pretty and suitable to you until now? And didn't you yourself say that
this old sofa, where we sat when our betrothal was celebrated, should
never leave the house? And wasn't the little coffee-spoon good enough
for you, when I put my first preserved cherries into your mouth with
it? The new ones, you know very well, belong to Heinz, whose god-mother
is to send him one each year until the dozen is complete. Ought I to
borrow anything from our boy in order to make a display before a
strange lady? My coffee is famous throughout the town. Mary shall run
to the baker's for some fresh pastry; then, if we do not please your
Russian, I am very sorry. For the rest, you appear to have studied her
baptismal record more closely to-day. All the better, that she is no
old woman. Tell me, has she children?"
"I believe not. She has not spoken of them."
"No matter. Her silver spoons may be more beautiful than mine. As for
our children, they, I think, could compare with any general's children.
I shall merely wash their hands a little, as they dig in their garden.
But earth is not dirt."
Then she went out into the garden, while he, glad to be alone,
pried about the room, rearranging and disposing things after his own
mind in a more artistic fashion. Bringing a few aquarelles from the
garret--which he had converted into an _atelier_ by means of a
half-covered north window--he hung them on the wall in place of the
crayon portrait of some forgotten great-aunt. He put an easel in the
corner near the little window, and placed a study in oils upon it. He
heartily desired to remove a certain shelf loaded with glasses, cups,
artificial flowers, and alabaster figures, and he would have had no
objection to throwing it out of the window upon the wall; but he knew
that this treasure house of tasteless keepsakes was too dear to his
wife for her ever to forgive such an act of violence. At length he
regarded his work with a sigh; the room did not look very much changed;
he acknowledged that the stamp of provincial simplicity was too deeply
impressed on his life to be erased by a mere wave of the hand.
But in truth this cage was too narrow for an aspiring artist. He must
leave it at once, or the veil which had until now hidden all this
pettiness from his eyes would soon envelop him completely.
Just then Christel returned; and, casting a wondering glance at the
easel and the new pictures, she smiled slightly, but said not a word.
After spreading a pretty coffee-cloth on the table, she took from the
shelf several cups--her best, though long out of fashion both in shape
and decoration; then, between the two plates which the maid had
filled with cakes, she placed her principal piece of silver, a small
sugar-bowl bearing on its lid a swan with outspread wings. Hans,
meanwhile, sat at the window, apparently absorbed in a book. The little
woman evinced no surprise at his seeming lack of interest in the
preparations, though she laughed softly to herself now and then. Her
pretty mouth looked very bewitching when she smiled, but Hans had no
eyes to see this, and she soon left him alone again.
Thus a short hour glided by, and as he heard her working outside in the
kitchen and talking with the servant, her calm, soft voice, formerly so
pleasing to him, pained him; he himself did not know why. Suddenly he
heard the door-bell ring, and, starting up, he rushed out into the
hall. There he encountered Christel.
"Must you actually receive her on the threshold like a princess?" she
asked calmly. "We are not such extremely humble people."
"You are right," he said, somewhat confused. "I only wished to see if
you were there."
She preceded him into the room. Immediately afterward the stranger
entered. Christel met her with graceful cordiality; the young artist
merely bowed in silence. The lady almost ignored him, and devoted
herself exclusively to the young wife. Christel invited her to sit
beside her on the stiff little sofa, and thanked her for having found
time during her short stay to visit them.
"Our little old house is not one of the noteworthy sights of
Rothenburg," she said. "We have no such beautiful wainscoting as in the
hall of the Weissbacher house; and, although everything is old, it is
not therefore beautiful. To be sure, it pleases me, because I have
known it from childhood, and have seen people whom I loved sitting on
all those ugly chairs. But my husband," and she glanced roguishly at
him, "would look on without a pang, if all our furniture went to the
second-hand dealer, or was thrust into the stove. The best that we have
is free to all, and is there outside of the window. You must see our
view, my lady. Then you will find it comprehensible, that even an
artist can be contented with this old nest--but who knows for how
long!"
