DOeNNINGHAUSEN OBSTINACY.
When Johanna reached Doenninghausen, old Martin informed her that Squire
Otto had been waiting for her a long while. For a moment she gazed at
the old man, as if she had not understood him; then she replied, "I can
see no one," and wearily went up the castle steps.
Martin shook his head as he looked after her, and as soon as he had
taken Elinor to the stables betook himself to the park to inform Otto
that the Fraeulein had returned.
"The Fraeulein looked as white as the wall," he added, with the
familiarity of a man who had been a servant in the house for more than
forty years. "And her eyes were twice the size they usually are. Sure
she must be ill!"
Otto muttered an imprecation. He could not possibly go away without
further question; to do so would give rise to all sorts of commentaries
by the servants. Besides, the bell was just ringing for the second
breakfast; not to obey its summons would be regarded by his grandfather
as a transgression of the rules of the house, and it was more than ever
incumbent upon Otto to keep the old man in good humour.
"This is another of my unlucky days. I should like to know whether other
men have as much to bear as I," he said to himself as he walked towards
the castle. "I wonder how Johanna will receive me? She cannot _yet_ have
told my grandfather anything, and she will have at least to control
herself. Perhaps it is best it should be so. The necessity of preserving
appearances may bring her to her senses."
But his hopes proved fallacious; Johanna did not appear. Aunt Thekla
reported, with an anxious face, that hearing that Johanna was prevented
by a violent headache from coming to breakfast, she had been to look
after her, and had found her terribly pale.
"She was lying on the lounge," the old lady went on, "with her eyes
closed, and could only say, in a faint voice, 'All I want, dear aunt, is
rest!' I thought the fresh air would do her good; but when I began to
draw aside the curtains she started up, begging me not to do so, but to
leave her in darkness: he did not wish to see or to hear anything; and
then she sank back and lay perfectly quiet."
"Have you sent for the doctor?" the Freiherr interposed.
"No; she forbade it; I can't tell why. Her indisposition is her own
fault; she has been taking one of those wild rides again, and does not
want to confess it. Indeed, dear Johann, you must forbid her riding so
much."
"Nonsense!" cried the Freiherr. "What has riding to do with it? You
women could not exist without your headaches. Johanna is following the
fashion. But what the deuce is the matter with you, lad?" he blurted
out, turning to Otto, half laughing, half vexed. "Letting every dish
pass you untasted, and looking like----have you a headache out of pure
sympathy? Don't drive me altogether wild!"
Otto tried to control himself; but Aunt Thekla's suspicions had been
aroused and would not be laid to rest. After breakfast, while the
Freiherr was reading the papers, she drew Otto into one of the
window-recesses, and said, with decision, "Something has occurred
between Johanna and you. Tell me what it is. You know how I love you
both."
Otto would have refused to satisfy her anxiety; but when he looked into
his aunt's kind, pleading eyes, he remembered how often he had as a boy
appealed to her, and never in vain, for aid, and it struck him that he
could find no better intercessor. "You are right, my dear aunt," he
replied, kissing her hand. "I will make my confession to you, hard
though it is. You are my last, my sole hope,--and you will help me, I
know, and not reproach me. Heaven knows I do that enough myself!" And he
told her, briefly, and with as much frankness as he could command, the
history of his betrothal, and of to-day's wretched scene in the forest.
The old lady listened with the most painful and contradictory
sensations. Her integrity, her sense of honour, were outraged by the
treachery of Otto's and Magelone's conduct towards Johanna, and yet her
warm, kindly heart could not forbear pitying Otto in the midst of his
complaints and self-reproaches, and her stern loyalty to the
Doenninghausens impressed upon her the conviction that now, as at all
other times, the first consideration was the preservation of the honour
of the name. She was quite ready, at Otto's request, to undertake the
task of reconciliation, and went up to see Johanna.
The curtains were still closed, but Johanna was no longer lying down.
With hands clasped in front of her, she was restlessly walking to and
fro. When the door opened, she turned and came towards it.
