will perhaps be the last conversation we shall ever hold. Shall we make
the wound this parting will cause still more painful by petty
irritation? What I've told you is literally true. But if I love this
woman as my better self, I feel for the first time at this moment--no,
since early this morning--that no matter how we may estimate self-love,
it cannot become a passion, an intoxication, a rapture of mingled
happiness and misery. Oh! passion! which you call the claim of nature;
I call it fate! It will be long ere the tempest will be laid which your
kiss has roused in my soul. Now do you see that you have no reason to
be ashamed of that caress? Nature has asserted its claim, fate has had
its way; that's nothing of which mortals need be ashamed. But now the
will must assert its power, we must open our eyes and question whither
blind passion will lead us--say 'Halt!' to its further progress, and do
our duty, no matter what it costs us. Don't you think so too my brave
friend?"
He waited for her assent, for a glance which would tell him that she
agreed with him. But she was looking steadily at her clasped hands,
which rested quietly on her lap, and only after a long pause said as if
to herself:
"The game's unequal. However--_va banque!_"
"What do you mean, Toinette?" he replied. "Do you wish to imply, that I
shall return to what has hitherto formed my happiness, and find it as
before, and that you will remain on the verge of the abyss? But now
answer me one question--should I offer you my hand on the spot with the
intention even at the price of my self-respect to lead you out of this
house of gilded misery, do you believe that a man who had sacrificed
for you his most sacred possessions, his duty, the proud consciousness
of self-respect, the faith he had sworn to his better self in the
person of a high hearted woman--"
"Hush!" she hastily interrupted. "It's needless to say more. Your
admirably wise words torture me. Your talk of passion is but a form of
words. You reason, you moralize, you think of a future in which you may
repent of what you've done for me. But I, Oh! God--I've nothing but
this hour, no consciousness of what may come, or of what has been!
You're here with me, and the world beyond, all others beside ourselves,
everything which you call sin and fate and duty and remorse--I know
not. I am conscious only of this: that you're the only man on whose
breast my restless heart has tasted the bliss of one moment's
repose--never, never to taste it again, and he stands and
philosophizes, while I--am dying!"
Her eyes, which became gloomily fixed upon vacancy, suddenly overflowed
with tears, she convulsively pressed her hands to her face and burst
into uncontrollable sobs.
"Toinette!" he exclaimed, "by all the saints, you wrong me. I--if you
suspected what a superhuman battle I am fighting, what torture that
moment in which you tasted repose has conjured up for me--Toinette, be
merciful--spare me--let us help each other, instead of aiding each
other to be wretched. No one else will help us. We have no belief in
the eternal torments of hell, in an avenging God, or a redeeming
Saviour. But we know what is right, Toinette, we know that all the
bliss of love's greatest rapture would become a poison, if bought with
the heart's blood of others whom we were compelled to sacrifice. We
look for no eternity, in which to atone for the sins of the present. We
can only be honest and brave and good here upon earth, and we will be,
my poor love, for you have an heroic soul, which can find its real
happiness only in refusing to be bowed by any fate, and in conquering
or dying in the conflict."
He paused, and bending over her laid his hand upon her head, as in the
old days he had stroked Balder's curls. Suddenly she started, her
tearful eyes wandered around the room in bewilderment, and she said
hastily: "Do you hear nothing? Steps are approaching along the
corridor. Who can it be? but no matter! What is to come, may come--"
There was a low knock at the door, then it was quickly but cautiously
opened, though only wide enough to enable some person to speak. "The
Herr Count is coming up the stairs," said a woman's voice. "I think he
is on his way here."
"Very well, Rose," replied the countess, hastily wiping her eyes. "Come
in and sit down yonder. This is the only person who is faithful to me,"
she continued turning to Edwin, as a tall, homely, pock-marked woman
entered, and without even casting a curious glance at the pair, seated
herself in the chair beside the bed. "If I had not had Rose, to whom I
can tell everything--how do you know the count is coming here, Rose?"
"I don't know, but I'm almost sure of it. The rest of the company went
to their rooms half an hour ago. The Herr Count remained alone in the
blue drawing room, I could see him from your chamber, standing at the
window. His Excellency's rooms were dark, and besides he never comes up
here at this hour. Only the Herr Doctor's apartment was lighted. I saw
the Herr Count look up here--then he suddenly drew back--I thought he
might perhaps have something to say to the Herr Doctor. There, hark!
Don't you hear him now?"
All listened silently. A hesitating step approached over the carpeted
floor of the lofty, vaulted corridor, paused as if irresolute, and then
approached Edwin's room.
"What shall we say to him?" whispered Edwin.
"Nothing. He would not understand the truth. Don't you say a word to
him; I know how he must be addressed."
The next moment there was a knock at the door, and the count entered.
CHAPTER X.
His first glance fell upon Toinette, who sat on the sofa in the full
light of the candles. Evidently surprised, but without losing his
self-control, he paused on the threshold and looked at the two others
with an inquiring glance.
"I'm disturbing you," he said coldly. "I saw you still had a light in
your room, Herr Doctor, and wanted to say a few words to you. If I'd
been aware, that I should not find you alone--"
"You interrupt our conversation just at the right time," said Toinette
calmly, without avoiding her husband's glance. "We've been
philosophizing a little, as we used to do in old times; there's no end
to that, especially when people look at things from such different
points of view. Rose almost fell asleep over it. We'll have another
argument to-morrow, dear friend. I think I shall finally convince and
overpower you. My best troops are yet to be brought into the field."
"Let us conclude a truce," said Edwin with a painful effort. "Really,
Countess, another such victory, and my cause will be lost."
"No, no, Doctor, you won't escape so. Do you know that he means to
leave us early to-morrow morning? I shall make you responsible for his
stay. And now good night. I won't trouble the gentlemen to escort me to
my room. Come, Rose, it's time to go to sleep, and we have still to
hold a council about my toilette."
She rose hastily, held out her hand to Edwin not daring to raise her
eyes to his, nodded to her husband and left the room with her faithful
maid. The two men stood face to face for a moment in silence.
"Is it true that you're going?" said the count at last.
"You see I had already taken leave of you," replied Edwin, pointing to
the letter, which still lay on the table. "I thought I should do you a
favor by avoiding any verbal explanation, in relation to a matter which
is painful both to you and to myself, and unfortunately hopeless also."
"So you, too, think we must fear--" He pointed to his forehead.
Edwin was silent. He was reflecting, whether a tacit agreement might
not perhaps afford a means of escape. He rejected the subterfuge.
"You have appealed to my old friendship for your wife, Herr Count,"
said he. "I owe it to her, and to yourself, to tell the truth; how
matters have reached this point, and what share wrong and misfortune
have played, I cannot and will not attempt to decide. But in the
present condition of affairs, I see but one means of salvation--to
restore her freedom. Misfortune is inevitable, if this state of things
continues--not the one you or the doctors fear: I've never seen a
clearer brain or more gloomy soul than the countess has. She'll not
lose her reason, but probably with entire deliberation go to
destruction."
"You mean, Doctor--she might--"
"I know that she has never particularly loved life, that she hates it
now, and that it will not require much to burst the overloaded vessel.
I shall leave this house early to-morrow morning, Herr Count. My
presence can avail nothing, prevent nothing. But once more I entreat
you to make a hasty, strong, and noble resolution, consent to a
separation, if you wish to preserve this precious life. This is the
only way of rescuing what still remains to be saved. Perhaps the future
will voluntarily restore what you can no longer hold by force."
The count had approached the window, and with folded arms was gazing
out into the night. Suddenly he turned, so that the candle light fell
full upon his deeply flushed face.
"I'm very grateful to you, Herr Doctor," he said with icy coldness,
"for having communicated to me your--of course humble--opinion. In
regard to what I ought to do or leave undone, you'll permit me to
consult my own wishes, and decline friendly suggestions with my best
thanks. For the rest, I regret that you have reasons for leaving my
house to-morrow, but as I cannot boast of so old a friendship with you
as the countess, it would be indiscreet to inquire into these motives
in order perhaps to set them aside. I wish you a pleasant journey. A
carriage will be ready to convey you to the railway station at any hour
you may desire. Once more accept my most sincere thanks for the delay I
have caused you, and if you should ever come into this neighborhood
again--" He bowed carelessly to Edwin, whose tongue seemed paralysed,
and with a calm smile and patronizing wave of the hand left the room.
"And this is the end!" burst from the oppressed heart of the man who
was left alone. He went to the table, took the note and tore it into
tiny fragments. A feeling of bitter sorrow, in which all thought of the
past and future were merged, overwhelmed him, his mind seemed to be in
a dull stupor, a heavyweight rested on his breast, which he tried to
throw off by long panting sighs; he took no note of time; not until the
clock struck two did he rouse himself from this bewilderment, and
remember that for more than an hour he had been standing in the same
spot, gazing at the same figure on the silk tapestry. His limbs had
grown stiff, and his joints ached as he walked toward his bed. He threw
himself on the silk coverlid, still in his clothes, which he no longer
thought it worth while to remove, and closed his eyes. The candles were
still burning, and the moon shone so brightly into the window, that
sleep refused to visit his eyelids. As if he were haunted by the
illusions of fever, voices echoed in his ear Toinette's passionate
confessions, his own wise answers, which had had so little power over
his own heart, and the count's cold, formal words, which whenever they
recurred to his memory sent the hot blood to his brow. Moreover, a
faint perfume of violets surrounded him, which recalled the moment when
her curls had rested on his breast; he fancied he felt her glowing lips
press his, her tears on his cheek, her exquisite form in his arms,
clinging to him as a shipwrecked sailor stretches out his arms toward
the land.
"This is too much!" he faltered--"I would that daylight were here and
I were a thousand miles away!"
Suddenly the candles flickered and expired. He started up, and saw the
first grey light of morning creeping over the trees. "It's time," said
he, "quite time! This is not a house in which I can sleep."
He dipped his face in the wash basin, rubbed his cheeks and temples
till the last lingering odor of violets had been washed away, then with
trembling hands seized his traveling satchel, threw the strap over his
shoulder, and left the room.
No one met him as he passed along the dark corridors and down the wide
staircase. Beside the main entrance was the room occupied by the
porter, who slept with his door open and looked up in alarm when he saw
a guest standing equipped for travel so early in the morning. The
thaler he felt in his hand only partially enlightened him, he nodded
sleepily when Edwin told him to give his compliments to his master and
to say to him that he had set out before daybreak, because he preferred
to walk in the cool of the morning. The man then opened the little side
door adjoining the main entrance and took leave of the departing guest
with an awkward bow.
The dogs barked as Edwin crossed the wide courtyard, but he met no
human being. Outside were the dark woods, veiled by the light
transparent haze of early dawn, and a heavy dew was beginning to fall.
Like a flying criminal who avoids the highways, Edwin turned and
plunged into the dense shadow of a side path. The burden that would not
suffer him to breathe freely still rested on his heart, but his senses
were cooled by the fresh air of the forest, and his rapid pace did him
good. At last he came to a spot which he remembered to have visited the
day before. In a field appeared the solitary farm house, with its steep
gable roof and an open barn by the road side tempted him to rest a
moment. The floor was covered with sheaves, and the air full of the
strong odor of the fresh wheat. He threw himself down in the first
corner, and although he intended to remain awake in order to be far on
his way when the sun rose, the many exciting scenes of the previous day
made sleep overpower him irresistibly.
The farmer's servants found him there, when a few hours later they came
to commence their work. But as they remembered having seen him the day
before, and as he had liberally rewarded the boy who had shown him the
way, they glided softly out to let him sleep a little longer, wondering
among themselves that a gentleman who was a guest at the castle, should
prefer a couch of straw. When the sun had risen higher, the farmer
himself came to the barn, this time determined to wake the stranger.
The countess' maid had come to ask whether the gentleman who had been
there yesterday had not called again. He had suddenly disappeared from
the castle, and she had a message for him.
When the sleeper started up, the girl was standing with her back to the
light, which entered through the barn door, and had a thick veil over
her face. Edwin drew back. At the first glance, still under the
influence of his dream, he fancied that he saw before him the woman
from whom he had resolved to fly. Her voice first undeceived him.
"The countess wishes you a pleasant journey, regrets that the Herr
Doctor did not take leave of her himself, and begs him to read the
letter she sends, as it contains a commission which is of great
importance to her."
"Does she want an answer?"
The faithful girl shook her head, declined almost with an air of
offence the money he tried to press upon her, and instantly left the
barn.
