The news of Otto von Sydow's sudden tragic death produced a profound
impression upon old Countess Lenzdorff.
She immediately wrote a long letter to Goswyn,--eight pages of
affectionate and sincere sympathy. Erika said very little about the
matter, but she looked forward eagerly to Goswyn's reply.
When it came it was dry, almost formal,--the reply of a man crushed to
the earth, who is not wont to discourse about his emotions and is shy
of expressing himself with regard to them.
Thus the Countess Lenzdorff understood it. Her sympathy for the young
officer increased after reading his brief note. Erika, on the other
hand, after perusing the epistle, which her grandmother handed to her
with a sigh, showed an unaccountable degree of irritability.
"Surely he might have written you more cordially!" she exclaimed. "Such
a letter as this means nothing! It is simply a receipt for your
sympathy,--nothing more."
Her grandmother shook her head, and tried to set her right. But Erika
would not listen. She had greatly changed of late: her state of mind
was growing more and more distressing. She ate and slept but little.
Her sentiment was searching for a new stay; her life lacked a purpose.
At any risk she would gladly have fled from the chill brilliance which
characterized her grandmother's philosophy of life to take refuge in
some inspiration of the heart, even although it might perhaps lead her
astray. Religion had been taken from her, and even the sacred nimbus of
morality had been frayed by her grandmother's cynicism. When her God
had been taken from her she had at first wept hot, bitter tears, but
she had aroused herself anew, and faith had been born within her in a
transfigured form: it was no longer the conventional belief, expressed
in worn-out formulas, with which the multitude satisfy themselves in
view of the mysteries of creation, but an apprehension, however faulty,
of an order of affairs, incomprehensible to her finite intellect,
lifting her above that part of us which is of the earth, earthy,--a
faith which may bring with it but little consolation, but which is
certainly elevating. When her grandmother first attacked in her
presence what she called the 'by God's grace principle' of morality,
and coldly proved that all morals culminated in a number of laws not
founded in nature,--nay, even at variance with nature,--which had been
illogically framed by society for its preservation, she did not weep,
but her whole being was poisoned by a discontent which she could not
away with. If her grandmother had had the least idea of the effect upon
the girl of her cold reasoning, she would have kept to herself the
aphorisms which she was so fond of handing about like little
delicately-prepared tidbits. Her nature, however, was a thoroughly
sound and rather cold one, which took no pleasure in overwrought
emotion, and which was absolutely free from the devouring thirst which
glowed in Erika's soul. How could she understand the young creature, or
know how to protect her from herself?
But if, on the one hand, the old Countess had but a poor opinion of
mankind, on the other it was impossible for her to forego society.
Although she had promised Erika to resist its temptations in Venice,
she not only yielded to them herself, but did all that she could to
induce the girl to accompany her. Her efforts were, however, of no
avail, in view of Erika's misanthropic and unamiable mood; and thus it
came to pass that society witnessed the unusual spectacle of a
venerable matron of seventy appearing with indefatigable enjoyment
at one afternoon tea after another, while her beautiful young
grand-daughter at home confused her mind with the study of metaphysical
works or visited the poor abroad. This last had of late been her
favourite occupation: she had a long list of beneficiaries, whom she
befriended with enthusiastic zeal, and of whom she had learned from the
kindly hostess at the hotel and from the doctor when he came to visit
his patients there.
It was on a cloudy afternoon towards the end of March, after her
grandmother had parted from her with a sigh of compassion, that Erika
set out on foot, as was her wont, to visit a poor music-teacher.
The way to the modest lodgings where Fraeulein Horst resided led Erika
far from the busy Riva by a narrow alley to the quiet Piazza San
Zacharie, where grass was growing between the stones. Thence the road
grew more difficult to find, and it was not without some pride that she
threaded accurately the labyrinth of narrow streets and reached the
small dwelling in question without having been obliged to inquire her
way.
She found the poor woman in bed in a wretchedly-furnished room. A table
beside her served to hold her various bottles of medicine, and a green
screen before the window shut out the light. In the midst of this
poverty the music-teacher lay reading "Consuelo," and--was happy.