"My poor, dear child," Aunt Thekla began, but paused in dismay, as, even
in the dim light, she distinguished the expression of Johanna's
countenance. Not a trace was to be seen of weakness or of need of
sympathy: the pale face was as if carved in marble. Nothing that the old
lady had prepared to say would fit this occasion.
"Are you better?" she asked at last, to put an end to the distressing
silence.
"Yes, dear aunt; do not trouble yourself about me," Johanna replied,
with forced composure.
Aunt Thekla sighed. It grieved her that the young girl had so little
confidence in her, but it should not deter her. "Come, sit down by me; I
want to talk with you," she said, taking her seat on the lounge. And
when Johanna mechanically obeyed, she added, "You need put no force upon
yourself; Otto has made a frank confession to me."
"Scarcely frank!" Johanna said, contemptuously.
"You do him injustice!" Aunt Thekla cried. "He said not one word to
excuse himself; on the contrary, he accused himself bitterly. If you
could have heard how he repents and longs for your forgiveness, you
would grant it him with all your heart."
"I cannot," Johanna said, without looking up.
"Oh, do not say that! You not only can, but you must forgive. Do we not
pray every day, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that
trespass against us'?"
"I cannot," Johanna repeated.
For a while both were silent; then Aunt Thekla looked up timidly at her
niece and said, "Do not misunderstand me if I continue to plead for
Otto. I sympathize with you; I can understand how his folly has offended
you."
"Offended, do you call it?" Johanna interrupted her. "He has insulted
me, and poisoned my life and my soul!"
"So it seems to you now," said her aunt. "But you will learn to regard
it differently; you will feel otherwise and judge otherwise. Believe me,
my child, Otto is worthy of your forgiveness, and he loves you so----"
Johanna sprang to her feet. "Aunt, I cannot listen to you!" she cried,
pressing her hands to her throbbing temples. "You forget that a few
hours ago I saw with my own eyes that Otto--that Magelone----And you
talk of forgiveness, of love! Oh, everything is hateful in my
sight!--life--myself----"
She sank into a chair, and, with a groan, covered her eyes with her
hand.
Aunt Thekla shed tears, and, after a long pause, went on: "If you would
let me talk to you, I know I could do you good. I do not want to
torment you; I only want to repeat Otto's message to you. 'Tell
Johanna'--these are his very words; but to appreciate them you should
have seen the entreaty in his eyes and heard the tone of his
voice--'tell Johanna that I love her more than ever; that I have loved
her from the moment when I first knew her----'"
"Oh, aunt!" Johanna broke in upon her words, "can you tell me that? Can
you suppose that can console me? If he had told me that Magelone's
charms were irresistible for him, and had extinguished his love for me,
I could have understood him, and without reproaching him I should have
submitted as to the inevitable. But since he has deceived Magelone and
lied to her as he has to me, where shall I look for truth? What can I
believe? Where find a stay?"
The old lady had no fitting reply to this. "I wish you could see matters
in another light," she said, after a long pause for reflection; "and I
hope you will do so in time. But now what is to be done if you refuse
Otto's entreaty for forgiveness? Of course my brother must learn nothing
of this----"
Johanna looked at her in amazement. "Learn nothing?" she repeated. "You
do not suppose that I can marry Otto? Magelone has taken my place."
"Child, I told you that Otto does not love Magelone," Aunt Thekla
replied. "And she does not love him,--not enough at least to endure for
his sake her grandfather's anger." And, clasping Johanna's hands in her
own, the old lady added, with tearful, imploring eyes, "Think what you
are doing. The happiness or misery of the whole family is in your hands.
If you cannot forgive, Johann Leopold will lose his betrothed, Otto's
and Magelone's lives will be ruined, whether they marry or not, and my
brother, who has made the happiness and honour of his house his sole
care, will see it in his old age brought to disgrace----"
"If I could but spare him!" exclaimed Johanna. Here at last was a word
spoken in kindness. Aunt Thekla took courage again. "You can if you
choose," she said, and dried her eyes. "Believe me, child, those who
forgive are blessed indeed when they can forgive and forget."
