DR. STEIN'S SCHEME.
Life at Doenninghausen since Johanna's departure, although outwardly
unchanged, was no longer the same.
The Freiherr applied himself more diligently than ever to the
administration of his extended estates, but the strictest attention to
his work did not do away for him with the sensation of emptiness and
loneliness. Whether he rode out or busied himself with accounts, at
table with the family or shut up in his study, everywhere he missed his
grand-daughter's watchful eyes, her comprehension of him, her vivacity,
her fresh interest in life. In spite of the habit of more than seventy
years, his sister hardly seemed so much his own as this young creature.
He had always rather looked down upon the gentle docile Thekla, while in
Johanna, in spite of the respect she always manifested towards him, he
recognized an equal. And because she was so, and because she had found a
home with him, her desertion of him, as he called it, was all the more
irritating; and since he could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling
upon her continually, he was all the more careful not to betray this
weakness in words.
Magelone had long since returned to Doenninghausen, graceful and
capricious as ever, and yet Aunt Thekla fancied she was hardly the same;
her merriment seemed forced. The monotony of her life weighed upon her
more heavily, although she did not bewail it so often and so loudly as
formerly. She did not know that Otto had confessed everything to his
aunt, and the old lady shrank from telling her, although she sometimes
thought that Magelone's mind would be easier if she could unburden it
freely. She must be unhappy, for was not all the misfortune that had
befallen Doenninghausen of late her fault? And it was because she knew
this and repented it that her behaviour towards Otto was so strange: now
so frigidly cold, and now so provokingly derisive.
Otto had taken up his abode in Tannhagen, and was managing the small
estate. He seldom came to Doenninghausen, and when he did so he avoided
being alone with any one member of the family. Aunt Thekla was more
troubled about him than about Magelone. The discomfort which evidently
weighed upon him at Doenninghausen seemed to her the result of his
repentance, and of his longing love for Johanna. She and the Freiherr
were both convinced that he had written repeatedly to Johanna; and when
she would ask him if he had received an answer, and he would hurriedly
reply in the negative and then change the subject, the old lady's heart
would be filled with bitterness towards Johanna. She did not reflect
that in concealing his fault from his grandfather Otto was constantly
sinning afresh. Now and then she really blamed herself for striving, in
spite of her brother's express command and of Johanna's heartless
treatment of 'poor Otto,' to keep up even indirectly a kind of
communication with the girl. Notwithstanding these scruples of
conscience, she waited impatiently for news from Loebel Wolf; and when,
one day, he made his appearance, and gave her a detailed account of his
son's visit to Johanna, her grudge against her was drowned in
compassion. Instead of the love she had dreamed of in her pretty
woodland nest, to be confined in the close atmosphere of a sick-room! At
the old lady's request, Loebel Wolf declared his readiness to treat in
person with Johanna, and to tell the Freiherr, whom fortunately he had
not yet seen, that he had not yet made his intended trip to Hanover, but
would do so in a few days.
Scarcely had Loebel Wolf driven out of the court-yard when the Freiherr
came into his sister's room and called out to her, "Good news! Johann
Leopold is coming home!"
"When?" Aunt Thekla asked, half startled, half pleased.
The Freiherr shrugged his shoulders.
"The letter says shortly; whether that means in a few weeks or a few
months who can say? You know the lad's ways. He never is precise."
"How is he?" she inquired.
"He says nothing about his health in his letter," said the Freiherr. "He
does not, however, appear to be perfectly well. He complains generally,
talks about disappointment in what he had hoped travel would do for him,
and so on; but how much of it may be hypochondria it is impossible to
say. Moreover, he seems to have been suddenly attacked by home-sickness.
He is not even going to await Dr. Werner's return. Perhaps Werner sends
him home. I was always afraid that that climate would not do for Johann
Leopold. The lad begs me to answer his letter immediately; _poste
restante_, Marseilles; and I want you, my dear Thekla, to do this for
me. Tell him all that has taken place here, and let him know that I do
not want to speak of it; and send him a cordial welcome home from me. I
shall be glad to have the fellow here once more."
