MILITARY MORALS
IT had all turned out just as George had foretold; the kindly
words which His Majesty had addressed to him at the American
Embassy and the warm praise of his father, had not contributed
towards improving his position in the regiment; on the contrary,
it had made it worse. Scarcely a day passed but some one or other
in George's absence talked about him and discussed the Emperor's
remarks. Whatever had made the Emperor specially distinguish him,
the only plebeian officer of the regiment? Even the colonel had had
to be content with a mere handshake, the staff officers, not to
mention the others, had scarcely received a glance; George alone
had been addressed. Was it mere chance or was it really the report
of the button manufacturer--as Old Winkler was always called for
shortness--that had occasioned the remarks? And what on earth could
such a manufacturer tell His Majesty which he did not know already?
Old Winkler indeed was said to be unique in his arrangements for
the benefits of his workpeople and in his efforts for their welfare,
and he had discovered new methods and means of ameliorating their
existence. Of course, everybody knew that His Majesty was deeply
interested in the condition of the working classes, but in spite
of this, they thought this public praise of Old Winkler somewhat
ostentatious and superfluous, if an officer--and therefore a loyal
subject--might venture to criticise His Majesty's words. Or had the
Emperor's words any particular significance? The Emperor knew, of
course, what was thought about George in the regiment, how he was
still an "outsider," and would always remain one. Had His Majesty's
words meant--"You need not trouble yourselves, you will not get rid
of Lieutenant Winkler, he has a powerful protector in me." Had he
perhaps wanted to encourage George by his gracious words to persevere
and not to despair even if he had not succeeded in winning a good
position in the regiment?
Not a single "Golden Butterfly" had ever been commanded to attend
at Court, except on the occasion of some great entertainment; then
the regiment had appeared as a whole, and even this distinction had
made them feel very proud. And now George was publicly invited by the
Emperor to come with his father to dine at Court. It was well known
that His Majesty frequently gave little parties where everybody was
quite unconstrained, and there was much lively conversation. The
Emperor surprised everyone by the astonishing amount of his knowledge
and fascinated all by his great personal attractions. Why should
George be invited to share in these intimate little parties? Simply
because he was the son of his father. And who indeed was his father?
He was merely a middle-class button manufacturer, and he would remain
that, even if he were wiser and more important than all the other
wise men put together.
They would not have grudged any of their other companions the honour
which had been paid to George. They would have regarded it as an
honour paid to the aristocratic classes to which they themselves
belonged. They grudged it George because they said to themselves:
"If nowadays the middle-class is to be honoured in this way, what is
there then for the nobility, who have done, and will do more, for
Germany than manufacture trouser-buttons, which certainly have the
advantage of being durable and cheap."
Up till the present the officers had not troubled to take any notice
of George. Now they turned their attention to him, and although he
was always quiet and modest in his behaviour to his companions, and
yet dignified without being proud, they became even haughtier than
they had formerly been. More than ever they were the aristocrats;
more than ever they endeavoured to show him what a great and
impassable barrier divided him from them. Their behaviour indicated
as clearly as words: "We intend to get rid of him; one day he himself
will perceive that he cannot possibly remain with us any longer."
George was perfectly well aware of the feeling that existed against
him, and even if he had wanted to deceive himself in this matter,
one thing would have opened his eyes to this fact. This was the
condescending manner in which young Willberg regularly every week,
purely as a matter of form, made his excuses for not having been able
to return the £50 which he had been obliging enough to lend him.
"I really do not want the money," George said every time; "on the
contrary, I live so economically that I save money. I would gladly
lend you a larger amount, and you need not hurry about paying it
back."
George noticed how very gladly young Willberg accepted the
generously-offered help, for it was an open secret that he would not
be able to go on much longer. Nobody knew exactly how he stood with
regard to money matters. He did not gamble more than the others, but
he had other expenses. In the eyes of young girls in Society, he
enjoyed much distinction in consequence of his _amours_. He knew
how interesting he was to them, because he had the reputation of not
being able to be faithful to anyone. And he knew equally well that
in spite of this reputation, or rather just because of it, he would
have no difficulty in winning a rich wife one day. The bride would
be envied for having a _fiancé_ with such an interesting past; they
would consider her lucky to have caught him. He intended to marry
later, but his wife must have money, a great deal of money, for he
had no intention of changing his mode of life when he was a married
man. Willberg had no idea of the value of money, and whenever he was
able to borrow a few pounds from a relative he could not rest until
he had spent it. He was continually in debt, and just now things
were very bad with him. He was always complaining of his wretched
position, and drank more wine than usual to drown his cares. He owed
money all round the regiment, and George foresaw that it would not be
long before young Willberg would again borrow from him without being
able to discharge his former debt. And the moment came sooner than
even George had imagined.
George had gone home one day from the mess-room earlier than usual.