Once more she glanced mischievously at Hans, who was pushing back the
table in order to show the view to their guest. But the lady remained
seated, saying that she had studied the Tauber valley thoroughly from
the castle, and was now here solely on Christel's account. She had
evidently intended to be very gracious and affable, and to encourage
the shy young wife in every way; but when she realized that there was
no need of this, her own manner became somewhat constrained. She was
unusually quiet, and listened in silence to Christel's ingenuous
prattle and the husband's occasional comments. The maid brought the
coffee, and Christel served her guest without any ado. Meanwhile, she
observed, the stranger's face closely, and seemed to become more and
more confident and cheerful in consequence. Then she inquired about the
lady's journey, about her husband; and asked if she had any children.
As the stranger hastily answered this in the negative, the subject was
dropped. Soon afterwards Christel's three oldest children rushed
upstairs into the room; the larger boy held his younger sister, just
two years old, in his arms; all four looked pretty and rosy, and were
only a trifle abashed when their mother bade them shake hands with the
stranger. The latter regarded them through her lorgnette with apparent
good-will, but evidently did not know what to say to them. So, with a
glance at the shabby little piano standing against the wall, she at
once asked if Christel played.
She had played as a girl. Now she had too many household duties, and
opened the old instrument only occasionally to accompany her children
in a song.
Of course the guest desired to hear one of these family concerts, and,
although the father remarked that it would be a very moderate pleasure,
the young wife was soon persuaded. Gently lifting the youngest child
from her lap, she placed it in the sofa corner. Then, seating herself
at the piano, she struck several chords with an unpractised but musical
hand, and played the melody of the song "_In einem kuehlen Grunde_." The
two boys and little Lulu came softly behind her, and began to sing
somewhat shyly. But by the second stanza the young voices sounded fresh
and courageous; and the mother sang with them, in a voice whose
charming quaintness lent peculiar strength and meaning to the tender
love-song.
Hans, sitting by the window, cast furtive glances at the stranger,
whose face assumed a more and more bitter and unhappy expression, the
longer she listened. When the song was finished, she did not speak.
Christel arose and whispered something to the children, whereupon,
after a courteous bow, they left the room. Then she took the youngest,
which had fallen asleep, and carried it out to the maid. When she
reentered, the two were still sitting in silent absorption.
"Will you not show your friend the _atelier_?" she asked brightly.
"There is more to be seen there than down here."
He at once stood up, and the stranger also arose. "You do not know how
well you sing!" she said, offering her hand to Christel. "Music always
makes me sad; not the great roaring operas and concerts, but a pure,
sympathetic human voice. And now let us go to this work-room of art."
He conducted her up a small, dark staircase, and opened the door of the
so-called _atelier_. The whitewashed walls of the spacious garret were
covered with sketches and studies from his academic years; close to the
window stood the table where he painted his water-colors, and on a
couple of easels were two oil paintings, one completed and one but just
commenced, naturally views of Rothenburg. But she appeared to take
little interest in these works to-day; for she spoke only occasionally
of some study, and soon turned to the window, whence one could look far
beyond the soft, green slopes, down the Tauber, where, in the slightly
misty spring air, a little town lifted its ancient tower among the
tall, blossomless trees.
"There is nothing remarkable about those colors and outlines," he said,
"but as a frame for the whole picture they are not bad. How different
it must be to stand on the Capitol and see the beautiful, classic lines
of the Alban mountain beyond the Forum and the imperial palaces! To be
sure, I know it only from pictures!" he concluded with a sigh.
"You will certainly see the reality sometime; that and still more
beautiful things. Meanwhile, this too is not to be despised, each in
its place."
Then she spoke of other things. But he was contented because she had
thus referred to his southern trip, for the first time during the whole
day. He was reflecting how to continue this theme which she had
started, when she turned from the window and asked him to take her
downstairs again. Before departing, she had a few letters to write,
since she would find more time for them here than in Wuerzburg. When did
the evening train leave?
