The snow fell heavily in the Black Forest during the third week of
December. It lay in great white drifts against the huge rampart of
Greifenstein, blown against the rough masonry by the bitter north wind,
until the approach to the main gate was a deep trench dug in the white
covering of the earth. The driving blast had driven great patches of
flakes against the lofty wall so that they stuck to the stones and
looked like broad splashes of white paint. The north sides of the
pointed roofs on the towers were white, too, and gleamed in the
occasional bursts of sunshine that interrupted the fierce weather. In
the forest, the slanting branches of the firs were loaded down with
irregular masses of snow, through which the needle foliage looked as
black as ink. Not a spot of colour was visible anywhere, for everything
was either black or white.
Old Greifenstein was no more afraid of the weather than he was of
anything else. Day after day he went out with his gun and his dog, to
fight his way for miles through the drifts, up and down hill, over the
open moor where the snow was not knee-deep, under the giant trees from
which great lumps of it fell now and then upon his fur cap and grizzled
hair, down into the dells and gorges where it was nearly up to his neck,
and where his sturdy dog struggled wildly through the passage his master
had made. Greifenstein pursued the only amusement of his life in his
own solitary fashion, rarely shooting at anything, never missing when he
did, killing a buck once or twice in a week and bringing it home on his
own shoulders for the use of his household, or lying in wait for six
or seven hours at a time to get a shot at a stag; grimly pleased to be
always alone, and silently satisfied in the thought that all was his,
and his only, to kill or to let live at his seigneurial discretion. The
keepers knew that he wanted no companions, and they kept out of his way
when he was abroad, not dissatisfied perhaps that their tireless master
should do most of their work in the bitter weather, leaving them to
smoke their pipes in their cottages or to drink their beer and cherry
spirits in the inn of the distant village. He left the house in the
morning and rarely returned before dusk. It is not strange that
his humour should have grown more stern and melancholy under such
circumstances.
Greifenstein and his wife seemed to understand each other, however, and
though days passed during which they scarcely exchanged a word, neither
complained of the other’s silence nor felt the slightest desire to do
so. From time to time one of the servants declared that he could bear
the life no longer, and gave up his large wages and gorgeous apparel
to return to the city. He was replaced by another, without any remark.
Contrary to German custom, Greifenstein never expected any one to stay
long in the house, and merely stipulated that any one who wished to
leave should give warning a fortnight previously. Neither he nor his
wife were yet so old as to tempt servants to stay on for the death, in
the hope of picking up something worth having in the general confusion.
There was something strange in the way the pair lived, lonely and
unloved in their ancient home, amidst a crowd of ever-changing
attendants, who succumbed one by one to the awful dreariness of the
isolated life, and went away to give place to others, who, in their
turn would give it up after six months or a year. And yet neither
Greifenstein nor Clara would have changed their existence.
Greifenstein had abandoned the attempt to explain his wife’s illness,
if she were really ill, but he could not help seeing the alteration
that was going on for the worse in her appearance and character, and the
sight did not contribute to his peace. He himself looked much the same
as ever. After receiving the news that his half-brother intended to
return, he stiffened his stiff neck to meet whatever misfortune was in
store for him; and when he learned that Rieseneck was in Europe, he only
set his teeth a little closer and tramped a little more savagely through
the snow-drifts after the game. He knew that he could do nothing to
hinder the progress of events, and he knew that if his brother came to
Greifenstein, he should need all his strength and energy in dealing with
him. There was nothing to do but to wait. As for Clara’s secret, the
more he thought about it, the more persuaded he was that it was not
connected with Rieseneck, but with some other person. He grew anxious,
however, as he watched her, for it was now clear that unless something
occurred to revive her vital energy and her spirits, she must soon
become an invalid altogether, even if she did not die of her sufferings.
