Much had changed for the worse during the illness of Candidate
Unwirrsch. It was only slowly that he came to realize how the
conditions in the house of the Privy Councillor Götz had shifted and
become more complicated; but at the first glance he saw with a start
that autumn had come. The lawn and the paths under the trees of the
park were already covered with fallen leaves; the park itself began to
look like a ragged rug with many moths in it; it might almost have been
regarded as fortunate that Hans had no time to think about this.
Dr. Théophile Stein had won a complete victory over the beautiful
and spirited girl, Kleophea. She loved this man with all the passion
of which a nature like hers was capable. It required very delicate
perception to discern the fire that glowed beneath a soil so gay with
flowers, but it was there and for the moment it made the garden bloom
with even greater brilliance;--it was very sad, it was a matter for
tears!
Since Hans had been on his feet again the Privy Councillor had become
as unapproachable to him as he had formerly been; his wife had spoken
and he--submitted to this higher power. Hans realized that this man
could not avert the danger that threatened his house and that no
warning could help, perhaps might even do harm and make the matter
worse. So cleverly had Théophile prepared his way with the Privy
Councillor's wife that not the slightest assistance was to be looked
for in that direction; and Kleophea, proud, magnificent Kleophea would
have repulsed with the deepest scorn any attempt to interfere in these,
her most private, intimate affairs. She had laughed too often with
Théophile at the "Hunger Pastor" to allow herself to be warned by the
latter. Duplicity and impudent egoism, lamentable weakness, obstinate
stupidity and pharisaical arrogance, frivolity, conceit, exuberant
wantonness, scorn and mockery on all sides;--it was indeed a world to
make one hunger, hunger for innocence, for loyalty, for gentleness, for
love.
Oh, Fränzchen, Fränzchen Götz, what a sweet, gentle light surrounded
your chaste figure in the midst of this grimacing throng! Where else
could peace, refuge and rest be found but with you? Oh, Fränzchen,
Fränzchen, how could it be that you caused poor Hans such strange pain?
How could it be that you had to bear such strange pain on his account?
How could you both torment each other so and moreover entirely against
the will and the good intentions of Lieutenant Rudolf Götz?
Alas, Lieutenant Rudolf had no place in the council of Providence
either, he was often hard pressed enough himself; destiny takes its own
course and every time of trial must come to an end in its own way in
this hungry turmoil of life.
[Illustration: THE STORK'S VISIT
_From the Painting by Karl Spitzweg_
PERMISSION FRANZ HANFSTAENGL, N.Y.]
Since the tutor had recovered, Fränzchen no longer avoided him so
shyly. The more power Dr. Théophile Stein acquired in the house, the
more the poor niece realized that the relation between the doctor and
the good Hans could not be altogether as she had at first imagined,
and not without justification. On the day on which her aunt gave the
candidate notice that his services as preceptor would not be much
longer needed, Fränzchen sat in her room and wept tears of joy and
murmured her mother's name as such poor, orphaned little things do when
they meet with a great unexpected piece of happiness. And then she
dried her tears and laughed in the midst of her last sob and into her
damp handkerchief.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear Uncle Rudolf! Do you see--no,
yes--thank you, thank you!"
Then she came down to take her place at the luncheon table and although
the mental atmosphere during this meal was even more oppressive than
usual and her aunt made more maliciously pointed remarks than ever,
still, Fränzchen's dear little heart had not beat so free and light for
a long, long time. And Candidate Unwirrsch seemed to feel that in a
moment. He too looked at the people about him with less embarrassment
and more cheerfulness; their doings and sayings no longer had their
former bad influence on him; Fränzchen Götz no longer avoided his eyes,
and he could breathe freely.
It could not be otherwise;--what had dragged on so long in monotonous
unpleasantness had at last to show itself in all its nakedness and
disconsolateness. The crisis was near at hand, and if, for the present,
the evil went on without tangible, outward manifestations, yet the
electric shock which was to throw the quiet, elegant household of the
Privy Councillor into the greatest possible confusion and to make it
the topic of conversation all over the town, could not fail to come.
The threatening fist was clenched and struck menacingly at the door to
put an end not only to all delusions, but to peaceful sleep as well.
After the long, dreary rain, a few days followed at the beginning of
October, when nature seemed to regret her bad humor and to endeavor
to make up for it by being doubly amiable. The sun broke through the
clouds, for thirty-six short hours the year showed itself in its
matronly beauty and whoever could and would make use of the blessed
moment had to hasten; for it is, after all, but seldom that such a
change of heart is entirely to be trusted.
