeward, as if I were expected there.
My way led through the street in which the other hotel stood. Here
Victorine and Daniel lodged. And just as I glanced at the door of the
house I saw the fellow--whom I easily recognized by his dress--ring the
bell and, directly after, with a greeting from the porter, cross the
threshold. But what thought occurred to me? Was that really Daniel--or
was it his double in his clothes? And, if it were the latter, what was
he doing in that house, where Victorine was now probably waiting for
the _other_?
However, I had no time to ponder over this idea, for the question
suddenly darted through my brain: What has become of that other, the
false Spielberg?
Suspecting some deviltry, some base trick, I rushed through the
deserted streets to the house where Frau Luise lived, and I, too, had
my modest room in the upper story. She was in the habit of sitting up
late with some piece of sewing or a book, usually alone, for faithful
Kunigunde closed her eyes at nine o'clock. As I hastily drew out my
night-key I noticed that the door, contrary to custom, stood half open.
I did not take time to shut it again, but, with trembling hands,
lighted the little pocket-lantern, which must illumine my way up the
dark stairs, and rushed on. But I had not yet reached the landing on
the first story when I heard Frau Luise's deep tones, and then saw her
facing her husband--no, his double, who, with his straw hat on his head
and his coat flung open, slowly retreated before her, his ardent dark
eyes fixed with an indescribable expression on her face.
Frau Luise was holding a little lamp in her left hand, and had raised
her right threateningly against the scoundrel, her face, whose waxen
pallor usually formed a striking contrast to her mourning dress, was
flushed with the crimson hue of wrath, and her eyes shone with a
strange, supernatural luster.
"You will leave this house at once and the city tomorrow," I heard her
say. "You are the most contemptible of human beings, and what you have
presumed to do merits a bloody chastisement. I am a woman, and must
leave it to my husband to avenge this insult as he deems best. But, if
you should ever have the effrontery to appear before my eyes again--"
"Pardon me, madame," he interrupted--and, though he endeavored to
appear entirely nonchalant, I detected in his tremulous voice that he
did not feel entirely at ease while confronting this haughty figure--"I
beg a thousand pardons; I did not imagine you would take an innocent
jest so tragically, especially as your husband saw no offense in it. We
had laid a wager that I could personate him exactly. The final and
hardest test, of course, was whether his own wife would recognize me.
Well, at first you certainly believed me to be Herr Spielberg, and were
not undeceived until I took the liberty of embracing you--doubtless a
husband's kisses are less ardent than those of a lover, who for two
years has yearned to even once press his lips upon a mouth which never
had aught for him save contemptuous silence. Though I have lost my
wager, the kiss that betrayed me is abundant compensation, and so,
fairest of women, I have the honor--"
He was not to have breath to finish the sentence. For, in a fury I had
never experienced before, I rushed upon the miscreant, seized him by
the chest, and, tearing off his hat with the other hand, shook him by
the hair till his sneering face wore an expression of mortal terror, as
I dragged him to the stairs and would have flung him down heels over
head, had he not by a sudden movement, lithe as a young panther,
escaped from my grasp, and, thrusting me aside, glided down the dark
stair-case, muttering an imprecation between his set teeth.
* * * * *
We heard him shut the door of the house and, in the fear of pursuit,
hurriedly lock it. Then, in the death-like stillness that again
prevailed, we looked into each other's eyes to see if it were possible
that we had actually experienced this, or whether some dream had
conjured up the same vision before both. I saw her tremble as if some
unclean beast had clutched her in its claws. A quiver of wrath and
loathing contracted her brow and lips. "I thank you, Johannes," she
said. "But excuse me, I must go in now and wash myself. O, Heaven! all
the perfumes of Arabia--but no, we can only be sullied by our own evil
thoughts. Do not you think so, too?"
She turned away and carried the lamp back to her room again. I followed
her to the threshold.
"Frau Luise," I asked, "will you let me shoot the rascal down like a
mad dog? Or do you consider him worthy to receive his punishment in an
honest duel?"
"You must do nothing to him," she answered in a hollow tone. "If,
as I still hope, it is false that another person knew of this knavish
trick, it is that other's business to avenge the insult that was
offered to him even more than to me. To-morrow will decide this. It is
late now--you must leave me--I must wash my face and the hands that
touched the scoundrel, even to push him away."