Jansen had gone home as if in a dream; and even the wild demonstrations
of joy with which he was received by his child did not succeed in
driving away the stupor that hung over him. He did not ask either
Frances or her foster-mother what had happened in his absence, but
stared vacantly, sighed often, and returned confused answers. When he
had eaten something, and drunk some strong wine, he fell asleep while
sitting at table, with difficulty roused himself sufficiently to tumble
into bed, and had just sense enough left to impress upon the woman the
fact that he must be waked at six o'clock.
Then, when the evening came, little Frances only succeeded, after much
shouting and shaking, in dispelling his leaden sleep; from which,
however, the weary man awoke with joyous eyes. He lay for a while and
enjoyed the physical relief, the peace in his heart, which he had
missed so long. Every word his beloved had said to him that morning
came back to his mind again; he knew that with all her kind words she
could have meant but one thing; and yet he trembled at the thought that
it might all have been a delusion. But the certainty of happiness
invariably kept the upper hand.
When, at length, he arose, he felt as if he had recovered from an
illness--as if he were invigorated by fresh blood--and he marveled at
this transformation; for he remembered that on this very morning he
would have liked best to burrow his way into the earth and never see
the sun again. He kissed his little daughter again and again, pressed
the old woman's hand--the foster-mother was absent--and started off for
Julie's lodgings.
But, when he arrived at the house, he was surprised to see a bright
light streaming through the blinds of all five windows. He knew that
she was fond of having her room bright, but for all that it struck him
that all was not as usual. He asked the old servant, who helped him to
take off his overcoat in the hall, but received no definite answer;
and he was painfully surprised when he opened the door and saw the
brightly-lighted room full of people.
It is true, they were all familiar faces. Angelica sat on a sofa by the
side of old Schoepf, Rossel had established himself in the most
comfortable of the two armchairs, and Rosenbusch and Kohle appeared to
be absorbed in the contemplation of some engravings on the wall, while
Julie was conversing with Schnetz and Elfinger near the door. A covered
table, decorated with beautiful bouquets, stood along the wall on the
side where the windows were, and little Frances's foster-mother was
busy adding the last finishing touches to it. They were all in evening
dress, and even Rosenbusch had refrained from wearing his historical
velvet-jacket, which the summer had dealt with pretty severely, and
appeared in a magnificent dress-coat--the only trouble with which was
that it was rather too broad, inasmuch as it had been taken from
Rossel's wardrobe. But the most beautiful of all, in her simplicity,
appeared the mistress of these halls herself. She wore a white dress of
the finest woolen, which exposed but a little of her white shoulders
and her arms as far as the elbow. A plain gold chain, from which hung a
medallion containing a miniature of her mother, was wound several times
about her neck; her hair was brushed back smoothly, and intertwined
with a garland of myrtle; in her bosom was fastened a dark-red
pomegranate blossom.
In his first surprise Jansen started back from the threshold with a
look of bitter disappointment, which Julie alone understood. But,
before he had time to recover his presence of mind, he felt himself
seized by the gentlest hands, and disarmed by a single soft word
whispered in his ear.
"Here he comes at last," she said, leading the speechless man into the
centre of the room. "And first of all I must beg his pardon for not
having told him beforehand whom he would find here. For even though
they are only our best and dearest friends whom I have invited to our
farewell gathering--still, I know you would have preferred to see no
one this evening but myself. And yet, though I would gladly do anything
else for your sake--I could not do otherwise than what I have done on
this occasion. Our friends all know that I am determined to share my
life with you until death parts us. Do you not feel with me that it
would be contrary to my honor and my womanly pride, to pass
clandestinely into the new life that has been opened to us, as if we
had committed a sin, instead of entering upon it with open brow,
followed by the congratulations of our dearest friends, as other happy
bridal couples do?"
She stopped, for a moment, overcome by her emotion. But, as he made no
movement, except to raise to his lips the hand with which she held his,
she recovered her courage, and continued in a lower voice:
"Our roles are so singularly transposed. It is customary for the voice
of the bride to be heard only when she says 'yes' at the foot of the
altar. But here there is no altar, and the bride must pronounce the
wedding address herself. I confess that, since I plighted my heart and
my troth to my beloved friend, I have always cherished the hope that
things would turn out differently. I thought it would be so beautiful
to go up to the altar with him, as other brides do; and have our union
so sanctioned. But, since this could not be, what right have we to be
so cowardly and narrow-minded as to cling to a mere form when two human
lives are at stake? As soon as I saw that it was to decide the weal or
woe of his life and of his art, every scruple left me. We are neither
of us so young or so inexperienced as to be deceived about our hearts.
They are indissolubly bound together. And it is therefore no crime and
no presumption, but something that was as certainly decreed by Heaven
as was ever union between two human beings, for me to be from this day
forth the true wife of this man, and for him to be forever my beloved
husband."
She turned away for a moment; her voice failed her. A breathless
silence reigned. The gentlemen, with the exception of the bridegroom,
who gazed fixedly in his beloved's eyes, lowered their eyes and stood
solemn and still as if in a house of worship; the little foster-mother
held her handkerchief before her eyes, and the big tear-drops rolled
down Angelica's face, while she struggled to look at her friend as
cheerfully and encouragingly as possible. Now, when the latter turned
to her, she hastily took up a little silver dish she had held in
readiness and handed it to Julie, trying, as she did so, to give her
friend's hand a stolen pressure. Two little gold rings, looking rubbed
and thin, as if they had been worn a long time, lay in the plate.
"These are the wedding rings of my parents," said the bride. "For many
long years they served as the sign of a union that grew ever firmer in
good and in bad fortune. I think you will not oppose me, dearest, if I
use them to sanctify our marriage. I herewith give you this ring that
my father received from my mother, and swear to you, before these
friends of ours, to be a true wife to you and a good mother to your
child. And if you do not repent of having offered me your life--"
She could not finish. In a sudden overflow of feeling he seized the
other ring, thrust it at random on one of her fingers, and folded the
blushing girl in a passionate embrace. It seemed as if he would never
let her go again; his breast heaved with suppressed sobbing, he hid his
face upon her neck, and her soft locks dried the tears he was ashamed
to show.
In the mean while it appeared that none of the witnesses took the
slightest notice of this passionate outburst. Rossel seemed to be
earnestly studying the pattern of the carpet; old Schoepf took out his
handkerchief and polished his spectacles; Elfinger stood at the piano,
with his back toward the newly-married couple, and slowly turned over
the pages of a music-book. Angelica fell upon the foster-mother's neck,
while Kohle seized Rosenbusch's hand and shook it warmly.
At length when the bride had somewhat recovered her composure and had
gently released herself from her husband's arms, Schnetz, who up to
this time had been violently plucking at his imperial, advanced toward
the couple and stammered out a few words of cordial felicitation. This
gave the signal for a general crowding around, and the most joyful
handshaking and congratulation. All spoke at the same time, each held
the hand of the bride and bridegroom as tightly as if he hoped never to
have to release it again, and every one seemed to want to repudiate, as
something very superfluous and out of place, the emotion which had
moved all their hearts but a few minutes before. Angelica was the first
to restore quiet and order to this confusion, by rapping on a glass and
requesting the guests to come to supper. The bridal couple were to
start on their wedding journey in a few hours, and, as the bridegroom
had not even packed his trunk yet, it was doubly advisable for them not
to let the wedding feast grow cold.
