The ropedancer, Kuni, really had been with the sick mother and her
babes, and had toiled for them with the utmost diligence.
The unfortunate woman was in great distress.
The man who had promised to take her in his cart to her native village
of Schweinfurt barely supported himself and his family by the tricks of
his trained poodles. He made them perform their very best feats in the
taverns, under the village lindens, and at the fairs. But the children
who gazed at the four-footed artists, though they never failed to give
hearty applause, frequently paid in no other coin. He would gladly have
helped the unfortunate woman, but to maintain the wretched mother and
her twins imposed too heavy a burden upon the kind-hearted vagabond, and
he had withdrawn his aid.
Then the ropedancer met her. True, she herself was in danger of being
left lying by the wayside; but she was alone, and the mother had her
children. These were two budding hopes, while she had nothing more
to expect save the end--the sooner the better. There could be no new
happiness for her.
And yet, to have found some one who was even more needy than she, lifted
her out of herself, and to have power to be and do something in her
behalf pleased her, nay, even roused an emotion akin to that which,
in better days, she had felt over a piece of good fortune which others
envied. Perhaps she herself might be destined to die on the highway,
without consolation, the very next day; but she could save this unhappy
woman from it, and render her end easier. Oh, how rich Lienhard's gold
coins made her! Yet if, instead of three, there had been as many dozens,
she would have placed the larger portion in the twins' pillows. How it
must soothe their mother's heart! Each one was a defence against hunger
and want. Besides, the gold had been fairly burning her hand. It came
from Lienhard. Had it not been for Cyriax and the crowd of people in the
room, she would have made him take it back--she alone knew why.
How did this happen?
Why did every fibre of her being rebel against receiving even the
smallest trifle from the man to whom she would gladly have given the
whole world? Why, after she had summoned up courage and approached
Lienhard to restore his gift, had she felt such keen resentment and
bitter suffering when the landlord of The Blue Pike stopped her?
As she now seized his gold, it seemed as though she saw Lienhard before
her. She had already told Cyriax how she met the aristocratic Nuremberg
patrician, a member of the ancient and noble Groland family, whom his
native city had now made an ambassador so young. But what secretly bound
her to him had never passed her lips.
Once in her life she had felt something which placed her upon an equal
footing with the best and purest of her sex--a great love for one from
whom she asked nothing, nothing at all, save to be permitted to think
of him and to sacrifice everything, everything for him--even life. So
strange had been the course of this love, that people would have doubted
her sanity or her truthfulness had she described it to them.
While standing before St. Sebald's church in Nuremberg, the vision of
the young Councillor's bride at first made a far stronger impression
upon her mind than his own. Then her gaze rested on Lienhard. As he had
chosen the fairest of women, the bride had also selected the tallest,
most stately, and certainly the best and wisest of men. During her
imprisonment the image of this rare couple had been constantly before
her. Not until, through the young husband's intercession, she had
regained her liberty, after he prevented her kissing his hand and, to
soothe her, had stroked her hair and cheeks in the magistrate's room,
did the most ardent gratitude take possession of her soul. From this
emotion, which filled heart and mind, a glowing wealth of other feelings
had blossomed like buds upon a rosebush. Everything in her nature had
attracted her toward him, and the desire to devote herself to him, body
and soul, shed the last drop of blood in her heart for him, completely
ruled her. His image rose before her day and night, sometimes alone,
sometimes with his beautiful bride. Not only to him, but to her also she
would joyfully have rendered the most menial service, merely to be near
them and to be permitted to show that the desire to prove her gratitude
had become the object of her life.
When, with good counsel for the future, he dismissed her from the chief
magistrate's room, he had asked her where she was to be found in case
he should have anything to say to her. It seemed as though, from mingled
alarm and joy, her heart would stop beating. If her lodgings, instead of
an insignificant tavern, had been her own palace, she would gladly have
opened all its gates to him, yet a feverish thrill ran through her limbs
at the thought that he might seek her among her vagabond companions, and
ask in return for his kindness what he would never have presumed to seek
had she been the child of reputable parents, yet which, with mingled
anger and happiness, she resolved not to refuse.
