The fete progressed; the assembly glided to and fro as Hartmut walked
slowly and apparently purposelessly through the long suite of reception
rooms. He, too, looked for some one, and was more successful than Egon.
A hasty glance into the tower room, the entrance of which was partly
concealed by heavy portieres, showed him the hem of a white train which
floated over the floor, and the next moment he had crossed the
threshold.
Adelaide von Wallmoden was still sitting in the same position, and
slowly turned her head toward the intruder. Suddenly she started, but
only for an instant, then with her habitual composure she returned the
deep bow of the young man who remained standing at the door.
"I hope I have not disturbed Your Excellency," he said. "I fear you
came here for solitude into which I have broken suddenly, but it
happens quite unintentionally."
"I only took refuge here from the smothering heat of the salons."
"The same cause brought me here, and since I did not have the honor
to-day to greet you, permit me to do so now."
The words sounded very formal. Rojanow had drawn nearer, but remained
standing at a respectable distance. Nevertheless, the start at his
entrance had not been passed by unobserved by him. A peculiar smile
hovered around his lips as he directed his eyes upon the young
Baroness.
She had made a gesture as if to rise and leave the room, but seemed to
remember in time that so sudden a move would look like flight. She
remained seated and leaned over the plants. Absently she picked one of
the large crimson japonicas as she replied to the question about her
health, but that line of severe will-power appeared again, sharply and
distinctly, just as in that moment when she stood in the middle of the
brook. That day she had stepped without hesitation into ankle-deep
water rather than accept the help which was offered her; but that had
occurred in the forest loneliness. No such obstacle had to be overcome
here in the ducal castle, filled with the pomp of a fete; but the man
with the dark, consuming glance was here, and he did not remove his
eyes from her face.
"Shall you remain at Rodeck any length of time?" asked Adelaide in the
indifferent tone with which remarks are exchanged in society.
"Probably a few weeks longer. Prince Adelsberg will hardly leave his
castle as long as the Duke is at Furstenstein. I intend to accompany
him to the Residenz later on."
"And we shall then learn to know you as a poet?"
"Me, Your Excellency?"
"I learned so from the Prince."
"Oh, that is only Egon's idea," said Hartmut, lightly. "He has settled
it in his mind that he must see my Arivana upon the stage."
"Arivana! A strange title."
"It is an Oriental name for an Indian legend, whose poetical charm had
prepossessed me so strangely that I could not resist the temptation to
form it into a drama."
"And the heroine of the drama is Arivana?"
"No; that is only the name of an ancient, sacred spot, around which
this legend clings. The name of the heroine is--Ada."
Rojanow uttered the name softly, hesitatingly; but his eyes flamed up
triumphantly, as he saw again the same slight quiver he had seen at his
entrance. Slowly he approached a few steps, continuing: "I heard the
name for the first time upon India's soil, and it had a sweet foreign
sound for me, which I retained for my heroine, and now I learn here
that the abbreviation of a German name is just like it."
"Of the name Adelaide--yes. I was always called so at home; but it is
nothing peculiar that the same sounds return in different languages."
The words sounded repellent, but the young wife did not lift her eyes;
she gazed fixedly upon the flower with which her fingers toyed.
"Certainly not," assented Hartmut; "I only noticed it. It was no
surprise, since all legends are repeated in all nations. They have a
greater or less difference in appearance, but that which lives in
them--the passion, the happiness and joy of the people--that is the
same everywhere."
Adelaide shrugged her shoulders.
"I cannot argue about that with a poet, but I do believe that our
German legends possess other features than the Indian dreams of myths."
"Perhaps so, but if you look deeper you will find these features
familiar. This Arivana myth, at least, has similar lines. The hero, a
young priest who has consecrated body and soul to his deity--the
sacred, burning fire--is overwhelmed by earthly love, with all its
fervor and passion, until his priestly vow perishes in its intensity."
He stood quietly and respectfully before her, but his voice had a
strangely suppressed sound, as if, hidden behind this narrative, there
was another and secret meaning.
Suddenly the Baroness raised her eyes and directed them fully and
seriously upon the face of the speaker. "And--the end?"
"The end is death, as in most mystic legends. The breaking of the vow
is discovered, and the guilty ones are sacrificed to the offended
deity; the priest dies in the flames with the woman he loves."
