On the back of this piece of paper a woman’s hand had written the words:
“Pardon, Heinrich.” I recognized the handwriting of both. It was that of
the piece of paper I had found upon the deck.
Sympathetically I looked at the poor husband. Then the crew of the
_Juno_ called to us to hasten. They pointed to the gangplank which they
were ready to lift. At this moment Walter called: “Hurry, Sir!”
“And you--?”
“I am going after the fugitives.”
“But how can you know in which direction they have gone?”
“Don’t worry--I’ll find them.”
“And your luggage?”
“What do I care about that! Throw it into the sea--”
In despair he beat his breast, from which I saw a revolver gleam. One
sailor seized me by the arm, another pointed toward the gangplank. I do
not remember how I came upon deck. I recall hearing the voice of Walter
saying: “Tell the captain that we are going by land to Ialta. And, if
you will be so kind, then, send my luggage to the Hôtel Crimée.”
While the steamer was pushing off I saw Walter standing in the midst of
a group of people and gesticulating wildly in effort to make some
Tartars understand. This was no easy thing. At length, however, they
seemed to understand, anyway they began to fight among themselves, and
point in various directions. After the quarreling was over Walter and
one of the Tartars disappeared in a cloud of dust. I could see no more.
For just then we steamed out of the Gulf. When Sevastopol had long
disappeared from view, I recalled Walter’s parting words. I went to the
Captain’s cabin. To my great astonishment just then Frau Walter came up
the stairs. My astonishment was so great that I all but shrieked, and
called to her as soon as she reached the top step.
“You here--Madam?”
She looked quickly around the deck, and then at me. Her face was paler
than usual, and her eyes dim. As if she had read what had occurred in my
agitated face, she looked again quickly at the group of passengers on
deck, and then asked anxiously:
“Where is Walter? Have you seen my husband?”
“Permit me, dear Madam, before I reply, to inquire of you if the young
nephew is in the cabin?”
“William? No. He came to the steamer with me and then hastened to the
city with the remark that he was going to do the rest of the sightseeing
alone. From that moment I have not seen him. Ill with a headache, I lay
down upon the sofa in my cabin, and suddenly I fell asleep and slept
until now.”
I stood in front of her confused and ashamed. I felt that her dark eyes
hung upon my words. Should I tell her all? Should I tell her the foul
suspicion with which her name had been darkened. And yet--the clearness
of William’s letter, and the words she had written on the other side.
What a tangle! I longed for enlightenment.
“Well--dear Madam, I suppose I must tell you all. Yet do not be
needlessly upset, no great misfortune has befallen. Let us step aside, a
little where we shall not be exposed to the curiosity of the other
travelers.”
“Deserted!”--she groaned. “Deserted!”
I must confess that at just this moment I felt no particular sympathy
for the young woman. In fact I contemplated with a certain satisfaction
her bowed head with its graceful curls.
In addition, the situation had changed since the moment when I saw
Walter with the revolver buttoned within his coat; it had lost its
tragic character. In fact it opened up for me a very amusing prospect.
While the husband was wandering about God knows where among the
mountains of the Crimea, his lovely wife was sitting beside me. And
except me, she had not a soul to whom she could turn for help or
address. I was the Knight, the protector, of the deserted lady.
Frau Walter dropped her hands from her tear filled eyes to her lap and
spoke to me with lips that trembled. “God knows if we shall ever meet
again!”
“Do not worry needlessly, dear Madam. This little piece of land which is
Crimea is not so large. Somewhere in Bakschi Serai, Simferopol, Alupka
or Kaffa, your husband will find the culprit. Everything will be cleared
up. They will at once start for Ialta convinced that you will have gone
to a hotel there to await their arrival.”
“Oh! Now I know that he never loved me. If he had, he could never have
thought such a thing.”
“Justice demands that I defend your husband. The complication was so
arranged that there was nothing else to think. If the contents of
William’s letter had left a doubt, your writing upon the back of that
letter, would have removed it.”
“Oh, those fateful words!” she exclaimed taking out the tasteful little
note-book. “This little book was my only friend. To its pages I confided
my love for Heinrich. William asked me in Sevastopol for a piece of
paper. I tore a leaf out for him, without observing what was written
upon it.”
“Pardon me, dear Madam. Walter found three love letters in the cabin.”
For the friendly reader let it here be remarked that I blushed slightly.
“They were love letters written by William, and upon them were words in
your writing. One would suppose that these were intended for you.”
“What a chain of misunderstandings! These letters were not for me but
for my younger sister, with whom William is head over heels in love. He
chose me to confide in, because my husband had punished him several
times for this. Everywhere, where he could get hold of a piece of paper
he wrote his effusions. I scolded him, too, for doing this, but I see
now that Heinrich must have looked upon it with suspicion.”
Now I was disarmed. I determined to remain in Ialta and help Frau Walter
find her husband. She accepted my offer with gratitude, and her lovely
eyes began to look happier.
