In very truth the feeling that he had done wrong in thus opening his
heart to Erna had come back in renewed strength to Bertram, since he
had to admit to himself that he had emphatically broken his own dictum
that bygones were to be bygones. The past was no longer a secret
between those concerned; and what would henceforth happen--each word,
each look which they exchanged, all, all would have a sense, a meaning
for somebody else--for the beautiful girl who was so grave beyond her
years, the girl with the great, still, godlike eyes.
Thus Bertram was profoundly in earnest when he declined to accept
Erna's praise; but, anyhow, he hoped that the worst was over now.
How greatly he was mistaken in this, came most painfully home to him
with the first stolen glimpse which he ventured to take of Lydia's face
in the pitiless radiance of the bright candles which shone upon the
round table in the dining-room, where he sat opposite her. Was that
really ... Lydia? Or had some mischievous imp, by cruel witchcraft, put
a caricature of herself in her place, and changed the picture of the
bright and gifted girl, overflowing with jest and fun, with humour and
wit; the girl with the somewhat irregular but most piquant features,
with the big, light-blue, mischievous eyes, fresh and rosy of colour,
with wild, fluttering, blonde locks, into the picture of an aging
coquette, for ever pouting her thin lips, even when she laughed, so as
to hide her false teeth; now lowering, now lifting her eyelids, like an
actress, in vain endeavouring to give some light to her eyes--a light
as treacherous as the all too bright pinkiness of the lean cheek, the
all too dark carmine of the ears, adorned though they were with
sparkling diamonds? An ugly old woman, who now let the gold embroidered
white silk shawl glide from the scraggy shoulders, only to draw it up
again immediately and attempt a more picturesque drapery--which was not
a success, so that the game had to be renewed forthwith!
And he had once loved this painted, dressed-up, revoltingly coquettish
person; had loved her with the best, purest strength of his heart, as,
but a little while ago, he had assured Erna with passionate eagerness.
It was horrible! Would Erna believe that yonder withered shrub had ever
blossomed in vernal brightness and beauty? How could she believe it,
when she looked at the friend of Lydia's youth, her own mother, whose
majestic beauty was barely touched by Time in his flight? Her great
brown eyes had lost none of their velvety softness, her raven hair
still shone in undimmed splendour. And if the difference in appearance,
in manner, was now so great between the two ladies, must it not always
have existed? And must not the taste of a man, whose feelings could at
any time have led him so far astray, have been at all times most
lamentable?
And if the pitiless brightness had brought so terrible a discovery to
him, how would he himself appear before Erna's searching gaze? Had not
some horrible change taken place with him too? Why, these twenty years
had altered Erna's father, who at college had been rightly surnamed
'The Beauty,' into an excessively stout gentleman, with a somewhat
bloated countenance, and a mighty skull, which was getting painfully
bald in the region of the temples! And he himself had never been
distinguished for personal attraction; true, his hair was as dark as
ever; and, before supper, in the glass, he had thought that he saw a
pale and grave, but not a worn, face. But then the complaisant mirror
of vanity might make one fancy one saw all sorts of things. No doubt
Lydia had just such a mirror in her room!
Bertram felt more and more sad at heart. He no longer dared lift his
eyes, but kept them fixed upon the plates, which the servants changed
without his having tasted any of the dishes to which he helped himself
mechanically. So he sat on, scarcely hearing a word of the
conversation, which was principally carried on by Lydia and the Baron.
Apparently they were talking about some Court affairs, and very amusing
and piquant they would appear to be. Anyhow, there was much laughter,
chiefly on the part of Lydia and the Baron, and My Lady held up her
hand once or twice, and reminded the two of the respect due to the
Grand Ducal family. Then the conversation touched upon the approaching
man[oe]vres, and the Baron proclaimed his minute knowledge of every
detail, and endeavoured to explain to the ladies, with the help of
spoons and forks and what not, the original positions both of the
attacking party and the attacked, and duly weighed the various events
which might or must occur, according whether the commanding officers
did or did not take certain steps. Under any circumstances, the
decisive portion of the sham-fight must come off in the immediate
neighbourhood of Rinstedt itself, if not in Rinstedt itself;
unfortunately, the ground being singularly unsuitable for cavalry, the
ultimate issue would lie between artillery and infantry. He himself,
said the Baron, having formerly been a cavalry officer, was very sorry
for that; but, anyhow, the ladies, could look forward to a glorious
sight. What, a pity, he added, that in spite of his having so many
friends in the army, he did not chance to have any personal
acquaintances among the officers of this particular regiment.
