THE FIRST STEP
'Happy the nations of the moral North!
Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth.'
_Don Juan_, Canto II.
WILHELMINE walked on for some twenty minutes, the cold morning air
bringing a bright colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Her
gait was one of her greatest charms; it never seemed hurried, and yet the
long, even steps carried her swiftly onwards. There was vigorous
elasticity in her tread; she walked freely and with perfectly assured
balance, her shoulders thrown back and head erect. It was in a measure
this walk of hers which caused the townsfolk to call her 'the proud
hussy,' though they were careful not to let her hear their disparaging
remarks, for they feared the compelling power of her strange eyes. It was
whispered that it was dangerous to offend her. 'Though, of course,' they
declared, 'we do not really believe in witchcraft and such Popish
abominations, still it is certainly true that Hans Frisch, the
blacksmith's child, who threw a snowball at her last winter and had the
misfortune to hit her on the face, went home, took to his bed, and nearly
died of convulsions.' Of this talk Wilhelmine was unaware, though,
knowing the effect of her eyes upon people, she would often voluntarily
narrow her lids, causing the pupils to contract. She practised this feat
before the mirror, but she was careful not to do so at night, for it gave
her an uncanny feeling, and she sometimes succeeded in frightening
herself, as she did others. That cold morning, while she walked, there
was none of all this in her face; she was merely a gloriously healthy
young being rejoicing simply and naturally in the morning freshness and
in the pulsing of the blood in her veins. She was feeling the elation of
health, and it chased away her morbid fancies in spite of the dreariness
of the wet fields around her. Indeed, it needed the buoyancy of youth to
counteract the profound melancholy of the Mecklemburg lake-country in
winter. The enormous flat fields stretching away in unbroken monotony,
the road very straight, with a division of colour in the middle where the
summer road marched with the winter road; the former merely a soaking
mud-bog, the latter hard and stony. On each side of the highway a line of
apple and pear trees lifted gaunt twisted arms to the leaden sky, as
though in protest against the sullen aspect of the world. Wilhelmine
paused and looked about her. The snow was surely coming; there was the
hush in the air which precedes a snowstorm, and she was some distance
from home. She strained her eyes westward and endeavoured to catch a
glimpse of the lake towards which she was journeying, but she could see
nothing save the drenched fields, and in the dim distance the dark line
of fir woods. She turned her face homewards and began to walk with a
quickened step. The cold air had made her hungry; she had only partaken
of a lump of black bread and a glass of milk, and it was now late in the
morning. She felt a soft cold touch on her cheek, the first snowflake of
the gathering storm. At first the snowflakes only added to the slush on
the road; they melted shudderingly and were devoured by the brown mud,
but as the snow fell the mud was conquered and lay hidden beneath a
dazzling white covering. Ever faster came the snow. It beat down on
Wilhelmine, the large fleecy patches almost blinding her. She had walked
farther than she had realised, and her feet sinking deep through the snow
into the mud beneath, the high heels of her thin shoes stuck and impeded
her progress. At length she reached the outskirts of the town, whose red
roofs were already almost hidden by a white layer of snow. She hurried up
the deserted street, past the cathedral. When she came to the corner of
the market-place she saw a dark figure in a cloak of peasant's frieze
coming towards her, and with a feeling of annoyance she recognised Pastor
Müller.
At that moment he too observed her, and hurried to meet her. 'Ah!
Fräulein,' he said as he came up, 'I am grieved to see you exposed to
this inclement weather. May I not offer you the hospitality of my
house?' He spoke in German with a careful affectation of correctness,
though his accent was harsh and guttural from his native low German
dialect. Wilhelmine particularly detested his speech, and it irritated
her to be addressed as 'Fräulein,' as though she were a burgher's
daughter, and not of sufficiently noble birth to be styled 'gracious
lady.' Of a truth, the pastor was not a person to inspire either liking
or respect. He was fat in body, with short plump legs whose common shape
was exhibited to the fullest extent by tight knee-breeches and woollen
stockings. His face was enormous, and though his jaw showed strength and
decision, the weak mouth and large protuberant lips indicated that his
senses ruled what he himself styled 'the fair habitation of an immortal
soul.' His eyes were small, and seemed to express inordinate greed, when
they were not, as was usually the case, lifted to the sky in pious
self-assurance, yet with feigned humility. Pastor Müller was at once
unctuous and insolent, a combination of contending characteristics which
is often the possession of those who patronise God Almighty with their
approval, and use His Name as a convenient adjunct in their homilies
against all things human. His health, he was wont to declare, had
suffered from his many vigils, and consequently he found himself forced
to fortify his body with much nourishment, and with copious draughts of
any wine which he could obtain. In spite of this, he dominated his
congregation partly by reason of a certain eloquence which was at his
command in the pulpit when dealing with theological questions, in which,
indeed, he was deeply learned. He convinced by his uncompromising
attitude towards the sinful members of his parish. In fact, the Güstrow
citizens regarded him as a strong Christian, and rejoiced in his fervid
biblical language. Many of the spinsters of his flock would gladly have
become Frau Müller, but he paid no heed to their blandishments, and
openly avowed his intention of making Wilhelmine the mistress of the
Pfarrhaus, though she appeared strangely insensible to the glory of this
prospect. In the first place, with the arrogance of youth, she regarded
the pastor's forty years as old age, and treated his ponderous attempts
at gallantry with levity. However, when she met him in the snow that
morning she was cold and hungry, and the prospect of probable warmth at
his fireside, with a substantial meal provided, proved alluring; so it
was with an unusually gracious manner that she accepted his offer of
shelter. A few steps brought them to the door of his abode, and they
passed into the small, dark corridor which led to his study. Here the
stove sent forth a pleasant heat, and it was with a welcome sensation of
returning warmth that Wilhelmine sank down in the large chair which the
pastor drew up for her close to the stove. She had flung off her
snow-covered cloak, and she sat there in her thin morning blouse, open at
the neck and showing the contour of her white throat. Müller begged her
to remove her soaking shoes, and, having done so, she leaned back,
stretching out her feet towards the little door in the stove, which he
had opened in order to permit the red embers to give forth their full
heat. He pushed some logs through the aperture, and there was a
delightful crackling and the busy burning of well-dried wood. Then he
left Wilhelmine while he went to forage in the kitchen for food; his old
house-keeper being at the market, or more probably sheltering from the
storm and gossiping in some friendly booth. Wilhelmine reclined in the
comfortable chair and surveyed the room. A number of theological works
lay on the table in the centre of the apartment; and another large table
which stood in the window was covered with papers, closely written sheets
as her sharp eyes observed. The walls were bare and ugly, but the room
had a decided air of comfort; the windows shut out the cold in a manner
unknown in Frau von Grävenitz's dilapidated house; the chair she lay in
was soft; and, above all, it was very warm in the room. She stretched
herself and wondered if, after all, there would not be sufficient
creature comforts to atone for the dullness of life as Frau Müller.
