The winter gaieties had fairly begun in the South-German capital, and in
the exclusive court circle the artistic element played a prominent part.
The duke, who loved and fostered art, took great pride in being
accounted its patron, and strove to make his capital an intellectual and
artistic centre. The young poet who had been received so favorably by
the court, and whose first great work was soon to be produced at the
court theatre, was an object of great interest to the little world. It
was an almost unheard of feat for a Roumanian to write in the German
tongue, even though it was admitted that, in this instance, the writer
had received his education in Germany. Here, as at Rodeck, he was the
bosom friend and guest of Prince Adelsberg, and many strange and
wonderful stories were related of this friendship. But Hartmut's
personality, above all else, created for him an enviable position no
matter where he turned. The young, handsome and genial stranger,
surrounded as he was with a halo of romance and mystery, had only to
appear to have all eyes turned upon him.
Soon after the return of the court to the city, the rehearsals for
"Arivana" began, and its author and Prince Egon had the matter in
charge.
The latter entered so enthusiastically into the spirit of it all, that
he made the lives of the director and theatre attachés miserable with
his many and contradictory suggestions concerning the setting of the
drama, a matter about which, it is unnecessary to add, they were much
more capable of directing than he. At first they could not get an
actress to suit them, but they finally secured the services of a young
and favorite opera-singer named Marietta Volkmar.
The preparations for the performance, which they had intended originally
to bring out late in the season, were now hurried forward with all
speed, for royal visitors were expected at court, and the duke was most
anxious that this weird and poetical drama with its Indian setting
should be presented before them. Unusual honors to the poet were
prophesied as a result of this spectacle.
Such was the condition of affairs when Herbert von Wallmoden returned to
the court, and he was, naturally, painfully surprised.
He had asked his wife casually, while inquiring for others, whether the
prince's Roumanian friend had yet left Fürstenstein, and she had
answered in the negative. He had not expected Hartmut to leave at once,
for the latter had declared most positively he would not. But Wallmoden
imagined he would think it all well over, and when Prince Adelsberg left
Rodeck that would end the whole matter. Under no circumstances would
Rojanow appear by the prince's side at the capital where the ambassador
had threatened to denounce him at once.
But Baron von Wallmoden did not understand the unyielding defiance of
this man, who had indeed dared much. Now, upon his return from the
north, he found this "adventurer" established on a very sure footing, in
close intercourse with the court and society of the capital. It would be
a most embarrassing matter to explain everything at this late day, when
all were on the _qui vive_ of expectation, and when the duke was so
deeply interested both in the new drama and in its author. It would make
a very painful impression in all circles. The experienced diplomat did
not disguise from himself the fact that the duke would complain, and
with reason, that all this exposure should have been made on the first
day of the stranger's appearance rather than at this inopportune time.
There remained nothing for it but to be silent and await developments.
Wallmoden had no thought of the danger which had threatened himself. He
had not seen fit to tell his wife anything concerning his old friend
Falkenried's history, and decided now that she had better know nothing
more about Prince Adelsberg's friend than was known by their associates.
No conversation concerning Hartmut had ever passed between them save the
one fleeting question and his wife's monosyllabic answer.
But he felt he dare keep silence no longer toward his nephew Willibald,
for there would be a similar scene to that enacted by the mother at
Hochberg if the son was surprised by the sight of his boyhood's friend.
The young heir had accompanied the Wallmodens to the southern capital,
where he intended remaining a few days, when he was going on to
Fürstenstein to see his betrothed, for the head forester had expressly
requested that the September visit, which was so suddenly interrupted,
should be finished later in the season.
"You were only with us a week," he wrote to his sister-in-law, "and I
desire to see something more of my future son-in-law. Everything is in
order again, I trust, in your much loved Burgsdorf, and there is little
to do in November at any rate. So send Will to us, even if you cannot
come yourself. I will not take no for an answer. Toni is waiting to see
her lover--so don t fail!"
Frau von Eschenhagen admitted that he was right, and she was glad enough
to have Will go. He had made no further attempt to assert himself
against her motherly authority, and appeared to have fully regained his
reason again. He had grown quieter of late and since his return from
Fürstenstein rushed with greater zest into all his agricultural
pursuits; he had, take it all in all, behaved in a most exemplary
manner.
