"Then you insist upon joining in to-morrow's debate?" the doctor was
saying.
"I flatter myself that it is necessary!" replied Bertram.
"As a political partisan I admit it; as your medical adviser I repeat,
it is impossible."
"Come, my good friend, you said just now, it is undesirable; now, from
that to impossible is rather a bold step. We had better stick to the
first statement."
The doctor, who had taken up his hat and stick a few minutes before,
laid both down again, pushed Bertram into the chair before his
writing-table, sat down again facing him, and said--
"Judging from your momentary condition it is merely desirable that you
should have at present absolute repose for at least a few days. But I
very much fear that to-morrow's inevitable excitement will make you
worse, and then the downright necessity for rest will arise, and that
not only for a few days. Let me speak quite frankly, Bertram. I know
that I shall not frighten you, although I should rather like to do so.
You are causing me real anxiety. I greatly regret that I kept you last
autumn from your projected Italian trip, and that I pushed and urged
you into the fatigues of an election campaign and into the harassing
anxieties of parliamentary life. I assumed that this energetic activity
would contribute to your complete restoration to health, and I find
that I made a grievous mistake. And yet I am not aware where exactly
the mistake was made. You mastered your parliamentary duties with such
perfect ease, you entered the arena so well prepared and armed from top
to toe, you used your weapons with all the skill of a past master, and
you were borne along by such an ample measure of success--and that of
course has its great value. Well, according to all human understanding
and experience, the splendid and relatively easy discharge of duties
for which you are so eminently fitted, should contribute to your
well-being, and yet the very opposite is occurring. In spite of all my
cogitations I can find but one theory to account for it. In spite of
the admirable equanimity which you always preserve, in spite of the
undimmed serenity of your disposition and appearance, by which you
charm your friends, whilst you frequently disarm your foes, there must
be a hidden something in your soul that gnaws away at your vitals, a
deep, dark under-current of grief and pain. Am I right? You know that I
am not asking the question from idle curiosity."
"I know it," replied Bertram; "and therefore I answer: you are right
and yet not right, or right only if you hold me responsible for the
effect of a cause I was guiltless of."
"You answer in enigmas, my friend."
"Let me try a metaphor. Say, somebody is compelled to live in a house,
in which the architect made some grave mistake at the laying of the
foundations, or at some important period or other of its erection. The
tenant is a quiet, steady man, who keeps the house in good order; then
comes a storm, and the ill-constructed building is terribly shaken and
strained. The steady-going tenant repairs the damage as best he can,
and things go on fairly enough for a time, a long time, until there
comes another and a worse storm, which makes the whole house topple
together over his head."
The doctor's dark eyes had been dwelling searchingly and sympathisingly
upon the speaker. Now he said--
"I think I understand your metaphor. Of course, it only meets a portion
of the case. I happen to know the house in question extremely well.
True there was one weak point in it from the beginning, in spite of its
general excellent construction, but ..."
"But me no buts," interrupted Bertram eagerly. "Given the one weak
point, and all the rest naturally follows. I surely need not point out
to such a faithful disciple of Spinoza's, that thought and expansion
are but attributes of one and the same substance, that there is no
physiological case that does not, rightly viewed, turn to a
psychological one; that so excitable a heart as mine must needs be
impressed by things more than other hearts whose bands do not snap,
happen what may, and notwithstanding all the storms of Fate. Or are you
not sure that, if you had had to examine the hearts of Werther or of
Eduard in the 'Elective Affinities,' you would have found things
undreamed of by aeesthetic philosophers? I belong to the same race. I
neither glory in this, nor do I blush for it; I simply state a fact, a
fact which embodies my fate, before whose power I bow, or rather whose
power bows me down in spite of my resistance. For, however much I may
by disposition belong to the last century, yet I am also a citizen of
our own time; nor can I be deaf to its bidding. I know full well that
modern man can no longer live and die exclusively for his private joys
and sorrows; I know full well that I have a fatherland whose fame,
honour, and greatness I am bound to hold sacred, and to which I am
indebted as long as a breath stirs within me. I know it, and I believe
that I have proved it according to my strength, both formerly and again
now, when ..."
