A CRISIS.
Johanna could not carry her resolve into execution. The following
morning she was busy until late in replacing by order the disarray
produced by the birthday fete, and when her father, who had gone out
meanwhile, returned, he hurried past her with so gloomy an expression
that she did not venture to follow him to his room.
At dinner she learned the cause of his troubled mood. He had quarrelled
with the manager because the latter would persist in giving various of
Helena's youthful parts to her rival, Fraeulein Kronberg.
"Of course I cannot withdraw my stipulations," Roderich added, "and
therefore cannot renew my contract, favourable as its conditions were
for me."
"You can get another anywhere else quite as favourable, and even more
so," said Helena.
"But not the accessories which I have here," Roderich declared. "Not the
intelligent public, nor the charming _mise-en-scene_ which makes each
separate performance a work of art."
"That is no affair of yours," said Helena. "Each for himself, and God
for us all. And as for the public, I can't see that it is especially
intelligent. Wherever else you go you receive more applause than you get
here, and so do I."
"Applause!" he repeated, with an impatient shrug. "Dear Helena, there is
a kind of applause that makes me blush with mortification; but from
your point of view you can hardly understand this."
How gladly would Johanna have assured him that she understood him
perfectly! But while she was struggling with her natural shyness, Helena
exclaimed, "If you think so meanly of me, pray do not proclaim it before
other people; it is more than I can bear."
Roderich changed colour. "To accuse me of unkindness just when I am
sacrificing all my plans for your sake is rather hard!" he said. And,
rising from table, he left the room suddenly, slamming the door noisily
behind him.
Lisbeth, terrified, began to cry, the others were amazed. Never before
had he allowed himself to be so carried away by temper.
"He must be ill," said Johanna.
"Nonsense! he is out of temper," said Helena, "and he shall not hear a
kind word from me until he begs my pardon."
Johanna was right. In half an hour Friedrich announced that the Herr had
one of his attacks of headache, and could see no one.
On such days there seemed to be a spell upon the entire household. Every
voice was lowered, every footfall was as light as possible, and
Friedrich muffled the bell upon the landing.
This time, Johanna learned from Friedrich, the pain was not so intense
as usual, but it did not pass away at the end of twenty-four hours.
When, in spite of it, Roderich went to rehearsal the next day, he
returned more ill than ever. The third day fever set in, and the
physician ordered him to bed.
Helena had not forgiven the scene at table.
"It surely is not very bad, doctor," she said, as she accompanied the
physician from the room. "I am just ordering a magnificent costume for
Desdemona. Othello comes out next week; you must have him well by that
time."
"We will hope for the best," the old man said, as he took his leave.
Johanna, who overheard his words, was startled. She knew from Dr. Werner
what these words signified in a physician's mouth. Whilst Helena
carelessly returned to her costume, Johanna waited with a throbbing
heart at her father's door until the servant made his appearance.
"Pray ask papa, Friedrich, whether I may not come in," she said.
The sick man heard her. "Come!" he called. His voice, usually so full
and sonorous, sounded muffled, and his face was still more changed: it
was colourless, and looked pinched and wan upon the pillow.
Johanna went to his bedside, with difficulty suppressing all signs of
emotion. "Papa," she entreated, "let me stay with you. You have
Friedrich, it is true, but I know better than he how to nurse an
invalid."
For a while he gazed at her as if he scarcely understood her words.
"Yes, stay with me," he said; "I think I am really very ill, and you are
more careful, quieter, stronger----"
He did not finish the sentence, but she understood what he meant.
"Ah, thank you!" she said, kissing his burning hand.
He drew his daughter closer to him. "My dear, good child!" he said,
pressing his feverish lips to her forehead. She did not dream that it
was a farewell caress.
The disease progressed rapidly, and was pronounced by the physician the
next day to be a nervous fever. He was quite content with Johanna's
calm, careful treatment of his patient, but he begged Helena, who could
not control her agitation, to spare her own delicate health for the sake
of her child, and to be as little as possible in the sick-room. She
sighed and submitted.
But, indeed, neither she nor any one else could have disturbed the sick
man after a few days had passed; he lay in a state of entire
unconsciousness.
