THE CONTENTS OF THE MANUSCRIPT.
Major Paul Von Leskjewitsch, proprietor of the estates of Lauschitz and
Zirkow in southwestern Bohemia, had been for twenty years on the
retired list, and was a prosperous agriculturist. He had formerly been
a very well-to-do officer, the most steady and trustworthy in the whole
regiment, always in funds, and very seldom in scrapes.
In his youth he had often been a target for Cupid's arrows, a fact of
which he himself was hardly aware.
"What an ass I was!" he was wont to exclaim to his cousin, Captain Jack
Leskjewitsch, when on occasion the pair became confidential at midnight
over a glass of good Bordeaux. The thought of his lost opportunities as
a lover rather weighed upon the worthy dragoon.
In his regiment he had been very popular and had made many friends, but
with none of them had he been so intimate as with his corporal
Krupitschka. There was a rumour that before the major's wooing of his
present wife, a Fraeulein von Boesedow, from Pomerania, he had asked this
famulus of his, "Eh, Krupitschka, what do you think? Shall we marry or
not?"
Fortunately, this rumour had never reached the ears of the young lady,
else she might have felt it her duty to reject the major, which would
have been a pity.
In blissful ignorance, therefore, she accepted his proposal, after
eight days of prudent reflection, and three months later Baron
Leskjewitsch led her to the altar.
Of course he was utterly wretched during the prolonged wedding
festivities, and at least very uncomfortable during the honey-moon,
which, in accordance with the fashion of the day, he spent with his
bride in railway-carriages, inns, churches, picture-galleries,
and so forth. In truth, he was terribly bored, tided himself over the
pauses which frequently occurred in his conversations with his bride
by reading aloud from the guide-book, took cold in the Colosseum,
and--breathed a sigh of relief when, after all the instructive
experiences of their wedding-tour, he found himself comfortably
established in his charming country-seat at Zirkow.
At present the Paul Leskjewitsches had long been known for a model
couple in all the country round. Countess Zelenitz stoutly maintained
that they were the least unhappy couple of her acquaintance,--that they
were past-masters of their art; she meant the most difficult of all
arts,--that of getting along with each other.
As every piece of music runs on in its own peculiar measure, one to a
joyous three crotchets to the bar, another to a lyrically languishing
and anon archly provocative six-quaver time, and so on, the married
life of the Leskjewitsches was certainly set to a slow four crotchets
to the bar,--or "common time," as it is called.
The husband, besides agriculture, and his deplorable piano performances,
cultivated a certain hypochondriac habit of mind, scrutinized the
colour of his tongue very frequently, and, although in spite of his
utmost efforts he was quite unable to discover a flaw in his health,
tried a new patent tonic every year.
The wife cultivated belles-lettres, devoted some time and attention to
music, and regulated her domestic affairs with punctilious order and
neatness.
The only fault Leskjewitsch had to find with her was that she was an
ardent admirer of Wagner, and hence quite unable to appreciate his own
talent as a composer; while she, for her part, objected to his intimacy
with Krupitschka and with the stag-hounds. These, however, were mere
bagatelles. The only real sore spot in this marriage was the luck of
children.
The manner in which fate indemnified these two people by bestowing upon
them a delightful companion in the person of a niece of the major's can
best be learned from the young lady herself, in whose memoirs, with an
utter disregard of the baseness of such conduct, the major has
meanwhile become absorbed.
MY MEMOIRS.
I.
It rains--ah, how it rains! great drops following one another, and
drenching the garden paths, plash--plash in all the puddles! Never a
sunbeam to call forth a rainbow against the dark sky, never a gleam of
light in the dull slaty gray. It seems as if the skies could never have
done weeping over the monotony of existence--still the same--still the
same!
I have tried everything by way of amusement. I curled Morl's hair with
the curling-tongs. I played Chopin's mazurkas until my brain reeled. I
even went up to the garret, where I knew no one could hear me, and, in
the presence of an old wardrobe, where uncle's last uniform as a
lieutenant was hanging, and of two rusty stove-pipes, I declaimed the
famous monologue from the "Maid of Orleans."
"Oh, I could tear my hair with vexation!" as Valentine says. I read
Faust a while ago,--since last spring I have been allowed to read all
our classics,--and Faust interested me extremely, especially the
prologue in heaven, and the first monologue, and then the walk. Ah,
what a wonderful thing that walk is! But the love-scenes did not please
me. Gretchen is far too meek and humble to Faust. "Dear God! How ever
is it such a man can think and know so much?"
My voice is very strong and full, and I think I have a remarkable
talent for the stage. I have often thought of becoming an actress, for
a change; to--yes, it must out--to have an opportunity at last to show
myself to the world,--to be admired. Miss O'Donnel is always telling me
I was made to be admired, and I believe she is right. But what good
does that do me? I think out all kinds of things, but no one will
listen to them, especially now that Miss O'Donnel has gone. She seemed
to listen, at all events, and every now and then would declare, "Child,
you are a wonder!" That pleased me. But she departed last Saturday, to
pay a visit to her relatives in Italy. Her niece is being educated
there for an opera-singer. Since she went there is no one in whom I can
confide. To be sure, I love Uncle Paul and Aunt Rosamunda dearly,--much
more dearly than Miss O'Donnel; but I cannot tell them whatever happens
to come into my head. They would not understand, any more than they
understand how a girl of my age can demand more of life than if she
were fifty--but indeed----
Rain--rain still! Since I've nothing else to do, I'll begin to-day to
write my memoirs!
That sounds presumptuous--the memoirs of a girl whose existence flows
on between Zirkow and Komaritz. But, after all,--
"Where'er you grasp this human life of ours
In its full force, be sure 'twill interest;"
which means, so far as I can understand, that, if one has the courage
to write down one's personal observations and recollections simply and
truthfully, it is sure to be worth the trouble.
I will be perfectly frank; and why not?--since I write for myself
alone.
But that's false reasoning; for how many men there are who feign to
themselves for their own satisfaction, bribing their consciences with
sophistry! My conscience, however, sleeps soundly without morphine; I
really believe there is nothing for it to do at present. I can be frank
because I have nothing to confess.
Every Easter, before confession, I rack my brains to scrape together a
few sins of some consequence, and I can find nothing but unpunctuality
at prayers, pertness, and too much desire for worldly frivolities.
Well! Now, to begin without further circumlocution. Most people begin
their memoirs with the history of their grandparents, some with that of
their great-grandparents, seeming to suppose that the higher they can
climb in their genealogical tree the more it adds to their importance.
I begin simply with the history of my parents.
My father and mother married for love; they never repented their
marriage, and yet it was the ruin of both of them.
My father was well born; not so my mother. Born in Paris, the daughter
of a needy petty official, she was glad to accept a position as
saleswoman in one of the fashionable Paris shops. Poor, dear mamma! It
makes me wretched to think of her, condemned to make up parcels and tie
up bundles, to mount on stepladders, exposed to the impertinence of
capricious customers, who always want just what is not to be had,--all
in the stifling atmosphere of a shop, and for a mere daily pittance.
Nothing in the world vexes me so much as to have people begin to
whisper before me, glancing at me compassionately as they nod their
heads. My ears are very acute, and I know perfectly well that they are
talking of my poor mother and pitying me because my father married a
shop-girl. I feel actually boiling with rage. Young as I was when I
lost her, she still lives in my memory as the loveliest creature I have
ever met in my life.
Tall and very slender, but always graceful, perfectly natural in
manner, with tiny hands and feet, and large, melancholy, startled eyes,
in a delicate, old-world face, she looked like an elf who could not
quite comprehend why she was condemned to carry in her breast so large
a human heart, well-nigh breaking with tenderness and melancholy. I
know I look like her, and I am proud of it. Whenever I am presented to
one of my couple of hundred aunts whose acquaintance I am condemned to
make, she is sure to exclaim, "How very like Fritz she is!--all Fritz!"