The old lady promised to write before night, and the Freiherr left the
room. She remained behind, lost in anxious revery; she feared fresh
disappointments and struggles for those whom she loved. Magelone,
indeed, seemed more awake to her responsibilities than she had been;
but, sensitive as Johann Leopold was, he would surely perceive that she
was estranged from him; and since, according to Aunt Thekla's belief, he
was not really attached to Magelone, he would be only too glad to sever
the tie between them. And would not this, perhaps, be best? If Magelone
were free to love Otto without conscientious scruples, might she not
succeed in steadying him and consoling him for Johanna's loss? It would
be difficult to persuade the Freiherr to agree to their marriage; but if
he should see that Otto could be thus consoled, and Magelone thus made
happy, he would finally consent, particularly if Johann Leopold lent his
aid to the pair by making up his mind to declare frankly that he wished
to remain true to the memory of his dead love. Aunt Thekla, whose entire
life had been devoted to a dead love and to grief for his loss, never
doubted that Johann Leopold had buried in the coffin of the betrothed of
his youth every hope and wish of his life. He had, indeed, consented to
a marriage with Magelone, in obedience to the arrangements of the head
of the family, but his increasing melancholy had shown that this
obedience was almost beyond his strength. So long as he was the only one
to be sacrificed, Aunt Thekla had shrunk from putting forward any
objection to the match; but now that she knew that Magelone's happiness,
and perhaps more than that, would be imperilled by this marriage,--for
she had shown how weak she was to resist temptation,--now Aunt Thekla
was resolved to do all that she could to avert this fresh calamity from
the children of her heart and home.
Still occupied with these thoughts, she went at the usual hour to the
drawing-room. While yet in the corridor, she heard Magelone singing and
playing, and as she entered there rang exultantly in her ears,--
"I could weep for very gladness;
I can hardly think it true----"
Magelone looked up, broke off, and hurried to meet her aunt. "Have you
heard?" she cried, her face beaming with delight. "Johann Leopold is
coming home at last!"
Aunt Thekla let her work-basket fall in her surprise. "Child," she
said, as Magelone was picking up its contents, "are you then so glad of
Johann Leopold's return? I thought----"
"What, aunt?" Magelone asked, as she handed the old lady the basket;
and, although her voice was calm, there was a certain uneasiness in her
eyes.
"All that has occurred lately," Aunt Thekla stammered, as she took her
seat on the sofa,--"your relations with Otto----"
"Ah, indeed!" Magelone cried, and her face flashed crimson. "Johanna
accused me, then? It was just like the sly creature----"
"Magelone, how dare you utter one word against Johanna!" Aunt Thekla
interrupted her. "She never gave the slightest intimation----Had she
done so, she would be here now, while you and Otto----"
"Then it was Otto!" Magelone exclaimed. "How mean----"
"Child, child! it does not become you to lay the blame on others," her
aunt admonished her again. "If you would atone for your fault you must
humbly repent----"
"Repent--yes--that I ever wasted a thought upon the vainest and meanest
of men!" cried Magelone, bursting into tears, and throwing herself down
beside her aunt. "Otto loves no one save himself. He is faithless,
false, cowardly. Within the space of an hour he was treacherous to me
for Johanna's sake, and to Johanna for my sake. Oh, I hate him! I
despise him! Since he has told you all, I will tell grandpapa----"
She sprang up. Aunt Thekla laid her hand upon her arm. "You will do no
such thing. My brother must not know of your treachery, your frivolity,"
she said, with unwonted decision. "You have done enough mischief
already."
Magelone sat down again, and continued to weep silently.
"What do you intend shall be the end of all this?" her aunt asked, after
a long pause.
Magelone's only reply was a fresh burst of tears.
"Now, because you are angry with Otto, are you going to make Johann
Leopold unhappy?" Aunt Thekla continued. "Remember how you talked about
your marriage before he went away."
Magelone jumped up and threw her arms about her aunt's neck. "No, I will
not make him unhappy!" she cried. "I know now all that he is to me. I
shall be so happy if he will only love me and help me; and when one is
happy one's self it is easy to make others happy. And you are right,
dear aunt; grandpapa must not be told anything. He shall see how happy
we are, and how I will try to be a credit to you all."
Kind old Aunt Thekla was conquered. If Magelone was conscious of the
wrong she had done, and was longing to live a new life, how could any
one place any obstacle in the way of her marriage with Johann Leopold?
But there was still one objection in her mind. "Dear Magelone," she
said, "you are right to think that only when we are happy ourselves can
we make others so; but shall you be happy? Johann Leopold will be to you
the most faithful and judicious of friends, but the love for which you
long is not his to give. You know the touching fidelity with which he
clings to the memory of his Albertine."
Magelone smiled triumphantly. "Oh, Aunt Thekla," she exclaimed, "I have
nothing to fear from that dead Albertine! Before his departure, Johann
Leopold wrote me a veritable, genuine love-letter. To call me his is his
most fervent desire. He hopes to win my heart when he returns. And even
although I give him up, he must always be devoted to me. So you see----"
Aunt Thekla saw that she had again been entirely mistaken. She saw that
man's fidelity, Schiller's assertion notwithstanding, is a mere
illusion; saw that there was no fitting place for her in this age of
steam, when everything is whirled into the past with such lightning
rapidity. And while she resigned herself to melancholy reflection,
Magelone shook care and repentance, anger and love's pain, from her
wings, and soared singing into her world like the lark.