He had received a letter from his friend Olga, a young actress at
the Residenz Theatre, saying that she would come to supper with
him. At first he had thought of putting her off, as he had some
important work to do, but finally he had telegraphed to her: "Come,
I am expecting you." He had not the heart to spoil her evening.
She was so fond of him, and so happy in his comfortable and
beautifully-furnished rooms. There was nothing more delightful to her
than to admire his beautiful things and rummage in his library.
Soon they were sitting in the little dining-room, opposite each other
at the charmingly decorated table, and George observed laughingly how
she enjoyed the oysters and Pommery.
"It is all very well for you to laugh. You have just come from
dinner, but I have eaten nothing since three o'clock."
"My dear child, go on eating. I am only too delighted if it is
to your taste, and the more you eat the better pleased I am. And
when you have finished these oysters here, there is another dozen
outside on ice, and after that there is your favourite dish--stuffed
artichokes."
She clapped her hands with pleasure like a child; then she looked
at him gratefully with her wide-open, dark brown eyes, and softly
stroked his hand. "How good and kind you are to me."
"Really, Olga!" He was almost embarrassed by the feeling in her
voice, and attempted to joke: "Don't make fun of me, Olga. If the
whole extent of my kindness to you consists in my telling my
landlady to cook your favourite dishes, it is really not very much."
And after a slight pause, he added: "I am very fond of you, little
Olga."
She looked at him delighted. "Do you really mean it?" And when he
bowed and drank her health, she said: "Do you know, I believe you.
Indeed when I am with you I know that you are fond of me."
Suddenly she jumped up, clung to him, and kissed him passionately.
"But, Olga, my dear girl, your oysters will be getting cold," he said
at last, as she went on caressing him.
Laughingly she stopped and sat down again.
Olga was a picturesque looking girl of medium height, faultless
figure, a bright intelligent face, wonderful brown eyes and a
charming little nose. Everything about her was _petite_. She had
small hands that were most carefully attended to, and ravishing
little feet. Her whole expression and bearing was sympathetic in the
highest degree. Without being exactly clever she was amusing and
bright. One could talk to her for hours together without suffering
a moment's boredom; she could tell amusing stories and was always
ready to see a joke. She laughed so heartily that the tears came
into her eyes, and when she laughed she always showed her dazzling
white teeth. One thing about her was especially attractive to
George, she was a thoroughly straightforward creature. She was always
good-tempered and amiable, never capricious or extravagant. Only once
had she ever expressed a wish to George. For days he had noticed that
something worried her; he urged her constantly to tell him, and at
last she did so.
"But, first of all, you must put out the gas, otherwise I shall be so
terribly ashamed; you mustn't look at me when I tell you."
Laughingly he had agreed to her wish, and then she had confessed: "I
want a little gold watch tremendously."
And when he remained speechless with astonishment at her modesty, she
went on: "Don't be angry with me, I saw a perfectly lovely watch in a
shop window for a hundred marks, but if that is too much, a cheaper
one will do perfectly well."
When he had carried out her desire, and bought her a costly watch and
a gold chain, she had sat the whole evening with him without taking
any interest in him, but playing with her watch, alternately laughing
and crying for joy. At the beginning of their acquaintanceship she
could not be induced to accept anything from him; for days he had
argued with her, and only at last did she allow him to make her an
allowance when he declared in the most emphatic manner that otherwise
he would have nothing further to do with her. He paid for her rooms
and everything she required without pampering her. For his own sake
he took care that things were all right for her, and without her
knowing it he regularly put £10 in the bank for her every week. "Then
at least she need not throw herself into the arms of the first best
man whenever we separate," he said to himself.
He had been to the bank on her account this very day, and on his way
back he had bought a pretty little brooch, which he just remembered.
"Good gracious, Olga, I quite forgot something. Look, here's a little
trifle for you."
He got up and fetched the jewel-case, and enjoyed the delighted look
that she cast upon the ornament.
"George, you really ought not to give me such presents."
"Oh, that's all right, I never give more than I can afford, and, like
all my presents, it is paid for."
She thanked him once more, then she said: "Do you know, I am really
to be envied for knowing you? Don't misunderstand me, you know
perfectly well that I want nothing from you and ask nothing of you.
Once I know I asked you for a watch, and I am heartily ashamed of it,
and if I had ever imagined that you would have spent so much over it
I would never have mentioned it, for I would not have you imagine
for a moment that I care for you because you are rich."
"But, Olga, I know all that, you have no need to tell me. You were
going to tell me, however, why you are to be envied because we are
friends."
"Because you are an honourable man, because--well, how can I tell
you. You see all my friends at the theatre have a patron and
protector. But what sort of men are they? Men of the world in the
worst sense of the word, who bluster and bully, contract debt after
debt, and if they give a present it is not paid for; everything
they give is borrowed, and that destroys all pleasure in receiving
the gift. But everything connected with you is so high-class,
straightforward, solid. Your way of living is like your character;
one knows one can rely on you, that you are a thoroughly honourable
and reliable man."