The whole city was interested in the artist's condition; the inquiries
after his health were countless; the door was besieged by friends and
acquaintances. He had always been a kind, ungrudging comrade to his
fellow-actors, and now when he could no longer excite their envy, they
remembered his own freedom from it, and did all in their power to
testify their esteem and friendship for him.
For Helena it was a kind of consolation to receive their visits; her
nature was of those for which distraction is possible. After she had
with many tears given an account of the sick man's state, she would
listen with interest to theatrical gossip, and forget for a while her
own sorrow. It overcame her, indeed, with redoubled violence when she
was once more alone. Often, when she had been laughing with a visitor at
some jest, Johanna would find her in a state of most pitiable distress.
"He is going to die, I know he is; such happiness as ours was too great
for this world of misery," she would declare, sobbing as if her heart
would break; or she would cry out as if bereft of her senses, "O God,
you cannot take him from me! He must be spared for me and for his art."
She was most helpless and hopeless in the sick-room, where she would
throw herself on her knees by Roderich's bedside, cover his hand with
kisses, and exhaust every passionate term of endearment, nearly fainting
when there was no response from her unconscious husband. But if one of
the physicians or a friend wished to speak to her, she would arise, and,
with a look of anguish as she left the room, involuntarily adjust
artistically the soft folds of her white cachemire peignoir.
Johanna was too young and unsophisticated to appreciate her step-mother.
She did her injustice when she accused her of heartlessness, and she
added to her own burden by a daily increasing dislike for Helena.
But she could not help it. The sleep of exhaustion, which now and then
overcame her, was all the rest and forgetfulness that she had. If she
forced herself to talk with little Lisbeth, she had to struggle
continually with rising tears, and when she heard others speaking of the
events of the day, she could hardly comprehend how the affairs of the
world could pursue their usual course outside of the sick-room. That was
her realm, and her father's death seemed to her the end of all things.
Week after week passed. The physician gave Johanna no hope. She had
herself watched from day to day, and from hour to hour, the inexorable
approach of the Destroyer, and when the last moment came, she had lived
it over in thought a hundred times.
It was the gray dawn of a morning in November. She was sitting alone at
her father's bedside. Helena was asleep upon a lounge in the next room,
when Roderich once more opened his eyes, in which there was a last ray
of consciousness; his lips moved, and when Johanna leaned over him, she
heard him whisper, 'Helena.' His features were convulsed for an instant,
and when Helena rushed into the room in answer to her low cry, it was
too late. Her husband had breathed his last. His heart had ceased to
beat.
Johanna closed his eyes and took her usual place beside him. She seemed
paralyzed; she could not weep, she could not even think. Helena's noisy
grief distressed her, but it seemed to reach her ear from some great
distance, and soon died away altogether. Only two images remained in her
memory from this terrible time,--the ideal beauty of her beloved dead as
he lay in the coffin crowned with laurel, and the dreary aspect of the
funeral cortege as it moved endlessly along the streets in the pouring
rain, while the wind tore away from the hearse and whirled in air some
of the flowers and wreaths with which it was bedecked.
It was Lisbeth who at last aroused Johanna from her lethargy. To spare
the imaginative child the sad impression of her father's dying moments,
she had been intrusted to the care of an actress friend, returning to
her home only when the funeral was over. Helena rushed to her, clasped
her in her arms, loaded her with caresses, declaring that she was all
that was left her in life, all that she had to live for, and then turned
away to receive a couple of her friends who had called to see her. They
were all soon absorbed in an animated discussion of mourning gowns and
Helena's broken heart, the impossibility of recovering from Roderich's
loss, his widow's plans for the future, the intrigues of the Kronberg,
and the inconceivable partiality of the manager for one so utterly
without talent. The child felt herself forgotten, and left the room to
look for her sister.
Johanna was not in her usual place at the work-table in Helena's
dressing-room, nor was she in her own sleeping apartment. But when
Lisbeth timidly entered her father's study, she found Johanna, looking
pale and white in her black gown, still sitting by the window whence she
had seen the funeral procession disappear. She sat in an arm-chair, her
head leaning back, her arms hanging idly down, gazing into space with
such an expression of dull anguish that the little girl was frightened.
"Johanna, dear Johanna, please do not be ill, do not die!" she cried,
throwing her arms around her sister's neck; and these first tender
words, the nestling close to her of the little one, dissolved the spell
that had bound the poor girl, and she burst into tears.