On one point alone he remained obstinate, he would not discuss with his
mother the "idiocy" of which he had been guilty and which caused their
sudden journey home, and avoided all reference to the subject. Of course
his mother understood how it was; he was ashamed of his sudden
excitement, and of a passion which had been only momentary, and wanted
to forget it and have her forget it, too, as soon as possible. As for
the rest, he wrote regularly to his bride-elect, who responded most
punctually. Frau Regine, who considered it her special prerogative, read
all this correspondence, and declared herself satisfied with it. There
was no sentiment, no declaration of affection, in these letters; they
were quite practical epistles, telling of home matters in a homely
fashion, but they evinced Will's intention to keep his word and marry
his cousin on the day appointed, and now near at hand.
So Willibald was told that he could go and visit his bride; the
permission was granted all the more willingly because Frau Regine knew
that Marietta Volkmar must have returned to the city long since. Baron
von Wallmoden and his wife had paid a flying visit to Burgsdorf on their
way south from the Stahlberg factories, and Willibald was put in their
care and was to spend a few days in the South-German Capital. During
those few days in which he would remain in the ambassador's house, he
was perfectly safe, his mother assured herself.
The baron found that it would be necessary to tell his nephew about his
old friend at once. On the very day of their arrival, Hartmut Rojanow's
name was mentioned several times in Willibald's presence. He asked
promptly to whom the name belonged, and was answered, 'to a young
Roumanian poet.' An unmistakable wink from his uncle was all that saved
him from further questions.
Then when they were alone the ambassador explained to Willibald who and
what this Hartmut Rojanow was. An adventurer of the lowest and worst
type, whom he would soon expose and force to abandon forever the _rôle_
which he was now playing with so little right, but with such signal
success.
Poor Willibald shook his head in a dazed sort of way over this news. His
old friend, for whom he had always had a warm and unchanged affection,
notwithstanding the episode of ten years before, was near him now, and
he dare not see him again.
Wallmoden was especially sharp and explicit about this, and made his
nephew promise to say nothing about the matter to Frau von Wallmoden or
his uncle von Schönau. But poor Willibald could not understand it at
all; he needed time and quiet with this as with all other things, to
comprehend them fully.
The day on which "Arivana" was to be produced, came at last. It was the
work of a young and unknown poet, but the circumstances connected with
its production were such that society was anxious to judge for itself of
this work of the duke's latest protégé. The theatre was crowded to
overflowing, and the ducal couple with their suite were early in the
court boxes. Although no special announcement had been made, the evening
was evidently looked upon as a festival occasion, and every one was
attired _a la grande toilette_, the ladies vieing with one another in
the richness and brilliancy of their dress.
Prince Adelsberg, who was in the ducal box, was as much excited as if
he had written the drama himself.
His aunt, too, was greatly interested in the success of the evening's
entertainment, and had been looking carefully over the play bill when he
entered the box; she called him to her at once.
"Our young friend seems to have his whims like all other poets," she
remarked. "What a singular caprice to change the name of his heroine in
the last hour."
"But that is not the case," Egon answered. "The change was made long
before we left Rodeck. Hartmut took it into his head that 'Ada' was too
cold and clear-cut a name for the passionate character of his heroine,
so he re-baptized her."
"But the name 'Ada' is here on the programme," interrupted the princess.
"Certainly, but it belongs to quite a different person in the drama now,
one who only appears in a single scene."
"Then Herr Rojanow has made his alterations since he read it for us at
Fürstenstein?"
"Only a few; the play is really quite unchanged with that single
exception. Hartmut has added that scene with Ada in it, and I can assure
your highness it's the most poetical thing he has ever written."
"Of course, everything your friend writes is wonderful in your eyes,"
his aunt answered, but her unusually gracious smiles showed that in this
opinion she did not disagree with him.
The ambassador and his wife, who had only returned forty-eight hours
before, sat in one of the large proscenium boxes. Baron von Wallmoden
was anything but a willing guest of the court to-night, but he knew it
was incumbent on him in his position to accept this evening's
invitation. The duke had invited the whole diplomatic corps, and as the
North German ambassador and his wife had dined at the ducal table that
evening no excuse could be offered for declining the later
entertainment.