The pastor returned carrying a dish of cold meat, a loaf of home-baked
bread, and under his arm a large bottle. Pushing some of the theological
books aside, he set down the food on the middle table which he drew up
near the stove beside Wilhelmine. Then again he disappeared to the
kitchen, returning anon with plates, glasses, knives and forks. He placed
himself opposite his guest, and turning his eyes towards the grimy
ceiling, he folded his fat hands and recited a prayer over the victuals.
'O Lord, who hath brought this female into mine house, send a blessing, I
pray thee, upon the food which I set before her!' He paused, then added:
'May this be the first of many meals she shall partake of here in
Christian humility and dutiful affection.' Wilhelmine laughed. At another
time the pastor would have been rebuked sharply for a speech of this
kind; but she was hungry, and it did not suit her to postpone her meal to
the uncertain date of Frau von Grävenitz's dinner. The pastor helped her
liberally to meat, and cut a large slice from the white loaf--a luxury
for Wilhelmine, used to the heavy, sour, black bread, which was provided
in her mother's house. He poured out a copious draught from the black
bottle, and the smell of corn brandy filled the air. Wilhelmine ate
hungrily, and drank the liquor with relish, the strong spirits coursing
through her with a grateful, tingling feeling, for she was really in need
of food.
'Dear lady,' said Müller, pouring a large quantity of the brandy into his
own glass, 'I give you of my best; this excellent liquor was a present to
me from the noble Herr von Maltzan. He is a generous friend to me. But
truly, this beverage is not for those whom the Lord has blessed with
health and strength, and I keep it for the use of the sick, though my own
delicate constitution demands, at rare intervals, a small amount to
strengthen me. Dear Fräulein, I give it gladly to you this morning, for
it is cruelly cold, and you, my dear one, were exposed to the rigours of
the storm.'
'I thank you, Herr Pastor; I feel truly better for your breakfast, though
my head is going round a little, I must confess,' said Wilhelmine.
Müller looked at her curiously, then, rising, he walked to the window,
and watched the driving snow. After a few moments he returned, and
drawing up his chair near the stove he spread out his fat fingers,
warming them at the fire. There was silence between them, only broken by
the wind outside, which had risen and was whistling and howling, and
driving the snow in clouds down the street. Suddenly the pastor bent down
and laid his hand on her stockinged foot. 'Still damp,' he said; 'it
would be well if you took off your hose and dried them.' Wilhelmine
smiled lazily.
'Good Herr Pastor,' she said, 'your plenteous meal has made me sleepy. I
cannot take the trouble to take off my hose even though they may be a
trifle wet.' She closed her eyes. The walk in the strong winter air,
followed by the warmth of the room and the unaccustomed alcohol made her
drowsy, and she wished to be undisturbed in her half dream. Müller's face
flushed to a deep purple, then paled. He breathed heavily, and the veins
stood out on his temples like cords.
'Wilhelmine,' he said in a hoarse, thick whisper, 'you shall indeed be my
wife--I promise you--ah, you are fitted to adorn any position,
Wilhelmine, my bride!' He bent and kissed her stockinged foot, and his
coarse fingers pressed deep into her slight ankle.
'Your condescension amazes me, Herr Pastor,' she said mockingly, 'but I
fear----'
'Nay, my dear, no maidenly modesty! Come, we are affianced now; let me
give thee the lover's kiss!' He leaned over her. His breath was sour with
the smell of corn brandy. His eyes were glassy, staring, and his fat face
was livid, hideous. An overwhelming sense of repulsion came to her. She
felt herself degraded by this man's admiration, smirched by his odious
desire. The recollection flashed through her mind of a white flower she
had seen--a gracious, delicate thing--and a huge, slimy, black slug had
rested on the petals. She remembered how she had knocked the creature
away, feeling that it defiled the flower.
'No, never! do you hear? Never! I will not marry you,' she broke out.
She struggled to remove Müller's hand from her ankle; but he gripped
strongly, and her fingers seemed terribly impotent, childishly weak.
'How dare you! Let me go. I tell you I will never marry you,' she
reiterated vehemently.