"Well, I know a number of them," said the host. "The 99th were
stationed at Erfurt until a twelvemonth ago. I used to meet the
officers over and over again out shooting."
"Then," said the Baron, turning to Lydia, "you must know some of them
too. They are sure to have attended some of our Court balls."
"Of course," the lady replied; "and they were also in the habit of
coming over in shoals to the play; but who is to distinguish one red
collar from another? Not I! I love plain, quiet, civilian colours. Ask
Erna; she is sure to know. She spent six weeks last summer with her
Aunt Adelheid in Erfurt, and there the officers, are constantly coming
and going. Is it not so, Erna?"
"You are forgetting," said Erna, "that aunt was in mourning at the
time. Of course there were no parties then."
"But still," the Baron observed, "people go to a house without being
actually bidden to parties, inspire of the family being in mourning, if
there are six marriageable daughters in it, as is the case in your
aunt's house."
"Possibly; then my power of discriminating between different red
collars is not more strongly developed than Aunt Lydia's; anyhow, I do
not remember any one of the gentlemen."
This was uttered in such a stern tone, as of one who would decline to
pursue the subject, that Bertram looked up involuntarily. Her dainty
features were perfectly composed, but the blue eyes, which she was
bending upon him, not upon her interlocutor the Baron, seemed to have a
deeper radiance than that of suppressed annoyance. This was the first
time that their looks had met across the table, and a curious thrill
passed through his frame. He felt the hot blood surging to his temples;
and to mask his growing embarrassment, he asked who was in command of
the regiment in question.
"Colonel von Waldor," the Baron replied promptly.
"I knew an officer of that name," said Bertram, "long ago, in Berlin;
at that time he had been told off to the Military Academy of that town.
For some years I kept up a correspondence with him, but somehow I lost
sight of him afterwards. But I rather think that was not his regiment?"
"No," replied the Baron. "You are quite right; he used to be in the
210th. He got the colonelcy of the 99th about a year ago. He made quite
a name for himself in the '70 campaign."
"Even at the time I recall, my friend was considered a very smart
officer," said Bertram.
"No doubt, no doubt," replied the Baron; "it must be the same man. As
far as I know, there are not two Waldors in the army, at least not
among regimental commanders, for I think I know all their names by
heart. Your Colonel is a queer fish, anyhow."
"What is a 'queer fish'?" asked Lydia, touching the Baron's arm with
her fan.
He laughed, and said: "Well, that question is more easily asked than
answered."
"Then, pray, do not answer it at all," said Hildegard, the hostess,
glancing at her daughter Erna.
"Why not, my Lady?" the Baron exclaimed. "It is harmless enough to let
the facts speak, and it is a fact that Waldor who--I do not know him
personally, but Dr. Bertram will assuredly confirm my statement--was
known throughout the army not only on account of his gallantry, but
also on account of his manly beauty, and who had consequently broken
countless hearts, is still a bachelor."
"You say 'consequently,'" exclaimed Lydia, "and consequently you think
very meanly of our sex."
"How so?"
"Well, you seem to assume that manly beauty suffices to touch--or, as
you are pleased to call it, to break--female hearts. Alas, my dear
Baron, how little do you know our sex!"
"I beg a thousand pardons--but I really said nothing of the kind. Venus
and Mars--the alliance of valour and beauty, you know--your poets know
something of this. Why, there is a poet here among us--let him speak up
for me!"
With these last words the Baron had turned to Bertram; his tone and the
accompanying gesture had something insultingly patronising about them;
in fact, in Bertram's eye the whole demeanour of the young man,
almost a giant in stature, was saturated with an arrogant sort of
self-complacency, which seemed to take unanimous applause for granted.
Nevertheless he replied with calm politeness:
"I neither consider myself a poet, nor am I, to the best of my
knowledge, considered one by anybody who has read the few miserable
trifles in verse which I published years ago."