And I never fail to rejoin, "Oh, no, I am like my mother; every one who
knew her says I am like mamma."
And then my aunts' faces grow long, and they think me pert.
Although I was scarcely six years old when Uncle Paul took us away from
Paris, I can remember distinctly my home there. It was in a steep
street in Montmartre, very high up on the fourth or fifth floor of a
huge lodging-house. The sunlight shone in long broad streaks into our
rooms through the high windows, outside of which extended an iron
balcony. Our rooms were very pretty, very neat,--but very plain. Papa
did not seem to belong to them; I don't know how I discovered this, but
I found it out, little as I was. The ceilings looked low, when he rose
from the rocking-chair, where he loved to sit, and stood at his full
height. He always held his head gaily, high in the air, never bowing it
humbly to suit his modest lodgings.
His circumstances, cramped for the time, as I learned later, by his
imprudent marriage, contracted in spite of his father's disapproval,
apparently struck him as a good joke, or, at the worst, as a passing
annoyance. He always maintained the gay humour of a man of rank who,
finding himself overtaken by a storm upon some party of pleasure, is
obliged to take refuge in a wretched village inn.
Now and then he would stretch out his arms as if to measure the
smallness of his house, and laugh. But mamma would cast down her large
eyes sadly; then he would clasp her to his breast, kiss her, and call
her the delight of his life; and I would creep out of the corner where
I had been playing with my dolls, and pluck him by the sleeve,
jealously desirous of my share of caresses.
In my recollection of my earliest childhood--a recollection without
distinct outlines, and like some sweet, vague dream lingering in the
most secret, cherished corner of my heart--everything is warm and
bright; it is all light and love!
Papa is almost always with us in our sunny little nest. I see him
still,--ah, how plainly!--leaning back in his rocking-chair, fair,
with a rather haughty but yet kindly smile, his eyes sparkling with
good-humoured raillery. He is smoking a cigarette, and reading the
paper, apparently with nothing in the world to do but to enjoy life;
all the light in the little room seems to come from him.
The first four years of my life blend together in my memory like one
long summer day, without the smallest cloud in the blue skies above it.
I perfectly remember the moment in which my childish happiness was
interrupted by the first disagreeable sensation. It was an emotion of
dread. Until then I must have slept through all the hours of darkness,
for, when once I suddenly wakened and found the light all gone, I was
terrified at the blackness above and around me, and I screamed aloud.
Then I noticed that mamma was kneeling, sobbing, beside my bed. Her
sobs must have wakened me. She lighted a candle to soothe me, and told
me a story. In the midst of my eager listening, I asked her, "Where is
papa?"
She turned her head away, and said, "Out in the world!"
"Out in the world----" Whether or not it was the tone in which she
pronounced the word "world," I cannot tell, but it has ever since had a
strange sound for me,--a sound betokening something grand yet terrible.
Thus I made the discovery that there were nights, and that grown-up
people could cry.
Soon afterwards it was winter; the nights grew longer, the days
shorter, and it was never really bright in our home again,--the
sunshine had vanished.
It was cold, and the trees in the gardens high up in Montmartre, where
they took me to walk, grew bare and ugly.
Once, I remember, I asked my mother, "Mamma, will the trees never be
green again?"
"Oh, yes, when the spring comes," she made answer.
"And then will it be bright here again?" I asked, anxiously.
To this she made no reply, but her eyes suddenly grew so sad that I
climbed into her lap and kissed her upon both eyelids.
Papa was rarely with us now, and I was convinced that he had taken the
sunshine away from our home.
When at long intervals he came to dine with us, there was as much
preparation as if a stranger had been expected. Mamma busied herself in
the kitchen, helping the cook, who was also my nurse-maid, to prepare
the dinner. She laid the cloth herself, and decorated the table with
flowers. To me everything looked magnificent: I was quite awe-stricken
by the unwonted splendour.
One day a very beautiful lady paid us a visit, dressed in a velvet
cloak trimmed with ermine--I did not know until some time afterwards
the name of the fur--and a gray hat. I remember the hat distinctly, I
was so delighted with the bird sitting on it. She expressed herself as
charmed with everything in our home, stared about her through her
eye-glass, overturned a small table and two footstools with her train,
kissed me repeatedly, and begged mamma to come soon to see her. She was
a cousin of papa's, a Countess Gatinsky,--the very one for whom, when
she was a young girl and papa an elegant young attache, he had been
doing the honours of Paris on that eventful afternoon when, while she
and her mother were busy and absorbed, shopping in the _Bon Marche_, he
had fallen desperately in love with my pale, beautiful mother.
When the Countess left us, mamma cried bitterly. I do not know whether
she ever returned the visit, but it was never repeated, and I never saw
the Countess again, save once in the Bois de Boulogne, where I was
walking with my mother. She was sitting in an open barouche, and my
father was beside her. Opposite them an old man sat crouched up,
looking very discontented, and very cold, although the day was quite
mild and he was wrapped up in furs.
They saw us in the distance; the Countess smiled and waved her hand;
papa grew very red, and lifted his hat in a stiff, embarrassed way.
I remember wondering at his manner: what made him bow to us as if we
were two strangers?
Mamma hurried me on, and we got into the first omnibus she could find.
I stroked her hand or smoothed the folds of her gown all the way home,
for I felt that she had been hurt, although I could not tell how.
The days grow sadder and darker, and yet the spring has come. Was there
really no sunshine in that April and May, or is it so only in my
memory?
Meanwhile, the trees have burst into leaf, and the first early cherries
have decked our modest table. We have not seen papa for a long time. He
is staying at a castle in the neighbourhood of Paris, but only for a
few days.
It is a sultry afternoon in the beginning of June,--I learned the date
of that wretched day later. The flowers in the balcony before our
windows, scarlet carnations and fragrant mignonette, are drooping,
because mamma has forgotten to water them, and mamma herself looks as
weary as the flowers. Pale and miserable, she moves about the room with
the air of one whom the first approach of some severe illness half
paralyzes. Her pretty gown, a dark-blue silk with white spots, seems to
hang upon her slender figure. She arranges the articles in the room
here and there restlessly, and, noticing a soft silken scarf which papa
sometimes wore knotted carelessly about his throat in the mornings, and
which has been left hanging on the knob of a curtain, she picks it up,
passes it slowly between her hands, and holds it against her cheek.
There!--is not that a carriage stopping before our door? I run out
upon the balcony, but can see nothing of what is going on in the
street below; our rooms are too high up. I can see, however, that the
people who live opposite are hurrying to their windows, and that the
passers-by stop in the street, and stand and talk together, gathering
in a little knot. A strange bustling noise ascends the staircase; it
comes up to our landing,--the heavy tread of men supporting some
weighty burden.
Mamma stands spellbound for a moment, and then flings the door open and
cries out. It is papa whom they are bringing up, deadly pale, covered
with blankets, helpless as a child.
There had been an accident in an avenue not far from Bellefontaine, the
castle which the Countess Gatinsky had hired for the summer. Papa had
been riding with her,--riding a skittish, vicious horse, against which
he had been warned. He had only laughed, however, declaring that he
knew how to manage the brute. But he could not manage him. As I learned
afterwards, the horse, after vainly trying to throw his rider, had
reared, and rolled over backwards upon him. He was taken up senseless.
When he recovered consciousness in Bellefontaine, whither they carried
him, and the physician told him frankly that he was mortally hurt, he
desired to be taken home,--to those whom he loved best in the world.
At first they would not accede to his wishes; Countess Gatinsky wanted
to send for mamma and me,--to bring us to Bellefontaine. But he would
not hear of it. He was told that to take him to Paris would be an
injury to him in his present condition. Injury!--he laughed at the
word. He wanted to die in the dear little nest in Paris, and it was a
dying man's right to have his way.