Again George was embarrassed. "Olga, Olga, why these expressions of
affection after so long an acquaintanceship?"
"To-day is just the right moment," she replied, and then with some
confusion she added: "This very day, three months ago, I met you for
the first time."
"Are you sorry?"
She kissed his hand. "You--you--I--I am awfully fond of you. How
could I indeed be sorry?" Then she continued very earnestly:
"You know, for I have already told you, how that blackguard of a
lieutenant treated me, and I swore henceforward to be an honourable
woman and to have nothing to do with a man. I kept to my resolution
for a year. Well, what happened then? Then there came along someone
whom I liked very much, and who was very good and kind to me. You
know it is very difficult to be respectable on the stage; we inferior
ones are always envious of the 'stars' who go about in silk and
satin, and who frequently cannot act any better than the others,
and who only owe their position to a rich friend who pays for
their dresses and arranges with the director and manager that his
_protégée_ shall be brought out and given a good part. Well, that's
how it is, and besides one wants to enjoy one's life; everybody does
the same, not only those who are on the stage. We are not the worst;
the others who do it all secretly and pose as highly respectable
young women, they are really the worst."
"Now, now, Olga, take a glass of wine. Why do you get into a temper?
Do be cheerful again."
After a short struggle her naturally kindly disposition got the upper
hand. "You are quite right. I cannot alter what has already happened,
but still the lieutenant was a blackguard; you remember I told you he
shot himself later, and that was the best thing he could do."
"Don't be so hard, Olga."
"Pray do not stand up for him," she went on angrily. "I know what
you feel: that if a young girl accepts an invitation from an officer
she must know quite well what to expect. But I was very young and
inexperienced then."
"But, Olga, I cannot understand you to-day. What is the matter with
you? Why do you insult the officers in this way. You remember I am
one."
"Ah, you," she said tenderly. "You are not really one of them. You
are much too honourable. You are a man, the others are stuck-up apes,
and besides that, generally liars and betrayers."
"Olga, I beg you with all seriousness to cease making these remarks.
Whatever is the matter with you? Shall we stay here or go into the
sitting-room?" he asked her presently.
"Let us go into the sitting-room," she replied. She loved the large
beautiful room with its splendid carpet, heavy _portière_ and the
fine pictures. Best of all she loved the large comfortable leather
seat in front of the fire, and every time that she visited George she
meant to ask him to let her sit in that chair after dinner. She had
never done so, because on every occasion, to-day included, directly
they went into the sitting-room George drew out the _chaise longue_
for her, put a cushion under her head, and covered her with a great
bear rug. He always did this, and treated her with so much love and
such tender consideration that she had not the heart to tell him how
uncomfortable she was.
"Are you comfortable, darling?"
Again, from affection, she told him an untruth: "Simply lovely."
He kissed her tenderly, handed her a cigarette, took a cigar for
himself, and then sat down on a chair by her side.
"You do live in a splendid way, George. You can't imagine how happy I
feel when I am with you."
"Because you are in my rooms, or because you are with me?"
"Because I am in your rooms, naturally," she said teasingly. "Why
ever should I care about you? You are an old cynic who does not
deserve that I should like him so much and be so nice to him. Oh, you
dear old silly, come here, and let me give you a kiss. Well, now,
that will do, be sensible and sit down nicely and tell me what you
have been doing lately. What parties have you been to, and with whom
have you danced? Whom did you go for your cure with?"
George answered and asked questions. Olga showed a real and sincere
interest in everything that concerned him; he knew that he could
entirely trust her, and that later, when they parted, she would make
no use of anything he had told her, and so he spoke quite frankly to
her. He told her about the regiment, his parents, and his sister, but
naturally enough he never spoke a word about Hildegarde. He had not
once mentioned her name, and to-day likewise he was silent on the
subject. Not indeed that he feared Olga would be jealous; she was
too sensible and intelligent for that, and, moreover, she had often
said she wished he would marry a lovely and beautiful wife. In spite
of all that, however, an inexplicable feeling prevented his speaking
about Hildegarde to her.
Olga listened to him attentively; many of the names of the people in
Society were familiar to her, she remembered them from his former
accounts, and she showed by her questions now and again that she was
following him with real interest. Naturally she was most interested
in knowing what the ladies wore, but she did not get much information
from him on this point.
"How can you be so foolish as not to notice these things?" she
scolded him. "A woman is most interested in what another woman has
on."
"Or rather what she has _not_ on," he said mockingly.
The entrance of the servant put an end to their conversation.
"A letter has just come for you, sir."
"Any answer?"
"The messenger did not say anything, he did not wait."
"Very well."
The servant disappeared and George held the note a moment in his
right hand unopened.
"Who is it from?" inquired Olga.
"I do not know how it is, but a vague feeling tells me that this
letter contains something unpleasant for me."
"Shall I read it to you then? If I think the contents will vex you I
will tear it up and never tell you what was in it."
