The next morning was lovely. The bright sun shone into his room from a
blue and cloudless sky as Reinhold pushed the curtains aside and opened
the window. Beneath him the dewdrops glistened upon the blades of grass
in the round plat; in the bushes and amongst the branches of the tall
trees, through which a soft breeze was playing, the golden light shone
and twittering birds were flitting about. Reinhold cast a shy glance
towards the left, upon the division between the two gardens, which he
now perceived to be a high paling. If that garden were the same of
which young Werben spoke yesterday, then those overhanging trees hid a
secret amidst their green shadows, a secret which his rapidly-beating
heart again whispered to him eagerly, passionately, as though there
were nothing else in the world worth the trouble of beating for.
A knock at the door sounded. Reinhold hastily put on his coat. It was
not his uncle, only Justus Anders' favourite model for aged fathers,
the grey-haired, grey-bearded servant with the wonderfully expressive
wrinkles in the withered face.
His master had inquired several times for the Captain; just now again
when he came in for his second breakfast (he drank his coffee always at
five o'clock, sometimes earlier), and he got quite angry at the Captain
not having made his appearance. Fräulein Ferdinanda had been working in
her studio since nine o'clock; but Fräulein Rikchen was downstairs in
the dining-room waiting to make the Captain's coffee.
Reinhold had in honour of the day dressed himself in his best, or, in
sailor language, put on his shore clothes, so he was able to follow the
old man immediately, and to go in search of Aunt Rikchen. He was glad
to be able to have a little gossip alone with his aunt, and
notwithstanding the silence of last night, he did not fear that she had
forgotten the art of gossip.
Aunt Rikchen sat at one end of the breakfast table behind the
coffee-pot, and knitted (her spectacles quite on the tip of her nose)
with extreme rapidity, so lost in occupation and thought that she did
not observe Reinhold's entrance, and now jumped up with a little,
nervous shriek. But she stretched out her hand to him with a smile
which was meant to be very friendly, though her eyes were full of
tears, which disappeared as suddenly as they came and left no trace.
"I have made fresh coffee for you," said she; "I thought that you were
probably terribly spoilt in such matters."
"I am not spoilt in that way nor in any other!" answered Reinhold
brightly.
"Ah! the good old Schmidt blood!" said Aunt Rikchen. "Just like your
poor dear grandfather, whom you are as like as two peas." At these
words her eyes refilled with tears and were as hastily dried.
"I think Uncle Ernst must be the image of him," said Reinhold, "and I
am not very like him."
"Not like him!" cried Aunt Rikchen, "then I do not know what likeness
is! Though for that matter I know nothing--so he says."
She had taken up her knitting and was again working with nervous haste:
there was considerable bitterness, too, in the tone of the last words,
which came sharply and pointedly from between her compressed lips.
"He" evidently meant her brother; but Reinhold thought it better to
tack about a little before he steered for that course.
"How do you mean, dear aunt?" said he.
"You won't understand," answered Aunt Rikchen, with a sharp look over
her spectacles; "you won't see how he behaves to his only sister, and
that he tyrannises over me and tyrannises over us all--there is no
doubt about that."
"But, my dear aunt, that is my uncle's way, and you cannot expect
anything else from him."
"But I can," exclaimed Aunt Rikchen, "for he always behaves worse to a
poor thing like me. And why? Because he thinks I might take too much
upon myself, and might end by contradicting him when he talks about his
politics, and geography, and history, and all the stuff he crams his
head with. We women understand nothing of all that! it is not our
province; he alone understands it, and it is all to be kept for him. Of
course it is all for him alone when he takes the books from under our
noses and the newspapers out of our hands. He himself learnt nothing
when he was a boy, and he ought to know how disagreeable it is to sit
by without speaking, and having no idea whether Timbuctoo, or whatever
it is called, is a town, or a fish, or an animal, and not daring to
ask--he ought to know that!"
The knitting-needles clicked more nervously, the spectacles had slipped
so far down her nose that they could not slip any farther without
coming off; and it would have been impossible for the sharp words to
find an outlet if the thin lips were to be more closely pressed
together.
"Certainly it is not right of my uncle," said Reinhold, "to be so
thoughtless of other people's feelings and to be so contemptuous of
other people's desire for information; but it is often so with
autodidactic persons."
"With whom?" asked Aunt Rikchen.
"With people who have no one but themselves to thank for their
education. I once knew an old negro who without any assistance,
but entirely by his own intense industry, attained the rank of
ship's-captain, and really was unusually well-informed in nautical
science and astronomy--that means knowledge of ships and stars,
aunt--the result being that he looks upon every one else as helpless
ignoramuses."
"And what does that mean?"
"People who know nothing."
"But your uncle is not a negro," said Aunt Rikchen; "and even a negro,
if he has a daughter who is celebrated for her beauty all over Berlin,
and might make a grand and rich match every day if she would, only she
won't, and in matters of will she is quite his daughter, and no man
could persuade her even if he stood on his head. And Anders assures me
that she has very great talent, and everybody says so; I don't
understand anything about it, indeed I don't understand anything, but
of course he thinks it all stuff and nonsense."