'Ah! you beautiful wild thing--but I will make you love me--you will see
how you will love your husband. Come, no nonsense! I will soon show you
how you love me.' He loosed his grip of her ankle and flung himself over
her in the chair, endeavouring to press his thick lips to hers. She
struggled against him but he kept her down; with one hand on her forehead
he pushed her back into the chair, while with the other he wrenched open
the neck of her bodice, tearing it downward to her breast. Always a
strong man he seemed now transformed into some ruthless, degraded,
maddened animal. Apparently she was entirely at his mercy, but she was
strong and young, and angry disgust gave her unusual strength. She caught
the man's throat in both her hands, working her knuckles inwards on his
windpipe with such force that he was almost choked, and instinctively put
up his hands to hers endeavouring to remove her grip. But she held him,
and, half-throttled, he sank down sideways on the arm of the chair. In an
instant she dragged herself from him and was able to raise herself on one
knee, still keeping her hold on his throat. He wrenched away her hands,
his iron grip on both her wrists, but she was now able to dominate her
aggressor from above and could hold him down with the full force of her
arms. Face to face with her enemy, she recalled the potency of her
witch-gaze. She narrowed her eyelids and directed her steely glance into
the bloodshot eyes of her tormentor. During a few seconds they were thus:
the girl half-standing, half-kneeling, rigid, tense, holding the man from
her with all her strength. The man sprawling on his side in the chair--a
huge, ridiculous being, panting, gasping, helpless, for he could not
regain his balance unless he let go the woman's wrists. To Wilhelmine, in
spite of her dauntless nature, these few seconds seemed endless.
Fortunately for her, no misgivings as to the compelling power of her eyes
crossed her mind, or probably her force might thereby have been
diminished. At length she felt a slackening of the muscles of Müller's
hands--his gaze faltered. Again he struggled frantically. She resolved to
hazard everything, trusting entirely in her strange power. She bent
slowly downwards, all the force of her will focused in her eyes. She felt
as though each eye held a dagger wherewith she could stab her enemy's
very consciousness. Another moment and the man's hands relaxed entirely
and fell limp and inert from her wrists. She sprang up, catching her
cloak in her hand as she fled. She reached the study door before Müller
moved. For the moment he seemed transfixed, but as she opened the door,
to her horror she saw him rise, and as she rushed down the short passage
she heard Müller's heavy step behind her. For the first time during the
whole disgusting scene she felt afraid. Her knees seemed to fail, her
feet to grow strangely heavy. She stumbled on till she gained the house
door. She fumbled frantically at the latch; it was unfamiliar to her and
she could not unfasten it. The pursuer was up to her now and his breath
was on her cheek. Once more he threw his arms round her. She turned, like
an animal at bay, and dealt Müller a blow full on the lips. He staggered
for an instant, and she succeeded, at last, in wrenching open the door.
He clutched at her skirt as she sprang out. It unbalanced her, and she
fell forward on her face into the snow of the street.
* * * * *
The shock of the fall, following the excitement of her struggle with
Müller, stunned Wilhelmine for a moment, and when she dragged herself up
to a kneeling position and looked round, she found herself alone in the
driving snow. Müller's door was shut, and the street absolutely deserted.
She rubbed the clinging snow off her face and ruefully considered the
distance which lay between her and her mother's house. The snow had
soaked through her thin stockings. She rose wearily, and drawing her
cloak round her, and over her head, she hid both her torn bodice and her
thick unbound hair, which had fallen over her shoulders during her
struggle with Müller.
Then she started homewards through the fast-falling snow. As she passed
the market-place, many faces peered out at her from the venders' booths,
and one friendly peasant woman called to her to take shelter, but
Wilhelmine shook her head and hastened onwards. She feared that her
shoeless feet would awaken curiosity, and she dared not let the people
see her torn garments as they assuredly would did she tarry in the booth,
for in their homely kindness they would insist on removing her wet cloak.
The Rathaus clock chimed the hour, and Wilhelmine realised with a
strange, dream-like feeling that but three hours had gone by since she
passed that way to visit Monsieur Gabriel. Yet it seemed to her as
though days had elapsed since she sang the _Ave Maria_ in the cathedral.
At length she reached the door of her mother's house. She knocked loudly,
wondering if Frau von Grävenitz had watched her from the windows of the
upper story, which commanded a view of part of the market-place and the
door of the Rathaus, where she had received her brother's letter that
morning. She knocked again and tried to lift the latch, but it was
secured within. She listened, but could hear no approaching footsteps in
the corridor. She leaned against the portal, and wondered if it was her
fate to remain in the snow for the rest of the day.
Suddenly a thought came to her, which sent the blood tingling in a hot
wave to her cheeks: Where was her brother's letter? She felt for it in
her bosom; it was not there, and she knew the precious missive must have
fallen from her gown during the struggle at the Pfarrhaus. Could she go
back and fetch it? she asked herself. No! that was out of the question.
At this moment the door was flung open and Frau von Grävenitz appeared.
'Lord God!' she said, when she saw Wilhelmine standing on the threshold,
'where have you been child? Surely your dear Monsieur Gabriel could keep
you in the schoolhouse till this storm passed over, and not send you back
to catch your death of cold or cost me an apothecary's fee!'
Wilhelmine pushed past her mother without a word, designing to gain her
chamber before the old woman observed her torn garments and her lack of
shoes; but Frau von Grävenitz clutched hold of the cloak and, giving it a
vicious pull, exclaimed: 'No, no! I will not permit you to take your
soaking clothes upstairs. Come in here and take them off.' She tugged at
the heavy cloak with such vehemence that the clasp at her neck parted and
the cape fell back, revealing Wilhelmine's loosened hair and her torn
bodice. The old woman saw her daughter's shoeless feet. She looked at her
searchingly, her face darkening and hardening from annoyance to real
anger and distrust. 'Wilhelmine,' she said harshly, 'explain your
extraordinary appearance. Where have you been, and why do you come home
in this strange and unbecoming manner?'