So they took their places. Old Schoepf was given the seat of honor on
the other side of the bride, Rosenbusch captured a place next to
Angelica, and Rossel took charge of the foster-mother, although, as a
general thing, he studiously avoided having any women near him when at
table. Of the meal itself it will only be necessary to say that Edward
Rossel had placed his own cook at Angelica's disposal, and had sent his
servants along with her; the selection and the cooling of the wine had
also been his care, although, except himself, scarcely any one of the
guests took much notice of what they ate and drank. Those in particular
who sat opposite the bridal couple seemed to be so fascinated by the
sight of their happiness, by the beauty of Julie, and the dreamy look
of inspiration in Jansen's face, that they looked very little at their
plates. To this number belonged Angelica, whose hand wandered across
the table every now and then to meet that of her adored friend under
the shadow of the huge bouquet.
Julie's plan was to carry her husband off to Italy, there to look for
some spot on which to settle down and found their home. When they had
made up their minds whether Florence, or Rome, or Venice was to be
their resting-place, they were to return and get little Frances, who
would have been rather out of place in this wintry wedding-journey of
her parents.
Meanwhile Julie had taken advantage of a favorable opportunity to enter
into a low conversation with old Schoepf in regard to the future of his
grandchild. In spite of the power she exerted over all with whom she
came in contact, she did not find it easy to break down the old man's
obstinacy. Finding that all her assertions of how sincere the baron's
remorse was were of as little avail as her efforts to convince him of
the material benefit which the reconciliation would be to his
grandchild's future, she finally summoned cunning to her aid, and
represented that in granting this request he would be conferring a
personal favor upon her, a sort of wedding-present, which such an old
friend of her husband surely could not refuse her. The chivalrous old
man could resist no longer, and so, with a solemn shake of the hand,
Julie secured all that the baron could demand with any kind of justice,
although a complete reconciliation still seemed quite unattainable for
the present.
Jansen had been listening to this conversation, which had been carried
on in a low tone; and now he, in his turn, thanked the old man by a
pressure of the hand. All this time he had scarcely uttered a word. His
heart was full of a bliss too deep for words; the cheerful noise of the
good people about him sounded in his ears as if it came from a great
distance; his eyes rested on the flowers before his plate, and did not
even venture to gaze at the noble woman who was really his own at last;
and it was only with difficulty that he could force himself even to
smile when the others burst into roars of laughter over some joke of
the lieutenant's, or some enthusiastic expression of Angelica's.
As they sat thus, there suddenly burst forth from Julie's piano, at
which Elfinger was seated, the first bars of the wedding-march in the
"Midsummer Night's Dream." On the instant all voices were hushed, and
they stood listening to the fairy strains that made them forget, for
the moment, that the winter night with its thousand glittering stars
looked in upon them, and suffered no other elfin tricks than those
which possibly lurked concealed in the foam of the champagne glasses.
When it came to an end the silence still continued for a while. The
bride had disappeared with Angelica into the next room, and now
returned again in traveling-dress. Schnetz now called upon Rosenbusch
to let the departing couple take some of his verses with them as a
farewell blessing on their journey. But he, who was generally so
obliging, could not be induced to do this at any price. He would only
promise to forward them his bad rhymes in black and white, accompanied
with marginal illustrations.
"It is late," said Julie, "and we have still to take leave of our
child. We leave her in the best of care, and hope soon to see her
again. And now we must say good-by."
She first embraced the foster-mother and kissed her warmly. Then she
gave her hand and a kind word and look to each of the others in turn,
and hastened out of the room, no longer able to control her emotion.
Jansen, too, had parted from his friends with great feeling, entreating
them all not to follow him beyond the door. Angelica alone insisted
upon accompanying the couple as far as the carriage. The others stepped
to the window and watched them get in, together with old Erich, who was
to accompany them, while Angelica still stood on the carriage step
unable to tear herself from Julie's neck. When she at last stepped
down, and the door was slammed to, those in the house stepped to the
wide-opened window, with full glasses and burning lamps and candles,
and shouted a loud "good luck!" to the departing couple. The waving of
a handkerchief and of hands from the carriage doors answered them; and
the drosky rolled away.
_BOOK VII_.
CHAPTER I.
All of a sudden Paradise had become very desolate. In the rooms that
had once resounded with conversation and laughter until long after
midnight, there now assembled a mere handful of rather morose and
chilly comrades, who did not thaw out even over their wine. They sat
behind their glasses, silent and disconsolate, each one expecting of
the other that he would suddenly break out again in the old festal
mood. For, in spite of the great necessity for social intercourse that
is inherent in the German character, nothing is more remarkable than
the rarity of true social talent, and still more the lack of that
social sense of duty which urges the individual to do all in his power
to contribute to the general entertainment. Most Germans go into
society just as they go to the theatre, and believe they have done all
that duty requires of them when, from their seats, they have made
careful observations of the actors; and they think themselves justified
in complaining of being bored whenever the latter are in a bad mood for
acting. This unmistakable decline, which generally takes place in every
club soon after it has reached its highest prosperity, was still
further hastened, in the case of the Paradise society, by outward
circumstances. In Jansen's departure it had lost the one member whose
mere presence gave it its distinctive character. The very fact that he
had no desire to rule had led them to give him, without opposition,
that leadership for which he was qualified before all others by his
superiority, mature judgment, and simplicity of bearing. Still, there
were several among his friends who might have succeeded in upholding
the old traditions after his departure, had it not happened that the
very ones who were best fitted and most influential had themselves
personal reasons for withdrawing.
Since the recovery of his grandchild it was impossible to induce old
Schoepf to pass an evening away from home. He devoted himself entirely
to taming his little refractory savage--a task in which he was obliged
to work very carefully, for the strange creature still threatened to
run away if they tried to restrict her freedom in the slightest degree.
She would not submit for a moment to any regular course of instruction,
but thought she did quite enough if she took charge of household
matters, for which she showed great aptitude, and attended to her
toilet or took a walk with her grandfather in her spare hours. She
never asked after his friends, Jansen and Schnetz, not even after
Felix, who had disappeared so suddenly. Her face had grown rather
prettier from good living and comfortable surroundings, and her figure
fuller; and she could now gratify her taste for dress, for her
grandfather treated her like a pet doll. It was no wonder, therefore,
that Rossel only grew more confirmed in his passion, particularly as he
made it a rule to see her daily.
He came in the evening, generally bringing with him Kohle, who had been
the greatest sufferer by Jansen's departure. The two gradually became
so accustomed to the old man's parlor that they willingly gave up the
nights at the Paradise club for its sake. Usually, after they had
talked awhile, or had looked over some photographs or engravings,
Rossel drew a book from his pocket, either a volume of poems or
something else that was interesting at once to children and sages, and
began to read aloud; apparently without giving a thought to the girl,
who took pains to move about as much as possible, as if to show that
both he and his companion were utterly indifferent to her. Sometimes,
however, when he chanced to strike the right key, she would crouch down
on her little chair near the stove, and listen with open mouth and
wide-open eyes in which the light of intelligence was slowly beginning
to dawn. But she never allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation
about what had been read, and never varied in her manner toward her
admirer, so that he perceptibly grew thin with disappointment.