No sooner was Edwin alone, than he read the following lines, which were
hastily scrawled with a pencil.
"_You've gone, you fly from me, I expected nothing different. But
you'll come back, I know, and then you will never leave me again.
Edwin! What a night! What a fate! I've examined my own hearty mentally
reviewed all your cruel, honest words--all are right--but here power
overcomes right. We belong to each other, Edwin, we were created for
each other from the beginning; how else would it have been possible for
your love to continue despite our separation, and me tardy, sorrowful
recognition that you're the only man, to whom I owe all I have and
am,--all; honor, life, soul, and body. You're going now, Edwin. You'll
try to forget me. Do so! You must first learn that all resistance is
unavailing, that when you do yield, you may submit to the superior
power of Nature without a murmur, without remorse. Then we'll be happy,
my beloved--I will make you happy. Oh! I'm so rich; my treasure was
only buried, evil spirits guarded the spot. But I know the word that
will break the spell--and it will be yours, and I shall know wherefore
I live. Till then farewell, unless it be a mockery to say it; for how
can you fare well when you may not clasp me to your breast. As for me I
have became accustomed to the pain of your absence; I have spent four
years in this seeming death, and only lived two moments--on your heart.
But let us not torture ourselves-don't be too long--we've so much lost
time to retrieve. When you come I shall have arranged all, the place of
our refuge, the way to reach it, everything except how it will seem
when you are free and mine, and tell me that you love me;--there my
thoughts fail!--_
"INETTE."
The sun is high in the heavens, as a traveler walks along the road
which leads from the railway station to the count's castle. The
stalwart figure of our old friend, Heinrich Mohr, is recognizable at
the first glance; the bold face and shapely cut nose we remember but
not the cheerful expression that hovers around the lips and forms so
striking a contrast to the scornful defiance which once marked the
mouth.
He arrived by the early morning train, and on receiving Edwin's note,
which he found awaiting him, instantly set off on foot in order to
reach the castle before the heat of noon. As hat in hand, he walks
along the little foot path beside the highway, whistling and looking up
into the overhanging foliage, he seems a type of perfect strength and
happiness. And yet something is apparently lacking. Suddenly pausing he
draws forth a pocket book, in which is pasted the photograph of a
little boy not quite three years old, with a grave earnest face, and
gazes at it as intently as if it were a map of the country which he
carried to guide him on his way. And in fact this child's face has
shown him the way to a happy, peaceful life.
Just as he closes the pocket book, he sees some one approaching him.
"Edwin!" he calls. "Gracious Heaven, how do you chance to be here? You
look as if you'd just risen from the grave. Eternal Gods! What has
happened?"
Edwin paused. Mohr saw him move his lips without emitting a sound; then
he tried to smile, but he only accomplished a sorrowful distortion of
the face. He looked as pale as if he had not a drop of blood in his
veins, his eyes were sunken, and his hat was thrust far back on his
head.
"Heinrich!" he gasped at last, with a violent effort, "it's well that I
have met you--I--I don't know what might have happened--it was too much
at once."
"But man, speak, tell me--where--what has occurred--have you seen a
ghost?"
"You've said it, Heinz--and it will not leave me in peace. Listen, but
don't tell any one; I'm the old Tannhaeuser and come straight from--"
His voice failed, his eyes suddenly closed, his knees trembled, and if
Mohr had not hastily sprung forward, his head would have struck the
trunk of a oak which stood close to the road.
At this moment a traveling carriage, piled with luggage and drawn
by four handsome horses from the count's stable, passed them. The
fair-haired princess was leaning back on the cushions beside Prince
Bataroff, the young prince occupied the front seat, and beside him,
laughing and talking in the gayest manner, was Lorinser.
The travelers' servants, a maid and two valets, followed in a light
hunting carriage, engaged in eager conversation, while a bottle of wine
from the castle cellar circulated freely between them and the count's
groom, who was driving.
No one in either carriage noticed the group on the foot path, or heard
Mohr's call to stop and take in the fainting man. Not until they had
passed, did Mohr, who looked after them cursing the cold hearts of
aristocrats, see the face of his mortal enemy. The blood froze in his
veins, and he let his friend fall from his arms as if about to rush
after the carriage. Then he suddenly regained his composure.
"Drive on," he murmured. "That devil's no longer to be feared. We have
here to deal with other powers of darkness!"
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I.
Three or four hour's ride by rail from the scene of these incidents is
situated the little Thuringian city where Edwin had become a teacher of
mathematics and Franzelius had founded his printing office. The house
for whose purchase Papa Feyertag had advanced his son-in-law a
considerable sum, stood on the principal street, and the unpretending
old front bore a striking resemblance to a proof sheet stained with
printer's ink and scrawled over with various marks and dashes. Only the
sign over the door, was new, and bore in white letters on a black
ground the inscription: "Printing done by Reinhold Franzelius." It was
an old one story frame buildings with, a tile roof blackened by age and
as high as the house itself, and it contained, besides the work shop, a
number of chambers for the journeymen, and store rooms for paper and
other articles. On entering the house, the door to the left bore the
sign "office," and to the right was the entrance to the composing room,
from which a narrow passage led into the back building, where the
presses were.
In the upper story, in a plainly furnished but spacious sitting room,
sat two women, in whom we recognize the fair-haired Reginchen from
Dorotheenstrasse, now Frau Franzelius, and the zaunkoenig's daughter,
now Frau Doctor Edwin. The years that have elapsed have not passed over
the heads of either without leaving their traces, but the changes show
to the advantage of both. When we last saw Leah, she was lying on the
green sofa in the family sitting room at the 'Venetian palace,' with
haggard cheeks paled by hopeless passion, and we were only permitted to
see how the expiring spark of her young existence was rekindled by the
touch of love. Since that time her life has expanded into a quiet,
soul-full beauty, which is not striking at the first glance, but soon
shows the more thoughtful observer that there must be something unusual
about the young wife. She still wears her hair as she did in the days
other girlhood, wound in heavy braids about her head, and fastened
behind with two silver pins, almost in the style of the peasant girls
of Rome or Albano. The delicate, softly rounded oval face has grown
fuller, and no longer wears a sickly pallor, but the complexion is
still of alabaster whiteness, so that the eyes, which are her most
beautiful feature, glow with a still darker lustre. It would be
difficult to say what was most attractive in the countenance, the quick
intelligence of the eyes, or the sweet gentleness expressed in the
curves of the full lips. Even her figure has gained an added charm,
although her matronly dignity makes it more perceptible than ever that
the grand outlines of the head would have better suited a prouder
figure. But when she is seated this is not noticeable, especially when
she laughs, when the thoughtful eyes and kindly mouth harmonize so
perfectly, that no one could desire any alteration in the young wife's
appearance.
Reginchen, who sits beside her in a light flowered calico dress, with
her fair hair brushed plainly under an almost coquettish little white
cap, has also perceptibly gained in beauty and fullness of figure, nay
her form, once as slender as a swallow's seems disposed to
_embonpoint_. But the round, childish face, on the contrary, has
elongated, the rapid merry upward glance of the blue eyes is changed
for an expression of quiet cheerfulness, only sometimes darkened by a
slight cloud, when the noise made by the two little black haired boys
grows too loud, or one or both, in playing with a large brown rocking
horse, stumbles over his brother's legs. These two little fellows, now
just three years old, are the famous twins, Edwin and Balder, whom
Reginchen gave her Reinhold in the first year of their marriage. They
are, as Edwin has already told Marquard, ridiculously like their
father, grave, black eyed, white-teethed little prodigies, with voices
which really afford a most favorable augury for the future of the young
tribunes of the people, who despite their turbulent, unruly conduct,
are the kindest hearted little fellows in the world, and cling to their
mother in particular with such wild, jealous tenderness, that when both
fall upon her at once, Reginchen is in considerable danger of being
strangled and suffocated by her own children. Totally unlike these
comical miniature editions of their father, is the youngest child, a
delicate, quiet, fair-haired little girl about a year old, still a
nursling, and whose presence a blind man would scarcely notice. The
father declared her Balder's living image, and racked his brains for a
long time to try whether this child, whom he loves with special
tenderness, could not be given some name which would likewise recall
his never to be forgotten friend. But Reginchen, willingly as she
indulges her Reinhold's every wish, had a decided objection to
Baldriane or Waltharia, and insisted that this tender spring blossom
should bear her grandmother's honest name, Friederike, to which, since
Reginchen, as the true daughter of a shoemaker, and knows how to put
down her little foot at times, he made no objection.
When Leah, as was her daily habit during Edwin's absence, came at
twilight to see her friend and neighbor, the latter had just nursed the
child and was holding it quietly in her lap, where it was falling
asleep.
"Excuse me if I remain seated," she said in a low voice, though the two
young bawlers, the twins, had no respect for their little sister's
slumber. "Riekchen is just going to sleep; I can lay her in the cradle
in a few minutes. I'm so glad you've come. We should have sent for you
to-day at any rate. Father's here; he arrived unexpectedly without any
other reason than because he couldn't live any longer without seeing
the two boys. He scarcely looked at Riekchen--to be sure, it will be a
long time," she continued with a low laugh, "before the dear child is
old enough for the 'explosive effect' father's always talking about. He
asked about you, too, and wanted to go at once to give you a message
from your parents, but he began to talk to my Reinhold in the old
strain about progress and the welfare of the people, and they didn't
stop till it grew dark, and as it's Sunday evening Reinhold took him to
the workmen's union. There, now she's asleep, now the pet can be put
down. Have you shaken hands with Aunt Leah, boys? They look horribly.
Their father brought home some chocolate cigars, and its no use to wash
them. Will you keep quiet, you little good for nothings?"
Little Edwin, after hastily shaking hands with Leah, had climbed on the
sofa, clasped both arms around his mother's neck, rumpled her cap, and
pressed his curly black head against her's, playing all sorts of tricks
and stammering loving words in his broken language. Balder was also
endeavoring to climb up the other side of the sofa, so that the
sleeping child opened her large blue eyes again and stared with a
frightened gaze at the black kobold. Leah could not help laughing, and
hastily went forward to take the sweet little thing in her arms. The
maid-servant was called in to assist, and her powerful arms at last
succeeded in pulling the wild twins away from their mother and out of
the room.
"They'll kill me!" exclaimed Reginchen in comic despair, as Leah
re-entered. "Reinhold might manage them, but he only laughs instead of
helping me. And I, with the best intentions--but sit down, dearest, and
let's talk to each other a little while. You can't imagine how much
trouble it costs me to get a half hour to myself. How often I envy you
your quiet house, and you have the whole day to read and write and
think. I, with our great household, and the care of all the workmen, to
whom I fill a mother's place--isn't it comical," she laughed, fastening
her cap straight again, "to look at me and think what I used to be, and
what I am now. It would be a sin to complain, but I'm sorry for one
thing--that there's no chance of my husband's teaching me anything, as
I am always begging him to do. But in the evening, when I have him an
hour to myself and might read and learn something, my eyes close, and
the finest poem or novel is not half as delightful as my bed. When I
complain of this to Reinhold, he laughs at me. He thinks I'm well
educated enough; he's still so much in love, that he doesn't see my
deficiencies. But when I get to be an old woman and sit with my old
husband, and can scarcely understand half the things he's thinking and
writing--well, it will be his own fault, so he can't complain. I only
speak of it, because it always gives me a pang when you find me so
among the children--and I can't divide any of the blessing with you.
But you see every joy has its thorns, even that which seems most
enviable. You, as a compensation, live alone with your husband, and he
tells you everything he thinks, and you two are so completely one all
day long that you needn't desire anything else. Ain't I right,
dearest?"
She had nestled close to her silent friend, who listened with a
peculiar, almost triumphant smile. "You're a little hypocrite," she now
said, taking Reginchen's face between her hands and pressing a hasty
kiss upon her brow. "You know very well, how I feel beside you--and
because you've a kind heart and love me, want to make me believe you'd
sell your three children for the title of Doctor, you wicked mother.
But just because you were only acting, and I, with all my culture, am
not so skillful in hypocrisy as you--you cunning child of nature--come,
let me whisper something in your ear, that no one has yet heard--not
even he who has the best right to hear it--and you must also promise me
that not a soul shall know it, not even he from whom you usually have
no secrets. Your hand upon it, Ginchen!"