He covered forehead and eyes with his hands, and so sat for a while in
deep emotion, which his medical friend respected by keeping perfectly
silent. Then, looking up again, Bertram went on in a hushed voice--
"My friend, that last storm was very, very strong. It shook the feeble
building to its very foundation. What is now causing your anxiety is
indeed but a consequence of that awful tempest. The terribly entrancing
details no one as yet knows except one woman, whom an almost identical
fate made my confidante, and who will keep my secret absolutely. So
would you, I know. You have been before this my counsellor and my
father-confessor. And so you will be another time, perhaps, if you
desire it and deem it necessary.--To-day only this one remark more, for
your own satisfaction; for I read in your grave countenance the same
momentous question which my confidante put to me: Whether I am willing
to recover? I answered to the best of my knowledge and belief: Yes! I
consider it my duty to be willing. It is a duty simply towards my
electors, who have not honoured me with their votes that I may lie me
down and die of an unhappy and unrequited attachment. If the latter
does happen--I mean my dying--you will bear witness that it was done
against my will, solely in consequence of that mistake in the original
construction which the architect was guilty of. But, in order that it
may not happen, or may at least not happen so soon, you, my friend,
must allow me to do the very thing which you have forbidden. The dream
I dreamed was infinitely beautiful, and, to speak quite frankly, real
life seems barren and dreary in comparison with it. The contrast is too
great, and I can only efface it somewhat by mixing with the insipid
food a strong spice of excitement, such as our parliamentary kitchen is
just now supplying in the best quality, and of which our head-cook is
sure to give us an extra dose to-morrow. And, therefore, I must be in
my place at the table tomorrow and make my dinner-speech. _Quod erat
demonstrandum_."
He held out his hand with a smile. His friend smiled too. It was a very
melancholy smile, and vanished again forthwith.
"What a pity," he said, "that the cleverest patients are the most
intractable. But I have vowed I will never have a clever one again,
after you."
"In truth," replied Bertram, "I am giving you far too much trouble. In
your great kindness and friendship you come to me almost in the middle
of the night, when you ought to be resting from your day's heavy toil;
you come of your own accord, simply impelled by a faithful care for my
well-being; and, finally, you have to return with ingratitude and
disobedience for your reward. Well, well--let us hope for better
things, and let me have the pleasure of seeing you again to-morrow."
Konski came in with a candle to show the doctor the way down, for the
lights in the house had long since been extinguished. The gentlemen
were once more shaking hands, and the physician slipped his on to
Bertram's wrist Then he shook his head.
"Konski," he said, turning to the servant, "if your master has a fancy
one of these days to drink a glass of champagne, you may give him one,
as an exception; but only one."
"Now remember that, Konski!" said Bertram.
"It is not likely that it will happen," grumbled Konski.
"Konski will leave me to-morrow," explained Bertram.
"Will, is it? No, I won't, but ..."
"All right!" said his master, "we must not bother the doctor with our
private affairs. Good-bye, my friend! With your leave I will dine with
you to-morrow."
The physician left; Bertram immediately again sat down at the
writing-table, and resumed the work which this late visit had
interrupted. It was a disputed election case, and he would have to
report upon it to the House. There had been some irregularities, and it
was in the interest of his own party that the election should be
declared null and void; he had been examining the somewhat complicated
data with all the greater conscientiousness and care. But now he lost
the thread, and was turning over the voluminous page of the evidence,
when, lo! a daintily-folded sheet of paper--a letter--fell out.
"Good heavens! how came this here?"
He seized upon it with eagerness, as a wandering beggar might seize
upon a gold coin which he saw glittering among the dust on the road.
The hot blood surged to the temples from the sick and sore heart; the
hand that held the slight paper trembled violently.
"Now he would not be grumbling at my slow pulse!"
Yesterday morning he had received this letter, but had not succeeded in
composing himself sufficiently to read more than a few lines. He
thought that, perhaps, on his return from the _Reichstag_ he might have
been in a more settled frame of mind. Then he had not been able to find
again the letter which had been laid aside, although he had searched
for hours, first alone, then with Konski.
And now--after all those documents were pushed aside--he was again, as
yesterday, staring hard at the page, and again, as yesterday, the
different lines ran into each other; but he shook his head angrily,
drew his hand over his eyes, and then read:--
"Capri, _April_ 24.
"Dearest Uncle Bertram,--If to-day for the first time, in our travels I
write to you, take this as a gentle punishment for not having come to
our wedding. Take it--no, I must not tell you a falsehood, not even in
jest. We--I mean Kurt and myself--regretted your absence greatly, but
were angry only with those wretched politics which would not release
you just at a time, when, as Kurt explained to me, such important
matters were at stake. Take, then, I pray you, my prolonged silence as
a proof of the confusion under which I labour, amidst the thousand new
impressions of travel, and through the hurry with which we have
travelled. Kurt has just four weeks' leave, so we had indeed to make,
haste; and, therefore, we steamed direct from Genoa to Naples, calling
at Leghorn only, and yesterday evening we arrived there only to leave
this morning, and to sail to Capri, favoured by a lively _tramontane_.
"I am writing this my first letter upon the balcony of a house in
Capri.
"Dearest Uncle Bertram, do you know such a house which 'stands amidst
orange groves, with sublimest view of the blue infinity of the ocean, a
fair, white hostelry embowered in roses'?
"The words are your own, and do you know when you spoke them to me? On
that first night when I met you in the forest on the Hirschstein hill.