This same conduct, so singularly made up of frivolity and persistency,
she maintained toward her own father. After old Schoepf had consented
to allow the baron to exercise at least the outward rights of a father,
an interview had taken place between the two; and the sincere
melancholy of the baron, who was usually such a lighthearted cavalier,
had not failed to make an impression upon the grim old man. As the
latter felt that he could not acquit himself of all blame in the
affair, they had arrived at an understanding which, though not exactly
cordial, was nevertheless very different from the frosty relations that
had previously existed between them; and arrangements had been made for
the daughter's benefit in accordance with the baron's wishes. During
the half hour which she consented to give, at her grandfather's
request, to an interview between her and the author of her being, she
sat at her papa's side as cold and stiff as possible, and almost as if
she were giving an audience; while he exhausted his amiability in
attempts to touch her heart. She did not feel the slightest affection
for him, she declared over and over again. Before she saw him she hated
him; now she felt absolutely indifferent toward him, and she could not
understand how her dead mother could ever have loved him. He must not
flatter himself that she would ever feel differently. She had never
been able to bear faces like his; she was sorry, but it was always her
way to speak the truth, and because he had lied to her mother was no
reason why she should now lie to him. Let him keep his money. She had
no intention of marrying; and even if she had she would not accept a
man who took her merely because she had a rich father.
That the beautiful Fraeulein was her cousin did indeed seem strange to
her. At first she laughed at the idea, as if it were all a joke; then
she blushed crimson, no one knew why, stood up suddenly, made her
father a stiff courtesy, and hurried out of the room.
With a sigh the baron left the old man's lodgings, to go and give his
old companion-in-arms, Schnetz, an account of this unsuccessful attempt
at reconciliation.
Ever since the wedding evening the lieutenant, too, had felt himself in
a misanthropic and depressed state of mind, which kept him at home for
months and made him forget Paradise utterly; all the more readily
because it seemed to him that Jansen's presence there was necessary to
its very existence. His artistic talent was, after all, merely the
shadow cast by his character when it chanced to stand in a humorous
light. He had taken up with the artists because their society seemed to
him more tolerable than any other that came within the great dreariness
of his ordinary life, less because they created beautiful works than
because they were men who were capable of producing something that lay
beyond the pale of ordinary society, for which he had a profound
contempt. Even they did not escape his Thersites mood. But the fact
that he had discovered one among them at whom he found it absolutely
impossible to rail, and whom he had not the heart to ridicule even with
his black art, had inspired him with a strange feeling toward Jansen;
as though, if the whole decaying world should fall to pieces and leave
only this one man, nothing would really be lost, and the human race,
copied after this model, would be restored to a far higher grandeur. He
had really _loved_ this man, carefully as he tried to conceal such
"sentimentalities" from every one, especially from himself. And now he
sat alone again in his Timonian bitterness, cutting silhouettes in the
dark, and angry with all other men because all of them taken together
could not compensate him for the loss of this one.
He received the baron exceedingly badly, listened to his account of his
unloving child with a sardonic grin, and assured him that the only
consolation he found in this whole muddle of a world was that there
were still a few beings left, even of the female sex, who would not let
themselves be fooled by fine words, and who spoke out just what they
thought. He advised him to go to Africa and shoot a lioness, and adopt
her brood, whereupon he immediately began to cut out the baron in black
paper as the nurse of a wildcat, that he might give him a memento to
take with him on his journey.
For although Irene had not yet given him official permission, her uncle
had, nevertheless, determined to follow her. As matters now stood he no
longer dared to present himself even to the old countess, who, when he
called to deliver Irene's farewell, had preached him an edifying sermon
upon her incredible conduct, and had received his jesting answer with a
very bad grace. There was not the slightest prospect of hearing
anything further in regard to Felix here in the city. No one knew in
what direction the supposed duel had taken him. Thus the old habit of
being under his niece's thumb, and the uselessness and joylessness of
his further stay in Munich, drew the old baron toward the South; and
the harsh manner in which even Schnetz had suddenly turned upon him
made the parting very easy.
He put the silhouette in his letter-case without a smile, shook his old
friend by the hand, and left him, expressing the hope that they might
meet again under a warmer sun.
CHAPTER II.
Two other pillars of the Paradise Club had grown shaky, and were in no
condition to arrest its fall.
Rosenbusch and Elfinger had both appeared at the first meeting which
took place after the unfortunate masquerade, but in a conspicuously
depressed mood, and neither so witty nor so grateful for the wit of
others as was usually the case with them.
On the way home they confessed to one another that the thing had
outlived its day; even the wine to-night was much sourer than in the
good old times.
Now, the truth is, it was the very same wine, but its flavor could not
overcome the bitter taste on the tongue of the drinkers; and in each
this bitter taste arose from exactly opposite causes.
Elfinger's deep and unswerving fondness had really succeeded in
stealing away his little devotee's heart from her heavenly bridegroom.
At one of those afternoon services in the little church already
mentioned, she had with many tears allowed the confession to escape her
that his love was returned; adding, however, a saving clause, that once
more put all his hopes to naught, that she should not on this account
consider herself any the less bound by her former vow, particularly as
her father confessor had clearly proved to her that she would be
neither happy on earth nor blessed in heaven unless she renounced her
sinful love for a Lutheran, and especially for one who had once been an
actor.
To Elfinger's most eloquent attempts at dissuasion, the poor child had
only replied by tears and shakes of the head, and had answered the long
letters which her lover sent to her almost daily, by nicely-written
little notes, not altogether free from orthographical blunders, in
which she besought him in the most touching terms not to make her heart
still heavier, but rather to move to some other lodgings and never to
meet her again.
This correspondence had, of course, merely poured oil upon the fire, on
this as well as on the other side of the street. Nevertheless it really
did seem, after all, as though their love was not destined to overcome
the evil powers; and in his grief at this Elfinger began more and more
to lose his taste for the joys of Paradise, generally spending his
evenings at home, brooding over plans for the overthrow of the
priesthood--which resulted in his toiling through all the pamphlets
against the Vatican Council, and in his composing for some of the
smaller newspapers violent articles favoring the abolition of convents.
But, while his fate was trembling in the balance, his next-door
neighbor was still worse off; and, sad to relate, solely because of the
incredible worldly-mindedness of his sweetheart. Through his trusty
ally, the servant-girl, he learned that the only son of a rich brewer,
from one of the smaller cities of the region, was paying his attentions
to her; and the pretty little witch appeared to have refrained from
doing any of those things by which even the most obedient daughter may
show her aversion to a hated suitor. Rosenbusch, whose soul still clung
fondly to his romantic elopement project, refused, at first, to believe
in such villainous treachery. But when his letters remained unanswered,
the last one indeed being returned unopened by the post, he fell into a
terrible passion, spent whole nights in composing the most insulting
poems against brewers' sons and Philistines' daughters, and gave
himself up more and more to the most extravagant melancholy,
misanthropy, and dislike for work. He began to neglect his person too
in the most terrible way, wore, as his daily clothing, that ample
dress-coat of Edward Rossel's, which the latter had formally made over
to him after the wedding evening; and over this a coarse red-and-blue
plaid shawl, and a cap which he had cut out himself from his old slouch
hat, whose rim had been nibbled and considerably diminished by his
white mice, one night when he had left the door of the cage open.
