AT DOeNNINGHAUSEN.
In the large three-windowed morning-room of Castle Doenninghausen the old
Freiherr was walking to and fro, smoking his long pipe, as was his
custom always after breakfast, his huge, tawny dog Leo following, as
ever, close at his master's heels. The sister of the lord of the castle
sat prim and stately in her usual place by the window, knitting, while
at a small table near the chimney-place Magelone and Johann Leopold were
playing chess. The fire crackled, the old tall clock ticked, the needles
in Aunt Thekla's busy hands clicked, and the Freiherr's footsteps fell
regularly upon the rug that covered the floor. The morning was precisely
like every one of its predecessors.
Suddenly the old man went up to the middle one of the three tall windows
and gazed out into the flurry of snow that veiled the distant landscape.
Leo, amazed at this transgression of traditionary custom, stood still
and pricked his ears.
"Ten," said the Freiherr, as the clock began to strike. "In half an hour
Johanna may be here; at twelve, when I have returned from my ride, I
wish to speak with her in my room. She shall receive all the
consideration due to my grandchild, but there shall be no interruption
of the rules of the house upon her account, nor"--his deep voice grew
louder, and there was something in it like the mutter of a coming
tempest--"nor shall her father's name be mentioned in my hearing."
With these words the Freiherr turned about and left the room,
accompanied by Leo.
So soon as the door closed behind him, Johann Leopold arose. "Allow me,
dear Magelone, to postpone the end of our game. I have a headache," he
said, passing his hand wearily over his eyes.
"Just as you please, dear Johann Leopold," Magelone replied, with a
gentle smile. He kissed her hand and left the room. She lifted her arms
towards heaven. "Thank God, he has gone!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Aunt
Thekla, Aunt Thekla, this life is intolerable!"
The old lady shook her head so that the gray curls beneath her lace cap
trembled.
"My dear child, you ought not to speak so," she said, in a tone of
gentle reproof; "you are going to marry him----"
"Because I choose to, or because I must?" Magelone interposed, going
across the room to her great-aunt. "But never mind that; when we are
married it will be better,--then I will not stay any longer in
Doenninghausen."
"You will not leave your old grandfather alone!" said Aunt Thekla.
"I am nothing to grandpapa," Magelone answered, with a shrug of her
shoulders; "and as for any entertainment that he gets from Johann
Leopold----But don't be troubled about that; who knows what the new
cousin may turn out? I am very curious. From all that I hear, she will
be far too solemn for me,--all the better adapted, however, for our
croaking household and for Doenninghausen."
With these words Magelone hurried to the other end of the room, seated
herself at the grand piano, and began to play a polka; then suddenly
ceasing, she ran back again to her aunt and sat down opposite her. "Can
you possibly understand, Aunt Thekla," she asked, "why grandpapa has
sent for this Johanna? Do not misunderstand me. I have no objection to
her coming. We can yawn together, even if she is good for nothing else.
But why grandpapa, who cannot endure the sound of her family name, did
not rather board her somewhere----"
"I asked myself the same question," her aunt replied; "and the only
answer I can find to it, knowing him as I do, is that he yearns to see
his Agnes's child. Believe me, dear, he is not so hard-hearted as he
chooses to appear."
"But he banished his daughter!" Magelone exclaimed.
"He did what he thought was his duty, and no one knew how he suffered in
doing so," the old lady rejoined. "Agnes was his darling. How enraptured
he was when, after his three boys,--the youngest, your father, was
eleven years old,--a daughter was born to him! Although he was thought a
strict father, he could deny his Agnes nothing. Everybody in the house
did as she pleased, and did it gladly, for she was a gentle,
tender-hearted creature. But she grew too dreamy and imaginative in this
solitude, and when my sister-in-law at last had her way and sent her for
a year to boarding-school, where she had companions of her own age, it
was too late. At her very first entrance into society she fell in love
with that man, that actor, and there was no help for it."
"How inconceivable it is, this falling so desperately in love!" said
Magelone.
Aunt Thekla dropped her knitting and gazed at her niece through her
eye-glasses. "Are you in earnest?" she asked. "Can you really not
understand it?"
Magelone's eyes sparkled strangely, reminding one of sunshine upon
rippling water.
"Oh, Aunt Thekla, you think I mean it!" she exclaimed, and laughed like
a child.