"At eight o'clock," he replied.
"Good. We shall see each other once more at the station? Now I must go
home."
When they came down into the house, Christel was no longer there; the
mistress was in the garden, said the maid, turning red and refusing
what the stranger tried to force into her hand. Christel met them in
the garden, her hands full of hyacinths and spring flowers, which she
had just cut and made into a simple nosegay.
"You must be contented with these," she said, "for as yet I cannot
offer you any of my roses, of which I am very proud. But I myself have
raised these yellow hyacinths with the greenish calyxes, and more
beautiful ones are not easily found. I have a skilful hand with
children and flowers--that is my only talent."
The stranger accepted the nosegay and embraced the giver, kissing her
cheek. She then walked about the garden, which was surrounded with high
walls, and, at this time of the year, had but little sunlight. A thick
ivy covered the black walls, clothing them with a dusky green tapestry,
against which the young shoots of the fruit-trees, and the beds of
primroses, crocuses, and hyacinths stood out in pleasing contrast. The
children were playing in one corner, and labored on in their own
irregular little garden without noticing the visitor.
"I must now say farewell," said the stranger. "Unfortunately, I cannot
invite you to return my visit in my so-called home. In our castle it is
not so green and cheerful as here; and I have never found out whether I
have a skilful hand with children and flowers. But I thank you for
these beautiful hours. I shall never forget them; they have both
pleased and pained me as nothing has done for a long tune. Adieu!"
She embraced Christel again, and this time kissed her mouth. Then,
nodding to the young husband with a scarcely audible "We meet again!"
she quickly left the garden through the old arched gateway.
It was only half-past seven, and the sun had scarcely set, when the
omnibus of the "Golden Stag" rolled through the eastern town-gate, and
soon afterward halted at the little station. But before the porter
could open the carriage-door, a young man who wore a black artist's
cap, and who had been waiting there for some time, sprang forward and
assisted the lady out first, then the Tartar maid, laden with the usual
boxes and bundles.
He himself carried a large sketch-book under his arm, and over his
shoulder a light overcoat from whose pocket a thick packet protruded.
His face was somewhat flushed; his eyes were restless and excited. He
inquired if the tickets had been purchased; then hastened to the
office. Returning quickly, he gave two tickets to his patroness; a
third he placed in his own pocket.
"You travel with us?" asked the stranger, suddenly standing still,
while Sascha carried her baggage to the waiting-room.
He merely nodded, looking at her with astonishment and some agitation.
"Where are you going? You returned only yesterday."
"Where? I hope to learn that from you, my lady."
She regarded him for a moment as if he were a madman.
"Did you not urge it upon me," he commenced with a beating heart, "that
I owed it to myself to see a little of the world before settling down
forever in this narrow place? And were you not kind enough to desire me
as your travelling companion, that I might sketch scenes that
especially pleased you? I have given it mature consideration, and find
that you are right; that I have no time to lose if I wish to take up my
neglected life-plan once more; and so I am here at your service."
She still remained silent, but looked away from him into the darkening
sky, where Venus, softly splendid, was just rising.
"Does your wife know of this decision, and does she agree to it?"
"My wife?--I merely told her I wished to bid you good-by at the
station. I mean to telegraph her from Steinach that she need not expect
me immediately, that I am going on a little sketching-trip. I shall
write more to her from Wuerzburg, and explain my reasons for stealing
away from her thus. A formal parting would have pained us both
unnecessarily; and, God willing, we shall see each other again in a
year or so. She is a very intelligent woman, much quicker and surer
than I in all determinations, and she loves me too well not to wish for
my good. I have considered all this during the past twenty-four hours.
Have you changed your mind in the mean time? I have brought only the
most necessary things with me," he continued hesitatingly--"I did not
wish to cause any delay. I am sufficiently provided with money; I shall
buy a trunk on the road--but why do you look at me so strangely, my
lady?"