During the day and the night when she expected his visit, she had become
aware that she, who had never cared for any man save for the gifts he
bestowed, was fired with love for Lienhard. Such ardent yearning could
torture only a loving heart, yet what she felt was very unlike the love
with which she was familiar in songs, and had seen in other girls; for
she by no means thought with jealous rancour of the woman to whom he
belonged, body and soul--his beautiful wife. It rather seemed to
her that she was his, and he would no longer be the same if he were
separated from her, nay, as if her very love was hers also. When she
heard a noise outside of her little room she started, and eagerly as she
yearned to see him, blissful as she thought it must be to sink upon his
breast and offer him her lips to kiss, the bold ropedancer, who never
cared for the opinions of others, could not shake off, even for a
moment, the fear of wronging the fair wife who had a better right to
him. Instead of hating her, or even wishing to share the heart of the
man she loved with his bride, she shrank from the approaching necessity
of clouding her young happiness as though it were the direst misfortune.
Yet she felt that its prevention lay, not in her own hands, but in those
of Fate. Should it please Destiny to lead Lienhard to her and inspire
him with a desire for her love, all resistance, she knew, would be
futile. So she began to repeat several paternosters that he might remain
away from her. But her yearning was so great that she soon desisted,
and again and again went to the window with a fervent wish that he might
come.
In the terrible tumult of her heart she had forgotten to eat or to drink
since early morning, and at last, in the afternoon, some one knocked at
the door, and the landlady called her.
While she was hurriedly smoothing her thick black hair and straightening
her best gown, which she had put on for him in the morning, she heard
the hostess say that Herr Groland of the Council was waiting for her
downstairs. Every drop of blood left her glowing cheeks, and the knees
which never trembled on the rope shook as she descended the narrow
steps.
He came forward to meet her in the entry, holding out his hand with
open-hearted frankness. How handsome and how good he was! No one wore
that look who desired aught which must be hidden under the veil of
darkness. Ere her excited blood had time to cool, he had beckoned to her
to follow him into the street, where a sedan chair was standing.
An elderly lady of dignified bearing looked out and met her eyes with a
pleasant glance. It was Frau Sophia, the widow of Herr Conrad Schurstab
of the Council, one of the richest and most aristocratic noblewomen in
the city. Lienhard had told her about the charming prisoner who had been
released and begged her to help him bring her back to a respectable and
orderly life. The lady needed an assistant who, now that it was hard
for her to stoop, would inspect the linen closets, manage the poultry
yard-her pride--and keep an eye on the children when they came to visit
their grandmother. So she instantly accompanied Lienhard to the tavern,
and Kuni pleased her. But it would have been difficult not to feel
some degree of sympathy for the charming young creature who, in great
embarrassment, yet joyously as though released from a heavy burden,
raised her large blue eyes to the kind stranger.
It was cold in the street, and as Kuni had come out without any wrap,
Frau Schurstab, in her friendly consideration, shortened the conference.
Lienhard Uroland had helped her with a few words, and when the sedan
chair and the young Councillor moved down the street all the necessary
details were settled. The vagrant had bound herself and assumed duties,
though they were very light ones. She was to move that evening into the
distinguished widow's house, not as a servant, but as the old lady's
assistant.
Loni, the manager of the company of rope-dancers, had watched the
negotiations from the taproom. During their progress each of the three
windows was filled with heads, but no one had been able to hear what was
whispered in the street. Just as the curious spectators were hoping
that now they might perhaps guess what the aristocratic lady wanted with
Kuni, the sedan chair began to move, and the young girl entered the hot
room to tell Loni that she would leave the company that day forever.
"In-de-e-ed?" Loni asked in astonishment, lifting the gold circlet which
rested on his head. Then he passed his hand through the coal-black hair
which, parted in the middle, fell in smooth strands upon his neck, and
exerted all his powers of persuasion to convince her of the folly of her
plan. After his arguments were exhausted he raised his voice louder. As
usual, when excited by anger, he swung his lower right arm to and fro,
feeling the prominent muscles with his left hand. But Kuni remained
resolute, and when he at last perceived that his opposition only
increased her obstinacy, he exclaimed:
"Then rush on to your destruction! The day will come when you will see
where you belong. If only it doesn't arrive too late. A man grows twelve
and a woman thirty-six months older every year."
With these words he turned his back upon her, and the clown brought the
amount of wages which was due.
Many an eye grew dim with tears when Kuni bade farewell to her
companions. Shortly after sunset she was welcomed to Frau Schurstab's
house.
The first greeting was friendly, and she received nothing but kindness
and indulgent treatment afterward. She had a sunny chamber of her own,
and how large and soft her bed was! But while, when on the road with
Loni's band, if they could reach no town, she had often slept soundly
and sweetly on a heap of straw, here she spent one restless night after
another.
