The sea was still heaving after the thunder-storm of the afternoon, but
the sun had cast a trembling light over the dark waves before it set.
The stars now gradually appeared in the blackish-blue vault of the
heavens; Gotthold raised his eyes to them, and then gazed into the
quiet countenance of the old man, by whose side he was seated upon a
bench, sheltered by the thick walls of the beach-house. Through the
window beside them gleamed the light of the lamp, which, ever since
Cousin Boslaf had lived in the beach-house, had burned there night
after night, and would now continue to burn on, even after his eyes
were closed in death. It was for this object that he had taken the
journey to Sundin--the first since he returned from Sweden, sixty-five
years ago, and probably the last he would ever make in his life. It had
cost him an effort to give up his hermit habits for days, and mingle
with mankind once more. But it must be done; he dared not ask whether
the road would be hard or easy for him. So he had sailed away,
accompanied by young Carl Peters, the son of his old friend, and for
six long days presented himself at the Herr Praesident's every morning,
and was always sent away because the Herr Praesident was too busy to see
him, as the valet said, who finally roughly forbade him to come again,
just at the moment the former left his study, and, seeing the old man,
asked him kindly who he was, and what he wanted. Then Cousin Boslaf
told the friendly gentleman that his name was Bogislaf Wenhof, and he
had been very intimate with Malte von Krissowitz, whose portrait was
hanging on the wall, and who, if he was not mistaken, was the
Praesident's great-grandfather, and then told him his desire. Malte von
Krissowitz was one of the six young men who had officiated as judges
during the contest between Bogislaf and Adolf Wenhof; the Praesident,
when a very young man, had heard the famous story from his father, who
had it from his grandfather, to whom his great-grandfather had related
it; it seemed to him like a fairy tale that the hero of that story
should be still alive, and the very old man who was sitting on the sofa
beside him. He called his wife and daughter, introduced them to the old
man, and insisted that he should stay to dinner. Everybody was most
kind and friendly, and--what was most important--the Praesident, when he
bade him farewell, gave him his word of honor that the good cause for
which he pleaded should henceforth be his own.
"Within a few days," said Cousin Boslaf, "a beacon will be erected here
before the house, on a high foundation of stone, whose light can be
seen a mile farther than that of my lamp. Carl Peters is appointed
keeper, and will live with me in the beach-house, which for the present
will serve as a watch-house, and after my death is to become the
property of the government. So this great care is removed from my mind.
I need say no longer, when I extinguish the lamp at daybreak: Will you
be able to light it again this evening?"
The old man was silent; the Swedish banner flapped still more loudly
upon the roof of the beach-house; the waves broke more heavily upon the
rocky strand. Gotthold's eyes wandered with deep reverence over the
figure at his side, the tall form of the silver-haired old man of
ninety, whose heart still beat so warmly in his breast for all
mankind--for the poor sailors whom he did not know, and who did not
know him, of whom he knew nothing except that they were sailing yonder
in the night, invisible even to his keen eyes, and so long as they saw
the light kept away from the dangerous coast, as their fathers and
grandfathers had taught them to do. The old man who lived only for
others, whose whole existence was nothing but love for others, from
whom he neither asked nor expected love or gratitude, had to-day risked
his own life to save him, who scarcely desired to be saved, to whom
life seemed valueless because he loved and was not beloved in return.
What would the old man say to that? Would he, in the boundlessness of
his unselfish love, even be able to understand such a selfish,
egotistical passion?
"That was my one anxiety," Cousin Boslaf began again; "the government
has relieved me of it; I have one other which no one can remove."
"Does it concern her--Cecilia?" asked Gotthold with a beating heart.
"Yes," said the old man, "it does concern her, Ulrica's
great-grandchild, who looks so like her ancestress, but is probably
even more unhappy. She should never have been allowed to marry the man,
if I had had my way; but they threw my advice to the winds; they have
always done so."
A strange, terrible change had come over the old man. His tall form was
bent as if all strength had left it; his deep voice, so firm a few
moments before, quivered and trembled, when after a short pause, which
Gotthold did not venture to interrupt, he continued:
"They have always done so. And so they have lost their fields, one
after another, and their forests, one after another, and become tenants
where they were once masters, and gone to ruin, one after another. I
have let it pass, been forced to let it pass, and always thought: Now
matters can't be worse--but the worst was still in store for me. They
were all reckless and frivolous; but none were wicked, not one, and
after all they were men who, if need be, could live honestly by the
labor of their hands. Now, now, even the old name will die out with me;
only one poor helpless woman is left, who has exchanged her name for
that of a man who is a good-for-nothing fellow like his forefathers;
the worthless wretch will drag her down to shame with him--her shame
and mine!"
The old man's last words were scarcely audible; for he had buried his
wrinkled face in his knotty hands. Gotthold laid his hand on his knee.
"How can you talk so, Cousin Boslaf!" said he, "how can you accuse
yourself of a misfortune you have been unable to prevent; you, who have
always been the good genius of the house!"