It is true, he still went regularly to the studio and shut himself in
under the pretense of laboring at some great, mysterious work; yet he
never touched a brush all day long, but cowered over the stove, in
which he managed to keep up a wretched little fire made out of
fragments of old fences that he had picked up here and there. There he
sat wrapped in his shawl, an unlighted cigar in his mouth, spying
around among his antiquities, to see which piece he should next tear
from his soul and deliver to the shop-keepers.
For a very considerable payment that he had to make had exhausted his
last penny of ready money. In his emotion over the martyrdom of the
faithful dog, Rosenbusch had determined to give Jansen a pleasant
surprise by ordering a grave-stone for the little mound in the garden,
bearing the following profound inscription:
Hic jacet Homo,
_Nihil humani a se alienum putans_.
It was merely a plain block of granite ornamented by a dog's head
cut in profile, and the letters were not even gilded. Yet the
stone-cutter's bill proved to be twice as large as the first estimate
of the cost; so that he had been obliged to sell the sword and scabbard
of a Walloon cuirassier, a rusty snaffle-bit of the time of the Swedish
war, and his last halberds; and besides this, to paint an oil-portrait
of the stone-cutter's wife, in order to complete this act of respect
without incurring any debts.
He never said a word about his troubles to any of his friends, not even
to Elfinger, and at the dedication of the monument, over which he
presided, he conducted himself with so much ease and dignity that they
all thought he had really found some unknown patron who advanced him
money on his great new picture. The fact that he appeared in a
dress-coat, in spite of the bitter winter cold, was attributed to the
formality with which he insisted upon treating the whole affair.
He himself tried hard at first to keep up his spirits. He composed an
account of the ceremony in his most feeling verses, and accompanied
them with a sketch of the grave-stone and other illustrations relating
to the dedication, and sent the document to Florence, where Jansen and
Julie were then sojourning.
The postage for this parcel cost him his last kreutzer. That day it was
nine o'clock in the evening before he ate his dinner (on credit); and
even then he went to bed hungry.
But, though he deceived all others by the smiling mien with which he
wrapped himself in his shawl and his love-sickness, there were two eyes
near him that he could not blind in this way.
Those were the eyes of his neighbor Angelica, and they, too, no longer
saw the world in such a rosy light as that in which it had appeared at
Christmas.
The necessity that was inborn in her nature, to passionately worship
something or other, and to give vent to her adoration in extravagant
terms, no longer found anything to feed on since the departure of the
happy pair. Indeed, she would have had a very poor opinion of herself
if, after having found in Jansen the ideal of a true artist, and in
Julie the quintessence of beauty, she had now been contented to take up
with anything of a lower grade. At first she tried hard to grow
sentimental over little Frances, and to transfer to the child the
enthusiasm she felt for its parents. But as this was attended with some
difficulty because of their living so far apart, as well as on account
of a certain reserve peculiar to the little creature, she gradually
withdrew from this also, and contented herself with visiting the child
every Sunday and making enthusiastic speeches about its talents to its
foster-mother. The sensible little woman always received them rather
coolly, partly because she disliked everything like gushing
compliments, and partly because she felt hurt that her own children
were completely overlooked. For this reason, and for this reason only,
she was not sorry when, toward spring, a letter came from Julie with
the request to bring the child to its parents in Florence as soon as
the state of the weather would permit. Unfortunately, she could not
come for the child herself as she had hoped, her doctor having
forbidden her "for important reasons" to take the journey. Still, she
had too great a yearning to see Frances to be able to wait any longer,
and she entreated the faithful foster-mother to make still another
sacrifice for her sake, and to take advantage of the occasion to get a
peep at their Italian home.
Some fine presents were added for the other children and a letter for
Angelica, in which her friend heartily besought her to accompany the
child, and, if possible, to spend the whole summer with them. Jansen
seconded this invitation in a very kind postscript; and the money
enclosed for the traveling expenses was reckoned for three persons.
It is needless to describe the feelings of this good soul as she read
this letter, and saw the prospect opened to her of seeing again with
her own eyes, and clasping again in her arms, all that she loved and
admired. With beating heart and glowing cheeks she sat for a good hour
motionless before her easel, and had never in all her life felt so
happily unhappy or so torn by conflicting wishes. When at last she had
clearly made up her mind to decline the proffered happiness, she
appeared, in her own eyes, such a subject for commiseration,
notwithstanding all her consciousness of heroic virtue, that she began
to weep bitterly, and did not heed how her tears fell upon a wreath of
flowers in water color that she had just painted, moistening them with
an all too natural dew.
CHAPTER III.
In order to explain this, we must disclose a secret that our artist had
heretofore guarded carefully from every one--even from herself, as far
as such a thing was possible.
The fate of the one man with whom this peaceable soul always stood on a
war-footing, and who, as it seemed, possessed none of all the qualities
by which one could generally win her love and admiration, had become of
such importance to her in the course of time, that her own weal and
woe, and even such a happiness as had just been offered her, became but
a secondary matter when compared with it.
That violent hate can turn into burning love is a fact that is no
longer considered strange. But the transformation of a thoroughly
honest and obvious contempt into the exact opposite, without the object
of these conflicting feelings having changed especially himself, must
ever remain a difficult riddle to solve. This was especially the case
because this contempt for her neighbor was not directed against his
character as an artist and a man, of whose good qualities she might in
time have become more clearly convinced, but rested solely on the
contradiction in their characters, which appeared to her to have been
completely reversed in their cases from what Nature had intended.
Little of the Amazon as there was about her, she nevertheless felt
herself, as compared with Rosenbusch, the stronger, more resolute and
more manly of the two; and, since devotion to something higher and
stronger was a chief necessity of her nature, nothing would have struck
her as more absurd than that this flute-playing, verse-scribbling
art-colleague of hers, who decked himself out in silk and satin like a
bearded girl, could ever become dangerous to her peace of mind.
Consequently, when she found that ever since that stolen kiss on
Christmas night, innocent though it was, the picture of the robber rose
up before her oftener than before, each time causing a certain ashamed
surprise to creep over her virgin heart, she fought against this
weakness with all her power, and took pains to exaggerate, in her own
mind, the faults and absurdities of this gay deceiver. But, in doing
so, she was obliged to occupy her thoughts with him to an uncommon
extent, and she often caught herself studying his praiseworthy
qualities with far greater fondness than his laughable ones.
Unfortunately, she had plenty of spare time for these studies; for, as
Schnetz expressed it, she was enjoying a vacation from idolatry since
Jansen's and Julie's departure. And, finally, what contributed as much
as anything else to make her heart more tender, was the just fear that
things were going badly with her neighbor, and might end seriously for
him some fine day, unless some one came to his aid.
