The judge's wife was not at home, but the maid--saying that she would
be back soon: she had only gone to the station; her brother was
expected, and might perhaps come by the first train--opened the corner
room, where Thoma was to wait.
An air full of rest and comfort, full of refreshing odors from blooming
plants on tables and pedestals, surrounded Thoma; and her eyes wandered
over the beautiful pictures and statues on which the sun shone so
brightly. Everything was as still as the flowers and the pictures; even
the clock over the writing-table, among the family pictures, moved its
pendulum without making the least noise.
Thoma sat down in the corner. The river and the mountains of her home
appeared strange to her; everything looked so different through these
great panes of glass.
The judge's wife soon entered, with a fresh bouquet of field flowers in
her hand. She welcomed Thoma heartily, and the tones of her voice were
both gentle and firm.
"How beautiful it is at your house! How very beautiful!" Thoma said,
her voice trembling.
"I am glad that it pleases you."
"Oh! and to think," Thoma went on, "that this lady who has such a
beautiful home goes to the huts of the poor--goes to Cushion-Kate!"
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable with me. How is your mother?"
"Better, but not quite well yet."
"Do you bring me good news from your father?"
"My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went
with you to see Cushion-Kate. His going there shows that you can do
more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"Did my father ask Cushion-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?"
"Confess? Your father is acquitted."
"Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have
said be as if unheard."
"Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have
confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg
you disburden your soul."
"Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady,
I--I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand
hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on
the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and
caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What
have I said?"
"Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?"
"Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled
before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill
him, I did it in anger,'--that is honest and brings one to honor again.
How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and
that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for
money--for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from
the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year
on Whitsunday I was with my father at St. Blasius. There was a woman
there who had painted her cheeks red, and put flour on her neck and
forehead. There she sat, in broad daylight, and looked boldly at
people, to see if they saw her beautiful red cheeks and white neck,
while she herself knew that she was not young, but on the contrary, old
and wrinkled."
"I understand. You think it is unworthy of your father."
"Unworthy?" repeated Thoma, for this expression, from a higher sphere
of thought, affected her strangely; and the judge's wife continued:
"Child, your thoughts at first were not so hard, but by degrees they
have grown sharper, have become bitterer and more poignant; and that
which should have softened you only made you more harsh. When your
father was humble it revolted you, and when he was proud, likewise."
Thoma's eyes grew larger and larger. She was like a patient whom the
physician tells exactly how he feels; and this amazement at another's
knowledge becomes a preparation for, and the commencement of a cure.
The judge's wife laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Dear Thoma, in imprisonment a man can only do no evil; but at liberty
he can do good. My child, your love of truth is good, beautiful, and
excellent, but--how shall I say it?--it is not in place now----"
The good lady was sensible of a deep embarrassment, and her face
reddened as though with shame. She, who was always urging
straightforwardness, should she now shake this girl's strict truth?
But she recovered herself, and continued: "If your father did deny the
truth, he is suffering a heavy punishment, because you also deny it."
"I?"
"Yes. You disown your child's heart. Don't tremble. You need not
promise me anything, except that you will once again examine yourself
earnestly and conscientiously. And your doing so will show itself in
the matter for which in reality I sent for you. My brother may soon
come, and I must arrange this with you quickly."
The judge's wife then told her about Anton; how much every one
esteemed and loved him; and how honorably and beautifully he had
expressed himself after his return from Holland. She showed Thoma her
mistake--how she, from upright and honorable feeling--and this
commendation did good--was acting wrongly, both toward her parents and
her lover.
"You think," she added, "you think you cannot call your lover yours
again, because you cannot bring him the same honor that he brings you."
"Oh, how do you know everything?"
"But you do not know, or have forgotten, that love does not
calculate--so much have you, and so much have I. Collect yourself and
build up your happiness for yourself and your lover, and your parents,
and all who mean well and kindly by you, as I do. Hush! There's someone
coming up stairs."
The door opened; the counselor entered, and the judge's wife embraced
him.
"Welcome, dear Julius."
Thoma stood at one side, and the judge's wife introduced her brother,
the government counselor. Thoma could not answer a word. A counselor is
a brother, and is called "dear Julius!" A government counselor was to
her a sort of executioner, who brought people to the block. And now, as
this courteous gentleman put his eye-glass up, she was aware that this
was the man who had prosecuted her father. Defiance and smiles
alternated swiftly in her manner. "Would not I, too, have defended
myself against this man with all means in my power?" She did not
recover her speech until, after the introduction, the counselor let his
eyeglass fall. As if in a dream, she heard him say:
"Your father made a master-stroke. He played for a high stake, but he
won it. I wish him good fortune. Give him my greeting."
"So, even the judges do not look at it so severely!" Thoma thought.
The counselor opened the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, and said
to his sister:
"I shall be glad to play a duet with you again."
Thoma prepared to go. The judge's wife accompanied her to the stairs,
and begged her again not to delay making things happy and right once
more. She should remember that we do not know how long we shall have
our parents, and then repentance comes too late.
A sudden fear overcame Thoma that she had stayed here too long, and she
hastened homeward. At the pear-tree the Galloping Cooper met her, and
said that he had been sent to tell her to come home quickly; that her
mother was very ill.