During the first a series of questions disturbed her slumber. Was it
really only the desire to take her from her vagabond life which had
induced Lienhard to open this house to her? Did he not perhaps also
cherish the wish to keep her near him? He had certainly come to her with
Frau Schurstab to protect her reputation. Had it not been so he might
have left the matron at home; for Loni and everybody in the company knew
that she never troubled herself about gossip. Last year she had obtained
a leave of absence from Loni, who was making a tour of the little Frank
towns, and spent the carnival season in revelry with a sergeant of
the Nurembreg soldiers. When the booty he had gained in Italy was
squandered, she gave him his dismissal. Her reputation among her
companions was neither better nor worse than that of the other strolling
players who, like her, were born on the highway, yet she was glad
that Lienhard had tried to spare her. Or had he only come with the old
noblewoman on account of his own fair name?
Perhaps--her pulses again throbbed faster at the thought--he had not
ventured to come alone because some feeling for her stirred in his own
heart, and, spite of his beautiful young wife, he did not feel safe
from her. Then Fran Schurstab was to serve as a shield. This conjecture
flattered her vanity and reconciled her to the step which she had taken
and already began to regret.
But suppose he really felt no more for her than the forester who finds
a child lost in the woods, and guides it into the right path? How would
she endure that? Yet, were it otherwise, if he was like the rest of men,
if he profited by what her whole manner must betray to him, how should
she face his wife, who undoubtedly would soon come to call on her aunt?
All these questions roused a tumult of unprecedented violence in her
young, ardent, inexperienced soul, which was renewed each successive
night. It became more and more difficult for her to understand why she
had left Loni's band and entered into relations for which she was not
suited, and in which she could never, never be at ease or feel happy.
Nothing was lacking in this wealthy household, not even kindness and
love. Frau Sophia was indulgent and friendly, even when Kuni, whose
heart and brain were occupied with so many other thoughts, neglected
or forgot anything. The matron's grandchildren, of whom she often had
charge, soon became warmly attached to her. While among the rope-dancers
she had been fond of children, and many a little one who journeyed with
the band held out its arms to her more joyously than to its own mother.
There was something in her nature that attracted them. Besides, her
skilful hands could show them many a rare trick, and she could sing
numerous songs new to the Schurstab boys and girls, which she had picked
up here and there. Then, too, she permitted many a prank which no one
else would have allowed. Her duties connected with the household linen
and the poultry yard, its owner's pride, were so easily performed, that
in her leisure hours she often voluntarily helped the housekeeper. At
first the latter eyed her askance, but she soon won her affection.
Both she and her mistress showed her as much attention as the gardener
bestows upon a wild plant which he has transferred to good soil, where
it thrives under his care.
She kept aloof from the servants, and neither man nor maid molested her.
Perhaps this was due to foolish arrogance, for after they had learned
from rumour that Kuni had danced on the tight rope, they considered
themselves far superior. The younger maids timidly kept out of her way,
and Kuni surpassed them in pride and looked down upon them, because her
free artist blood rebelled against placing herself on the plane of a
servitor. She did not vouchsafe them a word, yet neither did she allow
any of them to render her even the most trivial service. But she could
not escape Seifried, the equerry of her mistress's eldest son. At first,
according to her custom, she had roused the handsome fellow's hopes by
fiery glances which she could not restrain. Now he felt that she cared
for him, and in his honest fashion offered to make her his beloved wife;
but she refused his suit, at first kindly, then angrily. As he still
persisted she begged the housekeeper, though she saw that matchmaking
was her delight, to keep him away.
Even in March Frau Sophia thanked Lienhard for the new inmate of her
household, who far exceeded her expectations. In April her praise became
still warmer, only she regretted that Kuni's pretty face was losing its
fresh colour and her well-formed figure its roundness. She was sorry,
too, that she so often seemed lost in thought, and appeared less merry
while playing with the children.
Lienhard and his young wife excused the girl's manner. Comfortable as
she was now, she was still a prisoned bird. It would be unnatural, nay,
suspicious, if she did not sometimes long for the old freedom and her
former companions. She would also remember at times the applause of the
multitude. The well-known Loni, her former employer, had besought him to
win her back to his company, complaining loudly of her loss, because it
was difficult to replace her with an equally skilful young artist. It
was now evident how mistaken the juggler had been when he asserted that
Kuni, who was born among vagrants, would never live in a respectable
family. He, Lienhard, had great pleasure in knowing that the girl, on
the road to ruin, had been saved by Frau Sophia's goodness.
