"I do wish, Eugen, you would make up your mind. What is the good of all
this doubting and fluctuating?"
The young man to whom these words were addressed, lifted his head
slowly and said in a tone of unconcealed bitterness--
"I wish you knew what such a conflict was, then you would understand
how difficult decision is!"
"I don't think I should. If my whole future lay on one side, and a
youthful love affair, already half cooled down, on the other, there
would be no conflict at all in my case, but simply necessity, which I
should bow to, at any price."
"And if it cost the breaking of a heart?"
"_Mein Gott!_ don't look at the matter in such a terribly tragical way.
Broken hearts, dying in sacrifice to unhappy love, may be very
effective and touching in novels, but don't exist in actual life, and
such a simple girl as your _fiancee_, is not likely to fall a victim to
this romantic martyrdom. Of course the loss of her _braeutigam_[1] will
cost her some tears, but she will get over it, and a year and a day
after will marry some respectable Buerger and Councillor of B., who will
suit her much better, and make her much happier than you would ever be
able to do."
"I wish you would be quiet, Hermann!" cried Eugen violently. "You don't
know Gertrud, and for that reason you are always unjust to her."
"That may be. I have, as you know, a decided antipathy to everything
narrow and _buergerlich_,[2] and when it stands in the way of a man's
career, and drags him down into the lowest sphere of life, I simply
hate it!"
Eugen had no reply ready for these decided words. He sprang up, went to
the window, and pressing his brow against the glass, looked out on the
park, which lay before him in the dewy freshness of a June morning. The
sun shone warmly into the ancient pavilion, with its half obliterated
frescoes on walls and roof, on the gilded, richly carved furniture,
with its faded figured damask of the last century; and lighted up
brightly the figures of the two young men seated there. The one who
leaned against the window had a tall, slender figure, and a face,
which, without being regularly beautiful, was yet singularly attractive
at first sight. There was a mighty charm in these features, a world of
passion and dreaminess in the dark eyes, and cloudy brows, and the
inward conflict which was now shown plainly enough in his countenance,
gave a still deeper interest to this artistic head, with its wealth of
dark hair.
His companion possessed little or none of these fascinating
attractions. He was smaller, but more powerfully built, with irregular
features, which would have made him decidedly plain, but for the high,
finely moulded brow, which gave a remarkable and peculiar character to
the whole countenance. His keen grey eyes, almost too keen for a man of
four-and-twenty, looked out calmly and clearly from beneath it, and
seemed in keeping with the sharply defined lines round the mouth, a
feature full of energy and decision, but cold and bitter in expression,
robbing the countenance of all youthfulness, and making it at some
moments almost repulsive. The young man spoke calmly, leaning back at
his ease in the arm chair, and contemplating his agitated friend with
almost indifference, but in spite of his calmness and indifferent mien,
there was an air of unconscious nobility in his bearing, a decided
superiority, which was wanting in Eugen, who, leaning gracefully
against the window, dreamily contemplating the clouds, was certainly
interesting, but perhaps a little theatrical in appearance.
A momentary pause in the conversation had occurred, suddenly broken by
Hermann with the question--
"What is your feeling with regard to Antonie?"
A deep sigh, and a movement of impatience was the only answer.
"You love her?"
"I worship her!"
"And this worship gives her only too much satisfaction. But now, do you
imagine that my proud cousin would be the one to suffer a rival in the
shape of an unknown, insignificant little Buergermaedchen? Take care, if
she should find it out sooner or later; I assure you, it would dash all
your hopes to the ground at once."
Eugen looked moodily into space.
"Hopes! How could I dare to have any? Am not I _buergerlich_, with no
great name, no fortune--do you really imagine that she would be ready
to sacrifice her name and rank for me, that Countess Arnau could ever
become the wife of an unknown painter?"
A sarcastic smile quivered round Hermann's lips--
"Well, if you cannot tell, I am not the one to give you any certainty
about the matter. But," added he, mockingly, "it seems to me you are
pretty sure of your ground, and that there is not much danger of having
'No' for an answer. Just on that account you must decide for yourself.