She held out her hand for her friend to clasp; but the wife and mother
started up with a cry of joy, that vividly recalled the little house
swallow of former days, exclaiming: "Is it true? Are you sure? Oh!
dear, dearest Leah--" and she threw her arms around her neck in a
tumult of the most enthusiastic delight; "let me kiss and hug and
congratulate you, and no seven seals shall close my mouth, since I
guessed it before you said a word, and besides how could I conceal it?
Reinhold always says he reads my face better than a page printed in the
clearest type, the tease! and now your father and mother--everything
will be well again, and I take back every word I just said, merely to
drive away your longing. No! without a child--all the learning of a
whole library couldn't make me happy, or you either, dearest, and
because I knew that, I've always half grudged myself my own happiness,
and often--God forgive me the sin--thought whether it wouldn't be
better, if we didn't live in the same city; that's all my wickedness,
and now I'll keep still and you shall punish me soundly for my deceit,
and then let me kiss you for the good news. Merciful Heavens, what will
Edwin say!"
During this enthusiastic outburst of joy she had been dancing about the
room like a crazy person, and now suddenly sat down in Leah's lap,
threw her arms around her, and humbly bent her head, as if expecting
the chastisement would be given in good earnest. Leah bent toward her.
"You're a sweet child," she said, secretly drying her tearful eyes in
Reginchen's hair. "Come, be sensible. And I'm entirely in earnest about
keeping the matter a secret. Who knows whether I may not be
disappointed? Have I not twice cherished the hope, only to be doubly
unhappy? That's why Edwin must know nothing about it until I'm
perfectly sure. Oh! darling, I'll never, never forget that you have
rejoiced with me. It seems as if I had discovered to-day, for the first
time, that you really love me, and what a precious treasure you are.
The man would not deserve you at all, who would question of the books
you had read or the subjects you were able to discuss."
They held each other in a close embrace, and then with all the
unwearied energy of a woman's fancy, Reginchen began to picture the
happy future Leah might now expect. But she insisted that she should be
required to keep the secret from her Reinhold only so long as Edwin
himself knew nothing of it. She asked when he would return. Since the
arrival of the letter Edwin had written at the hotel, which was now
four days old, Leah had not heard from him, and therefore concluded he
would not remain much longer away. "This is the first time," said she,
"that we've been separated so many days, and I know that if he didn't
consider it necessary for his health, he wouldn't have stayed half so
long."
"But it's strange he doesn't write oftener," said Reginchen. "When my
Reinhold has to go to Leipsic on business, I get half a dozen letters
from him. You must train your husband better. Besides writing's his
trade."
"You don't know him, dearest. Precisely because he's in the habit of
telling me everything, it's hard for him to communicate with me, even
an hour every day, by his pen. He feels a sort of defiance against the
separation. He won't learn to be satisfied with a little, and if he
can't have all, prefers to get nothing."
"It may be so," replied her friend. "Besides, it always seems to me as
if you two really didn't need to speak to each other at all, but
exchanged your thoughts without the aid of words. But only let little
Leah come, and she'll give you some entirely new thoughts. Reinhold's
letters and mine contain nothing but anecdotes about the children; if
any one else should read them, he would laugh at us. But we're
perfectly serious."
Steps ascending the staircase interrupted these confidential
outpourings. The father-in-law and son-in-law, who had returned from
the workmen's meeting, entered, Franzelius exactly the same us in the
old days, only thanks to his little wife, with hair somewhat more
smoothly brushed and cravat more evenly tied, while the black eyes
under the bushy brows beamed with a quiet, almost shy expression of
love and happiness, which he owed to the same little wife also. Papa
Feyertag, on the contrary, was scarcely recognizable. The once
benevolent face, with its smile of superiority, had assumed a strangely
eager, excited expression, which together with a half grown grey
moustache rendered it by no means attractive. Instead of the neat,
quiet dress which he was in the habit of wearing on Sundays in his
shop, his short, thick set figure was clad in the fashionable garb of a
tourist, a mustard colored shade of cloth, variegated with little
points and dots from head to foot, and in addition a ridiculous little
hat with a blue ribbon. He was heated, and seemed to break off an angry
conversation with his son-in-law as he perceived the visitor. Reginchen
cast a hasty glance at her husband, which the latter answered with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, but when a lamp was brought in and the
simple supper placed upon the table, the cheerful mood that usually
reigned in the household soon returned, and even the old gentleman
became more good natured. He told Leah that his wife, who had never
been farther from Berlin than Potsdam or the Mueggelsee, had this time
also obstinately refused to visit her daughter in her own house. She
declared she could not eat anything that was not cooked in Berlin
water, and during the one night she spent at Potsdam, she had been
unable to close her eyes, because there were no good beds out of
Berlin. "What's to be done, dear Frau Doctorin? Women are women. I
tried to conquer her by rousing her jealousy, and threatened to
persuade the Frau Professorin, I mean Madame Koenig, your step-mother,
to come with me, as your father unfortunately cannot stir from home on
account of his gout. She knows I think your mother a very beautiful
lady, in spite of her forty-five years, and we're always joking
together. But she also knew very well, that it was only a joke, for
that young couple--your parents I mean--can't be so easily separated.
They gave me the kindest messages for you, and asked why you didn't
come to Berlin. After all, you owe it to your parents to do so, and you
might be so comfortable in their new house."
"A teacher of mathematics, who has learned how to calculate and has
opportunities in abundance for doing so, doesn't find it as easy to
travel, as a house-owner in the capital," replied Leah with a faint
blush. "Besides Edwin needs his vacations to regain his strength, and
Berlin, as he always says, is a great human mill, where one is ground
to powder in a fortnight."
"Why, he lived there more than fourteen years, and was always well,"
said the old man. "'But every one to his taste.'" He, for instance,
could not endure to stay six months in such a little place as this
town, where his children lived. He should feel like a great pike that
had wandered into stagnant water and could not find its way back to the
flowing river again. "The future, dear Frau Doctorin," he continued,
"belongs to the great cities; smaller ones are dying out. I shall not
live to see the day--but you and my children may perhaps do so, at any
rate the little ones sleeping yonder--when Germany will have no cities
nearer to each other than fifty miles; but then to be sure each will be
a city indeed, containing at least eight hundred thousand inhabitants,
without counting the suburbs. The culture which the present time
demands of men, is not possible to be attained without great means and
the arts and sciences can be properly fostered only in the great
centres of commerce. I heard a lecture delivered before our society,"
he continued, "which will soon appear in print. I will send you a copy
as soon as it is published."
"And where's the bread and meat for the great cities to come from, dear
father?" asked Franzelius, who had been silently listening, and
meantime making great havoc in these two articles, which his wife had
set before him.
"That's the business of the railroads," replied the shoemaker, without
the slightest embarrassment. "The country people, or rather the members
of the great rural industrial societies, will go out every morning
through the open country, till the fields, attend to the cattle, and
return by rail in the evening to the city, which they'll reach in time
to witness William Tell or hear Lucca. Why should these worthy people
be forever excluded from all education and culture, merely because
hitherto no theatres, concerts, and universities have existed in the
villages?"
"They'll have to stay in the country over night very often during the
haying season," Franzelius dryly remarked.
The old man cast a side glance at him, to see if he were in jest or
earnest, but no satirical lines were to be discovered in his
son-in-law's open, honest face. Nevertheless the old apostle of
progress, evidently irritated, relapsed into silence, and it was long
ere Leah could succeed in restoring him to his former cheerful mood.
She told him of Heinrich Mohr's happy marriage and fatherly pride, and
asked about Reginchen's brother, who was also married and had obtained
an excellent position in Russia, as engineer of a new railroad. At
intervals her eyes sometimes met those of the little fair-haired wife,
twinkling merrily with joy over the secret so recently disclosed, as if
they wanted to ask: "what's all this chatter to the great news we both
know of?"
When the clock struck nine, in spite of Reginchen's remonstrances, Leah
prepared for her departure. She knew that the members of the household
retired early and rose betimes. When she was about to shake hands with
Herr Feyertag also, he declared he would not be refused the pleasure of
escorting her home. "It's only around the corner," said Leah, "and this
is such a small town, that the streets are perfectly safe at night
without masculine protection." But the old man would not be denied. He
seized his little hat with the blue ribbon, patted his daughter on the
back, and shook hands with his son-in-law somewhat formally. They need
not wait up for him, he said. He could not retire so early, and would
stroll about in search of adventure.
When they found themselves in the street and about twenty paces from
the house, the singular man suddenly stopped short and said to his
companion:
"You've probably perceived, Frau Doctorin, that I have something on my
mind. Do you know the real object of my coming here? It was not, as my
daughter thinks, on account of the two black haired boys, though I love
the little fellows well enough to eat them, but because of a dream. You
see, a short time ago, I came home rather late from one of our
meetings, where there had been some very good speeches, and fretted
before I fell asleep, because I was always obliged to hold my tongue,
since, as my friend the assessor says, I've taken rather a passive than
an active part in education. 'Well,' I thought, 'every one has not the
gift of being a great orator, and he who makes comfortable boots for
people does his share toward healthful progress.' Just then I fell
asleep, and just imagine what I dreamed. I was standing out of doors on
the parade ground, and suddenly I saw something dark coming toward me,
moving in regular rank and file, and making a great deal of dust; but
the columns were very low, not more than two feet above the ground. As
it drew nearer, what did I see? Nothing but boots and shoes, regularly
divided into regiments, like an army, according to the various styles;
jackboots, dancing shoes, slippers, spatter-dashes, in short everything
that has ever been manufactured in a shoe-maker's shop, and in fact, as
I instantly recognized by the shape and workmanship, in my own. Now I
knew at once, without being told by any one, that these were the boots
and shoes which had passed through my hands since the time I was
apprenticed; the collected work, so to speak, of my life. 'Now,' a
voice seemed to say, 'you can see what you've accomplished in this
world, and whether you've any right to imagine you've been of any
special aid to progress.' I tell you, Frau Doctorin, it was horrible to
see how the little black army, exactly like the roaches and beetles on
a kitchen hearth, thronged past me into the Thiergarten and through the
Brandenbourg-Gate--mere feet without any bodies--and I stood there like
a beaten cur, covering my face with my hands, and at last, in spite of
my horror, unable to keep from laughing aloud which awoke me.
"When I told the dream to my wife, she only said in her quiet way: 'Now
you see what comes of your stupid fancies, Feyertag. The vision means
nothing but: "Cobbler stick to your last!"' I made no reply, I know how
limited her views are, and women are women. But I've made a firm
resolution to have nothing more to do with shoe-making. The rest of my
life I will devote to higher purposes, caring for the head instead of
the feet, helping those whom people try to stretch on the same last
till they get moral corns--I mean grow stupid--and to getting the air,
which is called freedom of thought. I instantly said to myself: 'your
son-in-law is just the right man to aid you. You must get him, and then
set off on a journey; he has the tongue, you the money, like Moses and
Aaron, and then you can visit the various workmen's societies and
every-where provide for true culture and enlightenment.' But would you
believe that the man, who formerly made such fine speeches, and wrote
articles on every conceivable subject, can't be induced to move in the
matter. When I explained my plan to him to-day, he looked at me very
quietly, and only said: 'That's all very fine, father, but I can't help
you; my business will not permit me to go wandering about the world.'
And in the evening he took me to a workman's society he has established
here, where every thing was quiet and orderly, it must be admitted, but
where there was no display of rhetoric at all. Reinhold had brought a
book written by a certain Buckle, about civilization and the history of
the world and such things. But it was terribly prosy and
circumstantial, there was not a trace of vital questions, points of
view, and humane learning, and much of it was incomprehensible to me,
so that I wondered they all listened so quietly, as if to a sermon.
When the reading was over, I thought: 'Surely Feyertag, you ought to
open the horizon of the capital to these provincial people, and I began
very fluently to make a speech; for my friend, the assessor, had said
something like it day before yesterday, and I've long been familiar
with rhetorical tricks and practice them every day before my
apprentices in the work-shop. I only lacked courage in Berlin. But do
you suppose it made any impression on these country block-heads?
Neither the absolute and the ablative nor realism had the slightest
effect--I might as well have talked to the walls! Of course, in such
stagnant water, people have no idea what the stream of the spirit of
the age, and purpose, and representation, and the French Revolution,
and self-government--you know what I mean, Frau Doctorin. But these
narrow minds! When I concluded and asked whether any one wished to
discuss the matter, only one man rose; he said he had not understood
me, I must explain what I meant more clearly. But Reinhold looked at
his watch and said it was too late for this evening; they could return
to the subject at the next meeting. But I clearly saw that he only
wanted to prevent me from interfering with his Buckle's civilization,
and therefore closed the meeting. He has grown narrow-minded, Frau
Doctorin, his wife and children and his business--everything else is a
matter of indifference to him. He didn't tell me as plainly as my old
wife did, but it amounted to the same thing--I'd better stick to my
last."