Lienhard's father had died shortly after Kuni entered her new home.
Every impulse to love dalliance, she felt, must shrink before this great
sorrow. The idea sustained her hopes. She could not expect him to seek
her again until the first bitterness of grief for the loss of this
beloved relative had passed away. She could wait, and she succeeded in
doing so patiently.
But week after week went by and there was no change in his conduct. Then
a great anxiety overpowered her, and this did not escape his notice;
for one day, while his young wife hung on his arm and added a few
brief words of sympathy, he asked Kuni if she was ill or if she needed
anything; but she answered curtly in the negative and hurried into the
garden, where the children, with merry shouts, were helping the gardener
to free the beds of crocuses and budding tulips from the pine boughs
which had protected them from the frosts of winter.
Another sleepless night followed this incident. It was useless to
deceive herself. She might as well mistake black for white as to believe
that Lienhard cared for her. To no one save his fair young wife would
he grant even the smallest ray of the love of which he was doubtless
capable, and in which she beheld the sun that dispensed life and light.
She had learned this, for he had often met her in Frau Sophia's house
since his father's funeral. The child of the highway had never been
taught to conceal her feelings and maintain timid reserve. Her eyes had
told him eloquently enough, first her deep sympathy, and afterward the
emotions which so passionately stirred her heart. Had the feelings
which her glances were intended to reveal passed merely for the ardent
gratitude of an impassioned soul?
Gratitude! For what?
His lukewarm interest had tempted her from a free, gay life, full of
constant excitement, into the oppressive, wearisome monotony of this
quiet house, where she was dying of ennui. How narrow, how petty, how
tiresome everything seemed, and what she had bartered for it was the
world, the whole wide, wide world. As the chicken lured the fox, the
hope of satisfying the fervent longing of her heart, though even once
and for a few brief moments, had brought her into the snare. But the
fire which burned within had not been extinguished. An icy wind had
fanned the flames till they blazed higher and higher, threatening her
destruction.
Frau Schurstab had made her attend church and go to the confessional.
But the mass, whose meaning she did not understand, offered no solace to
the soul which yearned for love alone. Besides, it wearied her to remain
so long in the same place, and the confession forced the girl, who had
never shrunk from honestly expressing what she felt, into deception.
The priest to whom she was taken was a frequent visitor at the Schurstab
house, and she would have died ere she would have confided to him the
secret of her heart. Besides, to her the feeling which animated her was
no sin. She had not summoned it. It had taken possession of her against
her will and harmed no one except herself, not even the wife who was so
sure of her husband. How could she have presumed to dispute with her the
possession of Herr Lienhard's love? Yet it seemed an insult that Frau
Katharina had no fear that she could menace her happiness. Could the
former know that Kuni would have been content with so little--a tender
impulse of his heart, a kiss, a hasty embrace? That would do the other
no injury. In the circles whence she had been brought no one grudged
another such things. How little, she thought, would have been taken from
the wealthy Katharina by the trifling gift which would have restored to
her happiness and peace. The fact that Lienhard, though he never failed
to notice her, would not understand, and always maintained the same
pleasant, aristocratic reserve of manner, she sometimes attributed
to fear, sometimes to cruelty, sometimes to arrogance; she would not
believe that he saw in her only a person otherwise indifferent to him,
whom he wished to accustom to the mode of life which he and his friends
believed to be the right path, pleasing in the sight of God. Love,
feminine vanity, the need of approval, her own pride--all opposed this
view.
When the last snow of winter had melted, and the spring sunshine of
April was unfolding the green leafage and opening bright flowers in the
meadows, the hedges, the woods, and the gardens, she found the new home
which she had entered during the frosts of February, and whose solid
walls excluded every breath of air, more and more unendurable. A gnawing
feeling of homesickness for the free out-of-door life, the wandering
from place to place, the careless, untrammelled people to whom she
belonged, took possession of her. She felt as though everything which
surrounded her was too small, the house, the apartments, her own
chamber, nay, her very clothing. Only the hope of the first token that
Lienhard was not so cold and unconquerable as he seemed, that she would
at last constrain him to pass the barrier which separated them, still
detained her.