One could not, indeed, with gloomy looks contemplate the scenery that
confronted us now, the wildly cleft, towering Crimean coast. There were
fantastically formed cliffs, making romantic groups, lifting their
heads far up into the undefiled blue. Sometimes they looked as if they
had been frozen together at time of some violent and ancient war. In
their multiform grouping lay a peculiar charm, and the vividness of the
impression was heightened by their varied colors. Here a rock jutted out
as if preparing for a leap into the sea, then a lonely group of giant
stone made a background that united splendor and terror as it leaped
toward the sky. Here again smooth walls of rock fell straight down into
the sea, or a saw tooth formation cut deep into the land.
Steaming on we passed the mountain which is connected with the Greek
myth about Iphigenia. Next we saw the cloister of the holy George,
perched like a nest on the edge of a rocky wall, and the noble tower
which is a part of the cloister, and which looks far over the sea and
friendly Balaklava.
We were now approaching the fabulously lovely southern shore. Even now
we could glimpse its fresh green land, from which the flat roofs of
Tartar villages were visible, the white columns, and proud façades of
princely castles; country homes, of the most charming artistry and
grace, greet us across the water. Every style of architecture is
represented; English, Swiss, Gothic, Byzantine, Moorish, Arabic, Tartar.
Above appears beautiful Alupta and now--now--
The dining room bell rings and--despite the verses of Byron about it--I
hear nothing, I see nothing, not even the lovely woman who is standing
beside me, I am staring with astonished eyes at the scene before me.
Like the beautiful princess in the fairy tale the coast of Ialta--fair
as Paradise, richly green as the emerald--breathes upon me its
intoxication. I stand motionless on deck, the warm, inspiring wind of
the South blowing about me; my eyes discover fresh loveliness from
moment to moment, and I cannot look enough upon that enticing landscape.
Suddenly my eyes grow dim and fill with tears; it is not easy to explain
this. It was as if never before had nature presented herself to me in
all her loveliness, as if my Northern nature must melt and dissolve in
this glow and warmth of the South.
When the _Juno_ anchored at Ialta I drew a deep breath, as if suddenly I
had awakened from a dream. Now I looked about for my protégée. She stood
by my side, absorbed like myself in the beauty of the scene. The weight
of my duty as protector came to my mind.
With help of a steward I carried all the bundles and packages to the
deck, defended myself against the offers of assistance of some
picturesquely dressed Greek rascals, and at length gathered all the
belongings in a little boat, such as come out in numbers to the
steamers. More than sufficient reward for my trouble was the little
white finger of Frau Walter which rested upon my arm while I assisted
her into the boat. In a little while we were under the hospitable roof
of the Hôtel Crimée. We rented two rooms whose outer doors had a balcony
in common from which there was a view of Ialta and the Sea. Soon I felt
that the balcony confined me. I went out into the radiant summer world,
first to the landing place, from where a long avenue of cypress trees
stretched toward the country.
Next I walked along the broad, white streets toward the country estates.
I breathed in with delight the pleasant air, which was spread abroad
from thousands of flowers; my eyes rested upon fig trees, blooming
magnolias, plane trees, olives, vines, richly gilded garden gates,
behind which young, pretty Russian women were amusing themselves and
playing at ball with oranges. Even upon old grey bearded Tartars who sat
upon their sorry nags with a certain elegance, I looked with pleasure,
and upon the nets which the fishers were hauling in, and the baskets
filled to the rim with little fish.
In the meantime night had come, a night of beauty. The sky was strewn
thickly with stars, perfume of flowers floated up to the balcony, and
there I stood alone leaning upon the railing. Until late in the night I
stood there. I do not know whether I expected that my charming neighbor
would leave her sultry room and come out on the balcony, in order to
enjoy the splendor of the night, but I do know that until dawn I could
not sleep.
The next day while we were drinking our tea, I unfolded to Frau Walter
my plan for finding her wandering husband. And this plan I proceeded to
put into execution.
Slowly I rode in the direction of Alupka and one hundred times I paused,
sometimes before a neat villa whose windows were all but covered with
flowers, sometimes by an abyss in whose yawning depth a foaming river
ran. Then again I turned toward the sapphire Gulf, over whose surface
sea mews were spreading their white wings.
At Alupka I turned about and came back to Ialta. Then accompanied by a
Tartar I rode to Bakschi Serai, stood long by the fountain Marie
Potocki, and spent the night in what was once the palace of a Crimean
Khan. From this journey likewise I returned without information. In
Gurzuf and Kaffa I found no trace of Walter. I must say that I did not
exhaust a great deal of effort in looking for him; he will come back to
Ialta without doubt.
From these expeditions I returned to the Hôtel Crimée where I sat and
talked with Frau Walter in the gardens. I consoled her for the failure
of my efforts, and made her hope results would soon be better. She
relied upon me with childish faith. How I enjoyed looking into her
shining eyes, how attentively I followed the slightest gesture of her
little hands! Each night I tarried later on the balcony, but my charming
neighbor did not once come out.