'Mother,' answered the girl, 'let me take off my wet clothes and I will
tell you everything.' She wished to gain time to concoct a plausible
story, for she did not intend to mention Müller's outbreak.
In the first place she was horribly ashamed, and knowing Frau von
Grävenitz's garrulous tongue she feared to be made the subject of the
citizens' gossip. But her mother was not to be put off so easily. She
drew the girl into the kitchen, and after shutting the larder door in the
servant-maid's astonished face, she planted herself firmly in front of
Wilhelmine. 'Now,' she said, 'you will favour me with your story. It is
strange to see a young maiden return in this state of disarray from an
interview with a man, and I insist upon your clearing yourself
immediately if you can.'
'Interview with a man, mother?' said Wilhelmine; 'what do you mean?' It
flashed across her that Frau von Grävenitz must have seen her enter
Müller's house.
'Yes; your fine Monsieur Gabriel, with his mincing airs and his high
manners! You go to him for your studies, after two long hours you return
looking as though----Good Lord! child! answer me--what has that evil old
Frenchman done to you?'
Wilhelmine looked at her for a moment in silence; it had not struck her
that this interpretation of her dishevelled appearance could be harboured
even in her mother's suspicious mind. It filled her with indignation and
dismay for her friend; yet she realised with surprise that, could such a
thing have occurred as for Monsieur Gabriel to lose his self-control and
offend as Müller had, it would not have disgusted her to the same extent.
Somehow, she felt it would not have debased her and humiliated her as had
the pastor's attack. For a moment she almost decided to let her mother
suspect there had been some strange scene with the organist; anything
better than own to the degradation of having suffered the insult of the
greasy burgher. Then with a revulsion of feeling, her soul sickened at
the injustice of letting Monsieur Gabriel pay the penalty of the pastor's
wicked insolence, and she remembered that her friend would be exposed to
the horrified reprobation of the sober townsfolk; nay, more, he might
even be dismissed from his post.
'How can you think such a thing, mother?' she said angrily. 'I tell you
Monsieur Gabriel knows nothing of all this, and as you put such an
odious construction on my appearance, I shall not give you the
satisfaction of telling you how it came about.'
'As you wish,' the other replied icily; 'but it will be my duty to forbid
any further visits to that Frenchman, and I shall inform Pastor Müller of
the schoolmaster's real character.'
This was too much for Wilhelmine; her anger flamed, all her reticence
vanished, and she poured forth the whole story. Her mother heard her to
the end, and, shaking her head, she made answer: 'If this be true, Pastor
Müller should be punished. But I cannot credit it; you are shielding
Monsieur Gabriel. Now go to your room and reflect. You are a sinful
woman, Wilhelmine, and a disgrace to your ancient name.'
The girl turned away. The excitement of the last hours had fatigued her,
and she felt an unaccountable apathy. After all, what did it matter if
her mother misjudged her? She would soon be far away; her present life
and surroundings appeared to her to be absolutely detached from her real
self. She went slowly up the creaking stair and into her garret, and
flung herself down on the bed. She was asleep almost as soon as her head
touched the pillow.
* * * * *
It was quite dark when Wilhelmine woke, and she wondered why she should
awaken during the night; then, slowly, remembrance came to her, and she
realised that she was still fully dressed. She lay quiet for some time,
pondering on the events of the day. The Rathaus clock chimed eight slow
notes, and she knew she had slept for nearly nine hours. She listened;
there was some one moving downstairs in the kitchen, probably her mother
preparing the meagre supper. Wilhelmine rose, groped her way to the door,
and turned the handle. The door remained firmly closed. She shook it
gently, pushed it--the doors in her mother's house often stuck fast; but
this time it was no accidental adherence of ill-fitting hinges, the door
was securely fastened from outside. Her mother had locked her in! To be
locked into a room had always been a terrible thing to her. When she was
a child, her brother had often teased her by pushing her into a dark
cupboard and turning the key, and it was the only one of the many tricks
he played her which had caused her real alarm. She hated the dark and
always imagined she was stifling when she knew she was a prisoner in an
unlit place. The same feeling came over her now, and she beat her hands
frantically against the door, calling her mother loudly the while. But no
answer came. She groped her way across the room till she felt her hand
touch the window. She found the fastening and, opening the casement,
leaned far out into the still night air. From across the market-place
came the sound of men's voices, and a glow of light shone beneath the
hostelry door. An occasional burst of song and drunken laughter told her
that the bad characters of the town were carousing, as usual, on a
Saturday night. Otherwise the silence was intense and the darkness
unbroken by moon or star. The calm air of the winter night soothed
Wilhelmine, and she was ashamed of having knocked and called so wildly;
but now a dull feeling of resentment rose in her against her mother for
locking her into her room like a naughty child. She leaned her head
against the window-frame and wondered if any one on earth had ever been
as lonely and miserable as she. Her mother disliked her, her brother was
too selfish to care for any one save himself. Anna, her friend, was
something in her life; but it is small avail to be loved by those who
manage to make their affection tiresome. Müller loved her! She smiled
bitterly to herself; yes, that was a love which could give her happiness!