"I protest against this most emphatically," exclaimed Lydia. "I have
read those 'miserable trifles in verse,' as you call them--what a
horrible expression. I know them by heart, and I consider the author to
be a poet--a poet by grace divine."
"I am extremely obliged to you," replied Bertram. "However, surely what
a man is born for is wont to announce itself, sooner or later, in a
man's own heart. With me that voice is absolutely silent; and,
therefore, I might surely claim the right of refusing to give the
evidence required of me. But not being specially qualified, and being
absolutely impartial, I would fain warn my friends not to repose
overmuch confidence in poets on that particular point. Anxious for the
applause of the many, as their trade seems to demand, they accommodate
themselves but too readily to the taste of the many, who, as we all
know, like very children, seize eagerly upon anything bright,
glistening, motley-coloured. Therefore, why should they not picture the
heroine as beautiful beyond compare, the hero as valorous beyond
comparison, and heap any number of additional titles to fame upon their
blessed heads! Whether one quality does not perchance exclude another,
whether the measure dealt out does not, anyhow, exceed all that is
reasonably possible--dear, dear, there are few who'll ask that
question; and if any one does, why, then, he is a pedant, and for
pedants the heroes of romance have no existence, any more than real
heroes have for their valets."
"Oh! you scoffer--you wretch!" exclaimed Lydia. "Why, you will prove
next that beauty, that valour, that every virtue in the world, belongs
to the region of romance. What a terrible thing scepticism is! But our
friend was ever thus. Did I not say a short while ago: Hildegard, I
cannot believe that he has changed; he cannot change! And behold, he
is exactly what he always was!"
"Well, that's coming it pretty strong, seeing it's twenty years since
..."
The corpulent host had laughingly given utterance to these words, then,
feeling his wife's dark eyes bent upon him in stern disapproval, he
broke off abruptly with Ahem! poured some wine into his own glass,
which was but half emptied, and then wanted to know why the gentlemen
present were not doing justice to the wine that night.
Bertram, wishing to relieve his friends in their evident embarrassment,
came to the rescue, saying, with smiling, easy politeness: "Fraeulein
von Aschhof only proves by her kind assertion of my immutability, that
she is indeed looking upon the world and mankind with a poetical eye.
But let us remember this--the poets themselves allow only the fair sex
to participate in the pleasing prerogative of the calmly careless ever
youthful gods; and the poets may venture on this deception, because the
listener is willing to be deceived. 'Breathes there a man with soul so
dead,' who ever ventured to count up the years of an Antigone, an
Iphigenia, a Helena? They are what they were--else they are not. But,
even the poet's flattering arts cannot keep the man from aging; and if
the poet would grant perennial youth to a man, he must needs let him
die in his youth--like Achilles."
"I protest against this theory," Lydia exclaimed eagerly. "I assert
that heroes age as little as heroines."
"Even that," Bertram replied with a smile, "would not help me, seeing
that I am no hero, assuming even that you were right. But I may be
permitted to indulge in some humble doubt. At best the hero of the
Odyssey appears distinctly as a man of mature age,--to put it
mildly,--and Pallas Athene must practise upon him her divine art of
beautifying before she ventures to introduce him among the Phaeaci."
The Baron was meanwhile playing with his spoons and forks again; he was
evidently annoyed at having been so long kept out of the conversation.