"It's your own fault, Herr Feyertag," replied Leah smiling, while the
old man took a pinch of snuff from his little box. "Why did you make
our friend so happy, by giving him the most charming wife in the world,
so that he's now far too well satisfied with his own little family
circle, to think of roaming about the world. Stay a few weeks here and
see how he provides, not only for himself, but for all who share his
labor, and you'll surely no longer be angry with him because he wants
to stick to his last."
Herr Feyertag's only reply was a shake of the head. Meantime they had
reached Leah's home, a low one story house in a side street, where
there was not even a light burning. The maid-servant had heard them
coming, and appeared at the door with a little lamp.
"When will your husband come back?" asked the old man sighing. "He, I
hope, will understand me, and make the matter clear to Reinhold, too."
"I'm expecting him very soon. But you must come and see me to-morrow at
any rate, and we'll discuss this subject farther. Believe me, dear Herr
Feyertag, you'll not accomplish much with Edwin either. We're so happy
in our narrow sphere, and he in particular, feels that without moving
from this place, he can influence the whole world--I doubt very much
whether he'll approve or support your plan. However--I won't prejudice
him though. Good night."
She cordially shook hands with him, and then entered the house, while
the disappointed shoemaker, drawing the hat with the blue ribbon low
over his brow, walked back muttering and gesticulating to the main
street, to find at some ale house more appreciative souls.
CHAPTER II.
The ground floor of the house where Edwin and Leah had lived four
years, was arranged in the simplest manner; three little rooms and a
chamber for the maid-servant, or, as Edwin said, no longer one tun but
three small ones and a band-box. The room looking out upon the street,
however, had two large windows; one was occupied by Edwin's desk, the
other by the artist's table from the Venetian palace. The old furniture
had also been brought to the little town, the book-case with the two
busts, the green sofa on which Leah had rested when she gave Edwin her
hand, over it the two engravings of Raphael's pictures, which had hung
above the brothers' beds, and close by, on a pedestal, a cast of the
bust of Leah's mother. The only new thing was a harmonium, a bridal
present from Frau Valentin, who knew how Edwin loved music. As he cared
less for master pieces and their perfect execution, than for the
elementary magic of harmony, Leah's art was sufficient to conjure this
spell from the full toned instrument.
The other art, of which she was mistress, she had eagerly cultivated.
She had no lack of time, she said with a sorrowful smile. Edwin, even
during his most arduous mental labor, liked to have her in the same
room, quietly occupied with her painting, often for hours exchanging
only a glance; or he stood behind her chair, looked silently at her
work and gently smoothed her dark hair, as he used to stroke Balder's
fair mane. Then she would glance smilingly up into his face, until he
bent over her and kissed her lips. He said her presence helped him to
think. Certain subtle psychological revelations would never have come
to him, but for this quiet enlarging and supplementing of his nature
through his other self. Frequently he was not even conscious of her
presence in any other way than as his right hand while writing was
aware that the left rested upon the paper. And yet the sheet would
often become displaced, if both hands did not share in the work.
As she now returned to the cosy room, and after sending the
maid-servant to-bed, sat down in her "inspiration corner," as Edwin
called one end of the sofa (the little lamp burned brightly on the
table before her, illuminating the profile of Demosthenes on the
bookcase, the writing desk so long without a master, and all the other
witnesses of their bright young happiness) for the first time she was
overpowered by the consciousness that many things would soon be
changed, that when the young life under her heart looked forth into the
world with two bright eyes and gave utterance to its joys and sorrows,
this room, where silent thoughts and lovely flowers peacefully unfolded
side by side, could no longer be her one and all. She thought of the
words with which Edwin had tried to console his childless wife, how he
had said that two people in their situation lived in a state of
perpetual betrothal, and that any third person, even were it their own
child, at first came between them like a stranger. "No," she said to
herself, "it's a part of ourselves too, it's only like a mirror,
wherein we see both our faces melted into one. Besides, he didn't mean
it seriously, it was only before he knew--"
She now became absorbed in thinking how everything would be, how she
would manage to always remain near Edwin, without disturbing him by the
little sprawling screaming creature, and whenever she thought with
secret terror of the two unruly black haired twins, from whom no corner
of her friend's large house was secure, she consoled herself with the
memory of quiet, fair-haired little Riekchen, beside whom one might
solve the most difficult mathematical problems undisturbed. It would
have fair hair, she thought, smiling in blissful anticipation, it must
resemble Edwin feature for feature, possess the same beautiful blue
eyes, the same grave brow. Now her thoughts wandered from the little
stranger to him whom she knew as well, nay better than herself, and as
with all the powers of her soul she conjured up his image to the
smallest detail, a passionate longing suddenly overpowered her, a
painful sense of loneliness, mingled with such an enthusiastic
admiration of the beloved, that she started up and paced to and fro in
a sort of ecstacy, connecting his name with loving, tender words, such
as she had never addressed to him in person. She suddenly thought it a
sin that when he was with her, she had maintained such a strange
reserve, and never allowed herself to frankly show him the inmost
depths of her heart. "He doesn't know how I idolize him," she said to
herself. "I know it very well, I knew it from the beginning, but I'm
always afraid of myself--and of him too. His love did not exist like
mine, from the first hour of our meeting, it has grown by degrees,
perhaps I should have startled him, if I had shown how the flames were
blazing in my soul. But it's wrong, he shall know of it when he
comes back. There's always too much philosophy between us--love is
folly--happy nonsense--laughing and weeping without sense or reason.
That's the way I've always loved him, to the disappearance and
forgetfulness of all reason, and he--he began differently, my few good
traits, my little share of cleverness attracted him. It was enough at
that time--he gave me what he had, and in my utter poverty it was an
untold treasure. But when he comes back, then he shall see what a
foolishly happy, loving wife he has in me--my beloved husband, my one
and all, my Lord and my God, my life and my world--"
Thus her rapturous longing found utterance in low confused murmurs,
while she wandered about the room, now taking in her hand the pen with
which he had written, and then with a caressing gesture stroking the
book that still lay open on his desk. Her temples throbbed feverishly,
she opened a window and leaned out into the dark street, where every
thing was asleep, except a kitten gliding over the stone door sill.
But who was approaching from the main street? Two men walking arm in
arm, and carrying canes and traveling satchels? And now she distinctly
heard the words: "You see, my boy, your little wife has not yet gone to
rest--mock widows never retire early--you've horrible pavements, and
the gas apparently relies upon receiving a little voluntary assistance
from the light of cigars. Is it much farther?"
"Heinrich," replied another voice, which thrilled the heart of the
listener at the window, "it would be better for us to go back and I'll
spend the night with you at the hotel. It's so late--so unexpected--I
know her--she won't close her eyes all night--and I--I am so utterly
exhausted--"
"Edwin!" cried a joyous voice from the only lighted window in the dark
street. The pedestrian involuntarily paused and grasped his friend's
arm with a convulsive pressure. "She's awake," he said hastily in an
undertone, "she has heard us, so it can't be helped! Not a word this
evening, do you hear? Poor darling, it will come soon enough; is that
you, Leah?" he now exclaimed, suddenly quickening his pace. "There,
child, now you see what you've done with your promised surprise. I
wanted to be generous, too, and as I could think of nothing else,
decided that the best surprise would be myself. Good Evening, dearest!"
and he took both hands, which she extended to him through the window,
and pressed them in his cold trembling fingers; "I thank God for being
here, where I belong! I have the honor of presenting to you an old
acquaintance, Herr Heinrich Mohr, the father of his son, of whom I've
already written to you. I couldn't induce him to satisfy himself with
an improvised couch on the green sofa. He thinks he can find a bed at
the Star, on which he can more comfortably stretch his six feet of
length. Is all well, dearest? but come, open the door for us. We must
at least have a glass of wine together--"
He had released her hands, but she did not move from the window. These
shallow jesting words had fallen on her soul like a frost and had
paralysed her. She did not speak; she addressed no word of welcome to
the old friend, asked no question as to how her beloved husband had
fared. This, then, was the meeting for which she had waited with such
ardent longing.
"Don't be afraid, Frau Leah, that I shall make use of this thoughtless
invitation and trouble you this, evening," said Mohr laughing. "Old
friends are the most inconvenient articles in the world, when married
people meet after a separation. To-morrow I'll take the liberty of
knocking at your door to give you my wife's message and a photograph of
the little Mohr, but now I shall wish you a good night's rest. No, my
dear fellow, I need no guide. I looked carefully at your 'Star' as we
passed by, and shall find it again in spite of my small share of
astronomical knowledge. Good night, Frau Doctorin."
He raised his hat, pressed Edwin's hand, and walked back toward the
main street.
Edwin still stood under the window.
"It seems like a dream to be at home again," said he. "This whole day,
while we were marching like two lunatics, merely to get here, I have
been constantly thinking of our old home, and how delightful it would
be to clasp your hand again, and now I'm standing here, and the old
stones are still firm, and I--but you're so silent; the surprise was
too sudden; well, I hope yours--"
"I'll open the door for you," she said, making a mighty effort to
repress her tears. "Oh! Edwin, is it really you?"
She left the window and took up the little lamp from the table; but
suddenly replaced it again. Why should she let him read her feelings in
her face? So she went through the dark entry, opened the door, and felt
herself clasped in his arms; but passionate as was his embrace, she
noticed that he did not seek to press his lips against hers, but rested
his forehead on her shoulder, repeating her name over and over again.
"I'm with you once more, my dearest, we have each other again. It seems
as if we'd been parted for years--Leah, my faithful darling--"
"Come into the room," she murmured. "You're exhausted, and your
forehead is wet with perspiration. Why did you hurry so recklessly?"
"Yes, yea, scold me, dear Wisdom. It's hard to keep within bounds. But
I'm here again, all is well now. What's the matter?" he continued, as
he entered the room and saw how his pale face, now fully revealed by
the lamp-light, startled her. "I'm perfectly well--that is, I have
suffered a few days from a nervous attack, similar to my old ones, but
the famous household medicine--so-called because it can only be used
out of the house--air and exercise,--has done wonders. And now--I'm as
delighted as a child to see the green sofa again,--all our furniture;
it can hardly be called princely, we must admit, but it's pretty, very
pretty; and my dear little wife--I'll wager you have painted a whole
table service while I was away, and the famous surprise is that the
roses on your cheeks have been transplanted to the china. Well, I
repeat again as I see--"
While uttering these hasty words he had sunk down on the sofa and
closed his eyes, evidently in the greatest exhaustion. A strange smile,
that cut her to the heart, rested on his lips. When he again looked up,
she was kneeling beside him, clasping his hands and gazing with an
expression of the most loving anxiety into his face, to seek for some
consoling glance that would explain all this as only the consequences
of over fatigue.
"Dear wife," said he, "if you could give me a mouthful to eat, or no,
only a sip of the Spanish wine mamma sent us--and then--then we'll go
to rest."
She instantly started up and hurried out of the room, soon returning
bringing with her wine, bread and cold meat. Edwin nodded smilingly.
"Little housewife!" he exclaimed, drawing her down beside him on the
sofa. But he only touched her forehead with his lips, and did not
appear to notice the glass of wine she poured out for him. "I'm so
happy, so happy!" he repeated again and again. "I drink to peace and
rest and--love!"
He tried to draw her toward him, but with a feeling of secret horror
she gently repelled him. "Edwin," said she, "what has happened? You
can't deceive me for I knew it at the first word you uttered, though
you strove to conceal it; you've experienced something that has greatly
excited, agitated, or saddened you. Won't you tell me about it? We've
always told each other everything."
"Yes, indeed, dearest," he said with a weary nod, while he gently
patted her on the cheek. "You're my strong-hearted little girl, my
trusty comrade, my dear left hand, that always knows what the right
hand is doing. But it's late, my eyes are closing with sleep and there
will be plenty of time to-morrow--to-morrow, and the day after, and
during our whole lives. What have I experienced? Nothing dangerous.
We've passed through a storm, the thunderbolt struck close beside us,
and we have been drenched to the skin, that's all. The warmth here will
soon dry us again. Come, dearest. What says old Catullus?
"Oh! how pleasant it is from all care to part!
Heavily all burdens fall away from the heart,
As weary of life's toils we return to our home,
Reposing there restfully, no more to roam."