That was what some people called love, she had been told. All at once a
wonderful feeling came to her, a wave of infinite relief, like balsam to
her wounded heart: it was the thought of Monsieur Gabriel's gentle
friendship and trust in her. She saw his kind, dim eyes; the good,
discriminating smile, and the thought was as though he laid his delicate,
blue-veined hand on her head, soothing her unutterably. She heard a step
coming on the stair, a flicker of light crept under her door, and some
one fitted the key into the lock. 'Mother!' she called in a softened
voice. When the door opened, she saw Frau von Grävenitz standing there, a
rush-light in one hand and a plate of food balanced between her breast
and the other hand, in which she held a pitcher of milk. The old woman's
eyes were red with weeping, and vaguely Wilhelmine realised for the first
time in her life that, in spite of grumbling, reproaches, and grudging
meanness, her mother had for her a spark of that patient, yearning
tenderness which is maternal love.
'Here, my child,' she said gently, 'eat and drink, and forget the
horrible things you have passed through to-day.' Wilhelmine slipped an
arm round the old woman's neck, and kissed her as she had not done for
many a long day, perhaps never since she had been a little child. For a
moment she leaned her head against her mother's shoulder, and then taking
the food she began to eat. Frau von Grävenitz stuck the rush-light up
between a book which was lying on the table and the edge of the plate,
then shutting the window she went out, closing and re-locking the door
behind her.
* * * * *
On the following morning Wilhelmine woke early, and she was dressed when
her mother came to the door and bade her descend and help with the
housework. All traces of the unwonted tenderness in the old woman's face
had vanished. She had, apparently, forgotten the circumstances of the
previous day, or at any rate she made no allusion thereto, though her
daughter fancied she watched her narrowly. When the morning's work was
ended Wilhelmine returned to her chamber to dress for the church service.
She was brushing her hair, when she heard a knock at the house door,
followed by Frau von Grävenitz's shrill tones as she conversed in the
corridor with some person. Then she heard her mother mounting the stairs
and calling 'Wilhelmine!' in flustered tones. The girl hastened to the
door of her room and stood on the landing waiting to hear the cause of
her mother's summons.
'Your precious Monsieur Gabriel has gone off to Schwerin, it seems,' she
said, eyeing Wilhelmine sharply. 'He has sent a message, saying that he
prays you take his place at the organ this morning. He says he has urgent
business at Schwerin, though what it can be I am sure I do not know!
However, I suppose you will play the organ this morning, and I hope you
will make your Monsieur Gabriel pay you in good silver coin for your
trouble.' Wilhelmine's lip curled contemptuously. 'We have never paid him
a groschen for teaching me to play this same organ, mother,' she said.
'Of course I shall play this morning, but I shall persuade Anna to come
to the organ-loft with me,' she added, as a vision flashed across her of
Pastor Müller, and a possible pursuit down the dark winding stair-way
after the congregation had left the church. She dressed quickly, and
wrapping her cloak round her went out into the crisp frosty morning air
to fetch Anna. When she came to the dreary house in the Stiftstrasse
where the deformed girl lived, she was annoyed to find that her friend
had already started for church. It was Anna's habit to go to the
cathedral before the appointed hour for the church service. She loved to
sit in the dim aisle, watching the sunlight creeping through the ancient
stained glass windows, while she waited for the first tone of the organ.
Wilhelmine considered for a moment. It was ridiculous to fear Müller; he
would not dare to molest her in the precincts of the church; yet she
hated to pass the sacristy door alone, for he could follow her, unseen
from the rest of the building. She threw back her head with a defiant
movement: was she becoming fearful, timid? Was this a frame of mind in
which to face the adventurous life at a court? She turned away
impatiently, and went swiftly down the Stiftstrasse to the market-place.
The Rathaus clock rang out, and Wilhelmine realised that there was no
time to be lost if she were to play the voluntary to the sound of which
the worshippers were accustomed to take their places. She hastened across
the market-place, down the Klosterstrasse and through the graveyard,
where the old stone slabs on the graves were, for the most part, hidden
beneath the frost-bound snow which glittered in the sun, though here and
there an upright tombstone showed like a discoloured, jagged tooth in the
midst of a white pall. She hurried on and entered the side door near the
sacristy. As she lifted the latch of the entrance to the dark stair
leading up to the organ-loft she heard a movement behind her, and,
turning, she saw Müller's face peer at her from the sacristy. She paid no
heed, and springing quickly up the steps gained the small platform, where
the happiest hours of her life had been spent with the old musician. She
peered down into the well-like space beneath the organ, where the
bellows-blower laboured, pumping in the air for the pipes. He was at his
post patiently waiting for the signal to commence his work. Wilhelmine
signed to him to begin, and having assured herself that all was in order,
she glanced at the sheets of manuscript music. She found that Monsieur
Gabriel had appointed hymns and canticles for the day, and she noticed
that he had chosen the easiest and simplest, for though her skill almost
equalled his own, he had evidently wished to spare her difficulty and
trouble. She seated herself upon the high bench before the organ,
arranging her skirts so that they should not balk her pedalling. At first
she played softly--a wailing melody of her own devising; then, as though
she gathered strength and assurance in her music, the chords boomed out,
rich and deep, rolling down the church like the relentless waves of some
elementary force. She played on and on, not hearing through the music the
sound of the shuffling feet of the entering worshippers. It was with a
feeling of alarm that she became aware of rows of honest burghers seated
stolidly in their accustomed places. Pastor Müller was kneeling in the
pulpit waiting for the music to cease ere he began the preliminary
prayer. She softened the chords, till they faded and ceased entirely,
then taking up a book of canticles, she studied the melodies and read
their words, for she felt she could not listen to Müller's rasping voice
exhorting his flock to holiness and purity of living.