The lady of the house commanded her lord to get leave for one or two
days and carried him and her precious Aimé off to the not too distant
country house of some friends who most probably rejoiced exceedingly
over the long announced visit.
Kleophea had refused to be carried off; she thoroughly hated the
country, and the agricultural family to whom her parents were going
perhaps even more. And if she had little fondness for the beauties of
nature she had just as little taste for the marriageable eldest son of
that worthy family, who succeeded only in boring the beautiful girl to
death with his shining, healthy, but unfortunately somewhat protruding
eyes, and his unsuccessful attempts at conversation. Kleophea Götz,
who was not accustomed to give any account of her whims and moods, of
her comings and goings, stayed at home, saw her parents drive away
with a sigh of satisfaction, suffered all the afternoon with a nervous
headache, declined to see Dr. Théophile and in the evening, with a
family of _her_ acquaintance, went to the opera where she could not
decline to see Dr. Théophile. She came home with a violent headache and
locked herself in her room after having, strangely enough, given her
cousin a kiss and called her a "poor, good child." She must really have
passed a very restless night, for the next morning she appeared very
late and very exhausted and nervous. When Fränzchen sympathetically
called her attention to the sunshine she declared that she didn't
care about it and called her cousin a "dull little thing who had no
will of her own except to suffer." At the same time she began to
cry, but a moment later sat down at the piano to lose herself in a
succession of the most piercing arias. Toward noon she became almost
recklessly cheerful and at lunch she challenged Hans to confess that
at the beginning of their acquaintance he had been terribly in love
with her but that his simple uprightness had gradually found a more
suitable object of admiration and so had turned to "gentle Fränzchen."
Her cheeks were very hot and she laughed very loudly at the confusion
into which she threw her companions. She spoke of her mother with very
unfilial shrugs of the shoulders, called her father a "poor worm" and
her brother a "worm" without any qualifying adjective. She begged her
cousin to confess that this house had been a "hell" to her and asked
the tutor to say frankly that he knew of more comfortable places in
which "to breathe." She was indescribably sharp to the butler and
finally drove him out of the room only to confess that she was a very
"naughty girl" and that Franziska was a "poor darling." She drank to
Hans and Fränzchen and begged them to be indulgent with her. Then her
indisposition came on once more and she bolted herself again into her
room. Toward five o'clock, when it was already getting dusk, she went
out.
All the afternoon Hans sat at his window unable to make up his mind to
do anything sensible. He opened a book, laid it down again however,
filled his pipe, which he had unearthed from the bottom of his trunk,
with secret trembling, but it soon went out again as if it too knew
that no smoking was allowed in that house. As usual he looked down on
the throng of passing riders, pedestrians and carriages and tried to
concentrate his attention on the old organ-grinder with the fierce
moustache and the Waterloo medal; but he did not succeed well even in
that. Everything drew him back again and again into the house itself
and an irresistible power compelled him to listen to the faintest
sounds in the corridors and on the stairs.
Her light footstep?... No, no, it was only a maid creeping by who,
together with the much-belaced Jean, had received orders to keep a
sharp eye on the tutor and on Miss Franziska so that they might later
give a report of any incident that occurred.
Her sweet voice?... Foolishness; it was an old woman outside in the
avenue offering smoked herrings to those who liked them.
Oh, if sighs could improve the world it would have become incapable
of further improvement long since. Oh, how often and how deeply did
Candidate Unwirrsch sigh on that unblessed afternoon! He gazed at the
door of his room and thought of all those pleasant nursery tales in
which the fairy, invoked or not invoked, always appears at the right
moment. When she did not come and he had told himself a hundred times
that he was a fool he went back to the window for the fiftieth time to
gaze down again at the merry life below. He laid his forehead against
the window pane and stood there long in that position; but suddenly he
jumped back and looked out again more sharply. A shadow glided through
the gay throng, a black, pale shadow. From underneath the trees a
poorly clad, emaciated young woman came out and walked in front of the
Privy Councillor's house, where she stopped, looking up at its windows.
Hans recognized this woman, although he had only seen her twice and
although she had changed very much since then.
It was the little French girl, once so merry, whom he had met in Dr.