How shall it be? What have you decided?"
Eugen threw himself back into his chair with a despairing exclamation.
"Do not torment me with such questions, Hermann! You see my
difficulties! It would be kinder to show me some way out of this
labyrinth."
"The way is plain enough before you! Be a man, and rouse yourself to
action energetically. Break quickly and decidedly the chain which has
held you down so far, you owe it to Antonie, to your own future, if you
do not intend your love for her to be an insult. And then, when you are
free, come with me to Italy. The tour is really necessary for the
completion of your art studies; if your finances don't admit of it,
mine are at your disposal. Come, make haste and decide."
The decided, almost commanding manner of the friend, did not seem to
admit of any contradiction, and did not fail to impress the young
painter, who wrung his hands in deep inward conflict with himself.
"I know you are right, only too right. I feel it in every word you say,
but, Gertrud! Gertrud! Call me weak, call me what you will, but I
cannot bear to know that she is unhappy, unhappy through me."
With a movement of the greatest impatience, Hermann pushed back his
chair and sprang up.
"Well, then, if you cannot, I shall act for you. Ah, here comes
Antonie, just at the right time."
"What are you going to do?" cried Eugen, alarmed.
"Cut the knot which ties you to despair! Good morning, _liebe Toni_."
Eugen longed to protest and entreat against his friend's intentions,
which he dimly portended, but it was already too late. A dress rustled
before the door of the pavilion, and a young lady crossed the
threshold.
Countess Antonie Arnau was certainly a being whose appearance could
well justify the passion of a young artist. A slender refined figure,
and a face of truly poetic beauty. A pair of dark eyes, full of dreamy
fire, looked out from a somewhat pale face, surrounded by dark hair,
artistically arranged, and falling thickly on her white embroidered
morning dress. Her movements and bearing were full of grace, but
nevertheless, there was a something in her air which betrayed that the
young Countess was quite as well aware of her beauty as of her position
in the world.
She shook hands with her cousin confidentially, while she answered
Eugen's greeting with a smile, and then said playfully--,
"I thought I was the first in the park today, but I see the gentlemen
are already before me, and are holding a most important conference
here."
Hermann shrugged his shoulders.
"Important, yes, but entirely without result! I have been trying in
vain for an hour to convince Eugen of the necessity of his
companionship on my tour to Italy."
"What, Herr Reinert," and the beautiful woman glanced surprised and
reproachfully at the young artist. "You hesitate? I thought it was a
settled matter, and fully expected to see you again in Rome with
Hermann."
Eugen was silent, and sent across a half pleading, half threatening
glance to Hermann, who appeared not to see it, for he replied calmly--
"You were mistaken, Antonie; Eugen has altered his plans. He
declines to go, and prefers returning to his native town, to lead his
_fiancee_--"
"Hermann!" cried Eugen, who had hitherto vainly endeavoured to put in a
word.
"To lead his _fiancee_, a Buergermaedchen there, to the hymeneal altar,"
concluded Hermann, not the least disturbed.
But these words had a formidable effect upon Antonie. For the first
moment she was deadly pale, and her hand unconsciously grasped the arm
of the chair to support herself, then a sudden flush suffused her
countenance, and a flash shot from her dark eyes--a glance which
disfigured the beautiful face, a glance which seemed ready to
annihilate Eugen, who stood resistless before her. Then, gathering
together all her strength, she turned away from both to the window,
thus shielding at least her countenance from Hermann's sharply
observant eyes.
The latter evidently felt that a third was superfluous in the
explanation, which must inevitably follow, Antonie already knew enough.
He took up his hat from the table--
"Excuse me a few moments. I have forgotten to give an order in the
Castle. I will be back directly."
The excuse was hardly necessary; neither Antonie nor Eugen appeared to
hear it, and the young Count Arnau, who detested "scenes," and saw a
most stormy one impending, hurried away from the pavilion, closing the
door behind him.