Afterwards, when longing for sympathy, she went to her step-mother,
Helena said in her coldest tone,--
"Has it really occurred to you to remember my existence? I think it was
high time. Everything comes upon me,--it will kill me."
Not a word was said of all that Johanna had done during the long weeks
of illness, and the gulf between Helena and herself widened.
The next morning Johanna was handed the card of Lieutenant Otto von
Doenninghausen. She would gladly have refused to see him, but written in
pencil upon the card was 'Commissioned by our grandfather,' and she
could not deny herself to one so accredited.
In the drawing-room she found a tall, fair man, about thirty years old,
whose military carriage betrayed the soldier in spite of his civilian's
dress.
"Cousin Johanna?" he said, advancing towards her, while his bright,
resolute blue eyes scanned her keenly. Then he held out his hand.
"Forgive me for intruding at such a time," he continued. "Let me plead
the right of kinship, and believe in the sincerity of my sympathy."
Johanna's eyes filled with tears. She mutely returned the pressure of
his hand, and motioned him to a seat.
"Our grandfather has requested me to put this letter into your own
hands," he began again when both were seated. "The commission was a
welcome one to me; I take a sad satisfaction in assuring you personally
of my sympathy. I have had the pleasure of seeing your father repeatedly
upon the stage, and I never can forget him."
"I thank you," said Johanna, and for an instant her pale face glowed
with the same fire which had distinguished her father. Her cousin's
simple cordiality of tone did her good, inspired her with confidence,
and yet she felt a timidity in his presence quite foreign to her.
"It is the result of the distressing consciousness of knowing nothing of
my nearest relatives," she thought.
"Grandpapa requests you to come to him," the young man said, handing
Johanna a sealed letter. "Do not be led astray by his manner of
expression, which is probably as blunt and cold in this letter as it is
in daily personal intercourse. There is much kindliness beneath his
rough exterior. Our grandfather is a nobleman in the full sense of the
word, with all the prejudice and narrowness of his class. You will soon
understand and value him, and I hope soon to see you in Doenninghausen."
"Are you going back there again?" asked Johanna, trying to find
something to say.
"Not now," he replied. "My regiment is stationed on the Rhine, and I am
returning to it after having assisted last week in the celebration of my
grandfather's birthday, on which occasion we are all wont to assemble at
Doenninghausen."
"Who are all?" asked Johanna. "I know little, almost nothing, of my
mother's family; she had become estranged from her kindred."
"Unfortunately," her cousin interposed, "I have but a faint remembrance
of my aunt Agnes. I am the eldest son of her second brother, who was
attached to our embassy in London."
"Was he not called Waldemar?" asked Johanna.
"You are right," the young man replied. "Grandpapa's eldest son, Johann
Georg, was already dead when Aunt Agnes left her home. He left only one
child, a son, Johann Leopold, who has been brought up in Doenninghausen,
and lives there now. He has pursued various studies, and is the heir. I
have a younger brother, named for our father, Waldemar; he has entered
upon a diplomatic career. My two sisters, Hedwig and Hildegard, are
married to two distant cousins belonging to the Wildenhayn-Oderbuchs.
Finally, grandpapa's youngest son, Major Karl Anton, also dead, left one
child, a daughter, young and beautiful and a widow of two years'
standing. Her name is Magelone; her husband, Lieutenant von der Aue,
who lived only eighteen months after their marriage, contrived in that
time to run through all her property, and she now lives at
Doenninghausen, under the chaperonage of our grand-aunt Thekla,
grandpapa's unmarried sister. Let me add that Magelone is as clever as
she is beautiful, as accomplished as she is amiable, and that she is
especially desirous of welcoming Cousin Johanna to Doenninghausen."
"Me?" Johanna asked, blushing. "I cannot understand----"
"I will read the riddle for you," Otto interposed. "Do you not remember
meeting two years ago, among the guests at Lindenbad, a certain Frau von
Werth? She visits at Doenninghausen, and has told wonderful tales of you.
I will spare your modesty further details."
He bowed with a smile, and again his sparkling eyes scanned her. Johanna
coloured: she felt cheered and comforted. None among her father's
friends had ever accorded her any degree of attention.
"I should like to know something of my grandfather," she began, after a
pause; but, before she could go on, the door opened and Lisbeth came in.