Stein's rooms and it was as if in sorrowful helplessness her eyes
were seeking him, Hans Unwirrsch. A strange feeling of anxiety came
over him;--he had taken his hat and was already on the stairs before
he could explain these feelings to himself. He went out of the house,
passed quickly round the fountain and the lawn and crossed the driveway
to the trees of the park; but the black shadow had vanished and Hans
looked about for it in vain. Had his imagination led him astray again?
He stood a moment in doubt; but the sun was shining, the air was so
refreshing,--he did not return to the house but went slowly on under
the trees. Soon, of course, he forsook the broad promenades where most
of the people were walking. He sought the lonely, winding paths among
the bushes, the paths on which all those are most frequently found who
walk with bent heads and have a way of standing still for no particular
reason. But on that day scarcely any path was altogether deserted.
Everyone was out of doors--everyone. There were the people who had
dined and those who had dined too well and those who had not dined at
all. There were the people who were able to drive and those who were
obliged to go on crutches. There were the would-be-old children who
thought it beneath their dignity any longer to jump through a hoop
and the childish old men who would gladly have done so but could not
and instead of that sent admiring glances after the young girls that
passed. It was very difficult to find an unoccupied bench. In the seats
which everyone could see sat people who had nothing to conceal, or
perhaps even something to show, while the seats in the hidden nooks
were occupied by loving couples or people who were ashamed of their
shabby clothes; and when finally Hans did find an empty bench a badly
spelt notice on the back of it frightened him away. Scribbled in pencil
were the words:
"As I can't stand it no longer on account of Louise I am going to
America and if Berger of Coblenz comes here and reeds this here notice
it would be friendly of him if he would break the news to my folks in
Bell Lane so they wont make no fuss about it and keep supper waiting
for me."
Now there was indeed no real reason why Candidate Unwirrsch should take
it to heart if the ne'er-do-weel ran off and Berger of Coblenz broke
the news in Bell Lane;--but he did so nevertheless. After thinking for
some time whether it was not his own duty to ask in Bell Lane whether
Berger had been there and whether the old parents were not still
waiting supper for their lost son, Hans jumped up to look for another
seat. He could not endure it on that bench any longer.
A short path led him to those romantic expanses of water, those greasy
green canals which adorn the more remote part of the park and which
must fill with delight the hearts of all lovers of the microscope and
infusoria; they certainly every spring provide whole Pharoanic armies
of frogs with all they need for joyful and melodious existence.
There he found a place where no loving couples would sit down, a
bench in front of a deep pool out of which more than one corpse had
been dragged before this, a thoroughly hidden bench, in a thoroughly
damp and dank place, a bench which was not so easy to find even at
this season when so many trees and bushes were already losing their
leaves. It suddenly came into view at a turn of the narrow path round a
dense, thorny clump of shrubbery, just before it ended at the water's
edge; and nothing was lacking to complete the miserable, melancholy
impression but a black post with a black arm pointing into the
stagnant, swampy pool.
With bent head Hans followed the narrow path and stepped out from
behind the shrubbery to stand suddenly still, amazed and startled;
close before him on the half-rotten bench sat the figure that he was
seeking against his own will, the figure that had drawn him out of
Councillor Götz's house,--the shadow of the little French girl who
once, in Théophile's room, had laughed so merrily at his embarrassment.
It was she undoubtedly, and yet scarcely anything remained of her
former appearance. She seemed to be ill, very ill, she still wore
gloves but they were torn, as were her once so dainty little shoes.
The shawl which she had wrapped round her shivering body was worn
and faded;--alas, she was altogether the poor little cricket of her
compatriot Monsieur Jean de la Fontaine!
And she recognized Hans Unwirrsch immediately, for she rose quickly,
drew her shawl together and hastily reached for the handkerchief that
lay on the bench beside her. With fearful, somewhat theatrical anger
she looked at Candidate Unwirrsch.
"_Ah, ce monsieur!_"
She tried to pass him but he stepped in front of her and calmly met the
contemptuous glance of her black eyes.
"_Monsieur_, your friend is a _canaille_!" she cried, clenching her
fist. "Let me past--vill you?"
"I beg your pardon," said Hans Unwirrsch gently and sadly. "Dr.
Théophile Stein is not my friend. Now won't you listen to me?"
"I vill not hear you more! I vill not see you more! I vill not see
nozing of ze world more, but _ma figure_ in zis water 'ere!"