"Dear friend," she said gently, "do you know that if I were not wiser
than you, you would now commit an act of actual madness, in fact, a
crime against yourself and your life's happiness?"
"For heaven's sake, my lady--"
"Be still! Do not speak a word, but listen to me. Only first answer me
a little question honestly and frankly; is it not true that you are a
little in love with me?"
"My lady!" he stammered, in extreme embarrassment. He let his
sketch-book fall, stooped for it, and occupied a long time in picking
it up and dusting it.
"You are right," she said, without smiling; "it was an artful question,
and you need not answer it, for I know the truth already. Of course I
am not angry with you for it, and you are not the first. It has come to
me often enough when I have had less reason to be vain of it. But what
have you imagined as the result?"
He was silent. She, glancing sidewise at him, amused herself a little
with the spectacle of his helpless confusion.
"I will tell you," she continued; "it seems to you very romantic to
allow yourself to be somewhat carried away, and to perform a little
travel-romance in easy chapters, with pretty Italian landscapes for
illustrations. To me also--I confess it--you are pleasing enough for me
to find your company really desirable, as I am a lonely, discontented,
and still unresigned woman. Indeed, that you may know it--for I shall
claim no virtue which I do not possess--I have given myself some
trouble--very little was needed--to turn your head. In fact, you seemed
to me too good for a petty, provincial life in dressing-gown and
slippers by the side of a worthy little goose such as I imagined your
wife to be. I even represented to myself that I had a sort of mission
to fulfil in saving an artistic soul from the curse of narrowness, or
however you wish to express it. But I have become terribly ashamed."
"My wife--" he said.
"Do not speak of her!" she exclaimed passionately. "Do you know that
you are unworthy of her? that, from the way in which you spoke of her,
I expected to see a good, respectable, uninteresting creature? and
instead all your famous Rothenburg has nothing to show more charming
than this little woman! And you would forsake her to run after an utter
stranger? Do not take it unkindly of me; you have been on the point of
becoming a perfect fool, and I am not vain enough to find any
particular excuse for mildness in the fact that you are infatuated with
me."
Her voice sounded hard and shrill, and he perceived that she was
speaking with painful effort. Then he strove to collect himself;
seizing her hand, and pressing it slightly in his own, he said:
"I thank you, my lady, for all the kind and unkind words you have just
said to me. I will not be less frank than you; yes, you have turned my
head, truly not in the ordinary way, but because you gave me a glimpse
of the ideals of life and art which I renounced so early to seek
happiness in a modest, middle station. I have indeed found it, and am
really not so blind and ungrateful as to think it worthless. But ought
not a man to strive for the highest things? Ought he to be contented
with a Rothenburg happiness--you yourself called it so--and especially
if he devotes himself to art, should he not seek the unknown--"
"To strive for the highest," she interrupted him--"the unknown? Praise
your fate that it has never made those beautiful words real to you.
They are will-o'-the-wisps which lead one astray into pits and swamps.
Shall I tell you a story? There was once a beautiful young girl, the
daughter of a humble serf; and a young man, the tutor at the great
house, was in love with her; he resembled you a little, only his hair
and beard were less artistic. He wished to marry the girl, and as he
had a little property, it would have been a very good match. But the
proud thing aspired to the 'highest,' and although as yet she knew no
French, she had even then an inclination towards the _recherche de
l'inconnu_. Then a general came to the estate, and he too found the
girl strikingly pretty, paid court to her, and finally asked her to
marry him. Well, there was the 'highest' of which she had dreamt, and
the 'unknown' also, as the great world of St. Petersburg would be open
to her. And so she forsook her humble suitor and became a general's
wife; and when she saw the 'highest' by daylight it was mean and low;
and when she learned to know the 'unknown' it was but insipid
commonplaceness. Probably her heart would not have been filled with
happiness beside a simple _magister_; but yet she would not have been
quite so miserable nor made others so unhappy. Of course there were
many who wished to help her atone for her error, and one of them might
have succeeded. It was a pity that the general was such a sure hand
with a pistol, and was not too proud to give a personal lesson to one
of his young officers, thus striking the poor fellow out of the ranks
of the living. But the woman, the fool--since then she has become
restless, and seeks the 'unknown' throughout the world, or--if she
feels herself in the mood for self-deception--the ideal. Do you know
that, so far, she has found nothing more ideal than the quiet, wise,
warm glance of your little wife, the peace of your old-fashioned home,
and that skilful hand with children and flowers, which charms both into
such fresh colors?