More than once, Greifenstein proposed to go away, to travel, to spend
the winter in a southern climate, but she refused to leave her home,
with a firmness that surprised him. There was Greif, she said, and Greif
must be considered. When he was married they might go away and leave the
castle to the young couple. Until then she would not move. Greifenstein
could not but see the wisdom of this course. Meanwhile he attempted to
induce his wife to live more in the open air, to ride, to drive, to do
anything. But she confessed that she was too weak to face the inclement
weather.
Greifenstein was a kind-hearted man in his own peculiar way, and
he began to be sorry for her. She no longer distressed his sense of
fitness, as formerly, by her inopportune interruptions, her wild smiles,
her hysterical laughter, her pitifully flippant talk. He said to himself
that she must be ill indeed, to be so serious and quiet. Perhaps she
needed amusement. His ideas of diversion were not of a very gay nature,
and since she would neither leave the house nor the country he did not
quite see what he could do to amuse her. But the thought that it was
necessary for her health grew until he felt that it was his duty to do
something. Then he hesitated no longer and made a desperate attempt,
involving a considerable sacrifice to his own inclinations. He proposed
to read aloud to her out of the best German authors. Even poor Clara,
whose sense of humour was almost wholly gone, smiled faintly and opened
her faded eyes very wide at the suggestion.
‘What an extraordinary idea!’ she exclaimed.
The time when Greifenstein made his proposition was the evening, when
the two sat in their easy-chairs on each side of the great heraldically
carved chimney-piece in the drawing-room. They generally read to
themselves, and each had a small table with a shaded lamp and a pile of
books.
‘My dear,’ answered Greifenstein, ‘it is not a question of ideas. I have
examined the matter and I have come to the conclusion that you must
be amused. It is therefore my duty to provide you with amusement. As I
cannot sing, nor dance, and as you do not play cards, I cannot think of
any more fitting method of diverting you than by reading aloud. German
literature offers much variety. You have only to choose the author you
prefer, and I will read as much as you like.’
Greifenstein was absolutely in earnest, and delivered his remarks in his
usual dry and matter-of-fact way. When he had finished speaking he took
up the volumes that were on his table, one after the other, and looked
at the titles on the covers, as though already trying to decide upon the
one which would best suit his purpose. Clara did not find a ready answer
to his arguments, and her smile had disappeared. Her wasted hands lay
idly in her lap, and her tired head sank forward upon her breast. She
wished it were all over, and that she might fall asleep without the
dread of waking. Greifenstein did not notice her.
‘What shall it be?’ he asked. She raised her face slowly and looked at
him.
‘Oh, Hugo, I would rather not!’ she exclaimed faintly.
Her husband laid down the volume he had last taken up, leaned back in
his chair, folded his knotted hands over his knee and looked at her
intently.
‘Clara,’ he said after a few moments, ‘what is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all!’ she answered, with a feeble effort to look
cheerful.
‘There is no object in telling me that,’ returned Greifenstein, still
keeping his eyes fixed upon her. ‘There is something the matter with
you, and it is something serious. I have watched you for a long time.
Either you are bodily ill, or else some matter troubles your mind.’
‘Oh no! Nothing, I assure you,’ she replied in a scarcely audible tone.
‘I repeat that it is of no use. I do not wish to question you, my dear,’
he continued, almost kindly. ‘Whatever your thoughts are, they are your
own. But I cannot see you wasting away before my eyes without wishing to
help you. It is part of my duty. Now a man is stronger than a woman,
and less imaginative. It may be that you are distressing yourself with
little reason, and that, if you would confide in me, I might demonstrate
to you that you have no cause for repining. Consider well, whether you
can tell me your trouble, and give me an answer.’
Clara listened, at first scarcely heeding what he said. Then as she
realised the nature of his request and thought of her secret, she
fancied that she must go mad. It seemed as though some diabolical power
were at hand, forcing her slowly, slowly, against her will, to rise up
from her chair, to tell the story, to speak the truth. Her brain reeled.