The harsh tones fell unheeded on her ear for some time. A sudden
cessation thereof roused her to attention, and she craned her neck over
the side of the panelled wainscot which ran round the organ-loft. She saw
the congregation attentively waiting for the pastor to give out the text
of his sermon. Müller stood in the pulpit; an open Bible lay on the ledge
beneath one of his strong, coarse hands; the other hand grasped the
pulpit edge, and Wilhelmine could see his knuckles whitening with the
force of his grip. His face was ashy, and the deep-set eyes moved
incessantly; he was evidently in a state of that violent excitement which
sometimes seized him when he preached, and which gave him a fervid
emotional eloquence.
'For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of
grass. The grass withereth and the flower thereof falleth away. But the
word of the Lord endureth for ever. And this is the word which by the
Gospel is preached unto you.' He read his text in a husky, raucous
voice, and through the assemblage passed a wave of astonishment. This was
surely no verse for a Sunday before Christmas; it was more fitted for a
Lenten discourse! But Pastor Müller's sermons were the only theatrical
performances given at Güstrow, and the citizens revelled in the often
startlingly emotional character of his exhortations; so that day they
settled down as usual to listen to his sermon with pleasurable curiosity.
'Brethren,' he began, 'O miserable sinners, who lightly look towards the
season of Christ's birth as a time of rejoicing and merry-making,
forgetting the load of iniquity which weighs you down--I call to you to
pause! Tremble, ye righteous! Quake in fearful terror, ye wrong-doers!
All joy is evil, and all things of the flesh accursed. Mourn, ye women!
Cry out and weep, ye little children! for by lust ye were begot. Yea, sin
walks abroad, and corruption liveth in the hearts of men. Boast not
thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Repent, I command you, and scourge yourselves, for though it is true that
the Lord Christ came into the world to save sinners, still the security
you have made unto yourselves is a vain thing. Without repentance you
cannot share in the benefit of the birth of Christ. Prepare for Christmas
by much searching of heart and renunciation of the joys of the flesh, not
by seeking fresh pleasures and carousing. For truly the grass withereth
and the flower thereof passeth away!' He stood tense, one arm
outstretched; he was moved by his own incoherent eloquence. The
congregation listened spellbound; indeed, the man was an orator, and the
very unexpectedness of his strange violence held his listeners
enthralled. After a pause, during which the silence became nearly
intolerable, he continued his oration. His language had a Biblical
flavour, and the passion of his utterance seemed like holy inspiration.
Wilhelmine listened unmoved; she knew that the man laboured under an
excitement of being, which had little or nothing to do with religious
sincerity. It was merely his physical fury, dammed back from a more
natural channel, which had caused this exaltation of mind. She watched
him with a mocking smile as he poured forth a torrent of vehement
words--denunciations of all things joyful, exhortations to repentance,
and thunders of prospective vengeance on sin. Even to her the sermon
seemed a masterpiece of eloquence, and the artistic feeling in her
rejoiced in the vigorous phrases and fervid declamation, though her whole
being revolted against the hypocrite and fanatic who spoke, and she
despised the crude bigotry of the actual matter of the peroration.
His words came ever faster and in ever growing violence, till with
consummate skill he made another sudden pause; then, sinking his voice to
a tone of grave warning, he ejaculated solemnly: 'O my brethren, men of
the reformed faith, hearken unto me! Here, before the Face of God
Almighty, I denounce the hellish instigators of all this abominable lust,
the frail instruments of temptations--Women! These are the scourges of
the world! accursed by reason of their vanity! condemned everlastingly by
reason of their carnal desire and of their perpetual contamination of the
pure heart of man!'
This was more than Wilhelmine could tolerate coming from the lips of the
wretch who, but a few hours before, had proved himself to be a very
beast. She would hear no more of his insolent diatribes! She gave the
sign to the bellows-blower to commence his labours, and as she heard
Müller's voice again rising in a burst of wild denunciation, she crashed
both hands on the keys of the organ, drowning the preacher's words in a
flood of magnificent sound. In a triumph song of the fullness of Earth's
beauty and glory the giant chords rang out, and Wilhelmine laughed aloud
under cover of the music. This was her answer to the hollowness of the
hypocrite's denunciation of life and happiness; this was her confession
of faith in the joy of living, and this was her revenge upon the man who
had humiliated her. She remembered, however, that the congregation must
be propitiated for the interruption, and sliding her strong fingers from
note to note on the organ she modulated her triumphant rhapsody into the
simple, restful C Major; then she played the first bar of the canticle
which Monsieur Gabriel had given out to the singers; who, though sitting
among the congregation during the services, were still a very compact and
united choir carefully trained by him, for the most part, from childhood.
As she expected, they answered immediately to the organ's command, and a
hundred young voices sang Luther's grand old hymn--
'Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott.'
* * * * *
On the following afternoon Wilhelmine was sitting disconsolately in her
attic. The book she was reading had fallen from her hands, and her eyes
rested on the ugly blue walls of her room. She reviewed in her mind the
events of the previous day; the scene in the church, and her subsequent
departure therefrom, which she had managed so deftly that, though Müller
was in the graveyard when she came out, she had evaded him, and joining
Anna, who was waiting for her near the porch, she had succeeded in
passing the pastor without staying to hear what he evidently wished to
say. Frau von Grävenitz chid her sharply for interrupting the sermon, but
she was silenced by Wilhelmine's angry retort and reminder of Müller's
misdeeds. The Sunday afternoon and evening had passed without any
unwonted occurrence. Wilhelmine was tortured by the fact that she had not
told her mother of Friedrich's letter; she had not recovered it from
Müller, though twice she had sent the servant-maid to demand its
restitution.