She positively breathed easier when she discovered that he was hungry
and cold, and began quite cheerfully to revolve in her mind how she
could best assist him.
She took good care to say nothing about it to his friends. To her alone
he should owe his rescue, and that without having the slightest
suspicion of it. She herself could hardly be said to be swimming in
luxury; that which she earned was just sufficient to carry her through
the world respectably; for she had the greatest horror of anything in
her art that had a taint of fraud about it, and was exceedingly
conscientious with regard to such matters. More than once she had taken
back a picture, with which the person who had ordered it expressed
himself as quite content, merely because it did not satisfy herself.
But the suspiciously jolly air with which Rosenbusch met her on the
stairs, the ominous stillness next door, where the stove no longer sang
its morning song, nor the flute summoned the mice to the dance, so cut
her to the heart, that she would not have hesitated even to have got
into debt, if by so doing she could have saved her friend from
bankruptcy.
It was a sunny morning in April; she had accompanied little Frances and
her foster-mother to the station, and had thus given up the last thing
she had to exercise her sentimental devotion upon; and now she walked
slowly to her studio, firmly determined to seek consolation in her art.
But on arriving up stairs, where a fresh canvas was already awaiting
her, she made a mistake in the door, and, instead of going into her own
workshop, knocked at the battle-painter's, of whom she had not caught a
glimpse for several days.
Rosenbusch knew her knock well. He always declared it was a pity she
did not play on the piano, she had such an excellent touch. However, he
did not seem inclined to let her in; at all events she had to knock
three times, and to call out that it was no use, he needn't pretend any
longer, she had seen him through the keyhole sitting there, and must
come in for ten minutes as she had an order for him; then, at last, he
slowly got up, crept to the door, sighing, and drew back the bolt.
As she entered she cast a stolen look at the bare walls of the room,
that was as damp and chilly as a cellar, and at its miserable occupant,
who had folded his shawl tight about his body just as a beetle does his
wings in a rainstorm, and, with his pinched, half-starved looking
little nose, was making a wretched attempt to look chipper and pleased.
"What are you making such an _ecce homo_ face for?" she said, in her
brusquest tone, which now stood her in good stead in concealing her
emotion. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Herr von Rosenbusch, to
sit here in a corner and mope, this heavenly weather. Besides, it's so
cold here that the oil would freeze on one's brush. But I forget, you
are not doing any painting now. You have another acute attack of your
chronic laziness--or are you sick?"
"You are mistaken, honored patroness," said Rosenbusch, in his silver
tenor, which now, however, sounded a little cracked. "I am quite well,
with the exception of a certain nervousness that is often to be found
among artists; atrophy of the _nervus rerum_, the men of science call
it. Besides, I am not sitting here so idle as you perhaps imagine; I am
working away at my great picture, having accustomed myself of late to
first complete the picture in my head, down to the last light effect on
the nostrils of a pack-horse. In this way you save an incredible deal
of color that you would otherwise have wasted in constant scratching
out. You ought to try it, Angelica."
"Thank you. Every one has his manner, and my ideas never come to me
until I see them first upon the canvas. But listen, Rosenbusch, does
this dry mental painting take up all your time? Couldn't you steal a
few hours in the day for outside work? A young officer's widow
has given me an order for a portrait of her husband, who fell at
Kissingen, to be inclosed in a wreath of laurels, cypresses, and
passion-flowers--between ourselves, a regular sampler idea. Only think
of it: the departed one on horseback, in the background the city; and
around it all a wreath, like onions about a dish of sauerkraut and
sausages. I let fall a few hints, as to whether it would not look
better, perhaps, if we should leave out the wreath, or at most paint in
the bust of the deceased? But no, it would not do to leave out the
horse, he might almost have been said to have been one of the family,
the widow declared--a beautiful bay stallion with a white star; and he
had also died in consequence of a wound. As the times are bad and the
lady did not find the price I asked any too high, I accepted the
commission. I immediately said to myself, it is nonsense; the horses
that you paint look a good deal like hippopotamuses, so you can't get
it done without Rosenbusch's help; and as he is now at work on his
great picture--but still, as you are only painting it in your head--"
She turned away, so that he should not see the sly look that flashed
over her round face. But, in his wretched state of body and mind, all
his sharpness had left him.
"You know, Angelica," said he, "that if I were painting the battles of
Alexander, I would always have time enough left for you. Besides, one
nag won't be anything of a job. I shall paint him with wide-spread
nostrils snuffing at the wreath, as though the laurels that beckoned to
his master had excited his own appetite. Symbolical allusions like that
can give an interesting air even to the most foolish picture."
"Will you have the goodness to dispense with all your jokes? The matter
is serious, the picture is to be placed on a sort of household altar in
the widow's sleeping-chamber, and a night-lamp is to be kept constantly
burning before it. So, if you will undertake to do the figures,
including, of course, the portrait of the officer--a photograph of the
horse is also to be sent to me to-day--I will paint a wreath around
them, and we will go shares in the fame and money."
She named twice the sum she had asked. For she was determined to let
him have the whole, which would be no inconsiderable sum for him in his
present state. But to her alarm he did not show the slightest joy at
this unhoped-for income.
"My dear friend," he said, "the two departed ones shall be painted, and
I promise you they shall bear as close a resemblance to a fallen hero
and a defunct war-horse as any sorrowing widow could possibly wish. I
will also, if you insist upon it, paint my monogram on the nag's
saddle-cloth, so that we may figure together in art-history, like
Rubens and Blumenbreughel. But you alone must have the money. I will
never consent to be paid in vile lucre for acts of friendship,
especially toward a lady, and above all toward an honored patroness and
neighbor. And, by the way, we can commence at once; I have come to a
halt in my composition--particularly as I have a cold in my head--and
as one finally gets quite confused merely from the number of good
thoughts that come to him--therefore, if you please--"
He approached with arm gracefully bent, in order to escort her over to
her studio.
Angelica knew him well enough to feel sure that nothing in the world
would shake him in the resolution he had taken; and, since everything
that was chivalrous in his character flattered her hidden liking, she
made no attempt to dissuade him. She would find some way of
recompensing him for his trouble without offending his sense of
courtesy, and a great deal had already been won in inducing him to go
to work again and to come into a heated room.
There, to be sure, he was obliged to take off his shawl and appear in
the unlucky dress-coat which, having been intended for Rossel's rounded
proportions, hung very loosely about his shrunken limbs. However, he
was not in the least embarrassed by this, but proceeded to explain to
his friend, with the greatest seriousness, the advantage of having
one's clothes too large. In the summer they were airy, for they caught
the wind; in the winter they retained a larger supply of warm air--a
movable wadding, as it were, between the body and the cloth--while they
were much warmer in an unheated room, especially when covered by a
shawl, on account of their having so much more material. He delivered
this lecture over a cup of tea which Angelica had prepared for him, and
which evidently restored to his inner man the warmth he had so long
been without. As he was never more active than when he was working for
others, the rough sketch of the equestrian portrait was completed in a
few hours, and so skillfully set in Angelica's border of flowers that,
as she expressed it, the whole picture looked "quite crazy enough," and
they were able to proceed at once to the shading.