He kissed her hand. "You are a dear little thing, but I am afraid
that won't do. Well, let us see what it is."
He opened the envelope with a paper-knife, turned over the sheet and
looked at the signature. A slight triumphant smile played round his
mouth. "Ah, ha, Willberg, I said so!"
Olga had risen and was leaning her head on her right hand; now she
looked at George anxiously and expectantly. "Willberg, what does he
want of you? You told me once how oddly he behaved to you. Why does
he write you?"
Instead of an answer George handed her the letter, and Olga read:
"DEAR WINKLER,--Although I am still deep in your debt, and am
no more able to discharge it to-day than I was weeks ago, yet I
am forced once more to ask you for help, and that as promptly
and swiftly as possible. To-day we have been gambling simply
frightfully. I lost five thousand marks--four thousand to the
Uhlan, on whom I wanted to take my revenge. I must pay this four
thousand marks by to-morrow morning, otherwise I must leave the
army. I do not know where to get the money from; you are my only
means of salvation. You have so often offered me money that I
feel quite sure you will not now leave me in the lurch.
"Perhaps you will have the goodness to send the money along by
your servant Fritz, your man, or any other human being you like.
I shall stay at home and await your answer. I thank you most
heartily beforehand for once more getting me out of a terrible
scrape.--With sincere regards, yours gratefully,
"F. VON WILLBERG."
Olga folded up the letter and returned it to George.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"The letter is simply a model," she opined, "short, polite, and
childishly _naïve_. 'I have been gambling, please pay my debts. The
man writes with a nonchalance and a coolness as if he asked you to
take a glass of wine with him. Willberg is simply delicious."
"Yes, you are not far wrong," said George, who felt somewhat hurt
by the tone of the letter. "A young lieutenant, who has nothing in
the world to call his own but an allowance of a few pounds, sits
down with the greatest confidence at the card-table and gambles away
a £50 bank-note, one after the other. When he has come to the end
of his ready money he plays for credit, and when the game is over
and he is deeply involved, he sits down calmly and writes to his
friends and acquaintances: 'Please be so good as to pay my debts.'
And if he knows that he can get no help from these sources, because
he has already exhausted them, then he applies to any rich man whom
perhaps he has only met twice in his life, and borrows from him
with a _naïveté_ and a shamelessness that is inimitable. He knows
quite well that he must get the money somewhere. If matters do not
go so smoothly as he anticipated, he becomes melodramatic, talks
about leaving the regiment, abandoning the army, Courts of Honour,
a bullet through his head, and such things. And there are very few
people who are not moved when it is a question of saving, as they
say, a young and promising human life--which in most cases is not
worth the value of the bullet. And so they put their hands in their
pocket and give the lieutenant what he needs to set him on his
legs again and be once more an 'honourable' man. I do not know if
you will understand what I am going to say, Olga, but the greatest
misfortune for our lieutenants is--I do not say our officers, but
only our lieutenants--that on account of their uniform and position
they can get credit everywhere. Many educated, or only half-educated,
rich people who gladly entertain the officers, so that they may be
considered in 'Society,' constantly press their assistance upon these
lieutenants just on the chance of their getting into difficulties.
The lieutenant sees it all quite clearly; he says to himself: 'I get
into debt, somebody else will pay.' And our lieutenants will remain
as they are, and will never alter until they are no longer given
credit; he will only change when people are no longer foolish enough
to lend money to every lieutenant who wants it."
"And do you suppose that day will come?"
"It will come when the world ceases to see in every man who wears a
uniform a marvellous creature."
"Then that will be never."
"I almost believe you are right," he agreed with her; and then,
becoming even more serious, he went on: "You know it's very hard on
our lieutenants, for, _au fond_, there is good stuff in them, but
they get frightfully spoiled and petted. Officers are forbidden to
contract debts just as they are forbidden to gamble; but nobody
troubles in the least about these prohibitions, which are known, not
only to the officers themselves, but to everybody in Society and to
the tradesmen. But, just as in a club a civilian would never dream of
saying to a lieutenant, 'Sir, I do not wish to be discourteous, but
I know that His Majesty has forbidden the officers to play cards,'
so no tradesman would think of saying to a lieutenant, 'I am not
allowed to give you goods on credit; I know you are not allowed to
contract debts.' The lieutenant alone is not to blame. Society and
the tradesman, who not only make it possible for him to evade the
law, but also help him to do it quite easily, and even lead him into
doing so are largely responsible for the fact that our officers of
to-day, in regard to manners and morals, are no longer what they once
were and what they will have to be again." And then, half-seriously,
half-laughingly, he concluded, "Did you understand all I was talking
about, you dear little duffer?"
"Every word, and you are quite right."
"I only wish that other people would think so too," he said, somewhat
amused; "but I believe that if one of the 'Golden Butterflies' had
heard my remarks he would have said I was out of my mind, summoned me
before a Court of Honour on account of my seditious words, and then I
should have been asked, 'If you think like this, why did you become
an officer?' I could only answer, 'When a man enters upon a career
he knows nothing about it. Indeed, he _can_ know nothing about it.
