Three years had passed, it was the summer of 1856. Bright and hot, the
June sun shone upon the Valley of the Rhine ripening the vineyards that
hung upon its rocky declivities. The boat steaming down the Valley from
Mayence to the holy city of Cologne, had its sheltering awning
carefully stretched over the deck, and all went merrily on board,
merrily as ever. More beautiful landscapes there may be in the
world, but none that make the heart more glad. And so thought two
grave-looking men who had come aboard at Mayence that morning. They had
come from Austria, and were going to London; they did not want to miss
the opportunity of seeing the beautiful river, but at the beginning of
the journey they made but a poor use of the favourable day. They sat
there oppressed and scarcely looking up, consulting together about the
weighty business that lay on their shoulders. But an hour later, when
they got into Nassau, they yielded to the charm of the scenery, and as
they glided by Ruedesheim, they began to consider whether, after all,
the Rhine was not the proper place to drink Rhine-wine, and when they
passed the Castle called the Pfalz at Caub, they first saw this
venerable building through their spectacles, and then through the
green-gold light of the brimming glasses they were holding to their
eyes.
These two men were Dr. George Berger of Bolosch and a fellow barrister
from Vienna. They had a difficult task to perform in London. One of the
largest iron-foundries in Austria, that at Bolosch, had got into
difficulties, and an attempt to stave off bankruptcy had failed, less
from the action of the creditors, than from the miserable red-tapism of
the Chief Justice of Bolosch, Herr von Werner. The foundry, which
employed thousands of men, would be utterly ruined if it did not
succeed in obtaining foreign capital. With this object, these two
representatives of the firm were making their way to England.
On the Rhine, everybody forgets their cares and this was their
good-fortune too. And so greatly had the lovely river, which both now
saw for the first time, taken possession of their hearts, that they
could not part company with it even at Cologne, where most people went
ashore. They resolved to continue the journey by the river as far as
Arnhem, and they paced up and down the now empty deck cheerfully
talking in the cool of the evening. No mountains, no castles, were any
longer reflected in the stream, but the look of its shores was still
pleasant, and when they saw the light of dying day spread its rosy net
over the broad and swiftly flowing waters, they did not repent their
resolve, and extolled the day that had ended as beautiful as it had
begun.
The shades of evening fell, the banks of the river grew more and more
flat and bare, factories became more and more plentiful, and behind
Dusseldorf, they saw the red glare of countless blast-furnaces,
brightly glowing in the dark.
This sight reminded them of their task.
"Who knows," sighed Berger's friend Dr. Moldenhauer, "how soon these
fires at home may not be extinguished! And why? Because of the
narrow-mindedness of one single man. Nothing in my life ever roused my
indignation more than our dealings with your Chief Justice! What
pedantry! what shortsightedness! Now his predecessor, Baron Sendlingen,
was a different sort of man!"
Berger sighed deeply. "That he was!" he replied.
"The Werners stay, the Sendlingens go," continued Dr. Moldenhauer. "And
they are allowed to go cheerfully, nay, even forced to go! At least it
was generally said that, when Baron Sendlingen suddenly retired a few
years ago, it was not on account of heart-disease, as officially
reported, but because he had had a difference with the Minister of
Justice. The regret at this was so great that His Excellency had to
hear many a reproach."
"Perhaps unjustly for once," said Berger, heavy at heart.
"I don't think so," cried Moldenhauer. "Sendlingen certainly went away
in deep dudgeon, otherwise he would not have renounced his pension and
then left Austria for ever. Even his brother-in-law, Count Karolberg,
does not know where he has gone. You were very intimate with him, do
you know?"
"No!"
"Count Karolberg thinks he may have died suddenly in some of his
travels abroad."
"That too is possible," answered Berger shortly; he was anxious to drop
the subject.
But Moldenhauer stuck to his theme. "What a thousand pities it is!" he
continued. "How great a lawyer he was, his last work, 'On
Responsibility and Punishment in Child-murder,' which appeared
anonymously some three years ago, most clearly shows--You know the book
of course."
"Yes," said Berger, "but I doubt whether it is by Sendlingen." This was
an untruth, he had never doubted it.