When Loebel Wolf, true to his promise, went, a few days after this, to
Hanover, and called upon Johanna, she had just driven out with her
little convalescent. A great part of the time which he had reserved for
her was thus wasted, but the short interview which he was able to obtain
with her was long enough to convince him of the uselessness of further
persuasion. She repeated to the father what she had already told the
son,--that she either had no claim to the possession of the jewels, or
that she ought not to sell them, and added, "Entreat my grandfather to
have no anxiety upon my account. Heaven has endowed me with a talent by
which I hope to earn my daily bread."
Loebel Wolf shook his head. He was sorry to find her so stubborn and
unpractical. He had no desire to report personally the failure of this
second attempt. He wrote to the Freiherr, and repeated to him faithfully
Johanna's words.
The following evening Johanna and Lisbeth were alone together in
Helena's little drawing-room. The weather was oppressively warm; all the
windows were open, but they seemed to admit only the dust and noise of
the street.
The child was sitting on the window-seat, with her sister's arm around
her. She was impatiently watching the passing equipages, and wondering
why her mamma never, never stayed at home. Then, bursting into tears,
she added, "I do not want to be always waiting, waiting here. You must
go away with me, Johanna."
Before Johanna could reply, there was a knock at the door, and in answer
to her "Come in!" Dr. Wolf entered the room.
"It is my Dr. Wolf!" Lisbeth cried, in glee; for she had soon made
friends with him, and now regarded him quite as her own property.
Scrambling down from the window-seat, she took possession of him; but
whilst he listened to her childish talk, and answered her as kindly as
ever, he glanced from time to time, with an anxious expression, at
Johanna. Did she really look paler and more weary than usual, or did
fancy show him what he had expected to see? At last, when the child,
sitting in his lap, was busy with a book of pictures which he had
brought her, he handed Johanna a newspaper. It contained the first
chapters of her novel.
"Will you pardon me for acting thus upon my own responsibility?" he
asked.
"Pardon? I am most grateful to you," said Johanna, blushing with
pleasure.
"I should have liked to go farther," said Wolf, his eyes lighting up for
a moment. "I should have liked to put your name to it. Perhaps you may
decide to do so at its conclusion. So good a name----"
"Too good for my poor beginnings," Johanna interposed. "But that is not
the only consideration that would prevent me from signing my work. It
would annoy my grandfather to see my name in the newspaper which his
people read daily. No, I cannot allow it."
Dr. Wolf stroked back his hair from his forehead--a sure sign that he
was uneasy in mind. "Do they take any other newspapers at
Doenninghausen?" he asked.
"The 'Augsburg Sentinel' and the 'Circular,'" Johanna replied. And, too
much pleased to observe the young man's uneasiness, she went on: "How
did you contrive to have my story printed so soon? You told me the other
day that there were so many manuscripts on hand. Confess that you have
been plotting for me!"
Again he stroked back his black hair. "Of course," he said, without
looking at her, "I have done what I could. Yesterday morning there was
no idea of it. It is, to some extent, a counter-check. Have you seen no
other paper yesterday or to-day?"
His last words startled her. "Tell me, for heaven's sake! Is any one
dead?" she cried, growing pale.
"Nothing of the kind," Dr. Wolf hurriedly interrupted her; "it concerns
yourself alone. I hope you will not take it too much to heart." And
after assuring himself by a glance that Lisbeth had fallen asleep, he
went on: "Dr. Stein's 'Feuilleton' contains a notice which states that
the daughter of a distinguished actor, who died about two years ago, is
shortly to appear in Carlo Batti's famous circus."
"'Tis a mistake!" Johanna exclaimed. "Batti tried to persuade me to do
so, but I told him it was not to be thought of."
"And did you allege regard for your family as one reason for your
refusal?" asked the young man.
Johanna assented.
"They are trying to burn that bridge behind you," Dr. Wolf continued.
"Without mentioning names, but with an exact description of places and
persons that makes any such mention unnecessary, the notice goes on to
say that an enthusiasm for art, and yet more a preference for the
unrestricted freedom of an artistic career, have led you to break off
your betrothal and forsake your relatives,--'the same noble family,' the
article concludes, 'from which, years ago, the daughter eloped with the
famous actor, the father of our _debutante_.'"
While he was speaking Johanna grew pale and red by turns. "You are
right; this is infamous!" she said, when Dr. Wolf had finished. "I
cannot understand----"
"What they have in view?" he completed her sentence when she paused. "I
suspect that they intend by this notice to make the breach between you
and your relatives final, and to force you to comply with Batti's
schemes. No further consideration for your relatives is possible after
this has been printed."
"Infamous!" Johanna repeated, and her eyes flashed. "What shall I do to
counteract their plan? Advise me."