A wave of compassion--a compassion that brought the tears to her
eyes--overwhelmed Erika. She leaned over the invalid and kissed her
throbbing temples. Then, with the graceful kindliness which
characterized her in the presence of sickness or misery, she adorned
the room with the flowers she had with her, cleared away the grim
witnesses from the table, had a cup of tea made and brought, and set
out various little dainties from her basket, talking the while so
cheerfully that the invalid forgot her pain. The poor music-teacher
followed her every movement in a kind of ecstasy; at last, taking the
girl's hand and pressing her feverish lips upon it, she exclaimed, "How
could I ever dream that the beautiful Countess Lenzdorff, whom I have
admired at the theatre and at concerts, would ever come to drink a cup
of tea with me! Ah, what a pleasure it is!"
"I am so glad," Erika replied, stroking the thin hand held out to her.
"I will come often, since you really like to have me."
"One never ought to despair, while life lasts," said the sick woman.
"Just now I received a letter from an old school-mate, Sophy Lange.
When she was a poor girl she fell in love with a gentleman. Of course
their union was not to be thought of. Now, after many years, she writes
me that she has reached the goal of her desires: she is married,--she
is his wife,--and she is almost crazy with delight."
"Sophy Lange!" Erika cried, with peculiar interest. "That was the name
of our governess. She must be forty years old."
"About that," the woman replied, smiling to herself. "A truly loving
heart keeps young even at forty years of age."
"And what is her husband's name?" asked Erika, smitten by a strange
suspicion.
"Baron Strachinsky," replied Fraeulein Horst. "He is of ancient Polish
lineage, not very wealthy, but dear Sophy does not mind that, for a
rich old gentleman whom she took care of during his ten-years' illness
has left her all his property."
"And she is happy?" Erika asked, in a kind of terror.
"Oh, how happy! I am so glad!--so glad! A little romance is so
refreshing in these prosaic days. They met each other again on the
Rigi, at sunrise,--just think, Countess! and Sophy is not at all
pretty,--only dear and kind. Now they are in Naples; but she tells me
that in the course of the spring she and her husband may come to
Venice. She has had a hard life, but at last--at last--it is good to
hear of so happy an end to her troubles."
At this point an attack of coughing interrupted her. Ah, how terrible
it was! The handkerchief she held to her lips was crimsoned. Erika did
all that she could for her, supported her in her arms, and bade her
take courage. When the invalid was more comfortable, she left her,
promising to come again on the morrow.
"God bless you, Countess!" the poor woman murmured, faintly.
It was late, and it had begun to grow dark. Before leaving the house
Erika had a short interview with the woman who rented the lodgings, and
deposited with her a sum of money, that the poor music-teacher might be
supplied with every comfort possible. Then, with a friendly nod, she
departed.
Her heart felt lighter than it had done for some time, and it was not
until she had started on her homeward way that she noticed the
gathering gloom.
She was half inclined to summon a gondola, but decided that it was not
worth the trouble; and, moreover, she detested the swampy odour of the
lagoons. And just here the air was so sweet: a spring fragrance was
wafted about her from the grassy deserted Campo.
"What mysteries people are!" the girl reflected, her thoughts
reverting to her grandmother's comments upon the late elopement, with a
lover, of the lovely young wife of an old German diplomat. "This is
love,--Countess Ada on the one hand, poor Sophy on the other,--the one
criminal, the other ridiculous. Good heavens!"
Around her breathed the sweet, drowsy air of spring; there was a
distant sound of bells and of plashing water, and over all brooded
something like a dim foreboding, an expectant yearning.
Erika suddenly awoke from her dreamy mood, to find that she had lost
her way. She walked on to the nearest corner in hopes of finding
it,--in vain! Not without a certain tremor, she resolved to go straight
on: she could not but reach some familiar square or canal. She walked
hurriedly, impatiently. The air was no longer fragrant, and she found
herself in a narrow, poverty-stricken alley running between rows of
tall, evil-looking, and ruinous houses, in which the windows showed
like deep, hollow eyes. The gray mist was rising above the roofs, and
the walls of the houses, as well as the stones underfoot, were slimy
with moisture.
