"Our poor Count Fritz is going fast," said old Doctor Swoboda every
time that he returned from Schneeburg to Rautschin and stopped at the
inn to drink a glass of beer; this time he remarked it to Herr
Alexander Cibulka, who always took a lively interest in Schneeburg.
"Ah, indeed? Well, he has not much to lose in this life," rejoined
Eugene Alexander, "if I had to depend for my living upon alms, as he
does, I'd put a bullet through my brains!" and Herr Cibulka ran his
stubby fingers through his bushy hair. He was very proud of such
unfeeling expressions, which he considered, Heaven only knows why, as
particularly fashionable. "And how is the Conte Capriani?" he
continued, "and the charming Ad'lin,--a superb creature, eh?" and
Eugene Alexander affectedly wafted abroad a kiss from his finger tips.
"Don't know," growled the old doctor, "I don't associate with them."
"Ah, true," said Herr Cibulka compassionately, "I quite forgot, you do
not associate with them."
Eugene Alexander Cibulka was the only man among the _haute volee_ of
the market-town who had enjoyed the honour of an invitation from
Capriani. The invitation,--there was but one,--was to a _dejeuner_, and
inspired him with not a little pride. He described it as a most
memorable, 'brilliant episode,' in his monotonous existence, and he
celebrated it in lyric phrases. What had so charmed him it would be
hard to tell; Madame Capriani had found it impossible to understand
him, although she had good-humouredly tried to do so,--his sentences
were so interlarded with compliments,--and consequently she was obliged
to confine herself to phrases of conventional courtesy; Adeline had
spoken only in French, which of course excluded him from conversation
with her, and when he picked up her handkerchief she thanked him as
haughtily as if she resented his not presenting it on a salver; the
Conte had urged him to partake of the various dishes, ringing the
changes upon one invariable theme. "You had better take some--you don't
get such a chance every day."
Modern culture had certainly treated him ill, but all the more was he
convinced of its immense superiority. There was but one adjective that
in his opinion, could in any wise fitly characterize the new household
at Schneeburg, and that was, 'Sublime!'
Two years previously, in old Malzin times, he had also on some occasion
or other dined at Schneeburg. The old Count had received him with
distinguished, though formal, courtesy, had insisted upon his preceding
him into the dining-hall, and had taken great pains to find subjects
for conversation that should not exclude his guest. He had been very
much better treated at Schneeburg then,--but no raptures came of it. On
the contrary he had declared, with a shrug, that Count Malzin's style
of living was very 'middle-class,'--that it was a pity too, that the
Count spoke so low that it was difficult to understand him, and that
really there had not been enough to eat.
In spite of the old Count's courtesy and of the simplicity of the
dinner, Cibulka had somehow on that occasion been keenly sensible of
the gulf between himself and the master of Schneeburg, and it seemed to
him now that Capriani's millions had avenged him of the affront caused
by the personal superiority of the former possessor of the Castle; this
delighted him. It flattered his self-importance to hear Capriani--no
one knew why,--call Castle Schneeburg a little hunting box, nothing but
a hunting box, and then to hear him say: "Oh, Malzin, _apropos_, did
you write to the saddler? You must make haste--indeed you are very
dilatory!" And then, when Fritz had departed, to have the Cr[oe]sus
suddenly turn to him, to Cibulka, and remark confidentially, "that
fellow, Malzin, is really an incumbrance, but what can one do?--he must
be provided for."
Eugene Alexander, a despicable specimen of a despicable class,
servilely rubbed his hands, and murmured, "The Herr Count is most
generous, but indeed that is an easy matter for the Herr Count. Poor
devil! I really am sorry for Malzin."
Poor devil indeed! The old doctor was right, Fritz was going fast.
Every afternoon at the same hour he had a high fever,--he looked
like a ghost. In speaking he had a habit of contracting his underlip,
which gave to his face the hard, pain-begotten lines with which the
pre-Raphalites portrayed the dying Christ. Ready at any minute to drop
from fatigue, he was yet driven forth by constant restlessness to go
dragging over forest and field, obliged at ever-lessening intervals to
rest upon a stile, or upon the steps of some way-side cross. There he
would sit gazing abroad and repeating to himself, with the exaggerated
appreciation that men always cherish for that of which they are
deprived, that Schneeburg was the finest estate in Bohemia. When he
strode through the golden stubble fields, the reapers would gather
about him and with many a merry, kindly word encircle his limbs, in
accordance with an ancient Bohemian custom, with wreaths of straw. He
would respond with some friendly jest, and purchase his release by a
gratuity more in accordance with his former means than with his present
circumstances.