"It is attributed to other writers as well," replied Dr. Moldenhauer,
"but his brother-in-law is convinced that it is by him. He says he
recognised the style and also some of the thoughts, which Sendlingen
explained to him in conversation. Whoever the author may be, he need
not have concealed his identity. The work is the finest ever written on
this subject and has made a great sensation. It is chiefly owing to its
influence, that our new penal code so definitely emphasizes the
question of unsoundness of mind in such crimes, and has so materially
lessened the punishment for them."
He talked for a long time of the excellencies of the work, but Berger
hardly heard him, and was silent and absent-minded for the rest of the
evening. When Moldenhauer retired to his cabin for the night, Berger
still remained on deck; he was fascinated, he said, by this wondrous
spectacle of the night.
And indeed the aspect of the scene was strange enough and not without
its charm. The moon-light lay in a faint glimmer on the stream that
here, having almost poured forth its endless waters, was slowly flowing
with a gentle murmur towards its grave, the vast sandy plain of the
sea. On the level shores, the dim light showed the distant, dusky
outlines of solitary high houses and windmills, and then again came
blast-furnaces, smoking and flaming, denser and denser was the forest
of them the further the boat glided on, and, here and there, where one
stood close to the shore, it threw its blood-red reflex far on to the
waters reaching almost to the boat, so that its lurid light and the
faint lustre of the celestial luminary, seemed to be struggling for the
mastery of it.
The lonely passenger on the deck kept his eyes riveted on the scene,
but his thoughts were far away. His recent conversation had powerfully
stirred up the memory of his unhappy friend.
Since that last letter he had received no line, no sign or token of any
sort from him. Why? he asked himself. From mistrust? Impossible. From
caution? That would be exaggerated; the writing on the envelope would
not betray to any meddlesome person in what corner of the earth he had
buried himself with his child. Besides he had no need to be
apprehensive of any inquiry; no one knew of his child, Victorine
Lippert's escape from prison had never been cleared up, the
investigation had soon after been discontinued without result. The
Governor of the Prison had been reprimanded for want of care in
searching the cell, the little door in the wall had been bricked up, so
that Herr von Werner had never been able to make use of the arrangement
which he had thought so "ingenious"--those were the only consequences.
Among the prison officials as among the lower classes, the opinion was
sometimes expressed that it was Count Riesner-Graskowitz who had
liberated his sweetheart, but this was not believed in higher circles;
against Sendlingen, however, there was never the slightest breath of
suspicion. Sendlingen himself must know this well enough, otherwise he
would not have dared to let his book appear, that curious work in which
every reader might perceive beneath the stiff, solid legal terminology,
the beatings of a deeply-moved heart. He had not put his name to it,
but he must have known that his name would rise to the lips of anyone
who had carefully read his earlier writings.
If he had not feared this, he might well have ventured upon a letter.
If he was none the less silent, it must be because he preferred to be
silent. Had he, perhaps, thought Berger, not had the courage to take
that second step, had he perhaps renounced the intention and was now
ashamed to confess it? That would be superfluous anxiety indeed. Is
there a man in the wide world, who would have the heart to blame him
for this?
Or was he silent because he could speak no more? The thought had never
entered his head before; now in this lonely hour of night it
overmastered him. Of course, his brother-in-law was right, he had died
a sudden death and now slept his last sleep somewhere in a strange land
and under a strange name. And if that were so, would it be cause for
complaint? Would not Death have been a deliverer here?
Softly murmuring, the waters of the river glided on, not a sound came
from its banks; in deep and solemn stillness, night lay upon the land
and waters. The solitary figure on deck alone could find no rest, and
the early dawn was trembling in the East over the distant hills of
Guelderland, ere he at length went in search of sleep.
He had scarcely rested a couple of hours when the steward knocked at
his cabin-door--the passengers were to come on deck, the boat was
approaching Lobith, on the Dutch frontier, where the luggage had to be
examined.
The two travellers answered to the call. The steamer was already
nearing the shore by the landing stage of the village of which the
custom-house seemed the only inhabitable building. The Dutch Customs
officers in their curious uniforms came on deck.
The were speedily finished with the luggage of the two lawyers, as also
with that of the few other passengers. On the other hand four mighty
trunks, which the Captain had with him, gave them much trouble. They
were full throughout of things liable to duty: new clothes, linen, lace
and articles of luxury. They required troublesome measuring, weighing
and calculation. Half an hour had passed, and scarcely the half had
been gone through.