Over this common labor, that afforded them both great pleasure and gave
occasion for innumerable jests, the forenoon had slipped away unheeded.
Angelica proposed to take her dinner in her studio to-day, against
which proposition Rosenbusch had nothing to object. She dispatched the
janitor with a few secret commissions, and in a short time had
improvised such an excellent meal that Rosenbusch burst out in great
enthusiasm.
CHAPTER IV.
This was the first day for many weeks on which he had felt warm, and as
if he had enough to eat. Consequently he only made a few weak protests
when Angelica insisted upon furnishing him his meals so long as their
common labor lasted, and even made as though he did not notice that she
acted like a very Penelope, and again and again put off the completion
of the work under one pretext or another. However, the picture was
finished at last, and Rosenbusch, who had in the mean while grown quite
plump, would have been obliged to fall back again on his fasting and
brooding, had not his friend taken care to provide for him without his
knowledge.
She succeeded in bringing it about that all the friends of the
inconsolable widow became possessed by a desire to have the effigy of
their dead or living husbands, done in the same way. Thus it happened
that our battle-painter was all at once completely overwhelmed with
orders for equestrian portraits, whereat he flew into a great passion,
for the modern uniforms were very much at variance with his Wouverman
tendencies. However, there were always the horses to fall back on, and
upon these he could labor with a good conscience, though he was always
complaining that the modern prejudices in regard to horse-breeding had
exterminated the majestic Flemish and Burgundian breeds. He painted
away at them with great zeal, "for his meals," as he expressed it, and
it was only when the approach of twilight forced him to leave off that
he allowed himself the pleasure of going round to his neighbors, and
inveighing against this servile labor to which his great work was being
sacrificed.
Angelica never replied to his complaints by a single word. She had said
once for all that she thought there was nothing unworthy in his
painting military portraits by the dozen, provided he could get,
respectable prices for them; and in support of this she referred him to
some famous examples. But, in order that she might get him to work
again upon some larger task, she persuaded the young widow to give him
an order for the bombardment of Kissingen, at which her husband had
fallen.
But in this case she had reckoned without her host. He absolutely
refused to paint so prosaic an affair as the bombardment of a modern
city, by modern troops who lay under cover and fired their cannon
unseen. Besides, he had not been present at the affair. Had he taken
part in person at the battle of Luetzen? asked Angelica, maliciously.
No; but that was not a parallel case at all. Everybody would like to
have been present at such a glorious hand-to-hand fight as that, and
would, therefore, feel grateful to the artist who did his best to fix
on canvas the rearing chargers, the trumpeters blowing their bugles,
and the foot soldiers charging and dealing blows to right and left with
all their might. Modern battles, on the other hand, showed to quite as
much advantage on the maps of the general staff, where one could follow
on the table the scientifically-planned moves and countermoves by
geometrical lines and different-colored little flags.
He could not be dissuaded from this, for on some subjects even
Angelica's influence over him had its limits. But the more she scolded
him for his obstinacy, and the more unsparing she was of her forcible
expressions, the better pleased she was at heart that he showed himself
so independent, so manly, and so unreasonable; and she often had hard
work to keep from falling out of her _role_ and throwing her arms
around his neck.
She was less satisfied with the persistency with which he clung to his
quiet melancholy, even after the beautiful weather had come, and there
was no longer any lack of money, and his loose dress-coat had long
since been exchanged for a natty summer jacket. She attributed this
dejection of one who was generally so light-hearted to his affair with
the beautiful Nanny, of which, contrary to his habit, he never spoke to
her, but which, as she knew, had not turned out very satisfactorily.
And so for many a day she sat dejectedly before her easel, listening to
catch the slightest sound from her friend's silent studio, where, even
now, the flute gave forth no music; while from the deserted rooms below
no sound of mallet and chisel nor any other sound of life reached her
ear.
In the mean while, as we have said, summer had come. Rossel had invited
old Schoepf and his granddaughter to his villa on the lake. But as the
old man did not think it would be just the thing for him to go and live
with the girl under a bachelor's roof, and as she herself would not
listen to the proposal for a moment, our "Fat Rossel" also remained in
town, an arrangement, by-the-way, that was far more agreeable to him.
Kohle alone took up his quarters with old Katie, in order to paint his
allegory of Venus on the wall. The foster-mother had returned from
Florence with a whole trunkful of articles of art and ornament for
Angelica, and a thousand greetings from the happy pair. She was never
tired of telling about the beautiful life the two were leading: how
Herr Jansen had begun some wonderful new works; how the Frenchmen and
Englishmen had gone wild over them; and how happy little Frances was
with her beautiful mamma. She had also seen the baron and Irene, but
nothing had as yet been heard of the young baron.
These accounts had greatly excited the good soul of our friend. Long
after the cheerful little woman had gone, Angelica sat at the table on
which she had spread out Julie's presents, the photographs taken from
the pictures of the Tribuna, the mosaic brooch and the beautiful silks,
and sadly reflected whether she would not have done better if she had
crossed the Alps when she was asked, instead of staying here at home
and torturing her soul with the pangs of a hopeless love.
Just then she heard Rosenbusch rush whistling upstairs with unusual
haste. Immediately after he entered her studio. His face had the same
thoughtless, dare-devil expression that it used to have in his most
flourishing days, when he still wore his violet-velvet coat.
"What news do you bring, Rosenbusch?" asked the painter, who was as
little pleased with his jollity as she had been before with his
dejection. "You look as if you had just made a great find, a genuine
Wouverman at some salt-dealer's, or the red cloth of which Countess
Terzky dreamed in Eger. Well?"
"My honored friend," he remonstrated, "you wrong me, as usual. What I
bring is not antiquities, but two very important items of news, a
serious and a comic one. Which do you wish to hear first?"
"First the serious one. You alarm me, Rosenbusch. Why, you really look
quite solemn."
"It is a devilish serious matter; there is war, real, genuine war,
though the whole thing sounds so absurd that, in spite of the
declaration by France that you can read in all the papers, one feels
almost tempted to bet that it is a newspaper hoax. What do you say now,
Angelica? Is that piece of news serious enough for you?"
"Gracious heavens!" cried Angelica, "what an absurdity!"
"That is a very wise remark of yours, my respected friend; but it can't
be helped; on account of just such absurdities the most sensible men
have lost their lives and whole nations their blood and treasure. To be
sure, there must be wars, else how would the battle-painters live?
However, you know my sentiments on that subject. Considering the
present system of artillery battles and rapid firing, you may be sure
it isn't for the sake of art that I am going."
"You going to the war? You don't know what you are talking about,
Rosenbusch! You a warrior and hero? That is undoubtedly your second
item of news, the comic one, I mean."
"You are again mistaken, and of course to my disadvantage, my dear
patroness. The second item has nothing whatever to do with the first;
on the contrary, if we must regard the first as a public calamity, we
can call the second a joyful private occurrence: Fraeulein Nanny and
Herr Franz Xavier Kiederhuber are announced as engaged; the wedding is
to take place in three weeks."