The knowledge of what it means to be an officer only comes with the
course of years.' I have had my apprenticeship. I have gone through
the world with fairly wide-open eyes, and have kept my ears on the
alert, and I must say that had I known earlier what it was like among
our officers, had I had the faintest conception of their behaviour,
of the way in which they ran up debts, of the discontent with
military matters, the bitterness and hatred against the authorities,
the poverty and the misery, I should have thought twice before
donning a uniform."
"But why do you keep it on?"
George gazed at the clouds of smoke for a little while, then he asked
her, "Are you quite sure, my dear child, you are not really bored
with all this discussion?"
"Not at all," she cried out quickly; "I could lie here for hours and
listen to you."
"Very well then, I will answer your question, which I have been
thinking about for a long time, much longer than anyone would
believe. The reason why I still wear the officer's uniform is, in my
case, short and to the point--pride."
"Pride!" she asked with astonishment.
"You know, of course, how I have been treated in the regiment. I have
never made the least mystery about it to you. If I were to take off
my uniform now, the 'Golden Butterflies' would have attained the
object they had desired from the very first--they would have got
rid of me, they would again be among themselves; their aristocratic
society would be again without spot or blemish. I am not going to
give them that triumph, which would mean defeat for me. I am not a
fighter, but I have my ambition and my honourable feelings, and I
intend to see if I cannot make a proper position for myself in the
regiment. How often do I not long for a chance of distinguishing
myself in some way or other, of doing something out of the
ordinary--but in vain. So I must try to win a position by scrupulous
fulfilment of my military duties, diligence and reliability. Do you
imagine I have a pleasant life here? I am young, I am rich, and
though I am no spendthrift, still I should like to enjoy my youth a
little more than I do. I should like to live on a bigger scale, keep
horses, and carriages, and servants, go travelling about, and so on.
I know perfectly well what I should do, but I simply dare not. If the
adjutant of the regiment, Count Wettborn, did all this, the officers
would be proud of the nobleman who knew how to represent them in so
splendid a fashion: everybody would be delighted that he had the
means of living in a manner so suitable to his rank. They would
praise the aristocrat; they would find fault with me. If I lived in
grand style, only one word would be applied to me--snob. And short
work is always made with a snob. He is not wanted in a regiment in
which the other officers are supposed to live economically, but who,
in reality, are over head and ears in debt. My so-called ostentation
and snobbery would be an excellent reason for getting rid of me,
and I don't want that. I do not myself believe that my life as a
lieutenant will be a long one; but whenever I do go, I shall be able
to tell myself and the others why I am going. _I_ shall hold my head
high, but _they_ will be covered with shame, if, indeed, they are
capable of feeling shame."
Olga saw the deep furrows on his brow, and she noticed his intense
emotion.
"George," she begged in a gentle voice, "come here to me, let me kiss
you, do not get so angry about these officers."
"My darling, it is all very well for you to talk--not get angry
indeed! To-day seems specially appointed for the revelation of all
kinds of things which have hitherto been kept silent. I may as
well tell you, therefore, that I suffer frightfully in my present
surroundings, yet I am conscious of no other fault but that of
belonging to the middle-class. If, indeed, these aristocratic
gentlemen were free from all faults and failings, if they were
really superior in military and other duties, if the officers were
in very truth what they ought to be--an example of chivalry and
honour; if they possessed nobility, not only of birth but of feeling
and disposition, then I would not hesitate for a moment. I would say
to them frankly and freely: 'I feel that my presence is unwelcome
to you. From the modern and enlightened point of view I do not in
the least understand your standpoint, but in spite of that I honour
you, and I will no longer be an annoyance to you.' But consider how
matters really stand? Of course, there are exceptions, honourable
exceptions everywhere, and it would indeed be sad if there were not
any among the nobility. I can only judge, however, by what I have
seen myself, and I must say that in their mode of life and interest
in their military duties, the most aristocratic officers are not
one whit superior to my _bourgeois_ comrades, whom they look down
upon with such contempt. And what a protection a title is! The
world, which nowadays is more or less democratic, is not to have
the pleasure of seeing an aristocrat sentenced to punishment, the
people are not to be given the joy of saying: 'After all, these
noblemen are just like other people.' In every way a nobleman has
all kinds of advantages, not because he _does_ anything particularly
wonderful, but simply because, according to old women's tales, he
_is_ something wonderful. And one can no more fight against this
than against stupidity. I get so enraged about this, that in spite
of my uniform I am almost inclined to be a social democrat. I see
more and more how the middle-class person is more or less regarded
as a creature whose only justification for existing is that he forms
the dark background which shows up the nobleman so brilliantly and
gloriously."
"Good gracious, George," cried out Olga, quite frightened, "I don't
know you when you are in this mood; I have never heard you speak,
boy, so bitterly before."