I have never talked of this to any one, but I have thought very often
of our sorrow, of the shadow that suddenly fell upon my childhood and
extinguished all its sunshine.
And I have often heard people whispering together about it when they
thought I was not listening. But I listened, listened involuntarily, as
one does to words which one would afterwards give one's life not to
have heard. And when the evil words stabbed me like a knife, it was a
comfort to be able to say to myself, "It was merely the caprice of a
moment,--his heart had no share in it;" it was a comfort to be able to
say that mamma sat at his bedside and that he died with his hand in
hers.
I do not remember how long the struggle lasted before death came, but I
never can forget the moment when I was taken in to see him.
I can see the room now perfectly,--the bucket of ice upon which the
afternoon sun glittered, the bloody bandages on the floor, the
furniture in disorder, and, lying here and there, articles of dress
which had not yet been put away. There, in the large bed, where the gay
flowered curtains had been drawn back as far as possible to let in the
air, lay papa. His cheeks were flushed and his blue eyes sparkled, and
when I went up to him he laughed. I could not believe that he was ill.
Mamma sat at the head of the bed, dressed in her very prettiest gown,
her wonderful hair loosened and hanging in all its silken softness
about her shoulders. She, too, smiled; but her smile made me shiver.
Papa looked long and lovingly at me, and, taking my small hand in his,
put it to his lips. Then he made the sign of the cross upon my
forehead. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and I embraced him with all
the fervour of my five years. Mamma drew me back. "You hurt him," she
said. He laughed,--laughed as a brave man laughs at pain. He always
laughed: I never saw him grave but once,--only once. Mamma burst into
tears.
"Minette, Minette, do not be a coward. I want you to be beautiful
always," said he. Those words I perfectly remember.
Yes, he wanted her to be beautiful to the last!
They sent me out of the room. As I turned at the door, I saw how papa
stroked mamma's wonderful hair--slowly--lingeringly--with his slender
white hand.
I sat in the kitchen all the long summer afternoon. At first our
servant told me stories. Then she had to go out upon an errand; I
stayed in the kitchen alone, sitting upon a wooden bench, staring
before me, my doll, with which I did not care to play, lying upon the
brick floor beside me. The copper saucepans on the wall gleam and
glitter in the rays of the declining sun, and the bluebottle flies
crawl and buzz about their shining surfaces.
A moaning monotonous sound, now low, then loud, comes from my father's
room. I feel afraid, but I cannot stir: I am, as it were, rooted to my
wooden bench. The hoarse noise grows more and more terrible.
Gradually twilight seems to fall from the ceiling and to rise from the
floor; the copper vessels on the wall grow vague and indistinct; here
and there a gleam of brilliancy pierces the gray gloom, then all is
dissolved in darkness. In the distance a street-organ drones out
Malbrough; I have hated the tune ever since. The moans grow louder. I
lean my head forward upon my knees and stop my ears. What is that? One
brief, piercing cry,--and all is still!
I creep on tiptoe to papa's room. The door is open. I can see mamma
bending over him, kissing him, and lavishing caresses upon him: she is
no longer afraid of hurting him.
That night a neighbour took me home with her, and when I came back, the
next day, papa lay in his black coffin in a darkened room, and candles
were burning all around him.
He seemed to me to have grown. And what dignity there was in his face!
That was the only time I ever saw him look grave.
Mamma lifted me up that I might kiss him. Something cold seemed
to touch my cheek, and suddenly I felt I--cannot describe the
sensation--an intense dread,--the same terror, only ten times as great,
as that which overcame me when I first wakened in the night and was
aware of the darkness. Screaming, I extricated myself from mamma's
arms, and ran out of the room.----
(Here the major stopped to brush away the tears before reading on.)
----For a while mamma tried to remain in Paris and earn our living by
the embroidery in which she was so skilful; but, despite all her
trying, she could not do it. The servant-girl was sent away, our rooms
grew barer and barer, and more than once I went to bed crying with
hunger.
In November, Uncle Paul came to see us, and took us back with him to
Bohemia. I cannot recall the journey, but our arrival I remember
distinctly,--the long drive from the station, along the muddy road,
between low hedges, or tall, slim poplars; then through the forest,
where the wind tossed about the dry fallen leaves, and a few
crimson-tipped daisies still bloomed gaily by the roadside, braving the
brown desolation about them; past curious far-stretching villages,
their low huts but slightly elevated above the mud about them, their
black thatched roofs green in spots with moss, their narrow windows gay
with flowers behind the thick, dim panes; past huge manure-heaps, upon
which large numbers of gay-coloured fowls were clucking and crowing,
and past stagnant ditches where amber-coloured swine were wallowing
contentedly.
The dogs rush excitedly out of the huts, to run barking after our
carriage, while a mob of barefooted, snub-nosed children, their breath
showing like smoke in the frosty air, come bustling out of school, and
shout after us "Praised be Jesus Christ!"
A turn--we have driven into the castle court-yard; Krupitschka hastens
to open the carriage door. At the top of the steps stands a tall lady
in mourning, very majestic in appearance, with a kind face. I see mamma
turn pale, shrink--then all is a blank.
II.
At the period when I again take up my reminiscences I am entirely at
home at Zirkow, and almost as familiar with Uncle Paul and Aunt Rosa as
if I had known them both all my life.
Winter has set in, and, ah, such a wonderful, beautiful winter,--so
bright, and glittering with such quantities of pure white snow! I go
sleighing with Uncle Paul; I make a snow man with Krupitschka,--a monk
in a long robe, because the legs of the soldier we tried to make would
not stand straight; and I help Krupitschka's wife to make bread in a
large wooden bowl with iron hoops. How delicious is the odour of
the fermenting dough, and how delightful it is to run about the long
brick-paved corridors and passages, to have so much space and light and
air! When one day Uncle Paul asks me, "Which is best, Paris or Zirkow?"
I answer, without hesitation, "Zirkow!"
Uncle Paul laughs contentedly, but mamma looks at me sadly. I feel that
I have grieved her.
Now and then I think of papa, especially before I go to sleep at night.
Then I sometimes wonder if the snow is deep on his grave in the
churchyard at Montmartre, and if he is not cold in the ground. Poor
papa!--he loved the sun so dearly! And I look over at mamma, who sits
and sews at a table near my bed, and it worries me to see the tears
rolling down her cheeks again.
Poor mamma! She grows paler, thinner, and sadder every day, although my
uncle and aunt do everything that they can for her.
If I remember rightly, she was seldom with her hosts except at
meal-times. She lived in strict retirement, in the two pretty rooms
which had been assigned us, and was always trying to make herself
useful with her needle to Aunt Rosa, who never tired of admiring her
beautiful, delicate work.
Towards spring her hands were more than ever wont to drop idly
in her lap, and when the snow had gone and everything outside was
beginning to stir, she would sit for hours in the bow-window where
her work-table stood, doing nothing, only gazing out towards the
west,--gazing--gazing.
The soiled snow had vanished; the water was dripping from roofs and
trees; everything was brown and bare. A warm breath came sweeping over
the world. For a couple of days all nature sobbed and thrilled, and
then spring threw over the earth her fragrant robe of blossoms.
It was my first spring in the country, and I never shall forget my
joyful surprise each morning at all that had been wrought overnight. I
could not tell which to admire most, buds, flowers, or butterflies.
From morning till night I roamed about in the balmy air, amid the
tender green of grass and shrubs. And at night I was so tired that I
was asleep almost before the last words of my childish prayer had died
upon my lips. Ah, how soundly I slept!
But one night I suddenly waked, with what seemed to me the touch of a
soft hand upon my cheek,--papa's hand. I started up and looked about
me; there was no one to be seen. The breeze of spring had caressed
me,--that was all. How had it found its way in?