His face had not lost its indifferent expression while he spoke these
words, but yet there was something about his voice as if everything
were not yet quite right.
"My dear friend," she said, at last. "I have been so little _au
courant_ of your affairs of the heart for the last few months, that I
really do not know whether I ought to congratulate you or to assure you
of my silent sympathy, I must tell you frankly, though, that of all
your lovesick moods I never could understand this passion of yours for
that insignificant, coquettish, and not particularly attractive little
doll--" (Even now, when the faithless one had ceased to be dangerous,
Angelica's jealousy vented itself in this harsh criticism.) "And now
for your grief at having found out such a little hypocrite to drive you
into the jaws of a park of artillery, belching forth death and
destruction--"
"It isn't that at all," he interrupted, with a heavy sigh. "It isn't
any sardonic mood that makes me think this vengeance of fate absurd.
For all I care she may make her brewer's son happy, and prefer his beer
and brewery horses to my oil and chargers. That unfortunate love of
mine has long ceased to be anything but a spectre, a mere phantom, as
is shown most clearly by the verses I have composed about it. Elfinger
told me to my face long ago: 'You don't love her at all; the stronger
the love, the weaker the love poems, and yours are unusually good this
time!' Nevertheless, Angelica, you are not altogether wrong in
supposing that I am going off to the war on account of an unhappy
passion. It is the same hopeless affection that has robbed me of my
usual good spirits for some time past. But what's the odds? The powder
that is to remedy this folly has been invented at last!"
"_Another_ unhappy love affair? Oh, you wretch! I could almost take
sides with the beautiful Nanny; she must have found out what a
butterfly with blue-velvet wings was fluttering around her!"
"Well, whether what she did was right or wrong, she certainly conferred
a great favor upon us both by acting as she did. But, just because I
tried to retain my constancy as long as I possibly could, I grew
melancholy when I found how much difficulty I had in feeling the
slightest pain at the faithlessness of this young daughter of the
Philistines--of this Delilah for whom I once out off my beard and
flowing locks. And even though I have been perhaps unduly led, by my
sense of justice, to do homage to different styles of beauty at the
same time or in rapid succession--I am punished now more cruelly than I
have deserved. However, there is no help for it. It is to be hoped it
won't last long. It is true that as volunteer nurses, for as such we
are going to report ourselves (for Elfinger can't stand it any longer
either), we shan't at once get into the heaviest fire; and of course no
one can expect for a moment that we would enter as privates at this
late day, and go through a course of drill, and then follow after the
rest when the sport is all over. But during the battle, when all is
confusion, when human beings are bowled down like lead soldiers,
perhaps there will be a stray bullet for one of us--"
"Don't talk in that godless way, Rosenbusch! It is very noble and brave
of you to want to go with the rest; it certainly does you honor. But,
because it is such a holy cause, do leave your jests behind you; forget
'all lighter trifling, dalliance sweet,' and--and when you are in the
field--and really--"
She suddenly broke off. The thought that he was going to leave her,
that he would be surrounded by dangers and might stand in need of her
help, came over her with such force that she had all she could do to
restrain her tears.
He was gazing at the ground with a sad face, and had not noticed her
emotion.
"You are in one of your jesting moods again," he said, staring at a
large photograph of the Cellini "Perseus." "And I willingly give you
permission to ridicule all my former 'amours and courtesies,' and to
look upon them as Ariostian sports, springing from pure love of
adventure. But, you shall not lay hand on this, my last and lasting
passion. It is of a very different calibre; and, though I dare not
mention its name to you, I am sure you would yourself admit that this
flame has nothing in common with the Nannies, Annies, and Barbaras that
I once loved. But I won't be such a fool as to take you into my
confidence. Then, indeed, you would let out upon me the vials of your
raillery, and I am anxious that we should part good friends."
"You speak in riddles, Rosenbusch. If you really should lose your
reason in a sensible way--I mean over a subject that is worth the
trouble--why should I make fun of you?"
"Because--but no, it is useless to say any more about it. Do tell me,
for Heaven's sake! would you have believed this Monsieur Ollivier to
have been capable of such a vile performance, such a piece of silly
defiance--like a corps-student 'renowning it?' A man that only a little
while ago--"
"No dodging, Herr von Rosebud. You have told me too much for you to try
and put a seal on your lips now. As a woman, and as your true, sincere
friend, it is not only my right but my duty to be curious. Out with
it--who is this latest flame?--and if I can aid you by word or deed--"
Her voice grew unsteady again. She did not dare to look at him. He,
too, let his eyes wander around the studio in another direction.
"If you positively insist upon knowing," he stammered, at last--"and,
after all, there's nothing to be lost or gained by my telling you--the
person of whom I speak is the only female being to whose peace of mind
I can't imagine myself in any way dangerous--I couldn't imagine it even
in a dream. It is impossible for her to feel toward me either love or
hate. She has given me unmistakable proof of this--partly by constantly
scolding, railing, and mocking at me, partly by the kindest and most
brotherly friendship--such as one only shows to a person when one is
absolutely certain that one can never fall in love with him. I ought to
have been warned by this, and have taken better care of my heart. But,
just because such a relation was quite new to me, I fell into it
blindfold, and now I am plunged up to my ears in the most hopeless,
most undying, and most imprudent passion. There you have my confession.
I think you will dispense with my mentioning to you the name of the
person in question. But I won't detain you longer. I see you have your
palette ready to go to work. _Adieu!_"
He turned toward the door. But he had not crossed the threshold when
his name reached his ear--and his heart, too, because of the unusually
tender tone in which it was pronounced. He stood as if rooted to the
spot, and waited to hear what more the voice would say. But he had to
wait a good while, so he spent the intervening time in observing the
wall, which separated this room from his own, and which was large
enough to easily admit of a door being cut through.
"Dear Rosenbusch," the voice began again, at last, eyen a little more
tenderly than before. "What you have said is so new, so entirely
unexpected to me--and then, again, so confusing--come, let us talk
about it like a couple of sensible people and good comrades--"
He again made a movement as though he were going. The beginning did not
strike him as being particularly consoling. "Sensible discussion and
good-fellowship!"--if she had nothing better than that to offer him--
"No," she continued; "hear me out, first. You are always so hasty,
Rosenbusch! If you will only promise me not to be offended at anything
I say--for I would like to be perfectly frank. Will you promise me?"
He nodded rapidly three times in succession, and gave her an almost
timid look; and then hastily looked down again. In the midst of her own
confusion and embarrassment she could not help smiling at the shy,
penitent air of one who was usually such a self-confident lady-killer.
"I can't deny," she said, "that in the first part of our acquaintance
I really did not think much of you; you were--pardon me for saying
it--rather disagreeable than dangerous to me. The very name of
Rosenbusch sounds so perfumed and sentimental--"
"Well!" he ventured to interpose, "Minna Engelken is also a devilish
sweet name!"
"But, still, it doesn't sound so Jewish. I took you for a Jew in
disguise."
"We have been baptized these hundred years, and my grandmother came
from a Christian family, and was a Fraeulein Fliedermueller."