The people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers
he was always "_Our_ Herr Count." Whenever he appeared among them they
ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him.
There had been a time when he protested impatiently against these
rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. He
knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them,
when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their
new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but
they none the less complained of him just to please their Herr Count.
But though the peasants and labourers were thus loyal to him, the new
servants and superintendants showed no such respect. The Conte had not
retained in Schneeburg a single one of the former servants; he had
dismissed them all without pensions. The knowledge of this had added
bitterness to the old Count's last moments. He had interceded for his
people, and when he could obtain nothing save vague promises, he had
intended to use his influence elsewhere for their protection, but death
had intervened and put an end to his good intentions. Probably none of
the dismissed were worth much--the housekeeping at the Castle had been
slipshod and easy-going,--all things had been allowed to take their own
course. No provision for the old servants had been included in the
original contract when they were first hired, and the income from
Schneeburg had not been large enough to warrant the reservation of a
pension fund, but no one had ever been dismissed on account of
increasing age, or of physical infirmity. Almost all of them had been
born upon the estate, and had expected to die there. And now, suddenly,
Schneeburg was 'swept clean' of them, as the Conte expressed it. Some
of them were plunged into hopeless poverty; Fritz discovered this, and
the misery of not being able to provide for _his_ people was an added
pang.
Meanwhile there was a horde of new servants at Schneeburg, all young
people, with modern ideas, fresh from industrial schools, stocked with
correct views of their multifarious duties, and with independent
opinions in politics.
At first, whenever Fritz met them, he greeted them with the kindly
affability with which he was wont to treat inferiors, but this
condescension from one in his circumstances seemed to them ridiculous;
they laughed among themselves at his courtesy. He did not observe this
for some time, and when he did so he simply took no notice of the
menials. They however continued to ridicule him, and to clear away,
pull down, and alter ruthlessly.
Whilst Fritz sat wearied and worn in his gloomy room, among his shabby
relics, teaching his little daughter French, or his boy the alphabet,
he could hear the thud of the falling stones, as the time-honoured
out-buildings were being demolished, and every sound struck a direct
blow at his poor, sore, foolish heart.
The Conte's behaviour towards him daily grew more intolerable,
especially ever since his return from the election. Every petty
disappointment was wreaked upon Fritz. Of course! Fritz was the only
member 'of the caste' upon whom the Conte could vent his anger. His
brutalities Fritz could endure, but what outraged him beyond measure
was to have the Conte assume an air of frankness, and behind the
mask of friendly interest presume to ask all sorts of personal
questions,--the bitterest of pills for Malzin!
"Oh Heavens, how long am I to be in gaining the summit of Calvary?" the
poor fellow sometimes asked himself.
To-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the
cordial, affectionate note, in which Oswald invited him to the
family-dinner at Tornow. "Forgive me for not having seen you for so
long," Oswald concluded, "only remember all that I have to do. The
castle is turned upside down in anticipation of a certain coming event,
but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a
couple of days. But we will discuss this to-morrow."
Of course Fritz accepted the invitation. He knew that it would bring on
a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? He
could not but anticipate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had
dispatched his reply by the Tornow messenger, he walked out into the
park.
It was early in August, and the floods of rain which had fallen in June
and July had been followed by stifling sultriness. Fritz was both
stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being
conscious of any special degree of heat. His disease had made such
progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the
thermometer stood very high. As usual, he sought out the most retired
paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of
being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams.
He reached a miniature lake, embosomed among proud, old firs, its
surface glassy as a mirror held aloft by the nixies to the sky. Tall
reeds with brown heads fringed its shores, and nodded to the white
waterlilies reposing among their flat, green leaves. Perfect silence
reigned; not only did the stately firs preserve their customary,
dignified quiet, but even the leafy trees were too listless to-day to
exhale their wonted 'murmur mixed with sighs.' Each leaf drooped
wearily. No bird uttered a note, the stillness was as profound as in
mid-winter. Nature lay motionless, no audible pulse throbbing, sunk, as
it seemed, in a mysterious swoon.