"We shall miss the train at Arnhem," said Berger turning impatiently to
the Captain. "We must be in London to-morrow, you are responsible for
the delay."
"I shall make up the time by putting on steam," he reassuringly said in
his broad Cologne dialect. "Excuse me, Sir, but I did not imagine that
women's finery would take up so much time."
"You are getting a trousseau for a daughter, I suppose."
"God forbid! Thank Heaven, I am unmarried. I have, out of pure
goodnature, brought these things for someone else from Cologne and
undertaken to pay the duty for him. It is the most convenient thing to
him, though certainly not to me. But what would one not do for a
compatriot. He is a Herr von Tessenau."
"Tessenau?" The name seemed familiar to Berger, but he could not
remember where he had heard or read it.
"Yes, that is his name," said the captain. "He comes from Bavaria, and
is said to have been in the diplomatic service. He is now living with
his daughter at Oosterdaal House near Huissen, the station before
Arnhem. I know both of them well, they sometimes use my boat for the
journey to Arnhem, and as they are such nice people, I could not refuse
them this service. The wedding, which is to take place the day after
to-morrow, would otherwise have had to be postponed--ask women and
lovers."
"So Fraeulein von Tessenau is the happy bride?"
"The daughter of the old gentleman, yes--but she is a 'Frau,' a young
widow. Her name is von Tessenau, because she was married to a cousin.
It seems that she lost her husband after a brief married life, for she
is still very young, scarcely twenty-two. A beautiful, gentle lady and
still looks quite girlish. But I must hurry up these easy-going
Mynheers."
He turned to the Customs officers and paid them the required duty. They
left the steamer which now began to proceed at a much greater speed.
Notwithstanding this, Moldenhauer was pacing up and down excitedly, now
and then consulting timetables and pulling out his watch every five
minutes. It was another cause that robbed Berger of calm. "If it should
be they?" The thought returned to him however often he might say:
"Nonsense! an old father and a young daughter--the conjunction is
common enough--and I know nothing else about them. That I must often
have heard the name Tessenau tells rather against the supposition--for
Sendlingen would hardly have chosen the name of some Austrian family
for his pseudonym!"
Still his indefinite presentiment gave him no rest, and he at length
went up to the captain! "I once," he began, "knew a family of von
Tessenau, and would be very pleased if I were perhaps unexpectedly to
come across them here. The old gentleman, you say, comes from Bavaria?"
"Yes, you must certainly be a countryman of his?"
"No. I am an Austrian."
"Then the two dialects must be very much alike for you speak just like
him. That he comes from Bavaria I know for certain. Herr Willem van der
Weyden told me so quite recently, and he must surely know, as he is to
become his son-in-law."
"Who is the bridegroom?"
"A capital fellow," replied the captain. "A man of magnificent
build--no longer young, somewhere in the forties I should say, but
stately, brave and capable--all who know him, praise him. He holds a
high position in Batavia, he is manager of the Java Mines. Some ten
months ago he came back to Europe, after a long absence, on a year's
furlough: to find a wife, people say. None seemed to please him
however. Then he came to Arnhem where his brother is settled, and in an
excursion in the country about, he accidentally got to know the young
Frau von Tessenau at Oosterdaal House, and fell in love with her. There
seemed at first to be great obstacles in the way; at all events he was
always very melancholy when he rode on my boat from Arnhem to Huissen.
Well one day he was very happy, the betrothal was solemnized, and now
the wedding is to come off. Yes," added the Captain pleasantly, "when
one is everlastingly taking the same journey, one gets to know people
by degrees and kills time by sharing their joys and sorrows."
"And is Herr van der Weyden going back to Java again?"
"Yes, in a month from now, when his furlough will be up. He is
naturally going to take his young wife with him, and the old gentleman
is going to join them too. He has no other relations. The father and
daughter lived hitherto in great retirement with an old house-keeper
and an equally old man-servant. But if you are interested in the
family, come and look over when we get to Huissen. The old man-servant
at least, will be at the landing-stage to receive the trunks, and
perhaps Herr von Tessenau himself."
"Do you know what the man-servant is called?" Berger's voice trembled
at this question.
"Franz is his name."