"I am not bitter now, I assure you. What I told you was not said
on the spur of the moment, but is the result of much thought and
mature and keen observation. But now let us stop speaking about these
serious things. I will just go and send off the money to this noble
Willberg, and then, my darling, I am entirely at your disposal."
He rose from his seat to go to his writing-desk, but Olga held him
back. "Will you do me a favour, George. You know I have never asked
you for anything important, but this time it is. Will you grant it
me?"
"Certainly, if I can. Why not? I am very fond of you."
"And I am very fond of you; it is just because of that I ask you to
give me your word that you will do what I want."
"My darling, how can I do such a thing? One must not pledge his word
of honour lightly; you know perfectly well I would do anything for
you if I could. Now what is it?"
She had risen from her reclining position, and looked at him
entreatingly, her eyes dilating. She was quite white from mental
excitement, and her voice trembled as she said: "Do me the favour,
and don't send the money to Willberg."
He regarded her with intense astonishment. "Why ever not? The money
is lying idle here, and even if I hadn't it myself I could easily get
it. I have constantly offered Willberg my help; I must certainly give
it him now. Besides, it is a great satisfaction to me, as you will
understand, that he should have to apply to me again. You don't want
to spoil my pleasure, do you?"
And he turned to go, but Olga kept him back. "George, give your
money to whomsoever you like--do with it whatever you like--it is no
concern of mine, but you must not help Willberg. Do you understand?
You ought not to help him!"
She spoke with such resolution and determination that he went up to
her and seized her hand; he noticed how she trembled, and a feeling
of nervous excitement took possession of him.
"Olga, you are keeping silent about something; you must have reasons
which you are concealing from me, but I insist on knowing everything.
When you ask me not to help Willberg, and tell me that I ought not to
help him, you must also tell me the reason why."
She looked at him with an expression of profound love. "Do not ask
me, do not torture me, I cannot tell you."
"And what if I insist?" He also had become deadly pale, and he held
her hand in an iron grip. "I insist upon knowing--do you understand?
You must not utter a half complaint, but you must have the courage
to tell the whole truth. I have always considered you an honourable,
faithful and upright person--don't show me I have made a mistake."
A mighty conflict raged within her as she stood by him; her eyes were
cast down, her whole body trembled, and she was swayed and tossed
about by terrible mental struggles. Then she raised her eyes and
looked at him frankly and openly. "Very well, then, you shall know
all, but only on one condition."
"And what is that?"
"That you give me your word of honour not to tell Willberg a word of
what I am going to tell you. There is no reason why you should not do
that."
He regarded her doubtfully. "Is that really so?"
Then she looked him straight in the face. "Yes, but, in spite of
this, if you are ever in a situation when you can no longer keep your
promise, then I will release you after eight days--no more nor less;
till then, you can quietly think over what I have to say to you." And
after a little while she asked him, in a hesitating tone of voice,
"Do you really insist that I am to tell you everything, when the
result may be that we separate, and are never more friends?"
A dark suspicion arose in his mind. "You were once on intimate terms
with Willberg?" he asked with excitement, but then, more calmly, he
went on: "But I could not very well be angry with you about that, for
you could not have possibly known then that we should ever have met."
Olga bit her lips in fury. "I know that only too well. I told you
that the villain who betrayed me took his life soon after. That was
not true; he is still living, and his name is Willberg."
George fell back as if he had been struck, then he sprang up and
seized Olga by the shoulders. "Tell me, it is not true--it cannot be
true."
She freed herself from his grasp. "Come, George, be reasonable; what
has happened cannot be altered now."
He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "What a
blackguard!" he said, gnashing his teeth, "what a blackguard!" And
suddenly springing up, he demanded: "Swear on your oath--have you
still any connection with him, or does he know that we are intimate?"
"I am perfectly faithful to you," she answered him calmly, and he
knew from the tone of her voice that she was speaking the truth. "I
have only seen Willberg once since."
"And when was that?" he asked, with great excitement.
"On the very day that I met you for the first time. He sent me a
letter, saying he must see me without fail on a matter that concerned
my own interests. At first I did not mean to answer him, but when I
read the letter again, I felt sure that it really was a matter of
serious importance. So I named an hour when I would be at home to
him. And he came."
"Go on," urged George, as she was silent for a moment. "What did this
honourable gentleman want with you?"
"He said he had quite by chance seen us together one evening,
and had followed us unobserved--I had no ground for denying my
acquaintanceship with you; indeed, I could not, in view of what he
had seen--and he entreated me most imploringly not to mention his
name to you. I had never intended to do so, and had formerly made up
my mind to be silent concerning his name, but, in spite of that, I
appeared as if I were greatly astonished, and asked why he made such
a request?"
"And what did he answer?"
"He said that he must admit that he had not treated me quite fairly
that night."
"'Quite fairly'--that is splendid!" sneered George.