"No, not exactly," said the old lady; "but I cannot deny that I am
sometimes anxious. 'Tis all the better for you if you are only flirting,
but I pity the poor lad."
"The poor lad!" Magelone repeated. "Does that mean Otto? Aunt, you are
perfectly heavenly; I must give you a kiss!" And she sprang up and threw
her arms around Aunt Thekla's neck. "Let me assure you that it is a
question which of us is flirting the most. When men attempt anything in
that line their achievements are wonderful----Hark! there comes a
carriage. It is Johanna!" she interrupted herself, and, beginning to
sing, 'For her I sigh,' in a rather weak but melodious voice, she ran
out of the room.
In the corridor she walked more deliberately. "Remember your dignity,
Magelone," she said to herself,--"no farther than the head of the
staircase." But when she reached the head of the staircase, and
Johanna's pale face--shrouded in black crape, her large eyes dimmed with
weeping--looked up at her, dignity was entirely forgotten. Holding out
both hands, she hurried to meet the guest, exclaiming, "Johanna! Cousin
Johanna! I am Magelone!" And she clasped her in her arms.
Johanna was mute with amazement. Otto's expressions had led her to
imagine Magelone's beauty to be of a dazzling superb kind, instead of
which here was a fairy-like creature, with child-like eyes and a winning
grace of manner.
"Poor Johanna, how tired you look!" Magelone continued. "And how you
shiver! you are chilled through and through----"
"Yes; I have been travelling all night," said Johanna. And her teeth
chattered as she spoke.
"Poor child, I suppose I ought to take you directly to Aunt Thekla, but
you must first rest and get warm. Here,"--and Magelone opened the door
of a spacious, well-warmed apartment,--"here is a quiet room; and now
tell me what you would like. Shall I send you a maid, or will you have
breakfast?"
"Thank you; I should like to sleep," was Johanna's reply.
Magelone helped her take off her hat and wraps. "Then lie down
here,"--and she led her to a huge lounge,--"and I will see that you are
not disturbed until it is time to dress for dinner."
She turned to go. Johanna took both her hands. "Thanks!" she said, with
emotion; "your reception of me has done me so much good----"
"But you have not yet called me Magelone!" was the laughing
interruption. "But don't force yourself to it,--it will come of itself."
With these words she kissed the young girl's forehead and left her
alone.
"She is charming," thought Johanna, as her weary head sank back among
the cushions. "If every one here is as kind, I have been very silly to
have any dread of Doenninghausen." And she fell asleep with a lightened
heart, the rumble and rush of the railroad train still buzzing in her
ears.
Suddenly she started. "Ten minutes for refreshments!" had just rung
through her dream. She awoke to find herself, to her surprise, in the
spacious dim room. The door opened, and an old gentleman entered, with a
large dog beside him.
"Grandfather!" she cried, and would have risen.
He approached her quickly. "Sit still! sit still!" he said, with a
commanding gesture, as he took a seat beside her couch. "My old
Christian tells me that you are exhausted with your journey, and
therefore I came here to see you, and to release you, if you like, from
coming to dinner to-day."
Whilst the Freiherr spoke, his cold blue eyes rested searchingly upon
the girl. She bore the look bravely.
"Thank you, that is not necessary; my sleep has greatly refreshed me,"
she replied.
"So much the better," said the old man. "You still look pale and tired,
but that will pass away. You do not look like your mother," he went on,
after a pause, in a gentler tone, "but you have her low gentle voice,
and there is something in your smile----"
He broke off and turned away his head. At this moment the dog, who had
been sniffing about Johanna, reared himself and put his large forepaws
upon her shoulders. "Down, Leo, down!" the Freiherr called. The animal
obeyed, but Johanna stroked its huge head caressingly, and it fawned at
her feet.
"Why, look! Leo, usually so slow to make acquaintance, has accepted you
upon the spot," the old man said, with a gratified air. "That, too, you
get from your mother,--all animals liked her. Now I will leave you
alone. After dinner you shall be presented to your grand-aunt, my sister
Thekla. Until then, my child, adieu."
He arose and held out his hand; suddenly he drew her to him and kissed
her. "God bless your home-coming!" he murmured; then he walked towards
the door, turning round, however, before he reached it, and saying, in
his usual imperious way, "From this time, Johanna, you belong entirely
to us. We shall all call you by your first name, and you will be one of
the family, to the rules of which you must conform. Come to me if any
occasion should arise for your wanting advice."