"Forgive and forget!" Johanna repeated. "Yes, it would be a blessing;
but forgetfulness cannot be forced, and if I could forgive and overcome
in myself all bitterness, the old confidence would not return----"
"Only try it!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "How many women have
forgiven some fickleness or unfaithfulness in their lovers and have been
happy wives! Remember, 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things,
hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"
"And 'rejoiceth in the truth,'" Johanna said, her features taking on
their former rigidity. "An error might be forgotten, but what separates
Otto and myself forever is his falsehood. If you knew how degraded I
feel by it; how petty, suspicious, evil-minded it makes me. To shield
Magelone and himself from his grandfather's anger he betrothed himself
to me; for the same reason he seeks a reconciliation with me now; and
perhaps--who knows?--the possession of Tannhagen adds weight to the
scale. Tell me yourself, Aunt Thekla, can I regard as my lord and master
the man of whom I think thus?"
Johanna arose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains. There it
was again, the pitiless sunshine. It reached her very heart through her
eyes, and revealed the lovely and yet terrible picture of the pair
beneath the forest shades. If she could but be spared that sight! She
would rather see nothing, nothing.
A light touch roused her. Aunt Thekla had followed her, and now laid her
hand upon her arm. "What answer shall I take to Otto?" she asked. "Be
kind, be sensible. Reflect; the banns are to be published for the first
time the day after to-morrow----"
"It must not come to that!" Johanna interrupted her. "Tell Otto that I
agree to any method by which he, without implicating Magelone or
himself, can dissolve our engagement----"
"You are terrible!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Yours is the obstinacy of our
race, only turned against the Doenninghausens. But this cannot be your
final decision. You will be calmer; you will see that you must overcome
your pride, your just indignation. Stay in your room; I will tell my
brother that you need rest, and you must promise me not to be overhasty.
Pray promise me this."
"Rest assured I will do nothing that can injure Otto," said Johanna. "As
I told you, he himself may arrange everything. I will take the blame of
the break upon myself. Now let us say no more about it, dear aunt; I
really can no more."
How sad and weary was the face which had been wont to look so fresh and
glad! Aunt Thekla's eyes filled with tears. "If I could only do
something for you!" she said. "It is dreadful to leave you so alone; but
Otto is waiting for an answer----"
"Otto, always Otto!" Johanna thought, bitterly; but the next moment she
banished the thought, and replied in a gentler tone than she had used
hitherto, "Do not mind me; it is best for me to be alone!"
The old lady still lingered. "I hope you have not misunderstood me. You
know I have your happiness at heart."
Johanna fell upon her neck. "You are kind. You will bear with me," she
whispered.
Aunt Thekla left her easier in her mind. She would have patience if only
the two might be brought together again in the end. And they surely
would be if Otto could only plead his own cause. He would do better,
perhaps, to-day to leave Johanna to her reflections; to-morrow she would
be calmer, more accessible; he could come again then.
But whilst Aunt Thekla was resigning herself to the hope of a
reconciliation, and even Otto's doubts were partially overcome,
Johanna's condition of mind was the same. She had been thrust forth from
her paradise, and even although she should force herself to forgive, it
would not affect the dissolution of her engagement.
Yes, all must be changed. To go on in the old way was impossible. What
was she to do? Where should she go? To Lindenbad? And it occurred to her
that upon her return from her ride a letter from Ludwig had been handed
her, or had she dreamed it? No; there it lay upon her writing-table: a
thick, soiled envelope, covered with stamps and addresses.
She opened it. It was an old letter,--the one written in answer to the
announcement of her betrothal.
Ludwig wrote:
"DEAR JOHANNA,--I know that it is the fashion to reply to the
announcement of a betrothal by congratulations, but I should be
false to myself and to the love I bear you were I to conceal
beneath any set, formal phrases my feelings and opinions upon
the present occasion. I trust you have sufficient confidence in
me to believe in the honesty of my intentions, even although
you differ from me in sentiment.
"Then let these lines warn you, and admonish you to ask
yourself more seriously than you have done hitherto whether it
is really possible for this man to satisfy your demands upon
life, to fill your heart, to understand and keep pace with you?