The moon was at the full, and in its white light everything in the room
stood revealed and yet veiled. I sat up uneasily, and then noticed that
mamma's bed was empty. I was frightened. "Mamma! mamma!" I called, half
crying.
There was no reply. I sprang from my little bed, and ran into the next
room, the door of which was open.
Mamma was standing there at the window, gazing out towards the west.
The window was wide open; our rooms were at the back of the castle, and
looked out upon the orchard, where nature was celebrating its
resurrection with festal splendour. The huge old apple-trees were all
robed in delicate pink-white blossoms, the tender grass beneath them
glittered with dew, and above it and among the waving blossoms sighed
the warm breeze of spring as if from human lips. Mamma stood with
extended arms whispering the tenderest words out into the night,--words
that sounded as if stifled among sighs and kisses. She wore the same
dress in which she had sat by papa's bedside when he wished her to be
beautiful at their parting. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. I
gasped for breath, and threw my arms about her, crying, "Mamma! mamma!"
She turned, and seemed about to thrust me from her almost angrily, then
suddenly began to weep bitterly like a child just wakened from sleep,
and crept back gently and ashamed to our bedroom. Without undressing
she lay down on her bed, and I covered her up as well as I could.
I could not sleep that night, and I heard her moan and move restlessly.
The next morning she could not come down to breakfast; a violent
nervous fever had attacked her, and ten days afterwards she died.
They broke the sad truth to me slowly, first saying that she had gone
on a journey, and then that she was with God in heaven. I knew she was
dead,--and what that meant.
I can but dimly remember the days that followed her death. I dragged
myself about beneath the burden of a grief far too great for my poor,
childish little heart, and grew more and more weary, until at last I
was attacked by the same illness of which my mother had died.
When I recovered, the memory of all that had happened before my illness
no longer gave me any pain. I looked back upon the past with what was
almost indifference. Not until long, long afterwards did I comprehend
the wealth of love of which my mother's death had deprived me.
III.
It really is very entertaining to write one's memoirs. I will go
on, although it is not raining to-day. On the contrary, it is very
warm,--so warm that I cannot stay out of doors.
Aunt Rosamunda is in the drawing-room, entertaining the colonel of the
infantry regiment in garrison at X----. She sent for me, but I excused
myself, through Krupitschka. When lieutenants of hussars come, she
never sends for me. It really is ridiculous: does she suppose my head
could be turned by any officer of hussars? The idea! Upon my word!
Still, I should like for once just to try whether Miss O'Donnel is
right, whether I only need wish to have--oh, how delightful it would be
to be adored to my heart's content! Since, however, there is no
prospect of anything of the kind, I will continue to write my memoirs.
I have taken off my gown and slipped on a thin white morning wrapper,
and the cook, with whom I am a great favourite, has sent me up a
pitcher of iced lemonade to strengthen me for my literary labours. My
windows are open, and look out upon a wilderness of old trees with wild
roses blooming among them. Ah, how sweet the roses are! The bees buzz
over them monotonously, the leaves scarcely rustle, not a bird is
singing. The world certainly is very beautiful, even if one has nothing
entertaining to do except to write memoirs. Now that I have finished
telling of my parents, I will pass on to my nearest relatives.----
("Oho!" said the major. "I am curious to see what she has to say of
us.")
----Uncle Paul is the middle one of three brothers, the eldest of whom
is my grandfather.
The Barons von Leskjewitsch are of Croatian descent, and are convinced
of the antiquity of their family, without being able to prove it. There
has never been any obstacle to their being received at court, and for
many generations they have maintained a blameless propriety of
demeanour and have contracted very suitable marriages.
Although all the members of this illustrious family are forever
quarrelling among themselves, and no one Leskjewitsch has ever been
known to get along well with another Leskjewitsch, they nevertheless
have a deal of family feeling, which manifests itself especially in a
touching pride in all the peculiarities of the Leskjewitsch
temperament. These peculiarities are notorious throughout the
kingdom,--such, at least, is the firm conviction of the Leskjewitsch
family. Whatever extraordinary feats the Leskjewitsches may have
performed hitherto, they have never been guilty of any important
departure from an ordinary mode of life, but each member of the family
has nevertheless succeeded in being endowed from the cradle with a
patent of eccentricity, in virtue of which mankind are more or less
constrained to accept his or her eccentricities as a matter of course.
I am shocked now by what I have here written down. Of course I am a
Leskjewitsch, or I never should allow myself to pass so harsh a
judgment upon my nearest of kin. I suppose I ought to erase those
lines, but, after all, no one will ever see them, and there is
something pleasing in my bold delineation of the family
characteristics. The style seems to me quite striking. So I will let my
words stand as they are,--especially since the only one of the family
who has ever been kind to me--Uncle Paul--is, according to the
universal family verdict, no genuine Leskjewitsch, but a degenerate
scion. In the first place, his hair and complexion are fair, and, in
the second place, he is sensible. Among men in general, I believe he
passes for mildly eccentric; his own family find him distressingly like
other people.
To which of the two other brothers the prize for special originality is
due, to the oldest or to the youngest,--to my grandfather or to the
father of my playmate Harry,--the world finds it impossible to decide.
Both are widowers, both are given over to a craze for travel. My
grandfather's love of travel, however, reminds one of the restlessness
of a white mouse turning the wheel in its cage; while my uncle Karl's
is like that of the Wandering Jew, for whose restless soul this globe
is too narrow.
My grandfather is continually travelling from one to another of his
estates, seldom varying the round; Uncle Karl by turns hunts lions in
the Soudan and walruses at the North Pole; and in their other
eccentricities the brothers are very different. My grandfather is a
cynic; Uncle Karl is a sentimentalist. My grandfather starts from the
principle that all effort which has any end in view, save the
satisfying of his excellent appetite and the promotion of his sound
sleep, is nonsense; Uncle Karl intends to write a work which, if
rightly appreciated, will entirely reform the spirit of the age. My
grandfather is a miser; Uncle Karl is a spendthrift. Uncle Karl is
beginning to see the bottom of his purse; my grandfather is enormously
rich.
When I add that my grandfather is a conservative with a manner which is
intentionally rude, and that Uncle Karl is a radical with the bearing
of a courtier, I consider the picture of the two men tolerably
complete. All that is left to say is that I know my uncle Karl only
slightly, and my grandfather not at all, wherefore my descriptions
must, unfortunately, lack the element of personal observation, being
drawn almost entirely from hearsay.
My grandfather's cynicism could not always have been so pronounced as
at present; they say he was not naturally avaricious, but that he
became so in behalf of my father, his only son. He saved and pinched
for him, laying by thousands upon thousands, buying estate after estate
only to assure his favourite a position for which a prince might envy
him.
Finally he procured him an appointment as attache in the Austrian
Legation in Paris, and when papa spent double his allowance the old man
only laughed and said, "Youth must have its swing." But when my father
married a poor girl of the middle class, my grandfather simply banished
him from his heart, and would have nothing more to do with him.
After this papa slowly consumed the small property he had inherited
from his mother, and at his death nothing of it was left.
Uncle Paul was the only one of the family who still clung to my father
after his _mesalliance_,--the one eccentricity which had never been set
down in the Leskjewitsch programme. When mamma in utter destitution
applied to him for help, he went to my grandfather, told him of the
desperate extremity to which she was reduced, and entreated him to do
something for her and for me. My grandfather merely replied that he did
not support vagabonds.
My cousin Heda, whose custom it is to tell every one of everything
disagreeable she hears said about them,--for conscience' sake, that
they may know whom to mistrust,--furnished me with these details.
The upshot of the interview was, first, that my uncle Paul quarrelled
seriously with my grandfather, and, second, that he resolved to go to
Paris forthwith and see that matters were set right.