Fritz sat down upon a bench rudely constructed of birch boughs, and
gazed dreamily around. As always when alone, his thoughts reverted to
the past, and now he smiled at a memory of langsyne. He recalled how as
a child he had tried here to learn from the gardener's sons how to skip
pebbles on the surface of the water. He had succeeded but ill; his
pebbles all sunk directly to the bottom. He remembered too that very
near this small lake there was once a little hut with a mossgrown,
shingled roof, resting upon four fir-tree trunks. There the little
Malzins had played Robinson Crusoe; the hut had been a fort besieged by
savages. Perhaps it was no longer in existence; Capriani might have had
it cleared away; Fritz arose to look for it.
It was still there; he could see the gilt crescent sparkling on the
gable of the old, shingled roof. As he approached it he heard voices,
and would have withdrawn, had he not recognized them as those of his
wife and Capriani. In some irritation he drew nearer, but found nothing
to justify any interference; Charlotte was sitting busy with some
sewing, while the Conte was talking to her,--that was all.
When Fritz, with his pale face of disapproval appeared in the doorway
of the summer-house, an ugly smile passed over the features of the
Conte. "You come in the nick of time," Capriani said carelessly, and
without the least embarrassment. "Sit down, we were just talking about
you."
"Indeed? very kind," murmured Fritz, taking a seat, and glancing rather
sternly at his wife.
"We were just speaking of your children. Hm, my dear Malzin,"--the
Conte stroked his long whiskers,--"have you laid by anything for those
youngsters?"
Fritz cast down his eyes. "How could I have done so?" he rejoined in a
monotone.
"You certainly might lay by something from your present salary," the
Conte said with emphasis.
"You seem entirely to forget that I have only had my present salary for
two months," said Fritz bluntly.
The Conte bit his lip. "Oho!" he exclaimed, "have I offended you again?
I assure you I mean well, very well by you. Tell me your views with
regard to the future of your children."
Fritz shrugged his shoulders. "I really have none; the poor things will
have to shift for themselves," and his voice trembled.
"Of course you mean then to give them a good education, to enable them
to earn their own living," continued the Conte. "That is all right, but
allow me to ask how you mean to do this?"
Fritz passed his hand--the white, transparent hand of
consumption--wearily across his forehead. "I hope to send my little
girl to Hernals," he began, "where she can be educated for a
governess."
"Ah--!" the Conte looked disapproval--"a very unpractical scheme, it
seems to me, very unpractical. She will become very pretentious in her
ideas at Hernals, and will gain but little that can be of real service
to her. Remember your circumstances, my dear fellow, remember your
circumstances,--we will discuss them by-and-by. And what do you think
of doing with your son?"
"Oh Franzi is still so little," said Fritz in hopes of cutting short
the conversation, the Conte's arrogant, domineering tone was most
irritating, it stung him like nettles.
"All the more reason for providing for his future," the Conte insisted,
"in consideration of the chance of your being suddenly taken from him."
"True, true," sighed Fritz. "Well then, I hope to live long enough to
place him in a government school for Cadets, after which through the
influence of my relatives, he can obtain a commission."
The Conte laughed contemptuously. "Just like you!" he exclaimed, "the
same haughty, aristocratic idler as ever! You'll learn sense after a
while, my dear fellow. I have thought of something for Franzi; your
wife is quite agreed to it." Charlotte who had seemed to be absorbed in
her sewing, nodded.
"The Countess always takes a sensible view of affairs, she looks things
in the face," continued the Conte; "begging your pardon, my dear
fellow, there is more common-sense in her little finger than in your
whole body. We will find Franzi a place in a dry-goods establishment.
The business is neither unhealthy, nor confining, and if it goes
against your grain to put him in such a situation here in Austria (to
speak frankly I think any such objection very petty,--my views in this
respect are more enlightened) why I will see that he gets one in Paris
at the _Louvre_ or at the _Printemps_; a clerk in one of those great
houses often gets a yearly salary of from fifteen to twenty thousand
francs!"
Fritz started to his feet and made several attempts to interrupt the
Conte, but his voice failed. A singing was in his ears, his blood was
coursing hotly, wildly through his veins. "My son!" he gasped hoarsely,
"my son, clerk in a dry-goods shop! I'd rather kill him myself!"
He felt a terrible oppression in his chest, and then came sudden
relief; in an instant he grew deadly pale with bluish tints about his
eyes and temples. He stretched out his hands aimlessly as if to ward
off some catastrophe, not knowing why he did so,--then mechanically
felt for his handkerchief, pressed it to his lips, and fell senseless
on the floor.