I, who know you better than any one else knows you, I declare
that this is not possible, and I pray you to open your eyes
before you are irrevocably bound. By marriage with this man you
condemn yourself to a life of loneliness and renunciation.
"You know this yourself. Does not your letter, written in the
first joy of your betrothal, speak of a 'want' in your
happiness? Your recalling of this word afterwards cannot
weaken its significance. In your inmost soul you feel that you
are about to take a wrong step, and the instinct of your heart,
which is 'beyond all reason,' warns you to pause.
"I shall never forgive myself for not being beside you to aid
this instinct. I could not but foresee what has happened. I
knew how it would be, and I left you in anger, with my
self-love grievously wounded, while it was my duty, as well as
my right, to say to you, 'You belong to me, and I will not
leave you.'
"I say this now, and my life will prove to you how seriously I
say it. If you persist in the wretched course which threatens
to separate us utterly, I vow solemnly to you, and to myself,
that you never again shall hear these words from me, but you
will find me whenever and however you may need me.
"It is my own fault that I have lost you. When I went to you at
your father's, and found that you had outgrown the atmosphere
of my father's house, I thrust you from me in wayward, boyish
folly, when I ought to have taken you in my arms and sought to
win you from all that estranged you from me.
"Why do I say this to you now? Because I would have you know me
thoroughly, and would set you an example of absolute
confidence. We human beings should lighten our trials greatly
if we shrank less from confessing to ourselves and to others
our errors, our defeats, our miscalculations. Let me hope that
you are free from the vanity and cowardice that would lead you
so to shrink. Do not close your eyes; and if you see that you
have been overhasty, redeem the error before it be too late.
Above all, do not fancy that you must hold to your plighted
troth for your betrothed's sake. As I know him, not all your
love can make him happy.
"Will you accuse me of harshness in saying this? Be it so. I
cannot look on with a feigned smile, or even in silence, when I
see you going to your destruction.
"But can I be mistaken? The fact that this man, amid the
puppets by which he has been surrounded, has known how to find
the way to you, makes me waver in my estimate of him. Certainly
I will not close my mind to a better opinion of him; and should
you continue to find him worthy of your love, and should he
prove himself capable of appreciating you and of making you
happy, I will acknowledge his right to possess you as
unhesitatingly as I now challenge it.
"November 10, 1874.
"Since writing the above I have spent days and nights partly in
the hospitals, partly in the poorest quarter of Bombay. I have
been at home now for several hours, and, refreshed by a bath,
sleep, and food, I shall return to my patients as soon as I
have despatched this letter. The occupation of these last few
weeks--the old, ruinous portion of the city has been attacked
by an epidemic--explains the tone of my letter. All shams seem
more intolerable to me than ever before. Health of body and
mind seems to me a supreme good, and I am consequently forced
as well to warn the thoughtless who may be exposing themselves
uselessly to the peril of deadly miasma as to undertake the
treatment of organizations already diseased. It is in this
sense that I send you my note of warning. Harsh as it may sound
in your ears, take it as from a physician, without any false
sensitiveness. I expect an answer to it only in case my words
have made some impression upon you. If you say nothing of this
letter, I shall take it for granted that I have been mistaken,
or that the truth wearies you, and shall _never_, unless you
yourself desire it, allude to the subject again.
"I am still in doubt as to the time of my return. It was fixed
at first for next March or April. If I can be of use to you I
will come earlier,--come instantly if you write that you wish
me to do so. Otherwise I shall probably remain longer away. And
even should I return to Europe, I shall not see my home or
yourself until the wound from which I am now suffering is
scarred over, or until you need the counsel or aid of your
brother LUDWIG."
"No, no aid from _him_!" Johanna said to herself, as she folded the
letter again. The thought of letting him know how she suffered was
intolerable to her--why she did not know, and did not ask. Not for one
moment did she doubt Ludwig's affection, magnanimity, and efficiency,
and yet she felt doubly humiliated since reading his verdict with regard
to Otto.