Aunt Rosa maintains that at the last moment he asked Krupitschka to
sanction his decision. This is a malicious invention; but when Heda
declares that he brought us to Bohemia chiefly with the view of
disgracing and vexing my grandfather, there may be some grain of truth
in her assertion.
Many years have passed since our modest entrance here in Zirkow, but my
amiable grandfather still maintains his determined hostility towards
Uncle Paul and myself.
His favourite occupation seems to consist in perfecting each year, with
the help of a clever lawyer, his will, by which I am deprived, so far
as is possible, of the small share of his wealth which falls to me
legally as my father's heir. He has chosen for his sole heir his
youngest brother's eldest son, my playmate Harry, upon condition that
Harry marries suitably, which means a girl with sixteen quarterings. I
have no quarterings, so if Harry marries me he will not have a penny.
How could such an idea occur to him? It is too ridiculous to be thought
of. But--what if he did take it into his head? Oh, I have sound sense
enough for two, and I know exactly what I want,--a grand position, an
opportunity to play in the world the part for which I feel myself
capable,--everything, in short, that he could not offer me. Moreover, I
am quite indifferent to him. I have a certain regard for him for the
sake of old times, and therefore he shall have a chapter of these
memoirs all to himself.
----At the end of this chapter the major shook his head disapprovingly.
IV.
MY DEAREST PLAYMATE.
The first time that I saw him he was riding upon a pig,--a wonder of a
pig; it looked like a huge monster to me,--which he guided by its ears.
One is not a Leskjewitsch for nothing. It was at Komaritz---- But I
will describe the entire day, which I remember with extraordinary
distinctness.
Uncle Paul himself took me to Komaritz in his pretty little dog-cart,
drawn by a pair of spirited ponies in gay harness and trappings. Of
course I sat on the box beside my uncle, being quite aware that this
was the seat of honour. I wore an embroidered white gown, long black
stockings, and a black sash, and carried a parasol which I had borrowed
of Aunt Rosa, not because I needed it,--my straw hat perfectly shielded
my face from the sun,--but because it seemed to me required for the
perfection of my toilet.
I was very well pleased with myself, and nodded with great
condescension to the labourers and schoolchildren whom we met.
I have never attempted to conceal from myself or to deny the fact that
I am vain.
Ah, how merrily we bowled along over the white, dusty road! The ponies'
hoofs hardly touched the ground. After a while the road grew bad, and
we drove more slowly. Then we turned into a rough path between high
banks. What a road! Deep as a chasm; the wheels of the vehicle jolted
right and left through ruts overgrown with thistles, brambles, and wild
roses.
"Suppose we should meet another carriage?" I asked my uncle, anxiously.
"Just what I was asking myself," he replied, composedly; "there is
really no room for passing. But why not trust in Providence?"
The road grows worse, but now, instead of passing through a chasm, it
runs along the edge of a precipice. The dog-cart leans so far to one
side that the groom gets out to steady it. The wheels grate against the
stones, and the ponies shake their shaggy heads discontentedly, as much
as to say, "We were not made for such work as this."
In after-years, when so bad a road in the midst of one of the most
civilized provinces of Austria seemed to me inexplicable, Uncle Paul
explained it to me. At one time in his remembrance the authorities
decided to lay out a fine road there, but Uncle Karl contrived to
frustrate their purpose; he did not wish to have Komaritz too
accessible--for fear of guests.
A delicious pungent fragrance is wafted from the vine-leaves in the
vineyards on the sides of the hills, flocks of white and yellow
butterflies hover above them, the grasshoppers chirp shrilly, and from
the distance comes the monotonous sound of the sweep of the mower's
scythe. The sun is burning hot, and the shadows are short and
coal-black.
Click-clack--click-clack--precipice and ravine lie behind us, and we
are careering along a delightful road shaded by huge walnut-trees.
A brown, shapeless ruin crowning a vine-clad eminence rises before us.
Click-clack--click-clack--the ponies fly past a marble St. John, around
which are grouped three giant lindens, whose branches scatter fading
blossoms upon us; past a smithy, from which issues a strong odour of
wagon-grease and burnt hoofs; past a slaughter-house, in front of which
a butchered ox is hanging from a chestnut-tree; past pretty whitewashed
cottages, some of them two stories high and with flower-gardens in
front,--Komaritz is a far more important and prosperous village than
Zirkow; then through a lofty but perilously ruinous archway into
a spacious, steeply-ascending court-yard, through the entire length
of which runs a broad gutter. Yes, yes, it was there--in that
court-yard--that I saw him for the first time, and he was riding upon a
pig, holding fast by its ears, and the animal, galloping furiously, was
doing its best to throw him off. But this was no easy matter, for he
sat as if he were part of his steed, and withal maintained a loftiness
of bearing that would have done honour to a Spanish grandee at a
coronation. He was very handsome, very slender, very brown, and wore a
white suit, the right sleeve of which was spotted with ink.
In front of the castle, at a wooden table fastened to the ground
beneath an old pear-tree, sat a yellow-haired young man, with a bloated
face and fat hands, watching the spectacle calmly and drinking beer
from a stone mug with a leaden cover.
When the pig found that it could not throw its rider, it essayed
another means to be rid of him. It lay down in the gutter and rolled
over in the mud. When Harry arose, he looked like the bad boys in
"Slovenly Peter" after they had been dipped in the inkstand.
"I told you how it would be," the fat young man observed,
phlegmatically, and went on drinking beer. As I afterwards learned, he
was Harry's tutor, Herr Pontius.
"What does it matter?" said Harry, composedly, looking down at the mud
dripping from him, as if such a bath were an event of every-day
occurrence; "I did what I chose to do."
"And now I shall do what I choose to do. You will go to your room and
translate fifty lines of Horace."
Harry shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. I now think that he was
posing a little for our sakes, for we had just driven up to the castle,
but then his composure made a great impression upon me. After he had
bowed respectfully to Uncle Paul from where he stood, he vanished
behind a side-door of the castle, at the chief entrance of which we had
drawn up. A dignified footman received us in the hall, and a crowd of
little black dachshunds, with yellow feet and eyebrows, barked a loud
welcome.
We were conducted into a large room on the ground-floor,--apparently
reception-room, dining-room, and living-room all in one,--whence a low
flight of wooden steps led out into the garden. A very sallow but
otherwise quite pretty Frenchwoman, who reminded me--I cannot tell
why--of the black dachshunds, and who proved to be my little cousin's
governess, received us here and did the honours for us.
My cousin Heda, a yellow-haired little girl with portentously good
manners, relieved me of my parasol, and asked me if I had not found the
drive very warm. Whilst I made some monosyllabic and confused reply, I
was wondering whether her brother would get through his punishment and
make his appearance again before we left. When my uncle withdrew on the
pretext of looking after some agricultural matter, Heda asked me if I
would not play graces with her. She called it _jeu de grace_, and, in
fact, spoke French whenever it was possible.
I agreed, she brought the graces, and we went out into the garden.
Oh, that Komaritz garden! How clumsy and ugly, and yet what a dear,
old-fashioned garden it was! Lying at the foot of the hill crowned by
the ancient ruin and the small frame house built for the tutors,--who
were changed about every two months,--it was divided into huge
rectangular flower-beds, bordered with sage, lavender, or box, from
which mighty old apricot-trees looked down upon a luxuriant wilderness
of lilies, roses, blue monk's-hood, scarlet verbenas, and whatever else
was in season. Back of this waste of flowers there were all sorts of
shrubs,--hawthorns, laburnums, jessamines, with here and there an
ancient hundred-leaved rose-bush, whose heavy blossoms, borne down by
their own weight, drooped and lay upon the mossy paths that intersected
this thicket. Then came a green lawn, where was a swing hung between
two old chestnuts, and near by stood a queer old summerhouse, circular,
with a lofty tiled roof, upon the peak of which gleamed a battered
brass crescent. Everywhere in the shade were fastened in the ground
comfortable garden-seats, smelling deliciously of moss and mouldering
wood, and where you least expected it the ground sloped to a little
bubbling spring, its banks clothed with velvet verdure and gay with
marsh daisies and spiderwort, sprung from seed which the wind had
wafted hither. I cannot begin to tell of the kitchen-garden and
orchard; I should never be done.