Willibald had come too, to see and hear the work of his old-time friend;
as his uncle was to be there, surely he had a right also. It did not
please Wallmoden to have him there, but he could not well forbid his
nephew's presence when he himself was present. Will, who had some
difficulty in obtaining a seat in the parquette, unfolded the programme
carelessly, when suddenly his eye caught the name of "Marietta Volkmar,"
and knew whom he was to see this evening. He folded the programme
hastily and put it in his pocket; he regretted in this moment that he
had come to the theatre at all.
Finally the performance began. The curtain rose, and the first act,
little more than a prelude, was soon over. It was an introduction to the
spectators, of that weird, fantastic, legendary world into which they
were to enter, with Arivana, the sacred place of offering, the holy of
holies, in the foreground.
The principal character in the drama, the young priest, who in the
fanaticism of his belief puts everything earthly far from him, as
unclean, appeared, and in a few masterly, powerful lines, pronounced his
vow, by which, for him, for time and eternity, all earthly bonds were
loosed, and he was committed heart and soul to the service of his God.
The oath was taken, the holy flame blazed and waved on the sacrificial
altar, and the curtain fell.
The applause, started at once by the duke, resounded on all sides. This
work, about which so much had been said, was bound to be a success, in a
certain sense, for this one evening at least. But there was something
more than idle flattery in this applause. The spectators felt at once
that, a true poet had spoken to them; the creation had already had the
commendation of the court, but the public were carried away with it
now. They were charmed by the diction, by the characters, and by the
subject, and when the curtain rose anew, there was a look of silent
expectancy on every face.
The drama now moved forward in majestic measure upon a scenic background
as full of warmth and color as the language and characters of the piece.
The luxuriant vegetation of India, the fabulous pomp of her temples and
her palaces; the men and women with their wild loves and their still
wilder hatred; the rigid laws of their faith; all this was strange and
fantastic, but the manner in which these men and women felt and acted
was familiar to every one. They stood under the influence of a power
which is the same to-day that it was a thousand years ago; the same in
the tropics and in the colder climes of the north; the power of passion
in the heart of man. It was indeed a doctrine of fire, and its burden
was the inalienable right of passion to sweep away every obstacle, to
break down every barrier of law and custom, of oath and pledge, which
stood between it and its aim.
A right which Hartmut Rojanow well understood and illustrated in the
exercise of his own unbridled will, which knew no law and no duty, and
to which self-gratification was the highest good.
The awakening of this passion, its mighty growth and final triumph, was
described in words of ravishing eloquence, and depicted in pictures
which seemed drawn, now from the purest heights of ideality, and now
from the depths of the pit. The poet had done wisely to drape his
characters with the veil of an oriental legend, for under this covering
he might express sentiments and present scenes, which otherwise would
scarcely have been forgiven, and he did this now with a boldness which
threw glowing sparks into the souls of those who heard him, and held
them enthralled as if by some infernal spell.
By the close of the second act, the success of Arivana was assured.
The work was presented with a skill and perfection of acting never
surpassed on any stage. The actors in the two principal _rôles_ played
their parts with a fire and perfection which could only have come from
genuine enthusiasm. The heroine was no longer called Ada. That name was
borne by a being who stood, strange and alone, in this restless world of
surging passions; one of those half-fabulous creatures with whom the
Indian legends people the icy summits of the Himalayas; cold and pure as
the eternal snows which glisten in those lofty regions. She appeared
only in one scene, and at the decisive moment of the drama, where she
moved through the stormy action as if upon spirits' pinions, warning and
exhorting, and Egon was quite right when he said that the words which
the poet put into her mouth were the most beautiful of the whole play.