"Put your name to your novel," he replied. "You will thus prove that you
have chosen another career----"
"Upon which, however, the same construction might be placed," she said,
thoughtfully. "No, nothing would be gained by it. What will wound my
grandfather most deeply is the assertion that I have left him from a
desire for a life of unrestricted freedom. I might be supposed, also, to
desire this as an authoress. You must give me some other counsel. Ah,
try to help me!"
She clasped her hands and looked up at him with entreating eyes filled
with tears. He had never seen her so distressed.
"Be calm!" he said. "'It is ill stirring a muddy pool.' If you say so, I
will have a contradiction published in all the principal papers. But
would this really do any good? The contradiction would give circulation
to the falsehood, which, perhaps, in Stein's obscure paper, may escape
the notice of your kindred."
Johanna sighed. "Possibly you are right," she rejoined; "but it is hard
to sit still and do nothing."
"You are not required to 'do nothing.' On the contrary, it behooves you
to work steadily and continually if you would maintain your place in the
'struggle for existence,' of which we hear so much nowadays. An author's
mortal career, unless he be a special favourite of fortune, is hard;
doubly so if, as in your case, he rejects the advantages at his
command. Pursue a literary calling as your father's daughter, and you
will find your path a very different one from that which you must tread
anonymously or under a _nom de plume_. Consider whether in your regard
for the prejudices of your kindred you do not wrong yourself."
Johanna seemed not to hear him. Leaning against the window-seat, with
her head resting on her hand, she was gazing into space, and by the
light of the gas-lamps just lit in the street below, she looked so pale
and weary that he feared his presence fatigued her. He rose cautiously,
and laid the sleeping child upon the sofa, then took his hat and was
about to withdraw. But Johanna roused herself from her abstraction, and
held out her hand to him. "Are you going?" she said. "Thank you for both
your pleasant and your unpleasant tidings, and answer me one more
question: Was that notice inserted at Batti's instigation?"
"In a certain sense, yes," the young man replied. "I hear it is the
result of a wager between Batti and Stein. The latter declared that he
could conquer your aversion to the circus----"
"And I thought Batti a good man,--supposed him to be my friend!" cried
Johanna.
"He probably considers himself such," rejoined Wolf. "He only wishes to
force you to what he regards as your good; and if he has an eye at the
same time to his own interest, why, we are all like him there."
"You have no right to say that; you are not so!" said Johanna. "What
interest of yours has been served by the countless kindnesses you have
shown me since we first knew each other?"
"My dear Fraeulein, can we flatter our subtle selfishness more
delightfully than by rendering the services of friendship?" asked the
young man. "But this has not been the question between you and me. All
that I have apparently done for you was in truth contrived in
opposition to another; whether from hatred, from revenge, or from a
desire to shield goodness and purity, I do not know."
It had grown so dark that Johanna, although she was seated opposite to
him, could not distinguish the expression of his face; but a slight
tremor in his voice betrayed his emotion.
"You do not understand me," he went on, after a pause. "Let me tell you
a short story. A few years ago my father adopted a poor orphan, a girl
sixteen years old, the daughter of a distant relative. Sara was
beautiful and good. She soon occupied my heart and thoughts. I was,
however, not free. We Jews, like the children of princes and of
peasants, are betrothed by the mutual agreement of heads of families. My
betrothed, who loved another, was bolder than I, and afterward married
the man of her choice. But at this time I felt myself fettered by what I
might call the bashful sense of filial piety, which causes so many of my
race to cleave outwardly to traditions which they have really outlived.
Only a Jew can feel and understand this. I controlled myself with all my
force, and I do not think that I ever betrayed myself, that Sara ever
suspected how happy and how miserable she made me. She was not only
worthy of love, she craved love. One day a dashing young soldier came to
visit his family, whose estates were in our neighbourhood. He constantly
had money-transactions with my father. Chance brought him into contact
with Sara. How shall I tell the rest? She found favour in his eyes. And
why not? She was a poor Jewish girl; he might trifle with her as he
chose; it involved no responsibility for him. The next time I paid a
visit at my home I soon saw how matters stood. I saw that my poor Sara
was lost. But I struggled against this conviction; at least I would make
an attempt to rescue one so dear to me. I thrust myself into her
confidence with fire and sword. I left her no illusions with regard to
the man to whom she was ready to sacrifice all, perhaps had already
sacrificed all. I had controlled my love; I gave my jealousy free play.
Sara's despair wrung my heart, but I thought I was doing right. Then,
with my consent, she had an interview with the scoundrel. On the evening
of the same day she was taken drowned from the canal which runs at the
foot of my father's garden. The neighbours said she must have fallen in
while getting water, which she always did herself when she was watering
her flowers; my father believed this, and I would gladly have believed
it. But upon my writing-table I found a slip of paper, upon which she
had written in scarcely-legible characters, 'You are right.' I need not
tell you the man's name to explain my interest in you. And now, if you
please, we will never speak of this again."