She could hear the fatal words ringing through the room in the familiar
tones of her own voice, distinctly, one by one, omitting nothing in the
immensity of her self-accusation. She could feel the icy horror creeping
through bone and marrow, as the truth tortured her in the utterance of
it. She could see Greifenstein’s grey face transformed with rage and
hatred, she trembled under the inhuman savageness of his fiery eyes, she
saw his tall body rise up before her, and his hand raised to strike, and
she covered her face to die.
It was only a waking dream. The stillness roused her to life, her hands
dropped from her eyes, and she saw her husband sitting quietly in his
place and gazing at her with the same kindly, anxious glance as before.
She had not spoken, nor uttered any sound, and Greifenstein had not seen
the death-pallor under her paint. He had only seen her lift her hands to
her face and take them away again almost immediately. In that moment she
had suffered the pain of hell, but her secret was still her own. That
terrible, unseen power that had pressed her to speak was gone, and no
one knew what was in her heart.
‘You are certainly very far from well,’ said Greifenstein, returning to
the attack with characteristic pertinacity. ‘Can you not make up your
mind to tell me?’
‘No!’ she cried suddenly in a terrified voice. Then out of sheer fright
she made an enormous effort over herself, and laughed aloud. Under the
influence of that mortal dread, in the supreme exertion she made to
destroy the effect of the monosyllable that had escaped her lips, the
laugh sounded natural. It was well done, for it was done for life or
death, and if it failed she was betrayed. That single ‘No’ had been
almost enough to ruin all, but her laugh saved her, though she trembled
in every weakened joint when its echoes died away among the carved
rafters of the great room, and she felt the drops of cold perspiration
moving softly over her forehead towards the rouge on her cheeks.
‘Ah,’ exclaimed Greifenstein, ‘that sounds more like yourself. Perhaps
we ought to talk more in the evening. It does me good to hear you
laugh nowadays. Let us talk, by all means. I am sure all this is only a
foolish fit of melancholy, is it not?’
‘Oh, no doubt it is. Let us try and talk, if you like.’
‘I am too silent a man for you, Clara,’ said her husband reflectively.
‘It is certainly my duty to make an effort.’
‘It is just as much mine,’ she answered with an earnestness that
attracted his notice. She was thinking that unless she roused herself,
the fearful scene that had been enacted in her imagination might some
day take place in reality.
‘No,’ said Greifenstein. ‘It is you who are ill, and it is you who
must be amused. Now, what do you say to my proposition? Shall I read
something to you? Shall it be Goethe, or Schiller, or Heine? You know
all the modern writers well enough.’ ‘Something from Heine then, if you
will,’ answered Clara. ‘You are so kind! Perhaps he will make us laugh.’
‘Yes,’ echoed her husband. ‘Perhaps Heine will make us laugh.’
The ghastly entertainment began, and continued for an hour, but the
merriment was not as great as had been anticipated. The writer’s
marvellous wit was lost upon Greifenstein who, in the conscientiousness
of his attempt to read well and expressively, confused his own mind to
such an extent as to understand very little of what passed his lips. As
for Clara, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, scarcely
knowing what her mind was dwelling on, but conscious of an added
horror in her miserable life, so great that all before seemed well-nigh
insignificant. She tried to listen from time to time, but her husband’s
voice sounded as though it were far away, reaching her through some
muffling medium that intervened between her and him.
The clock of the castle struck ten, and Greifenstein closed the book
with a sort of military precision when he reached the end of the
sentence he was reading. Clara roused herself to thank him.
‘It has been so good of you!’ she said. ‘I have enjoyed it very much.’
‘We will read every evening, until you are better,’ answered her husband
with great determination. And he kept his word, although his plan for
diverting the poor lady was not attended with much success.
Night after night he took his seat by the fire, exactly half an hour
after the evening meal was ended. Night after night Clara sat with
half-closed eyes, hearing his wooden voice, as in a dream, and wondering
how all would end. There was no change in their lives or habits beyond
the introduction of what Greifenstein called the amusement of his wife.