Suddenly the pure, white light of heaven breaks through the red glow of
the drama; the scene is beautiful, but short and swift and fleeting as
the zephyr's breath. The chaste form vanished to the snowy heights of
her distant home, while here below from the river's moonlit shore rose
the song of the Hindoo maiden--Marietta's soft and swelling voice; the
cry of warning from above was lost in these sweet seductive tones. In
the last act came the tragic ending, the judgment upon the guilty pair
who suffer death in the flames. But this death was no atonement, it was
rather a triumph, a glorious apotheosis, and out of the midst of the
fire flamed high toward heaven the infernal doctrine of the
unconditional right of passion. The curtain fell for the last time, and
the applause, which had increased from act to act, rose now to a perfect
storm. The house shouted for the author and would take no denial. At
last Hartmut came forward, free from every trace of embarrassment, and
beaming with pride and joy. He bowed his thanks to the public, which had
held to his lips that night a cup of delight such as he had never before
tasted. They are intoxicating, these first draughts from the goblet of
fame! In the pride of victory the young poet cast a glance toward the
proscenium box whose inmates he had already recognized.
He did not find what he sought.
Adelheid had leaned back in her chair and covered her face with an open
fan. He saw only the cold, unmoved countenance of the man who had so
deeply insulted him, and who now was the witness of his triumph.
Wallmoden understood only too well the mute language of those flashing
dark eyes; they said to him:
"Dare to despise me now!"
* * * * *
At an early hour the next morning, Willibald von Eschenhagen entered the
great city park, which, he had just declared to his uncle, he would
explore for himself. This extensive, well-wooded park, which lay before
the city's very doors, was well worth a visit, but Willibald took scant
notice of its beauties as he hurried on in the keen November morning. He
glanced neither to the right nor to the left, but strode on, striking
into this path and now into that, frequently re-treading the very ground
which he had left but a moment before.
Perhaps this brisk, aimless walk, would silence or stupefy the passion
and excitement which were struggling for mastery within him.
Some of his excitement was due to seeing his old friend again, for he
had been greatly moved at the sight of him. Fourteen long years he had
heard nothing of Hartmut, had been forbidden even to mention his name,
and now he stood before him suddenly in all the pride and glory of a
rising poet's fame, wonderfully changed in appearance and manner, but
yet the old Hartmut still, the same with whom he had so often frolicked
and never quarreled in by-gone days. Even had he been unprepared, he
would have known his dear old friend at a glance.
Wallmoden had been greatly disturbed and annoyed at the result of the
previous night's performance. He had scarcely spoken as they drove from
the theatre, and his wife had been equally taciturn. She explained that
the heat of the crowded room had given her a headache, and in
consequence retired at once upon reaching home.
Her example was followed by her husband, who, as he bade his nephew
good-night, said:
"Do not forget our talk, Willibald. Be silent before every one, no
matter who. You'll have to be on your guard, too, for the name of
Rojanow will be on every one's lips for the next few days. He's had luck
this time, like all adventurers!"
Willibald made no answer to this, but he felt that something beyond
adventurer's luck had come to the author of Arivana. Under other
circumstances he should have looked on this drama as something unheard
of, inexplicable, without in the least understanding it, but last night
he seemed to comprehend it all fully.
One could love without the consent of parent or guardian; such freedom
was not confined to India alone--it often happened in Germany as well. A
promise given thoughtlessly and blindly could be broken, but what then?
Yes, then came the fate which Hartmut had pictured so beautifully, yet
so vividly. Will was fully determined to transfer the lesson which
Arivana had taught him to Burgsdorf. Surely the punishment invoked by
the furious priestcraft, would be no worse than the vial of Frau von
Eschenhagen's wrath.
The young heir sighed deeply as he thought of the second act of the
drama, where, from the group of Hindoo maidens, the sacrificial figure
steps forth. How lovely she looked in her soft, white, clinging
garments, with the wealth of flowers in her dark curly hair. His eyes
had never left her during the two or three times when she had appeared
for a moment on the stage; then her song sounded forth from the shore of
the moonlit river, the same clear, sweet voice which had captivated him
in the little parlor of Waldhofen, and here again were the same old
unholy feelings against which he had battled so bravely then.
And the worst of it was that he no longer considered them unholy.
The energetic walker came for the third time to a little temple which
was open at one side and within which were seats inviting to rest, and a
marble bust in the centre. Willibald stepped in and sat down, less from
necessity for rest than with the hope he might in this seclusion get his
disturbed thoughts in order.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning, and the grounds were almost
entirely deserted.