One afternoon--the first week of our stay in Ialta was nearing an
end--we were standing on the balcony looking out across the white
street. Suddenly Frau Walter seized my arm and screamed: “Heinrich!
Heinrich!” I, alone, should not have known him.
Covered with dirt, in ragged clothes, he was riding wildly along the
street on a Tartar horse. A bright colored cloth was tied about his
head, and the ends were fluttering in the wind. His hair hung in
disorder about his dirty, sunburned face, and his beard was ragged. I
limited my emotions to a smile, and said to the jubilant lady:
“Come in, please. I will inform him at once that you are here. I wish to
dissipate once and for all your suspicions about his affection.”
She agreed and returned to her room. I went to meet Walter.
“You here!” He called in surprise.
“I changed my plans. Well, did you find the fugitives?”
“Upstairs I’ll tell you all about it,” he replied in a sad voice with a
shake of his head.
I led him through my room to the balcony. As we stood there he covered
his face with his hands, sighed deeply and exclaimed:
“All lost! Why chase a woman whose heart is gone? I went in the wrong
direction. In Sevastopol I learned that a man and a beautiful woman,
who left our ship, had hired a carriage and driven to Simferopol. I rode
like lightning after them. That was a devil of an unlucky ride! I
followed them like a hunter. Late in the evening I saw them get out of
the wagon in front of a little house in the outskirts of Simferopol.
Like a madman I ran up and knocked upon the door. A Jew opened it. I
seized my revolver and tried to force an entrance. The Jew
shrieked:--‘Help! Help!’ A young Jewess screamed and they ran upon me
from all sides. I saved myself but my clothes were torn, my hat was gone
and my face was bleeding. The next day I found out that I had followed a
harmless Jew and his sister.
“I remember having seen them upon our ship.
“Then I hurried to Bakschi Serai, Karasn-Bazar, Kaffa, and God only
knows where else, and all in vain!”
“Then you know all the Crimea and need not travel here again.”
“Do not jest. I cannot stand it. Now I know for the first time how much
I loved her. Without her the world is a desert. I would give my wealth,
the light of my eyes, half my life, if I could find that what I have
been through these few days was only a dream.”
The door opened and Frau Walter rushed into the arms of her husband. In
a short time all was explained.
We sat together out of doors in the terraced garden, which was framed on
all sides by emerald green vines through which the blossom cups of the
night-shade shone. On the centre of a table was a giant bouquet composed
of the loveliest flowers of the South. Everywhere floated fragrance. The
professor, whose face now shone with the self satisfaction of the
West-European, and his pretty wife, acted the lovers on a honeymoon.
“It is all clear to me now,” he declared, “all but that crazy letter of
William’s. God alone knows what that means.”
Hardly had he finished speaking, when without from the courtyard we
heard a well known voice. I parted the vine leaves and looked out. In
the court I saw William stepping out of a Russian _telega_. And what an
appearance he presented! His handsome velvet coat was in rags and
tatters. He was covered with dust and mud. The coquettish court plaster
upon his brow had vanished. In its place there was a scar. When he saw
me he walked slowly toward the pavilion.
At command of the professor we sat in silence and regarded him, after
the manner of stern senators of Rome. William was abashed and confused,
threw a ragged cap upon the table, and, with a sigh, sank down upon a
chair, and stretched his legs out. Then he took an estimating side
glance at us. Our silence evidently disturbed him. He pulled the chair
nearer to the table, sighed, blushed and crossed and recrossed his legs.
At length the uncle regarded him sternly and said:
“It seems you are capable of traveling about in the world alone--” The
nephew observed that beneath the sternness there was a twinkle of humor.
“Oh yes--very capable. I have had a dozen first class adventures. But
one thing I forgot all about--and that was money. As I sit here you
could not find a single coin upon me. That is the reason, dear Uncle,
that I have returned to the yoke of your tyranny, in case you are
disposed to fill my pockets again.”
“Very good,” replied the uncle, laughing. “But tell--were you a fool
when you wrote this letter?”
“I--_a fool_?”
“Who is the person you took away from me--whom you pressed to your
heart?”
“Couldn’t you guess? Why your pearl of pearls with which you bored your
wife and me to death--nothing else.”
Hereupon he drew from his breast pocket the worn manuscript of the new
science. There was a burst of laughter and the professor made a grab for
the manuscript.
“Well--I seem to be the fool myself.”
He took the manuscript and flung it far out of the pavilion.
“I will not attempt again to analyze the beauties of life.”
Four glasses, foaming with the fine wine of Crimea, rang merrily
together.
The next evening I was again on ship deck. From the friendly green
garden, and the flower-covered villas, the light gradually faded, and
day grew dim upon the fantastic mountains of stone that rose behind
charming Ialta. At last land disappeared, too, and night came down.
Farewell, beautiful Ialta!