And just as I have here described it as it was fourteen years ago the
dear old garden stands to-day, with the exception of some trifling
changes; but--they are talking of improvements--poor garden! What
memories are evoked when I think of it!
Again I am six years old and playing with Heda,--I intent and awkward,
Heda elegantly indifferent. If one of her hoops soars away over my
head, or falls among the flowers in one of the beds, she shrugs her
shoulders with an affected smile, and exclaims, "_Monstre!_" At first I
offer to creep in among the flowers after the lost hoop, but she
rejects my offer with a superior "_Quelle idee!_" and assures me that
it is the gardener's business.
Consequently, we soon come to the end of our supply of hoops, and are
obliged to have recourse to some other mode of amusing ourselves.
"I am quite out of breath," says Heda, fanning herself with her
pocket-handkerchief. "'Tis a stupid don't you think so?"
"But if I only could do it!" I sigh.
"It is quite out of fashion; nothing is played now but croquet," she
informs me. "Do you like to play croquet?"
"I do not know what croquet is," I confess, much mortified.
"Ha, ha!" she laughs. "Mademoiselle," turning to the governess, who is
now seated on the garden-steps, "only think, _ma petite cousine_ does
not know what croquet is!--delicious! Excuse me," taking my hand, "it
is very ill bred to laugh, _mais c'est plus fort que moi_. It is a
delightful game, that is played with balls and iron hoops. Sometimes
you strike your foot, and that hurts; but more often you only pretend
that it does, and then the gentlemen all come round you an pity you: it
is too delightful. But sit down," pointing with self-satisfied
condescension to the steps. We both sit down, and she goes on: "Where
did you pass the winter?"
"At Zirkow."
"Oh, in the country! I pity you."
Heda--I mention this in a parenthesis--was at this time scarcely ten
years old. "No winter in the country for me," this pleasure-loving
young person continues. "Oh, what a delightful winter I had! I was at
twelve balls. It is charming if you have partners enough--oh, when
three gentlemen beg for a waltz! But society in Prague is nothing to
that of Vienna--I always say there is only one Vienna. Were you ever in
Vienna?"
"No," I murmur. Suddenly, however, my humiliated self-consciousness
rebels, and, setting my arms akimbo, I ask, "And were you ever in
Paris?" The Frenchwoman behind us laughs.
Down from above us falls a hard projectile upon Heda's fair head,--a
large purple bean,--and then another. She looks up angrily. Harry is
leaning out of a window above us, his elbows resting on the sill, and
his head between his hands. "What an ill-bred boor you are!" she calls
out.
"And do you know what you are?" he shouts; "an affected
braggart--that's what you are."
With which he jumps from the window into the branches of a tree just
before it, and comes scrambling down to the ground. "What is your
name?" he asks me.
"Zdena."
"I am happy to make your acquaintance, Zdena. Heda bores you, doesn't
she?"
I shake my head and laugh; feeling a protector near me, I am quite
merry once more. "Would you like to take a little ride, Zdena?" he
asks.
"Upon a pig?" I inquire, in some trepidation.
He laughs, somewhat embarrassed, and shrugs his shoulders. "You do not
really suppose that I am in the habit of riding pigs!" he exclaims; "I
only do it when my tutor forbids it--it is too ridiculous to suppose
such a thing!" and he hurries away.
I look after him remorsefully. I am vexed to have been so foolish, and
I am sorry to have frightened him away.
In a few minutes, however, he appears again, and this time on
horseback. He is riding a beautiful pony, chestnut, with a rather
dandified long tail and a bushy mane. Harry has a splendid seat, and is
quite aware of it. Apparently he is desirous of producing an impression
upon me, for he performs various astounding feats,--jumps through the
swing, over a garden-seat and a wheelbarrow,--and then, patting his
horse encouragingly on the neck, approaches me, his bridle over his
arm.
"Will you try now?" he asks.
Of course I will. He lifts me into the saddle, where I sit sideways,
buckles the stirrup shorter, quite like a grown-up admirer; and then I
ride slowly and solemnly through the garden, he carefully holding me on
the while. I become conscious of a wish to distinguish myself in his
eyes. "I should like to try it alone," I stammer, in some confusion.
"I see you are brave; I like that," he says, resigning the bridle to
me. Trot, trot goes the pony. "Faster, faster!" I cry, giving the
animal a dig with my heel. The pony rears, and--I am lying on the
ground, with scraped hands and a scratched chin.
"It is nothing," I cry, bravely ignoring my pain, when Harry hurries up
to me with a dismayed face. "We must expect such things," I add, with
dignity. "Riding is always dangerous; my father was killed by being
thrown from his horse."
"Indeed? Really?" Harry says, sympathetically, as he wipes the gravel
off my hands. "How long has he been dead?"
"Oh, a long time,--a year."
"My mother has been dead much longer," he says, importantly, almost
boastfully. "She has been dead three years. And is yours still living?"
"N--no." And the tears, hitherto so bravely restrained, come in a
torrent.
He is frightened, kneels down beside me, even then he was much taller
than I,--and wipes away the tears with his pocket-handkerchief. "Poor
little thing!" he murmurs, "I am so sorry for you; I did not know----"
And he puts his arm round me and strokes my hair. Suddenly a delightful
and strange sensation possesses me,--a feeling I have not had since my
poor dear mother gave me her last kiss: my whole childish being is
penetrated by it.
We have been fond of each other ever since that moment; we are so
to-day.
"Come with me to the kitchen-garden now," he says, "and see my
puppies." And he calls to the gardener and commits to his charge the
pony, that, quite content with the success of his man[oe]uvre, is
quietly cropping the verbena-blossoms.
My tears are dried. I am crouching beside the kennel in the
kitchen-garden, with four charming little puppies in my lap. There is a
fragrance of cucumber-leaves, sorrel, and thyme all about. The bright
sunshine gleams on the dusty glass of the hot-bed, on the pumpkins and
cucumbers, on the water in the tub under the pump, beside which a
weeping willow parades its proverbial melancholy. Harry's fair, fat
tutor is walking past a trellis where the early peaches are hanging,
smoking a long porcelain pipe. He pauses and pinches the fruit here and
there, as if to discover when it will be ripe. I hold one after another
of the silken, warm dog-babies to my cheek, and am happy, while Harry
laughs good-humouredly at my enthusiasm and prevents the jealous mother
of the puppies from snapping at me.
----"We have been fond of each other ever since." The major smiles
contentedly as he reads this.
V.
KOMARITZ.
I was soon at home at Komaritz, often passed weeks there, feeling
extremely comfortable amid those strange surroundings,--for the life
led in the clumsy, unadorned old house upon which the mediaeval castle
looked down was certainly a strange one.
In fact, the modern structure was no whit superior to the castle except
in the matter of ugliness and in the fact that it possessed a roof.
Otherwise it was almost as ruinous as the ruin, and had to be propped
up in a fresh place every year. The long passages were paved with worn
tiles; the ground-floor was connected with the upper stories by a steep
winding staircase. The locks on the doors were either broken or the
keys were lost, and the clocks, if they went at all, all pointed to
different hours.
In a large room called the drawing-room, where the plaster was
crumbling down from the ceiling bit by bit, there stood, among
three-legged tables and threadbare arm-chairs, many an exquisite
antique. In the rooms in use, on the other hand, there was no article
of mere luxury: all was plain and useful, as in some parsonage. And yet
there was something strangely attractive in this curious home. The
rooms were of spacious dimensions; those on the ground-floor were all
vaulted. The sunbeams forced their way through leafy vines and creepers
into the deep embrasures of the windows. The atmosphere was impregnated
with a delicious, mysterious fragrance,--an odour of mould, old wood,
and dried rose-leaves. Harry maintained that it smelled of ghosts, and
that there was a white lady who "walked" in the corner room next to the
private chapel.
