--“Art thou Prometheus, pierced with wounds?
The Vulture thou that tugs at his heart?”
J. CHR. V. ZEDLITZ’S Todtenkränze.
Not half an hour after this adventure a carriage rolled toward the
city--a large carriage, containing three seats, but, beside the
coachman, there was only one person within. This was Otto; his lips were
pale; death, it is true, had touched them. Alone he dashed forward; his
last words to Wilhelm had been his only ones.
“He has lost his wits,” said one of the friends.
“It is a fit of madness,” answered another, “such as he was seized with
at the examination, when he only sent in a scrap of white paper for
the mathematical examination, because he felt himself offended by the
inspector.”
“I could quite vex myself about my stupid joke,” said Wilhelm. “I ought
to have known him better; he is of a strange, unhappy character. Give me
your hands! We will mention to no one what has occurred; it would only
give occasion to a deal of gossip, and wound him deeply, and he is an
excellent, glorious fellow.”
They gave their hands upon it, and drove toward the city.
The same day, toward evening, we again seek Otto. We find him in his
chamber. Silent, with crossed arms, he stands before a print, a copy of
Horace Vernet’s representation of Mazeppa, who, naked and bound upon a
wild horse, rushes through the forest. Wolves thrust forth their heads
and exhibit their sharp teeth.
“My own life!” sighed Otto. “I also am bound to this careering wild
horse. And no friend, not a single one! Wilhelm, I could kill thee! I
could see you all lying in your blood! O, Almighty God!” He pressed his
hands before his face and threw himself into a seat; his eyes, however,
again directed themselves toward the picture; it exhibited a moment
similar to the condition of his own mind.
The door now opened, and Wilhelm stood before him.
“How do you find yourself, Thostrup?” he inquired. “We are still friends
as before?” and he wished to give his hand. Otto drew back his. “I have
done nothing which could so much offend you,” said Wilhelm; “the whole
was merely a joke! Give me your hand, and we will speak no more of the
affair!”
“To the man whom I hate, I never reach my hand,” replied Otto and his
lips were white like his cheeks.
“A second time to-day you speak these words to me,” said Wilhelm, and
the blood rushed to his face. “We were friends, wherefore cannot we be
so still? Have people slandered me to you? Have they told lies about me?
Only tell me faithfully, and I shall be able to defend myself.”
“You must fight with me!” said Otto; and his glance became more gloomy.
Wilhelm was silent; there reigned a momentary stillness. Otto suppressed
a deep sigh. At length Wilhelm broke silence, and said, with a grave
and agitated voice,--“I am so thoughtless, I joke so often, and regard
everything from the ridiculous side. But for all that I have both heart
and feeling. You must have known how much dearer you were to me than
most other people. You are so still, although you offend me. At this
moment your blood is in a fever; not now, but after a few days, you
yourself will best see which of us is the offended party. You demand
that I fight with you; I will if your honor requires this satisfaction:
but you must lay before me an acceptable reason. I will know wherefore
we risk our lives. Let some days pass by; weigh all with your
understanding and your heart! It will still depend upon yourself whether
we remain friends as before. Farewell!” And Wilhelm went.
Each of his words had penetrated to Otto’s heart. A moment he stood
silent and undecided, then his limbs trembled involuntarily, tears
streamed from his eyes--it was a convulsive fit of weeping; he pressed
his head back. “God, how unfortunate I am!” were his only words.
So passed some minutes; he had ceased to weep, and was calm; suddenly he
sprang up, shot the bolt in the door, drew down the blinds, lighted his
candle, and once more looked searchingly around: the key-hole was also
stopped up. He then flung his coat away from him and uncovered the upper
part of his body.