The captain did not notice how pale Berger had become, how hastily he
turned away. "No more room for doubt," he thought. But the doubt did
rise again. That some details agreed, might only be a coincidence, and
the name of the man-servant--such a common name--was not sufficient
proof. Besides how much was against the supposition! It was
inconceivable that Sendlingen should have deceived his future
son-in-law and passed off Victorine as a widow! "It would be outrageous
to impute such a thing to him!" he thought.
With growing impatience, he looked out for the landing-stage, the
steamboat had long since left the river and was steaming along the
narrow Pannerden Canal. The monotonous, fruitful, thoroughly Dutch
landscape extended far and wide; rich meadows on which cattle were
pasturing; narrow canals, on which heavily laden boats drawn by horses
on the banks, slowly made their way; on the horizon a few windmills
lazily turned by their large sails. At length a few large, villa-like
buildings came in sight.
"That is Huissen," said the Captain. "We will see who is at the
landing-stage." He produced a telescope. "Right, there is the
man-servant," he said, handing Berger the telescope. "See if you know
the man."
Berger only held the glass to his eye for a second and then handed it
back to the Captain.
"No," he said, "I don't know him, it must be another family of von
Tessenau."
He went down to the cabin and stayed there, till the boat had got well
beyond the landing-stage.
It had been Franz.
Berger had to stay in London a week before his task was done. He left
the completion of the agreement to his colleague, and began his journey
home. At first he intended to go by Dover and Calais. But at the
station in London he was overcome by his feelings; he could not let his
friend depart forever without seeing him again. He went back by
Holland, and the next day was in Arnhem.
Not until he was in the carriage which he had hired to take him to
Oosterdaal, was he visited by scruples, the same sort of feeling which
a week before had kept him from remaining on the deck of the steamer.
Was it not indelicate and selfish to gratify his own longing at the
price of deeply and painfully stirring up his friend's heart?
Sendlingen did not wish to see him again, otherwise he would have
written and told him of his whereabouts. And what would he not feel if
he was so suddenly reminded of the fatality of his life, if his wounds
were suddenly torn open again just as they were beginning to heal? And
when Berger thought of Victorine, he altogether lost courage to
continue the journey. Unfriendly,--nay it would be cruel, inhuman, to
remind the newly-married girl of the misery of the past, and to plunge
her in fatal embarrassment.
The roof of the house was already visible in the distance above the
tops of the trees, when these reflections overmastered Berger. "Stop,
back to Arnhem!" he ordered the driver.
But that could not be done at once; the horses would have to be fed
first, explained the driver. The carriage proceeded still nearer the
house, and stopped at a little friendly-looking inn opposite the
entrance to the avenue of poplars which led up to the door. While the
driver drove into the yard, the landlady suggested to Berger to take
the refreshment he had ordered in front of the house. This, however, he
declined and entered the inn-parlour. His remorse increased every
minute, and he feared to be seen, if by chance one of the occupants of
the house went by.
Sighing deeply, he looked out of the window at the driver leisurely
unharnessing his horses. The landlady, a young, plump, little woman,
tried to console him by telling him he would not have to wait more than
an hour. She spoke in broken German; she had been maid to the young
German lady up at the house, she said, and had learnt the language
there. They were kind, good people at Oosterdaal, the driver had told
her that the gentleman was going to have driven there, why had he given
up the idea? They would certainly be very glad to see a countryman
again, even if he were only a slight acquaintance. No German had ever
come to see them, not even at the wedding. The festivities had
altogether been very quiet, but very nice. Had the gentry no relations
in Germany then?
"How can I tell you," replied Berger impatiently. "I don't know them."
"Indeed?" she asked astonished. "Then I suppose you have come to buy the
house?" Several people had been with that intention, she added, but
Herr von Tessenau had already made it over to his son-in-law, and he to
his brother, Herr Jan van der Weyden. In a fortnight they were all
going to Batavia. The Housekeeper, Fraeulein Brigitta, too, and the old
German man-servant. "But won't you go up to the house after all?" she
asked again. Before he could answer, however, she cried out: "There
they come!" and flew to the window.
A carriage went by at a leisurely trot. "Do come here," cried the
landlady. Berger had retired deeper into the room, but he could still
plainly see his friend. Sendlingen was looking fresher and stronger
than when he saw him last; but his hair had the silver-white hue of old
age, although he could hardly have reached the middle of the fifties.