I must confess, in spite of my love for the old barrack, that it was
not a fit baronial mansion. No one had ever lived there, save a
steward, before Uncle Karl, who, as the youngest Leskjewitsch,
inherited it, took up his abode there. He had, when he was first
married, planned a new castle, but soon relinquished his intention,
first for financial reasons, and then from dread of guests, a dread
that seems to have become a chronic disease with him. When his wife
died, all thought of any new structure had been given up. From that
time he scarcely ever stayed there himself, and the old nest was good
enough for a summer residence for the children. With the exception of
Heda,--besides Harry there was a good-for-nothing small boy,--the
children thought so too. They had a pathetic affection for the old
place where they appeared each year with the flowers, the birds, and
the sunshine. They seemed to me to belong to the spring. Everything was
bright and warm about me when they came.
Harry was my faithful knight from first to last; our friendship grew
with our growth. He tyrannized over me a little, and liked to impress
me, I think, with a sense of his superiority; but he faithfully and
decidedly stood by me whenever I needed him. He drove me everywhere
about the country; his two ponies could either be driven or ridden; he
taught me to ride, climbed mountains with me, explored with me every
corner of the old ruin on the hill, and then when we came home at
night, each somewhat weary with our long tramp, he would tell me
stories.
How vividly I remember it all! I can fancy myself now sitting beside
him on the lowest of the steps leading from the living-room into the
garden. At our feet the flowers exhale sweet, sad odours, the pale
roses drenched in dew show white amid the dim foliage; above our heads
there is a dreamy whisper in the boughs of an old apricot-tree, whose
leaves stand out sharp and black against the deep-blue sky, sown with
myriads of sparkling stars. And Harry is telling me stories. Ah, such
stories! the most terrible tales of robbers and ghosts, each more
shudderingly horrible than its predecessor.
Oh, how delightful it is to feel one shudder after another creeping
down your back in the warm summer evening! and if it grows too fearful,
and I begin to be really afraid of the pale, bloodless phantoms which
he conjures up before me, I move a little closer to him, and, as if
seeking protection, clasp his hand, taking refuge from my ghostly fears
in the consciousness of his warm young life.
VI.
HARRY'S TUTORS.
Every Sunday the Komaritzers come to us at Zirkow, driving over in a
tumble-down old coach covered with faded blue cloth, hung on spiral
springs, and called Noah's ark.
The coachman wears no livery, except such as can be found in an
imposing broad gold band upon a very shabby high hat.
Of course the children are always accompanied by the governess and the
tutor.
The first governess whom I knew at Komaritz--Mademoiselle Duval--was
bright, well-bred, and very lovable; the tutor was the opposite of all
this.
He may have been a proficient in ancient languages, but he spoke very
poor German. His nails were always in mourning, and he neglected his
dress. Intercourse with good society made him melancholy. At our table
he always took the worst place. Uncle Paul every Sunday addressed the
same two questions to him, never remembering his name, but regularly
calling him Herr Paulus, whereas his name was Pontius. After the tutor
had answered these questions humbly, he never again, so long as dinner
lasted, opened his mouth, except to put into it large mouthfuls, or his
knife. Between the courses he twirled his thumbs and sniffed. He always
had a cold in his head. When dinner was over he pushed his chair back
against the wall, bowed awkwardly, and retired, never appearing among
us during the rest of the afternoon, which he spent playing "Pinch"
with Krupitschka, with a pack of dirty cards which from long usage had
lost their corners and had become oval. We often surprised him at this
amusement,--Harry and I.
As soon as he disappeared Aunt Rosamunda always expressed loudly and
distinctly her disapproval of his bad manners. But when we children
undertook to sneer at them, we were sternly repressed,--were told that
such things were of no consequence, and that bad manners did not in the
least detract from a human being's genuine worth.
On one occasion Harry rejoined, "I'm glad to hear it," and at the next
meal sat with both elbows upon the table.
Moreover, I soon observed that Herr Pontius was by no means the meek
lamb he seemed to be, and this I discovered at the harvest-home. There
was a dance beneath the lindens at the farm, where Herr Pontius whirled
the peasant-girls around, and capered about like a very demon. His face
grew fierce, and his hair floated wildly about his head. We children
nearly died of laughing at him.
Soon afterwards he was dismissed, and in a great hurry. When I asked
Harry to tell me the cause of his sudden disappearance, he replied that
it was love that had broken Herr Pontius's neck. But when I insisted
upon a more lucid explanation, Harry touched the tip of my nose with
his forefinger and said, sententiously, "Too much knowledge makes
little girls ugly."
He was not the only one among Harry's tutors whose neck was broken
through love: the next--a very model of a tutor--followed the example
in this respect of the dance-loving Herr Pontius.
His name was Ephraim Schmied; he came from Hildesheim, and was very
learned and well conducted,--in short, by long odds the best of all
Harry's tutors. If he did not retain his position, it may well be
imagined that it was the fault of the position.
As with every other fresh tutor, Harry set himself in opposition to him
at first, and did his best to discover ridiculous traits in him. His
efforts in this direction were for a time productive of no results, and
Herr Schmied, thanks to his untiring patience combined with absolute
firmness, was in a fair way to master his wayward pupil, when matters
took an unexpected and unfortunate turn.
Harry, in fact, had finally discovered the weak place in Herr Schmied's
armour, and it was in the region of the heart. Herr Schmied had fallen
in love with Mademoiselle Duval. To fall in love was in Harry's eyes at
that time the extreme of human stupidity (he ought to have rested in
that conviction). Uncle Paul shared it. He chuckled when Harry one fine
day told him of his discovery, and asked the keen-sighted young
good-for-naught upon what he founded his supposition.
"He sings Schubert's 'Wanderer' to her every evening, and yesterday he
brought her a vase from X----," Harry replied: "there the fright
stands."
Uncle Paul took the vase in his hands, an odd smile playing about his
mouth the while. It was decorated with little naked Cupids hopping
about in an oval wreath of forget-me-nots.
"How sentimental!" said Uncle Paul, adding, after a while, "If the
little wretches only had wings, they might pass for angels, but as they
are they leave something to be desired." Then, putting down the vase,
he told me to be a good girl (he had just brought me over to stay a
little while at Komaritz), got into his dog-cart, and drove off.
Scarcely had the door closed behind him when Harry brought from the
next room a long quill pen and a large inkstand, and went to work
eagerly and mysteriously at the vase.
At about five in the afternoon all assembled for afternoon coffee.
Finally Herr Schmied appeared, a book in his hand.
"What are you doing there?" he asked his pupil, unsuspectingly.
"I am giving these naughty boys swimming-breeches, Herr Schmied. Uncle
Paul thought it hardly the thing for you to have presented this vase to
a lady, and so----"
The sentence was never finished. There was a low laugh from the other
end of the room, where Mademoiselle Duval, ensconced behind the
coffee-equipage, had been an unobserved spectator of the scene. Herr
Schmied flushed crimson, and, quite losing his usual self-control, he
gave Harry a sounding box on the ear, and Harry--well, Harry returned
it.
Herr Schmied seized him by the shoulders as if to shake and strike him,
then bit his lip, drew a long breath, released the boy, and left the
room. But Harry's head drooped upon his breast, and he ate no supper
that night. He knew that what had occurred could not be condoned, and
he was sorry.
At supper Herr Schmied informed Mademoiselle Duval that he had written
to Baron Leskjewitsch that unforeseen circumstances made imperative his
return to Germany. "I did not think it necessary to be more explicit as
to the true cause of my sudden departure," he added.