This was spoken with such vehemence, such wildness, that Hans
involuntarily caught her arm to prevent her jumping into the pool; but
she tore herself away, laughed bitterly and then covered her face with
both hands and began to cry as bitterly.
"Do let me tell you," exclaimed Hans, "you have spoken hard words to
me, you have troubled me very much. I am not conscious of any guilty
act toward you and I will help you if I can;--I repeat, I am not Dr.
Stein's friend;--I am no longer his friend!"
Slowly she let her hands fall and looked again into Hans' eyes.
"You too accuse him whom you have just mentioned? Tell me what part of
his guilt I must take upon myself!" said Hans, softly, and she--she
looked him over from head to foot and then,--it was so strange--and
then a slight smile crossed her sick, sorrowful features.
"You are not 'is friend?" she asked.
"Not any longer, and it is a great sorrow to me."
Now the French girl took the candidate's hand and her fingers were like
iron.
"_Monsieur le curé_, I am a poor girl and all alone in a strange
countree. I am ill, and I am not _honnête_. I 'ave 'ad a leetle
child, but it is dead;--I am all left alone in a strange countree!
Oh, _Monsieur_, 'e is a bad, vicked man and if you are not 'is friend
forgive me vat I 'ave said--_je n'ai plus rien à dire_."
Hans could not understand her broken German well, nor her quick French
at all, but her gestures and her expression enabled him to comprehend
her. He led her back to the bench and she let him keep her hand when
he sat down beside her and talked to her gently and soothingly. It was
five o'clock, the sun sank behind the trees, a white mist rose from
the ponds; it was cold and gray--it was the hour when the beautiful
Kleophea Götz left her father's house.
Hans told the French girl as well as he could all that was necessary
about his relation to Dr. Stein and then gradually he learnt the sad
story of her life and the evil part that Moses Freudenstein of Kröppel
Street had played in it.
Henriette Trublet was not made to keep a perfectly straight course
through life and in this respect it was probable that Dr. Théophile
had altered her fate but little. She carried an adventurous little
head on her shoulders and lived only in the present. She had been a
dressmaker's apprentice in Paris and there Théophile had met and won
her. She had not really loved him but he had pleased her, and his
Parisian friends and the way in which he enjoyed life appealed to her.
She was the scintillating streamer on a very gay, bright wreath and
when, as usually happens, the latter broke and Dr. Théophile had gone
back to Germany she soon began to long for him. She had heard all sorts
of marvelous tales of poor good _Allemagne_. The people there were so
honest and so musical and so blond;--to be sure, they probably were
also a little backward in civilization and somewhat simple; but still
they were much better than tall silly Englishmen. And they bought all
their hats and caps and their artificial flowers and their champagne
in Paris--those good Germans; and any pretty, clever child of _Belle
France_ must be able to make her fortune there among them in spite of
the fog, ice and snow, in spite of all the wolves and polar bears, Erl
kings, nixies and other monsters. One morning Henriette arrived at
the Strassburg railway station with a leather trunk and a tremendous
number of boxes of all shapes and sizes,--and she found pleasant
traveling companions to the Rhine too--_allons enfants de la patrie_,
onward to Homburg, Baden-Baden and so on--_où le drapeau_, _là est la
France_, _ubi bene_, _ibi patria!_ And one fine morning Dr. Théophile
Stein heard a gentle tapping at his door and a soft giggle outside it;
Henriette Trublet had found him again.
So far this was all very well and neither could reproach the other
with anything; but from then on under other skies their relation was
changed. Poor Henriette, deserted, helpless and not knowing what to
do found herself entirely delivered over to Théophile; she became a
despised, abused plaything and the light, gay bloom that had covered
her frivolous butterfly wings was soon rubbed off and blown away. Dr.
Stein had a reputation to sustain now and if he was weak enough not
to be able to thrust the poor little Parisian away from him he had
sufficient strength to hold her down low enough so that she was obliged
to serve and obey him without being in any way able to interfere with
his plans and hopes. It was his fault and owing to his intrigues that
she was prevented from making use of her skilful hands. Only when she
was entirely dependent on him could he exert complete tyranny over her.
When he grew tired of her, he believed her much too broken to harm him,
and so with no further thought he closed his door to her and left her
to her fate. Her child was born in the hospital toward the middle of
September and died on the second of October. It was an evil place, this
bench beside the stagnant green pool, where, on the fourth of October
Candidate Unwirrsch found poor Henriette Trublet sitting.
_Traître--va!_