You have probably forgotten it, but I remember it well, and all through
the journey your words were ever before me; and of all the glories of
Italy, I wanted first to see the house which had, since then, remained
in your fond remembrance, where you 'ever since longed to be back
again,' and the very name of which was always to you 'a sound of
comfort, of promise: _Qui si sana!_'
"And now we are here--we who need no comfort, we to whom all promise of
earthly bliss has been fulfilled, and so drink in the blue air of
heaven, and inhale the sweet fragrance of roses and oranges.
"And you, dearest Uncle Bertram, you dwell--your heart full of longing
for fair Quisisana--yonder in the dull grey North, buried beneath
parliamentary papers, wearied and worn--and, uncle, that thought is the
one grey cloud, the only one in the wide blue vault of heaven, like the
one floating yonder above the rugged rocky front of Monte Solaro, of
which our young landlord, Federigo, foretells that it will bring us a
_burrasca_. I gave him a good scolding, and told him I wanted sunshine,
plenty of sunshine, and nothing but sunshine, but I thought of you
only, and not of us. And surely for you too, who are so noble and good,
the sun does shine, and you walk in its light, in the sunny light of
great fame! Yes, Uncle Bertram, however modest you are, you must yet be
glad and proud to learn how your greatness is recognised and admired. I
am not speaking of your friends, for that is a matter of course, but
of your political opponents. In Genoa, at the table d'hote, we made
the acquaintance of some Count from Pomerania--I have forgotten his
name--with whom Kurt talked politics a good deal. In the evening the
Count brought us a Berlin paper, which contained your last great
speech. 'Look here,' he said, 'there is a man from whom all can learn,
one of whom each party should be proud.' He had no idea why Kurt looked
so pleased and proud, nor why I burst into tears when I read your
splendid speech.
"Only fancy, Uncle Bertram! Signor Federigo has just brought me, at my
request, an old visitors' book--the one for the year 1859, the year in
which I knew you had been here. Many leaves had been torn out, but the
one upon which you had written your name was preserved, and the date
turns out to be that of the very day on which I, was born! Is not this
passing strange? Signor Federigo has, of course, had to present the
precious leaf to me, which he did with a most graceful bow--the paper
in one hand and the other laid upon his heart--and we have resolved to
celebrate here the day of your arrival in Capri and of my arrival in
the world. Why, indeed, should we travel on so swiftly? There can be no
fairer scene than this anywhere. Sunshine, the fragrance of roses, the
bright blue sky; the everlasting sea, my Kurt, and the recollection of
you, whose dear image every rock, every palm tree, everything I see
brings as if by magic before my inner eye! No, no; we surely will stay
here until my birthday.
"Signor Federigo is calling from the verandah that 'Madama' has only
five minutes more for writing if the letter is to leave to-day. Of
course it is to leave to-day; but I have the terrible conviction of
having written nothing so far. It cannot now be helped. So next time I
will tell you everything that I could not do to-day: about my parents,
who are writing letters full of happiness--papa, in particular, who
seems delighted that he has given up his factories--which surprised me
greatly; about Agatha's engagement to Herr von Busche, which did not
surprise me, for I saw it coming during the merrymakings previous to my
wedding; about ...
"Signor Federigo, you are intolerable!
"Dear Kurt, I cannot let you have the remaining space of two lines, for
I absolutely require it myself to send my beloved Uncle Bertram a most
hearty greeting and kiss from Quisisana."
Bertram laid the paper very gently down upon the table; he was stooping
to imprint a kiss upon it, but before his lips touched the letter, he
drew himself up abruptly.
"No; she knows not what she does, but you know it, and she is your
neighbour's wife! Shame upon you! Pluck it out, the eye that offends
you, and the base, criminal heart as well!"
He seized the parliamentary papers, then paused.
"Until her birthday! Well, she will assuredly expect a few kind words,
and has a right to expect them; nay, more, she would interpret my
silence wrongly. I wonder whether there is yet time? When is her
birthday? She has not mentioned the date; I think somewhere in the
beginning of May. Now, on what day did I arrive there?"
He had not long to seek in the old diaries, which he kept methodically,
and preserved with care. There was the entry: "May 1.--Arrived in
Capri, and put up at a house which I found it hard to climb up to; the
name had an irresistible attraction for me: Quisisana--_Sit omen in
nomine!_"
The first of May! Why, to-morrow is the first. It is too late for a
letter, of course, but a telegram will do, if despatched at once.
"Konski!"
The faithful servant entered.
"My good Konski, I am very sorry, but you must be off to the
telegraph-office at once. To-morrow is the birthday of Miss Erna--well,
well, you know! Of course she must hear from me."
He had written a few lines in German, then it occurred, to him that it
might be, safer to write them in Italian. So he re-wrote them.
Kanski, who had meanwhile got himself ready, entered the room.
"You will scarcely be back before midnight. And, Konski, we must begin
the morrow cheerfully. So put the key of the cellar into your pocket,
and bring a bottle of champagne with you when you return. No
remonstrance, otherwise I shall put into your character tomorrow,
'Dismissed for disobedience'!"