Only a single pedestrian, a young man elegantly attired, lounged along
slowly, and to the casual observer, purposelessly.
But he was on the lookout for some one, for he glanced with unconcealed
impatience toward the winding walks which led direct from the city.
Suddenly he stepped quickly behind one of the pillars which supported
the little temple, where he could see any one approaching without being
seen himself.
About five minutes later a young lady walking briskly came along a
narrow path which led past the temple. She was of slight, graceful
figure, wore a dark, fur-trimmed mantle with cap and muff to match, and
was glancing over a roll of manuscript as she stepped quickly forward.
Suddenly she gave a surprised cry, which had anything but a joyful
sound, as the young man stepped in front of her.
"Oh, Count Westerburg."
The man bowed low as he exclaimed:
"What a happy accident! Who would have thought to find Fräulein Marietta
Volkmar seeking the fresh air of the park at this hour."
Marietta stood still and looked the speaker well over from head to foot,
before she answered, in a tone of mingled anger and contempt:
"I do not believe it is by accident that you so often and so
persistently cross my path, Herr Count, although I have been very
explicit as to the annoyance which your attentions cause me."
"Oh, yes, you have been very cruel to me," said the count reprovingly,
but with unmistakable assurance. "You will not permit me to visit you,
despise my gifts of flowers, hardly acknowledge my greetings when you
meet me. What have I done to you? I have ventured to prove my devotion
by laying at your feet a little tribute in the form of jewels, but you
return them with--"
"With the explanation that I decline such insolent advances now and
always," Marietta interrupted angrily; "that I will have no more of your
brazen impertinences. You have waylaid me purposely to-day."
"Good heavens! I am only here to sue for pardon for my boldness," said
the count, as he stepped, with apparent submissiveness, directly in
front of her in the narrow path. "I know full well how unapproachable
you are, and that no one guards her reputation more jealously than the
beautiful Marietta."
"My name is Fräulein Volkmar," cried Marietta angrily. "Save such
familiar speeches for those who appreciate them. I do not, and if you do
not cease your importunities, I will in future claim protection against
them."
"Whose protection?" sneered the count. "Perhaps that of the old woman
with whom you live, and who is forever at your side! It is only when you
go to Professor Marani that she is left at home; you do not regard the
old singing master as dangerous. But that is the only time when you are
without her."
"Except for a morning walk in the park, of which you are apparently
aware. Get out of my path, please. I want to go on."
She attempted to pass him, but the count put out both arms to intercept
her.
"You will at least, give me permission to accompany you, Fräulein? You
can see for yourself the walks are lonely and deserted, and I'm bound to
offer you my protection."
The park was indeed deserted; no sign of life in any direction, and the
brave girl was secretly alarmed, but she answered, boldly:
"Do not attempt to follow me a single step. Your protection would be as
unendurable as is your presence. How often have I to repeat that?"
"Ah, how angry she can get," said the count with a malicious laugh. "Ah,
I must be repaid for those hard words. I must have a kiss from those
rosy lips which speak so harshly."
He made a movement to take her in his arms, as the girl drew back,
really alarmed now, but in the same moment he lay sprawling upon the
sward, a heavy blow, well aimed, having thrown him to the damp ground,
where he lay, a most contemptible object!
Marietta turned, more alarmed than ever, in the direction from which the
blow had come, and the angry, hot expression on her face was succeeded
by one of boundless surprise, when she saw who it was that had come to
her aid so suddenly, and now stood by her side gazing grimly at the
prostrate man whom he had put in this humiliating position with such
evident satisfaction.
"Herr von Eschenhagen--you?"
Count Westerburg had in the meantime risen with some difficulty, and now
advanced threateningly toward his new enemy.
"Sir, what do you mean by this? Who has given you the right--who has
given you the right--"
"Stay where you are! Don't advance a step nearer this lady," interrupted
Willibald, placing himself in front of Marietta, "or I'll send you
flying under those trees, and you won't get up from the second blow as
soon as you did from the first."
The count, who was neither very large nor very rugged, and who had felt
already the weight of this young giant's fist, measured Willibald for a
minute, but that was long enough to convince him that a hand to hand
scuffle could only result one way.