She intended to reveal the whole story to her mother, when Monsieur
Gabriel returned with the promised money; for she guessed that the object
of his journey to Schwerin was the procuring of the sum. The light was
failing rapidly, and Wilhelmine felt intensely dreary and sad. She turned
over the leaves of the book which lay on her lap; it was a volume lent
her by Monsieur Gabriel, a book written by Blaise Pascal. Her eye was
caught by a sentence, and she read the wise words of the great thinker:
'Love hath its reasons which reason knoweth not.' Again her attention
wandered from the page; her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of
her destiny. With bitterness she realised that, for her, Love must be
either a renunciation of ambition, a life passed with some simple
countryman, or else a career, a profession, an abnegation of quiet days.
Which should she strive for? 'What does it avail a man though he gain the
whole world and lose his own soul?' The words came back to her; but no,
she was not made for peaceful days, she would weary of them inevitably.
She heard a knock on the house door and, shaking off her unusual
depression, she hurried downstairs. Monsieur Gabriel stood in the
corridor explaining in his scholarly foreign German to the servant-maid,
that it was absolutely necessary for him to see Fräulein von Grävenitz,
even if madame her mother could not receive him, as he had a matter of
importance to communicate. He smiled when he saw Wilhelmine--that good
smile of his, which was at once so kind, so bright, and yet so
unutterably sad.
'Ah! dear child!' he said, in French, 'I bring you good news. I have
procured the money.'
Wilhelmine went quickly up to him, and taking his hand in both of hers,
she drew him into the prim little dwelling-room where Frau von Grävenitz
received her rare guests. 'How can I ever thank you?' she said as she
closed the door.
'By thinking of me when you are far away,' he answered, 'and sometimes by
sending me a letter to lighten my gloom.'
'Yes!' she said eagerly; 'but tell me how you procured this great sum?'
'I had a few old trinkets,' he answered, 'which I had carried with me
from France. They were hidden in my travelling chest, and I had not even
looked at them these many years. They reminded me of another life, a life
which has nothing to do with the old schoolmaster of Güstrow,' he added
with a sigh. He laid a packet on the table, cut the string with his
knife, and began to undo four long rolls within, disclosing the bright
edges of twenty-five golden gulden in each roll. 'Twenty-five, fifty,
seventy-five, a hundred,' he counted out.
Wilhelmine looked curiously at the coins; she had seldom seen gold pieces
before, and never in a large quantity. She laid her hand on one of the
rouleaux. 'Gold is power, they say,' she murmured.
'The getting of gold is pain,' the old man answered, and he took her hand
in his, drawing hers away from the golden heap.
At that moment the door opened silently, and Frau von Grävenitz stood on
the threshold. She looked from one to the other, she saw the money on the
table, and Wilhelmine's sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. Monsieur
Gabriel's face she could not see, for it was turned away from her towards
Wilhelmine; but she could see that he held her hand in his, and all her
suspicions re-awoke.
'What is this?' she said: 'Monsieur Gabriel, why are you bringing money
to my daughter?' Both Wilhelmine and her friend started. 'For her journey
to Stuttgart, madame,' he answered. 'Her journey?' said the old woman,
'what journey? What do you mean?'
'Ah! Mademoiselle Wilhelmine has perhaps not had time to communicate her
plans to you, madame,' he replied courteously. 'She told me of her
brother's letter, and as I thought that madame had perhaps not got so
large a sum of money at her disposal at the moment, I have ventured to
make a little gift to my favourite pupil, to enable her to accept her
brother's proposition. Believe me, madame, I esteem it an honour to be of
service to one whose wonderful gift of music has made my poor life so
much happier than it could have been otherwise.'
'Wilhelmine, what is the meaning of this?' cried Frau von Grävenitz in
her sharpest tones. 'You have received a letter from my son, of which you
have not informed me! You plan things with a stranger, and I am told
nothing! You receive money from a man--what for, I should like to know? I
dare not say what terrible thoughts all this awakens in me. Give me your
brother's letter immediately!' Her voice had risen higher and higher,
till she almost screamed the last words.
'I cannot give you the letter, mother,' Wilhelmine returned quietly, 'I
have lost it.'
'Monsieur Gabriel,' said Frau von Grävenitz, 'perhaps you have got it? I
command you to hand it over to me.'
'Madame, I am astounded! Indeed, I have not got the letter, though
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine showed it to me on Saturday morning.'
'Yes! Saturday morning!' Frau von Grävenitz retorted with a sneer. 'Of a
truth, you and my daughter have reason to remember that day. You are a
corrupter of youth, and an evil man, Mr. Schoolmaster, and a purloiner of
letters as well.'
Monsieur Gabriel looked from the irate lady to her daughter, in
consternation and bewilderment. 'I fear, madame, that I do not understand
you,' he said gently; 'you labour under a misapprehension. I have never
had the letter in my possession. As for your other accusation, I think
you are led away by your anger. Indeed, I do not know the meaning of your
words, madame.' His calmness only served to madden Frau von Grävenitz
further. She turned away from him, and seizing Wilhelmine roughly by the
shoulder, she hissed in her ear: 'Give me the letter, you wanton!'