But in the young, blooming, happy woman at his side, Berger would
scarcely have recognized his once unfortunate client, if he had met her
under other circumstances. She was just laughingly bending forward
and straightening the tie of her husband opposite her. The stately,
fair-haired man smilingly submitted to the operation.
"How happy they are!" cried the landlady. "But they deserve it. Why the
carriage is stopping," she cried, bending out of the window. "What an
honour, they are going to come in."
Berger turned pale. But in the next instant he breathed again: the
carriage drove on. "Oh, no!" cried the landlady, "only Franz has got
down! Good day!" she cried to the old man as he went by. "A glass of
wine!"
"No," answered Franz. "I am only to tell you to come up to the house.
But for the matter of that as I _am_ here----"
Then Berger heard his footsteps approaching on the floor outside; the
door was opened. "Well, a glass of----" he began, but the words died on
his lips. Pale as death, he started back and stared at Berger as if he
had seen a ghost.
"It is I, Franz," said Berger, himself very pale. "Don't be afraid--I
only want----"
"You have come to warn us?" he exclaimed, trembling all over as he
approached Berger. "It is all discovered, is it not?"
"No!" replied Berger. "Why, what is there to discover?"
He made a sign to draw Franz's attention to the landlady, who was
inquisitively drinking in the scene.
"I am glad to see you," he said meaningly. "I am going to continue my
journey at once."
"Excuse me, Marie," said Franz, turning to her, "but I have something
to say to this gentleman. He is an old acquaintance."
"After all!" she cried, and left the room shaking her head.
"She will listen," whispered Berger. "Come here, Franz, and sit beside
me."
"Oh, how terrified I am," he replied in the same whisper. "So people
suspect nothing? It would have been frightful if misfortune had come
now, now, when everything is going so well. Certainly my fears were
foolish; how should it be found out? We had arranged everything with
such care: even the duplicate keys were not made at Bolosch, but at
Dresden, where Brigitta was waiting for us."
"Enough!" said Berger, checking him. "I don't wish to know anything
about it. How has Baron Sendlingen been since?"
"Bad enough at first!" replied Franz. "We did not eat, nor sleep, and
we fell into a worse decline than at Bolosch--but it was perhaps less
from the fear of discovery than from remorse. And yet we had only done,
what had to be done--isn't that so, Dr. Berger?"
Berger looked on the ground and was silent. Old Franz sighed deeply.
"If even you--" he began, but he interrupted himself and continued his
story. "Gradually we became calmer again. Fear vanished though remorse
remained, but for this too there was a salve in seeing how the poor
child blossomed again. Then we began to write a book. It deals with the
punishment of--h'm. Dr. Berger----"
"I know the work," said Berger.
"Indeed? We did not put our name to it. Well, while we were working at
the book, we forgot our own sorrow, and later on, after the work had
appeared and all the newspapers were saying that it would have great
influence, there were moments when we seemed happy again. Then came
this business with the Dutchman, and we got as sad and despairing as
ever. But we took courage and told the man everything; our real name,
and that we were only called von Tessenau here----"
"How did he come by this name?" asked Berger. "It sounds so familiar to
me."
"Probably because it is one of the many titles of the family. Tessenau
was the name of an estate in Carinthia, which once belonged to the
family. We were obliged to choose this name, because on settling here
it was necessary to prove our identity to the police. Well, we
confessed this to Herr Willem and also what the young lady's plight
was----"
Berger gave a sigh of relief.
"We said to him: she is not called von Tessenau because she was married
to a cousin, but because we adopted the name here with the proper
formalities. She was never married, she was betrayed by a scoundrel.
That we said no more, nothing of the deed that brought her to prison,
nothing of the way she was released--that, Dr. Berger, is surely
excusable."
"Of course!" assented Berger. "And Herr van der Weyden?"
"Acted bravely and magnanimously, because he is a brave and magnanimous
man, God bless him! He made her happy, her and himself. And now at
length we got peace of heart once more. We are going to Batavia. May it
continue as heretofore!"
"Amen!" said Berger deeply moved. "Farewell, Franz."
"You are not going up to the house?"
"No. Don't tell him of my visit till you are on the sea. And say to him
that I will always think of him with love and respect. With _respect_,
Franz, do not forget that!"
He shook hands with the old servant, got into his carriage, and drove
back to Arnhem.