"No, no aid from him!" she repeated. But this being so, she could not go
to Lindenbad, and where else should she seek an asylum? Ah, how hard it
was, besides, to tear herself away from this place, where, in spite of
everything, she had found a home! True, it needed but a word from her to
insure her this home still, but at what a price! Aunt Thekla was right:
her grandfather's last days must not be poisoned. And how could Johanna
continue to dwell in the home whose peace she had destroyed, and whose
children she had driven forth and made unhappy? She knew, too, that it
would pain her grandfather to part from her, but he would find her
leaving him 'thanklessly' easier to bear than the discovery that Otto
and Magelone were unworthy of his name and his affection. She pondered
and reflected, always with the same result. She must go, and upon her
must rest the blame of the separation. How she should contrive this, and
whither she should turn, she did not know,--but she would discover.
The day passed. Aunt Thekla sent up to inquire after her repeatedly; had
food and refreshments taken to her; wanted to know whether she should
come herself; but Johanna begged her to let her be alone for the day;
and at last, as if crushed in body and mind, she had thrown herself upon
her bed.
And then the night drew on, a night without sleep, in which the hours
dragged slowly, each throb of her heart seeming to increase the dull
pain beneath which her very soul writhed as if in mortal agony. And
then the moonlight came, and quivered on the walls and ceiling, as in
those lovely nights when each waking moment was delight and each falling
asleep again brought sweet dreams. Then the cocks crowed, and the cold,
gray light of dawn made all things look more than ever dreary; and then
began the shrill, discordant twittering of the sparrows.
Four o'clock struck in the tower of the castle, and immediately
afterward a low, shuffling step was heard on the stair, and there was a
cautious knock at Johanna's door.
"Who is there?" the young girl asked.
"A telegram for Fraeulein Johanna," the housekeeper's voice made reply.
Johanna threw a shawl about her shoulders, received the blue envelope,
took it to the window, and read:
"Lisbeth is dangerously ill, and is constantly calling for you.
Pray come. HELENA."
For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she collected herself. She at
once took her resolution. The early train for Hanover left Thalrode at
six; she had time to catch it.
She dressed herself, hastily packed up the necessary clothing, and
ordered the carriage. Then she wrote a hurried note to Otto: "I have
just received a telegram summoning me to Hanover to the bedside of my
little sister. I leave by the next train, and thus afford you a
plausible excuse for the dissolution of our betrothal. You can scarcely
marry a wife from beneath the roof of an 'equestrian artist.' The
reconciliation which you proposed to me through Aunt Thekla is
impossible. I have lost all confidence in you, and you would never
forgive me for the scene in the forest. I must leave you to make the
necessary explanations to my grandfather, and I bid you farewell in the
fullest sense of the word."
With this letter she went to Aunt Thekla. The old lady was still in bed,
but wide awake. She, too, had been unable to sleep from anxiety.
"My child, what does this mean?" she asked, when she saw Johanna appear
in her travelling-dress.
Johanna handed her the telegram, told her that she was going instantly
to Hanover, and begged her to take charge of the letter for Otto.
"Drive off! without my brother's consent!" Aunt Thekla said, possessed
by a foreboding of evil. "How can you? You will come back again soon?"
Johanna turned away. "Do not make my heart heavier than it is," she
begged.
Aunt Thekla burst into tears. "You must not go!" she cried, clasping
Johanna's hands tightly. "I will not let you go!"
The young girl gently extricated herself. "I must, dear aunt; I must go
to Lisbeth," she said.
"But Otto will follow you; will bring you back again."
Johanna shook her head. "He will see that we must part," she whispered.
"But do not let me be exiled and quite forgotten; write to me----"
The maid appeared: "Fraeulein Johanna, the carriage is waiting."
Once more aunt and niece embraced. "Bid grandpapa a thousand, thousand
farewells for me. Try to persuade him to forgive me. Think kindly of
me," Johanna sobbed.
Then she hurried out into the corridor, past her grandfather's door,
where Leo arose in surprise, and seemed to ask if he might accompany
her.
Johanna signed to him to lie down, and, with her handkerchief pressed to
her lips, hurried down the stairs, and threw herself into a corner of
the carriage; the door was closed, the horses started. Her dream of love
and happiness was at an end.