Bertram went on as though he did not notice it at all; he very surely
was not speaking for that fellow's sake. He only cared to clear himself
in Erna's eyes from any suspicion that he, like the aged coquette
opposite him, was laying claim to a juvenility which had gone by for
ever; and seeing those eyes steadily bent upon him, he took heart of
grace, and went on in the same tone of easy, good-humoured banter--
"Goeethe, a modern, and in this case a tragic, poet too, in his
Nausicaan fragments, wisely forebore to bring in that art of
beautifying, which is only lawful for the epic poet in his antique
naivety, and in order to bridge over the mighty difference and distance
of years, and to change the evidently improbable into something at
least credible, he takes refuge in illusion, causing it to arise from
the child's very heart, like a fog enveloping those pure eyes, that
clear mind--
'That man must ever be a youthful man,
Who is well-pleasing to a maiden's eyes.'[1]
Thus the aged nurse, taking the unspoken words, as it were, from
Nausicaa's chaste lips. A touching saying, touching, like children's
belief in the omnipotence of their parents! And about that
youthfulness, which exists nowhere except in the glorious dreams of a
young, inexperienced, generous soul, well, Goethe has told us something
with exquisite humour, not, as true humour indeed never is, without a
touch of melancholy, in the novelette of the man of fifty. Poor old
Major! I have always been heartily sorry for him. Remember how he begs
the services of the valet (skilled in the use of cosmetics) from his
friend the great actor; how that adroit official uses his balm, and his
stays, and his wadding for the aged gentleman, and yet cannot save the
diseased front tooth, and certainly cannot keep fair Hilarie from
falling vehemently in love with young Flavio, solely because she sees
him in raptures with the clever widow, solely because in Flavio's
raptures she beholds for the first time a representation of genuine,
ardent, youthful passion. All this is as true as it is charming, as
charming as it is melancholy, at least for the reader who is in a
position to test the hero's experiences and sentiments by his own
sentiments and experiences."
"Of course; 'there's no fool like an old fool,' and I suppose that
really is the final outcome of the whole business," said the Baron.
"How dare you talk of things you know nothing about, you prosaic
individual?" exclaimed Lydia, bringing her fan down upon the giant's
arm. "There is no talk of old people here. A man of fifty is not old,
he is in the prime of life, and is often ten times younger than your
used-up so-called young gentlemen. But I must really say something for
Goethe against our 'learned friend.' Yes, yes, my friend, I know the
novelette well; I read it aloud to the Court barely a week ago. Who
bids you take a comedy in that tragic way?--for the novelette in
question is a comedy--a 'Comedy of Errors.' Hilarie fancies she is in
love with the uncle, and really loves Flavio; Flavio fancies himself in
love with the young widow, whilst really he loves Hilarie; and how the
Major--well, I think the final scene at the inn proves emphatically
that he had only turned his feelings to--to--to--the wrong address, if
I may venture upon the expression; and that he and the clever widow
subsequently became a happy pair is perfectly clear to me. Or, do you
think not?"
A warning glance flashed from Hildegard's dark eyes. Lydia positively
blushed through her layers of paint. She had shown her hand too
plainly!
Bertram struggled successfully against a strong inclination to smile;
nay, curiously enough, something like pity for her indiscretion stirred
within him. He went on--
"To be sure, you are right, right, above all, in calling the novelette
a comedy. How little Goethe cared to have a tragic conflict is evident
from the fact that he chose circumstances as favourable as possible for
a happy conclusion, and that he from the very beginning secured a line
of retreat for every one concerned. The Major is the uncle of Hilarie,
the only daughter of his widowed mother, and he has doubtless acted the
part of father to her--has, up till now, loved her as his own child.
His rival, in whose favour he resigns his claims, is his own only son,
to whom he is also very much attached, and with whom he is on excellent
terms, whom he in fact treats like a comrade. Again, behind Hilarie, as
she vanishes from him, stands as it were the young widow; and in her
arms the Major will speedily forget the small humiliation. And lastly,
and this seems to me to be the chief point, Goeethe has wisely avoided
to introduce the one element whereby he would have been enabled, nay
compelled, to turn the comedy into tragedy; he has ... but I beg pardon
of our fair hostess for being so garrulous. To be sure, it is high time
we rose from table!"
Truly enough, the turn which the conversation had taken had, for Erna's
sake, been unwelcome to her mother. So she seized the opportunity and
rose from table. Erna, who had sat without turning her gaze from
Bertram, took a deep breath, like some one who is being recalled from
deep dreams to the consciousness of present realities, and followed the
example of the others. She and Bertram were the last couple that left
the dining-room on their return to the garden-saloon, which had
meanwhile been lighted up, and Bertram thought she was walking very
slowly--on purpose.
"What was the one element, Uncle Bertram?" she asked.
"What one element?"
He knew what she meant; but he had broken off at table, because he
himself dreaded the utterance of the word. So he delayed his reply, and
just then his host appeared, bringing cigars: the gentlemen might smoke
on the verandah, whilst Lydia would give them some music.