"And yet I could imagine that my uncle is secretly very proud of
Ferdinanda."
"Why?" Aunt Rikchen glanced inquiringly at Reinhold over her
spectacles.
"Once or twice last night I saw him look at her with an expression in
his eyes which I could not otherwise account for."
"Do you think so?" Aunt Rikchen had let her knitting fall into her lap,
and her eyes once more filled with tears, which this time did not
disappear. "Do you know," said she, "that is what I have often thought,
I often think that it is impossible that he should love no one, for he
cannot bear to see an animal suffer, and he delights in lending a hand
in moving the great blocks of marble so that the strong horses may not
be overworked. But in that way he overworks himself, and cares and
works for every one whoever it may be, and they often do not deserve
it, and repay him with the basest ingratitude. And then he must needs
drink wine, for no Christian man could get through what he undertakes,
and I have no objection to a glass or so; I often drink one myself when
I am quite overdone, and it does me a great deal of good and comforts
my old bones; but two bottles--or three--I am convinced that he will
have a fit of apoplexy."
The tears broke through their former restraint and fell in torrents
down her sunken cheeks. Reinhold too was touched; there was so much
true love in this acknowledgment of her brother's good qualities, in
this anxiety for him--an anxiety which he secretly felt was not without
grounds.
"My dear aunt," said he, "you need not be so anxious. We Schmidts are a
hardy race, and my uncle may do more than most people. Besides any one
coming as I do fresh and unaccustomed amongst you, can see I think
better and clearer what he really is; and I don't mind saying, my dear
aunt, that I should not be surprised if my uncle purposely showed the
rough side of his nature so that all the world should not know how soft
and sympathising his heart really is. I have known more than one man
like that."
"Have you?" said Aunt Rikchen eagerly, as her tears once more dried up.
"Well, you have been a great deal about the world and have seen a great
many people: heathens, and negroes, and Turks, and amongst them you may
often see things that are not proper for a Christian; and even my
stupid mind can understand things of that sort, but can you explain to
me how it is possible that a father with a heart such as you speak of,
could be on the terms with his son that he is on with Philip? explain
that to me!"
"But I don't know on what sort of terms he is with his son, my dear
aunt! There seems to be a complete break between them."
"Yes! is not it dreadful?" said Aunt Rikchen. "And the scenes that take
place! Goodness me! when I think of it! But that is all over now; they
have not met for two years, and Philip does not need our help now! he
is getting so fearfully rich, he has made millions, Justus says, and is
now building a house in the Wilhelmstrasse, where every square yard
costs five thalers, or five hundred, or five thousand--I never can
remember figures; and Anders has got to make four--or four and twenty
statues for the hall and staircase, and the steps are to be of canary
marble--that is what they call it, is it not? And I do not see the
disgrace of that when a man has raised himself from being an ordinary
builder as he was. Do you?"
"Till I know how he has raised himself, my dear aunt----"
"What! what!" cried Aunt Rikchen, "are you beginning to ask that
already? What can he have done so very bad? Has he stolen it? Has he
committed a burglary somewhere? or turned incendiary? or footpad? Wait
till he does--wait till he does!"
"But indeed I have said nothing against Philip; I am utterly
unprejudiced!" cried Reinhold.
"Yes, quite unprejudiced!" answered Aunt Rikchen, "when you take every
earthly opportunity of flattering him and buttering him up till he is
as proud as the grand Turk! And though Philip may sometimes be a little
reckless and selfish, he has always been kind to me; and only yesterday
when I met him in the Potsdamerstrasse he said: 'If ever you are in
want of money, aunt, come to me; you can have as much as ever you
want.' I do not want any, thank heaven! for he supplies me with all
that is needful; but a nephew, who, meeting his poor old aunt in the
Potsdamerstrasse in broad daylight, offers her any amount of money, is
no robber, and no murderer, say I. And now you must manage to meet him;
he does not generally inquire after or interest himself in any one, but
he has always taken the greatest interest in you, and always marks your
journeys on the map with a red pencil. And that is just as it should
be. I don't mean about the pencil, but that clinging to one's family. I
could go through fire and water for him! for him! for all of them, it
is all the same to me; either a man is a Schmidt or he is not a
Schmidt--he has either got the Schmidt blood in his veins or he has
not. Perhaps that is rather a narrow view to take--_borné_, don't you
call it? but it is my view, and I shall live and die in it. And when I
am dead and buried you will then begin to see what a good old aunt I
was to you all. But what I wanted to say was that Ferdinanda and Justus
were talking of going to the exhibition to-day and wanted to know
whether you would go with them? Of course I shall stop at home. I don't
understand these sort of things; in fact, I don't understand anything."
The spectacles had fallen to their lowest possible point; the needles
worked with inconceivable rapidity. Reinhold fancied he still heard
them clicking even when he found himself in the garden, into which a
glass-door led from the dining-room.