"So! Now I have nothing more to say to you. If you still believe that
you cannot be happy without copying the old stones of the castle of St.
Angelo instead of the old stones of the white tower, and without
venturing upon grand and lofty themes, although you have scarcely the
stuff for a Raphael, then come with me. The way is free, and perhaps
long enough for my extremely unselfish mood to pass away once more. But
if you are wise, you will postpone your art journey until the children
are old enough to be left in another's charge for a few months. Then
take Christel on your arm, and cross the Alps with her; and, I
promise you, even if she is only a Rothenburg child, you could
present her at Monte Pincio without being ashamed of her. Only beware
that you yourself do not undervalue her. Always let her share your
life and ambitions; for we are what you make of us, if we are good;
otherwise--we are certainly what we make of ourselves, but neither good
nor happy. Enough of this! Adieu, and remember me to Christel. And when
your work on Rothenburg is published, send it to me at Rome, under the
address of the Russian embassy. I subscribe for three copies. I will
spread the fame of the German Pompeii."
She gave him her hand, which he pressed to his lips with intense
feeling. Then, drawing her veil over her face, she hurried to the
train, which was standing ready for departure. When she was seated in
the _coupe_ she nodded to him once more. The little engine whistled,
and the black serpent glided out on the bare rails. But the stranger
drew back into her dark corner, and for a long time stared before her
like a statue. Suddenly opening one of her Russian leather satchels,
she rummaged around in it, and finally drew out a case. "There, take
it," she said in Russian to her maid. "You have always admired this
bracelet so much, Sascha, I will give it to you. I am moved to
generosity. I wish it never cost me more than such a shining toy."
Sascha fell on her knees before her, and kissed her hand. Then, playing
with the gift, she withdrew to her corner. She believed she heard her
mistress crying softly under her veil, but did not dare ask why.
* * *
About this time Hans Doppler returned to his little wife. The children
were already asleep. He was strangely softened and moved to tenderness.
Again and again he stroked her wavy, brown hair, which she arranged so
prettily over her ears. He gave her the stranger's last greeting
without telling her anything more about the parting. Yet several times,
as they were sitting together at their evening meal, he attempted to
begin a full confession. At length he said:
"Do you know, my darling, that the general's wife actually planned to
take me with her on an art journey through Sicily and Italy? What would
you have said to that?"
"Well, Hans," she replied, "I would not have restrained you, if it had
really been your wish. It is true, I do not know how I could have stood
it. I can no longer imagine my life without you. But if your happiness
had depended on it--"
"My happiness? That depends only on you!" protested the crafty fellow,
endeavoring to conceal a blush. "You should have heard the general's
wife comparing my unworthiness and your superiority. But you did you
not become a little jealous?"
"Of whom? Of the old Russian?"
"Old? With that hair and complexion!"
"Oh, you blind Hans!" she cried, laughing, as she pulled his hair;
"then you did not see that this dangerous Muscovite was powdered over
and over, and had a thick false braid? But even if everything were all
right about her, do you believe I would not trust myself to hold my own
with her? And then the Tiber may be a perfectly beautiful river but it
is certainly not to be compared with the Tauber!"
End of Project Gutenberg's A Divided Heart and Other Stories, by Paul Heyse