"Then, besides, I found you too--how shall I say?--too 'pretty' for a
man, and the others all said you were amiable. Pretty and amiable men
have always been intolerable to me. They are generally conscious of it,
and contemplate themselves in the glass at moments when they are not
watched, and comb their beard and even their eyebrows. And all the
while they care for no one but themselves; and, if they pretend to grow
sentimental over a woman, it is done in such a way that the unfortunate
person thus favored would rather receive a box on the ear than such
homage, if her heart is in the right place. Don't get angry,
Rosenbusch; it isn't your fault that you have such a pretty little nose
and are so amiable--for that you really are. But you will understand;
an old girl who is no longer pretty, and who never was considered
amiable--"
"Oh, Angelica!--"
"No, you mustn't interrupt me. It would be very stupid of me if I were
not wise enough to know how I look, and what impression I make upon
people after having had nearly thirty years in which to make my own
acquaintance. How old are you, Rosenbusch?"
"I shall be thirty-one on the fifth of August."
"Then there is scarcely thirteen months difference between us. Don't
you see, that in itself is an objection? But to proceed: your
flute-playing, your white mice, your many love-affairs; can you blame
me for looking upon you as a man who was not in the slightest degree
dangerous--to me, at least? I had formed a very different idea of the
man who was to win my heart, and, if I chanced to find such a one, I
knew at once that it would be an unfortunate affair if I regarded the
matter seriously. For such men want very different wives, and in that
they are quite right. So I intrenched my poor soul behind my sense of
humor, and, as you see, that was both a good and a bad thing to do;
good, because it has helped me over many a bitter hour; bad, because it
made me appear even less amiable than I really am at bottom. A woman
who has humor, who does not weigh each of her words--where are the men
who still believe that a good, womanly heart lies behind it all? The
conceited men, like yourself, for instance, are especially repelled by
such a one. Unless we cower in sweet bashfulness before your great
words and beards, we are not worthy to be loved by your great souls.
For that reason I was truly never more astonished by anything than by
what you have just said to me. It is true, that since--well, for some
time past I will say--I have gained a very different opinion of you; it
is my duty to confess this to you after having so candidly told you the
rest to your face. I have learned to esteem you highly, Rosenbusch;
I--I even believe I must make use of a stronger expression; I have
conceived a hearty love and affection for you--no, you mustn't
interrupt me by a single word, it must all come out first. Do you know,
on that night when you behaved so naughtily--you recollect it, don't
you?--you took a liberty which you regarded merely as the toll of
gallantry, but which a girl who has any respect for herself--though I
have no prudish notions about such things when people are really in
love with one another--and that was it that made me feel so badly,
because you took such a liberty without really loving me; and I believe
I didn't close an eye half that night, and that I shed many secret
tears, because--because, do what I would, I couldn't be angry with you
for it!"
"Angelica!" he cried, eagerly, approaching to seize her hand, which,
however, she instantly drew back. "Why do you speak this way, if you
will not make me happy--if you will not even let me kiss your hand? No,
I won't be kept from speaking any longer; for, no matter how much about
my bad qualities you may still have on your conscience, you can
no longer deny that you like me, that you think well of me; and
that is the main thing and a thousand times better than I ever dared
to hope. Dearest, best Angelica, only try and believe that even a
thirty-one-year-old battle-painter can improve. I will stop up my flute
with lead, I will give my mice strychnine in a piece of Swiss cheese,
and will wear a covering over my nose so that the children shall run
away at sight of me. And, finally, in regard to my love-affairs--do you
really believe I am so wanting in taste, to say nothing of all nobler
motives, as to have eyes for such every-day doll-faces, after having
found in your countenance the image of all love and goodness, of all
wisdom and grace?"
In the mean while he got possession of one of her hands and pressed
it so earnestly, at the same time gazing into her face with such
true-hearted, mischievous eyes, that she grew quite red and came very
near losing her firmness. However, she quickly recovered herself again
and said:
"You are a truly dangerous man, Rosenbusch. I begin to realize that now
from my own experience. If I did not call to my aid all the little
sense and self-consciousness I possess, we should now fall into one
another's arms, and ruin would take its course. One more name would
stand on your list; you would go to the war, and there, in the great
events that go to make up the history of the world, you would find the
very best excuse for letting this little affair of the heart drop
completely out of your memory. No, my friend, I think too much of
myself for that. I confidently believe that my respected person has
merely become of importance in your eyes, because I have heretofore
withstood your amiability in a perfectly incomprehensible way. As soon
as you should become convinced that I too am only a weak woman, I
should become a matter of great indifference to you. Now, it is true,
my stupid honesty has prevented me from concealing this from you; but I
don't regard myself as hopelessly lost even yet. Now, if you go to the
war, we shall both be equally well off. We shall both have ample time
and opportunity for forgetting one another. I, to be sure, here alone
in this deathly quiet house, where I hear nothing but the squeak of
your mice--I shall have somewhat the harder time. But perhaps some
other dangerous youth will move into your quarters--a dark-complexioned
Hungarian or Pole--I have always had a partiality for brunettes, and
for that reason alone it is a great mistake for me to love you with
your red beard."
She had to turn her head away, it was impossible for her to conceal her
emotion any longer by forced jests. She stealthily pressed her curls
against her overflowing eyes, but, nevertheless, she shook her head
when he put his arm around her and drew her to his breast.
"No, no!" she whispered; "I don't believe it even now. You shall see it
will turn out badly. It's so silly of my stupid tears to give the lie
to my wisest words; and then, too, my foolish heart, that ought to be
old enough not to let itself be deluded--"
* * * * *
On the evening of the same day Angelica wrote a long letter to Julie.
After she had relieved her heart of a thousand things that concerned
her friend alone, and had arrived at the end of the twelfth page, she
finally summoned up all her courage, took a fresh sheet, and wrote the
following postscript:
"To tell you the truth, I was going to be so cowardly and deceitful as
to send off this letter without telling you of the great event of this
day. I don't mean the declaration of war by France, which will be an
old story by the time this letter comes into your hands, but the
offensive and defensive alliance that I have to-day concluded. With
whom, I should very much prefer you should guess for yourself. But as
it will be too long for me to wait before I can learn whether you have
guessed rightly or not--and as one is said to lose in shrewdness what
one gains in happiness--I will state at once that the artful man
who has surprised my well-known firmness and prudence is no other
than--Rosenbusch. I hope you are not so far-sighted as to see that in
making this confession I blush to such an extent as to do all honor to
my future name--though my rosiness is of a somewhat faded sort. Oh,
dearest! what is our heart? It really seems as though that inexplicable
and irresponsible something within us that controls the blood in its
course and makes the hand cold or warm if we place it in that of
another, exists almost independently of all those other forces which
govern that little world we call the individual. How often have I made
this dear fellow-creature the butt of my merciless sallies! How often,
when alone with you, have I caricatured his weaknesses and human
frailties--to be sure he has changed very much since you last
saw him--and made merry over this rat-catcher with his flute and
blue-velvet coat! And all the while my heart sat in its cell as still
as a mouse and made no movement; nay, even my conscience did not rebel
at the godless way in which I denied that love we are commanded to feel
toward our fellow-creatures. And now all of a sudden--
'Frailty, thy name is woman!'