"The good genius of the house--great God!"
The old man started up and strode hastily to the shore, where he stood
with his face turned towards the sea; his white hair fluttered in the
wind; he raised his arms towards the dark waters, and then let them
fall again, muttering unintelligible words. Gotthold still kept by his
side; had the old man become childish, or had he gone mad?
"What is the matter, Cousin Boslaf?" he asked.
"Cousin Boslaf!" shrieked the old man, "ay, Cousin Boslaf! He called me
so, and she too, and all the rest with them and after them, my
children, and children's children!"
"Cousin Boslaf!"
"Always Cousin Boslaf! Yes, it is quite right, and will be placed on my
gravestone. I have sworn that no human being should ever hear the tale,
but I can bear it no longer. One man shall learn the crime we committed
against mankind, that he may forgive us our sin in the name of mankind.
I have always loved you, and to-day I saved your life, so you shall be
the man."
He led Gotthold back to the bench.
"You have probably heard of the contest I had with my Cousin Adolf
about Dollan?"
"Yes," replied Gotthold, "and have thought of it all very recently as I
came to visit you, and in the depths of my heart praised the rare
magnanimity with which you resigned the rich estate and beloved maiden
to your cousin, after you learned that he was preferred by her. Emma
von Dahlitz, Ulrica's confidante, brought you this message the evening
before the decisive day; was it not so?"
"Yes," said Cousin Boslaf, "only the message was false, and she who
brought it lied, out of love--as she afterwards wrote me on her
death--bed a few years after, when I was in Sweden--out of love for me,
whom she hoped to win herself. The unhappy girl had also confessed this
to Ulrica, who, like me, had believed her lies, and that I had mocked
and jeered at her, and said I would rather have a Lapland woman for my
wife. Well, I had wooed no Laplander; but the unfortunate maiden had
become Adolf's wife, and so, as Adolf's wife and the mother of two
children, I found her when I returned. A third child--also a boy--was
born a year after. The two older ones died in early youth; the third
lived and remained the only child, and this boy was--my son!"
"Poor, poor man," murmured Gotthold.
"Ay indeed, poor man!" said old Boslaf, "for who is poorer than a man
who cannot rejoice over his own child, dares not call his before all
the world, what is his if anything in the world is. I dared not. Ulrica
was proud; she would rather have died ten deaths than taken upon
herself the shame of the violation of her marriage vow; and I was
cowardly, cowardly out of love for her and him--my poor, good,
unsuspicious Adolf, whom from childhood I had loved like a brother, who
believed in me wholly and entirely, who would have asserted against the
whole world that I was his best, most faithful friend. So a few
terrible years passed away; Ulrica, exhausted by the fearful conflict
between duty and love she dared not acknowledge, died; holding her cold
hands, I was forced to swear that I would keep the secret. So I have
been and still remain Cousin Boslaf to my child and grandchildren. They
have given me a little higher place in their affections than an old
servant whom people will not dismiss, tiresome as he often is; they
have also let me talk when they were in a good humor; and if a child
was born, old Cousin Boslaf was allowed to sit at the lower end of the
table at the christening festival, or when one of them was borne to the
churchyard in Rammin he was suffered to ride in the last coach, if
there was a vacant seat. I have borne it all: bitternesses without
number or measure; I have believed that by humility, by love towards
others, I might atone for the crime I had committed against my own
flesh and blood; but the curse has not been removed from me: 'I have
never yet seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their
bread.' I have been no righteous man; my seed will be forced to beg
their bread; I have grown so old only that I might live to see it."
"Never, never!" exclaimed Gotthold starting up; "never!"
"What will you do?" said the old man, "lend him money! What becomes of
the water you take in your hand? What becomes of the money loaned to a
gambler? I brought him one evening the savings of sixty years; it was
no inconsiderable sum, the farm-rent of my few fields and meadows at
interest and compound interest; the next morning he had not a shilling
of it left. You told me just now that you were a rich man, perhaps
you can give him more. He will take as much as he can get, and the
moment he can obtain no more, show you the door and forbid you his
house, as he did me. He knew very well I would not accuse him, that I
could not; I had not required a written proof that I had given my
great-granddaughter what I had."
"And Cecilia?"
"She is the true child of her ancestors; too proud to do anything but
shed secret tears over the misery which has come upon her. I know those
tears of old; they give the eyes which shed them at night upon lonely
pillows, the fixed sad expression with which she has looked at me,
whenever I have met her since--it has not been often. Where are you
going so fast?"
Gotthold had started up.
"I have been here a long time already--too long."
"Is she expecting you, Gotthold?"
The old man had laid his hand upon his shoulder; Gotthold noticed how
steadily the keen eyes rested upon him.
"No," he said, "I do not think she is."
"And it is better so," replied the old man. "It is enough for one to
experience what I have done. When, shall I see you again?"
"I intended to go away early to-morrow morning, but I will come here
from Prora."
"That's right; my child is unhappy enough now; the sooner you go the
better it will be."