"You remember, Charles, do you not," he went on, "the _sonata
pathetique_--that used to be your favourite piece? And Lydia has
practised it often since, I think."
Lydia was ready. Bertram, however, begged to be excused from remaining.
He felt, he said, after all, tired with the day's journey, and it was
but the charm of their company which had made him forget that he was
still a convalescent. He barely gave Hildegard time to draw him aside,
and to say to him in a whisper--
"You really are most amiable. How good of you to take it so kindly. I
had not at dinner to-day courage enough to make my confession. Indeed I
have to confess, to say much to you--to-morrow ..."
"To-morrow be it, fair friend," said Bertram, kissing the lady's hand,
bowing to the rest, and making hastily for the door. He had not reached
it before Erna was by his side.
"You used to say good-night to me less formally."
He did not venture to press a kiss on the proffered brow, but only took
her hand.
The great grave eyes gazed at him as though they would fain read what
was passing in his inmost soul.
"Good-night, dear child," he said hurriedly.
"Good-night," she replied slowly, letting his hot, trembling hand glide
out of her own cool little one.
"It is lucky," said Bertram to himself, after he had dismissed Konski,
and as he stood alone by the open window in his bedroom, "it is very
lucky, indeed, that it is not very easy to read what is passing in
somebody else's soul. She would have found queer reading!"
He leaned out of the window and gazed into the darkness. Not a breath
of air. From the garden below the fragrance of mignonette was wafted
up; the brook murmured aloud; a thin white veil was spread over the
valley, with here and there a dim speck of light. The sky was
cloudless, of deep blue, almost black colour; the moon looked like a
mass of gold, and one solitary star near it shone forth in red
splendour.
Bertram recalled just such a night, long years ago, when a friend, the
assistant-astronomer, had given Erna's father and himself the
opportunity of witnessing, from the Bonn Observatory, the transit of
that same star--Aldebaran--through the moon! Afterwards he had
accompanied Otto back to Poppelsdorf, and Otto had in his turn walked
back with him to the Pfoertchen in Bonn; and so backward and forward,
all through the mild summer's night, until the light of morning had
come, and the birds were beginning to twitter in the leafy crowns of
the chestnut trees. And they had been raving of friendship and love--of
the love they both, most fraternally, cherished for one and the same
black-eyed beauty, the daughter of one of their professors, and they
had both been sublimely happy, all their misery notwithstanding, for
the black-eyed one was known to love another--"Great Heaven, how long,
how long ago? A generation, and more. And now ...?"
"Now," he went on, "you are about to fall in love with the daughter
of the same man whom then you rivalled in absurdly exaggerated,
donkey-like phantasies--with a girl of eighteen, whose father you could
be. And this time you would not get off with raving incoherently for a
night of two, and with scribbling a few mediocre sonnets! Be
reasonable, old man. Let it go--let it go! You know full well you can
have no abiding place here, any more than the horseman in the
Piccolomini. Behind you, too, as you ride along, crouches the lean
companion and clasps you in his bony arms, and every now and again taps
at your heart, to test if it is still stupid enough to throb for a
beauteous maiden who is seated by the window among wallflowers and
rosemary.
"And behind the curtain stands her lover, and bends across her, that
he, too, may look upon the mad horseman, who is stretching out his neck
to see his darling. And the clumsy fellow with the bull's neck wrinkles
his silly brow, twirls his mustachio, strokes his beard, mutters _Mort
de ma vie!_ and shakes his coarse fist. But she pouts, and giggles and
bursts out laughing, and falls on the neck of the jealous one ...
"No, no; it cannot be! You only want to hear from her lips that it
cannot be. And then--away, away--ride out of the gate--to swift,
honourable death. And God's blessing on thee, thou gentle, lovely, and
beloved child!"
He closed the window gently, and so to bed; to bed, but not to sleep.
He could not find that repose he stood so much in need of. The brook
murmured so loudly, or was it the hot bloody surging to his temples?
And was he about to sink into slumber, he would start up again
immediately; he seemed again, to be holding her by the hand, and she
bent her forehead to be kissed by him.
"No--no! Lead me not into temptation! Do not ask me what the one thing
is! I would not say it, even, if--what God forbid!--it were so. I will
not let you beguile me into a tragedy, any more than from one comedy
into another."