"You will give me satisfaction--if you are capable of giving
satisfaction," he began in a half-suffocated voice. "Probably you don't
know that you have before you a--"
"A low scoundrel whom it will give me pleasure to discipline," said
Willibald, composedly. "Remain where you are, if you please, or I shall
be obliged to do it on the spot. My name is Willibald von Eschenhagen of
Burgsdorf, and I am to be found at the residence of the Prussian
ambassador, if you have anything more to say. I beg you to accept my
protection, Fräulein, and I'll pledge myself that you'll not be insulted
again."
And then something unheard of, almost past belief, happened.
Herr von Eschenhagen, without awkwardness or embarrassment, with the
grace of a gentleman of the old school, offered Fräulein Volkmar his arm
and led her away, without troubling himself farther about the low
scoundrel!
Marietta had accepted his arm, but she spoke no word; as soon as they
were out of hearing she began, with an agitation which was anything but
natural to her: "Herr von Eschenhagen--"
"Yes, Fräulein?"
"I--I am very grateful to you for your protection. But the Count--you
have insulted him deeply--he will challenge you, and you will accept his
challenge?"
"Certainly, with the greatest pleasure," answered Will, and a smile
broke over his face which proved that such a state of affairs would give
him great gratification. His stupidity and obtuseness had disappeared,
he felt he was a hero and deliverer, and was very well satisfied with
himself. Marietta looked up at him in speechless surprise.
"But it is terrible that all this should happen on my account," she
remonstrated. "And that it should be you, of all men."
The last remark did not please the young man.
"You evidently regret that, Fräulein," he said rather stiffly. "But
under such circumstances you cannot always have what you want. I was
near by, and you were forced to accept my services even though I do not
stand very well in your esteem."
A flush crossed Marietta's face as she remembered the time when she had
poured the vials of her wrath and contempt over this man who now came to
her rescue so bravely.
"I was thinking of Toni and her father," she answered softly. "I am
altogether blameless, but if I should be the cause of tearing you from
your bride--"
"Then Toni would have to accept it as an intervention of Providence,"
answered Willibald, upon whom the mention of his betrothed seemed to
make no impression. "One can but lose his life once, and there is no use
looking on the worst side, either. Where shall I take you, Fräulein? To
Park street? I think I heard you lived on that street."
She shook her head violently.
"No, no; I cannot walk, I shall call a carriage; there are some over
there. I had meant to go to Professor Marani, to practice a new part,
but I cannot sing now."
Willibald turned his steps in the direction where the carriages were
standing, and they went on in silence until they came near them.
Marietta stopped then, and turning to her escort, said anxiously:
"Herr von Eschenhagen, must it be? Can nothing be done?"
"Well, hardly. I knocked the count down, and called him a low scoundrel,
and most fellows would regard that as sufficient grounds for a duel.
But, don't you worry about it. The whole affair will be over to-morrow
or next day, with only a couple of scratches to tell the tale, in all
probability."
"And I shall have to wait two or three days in anxiety and uncertainty.
Cannot you send me some news?"
Will looked down into the dark, tearful eyes, and a light came in his
own such as had gleamed from them on the first day he saw the little
"singing bird."
"When all is happily over, I'll come myself and bring you the news if I
may?"
"Certainly, certainly. But if it should end unfortunately, if you should
fall?"
"Then hold me in kinder remembrance than you have done hitherto," said
Willibald, earnestly and cordially. "You took me for a coward. O, don't
say a word, you were right; I have felt it bitterly enough, but I was
accustomed always to obey my mother, who I knew loved me devotedly. But
now you see that I know also how a man should behave when he sees a
defenseless girl insulted, and I will avenge that insult--if need be
with my blood."
Without waiting for an answer, he hailed a driver, assisted Marietta
into the carriage, and repeated to the man the street and number which
she gave him. She placed her little hand in his for a moment, and gave
him a long look, then, as the carriage rolled away, she threw herself
back on the cushions with a loud sob. Will looked after the carriage as
long as it was in sight, then he threw his shoulders back and said, with
a sort of fierce pleasure:
"Now, have a care, Herr Count. It will be a real pleasure for me to have
a shot at you."