"Do you want to sit up any longer, child?"
While repeating the verse, he had risen from the sofa with evident
effort and approached the door of the bed room. There, leaning against
it, he looked back at her. "Good Heavens, you're weeping!" he
exclaimed, suddenly shaking off all fatigue. "What in the world is the
matter?"
"Oh! Edwin," she said, gently repelling his passionate embrace,
"forgive me, it's wrong. I ought not to be so childish. But my feelings
overpowered me. Sleep! How can I think of sleeping, when I see you
return so changed, with a burden on your heart which, for the first
time, I'm not allowed to share! And yet this is wrong, you're so
tired and ought above all to find rest here, and not a weeping wife.
To-morrow--will you not? to-morrow, when you've slept--"
"No, not to-morrow!" he murmured bending over her and stroking her hair
caressingly with both hands. "This very day, dearest, though it should
cost us all sleep. This was the object for which I longed, the reason I
could not wait, and walked without ceasing ten miles in six hours. And
now I am here, I'm so cowardly that I want to sneak off to bed, instead
of first confessing everything to my brave other self and begging
absolution! Come, let me sit down beside you again; and be comforted,
you see it has not cost me my life, I am here, holding your dear hands,
and I feel more deeply than ever before, that we two are one, and that
no power of Heaven or Hell can separate us."
He now sat down beside her and began to quietly relate everything that
had occurred, from the time he finished his letter to her and Marquard
entered his room, till he met Mohr in the forest, where after the long
superhuman strain of all the powers of his soul and senses, he had lost
consciousness for a moment. Nothing was concealed or palliated. It was
evidently a relief to recall to mind all his tortures, his weaknesses,
and his honest struggle, now that he knew himself to be safe, where the
friends who had followed at his heels could not pursue him into the
sacred abode of his peace. The longer he spoke, the calmer became his
voice, the clearer his glance. "It is over," he concluded, pressing her
hand to his cheek. "I hope you'll praise me, dearest, for having done
so well. To be sure, I've not the strong nerves essential to rude
courage, and when I do anything heroic, feel long afterwards by the
miserable trembling of my heart, what the exertion of moral courage has
cost me. But be calm, child, this was the last attack. It will haunt me
for a time; if you had seen her--even without being affected as I was
by the old fate that binds me to this mysterious creature--you could
not have helped feeling the deepest compassion. What a life is before
her with nothing but the vague hope of some change that may release her
and give her some reason for loving existence! My beloved reason, that
helps me over unsolved questions, that sits incarnate beside me, and
that all my future care--"
"You've not yet shown me her letter," she interrupted in an
expressionless tone. They were the first words she had spoken for half
an hour.
"The letter, child? Why do you wish to read it? It's as incoherent a
collection of sentences as was ever scrawled by a poor tortured soul. I
assure you I've not read it a second time myself."
"If I'm to know her thoroughly, to feel any real compassion for her, I
must read it, Edwin. Give it to me. You see I am calm. I have told
myself often enough, that this must come some day. It's a misfortune,
like any other, only far more sad than every day sorrow. But with
honest purpose, and--time--"
"Oh! child," he exclaimed, drawing her tenderly toward him, "have
patience with me, leave it to time, do not doubt my honest purpose. I
was sure of it--one hour with you, and the enchantment would be
powerless, the magic spell shamed by your dear presence. I thank you
for having insisted upon knowing everything to-day. Now for the first
time I can hope to sleep. The last two nights, in spite of Heinrich's
company and all the fatigues of traveling, I could not obtain anything
worthy of the name of repose. I had dreams which I should pity a
condemned man for having. Now if I can hold your hand--"
"Please go first," she said without looking at him. "I'll come
directly---as soon as I've read the letter."
"You might wait until to-morrow--"
"This very day! Do me this favor; then to-morrow all will be over."
He took out his pocket book and looked for the fatal letter. "There it
is," said he. "I scarcely know myself what she really wrote, except
that it excited and grieved me inexpressibly. Oh! if we could find some
way to help her endure life! Think of the matter, my beloved Wisdom.
I've racked my brains in vain. Perhaps you will have some advice to
offer."
She nodded, apparently with the most perfect composure, and while he
remained in the room held the letter in her hand, without opening it.
But he had scarcely entered the adjoining room with the little lamp he
had just lighted, when with trembling hands and cheeks suffused by a
sudden flush, she opened the envelope and with restless eyes devoured
the lines.
When the maid-servant entered the room early the next morning, she was
startled to find her mistress lying asleep on the green sofa, with the
lamp, whose oil had now burned out, on the table beside her. Her
astonishment increased, when she looked through the half open door of
the chamber and saw her master, whose late return she had not heard,
quietly sleeping in his bed. The noise she made in her attempt to leave
the room again, roused the young wife; she glanced around in her
bewilderment and evidently could not remember how she happened to be on
this unusual couch. The fatal letter still lay on the table before her,
and she suddenly recollected all. She motioned to the servant to keep
quiet, and crept on tip-toe to the threshold of the adjoining room,
where she paused and listened to Edwin's regular breathing. The next
instant she had removed her clothes, noiselessly lain down beside him,
and gazing at the twilight with wide open eyes, awaited the unclosing
of his.
CHAPTER III.
It was Sunday. The bells that rang at nine o'clock to summon the people
to church, roused the sleeper. It was a long time before he remembered
how he happened to be in his own bed, and that he was again at home. A
quiet, dreamy mood still haunted him, in which he said little, but
gazed into vacancy with a smile and then looked around, as if in quest
of something. He wanted Leah with him continually, sought her in the
kitchen in order with all sorts of jesting words, to bring her back to
the sitting room, and then walked up and down the spotless floor with
his arm thrown fondly around her, now and then leaning his head on hers
and asking various questions, without paying any special attention to
the answers she gave. He even spoke of the surprise she had in store
for him. "It is nothing," she replied gently, releasing herself from
his embrace. Her eyes were heavy with unshed tears; she felt an
unconquerable repugnance to telling him her secret, and yet a sense of
bitter grief that she could not force her lips to reveal what had
hitherto been a source of so much joy. She saw that he was only half
with her, or rather that he was striving with all the powers of his
soul to return to her again, and yet could not do so entirely. Should
she communicate what at any previous time would have caused him such
deep happiness, perhaps now only to be thanked with an absent smile?
All the pride of the woman and mother rebelled against the possibility.
When Mohr at last arrived, he found them at breakfast. He sat down,
begged permission to make a cigarette, and soon gave the conversation a
freer tone. The first thing he did, was to take out the promised
picture of the little Mohr and hand it to Leah.
"I don't doubt for a moment," said he, "that Edwin has described me to
you as a fool of a father. Friends are great in caricaturing, but I
really have the honor and pleasure of being just that. Besides, I saw
that only politeness restrained him from laughing in my face when I
described the boy's talents and virtues. Well, _qui vivra verra_.
Meantime hear what my wife writes about the way he takes my absence.
I've just received this letter; it contains the kindest remembrances to
you as well."
He then read the letter, which contained a detailed account of the
various clever, artless expressions of the little household idol. Edwin
listened with silent nods, Leah on the contrary entered into the
subject with eager admiration, which seemed to greatly delight their
old friend.
"Dear friend," said he, "you have a wonderful knowledge of human
nature, far more than this scornful skeptic. If he knows what's for his
advantage, he'll allow you to prepare certain chapters of his great
psychological work. I'll beg you for a sheet of paper, pen, and ink. I
want to write a letter to my son, that we may continue to be in
communication with each other."
He actually did so, standing at Edwin's desk and talking with his
friends in his usual quaint manner. When Leah had gone out, he asked
hastily: "Does she know all?"
"All."
"And how did she take it?"
"As you see. She's an angel--no, something better--a strong, upright,
good, noble human being. Do you know, Heinz, I can't shake off the
thought that she deserved a better fate than to have for a husband a
lunatic, who is so pitifully defenceless against certain witches'
arts."
"Defenceless. Well, I declare. We resisted with hands and feet!"
"Yes indeed. We left the field. Discretion is the better part of valor.
Oh! Heinz, I feel miserable after that heroic deed. And now to see my
dear, patient sufferer, who by no word of complaint, no look of
reproach--"
"Hush! She's coming back; there! 'Your loving father.' Now I'm curious
to see whether he'll have any idea of how his papa can talk to him when
he's not with him. Shall we mail the letter and then pay our respects
to Frau Reginchen?"
All three left the little house and strolled through the quiet streets.
No one who saw Leah, leaning on Edwin's arm, would have suspected what
a deep shadow had suddenly darkened her sunny life.
But it did not escape the notice of the little fair-haired woman in the
neighboring, house for a single moment. As soon as the first greetings
were over--Papa Feyertag was also present--Reginchen drew Leah aside,
to ask what Edwin had said to the joyful news, and was greatly startled
when she learned that he had not yet heard a word about it. He had
returned home so exhausted that the greatest joy would have been lost
upon him, and Mohr's visit had prevented her from telling it early that
morning. Reginchen said nothing. Although, as we know, she did not
possess a great deal of "education," her clear mind instantly showed
her that something unpleasant had occurred, which would not be confided
to her at present. She was glad when Reinhold and Mohr entered the
nursery and the review of the children began; but could not help
laughing and secretly nudging her husband, when the father of the
remarkable boy evidently made the greatest effort to do justice to the
twins and the little girl, but with the condescending gentleness a
Cr[oe]sus would show in congratulating a man who had just won a hundred
thalers in a lottery.
He was then obliged to go with Franzelius to see the printing office,
the storerooms, and every nook and corner of the house, during which
the father-in-law made a silent third party. Edwin had gone into the
country alone and did not return until noon, when Reginchen invited
them all to dine with her. The meal was not particularly social. Old
Feyertag did not say a word and seemed to be out of humor with his
son-in-law, who pretended not to notice it, but in spite of the festive
occasion was not unfaithful to his silent nature. Edwin sat beside
Leah, whom he treated with the utmost gayety and tenderness, but, he
still seemed to be in a half dreamy, half absent mood, which at last
became so oppressive to her sensitive nature, that she was obliged to
leave the table before the dinner was half over to conceal her tears.
When she returned with red eyes, she said she had been attacked by one
of her sudden headaches, from which, however, she had not suffered for
years.
The only person, who seemed to be in high spirits, was Mohr, and it was
owing to his efforts, that when they returned to Edwin's house in the
evening, a more cheerful atmosphere pervaded the little circle, at
least for a time.
During the walk the four men had taken about the city after dinner, he
had been compelled to listen to the same melancholy disclosures from
the old gentleman, in which the latter had received no special sympathy
from Leah the evening before. Mohr, on the contrary, took the matter in
the right way, and was psychologist enough to instantly perceive the
remedy for the disease.
"I thank you for your confidence, my dear Herr Feyertag," he said after
gravely listening to the dream about the boots and shoes. "Your state
of mind is extremely interesting to me, the more so, as I've passed
through precisely similar crises myself."
"You, Herr Mohr? You're joking."
"Not at all, my dear sir. If you've only cared for the feet all your
life, I've spent my best days in merely making heads, that is heads to
notes, and also very good tails to them; but the best part was
lacking,--the rascals had no hands and feet. You must know, my dear
friend, I've just discovered the reason of this, and if I'm not
mistaken, the case is precisely the same with you; we're both men of
mediocre ability, Herr Feyertag. Once this vexed me very much, and an
admirable lecture Papa Zaunkoenig once gave, to prove that there must be
such people in the world, was entirely lost upon me. Since then I've
grown somewhat wiser. To be sure, it's disagreeable that we're neither
of us remarkable men and only belong to the masses, helping to make up
the crowd and to prepare the soil which supports the really gigantic
human plants. But look around you at Nature--isn't it the same story
everywhere? To one oak that lasts for centuries, there are hundreds of
thousands of low bushes, which moulder and decay, that this historical
representative of the species may grow to an unusual height. If we wish
to fret or lament about it, of course we're at liberty to do so. It's
only a pity, that there's no court before which we can bring our
complaint, for it's useless, my dear sir, and therefore only injurious,
first to ourselves because it sours the blood and poisons the wine, and
secondly to our fellow men, whose happiness we spoil by our
discontent."
"But progress, Herr Mohr, the aspiration toward higher things called
propagandism--?"
Mohr stood still. "How old are you now, my dear friend?" he asked,
pulling an over ripe ear of corn from the field through which they were
just passing.
"Fifty-nine, Herr Mohr."