With these words he departed.
"I hope we shall be fond of each other," Johanna thought. "He is kinder
than his letter led me to imagine him. And how handsome he is, with his
white hair, his proud stern air, his bright eyes beneath their bushy
eyebrows, and his erect martial figure! In his coarse shooting-jacket,
leather breeches, and riding-boots, he is the most distinguished-looking
man I have ever seen."
Grand-aunt Thekla, too, to whom Johanna was presented before dinner by
Magelone, received her kindly, although after a prim fashion of her own,
and Cousin Johann Leopold, upon his introduction to her in the
dining-room, offered the tips of his cold fingers, and expressed a hope
that she would be pleased with Doenninghausen.
Altogether, it had the effect upon Johanna of the scene of a fairy-tale:
the spacious dining-hall, its wainscoting and ceiling of dark oak; a
huge green porcelain stove at one end, at the other a buffet, whence
shot mysterious gleams from glass and silver in the light of the
chandelier; the assembled family, contrasting so strongly with one
another,--Johann Leopold in evening dress; Aunt Thekla in gray satin and
black lace; Magelone in a faultless toilette of rose-coloured silk,
flounced and furbelowed; Johanna in her deep mourning, and the Freiherr
in his riding-dress.
There was no conversation. Sometimes the Freiherr asked a question
briefly and in a gruff voice, receiving as brief and satisfactory an
answer as possible from whomsoever he addressed, and then for a space of
time no sound would be audible save the rattle of knives and forks and
the hushed footsteps of the two men-servants. Besides these last, old
Christian, Johanna's escort, stood behind his master's chair, his only
office, apparently, being to fill the Freiherr's glass and to pick up
the napkin which the old gentleman continually let fall.
It was a protracted meal: the Freiherr had a good appetite and ate
slowly. He grew more talkative at dessert, discussed affairs of the
estate with Johann Leopold, asked Aunt Thekla about some sick people in
the village, inquired of Johanna how long she had been in reaching
Doenninghausen, and made a contemptuous remark about Magelone's
'ball-dress.'
At last he arose, and every one seemed to breathe more freely. He gave
his arm to his sister: Johann Leopold offered his to Magelone.
"You must take us both," she said. "Come, Johanna."
"I should like to go to my room," the girl whispered. Magelone shook her
head.
"You must not; we are all on duty now. Come," she said, in a low voice,
as she followed the brother and sister into the drawing-room.
Here the lamps were lit, and the coffee-equipage was set out upon a
table before a lounge. There was another table near the fireplace,
provided with candles and newspapers, and so soon as the Freiherr had
taken his arm-chair beside it old Christian made his appearance with a
pipe and box of matches, followed by Leo, who pushed his head
affectionately into his master's hand and then lay down at his feet.
Aunt Thekla sat down opposite her brother with her knitting; Johann
Leopold withdrew to a dark corner on the other side of the
chimney-piece.
"Are you in pain again?" the Freiherr asked him, in a tone which
expressed more irritation than sympathy.
"Yes, sir; I have another of my old headaches," Johann Leopold replied,
and the ghastly pallor of his handsome but emaciated face, and the look
of suffering in his eyes, were confirmation of his words.
The Freiherr picked up the paper with a growl, and pushed his chair
nearer the light.
"Come," said Magelone, taking possession of Johanna, "I will initiate
you into the mysteries of my coffee-brewing; you can relieve me
sometimes in future." And while she was clattering among her cups and
saucers she went on in an undertone, "This goes on every day the same.
Now we shall all take coffee; if grandpapa finds anything interesting in
the paper he reads it aloud; when Johann Leopold condescends to be well
he reads the paper, after which grandpapa and Aunt Thekla play
backgammon, and _I_ give you a little music. Are you musical?" she asked
in a louder tone.
"Unfortunately, no," Johanna replied.
"Perhaps you draw?" Magelone asked further.
"No, I do not. I have no talent at all," Johanna declared, with some
mortification.
"None at all?" the Freiherr said, and his eyes gleamed brightly over his
newspaper. "Actually none? So much the better, child, so much the
better!"
Johanna understood the meaning of such words from her grandfather. This
was the gulf that separated them.