It was all the same, the monotonous succession of morning and evening,
of night and noon and evening again. Possibly the lives of these two
persons might have continued to crawl along in the narrow channel they
had made for themselves during many years more, if the events which had
been so long preparing had been retarded; for Greifenstein was a man of
habit in everything, incapable of weariness in the performance of what
he considered to be his duty, and Clara’s really strong health might
have carried her through half a lifetime of exasperating stagnation.
Indeed, if things altered at all after the conversation about her state,
the change was for the better. A fictitious calm descended upon the old
house, and a certain gentleness found its way into the relations of the
couple which was agreeable to both. With Clara this was the result of
exhaustion and despair. She felt herself wholly unable to bear any great
disaster should it fall upon her, and she was grateful to her husband,
and prayed, if she prayed at all, that both might die peacefully during
those days. She even had a vague belief that Heaven would not really
bring about that hideous catastrophe that haunted her dreams, and
that forced her to dream of it when she was waking. Had she not been
a faithful wife to the stern, grey man who had sat opposite to her for
five and twenty years? Had she not been a fairly good mother to Greif,
if not very loving, nor very wise, at least what people call a good
mother? Her conscience told her that, at least, and she felt how great a
comfort it was to think that she had not been wholly bad. Moreover, she
had been placed in strange circumstances when she had done the deed,
whatever it was, and if she had not been as young at that time as
she had pretended to be, she had yet not been so old as to understand
thoroughly what she was doing. Heaven would surely not be so unkind as
to visit upon her now the sins of her youth; now, when a quarter of a
century of peaceful married life had intervened between that day and
this; now, when Greif himself was grown to a man’s estate and was to be
married in his turn. Surely, there was mercy for her. But if there were
none, if Heaven were to be more just than kind, what would become of
her? The thin blood beat in her hollow temples as she thought of it, and
then sank back suddenly to the tired heart whence it had risen. Above
all else, the thought of Greif was unbearable. He, too, must know, if
anything were known. He, too, would turn upon her, and force her to
drain the last dregs of the death-draught. But she still believed and
hoped, hoped and believed, that the day would never come.
And yet it was at hand, now, after all those months of agonising fear,
just when she deluded herself with the sweet thought that it might never
come at all. Greifenstein came home in the dusk one afternoon, and found
a letter upon his desk in his own room. He broke the seal and read it
while his teeth ground upon each other, and his face turned grey. He did
not utter a sound, he did not strike his forehead nor clench his fist,
nor fall into a chair. He only stiffened his neck a little and stood
silently gazing at the fire. After a moment’s reflexion, he tossed the
letter into the flames and waited until it was quite burnt. Then he rang
the bell.
‘Listen, Jacob,’ he said to the servant who came, and his voice did not
tremble. ‘A friend of mine has written to say that he is coming to the
forest to shoot. He comes alone, as I go myself. It is bad weather, and
he may find his way here at any hour. When he presents himself, bring
him immediately to this room and send for me. I will not go far from the
castle until he arrives.’
The servant asked the gentleman’s name.
‘Herr Brandt,’ answered Greifenstein without hesitation.
The letter had informed him that Rieseneck’s application to be included
in the amnesty had been absolutely refused, and that he had fled a
second time under an assumed name. He appealed to his brother to help
him over the frontier to Constance, and said that he might arrive at any
time after his letter.
When he was alone, Greifenstein sat down to consider the situation,
after carefully filling and lighting the pipe his son had brought him at
his last visit. He was in the habit of doing this every day when he came
home, and it seemed to him that to omit any detail of his ordinary life
would be to show an amount of emotion quite unworthy of himself. It
was one of those small acts, performed alone, which are the truest
indications of a man’s character. If he was not able to smoke his pipe
as usual, it must be because he was unable to bear calmly what had
come upon him, and consequently was not fit to meet his wife at
dinner without betraying his anxiety. It was not an act that showed
indifference, as many would think. On the contrary, it was the
expression of his indomitably conscientious nature. To change one small
thing in his demeanour, even when he was alone, would have been to begin
badly and at a disadvantage.