"An excellent age, Herr Feyertag, and I trust you may live to a still
greater. And how tall are you now--I mean in feet and inches?"
"Five feet three inches, Herr Mohr."
"Do you expect to grow any more?"
"I? With my fifty-nine years?"
"But if you _desired_ to do so, if you felt the _aspiration_ to look
over a file leader's shoulder?"
"I'm not so foolish, Herr Mohr, as to expect anything of that sort! But
if I may venture to ask--"
"Why should you not venture to ask, my dear sir? I merely put the
question to have you ask. That's called the Socratic method. You see,
with all your aspirations toward higher things, you can no more succeed
in adding an ell to your intellectual stature, than you can make your
body taller. We're of middle height, Herr Feyertag; in case of need to
be sure we can increase a little in breadth, add some fat of knowledge
and skill, but the skeleton's complete and that's the end of it! If you
compare yourself with me, you have the advantage. True, you're nothing
extraordinary as a man, but in the art of shoe-making you're an
accomplished master. I, on the contrary--if I did not enjoy the
happiness of serving as a transition point for a better specimen, as it
were, a test of the real material--I should go out of the world without
having understood any reason for my existing in it. But let that be as
it may, we non-commissioned officers and privates in the great army of
mankind can bear ourselves bravely and win honor; and you in
particular, Herr Feyertag--a man in the prime of life, with property,
sense, and intelligence--do you know what I would do, if I were in your
place?"
"What, Herr Mohr?"
"Your good wife doesn't want to leave Berlin. Well then propose to
traverse Berlin itself with her. Go out every morning after breakfast
and visit some place, the Arsenal, the Museum, in short what every
Englishman sees, and in the evening attend the theatre, the zoological
garden, or what ever seems most attractive to you. We can only advance
by moving strictly in our own circle, and meantime keeping our eyes
open. In this way you'll in time climb far enough up the heights, and
yet remain what you are--a man who thoroughly understands his trade,
instead of, in your old age, becoming a bungler in the social-political
business, where there are too many bunglers now, and which only the
wisest heads can thoroughly comprehend."
"Hm!" replied the shoe-maker, "that's worth hearing, that's a very
sensible proposition. True, mother won't like it at first, but I'm
master of my own house, and if she once gets _in_--into a museum, I
mean--she's always had a clever head and by no means bad taste. I see
what you're aiming at, Herr Mohr: propagandism is all very well, but
where one has no idea, the mere will is of no avail, and, with my grey
hairs, to wander about like a journeyman on his travels--but, by the
way, my son-in-law--what do you think of him? Ought he, too, only to go
around in a circle and accumulate fat? Do you think him also a man of
mediocre ability, like ourselves?"
"Herr Feyertag," said Mohr with a perfectly immovable face, "don't you
know that a clever physician is always careful how he expresses his
opinion as to whether a person has a diseased liver or apoplexy, unless
he's specially consulted by the patient? You expressly asked my advice
about your sufferings, and I have told you my honest opinion. In regard
to third persons, especially if they're my friends, I never express
myself openly and am ready to think every one a great man, until I have
received incontestable proofs to the contrary."
CHAPTER IV.
This conversation had this favorable result, that when Papa Feyertag
came to Leah's house in the evening, he seemed completely transformed;
or rather like the man his friends had formerly known. True he took
care to put the best face upon his conversion, but was very reserved
about the motives that induced him to return to Berlin. But he
endeavored in every way to show that he bore his son-in-law no malice,
principally by good natured jests about people who kept quiet to
accumulate fat, and thought more about propagation than propagandism;
moreover he was the most affectionate papa and grandpapa that could be
desired, and related, as never happened except when he was in the best
of humors, his own love story, that had led to the possession of
"mother."
Mohr sat by with a quiet curl of the under lip, not uttering a syllable
to betray the share he had had in the miracle. Besides, very different
thoughts occupied his mind. In the first place, Edwin's still
perceptible excitement caused him serious anxiety. The two young wives
also, especially Leah, were forced to exert great self-control to
conceal a heavy heart under a gay, jesting mood. As even the wine and
all the comical and quaint ideas to which Mohr gave utterance during
the evening, did not avail to lighten the oppression which, like an
invisible thunder cloud rested more and more heavily on both couples,
the faithful friend sat down to the harmonium and began to improvise.
He played for an hour, forgetting time and place in his own music, into
which he successively introduced all Christiane's favorite themes. When
he at last paused and looked around at the company, he saw that the
remedy had produced a totally different effect from the one he had
intended. Reinhold was sitting like a black bearded genius of
melancholy beside his little wife, who was quietly wiping her eyes;
Leah had left the room and after a very long absence returned with a
deadly pale face; Edwin had the bread knife in his hand and was
industriously cutting a straw table-mat into small pieces; papa
Feyertag was leaning back in the sofa corner, sleeping the sleep of the
just.
They separated at an earlier hour than usual. Mohr rambled about the
city a long time, revolving in his inventive brain one plan after
another, by which the evil that had so suddenly burst forth again and
threatened to destroy the harmony of these two lives, might be most
quickly and surely removed.
At last he devised a perfectly absurd catastrophe, namely that he would
represent Toinette as the moral cause of Balder's death and by a bold
accusation of murder separate her from Edwin forever. There was not a
spark of reason in the whole plan, but the very monstrosity and
impossibility of the idea soothed his own excited mood, and enabled him
at last, like a man well satisfied with his day's work, to go to bed
and sleep seven hours.
But he started up in terror from a dream in which he had said the
harshest things to the author of the mischief and engaged to fight a
duel with her husband, the count, to see Edwin standing beside his bed
in the grey dawn, once more with an overcoat and traveling satchel,
such as he had carried during the last days of their journey. Edwin
smiled at his friend's astonishment and seemed to have suddenly
attained a far more healthful condition of mind.
"I wanted to ask whether you'll go with me," said he. "Leah has
persuaded me that it would be foolish to spend the last week of my
vacation here. I've long desired to make an excursion to 'Wildwassern,'
which will only take three or four days. Besides, I might accomplish
many other things, take you back to Frau Christiane and the wonderful
boy and return just before the school begins. At first I would not hear
of it. I don't feel at ease out of doors; every time I turn a corner I
fear to meet a face which I would rather avoid. But, to be sure,
wearied and disinclined to work as I am, I should not be of much use
here and only make my good wife anxious. You don't know Leah, Heinz, no
one knows her, I should like to know how many women there are, who
would have borne so nobly what has just befallen us. 'Go,' said she,
'it will do you good; only you must promise not to hurry so madly as
you did the last day, but to walk quietly. When you return, you'll find
a sensible wife.' Her voice trembled, and her eyes grew dim with tears,
but she forced a smile, and then--I've not kissed her lips since I came
back, haven't dared to do so, for I remembered that last night at the
castle--but when I saw that she could not yet give me a caress! I miss
it, miss it so strangely--you'll laugh at me, Heinz, but I think I
should be instantly cured, if my only friend, my wise, proud, sad
little wife--"
"Then let's go to her at once and tell her so! Besides, I've not yet
taken leave of her. And it's so early--"
"No!" interrupted Edwin with restless anxiety, "she'll not expect us. I
left farewell messages for our neighbors too. Come, my boy. I don't
know why it is, but I can't rest till I get out into the woods and
fields again. Your bill here is already settled. Of course the 'Star'
is only an addition to our tun in case distinguished travelers arrive,
whom we cannot entertain under our own roof."
He hastily helped him to pack his traveling satchel and hurried him
away. Just as they left the house, they saw the hotel stage returning,
which daily at this hour brought the travelers from the railway. A
lady, closely veiled, who must have just arrived by the night train,
sat leaning back in one corner of this lumbering vehicle. As she passed
the two pedestrians, she made a hasty gesture, as if she recognised
some one, but instantly drew back again.
Edwin started. "Did you notice--?" he said quickly.
"What?"
"In the stage--the veiled lady--I thought for a moment, that I
recognized--by her way of bending forward--"
"You see ghosts, my dear fellow. Duchesses travel with a suit of
retainers, not in an omnibus."
"You're right! Yes indeed, I'm a fool. What could bring her here. But
that's the cross I bear every moment. If a carriage rattles by--a door
opens--ah! Nature, which made me a philosopher, failed to provide one
essential--a suitable dose of the famous ataraxia."
"That's unfortunately true," replied Mohr, shrugging his shoulders.
"But your clever wife is right--the plant grows out of doors among the
mountains and by the streams. But I too am not wholly insensible, and
most earnestly beseech you not to seize me so convulsively, at least
before I've breakfasted. We'll attend to this matter at the first
stopping place, and then I'll sing you the old Eichendorff traveler's
song, which Christiane has set to a very pretty air:
"'Through fields and rows of beech trees,
Now singing, anon still,
How joyous he, who leaves his home
To wander at his will. '"
CHAPTER V.
Meantime Leah, absorbed in grief, was still sitting at the window, from
which in the pale morning light she had waved a farewell to her
departing husband. As soon as he had disappeared, all the suppressed
anguish of the last few days had found vent in a flood of tears, but
without relief to the poor aching heart. When the torrent was at last
exhausted, she only gazed the more hopelessly into vacancy with burning
eyes, as if staring into a grey, impenetrable mist, from which no
familiar form emerged, no loving voice reached her ear. The week that
Edwin was to be absent, now seemed to her like a respite. During that
time she might groan in anguish and weep to her heart's content. When
he returned, he should find her what she had always been to him--his
brave friend, his faithful comrade, to whom his inmost soul was
revealed, even if a passion for a strange woman, the very root of which
had seemed to have been destroyed, now flourished luxuriantly anew.
True, how could he know that she herself was only a weak woman, who
felt all her wise thoughts and heroic reason vanishing in a boundless
longing for his love!
A strange reserve, or perhaps pride because he had never asked, had
prevented her from telling him this.
But he _needed_ passionate love--in her terror this had now become
evident to her. The cooler his head was, the more vehemently his heart
demanded boundless, self-forgetful folly, a love higher than reason. He
had now found it--in the magic castle, where the old demon had resumed
its sway over him. The enchantress herself had cast aside her black art
to practise a more powerful and irresistible one--to throw herself into
his arms in the guise of a poor helpless woman saying: "I am yours; do
with me as you will." And was he to disdain all this and reply: "You
come too late?"--Well, he _had_ said so. He knew what he owed to duty.
But to accept this martyrdom, to hold a man by an iron chain, against
which every instinct of his blood rebelled--a feverish chill ran
through her frame at the thought.
True, she might stake passion against passion, and see which would
conquer, hers that was really no tamer and narrower than any ever
offered by a woman to the man she loved, or the capricious one of this
stranger, who now when it was too late, wanted to throw away a lost
life, to regain her happiness in her saviour. But her pride rebelled
against this also. Had he ever missed her passionate love? Could he
believe, now that she had so long denied it utterance, that it was
really true and genuine, not an ebullition of jealous pain, rather than
the outburst of one of the hidden powers of nature?
But amid all this tumult of thoughts, one emotion was ever absent from
her mind--no feeling of anger toward the two persons who now made her
suffer so bitterly, stirred in her soul. The woman who had no scruple
in making her life desolate, in wresting from her, her only happiness,
of whom she knew nothing, except that she had bewitched her beloved
husband and yet had not satisfied his heart--what did she this
stranger? And Edwin--had he deceived her? Did he not suffer most
bitterly, because he esteemed and honored her too highly to make even
an attempt to delude her about his condition?
But the very fact of his remaining loving, affectionate and honest to
her, and continuing to give her a brotherly share in his fate was
unendurable. She could not suffer it longer, for it mocked her heart,
whose inmost depths were overflowing with passionate love. Yet she
did not know how to change it, what to say to him, when he should
return with his wound nearly healed to place himself in her sisterly
care--lest some day, by accident the wound should begin to bleed again
and perhaps endanger his life. But did she not also owe something to
herself and the child she bore under her heart? Could she suffer the
poor thing to be greeted by its father with a joy only prompted by a
sense of duty, and perhaps--who knows--secretly regarded as a new link
in the oppressive chain that must be worn with the best possible grace?
At this thought, the mother's blood in her rebelled with such fierce
indignation and wrath, that for a moment an odious shadow darkened even
Edwin's image. But the next instant she shrank from her own
impetuosity, and with all the power of her will repelled the hostile
feeling.
For the first time in her life, since she had been united to Edwin, she
felt unspeakably alone. What would she have given for a friend who
might have aided her to disentangle the sorrowful confusion of her
thoughts? She remembered Reginchen--Reinhold--and instantly felt that
no one, even if bound by far closer ties, possessing a much deeper
insight into her nature, could have been a mediator between her fate
and her womanly pride, her husband and her inmost feelings.