"He knew that he ought to have given me some compensation, but he was
not then in a position to do anything for me. Now he offered me one
thousand marks, partly as hush-money for the future."
"Did you take the money?"
"Before his very eyes I threw it into the blazing fire, and rejoiced
in his look of horror. After that he returned to the object of his
visit. He begged me not to tell you what had happened. He and you
were in the same regiment, I ought not disturb the friendship which
existed between you. Probably you would not think he had acted quite
rightly (so he said), it might lead to a quarrel. Such a thing is
very disagreeable, especially in a proud and distinguished regiment,
which, more than all others, must preserve outward appearances. And,
besides, you could not fight a duel on my behalf. To cut the story
short, I don't remember what else he said; I listened to him without
answering a word, and the longer I was silent the more humble and
pitiable he became, till at last he stood before me like a schoolboy
who has been severely rebuked. He fell on his knees, begged my
pardon, and entreated me to keep silence; it was then that I promised
never to mention his name to you. To-day I have given his name, but
I was compelled. It is your fault, not mine, for I spoke on your
account. You may be sure I don't want to run the risk of losing you
because of him." Suddenly she was overcome with anguish that now she
would be repulsive and hateful in his sight; she sprang towards him
and fell on her knees. "George, tell me you still love me, that you
will not send me away--it was not my fault."
He bent over her and kissed her on the forehead.
"Get up, dear, why should I be angry with you, indeed? How could I
hold you responsible for what a villain did, and it's not your fault
that his name is Willberg? But he shall answer for what he has done."
"He must not do that," cried Olga; "you have given me your word
to tell him nothing about it, and you will keep it, for I do not
believe that any occasion will arise to make me absolve you from your
promise."
He sank into a chair and looked gloomily in front of him. Had he the
slightest ground for proceeding against Willberg? He might of course
say to him: "I know a young girl, and am aware that you have treated
her like a blackguard." Willberg could not possibly allow this
insult to pass unnoticed; there would be, at the least, a quarrel,
probably a duel, and, as a result, an investigation by a Court of
Honour. A good deal of dirt would be thrown about, but what would
be the use of that? Willberg would most likely be dismissed from
the army, and what then? What advantage would that be to anybody?
There would be one less dishonourable man in the army certainly, but
who would have to bear the consequences of that? Only George, for
he would never be pardoned for having acted so harshly towards the
darling of the regiment. Willberg after his dismissal would still
find faithful friends enough who would help him. He would not suffer
too excessively in no longer wearing officer's uniform. No, George
could take no steps against him, he had no case against him; he was
obliged to admit to himself that personally Willberg had done him no
harm, no injury, and if he stepped in on behalf of Olga's honour, the
town and the world would shake their heads, and the colonel would
make it quite clear to him that men do not fight a duel on account of
a young woman like Olga. She was certainly an excellent, worthy young
woman, she was under a talented actress, but still--in imagination
George heard their remarks, and he doubled up his fists in a fury of
rage. Then another thought occurred to him. What would his parents,
what would Hildegarde say, when they learnt that he had fought
a duel for the sake of his mistress? They must not know anything
whatever about the matter.
For nearly five minutes George sat deeply immersed in thought, and
Olga watched his expression with intense anxiety: her reputation, her
career, were at stake. What had taken place between her and Willberg
was known only to themselves and George; she had told no one about
it; she had never mentioned the name of her betrayer. If George
thought the affair ought not to rest with him, and that he ought to
inform the Court of Honour concerning it, then she would be forced
to absolve him from his promise, and the whole town would learn in
a few days what up till to-day was a secret. She would not be able
to remain in Berlin; she felt that she could never again face an
audience who knew how she had been treated.
"Well, George," she said at last, "have you yet made up your mind
what you are going to do?"
"Yes," he answered firmly, "the blackguard deserves to be struck in
the face, but I shall not do that; I shall not say a word of what you
have told me to anyone, not even to him, however difficult it may be
for me. But I am obliged to act thus on your account, for I care too
much about you to expose you to public discussion, public gossip, and
probably to universal condemnation, for the world must have suddenly
changed if in spite of everything it does not hold you to blame. But
as I have just said, I will not do so, and so there's an end of the
matter."
She clung to him and put her arm round his neck.
"Thank you, George."
He led her to the _chaise longue_ and sat down by her side.
"Good God, what filth! There is just one thing I should like to
know. Do you happen to remember the day--I mean the date when
this--this--creature came to you and entreated you to keep silence?"
"How could I not remember it?" she said teasingly, trying to restore
him to a happier frame of mind: "don't you know I just told you it
was the day after I first met you. Surely, George, you have not
forgotten _that_!"
He knitted his brow. "Don't be vexed, Olga, but my brain is in such a
whirl just now that I simply can't remember a thing."
She took from her finger a diamond ring which he had given her in
remembrance of their first meeting, on which the date was engraved.
Then she handed it to him.
"Yes, of course, how could I have forgotten it!" He was suddenly
thoughtful, and then he jumped up with a start.