The two occupants of the room stood at first silently before one
another. Antonie was still striving for self-command, and Eugen could
find no words with which to defend himself.
He fought between anger against Hermann, and shame at the painfully
humiliating situation in which he found himself, in which, indeed, his
friend had placed him. The Countess was the first to speak.
"I regret, Herr Reinert, that I have only this moment become aware of
your engagement through my cousin, or I should have congratulated you
long since."
The icy glance and freezing tone roused Eugen from his insensibility,
and he made an attempt to hurry towards her, "_Um Gotteswillen_,
Antonie, not that tone!"
With a look of the proudest contempt she drew back.
"Sir, you seem to forget that you are addressing Countess Arnau."
Neither words nor expression could have been chosen, which could convey
more scorn, Eugen turned pale, his self confidence returned and gave
him back new courage, deeply offended, he retired a step--"Pardon,
_gnaedigste Graefin_![3] I believe it is the first time that you have
found it necessary to remind me of the gulf between us, and I give you
my word that it shall be the last."
He bowed and strode towards the door, Antonie looked after him
waveringly. She felt she had gone too far, and that she at least ought
not to have spoken thus, and quick in repentance as in anger, she
called him back.
"Reinert!"
He half turned.
"What are your commands, _gnaedigste Graefin_?"
But the passionate woman's pride and self command had come to an end
alike, she had never possessed more than a small share of either.
Accustomed to give way to every outbreak of feeling, she sank down on
the sofa and burst into a violent fit of weeping.
Eugen heard this, and stopped; he looked back, saw the beautiful
tear-wet countenance turned towards him, and the next minute he was by
her side.
"You are crying, Graefin? May I speak to you? Antonie, will you condemn
me unheard?"
This time no hard refusal followed his confidential tone. She looked up
at him, fighting between love and anger, but Eugen saw that he might
now dare to justify himself, and did not hesitate to do so.
"Yes, it is true I am bound, and this bond has become the curse of my
life. When I returned to my native town some years ago, I saw once more
a young girl, who had been a playfellow of mine. She was an orphan,
scarcely beyond childhood, I thought I loved her, and her guardian
urged me to declaration--so she became my _fiancee_. It was a step too
hastily taken, but I wore the chain, and would have worn it patiently
to the end. Then I came here and saw you, Antonie, and from that moment
began the long fearful conflict between duty and passion. I must tear
myself away from you, indeed, from every remembrance of you, if I would
not succumb to this. Let my talent, let my whole future perish in that
narrow confined sphere, let me know despair in an empty, joyless
marriage--what is art to me, what, indeed, life itself, if I must
renounce you!"
He had spoken with ever rising agitation, and Antonie had ceased
weeping, anger had given place to compassion, and, as he concluded,
every reproach had perished in the fear of losing the beloved one.
Countess Arnau was not the woman to recognise the claims of an
outsider, where she alone would possess all.
"Renounce?" asked she softly, with dropped eyelids. But a world of
encouragement lay in the tone, "and why?"
"You ask me? May I dare, then, to woo you? I am poor, you know it. I
have nothing but my art. You stand so high, your position in life is so
brilliant--"
His glance, resting with burning passion upon the beautiful woman's
face, contradicted these words of renunciation. She looked up and
smiled.
"And I am free, Eugen, quite free! You had forgotten that!
"Antonie!"
He rushed passionately to her feet.
"Give me the hope, give me the certainty, that I may one day win you,
and I will break my chain, cost what it may. Tell me, that you will be
mine, in spite of your name, in spite of your family, and I will burst
all bonds asunder, and win happiness, if need be, by force!"
Antonie bent down to her kneeling lover, love plainly to be seen in her
eyes--she was, indeed, wonderfully beautiful at this moment.
"I fear no bonds. I know by experience how empty splendour and riches
can make life, in a marriage where there is no love. Free yourself,
cultivate your genius, and then, when your first work has won you an
artist's fame,--then come and fetch the prize of victory!"