For hours she remained hopelessly striving to quell the tumult in her
soul; at length her thoughts grew weary, and she began to perform her
few household tasks, which were speedily accomplished. Then she
mechanically took up one of Edwin's works and commenced to read; for a
moment she was soothed by the thought of how thoroughly she understood
all that would have been above the comprehension of many women, only to
throw aside the book the next instant with passionate grief, as she
remembered how powerless all the cultivation of the mind would be to
the blind, unreasoning, elementary instinct of Nature, which conquers
all freedom and befools the wisest. She herself felt this instinct in
her heart more strongly than ever, and she remembered how happy she had
been made by it only two evenings before--only to be rendered utterly
wretched by it now since it had shown her the emptiness of her hopes.
Herr Feyertag's arrival roused her from this abstraction. The old man
knew nothing about Edwin's departure, and came to say that he should
return home that evening. He was in a comically mysterious mood, gave
obscure hints of the reasons that had so suddenly recalled him to
Berlin, but repeatedly declared that he felt as if he were new born,
and people were never too old to go to school. As Mohr was also
absent, he could indulge in the harmless pleasure of uttering many of
the things he had heard yesterday from his clever physician of
the mind--especially the theory of the oak trees and the soil of
humanity--as the result of his own matured wisdom, in such a lofty,
matter-of-course tone, that several times Leah, in spite of her sorrow
could not help laughing, for she easily perceived their source.
"I'll tell you, little lady," exclaimed the eager old man, as he
concluded his remarks about the necessity of first advancing public
welfare in our own persons, "come with me to Berlin to-night. Why
should you stay here alone? Your husband can have no objections to your
devoting this week to your dear parents, and it will afford me the
greatest pleasure to show you Berlin, the Museum, the theatre, and of
course we'll go out to Sans Souci too; as a native of Berlin, you ought
to be ashamed of knowing next to nothing of all these things. Just to
consider how many means of culture are daily at hand, that we need only
stretch out our hands for, and just because they're not a long distance
off--"
She shook her head with a forced smile. "Thank you, dear Herr Feyertag.
But just now I really do not desire culture, so much as--rest, or
whatever else you choose to call it. Give my parents the kindest
remembrances from me, don't let them know that you found me with one of
my bad headaches; when I come to Berlin, I want to bring with me clear
eyes--and my husband."
The worthy old friend, who after all had not been very earnest in his
proposal, could urge her no further, and after uttering all sorts of
fine phrases, took leave of the young wife with unfeigned affection.
She declined the invitation to dinner which he pressed upon her in
Reginchen's name. Her stupid head was not fit for company. She was most
comfortable alone, where no one could notice if her thoughts sometimes
grew confused.
The shoemaker was scarcely in the street again, when in spite of his
sincere regard for Leah, he banished from his mind all the sympathy he
had felt for her suffering, and with the facility peculiar to many
theoretical philanthropists, turned his thoughts to his own plans. He
therefore looked up in some little bewilderment, when a slender lady
accosted him in a musical, but somewhat low voice, and inquired the way
to the Frau Doctorin's residence. The stranger was closely veiled,
but the old man's practised eye did not permit him to doubt for a
moment, that the person who stood before him was young, charming, and
high-bred. He also noticed a faint perfume of violets, which floated
from the lady's lace veil. He very politely offered to accompany and
show her the few steps to Edwin's house, in doing which he remarked
that the Herr Doctor had just gone away on a little pedestrian tour,
but that his wife was at home. "I know it," said the lady. "I only wish
to see his wife. Shall I probably find her alone?"
The shoe-maker answered in the affirmative and racked his cunning
brains for means to find out something more about the veiled lady who,
as he was instantly convinced, could not be a resident of the place.
But unfortunately they had already reached the house, the stranger
thanked him with a slight bend of the head, opened the door without
ceremony, and disappeared in the dark hall.
Never had the old man been more bent upon the solution of a riddle or
charade, over which he regularly pondered in the papers, than on
discovering the cause of this visit. This was the only woman who wore a
veil, that he had met in the little town. That she could be acquainted
with Leah, while his daughter knew nothing about her, seemed to him
incredible, so he determined to question Reginchen.
But this proved utterly useless. No lady answering to his description
was known, even in the highest circles of society in the place. And
yet, if it were a stranger, how could she know that Edwin had gone away
and Leah was alone, facts that the friend and neighbor had just learned
from her father?
The mystery must be solved in time, and Reginchen, like all people who
are entirely in harmony with themselves, did not suffer in the least
from curiosity, but even declined to send a servant to Leah to enquire
about the matter. She had much graver cares, which were also connected
with Edwin's household, but apparently had nothing to do with the
accidental visit of a stranger.
However, in the course of the day the old man, who was not in the habit
of keeping his mind long fixed upon one thought, also lost his
curiosity, as no fresh incident occurred to excite it. Leah's name was
not mentioned, nor the attempt to induce the lonely wife to join them
at dinner again renewed. Papa Feyertag was very cheerful during the
meal, talked of new inventions, of war and peace, and of the social
question, but without any personal irritation, and spent the whole
afternoon in drawing the most singular sounds from all sorts of
imperfect wind instruments he had bought for the twins, to the great
edification of his young auditors.
Reinhold, in his quiet fashion, seemed to be heartily pleased with
this change of affairs, stopped his work half an hour earlier, and at
seven o'clock was again in the sitting room to take tea with his
father-in-law before his departure. The children had been put to bed,
and the three adults had just seated themselves around the table, when
the door opened and to the surprise of all, frequent as was the
appearance of the visitor, Leah entered.
CHAPTER VI.
The lamp was not yet lighted, and the broad brim of her straw hat
shadowed her face, yet all three noticed, though no one made any
remark, that the young wife's features were strangely rigid and
inanimate, like the face of a person who has endured severe sorrow and,
with a certain savage indifference, is prepared for the worst.
She nodded to Reginchen, begged her in her usual tone not to disturb
herself, and declining the chair the old man placed at the table, sat
down in the window niche, with her face half averted. In reply to the
question about her headache, she answered that it had passed away
entirely. She had taken a nap, then eaten her dinner, and had never
felt better than now, so she had thought of Papa Feyertag's proposal
again, and determined to accept it.
"What proposal?" asked Reginchen. The old man himself would have been
sorely puzzled if he had been obliged to answer the question. But Leah
replied in his stead.
"For," she hastily burst forth, "what better could I do? My father is
old and does not like to travel. Edwin, will not return until the end
of the week; I've nothing to detain me here, and who knows when I shall
find another such opportunity. How long is it before the train starts?
A whole hour? Well, you must allow my presence here until then. At
home--it's ridiculous--but I think if I had remained at home, my
headache would have come on again. We're so weak, so irresolute when
we're all alone, and yet nothing can be more sensible than this plan.
Edwin himself, if he were here--but no, then I should not be alone. You
say nothing, Herr Feyertag. Do you repent having offered to be my
escort? I'll not make you the slightest trouble, you can smoke and
sleep as much as you choose, I--I'll go in the ladies' coupe, I hope to
be able to sleep too; after such a headache as I've had all day, I am
not very entertaining in conversation."
"How can you think of such a thing?" said the old man. Then all were
silent for a long time. Nothing was heard but the clicking of a little
pair of scissors, which Leah had taken from Reginchen's work table and
was opening and shutting.
"Before I forget it," Leah carelessly remarked, "as it's possible Edwin
may return a few days before me, I've written him a few lines. If
meantime a letter should come from him containing his address, or he
himself should arrive--at any rate, you'll doubtless do me the favor to
see that this note reaches him."
"Give it to me, Leah dear," said Reinhold rising. "Father, will you
have another glass of wine? But you're not eating anything."
"It's not my time. And your famous dinner--Well, I'll go and look after
my baggage. I've only to shut my little trunk."
He hastily rose--he evidently did not understand matters--and left the
room.
Reinhold had also risen. He had put the little note which Leah had
given him, in his pocket and now said: "I'll accompany you to the
station of course. I must first give some business directions, but I'll
come back again directly." He exchanged a significant glance with his
wife, and left the room. The two women were now alone, Reginchen on the
sofa in the dark corner, Leah at the window with her back turned toward
the room.
"Have you nothing else for me to do, dearest Leah?" asked the little
housekeeper after a pause.
"Nothing, Ginchen. What should I have? I leave no children behind, and
Edwin's books require no care. The cook will water the flowers. But
you--your mother--hark! Didn't the clock strike eight?"
"Seven. There's still a full hour--Leah--"
"What is it, child?"
"Have you reflected upon this?"
"What a strange question to ask? What is there to consider? A journey
to my parents! one falls asleep here, and on awaking finds oneself at
home."
"_At home_, Leah?"
There was no answer from the window. No one who could have obtained
even a side view of the face gazing fixedly out, would have expected
these compressed lips, that seemed with difficulty to repress a groan,
to open for any intelligible answer.
Suddenly two arms embraced the motionless figure, and a fair head in a
neat little cap nestled to the pale cheek of the silent friend. "Leah,"
whispered Reginchen's voice, "if you love me, don't do it, don't go
away; it can't be the right thing; or at least speak plainly first.
What, for God's sake, _what_ has happened, to drive you away so
suddenly, as if--as if you were not _at home_ here."
She covered the eyes and cheeks of the rigid face with the tenderest
kisses. The next instant Leah gently released herself.
"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly. "You're childish in your
anxiety about me. What should have happened? Let me alone, little
goosey. I know what I'm doing only too well; that this is the best, the
only thing, now I'm all alone--"
"You're right, dear Leah," they heard Reinhold's voice suddenly
exclaim. "Don't listen to this foolish woman, who can't believe any one
can leave home for pleasure--that's what she means by not right. But we
still have half an hour; I should like to speak to you; I have a little
commission to be done in Berlin, with which I didn't want to trouble
Father."
"Willingly, dear Reinhold."
"But I must beg you to take the trouble to come up to my little attic
room; I cannot tell you here, partly because we are liable to be
interrupted at any moment, and partly because I keep what's necessary
for the errand up there. Light the little lantern, child; I believe
you've never been up in our garret--true, it's an old rat's nest, but
as I'd not a corner in the whole house where I can work or think
quietly away from the children, I furnished a room there."
Reginchen had taken a brass lantern from the cupboard and lighted the
lamp in it. As she now handed it to her husband, these three who were
so fondly attached to each other, for the first time dared not look
each other in the face. The little wife cast down her eyes without
uttering a syllable. Leah had risen, still in her hat and traveling
cloak, as she had come. Reinhold's honest face looked strange and
gloomy, framed in its black hair and bushy beard.
He silently took the lantern from Reginchen, and preceded Leah up the
narrow, time begrimmed staircase that led to the store rooms. He did
not address a word to her as she followed close behind him. Not until
they had walked through a large portion of the garret, across whose
ceiling ran heavy beams, and he had turned the key in the door of a low
room, did he pause a moment and say: "I'm taking you into my holy of
holies, Leah."
Then he opened it, crossed the threshold with the light, and allowed
her also to enter.
At the first glance it seemed a mere attic chamber, like hundreds of
others, only perhaps somewhat higher, but as if to make amends for this
the roof sloped the more, the ancient beams, which supported it,
seeming no longer able to do their duty. But as Franzelius set the
lantern on the little black stove and lighted a small lamp, Leah saw
that the walls were covered with neat grey paper, and the few articles
of furniture were kept scrupulously free from dust. The whole end of
the room before the window was filled with something which she did not
instantly recognize. When the lamplight penetrated to the window, she
perceived that it was a turning lathe, and she instantly knew why this
awkward piece of furniture stood in Reinhold's holy of holies. He
seemed to use it for a writing table; a portfolio, books, and writing
materials lay upon it, all in the neatest order. On the right and left
of the single deep window niche, where in the daytime scarcely a ray of
light could fall, two wide carved brackets were fastened to the wall.
The one on the left bore the mask of Michael Angelo's prisoner, the
other a square object, like a small box, covered with a cloth. The room
contained no other furniture, except a small book-case and two plain
cane chairs.
"Won't you sit down, dear Leah?" asked the silent guide, after he had
set down the lamp on the stove beside the lantern. He did not look at
her, but she saw that the hand which had held the little lamp trembled.
"Thank you," she replied, "I'm not tired. Tell me the commission you
wanted to give me."