Then came the day when, to avoid answering his question whether she
needed anything, she had gone into the garden. Before reaching the
children, who were playing among the crocuses and tulips, she had said
to herself that she must leave this house--it was foolish, nay mad, to
continue to cherish the hope which had brought her hither. She would
suffer keenly in tearing it from her heart, but a wild delight seized
her at the thought that this imprisonment would soon be over, that she
would be free once more, entirely her own mistress, released from every
restraint and consideration. How rapturous was the idea that she would
soon be roving through the fields and woods again with gay, reckless
companions! Was there anything more pleasurable than to forget herself,
and devote her whole soul to the execution of some difficult and
dangerous feat, to attract a thousand eyes by her bewitching grace, and,
sustained by her enthusiasm, force a thousand hearts to throb anxiously
and give loud applause as she flew over the rope?
Never had the children seen her more extravagantly gay than after her
resolve to leave them. Yet when, at a late hour, Kuni went to bed, the
old housekeeper heard her weeping so piteously in her chamber that she
rose to ask what had happened. But the girl did not even open her door,
and declared that she had probably had the nightmare.
During the next few days she sometimes appeared more cheerful and
docile, sometimes more dull and troubled than her household companions
had ever seen her. Frau Schurstab shook her head over her protegee's
varying moods. But when the month of May began, and Lienhard told his
aunt that Loni, who had only remained in Nuremberg during Lent to spend
the time when all public performances were prohibited, had applied to
the Council for permission to give exhibitions with his company Easter
week in the Haller Meadows, the matron was troubled about her protegee's
peace of mind. Her nephew had had the same thought, and advised her to
move to her country estate, that Kuni might see and hear nothing of
the jugglers; but she had noticed the clown with other members of the
company, as they passed through the streets on foot and mounted on
horses and donkeys, inviting the people, with blare of trumpets and
beating of drums, to witness the wonderful feats which Loni's famous
band of artists would perform.
Then Kuni packed her bundle. But when she heard the next morning that,
before going to the country, Frau Schurstab would attend the christening
of her youngest grandson, and spend the whole day with the daughter who
was the little boy's mother, she untied it.
One sunny May morning she was left alone, as she had expected. She could
not be invited to the ceremony with the other guests, and she would not
join the servants. The housekeeper and most of the men and maids had
accompanied their mistress to help in the kitchen and to wait upon the
visitors. Deep silence reigned throughout the great empty house, but
Kuni's heart had never throbbed so loudly. If Lienhard came now, her
fate would be decided, and she knew that he must come. Just before noon,
he really did rap with the knocker on the outer door. He wanted the
christening gift, which Frau Schurstab had forgotten to take for the
infant. The money was in the chest in the matron's room. Kuni led the
way. The house seemed to reel around her as she went up the stairs
behind him. The next moment, she felt, must decide her destiny.
Now he laid his hand upon the doorknob, now he opened the door. The
widow's chamber was before her. Thick silk curtains shut out the bright
May sunshine from the quiet room. How warm and pleasant it was!
She already saw herself in imagination kneeling by his side before the
chest to help him search. While doing so, his fingers might touch hers,
perhaps her hair might brush against his. But, instead of entering, he
turned to her with careless unconcern, saying:
"It is fortunate that I have found you alone. Will you do me a favour,
girl?"
He had intended to ask her to help him prepare a surprise for his aunt.
The day after to-morrow was Frau Sophia Schurstab's birthday. Early in
the morning she must find among her feathered favourites a pair of rare
India fowls, which he had received from Venice.
As Kuni did not instantly assent, because the wild tumult of her blood
paralyzed her tongue, he noticed her confusion, and in an encouraging
tone, gaily continued:
"What I have to ask is not too difficult." As he spoke he passed his
hand kindly over her dark hair, just as he had done a few months before
in the Town Hall.
Then the blood mounted to her brain. Clasping his right hand, beneath
whose touch she had just trembled, in both her own, she passionately
exclaimed:
"Ask whatever you desire. If you wanted to trample my heart under your
feet, I would not stir."
A look of ardent love from her sparkling blue eyes accompanied the
words; but he had withdrawn his hand in astonishment, and raised a lofty
barrier between them by answering coldly and sternly, "Keep the heart
and your dainty self for the equerry Seifried who is an honest man."
The advice, and the lofty austerity with which it was given, pierced
Kuni like the thrust of a dagger. Yet she succeeded controlling herself,
and, without a word reply, preceded the harsh man into the sleeping room
and silently, tearlessly, pointed the chest. When he had taken out the
money, she bowed hastily and ran down the stairs.
Probably she heard him call her name more than three times; doubtless,
afterward she fancied that she remembered how his voice had sounded
in beseeching, tender, at last even imperious tones through the empty
corridors; but she did not turn, and hurried into her room.