He scrupulously put his feet upon the same spot on the fender at
which they usually rested when he came home, he sat in his accustomed
attitude, and he smoked with his accustomed solemnity. It would be a
mistake to exaggerate the importance which Rieseneck’s coming had in
his eyes, as far as any material consequences to himself were concerned.
There was no ruin before him, no inevitable disaster. He dreaded the
moral side of the incident, and worst of all the possibility of his
being obliged to tell Clara of the existence of his disgraced brother.
He knew well enough that the newspapers would contain an account of
Rieseneck’s attempt, and he feared lest some journalist with a long
memory should recall the fact of the relationship. Like most men who
have formerly lived in a capital, he fancied that every one still knew
him, and respected him, and he attached immense importance to the mere
mention of his name. That he should be called the brother of a disgraced
and criminal officer in a journal, seemed to him a terrible calamity,
an almost unbearable blow to his pride. He did not guess that he was as
really forgotten as though he had been twenty years dead. The days when
he had worn a uniform seemed very near to him still, and he could not
realise that his own youth could seem so distant to those who had once
known him. His whole nature revolted against the thought of meeting
Rieseneck, and though he was not troubled by an active imagination
he could not help thinking of the bitter words he would use in the
interview. There was nothing cynical in his moral composition. To him,
honour was a fact and not a prejudice, a priceless possession of his
own, a household idol for which he was at all times ready to sacrifice
every other consideration. The existence of his brother was a rent in
the wholeness of that fact, a flaw in his title to that possession,
a stain upon the divinity of that domestic god. Greifenstein was
very unhappy, and his trouble took the form of resentment against the
offender, rather than of a mild and harmless self-pity. He was hindered
from forgetting and he would not forgive, for the injury was real, as
he saw it. In crowded cities men have other things to do than to trouble
their peace concerning ideals. A neighbour, a friend, a relation,
falls into overwhelming disgrace--they pause a minute and then pass on,
reflecting with all the certainty gained by long experience, that the
world will soon forget, and that, after all is said, their brother’s
infamy is no concern of theirs. But when men who are scrupulously
honourable themselves, and who respect their own family traditions of
honour more than anything else on earth, are shut off from the world for
many years, they cannot look at such matters as city folks do. The less
they have to do the more they think of their household history, and the
greater is the pride they feel in reviewing the biography of their race.
A sort of medieval twilight descends upon their latter years, and their
souls receive the heraldic vision. They brood gloomily over the misdeeds
of some long-dead ancestor, and their faces glow when they think of
their crusading forefathers. They fight again the battles of long ago,
they charge with Welf or Weiblingen, they follow the Kaiser to his
coronation in imperial Rome, they strive through the press of knights,
they perish with Conradin in Naples, they prick hotly after the standard
of the great Rudolf, they kill and riot throughout the Thirty Years’
War, they shed their heart’s blood with Frederick, they fall at
Austerlitz, they rise at Leipzig, they are with Blucher at Waterloo,
with ‘Unser Fritz’ at Koniggratz, with Schmettow’s gallant cuirassiers
in the deadly ride of Mars la Tour, and they land themselves each
evening before the carved escutcheon of the old chimney-piece at home,
the proud descendants of a race of heroes known to fame. And yet, though
all be true from first to last, fame knows little of them. Who remembers
their names? Their fathers for ages were gentlemen like themselves,
never very great or powerful, sometimes poor, almost insignificant in
the great throng of light-hearted soldiers on whose necks empires have
rested, and by whose hands kingdoms have been overthrown. Probably not
one of all those dead knights ever felt half the pride in himself that
is felt in him by his representative in the nineteenth century, nor
experienced half as much pleasure in gazing at his battered shield with
its half-defaced cognisance, as now brings the blood to his descendant’s
cheek as he looks at the carved stone semblance of the original. In the
trained sight of this modern gentleman, the past is more real than its
own reality was long ago; he is more loyal than the law, more royalist
than the king, more protestant than Luther, more conservative than a
Chinese sage. An insinuation against any member of his race, though he
have been dead since the first Crusade, is a direct insult to himself,
to be wiped out by personal combat. His sleeping passions, if roused,
take but one direction, to fight for something, his king, his religion
or his honour. His memories and his prejudices are complicated,
interwoven and entangled beyond all belief; his character is simple,
for his only principle is that those prejudices and traditions are alike
infallible and unassailable, and that no sacrifice must be spared in
defending them. Such is the old-fashioned German country gentleman, and
such was Hugo von Greifenstein.
