On the occasion of former visits at Rinstedt Bertram had repeatedly
seen Agatha, and had always been on the best of terms with the ever
equally pleasant, amiable child. Now, of course she had, like Erna,
developed during the last few years into a maiden, though one could not
say that she had gained by the process of metamorphosis. The blonde
hair now was almost red, freckles abounded unpleasantly on brow and
cheek, and an awkward tendency to one side had become an undoubted
lurch; so that, taking all these things together, one might indeed be
tempted to take the nickname "Granny," which Erna had bestowed upon her
cousin and bosom friend, not in its moral meaning alone. But the bright
blue eyes had faithfully preserved the old, dear expression; nay, even
more openly than of old, there spoke out of them a heart full of
kindliest goodwill to all men, desirous of riving in peace and
friendship with all men, and seeming not so much to loathe as simply
not to comprehend the evil emotions and passions of the human heart.
So gentle a creature, made but for sympathy in joy or in sorrow, could
scarcely have found the requisite courage to destroy even the
commonplace illusions of a commonplace heart, and would most likely
have recoiled from the mere attempt to lay violent hands upon a heart
like Erna's, deviating as it did so greatly from the humdrum, everyday
pattern. And, again, Bertram had to drop the suspicion which at first
had come to him in his perplexity; to wit, that Agatha had, whether in
carelessness or intentionally, blabbed about something confided to her
by Erna. Such a thing would have been in downright contradiction to the
character of the girl, who was as clever as she was good; and, lastly,
that he himself should have betrayed his feelings to the rest--that was
absolutely impossible. He was only too painfully conscious of having
from the very first moment put a most careful guard on his conduct, of
having weighed his every word, controlled his every smile and look: of
course he had! Why, he recoiled in horror from the very thought that
Erna might discover his great secret; it was certain that she had not
discovered it, and how could others have done so?
But why should they, again, not have seen, and seen in envy,
uncharitableness, and terror, what it was the utmost delight to him to
see? Though he, in the full consciousness of his love, in the anxious
doubt as to whether that love was not a folly, a crime even, had put
the utmost restraint upon himself, yet Erna had assuredly not been
equally careful in expressing her feelings, whose real significance she
might guess at, though most assuredly she could not measure it. Why,
the most harmless and innocent things in the attentions she was
spoiling him with, the many kindly little offices which she did for him
without any fuss, _en passant_, as it were--all these things might have
been malevolently criticised and viciously explained, suspicion being
once aroused one way or the other!
And that such must be the case he could scarcely doubt any longer, when
he submitted the demeanour of the others towards him during the last
few days to a subsequent examination. Thus, in the light of newly-won
knowledge, sundry things stood out in a very marked way, which, under
other circumstances, he would either not have heeded, or anyhow have
interpreted differently. His beautiful hostess, who used to avail
herself of every tete-a-tete with him to turn their talk to Erna and
the Baron, had not resumed her favourite topic of conversation; and, on
the other hand, Lydia now manifested infinite interest in Erna, and
never wearied of starting contemplative talks in reference to the
qualities of her former pupil, wondering how one should represent to
oneself the future of such a singular being as likely to develop
itself. The Baron had still, on each Occasion when Bertram and he had
met, overflowed with civility, but had yet tormented him less often
with challenges to billiard-matches and to contests in pistol-shooting,
but had on the other hand undertaken more frequent solitary shooting
expeditions--neither Bertram nor Otto, their host, cared for shooting,
as it happened--and had extended them farther too. Otto himself had
certainly and most clearly avoided him. At first he had thought that
Otto did it to avoid new and painful discussions in reference to his
financial position, but Bertram now assumed that it was done lest Otto
should distinctly show that he was angry with his friend for Erna's
sake, or, what--with his natural weak readiness to yield--came
virtually to the same thing, that he had been bidden by the ruling
spirit to be angry with Bertram.
These were curiously mixed feelings which were roused within him by his
recognition of the new position he so suddenly found himself in. He
said to himself that the things which caused anxiety and terror to his
adversaries were for himself objects of joy and triumph, and
constituted the clearest proof that he had not only dreamed a dream of
rapturous delight. And to be sure, his love could not for ever remain
in the far-off regions of starry splendour; it was bound some time to
approach this earth, to become visible to the dull, mole-like eyes of
these men. But then again, putting himself in the place of these
others, and examining himself and his love, as these others were
undoubtedly doing, he would hear anew, and this time from the lips of
unjust accusers, the old evil questions which he thought had long ago
been done with, to wit--Is your longing and your desire really and
truly free from every vestige of selfishness, from every frivolous
admixture? Has the satisfaction of your own vanity, inasmuch as you may
prove that you, a man of fifty, are able to win the love of such a
youthful, and, in every respect, such a highly-favoured and gifted
girl, against the wishes of her own parents, before her who had once
spurned your love, in the presence and to the shame and discomfiture of
so much more likely a rival--have these considerations nothing, nothing
whatever to do with your love?
And supposing he were to allow himself to be urged by pressure on the
part of his foes to make a declaration before the right time; or
supposing there never had been and never would be such a time at
all--supposing he and all of them had blundered;--supposing Erna's
heart knew nought of love, and rejected his love, amazed, terrified,
insulted--what then? Ye Heavens above! what then? Where was then that
line of retreat which Goethe had so wisely secured for his hero?
He realised it to be one of those horribly hideous contradictions of
human life that, while before his inner eye the possibilities of his
future fate concentrated themselves as in a focus, he was busied before
the mirror in exchanging the cravat which Konski had put out for him
for the early dinner, for another (the first dressing-bell having just
rung), in reference to which Erna had once said that it suited him
particularly well.
He stepped, annoyed, from the mirror to the open window. There came
floating through the balmy, sunny air a gossamer thread and fixed
itself on his shoulder. He sighed wearily, he felt unutterably sad.
There was always one line of retreat open, and that was--Death. Perhaps
his life was really hanging on as slight a thread as this bit of
gossamer. But then, was not his love for that very reason both madness
and sacrilege? Was that love which at bottom thought, after all, of
itself only, and thought not first and last of this? Could one,
according to human judgment, really undertake the guarantee for the
well-being of those whom one ... made believe one loved? Whether, for
her, weal would not swiftly change to woe, whence, even though time and
that youthful vigour which refuses to be crushed were to heal the
grievous wounds, there could never again blossom forth a full, whole
happiness? And thus, and for this reason, to have henceforth, like
humdrum everyday folks, to dread death, when he had already again and
again looked into his hollow eyes!
There was some noise behind him, and he started in terror. It was only
Konski who had come back bearing a letter. The post which was due in
the morning had arrived now, and there had been lots of letters for the
other ladies and gentlemen too, and some of them would seem to be
mighty important, for My Lady had given orders to put dinner back half
an hour, so the Herr Doctor could anyhow read his letter in peace.
Konski had gone away again, and Bertram held the letter still unopened
in his hand. How odd that his physician and friend should write to him
just now--that the busiest of men should so swiftly reply to his own
letter, in which, on the second day of his visit, he had, as requested,
given news of his state of health, a letter which really called for no
reply at all. Was his friend now going to tell him that he ... was
doomed to speedy death? Well, the letter could not have come at a more
opportune moment.