Harry grew very pale.
After supper, as I was sitting with Heda upon the garden-steps, looking
for falling stars that would not fall, we observed Herr Schmied enter
the room behind us; it was quite empty, but the lamp was lighted on the
table. Soon afterwards, Harry appeared. Neither of them noticed us.
Slowly, lingeringly, Harry approached his tutor, and plucked him by the
sleeve.
Herr Schmied looked around.
"Must you really go away, Herr Schmied?" the boy asked, in distress.
"Yes," the tutor replied, very gravely.
Harry bit his lip, seemed undecided what to do or say, and finally,
leaning his head a little on one side, asked, caressingly, "Even if I
beg your pardon?"
Herr Schmied smiled, surprised and touched. He took the boy's hand in
his, and said, sadly, "Even then, Harry. Yet I am sorry, for I was
beginning to be very fond of you."
The tears were in Harry's eyes, but he evidently felt that no entreaty
would be of any avail.
In fact, the next morning Herr Schmied took his departure. A few days
afterwards, however, Harry received a letter from him with a foreign
post-mark. He had written four long pages to his former pupil. Harry
flushed with pride and joy as he read it, and answered it that very
evening.
Herr Schmied is now Professor of Modern History in a foreign
university, his name is well known, and he is held in high honour. He
still corresponds with Harry, whose next tutor was a French abbe. The
cause of the abbe's dismissal I have forgotten; indeed, I remember only
one more among the numerous preceptors, and he was the last,--a German
from Bohemia, called Ewald Finke.
His name was not really Ewald, but Michael, but he called himself Ewald
because he liked it better. He had studied abroad, which always
impressed us favourably, and, as Uncle Karl was told, he had already
won some reputation in Leipsic by his literary efforts. He was looking
for a situation as tutor merely that he might have some rest from
intellectual labours that had been excessive. "Moreover," his letter of
recommendation from a well-known professor went on to say, "the Herr
Baron will not be slow to discover that he is here brought into contact
with a rarely-gifted nature, one of those in intercourse with whom
allowance must be made for certain peculiarities which at first may
prove rather annoying." Uncle Karl instantly wrote, in reply, that
"annoying peculiarities" were of no consequence,--that he would accord
unlimited credit in the matter of allowance to the new tutor. In fact,
he took such an interest in the genius thus offered him that he
prolonged his stay in Komaritz to two weeks, instead of departing at
the end of three days, as he had at first intended, solely in
expectation of the new tutor.
By the way, those who are familiar with my uncle's morbid restlessness
may imagine the joy of his household at his prolonged stay in Komaritz.
Not knowing how otherwise to kill his time, he hit upon the expedient
of shooting it, and, as the hunting season had not begun, he shot
countless butterflies. We found them lying in heaps among the flowers,
little, shapeless, shrivelled things, mere specks of brilliant dust.
When weary of this amusement, he would seat himself at the piano and
play over and over again the same dreary air, grasping uncertainly at
the chords, and holding them long and firmly when once he had got them.
Harry assured me that he was playing a funeral march for the dead
butterflies, and I supposed it to be his own composition. This,
however, was not the case, and the piece was not a funeral march, but a
polonaise,--"The Last Thought of Count Oginski," who is said to have
killed himself after jotting down this music.
At last Herr Finke made his appearance. He was a tall, beardless young
man, with hair cut close to his head, and a sallow face adorned with
the scars of several sabre-cuts, a large mouth, a pointed nose, the
nostrils quivering with critical scorn, and staring black eyes with
large round spectacles, through which they saw only what they chose to
see.
Uncle Karl's reception of him was grandiloquent. "Enter," he exclaimed,
going to meet him with extended hands. "My house is open to you. I
delight in grand natures which refuse to be cramped within the limits
of conventionality."
Herr Finke replied to this high-sounding address only by a rather
condescending nod, shaking the proffered hand as if bestowing a favour.
After he had been refreshed with food and drink, Uncle Karl challenged
him to a fencing-match, which lasted upward of an hour, at the end of
which time my uncle confessed that the new tutor was a master of fence,
immediately wrote to thank the illustrious professor to whom he owed
this treasure of learning, and left Komaritz that same evening.
Herr Finke remained precisely three weeks in his new situation. So far
as lessons went he seemed successful enough, but his "annoying
peculiarities" ended in an outbreak of positive insanity, during which
he set fire to the frame house on the hill where he was lodged, and was
carried off to a mad-house in a strait-waistcoat, raving wildly.
Uncle Karl was sadly disappointed, and suddenly resolved to send Harry
to a public school, being convinced that no good could come of tutors.
From this time forward the young Leskjewitsches came to Komaritz only
for the vacations.
VII.
We were very good friends, Harry and I,--there's no denying that. We
told each other all our secrets,--at least I told him mine,--and we
divided all our bon-bons with each other. Sometimes on Sunday
afternoons we played at marriage, the ceremony giving occasion for a
deal of delightful "dressing up." Moreover, we had long been agreed
that, sooner or later, this play should become earnest, and that we
would marry each other. But when the first down became perceptible on
Harry's upper lip, our mutual friendship began to flag. It was just
about the time that Harry went to a public school.
His indifference grieved me at first, then I became consoled, and at
last I was faithless to him. A cousin of Harry's, who came to Komaritz
to spend the holidays, gave occasion for this breach of faith. His name
was Lato, Count Treurenberg. The name alone kindled my enthusiasm. He
had scarcely been two days in Komaritz, where I too was staying at the
time, when Hedwig confided to me that she was in love with him.
"So am I," I replied. I was firmly convinced that this was so.
My confession was the signal for a highly dramatic scene. Hedwig, who
had frequently been to the theatre in Prague, ran about the room
wringing her hands and crying, "Both with the same man! both!--it is
terrible! One of us must resign him, or the consequences will be
fearful."
I diffidently offered to sacrifice my passion.
She shrieked, "No, I never can accept such a sacrifice from you! Fate
shall decide between us."
Whereupon we put one white and one black bean in a little, broken,
handle-less coffee-pot which we found in the garret, and which Hedwig
called an urn.
The decisive moment made my heart beat. We cast lots for precedence in
drawing from the urn. It fell to me, and I drew out a black bean! The
moment was thrilling. Heda sank upon a sofa, and fanned her joyful face
with her pocket-handkerchief. She declared that if she had drawn the
black bean she would have attempted her life. This declaration
dispelled my despair; I shuddered at the idea of being the cause of
anything so horrible.
From that day Heda never spoke to Lato von Treurenberg without drooping
her head on one side and rolling her eyes languishingly,--conduct which
seemed to cause the young fellow some surprise, but which he treated
with great courtesy, while Harry used to exclaim, "What is the matter
with you, Heda? You look like a goose in a thunder-storm!"
My behaviour towards Lato underwent no change: I had drawn the "black
ball," and, in consequence, the most cordial friendship soon subsisted
between us.
It would have been difficult not to like Lato, for I have never met a
more amiable, agreeable young fellow.
He was about seventeen years old, very tall, and stooped slightly. His
features were delicately chiselled; his smile was quite bewitching in
its dreamy, all-embracing benevolence. There was decided melancholy in
his large, half-veiled eyes, which caused Hedwig to liken him to Lord
Byron.
His complexion was rather dark,--which was odd, as his hair was light
brown touched with gold at the temples. His neck was too long, and his
arms were uncommonly long. All his appointments, from his coats to his
cigar-case, were extremely elegant, testifying to a degree of
fastidiousness thitherto quite unknown in Komaritz. Nevertheless, he
seemed very content in this primitive nest, ignoring all discomfort,
and making no pretension. Heda, who was quick to seize upon every
opportunity to admire him, called my attention to his amiable
forbearance, or, I confess, I should not have noticed it.