Rieseneck, a traitor to his country, the betrayer of a military trust,
condemned, a fugitive and publicly infamous, was about to enter the
sacred place of his brother’s idols. For a few hours at least he was
to abide under the roof which sheltered such precious memories. His
abominable presence was to defile the honourable dwelling of all the
Greifensteins. Worse than that, his execrated name was to be coupled
with that of Greifenstein himself in the public prints. Matters could
not be worse, in the estimation of the iron-grey man who sat solemnly
smoking his pipe before the fire, and straining every faculty to
maintain his usual composure even in his solitude.
The situation seemed unbearable, and yet it must be borne. Every moment
was in all likelihood bringing Rieseneck nearer, every minute might be
the last before his coming. There was nothing to be done. Greifenstein
had not even the diversion of making preparations for the man’s hurried
journey, since any show of preparation might be detrimental to the
scheme. His plan was to start in the early dawn of the next morning with
guns and dogs as though for a shooting expedition, to ride as far
as possible, then to leave the horses and to cross the frontier into
Switzerland. Nothing could be easier, and he knew that Rieseneck was
aware of the fact from his knowledge of the locality. Moreover it was
probable that although the application for pardon had been refused, no
attempt would be made to arrest the fugitive. He would be allowed to
leave the country unmolested, as it would be considered impolitic to
increase the scandal by consigning him again to the fortress whence he
had escaped so many years before. Greifenstein had nothing to fear for
himself, and he cared nothing what became of his brother, provided that
he were not caught. Nevertheless, he suffered extremely while he waited,
for he dreaded the meeting, as he could not have dreaded any material
danger.
He was making a calculation with the object of fixing some limit of time
within which Rieseneck must arrive, and he came to the conclusion that
the catastrophe could not be far distant. Rieseneck would probably come
to the nearest railway station by train from Stuttgardt, and walk
thence to Greifenstein, leaving any luggage he might have with him to
be forwarded after he had made good his escape. In that case, if he had
started on the day when he wrote, his coming might be only retarded a
little by the fact of his being on foot, whereas the lad who brought the
post was mounted.
A knock at the door interrupted his reflexions. Something told him that
Rieseneck was at hand, but he turned his head with studied calmness so
that he could see the servant’s face, and held his pipe steadily between
his teeth.
‘Herr Brandt has arrived,’ said the man, quietly, as though nothing
unusual were occurring. Greifenstein, even in that moment, had the
courage to scrutinise the attendant’s features, but their expression
betrayed no suspicion.
‘Show him in,’ returned the master of the house in unshaken tones. He
rose slowly to his feet and stood with his back to the fire. The light
of the flames was far brighter than that of the solitary lamp that stood
upon the desk, and threw the vast black shadow of Greifenstein’s gaunt
frame against the opposite wall, so that it towered up like a spectre of
fate from the floor to the carved brown beams of the ceiling.
The servant threw the door wide open and stood aside, as a tall old man
entered the room.