"Commission? I have none; pardon me, dear friend, it was only a paltry
excuse; didn't you see through it at once: And besides, if I had
anything to be done in Berlin, I could not entrust it to you--for
you'll not go there yourself."
"Why do you attempt to dissuade me? Don't trouble yourself. I've made
up my mind; I think I know what I am doing."
Notwithstanding her refusal, she sat down, as if absorbed in thought,
in the chair he had placed for her, and diligently thrust the point of
her parasol into a hole in the floor, seeming for a moment to forget
everything around her.
"You've made up your mind?" he said with a very sorrowful face. "Of
course you're mistress of your own actions. But in that case I must
tell you that I have also made up my mind, not to give your letter to
Edwin."
"You've read it? Oh Reinhold!" A hasty, indignant glance from her eyes
met his. The next instant she lowered them to the ground in confusion.
"I have not read it," he said gravely. "Here it is; convince yourself
that that the seal is unbroken. But it is just the same as if I had."
She started up and moved toward the door, but suddenly paused halfway.
"Do not go," he pleaded. "There's time enough for that, when you've
listened to what I have to say. Tell me frankly: can you expect me,
when Edwin returns, to give him a letter in which his wife informs him,
that she has left him, because she can no longer live beneath his
roof?"
"Would I have said that? Would I have said it so? Now I ask you to open
the letter, Reinhold, that you may see what I have told him."
"I thank you for your confidence, dear friend, but I will not read the
letter which you will soon reproach yourself for having written.
Besides, I know very nearly what you've said, to palliate what you're
about to do to him--and yourself."
"Palliate? What I'm about to do is for his good; what it costs me no
one knows."
She had sunk down into the chair, with her forehead pressed against the
back; a shudder seemed to convulse her slight frame.
"Will you not bestow upon me the same confidence _he_ has given?" she
heard Franzelius ask after a pause. "True, his friendship is of an
older date, but when you became his wife, it seemed to me as if I had
loved you from childhood as my sister. Dear Leah, he has told me all he
told you. And do you think so old a friend cannot feel how much
suffering this heavy trial causes you?" She suddenly looked him full in
the face, her features no longer distorted by passion, but an
expression of such hopeless grief rested on her brow and lips, that he
shrank back in alarm.
"He told you _all_? Yes, all he knew of his own heart. What could he
have said to you of mine? What does he know about it? True, it's not
his fault. I've always been ashamed to unbosom myself, to confess how I
idolize him, how madly I love him. It might be unwelcome to him, I
thought, since he--well, you know, for you're his friend; what he said
about his 'intellectual love' sounded so pretty, very pretty for a
philosopher and commendable for his wife also, if she had as much
philosophy in her head as he expected, and no unbridled, tumultuous
heart, that refused to listen to reason. 'If he should perceive,' I
thought, 'that I have my mother's blood in my veins, hot, old-testament
blood--perhaps he'll discover that he made a great mistake in thinking
he could make a "sensible marriage" with such a nature, as a
consolation for a lost love.' And then I also thought: 'who knows what
may happen? Perhaps the day will come when I can tell him all, because
he himself will no longer be satisfied with a modest happiness, but ask
something prouder, higher, more enthusiastic, and then I can say to
him: "you need not seek far, still waters run deep; you've yet to know
your own wife, with whom you have lived so long unsuspicious of her
true nature."' I was going to say it to him when he returned from this
pedestrian tour; it seemed to me, from his letters, as if the last
spark of the old fire had burned out, and he was longing for a new
passion, a fervent love, which would completely engulf him, and after
four years of married life, he now, for the first time, loved me with a
new, yearning, longing affection. It gave me such delight. But I was
rightly served; my weakness or delusion, or whatever it may have
been--must be punished. Why did I not confess to him at once, that I
should be miserable if he only chose me for his wife on account of my
few intellectual qualities? Why did I not tell him I, too, must have
all or nothing, and was far less suited for a 'sensible marriage,' than
many a far more foolish creature? Now my fate has overtaken me--and
his, him--and you want, by means of a few friendly, sensible arguments
to heal the breech which has burst open again, the breech which ought
never to have been closed."
She had arisen, and was pacing excitedly up and down the narrow room,
while he sat silently on one corner of the turning lathe with his head
bowed on his breast.
"You're slandering, Leah!" he said in a hollow tone. "You're slandering
his heart."
"His heart?" she passionately replied. "Has he a heart he can call his?
Oh! don't suppose I'm reproaching him for the lack of it! Yesterday I
often thought--ought the remembrance of all the grave and joyous,
pleasant and painful things we have shared together for four years, to
be utterly effaced and blown away? Had not his heart been animated and
warmed by mine till both beat in unison, in all questions of life great
and small? You see, I thought so yesterday; today I no longer hold the
same opinion, but find the present state of thing perfectly natural."
"To-day--what has happened to-day, that has so suddenly--"
She approached him till she stood close by his side, and without
raising her eyes to his, whispered in an undertone: "To-day I've made
_her_ acquaintance."
"What? Then the veiled lady--"
"Came in search of him and found only me. Don't you agree with me,
Reinhold, that under these circumstances it's quite time for the wife
to go away, that the husband may be at home when such an agreeable
visitor arrives?"
"Leah! What are you saying? You don't know how you wrong him. He--what
did he know about her mad plan? And if he had been aware of it, would
he not have gone away just at the right time to baffle it?"
"Yes indeed," she nodded with a bitter expression on her face, "he
would have fled from his fate to-day and to-morrow until it should
overtake him at last. No, my friend, I do not wrong him; I know how he
suffers, and I also know that it will be no disgrace if he succumbs. I
have never seen such a woman; will you believe that I, who had good
reasons for hating her, could not help loving her; not merely thinking
her charming, more charming than I have ever thought any of my own sex
before, but liking, loving her! Or no, I will not say too much; but I
understand how people cannot help loving her unless they have reasons
for hating her as strong as mine."
"Did she make herself known to you?"
"Not by a single syllable. But as soon as she entered the door, even
before she threw back her veil, I knew it was she! She cast a hasty
glance around the room, a glance that sought him. If I had not been
dazzled and fascinated by her appearance, I should have said at once:
'He's not here. Countess, you've come in vain.' But I was silent, and
allowed her to speak first, and then, when I had heard her voice, it
was too late. She asked for me, she wanted to find some pretext for
remaining until he returned, and I secretly admired her presence of
mind. She had seen some of my paintings in the house of a lady
acquaintance in Berlin, she said, and was so much pleased with them,
that while on a journey she had stopped in the city, to make my
acquaintance and learn whether she might hope to possess some of my
work, she did not care what, a plate with fruit painted on it, a vase,
or a flower piece in oils.
"At first her voice trembled, then she grew calmer and threw back her
veil. Oh! I understood her perfectly. She was now convinced that she
had nothing to fear from me, that the insignificant creature before her
could make no pretensions to offer any compensation for the happiness
virtuously disdained by the man, to whom she stood ready to give
herself. And she was right, I instantly said to myself. Must I, if
unhappy be so foolish also, as to deceive myself? And precisely because
I instantly lost all hope, I obtained the composure and clearness of
mind which I should not have preserved if either hope or defiance had
lingered in my heart. I answered her without the least embarrassment,
and showed her my portfolio, telling her that I now only painted for my
own amusement and gave my productions to my friends. 'Then of course I
have no hope of obtaining anything?' she said. I made no reply. Was I
to lie, by saying courteously that it would afford me pleasure to do
her a friendly service? But she did not expect it. She sat silently on
the sofa, and there was a long pause in the conversation between us.
Her eyes--what beautiful eyes she has!--wandered slowly and absently
around the room. 'Your husband works there!' she said at last, pointing
to his desk. 'And you sit yonder, close beside him, and it does not
disturb him?' She sighed involuntarily. Probably for a moment it seemed
to her as if she were destroying something that was good and beautiful
and worthy of existence. I could look at her closely. I don't know now
how I had the heart to do so. But she was so charming! 'Those eyes,' I
said to myself, 'have stolen your happiness, those red, full lips have
kissed him, drawn away from him all power to be happy with another
woman.' Strange as it was I sat there beside her, wishing I was lying a
hundred fathoms under the earth, and Edwin was sitting in my place.
Then I was angry with myself that I could be so impartial, so terribly
just, instead of looking at her with jealous rage and anger, for which
I really had good cause. 'She has come to triumph over you,' cried a
voice in my soul. 'She wants to outshine you, to tear him away from you
before your eyes, and you sit beside her and all you feel is a sense of
inexpressible sorrow.' I was beginning to hate myself, that I could
offer no better resistance to this magic. Then, without the slightest
pretext, she suddenly began to talk of my husband, inquired about him
like a perfect stranger, who had only seen him casually, and read more
things about him than by him. I don't know how it was--I ought to have
been too proud to speak of him, at least as I did, as we only pour out
to an intimate friend the deepest feelings of the heart about a person
we love. But I probably thought I owed it to myself, to show that I was
well aware what I had possessed and must lose in him. So I said just
what came into my mind, and she sat nodding silently, without uttering
a syllable, until I had talked myself in to an excited mood, and
suddenly paused with some commonplace apology. My heart throbbed almost
to bursting. The bitter anguish of the fact that we should be on such
terms, suddenly burst upon me. God knows what I was about to say, when
she rose, drew off her glove, and held out her hand, which in my
bewilderment I actually took. 'Thank you,' said she. 'How much I should
like to stay longer, for I see we understand each other in many things.
But I must go, or I shall be missed. Farewell, dear wife, may you be
happy. Think often--'
"She was about to add something, but her voice failed. Suddenly I felt
her throw her arms around me and press her beautiful lips three times
to mine; then before I could collect my thoughts, she had hurried out
of the room and I was alone with my shame and astonishment.
"No, precisely because she is better than I thought, I must make room
for her. I know now, for I have experienced it myself--he who has once
seen her can never forget her again; he whom she has once kissed, must
be her slave. But to be _her_ slave would cause no pain, while other
chains--No, no, he shall not bear this burden. I will go away, will not
play the base, unworthy part of a third person, who is merely
tolerated, secretly wished dead a thousand times. Besides, what is it?
Have I not possessed for four years, what must now be restored to the
hands of the rightful owner? Am I the first, or shall I be the last
woman, in whom a good, generous, noble man has been mistaken, when he
supposed she could fill his heart, and at whose feet he now, to the end
of his life, wishes to lay his duty, heroic, self-sacrificing? Fie, who
can accept such a sacrifice? Not I--not I--by my mother's blood, which
lives in me--not I!"
While uttering the last words, she had approached the door and now laid
her hand on the lock, saying: "Adieu! It is time--" when Franzelius
suddenly stood close beside her, placed his hand gently on her arm, and
looking steadily into her face, said:
"And yet notwithstanding all this, you will not go, Leah?"
"Not go? After all you have just heard?"
"No, Leah not even now."
She hastily released herself from his hold, and looked at him with
eyes flashing with anger; "I don't understand you, Reinhold. By what
right--"
"By what right do I interfere when you want to plunge into an abyss,
and drag Edwin with you? Can you ask, Leah? Must I explain to you, as
to a total stranger? Well then, I will remind you of what you have
forgotten, of him from whom I derive the right to fill a brother's
place to you and Edwin, because I promised him to do so, because it was
his legacy to me, a legacy, which I hold sacred and will fulfil to my
latest breath. If the living fails to persuade you to do your duty, to
perceive what your duty is--perhaps the dead may better succeed."
While he uttered these words he had approached the window and hastily
removed the covering from the bracket on the right. Under a square
glass cover, on a black cushion, lay Balder's death-mask, so warmly
illuminated by the lamplight, that the pure features of the beautiful,
still countenance, seemed to be animate with life. Leah sank back into
the chair in silence. In her first bewilderment she did not venture to
open her eyes.
"Take courage to look at him, dear friend," said Reinhold after a long
pause; "when you have conquered the first feeling of awe, you will
become more and more calm in the presence of this face. Do you not
think the resemblance very striking, seen from the side? Edwin's
_sister_ we might say. It was thus you saw this noble man for the first
and last time--you have never heard his voice, never seen his eyes or
his smile--you came too late. But believe me if he were now on earth,
he would not have used so many words as I; he would only have looked at
you, and to leave Edwin would have seemed impossible."
Still she did not utter a word, but sat on the chair in the middle of
the room with both hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes streaming
with tears, fixed steadily upon the pale profile. He did not know
whether she even heard what he said. But his heart was full and
overflowed again.