Erika had much ado to keep her footing, so slippery was the pathway. If
she walked in the middle of the street she had to wade through mud and
filth; and if she pressed near to the walls the green slime soiled her
dress.
Darker and darker grew the night, when suddenly a rude noise broke the
forlorn silence,--songs issuing from rough throats, mingled with the
shrill, coarse laughter of women.
Poor Erika hastened her pace, but utter weariness so assailed her that
she felt almost unable to stand upright. In an unlucky moment a drunken
sailor staggered out of the wretched drinking-place whence the noise
proceeded. He was a young, stalwart man, and before the girl could pass
him he had stretched out his arms and barred her way.
Beside herself with terror, she screamed,--when, as if rising from the
earth, a man stepped in front of her, seized the sailor by the collar,
and flung him against the wall. She trembled in every limb with disgust
and fear as she looked up at her rescuer, whose features she could
barely distinguish, although she could see his eyes,--dark,
compassionate eyes.
Where had she already seen those eyes? Before she could recall where,
he said, lifting his hat, "You have evidently lost your way: will you
tell me where you live, that I may guide you out of this labyrinth?" He
spoke in English, but with a foreign accent: apparently he took her for
an Englishwoman.
His proposal was an unusual one; and this seemed to strike him, for
before she could reply he added, "Of course it is disagreeable to trust
to a stranger's escort, but under the circumstances it is the only
thing to do. I cannot leave you here without a protector: this is no
place for a lady."
So dismayed was she by this knowledge that she could find no courteous
word of thanks, and all she said in reply was to mention the name of
her hotel.
"To the left," he said, motioning in the given direction. His voice,
too, seemed familiar.
They passed together through the net-work of narrow streets and over a
high arched bridge upon which a red lantern was burning and beneath
which the sluggish water flowed slowly.
"Of whom does he remind me?" thought Erika. Suddenly her heart beat so
as almost to deprive her of breath. Bayreuth--Lozoncyi!
And at the same moment she recalled also his fair companion.
Meanwhile, they had reached a large, airy square.
"Piazza San Zacharie. I know where I am now," she said, very coldly, as
she took leave of him.
He stood still, evidently wounded by her tone, and looked after her
with a frown.
Without thanking him, she hurried on. Suddenly she paused, unable to
resist the impulse to look back. He was still standing looking after
her. She half turned to retrace her steps and thank him, when
indignation seemed to paralyze her. What had she to say to a man who
without the least shame could appear in public with---- Without further
hesitation she returned to the hotel.
She slept badly that night. Her teeth chattered with fear at the
thought of her adventure. And then--then, in spite of herself, she was
vexed that she had said no friendly word to Lozoncyi: he had deserved
some such at her hands. What was his private life to her? She recalled
the handsome half-starved lad whom she had fed beside the gurgling
brook. She longed to see him again. Half asleep, she turned her head
uneasily on her pillow. The plashing of the water beneath her window
sounded like a low, trembling sigh, and the sigh became a song. Nearer
and nearer it sounded, insinuatingly sweet,--a song of Tosti's then in
fashion. She heard only the refrain:
"Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie,
Toi, qui n'as pas d'amour?"
She sprang out of bed and threw open the window. Along the Grand Canal,
illuminated by gay little lanterns, glided a gondola whence the song
proceeded.
She leaned forward, but almost before she was aware of it the gondola
had passed out of sight: it was nothing more in the distance than a
shadow with a little dash of colour, and the sweet melody only a sigh
slowly absorbed by the rippling waves.
She still stood at the window when all was silent again. All gone! all
silent! Where the gondola had passed there lay a broad moon-glade upon
the black water, and mingling with the swampy odour of the lagoon Erika
could perceive the breath of spring.
She closed the window, and no longer heard even the plash of the water,
or aught save the beating of her own heart.