"Johanna!" she exclaimed, startled, and stood still; but Johanna held
out her hand, and the child flew to her side.
"My sister," she said, tenderly stroking the little one's fair curls.
"Sister?" Otto repeated, in a tone of surprise. "Oh, yes, I remember.
Come, my little beauty, give me your hand," he said, with his winning
smile.
But the child held Johanna's arm tight and looked at him with a little
air of defiance. "No, I do not know you, and I do not want to know you,"
she said in a wayward tone.
"Darling, don't be naughty," Johanna whispered.
"Never mind," said her cousin; "the child is shy, and, besides, I must
go." And he glanced at the clock as he arose.
Johanna also arose. "I am sorry," she said; "I had so much to ask----"
"And I, too, seem to have a thousand things to say," the young man
rejoined. "I thought I should have seen much more of you, but when I
arrived yesterday I found that the funeral had not yet taken place, and
the hours were wasted which I hoped to have spent with you. I wish that
I could at least have followed to the grave the man whom I so admired,
but I was detained by pressing business."
How cordial was the tone in which he spoke! Johanna's eyes filled; how
could she know that his 'pressing business' was a breakfast with some
gay companions? Much moved, she held out her hand to her cousin. Otto
pressed it to his lips.
"_Au revoir_ in Doenninghausen!" he said, and went.
"_Au revoir_," she rejoined, half involuntarily; and, as the door closed
behind his tall figure, she all but asked herself whether the events of
the last half-hour had not been a dream. How could she feel thus nearly
related to a man of whose existence she had been so short a time before
unconscious? 'Strange force of kinship!' she said to herself.
Meanwhile, Lisbeth had seized upon the large envelope lying upon the
table, and was trying to spell out the address.
"What a funny letter! Is it to you? Why is there no 'Fraeulein' on it?"
she asked, handing the letter to her sister, who observed for the first
time that the envelope was addressed 'To my grand-daughter Johanna.'
She now remembered that letters from Doenninghausen to her mother had
always been sent in an enclosure, and the address only of the envelope
within had been written by her grandfather, and had always been 'To my
daughter Agnes.' The Freiherr could not bring himself to write the
hated name of the actor.
With a sigh, Johanna broke the seal and read:
"MY DEAR CHILD,--Now that you are, as I learn, an orphan
indeed, it seems to me a matter of course that you should come
as soon as possible to your natural home,--that is, to my
house. Write to me when you intend to start, that I may send
you a suitable escort.
"Your affectionate grandfather,
"JOHANN HEINRICH V. DOeNNINGHAUSEN."
Johanna's hands fell by her sides. Not one word of pity for her loss, of
sympathy for the death of the famous artist, or of welcome for the
unknown grandchild. No, she could never find a home in a house where her
father's name was despised!
But then she recalled what her cousin Otto had said of her grandfather's
noble nature, which his harsh exterior continually gainsaid. Perhaps it
might be given to her to reconcile the old nobleman with her father's
memory; and Magelone was there, witty and talented, and Cousin Otto made
frequent visits to Doenninghausen. He would always pay to the dead the
tribute of admiration which she coveted. Should she go? Her glance fell
upon Lisbeth, sitting opposite her, her eyes fixed upon the ground, her
little face sad with that look of misery which is so indescribably
pathetic in a child. "No, I cannot leave my darling. What is
Doenninghausen to me?" she said to herself, and clasped her sister in her
arms.
Meanwhile, Otto had returned to his hotel, whence before leaving town he
wrote to Magelone:
"GRACIOUS SOVEREIGN,--Your commands are obeyed. When I
delivered our grandfather's letter I exercised in your behalf
all the power of observation with which I am gifted, and can
state, so far as can be learned in the limits of a brief
interview, that the reality coincides with excellent Frau
Werth's description. Our cousin is rather plain than pretty,
but looks clever and distinguished, has quiet, pleasing
manners,--in a word, she seems to me entirely presentable, and
eminently adapted to indemnify you for the fatiguing society of
your Knight of the Rueful Countenance.
"I seize this favourable opportunity for prostrating
myself--only metaphorically, alas!--at the smallest feet in the
world, and am, as ever, O fairest Magelone,
"Your cousin and slave,
"OTTO."