A short pause followed. Adelaide arose with a rapid movement. She
apparently wished to break off the conversation.
"You are right; this legend has something familiar, if it were only the
old doctrine of guilt and atonement."
"Do you call that guilt, gracious lady?" Hartmut suddenly dropped the
formal title. "Well, yes, by man it is called guilt, and they too
punish it with death, without thinking that such punishment can be
ecstasy. To perish in the flames after having tasted of the highest
earthly happiness, and to embrace this happiness even in death--that is
a glorious, divine death, worthy a long life of dull monotony. The
eternal, undying right of love glows there like signs of flame in the
sky, in spite of all laws of mankind. Do you not think such an end
enviable?"
A slight paleness covered the face of the Baroness, but her voice was
firm as she answered:
"No; enviable only is death for an exalted, holy duty--the sacrifice of
a pure life. One can forgive sin, but one does not admire it."
Hartmut bit his lips, and a threatening glance rested on the white
figure which stood so solemn and unapproachable before him. Then he
smiled.
"A hard judgment, which strikes my work also, for I have put my whole
power into the glorification of this love and death. If the world judge
like you---- Ah, permit me, gracious lady."
He quickly approached the divan where she had been sitting, where, with
her fan, the japonica also had been left.
"Thank you," said Adelaide, stretching out her hand; but he gave her
only the fan.
"Your pardon. While I was composing my Arivana on the veranda of a
small house in India, this flower bloomed and glowed from its dark
green foliage everywhere, and now it greets me here in the cold North.
May I keep this flower?"
Adelaide made a half reluctant gesture.
"No, why should you?"
"Why should I? For a remembrance of the severe opinion from the lips of
a lady who bears the lovely name of my mystic heroine. You see,
gracious lady, that the white japonica blooms here also, delicate,
snowy flower; but unconsciously you broke the glowing red one, and
poets are superstitious. Leave me the flower as a token that my work,
in spite of all, may find favor in your eyes after you learn to know
it. You have no idea how much it means to me."
"Herr Rojanow--I----" She was about to utter a refusal, but he
interrupted her, and continued in low, but passionate, tones:
"What is a single flower to you, broken carelessly, and which you will
allow to fade as carelessly? But to me leave me this token, gracious
lady; I--I beg for it."
He stood close beside her. The charm which he, as a boy, had
unconsciously exerted when he made people "defenseless" with his
coaxing, he, as a man, recognized as a power which never failed, and
which he knew how to use. His voice bore again that soft, suppressed
tone which charmed the ear like music; and his eyes--those dark,
mysterious eyes--were fixed upon the girl before him with a half
gloomy, half beseeching expression.
The paleness of her face had deepened, but she did not answer.
"I beg of you," he repeated, more lowly, more beseechingly, as he
pressed the glowing flower to his lips; but the very gesture broke the
spell. Adelaide suddenly drew herself up.
"I must ask you, Herr Rojanow, to return the flower to me. I intended
it for my husband."
"Ah, so? I beg your pardon, Your Excellency."
He handed her the flower with a deep bow, which she accepted with a
barely noticeable inclination of the head. Then the heavy white train
glided past him, and he was alone.
In vain! Everything glided off this icy nature.
Hartmut stamped his foot angrily. Only ten minutes ago he had passed
such harsh judgment on all women, without an exception, to the Prince.
Now he had sung again that charming tune which he had tried so often
successfully, and had found one who resisted it. But the proud, spoiled
man would not believe that he could lose the game which he had won so
often, when just here he was so anxious to win it.
And would it really remain only a game? He had not as yet accounted to
himself for it, but he felt that the passion which drew him to the
beautiful woman was mingled at times with hatred.
They were conflicting emotions which had been deeply stirred when he
walked by her side through the forest--half admiring, half repellent.
But it was just that which made the chase so interesting to the
practised huntsman.
Love! The high, pure meaning of the word had remained foreign to the
son of Zalika. When he learned to feel, he was living at his mother's
side, she who had made such shameful play of her husband's love; and
the women with whom she associated were no better. The later life which
she led with her son, unsettled and adventurous, with no firm ground
under their feet, had finally crushed out the last remnant of idealism
in the young man. He learned to despise before he learned to love, and
now he felt the merited humiliation given him to be an insult.
"Struggle on," he muttered; "you battle against yourself. I have seen
and felt it; and the one who does that, does not conquer in such a
struggle."