"What is the matter now?" she asked, frightened.
"Nothing, nothing," he assured her; "I just remembered that when
Willberg came to me for the first time to borrow money, he must have
known of our relations. He had seen you, and yet he had the audacity
to come to me. Now it's all clear to me; now I understand why he
begged me so urgently not to say a word to anyone; he feared that
perhaps I would tell you, and that then it would come out how he had
treated you. Of course, that was it!"
He strode up and down the room, occupied with his own thoughts.
"George," Olga begged; "do me the favour of writing a few words to
Willberg. Tell him you cannot give him the money, and then forget the
hateful story."
George stood still. "You are right; Willberg is waiting for news. I
forgot all about that; and the forms of politeness must be preserved,
however difficult it may be."
He wrote a few lines, in which he regretted that he was not at the
moment able to place the money desired at his friend's disposal, and
then he sent his servant with the note.
"One thing worries me," said George: "I do not know if I have enough
self-control and strength of mind to meet Willberg calmly to-morrow
and act as if I was not aware of his shameful behaviour."
"Can't you keep out of his way. He is in another company, I know,
and is he not in a different battalion?"
"That is so, but of course I meet him at mess, and even if I do not
meet him to-morrow I shall have to the next day, for we may not
absent ourselves from the mess dinner for more than two days without
an adequate reason. I fear that my blood may not be sufficiently cool
by then."
Olga thought for a moment, then she asked: "Cannot you get leave of
absence? I should of course be very sorry not to see you for a week
or a fortnight, but a holiday would do you good; you would enjoy
yourself and have a change of thought. You could easily get leave, I
should think."
"That is so," he agreed, "there is not much doing just at present,
and they could not refuse me leave of absence, but where should I
go? Home? I don't want to see my father and mother just now. I could
not be light-hearted and gay, and they would notice that something
depressed me; my coming would upset them instead of delighting them."
"I know," cried Olga suddenly: "You said just now you would like to
enjoy your life. Go for a fortnight to Paris, to Monte Carlo, or
anywhere else where it is delightful, and when you see beautiful
women, give them my greeting, and tell them they are to be good and
kind to you; I shall not be jealous." And then with a roguish laugh
she added: "You know you will not remain faithful to me."
"I shall," he said firmly.
"No, no," she answered laughingly. "I wager anything you won't."
"But I shall have no chance of being unfaithful to you."
She looked at him astonished. "How do you mean? For what reason?"
"For the simplest of all reasons--you will come with me."
"George!" Laughing and crying with joy, she flung her arms round his
neck. "You will take me with you? I shall see Paris or some other
beautiful town? George, you are really too good and kind," and she
kissed him again and again. Suddenly she stopped.
"What is the matter with you?"
"I cannot go with you."
"Why ever not?"
"You shall not be able to say that I persuaded you into taking a
holiday for my own advantage; besides, I do not know if I can get
permission to go."
"The first reason is absurd," he said. "I am not so sure if it will
be a pleasure to come with me, but you give me great happiness by
your company. Nothing is more unpleasant, at least to me, than to
travel alone, to sit in a carriage by oneself, to have meals alone,
to wander through the museums and galleries alone, and to have no
one with whom one can discuss things. There will be no difficulty
about getting permission; just now you are not very busy at the
theatre."
"Yes, but--the _répertoire_ may be changed any day."
"Dear child," he assured her, "your director is not a brute.
To-morrow ask him to give you leave of absence, and if he makes any
difficulties tell him you are prepared to pay two to three thousand
marks' compensation if he will absolve you from a fortnight's duty. I
assure you he will give you a holiday for as long as you like."
She seized hold of his hand and kissed it gratefully. "How dear
and kind you are. Do you mean you will pay so much money to free
me from my engagement? But I can tell you I shall first offer five
hundred marks, then another five hundred, and so on, but under no
circumstances will I give more than two thousand."
He laughed gaily. "You can do as you like as regards that. I will
give you the money at once. Whatever you have over belongs to you, of
course."
She clapped her hands with joy. "I shall buy a very elegant
travelling costume with it."
"Don't do it, darling," he requested. "Whatever you need in the way
of dresses I will buy you in Paris. During all the time that I have
been a lieutenant I have never spent half my allowance, and so it has
gone on accumulating. Now I can spend a large sum of money without
any conscientious scruples."
"Shall we really go to Paris?" she asked, with beaming eyes.
"If all goes well, to-morrow evening. We will take my man with us.
I can rely absolutely on his silence. You will get in at the North
Station, I at the South. I will carefully examine the train to see
if any of my acquaintances are in it, and I will have a carriage
reserved for us, so that we may travel in state. And if anybody sees
us together later on, what does it matter? And, besides, who knows us
in Paris?"
"Have you ever been there?"
"Yes."
He began to tell of the beauties and charms of Paris, and, tenderly
clinging to him, she listened to his description of the delights
which she was to enjoy with him.