Wilhelmine started violently, and Monsieur Gabriel made a step forward,
as though to defend her; his face flushed deeply, and he said in a steady
voice: 'Madame de Grävenitz, such an accusation, even from a mother's
lips, is a thing to which no woman has the right to submit.' But Frau von
Grävenitz was beyond hearing; her features were distorted by rage, and
her mouth twitched convulsively. 'How dare you address me?' she screamed;
'you are my daughter's seducer--go--leave my house, and take the wages of
my daughter's sin with you!' She came up to the table, and with a sweep
of her arm scattered the gold to right and left.
'Mother!' cried Wilhelmine, 'you are mad!'
'Madame,' said Monsieur Gabriel, 'I can but obey your command to depart,'
and with a profoundly respectful bow to Wilhelmine, he quitted the
apartment with quiet dignity.
Frau von Grävenitz continued her fierce monologue for some time, without
interruption. Wilhelmine stood watching her, till an involuntary
breathless pause in her mother's torrent of words gave her the
opportunity of speech. 'You have always been unjust to me, mother,' she
said, in a hard, cold voice; 'and to-day you have insulted me, in the
presence of one you called a stranger. Yes; Friedrich wrote, proposing
that I should go and seek a more prosperous life in Wirtemberg. Yes; I
told Monsieur Gabriel. Yes; he said he would give me the money for my
journey. I warn you that I shall go, and it will be of no avail if you
attempt to hinder me.'
'You will not go,' said Frau von Grävenitz harshly. 'The money you have
earned by your dishonour I shall give to the poor.'
'It is not yours to give,' answered Wilhelmine coldly.
'We shall see,' replied her mother grimly, and commenced an undignified
scramble beneath the table, as she gathered up the scattered gold pieces.
When she had found all, and carefully counted it out, she placed it in an
oaken cupboard, double locked the door thereof, and placed the key in her
pocket, Wilhelmine watching her the while.
The evening meal was eaten in utter silence. Frau von Grävenitz
superintended the washing up of the plates, knives, and forks; then going
to the house door she fastened it securely, taking the key with her.
While the old woman was occupied at the house door, Wilhelmine slipped up
the stairs, with the noiseless tread of a cat, and abstracted the key
from her mother's bedroom door, then passing to her attic she undressed,
and, wrapping her bedgown round her, lay down on her bed. The stolen key
she tied firmly in a knot of her hair, close to her head, well hidden by
her thick curls. Having accomplished this, she feigned sleep. As she
expected, her mother soon discovered the absence of the key, and after a
fruitless search in her own room she stormed into Wilhelmine's attic, and
accused her of having removed it. The girl looked at her from sleepy
eyes, and denied all knowledge of the missing article. Frau von Grävenitz
searched the room, and then bidding her daughter rise, she felt beneath
her mattress and pillow. Then she ran her hand over her daughter's body,
but she never thought of examining the waves of hair, under which the key
was safely hidden. At length, she was satisfied that it was not in her
daughter's keeping, and she retired to bed grumbling.
Wilhelmine listened attentively for some half-hour, then gently pushed
aside the covering and noiselessly unlatched the door. She crept towards
her mother's door and listened. For some time she heard nothing, but at
length her patience was rewarded by the sound of a long, even breath, and
she knew her mother was asleep. Wilhelmine returned to her apartment.
Slowly and silently she resumed her clothes. Fortunately there was a
moon, and the room was flooded with pale light. She did not put on boots,
skirt, or cloak, but deposited these in a heap on the corridor floor.
Then she approached her mother's door, and listened once more; the
regular breaths were quite audible now. Softly she lifted the latch, and
passed into the room. The moon was hidden for a moment, and the room was
in utter darkness. She crouched, and carefully drew the door to behind
her; it creaked, and Frau von Grävenitz moved in her sleep. Wilhelmine
crouched lower, and taking a kerchief from her breast pushed it beneath
the door, to steady it. She waited motionless till her mother's breathing
told her that she was really asleep, and then, with noiseless tread, she
approached the sleeper. The clouds shifted and the moon shone in, showing
Frau von Grävenitz's face livid and deathlike in the luminous moonshine.
The girl shuddered; it was like robbing a corpse, she thought. But her
hesitation was momentary; she pushed her flexible hand beneath her
mother's pillow, and her fingers closed on the cold iron of a key. She
drew it out, but she felt rather than saw that it was not the one wanted.
She was stretching out her hand to seek for the other key, when the
sleeper stirred uneasily, murmuring some incomprehensible word, and
Wilhelmine cowered down once more. The old woman turned round in bed, so
that she faced the crouching girl; her face was now in shadow, and
Wilhelmine could not see whether the eyes were open or shut. She waited
for what seemed hours in that hunched-up position. After some time, the
even breathing recommenced, and Wilhelmine ventured to kneel up beside
the bed, but now a fresh difficulty confronted her: to reach the other
key, provided it lay beneath the pillow, she must pass her hand under
that portion of the pillow upon which Frau von Grävenitz's head rested.
She wriggled her hand in, and the point of her fingers touched the key;
but it was too far away for her to grasp it, and her efforts only pushed
it further. She withdrew her hand, and waited till the clouds floated
over the moon. When the welcome darkness came, she bent over her mother,
and lifting the further edge of the pillow quickly found the key. Then
she crept noiselessly to the threshold, took her kerchief, and shut the
door silently. Safe in the corridor, she caught up her bundle of garments
and groped her way down the stairs, which creaked under her, but she
heard no movement in the house, though she listened attentively at the
foot of the stairs. Swiftly she gained the dwelling-room, fitted the key
into the oaken press, unlocked it, and took out the rolls of gold. In
another moment she stood in the snow-covered street, the money for her
journey safe in her hand.
Wilhelmine von Grävenitz had taken the first step of an extraordinary
career.