To be sure, if I had any fancy at this time for indulging in dreaming,
I had to do it at night, for by day I had no leisure for such vagaries.
By day I was taken possession of by work--hard jealous work, that kept
me busy from the early morning to late at night--now thrusting the
heavy hammer into my hand and giving me a mass of iron to conquer, and
then placing in my fingers the pen with which I covered page after page
with long rows of figures and complicated formulas. Altogether it was a
pleasant time, and even now I think of it with pleasure tempered with
sadness. In our memory the brightest light always lies upon those
periods of our lives in which we have striven forward most eagerly, and
I was now, in all senses, a striver, and there was no day in which I
did not mount at least one round of the steep ladder. Now it was some
bit of technical dexterity that I caught from my fellow-workmen; now a
new formula which I had calculated myself; and at all times the
delightful sensation of rising, of progressing, of increasing powers,
the joyous consciousness that a far heavier burden might lie upon my
shoulders without danger of my sinking under it. It was a happy, a
delightful time; and whenever I think of it, it is as if the perfume of
violets and roses were floating around me, and as if then the days must
all have been days of spring.
And yet it was not spring, but a rough severe winter, in which
the icy sky lay gray and heavy above the snow-piled roofs and the
filthy factory-yards, while the sparrows fluttered about all day,
seeking in vain for food, and at night the famishing crows expressed
their sufferings in incessant cawing; and day by day we saw pale,
hollowed-eyed, ragged figures, in ever-increasing numbers, wandering in
the stormy streets, or crouching at night in the dim light of the lamps
upon the steps of the houses, or where any projecting masonry offered
them a little shelter.
I now walked the streets more frequently, for, notwithstanding the
distance at which my friends lived, no week passed in which I did not
spend at least one evening with them. Then Benno, who was now studying
chemistry and physics, and had occasion to repair some deficiencies in
his mathematics, came twice a week to my room to work with me, and I
then accompanied him back half the way, and sometimes the whole
distance. It had been discussed whether I had not better take another
lodging, nearer to them; but Paula decided that it was best for me to
live where my work was; and one Sunday forenoon she came with her
brothers to pay me a visit, and convince me that I by no means lived
entirely out of her reach, as I had maintained. She pronounced my
inhabiting the lonely ruinous court of the machine-works, which her
hope looked to in the future, perfectly absurd; and the fitting-up of
my room with the old worm-eaten rococo furniture of the previous
century a crackbrained fancy; but she observed it all with the warmest
interest, and did not conceal that she was touched by the sight of the
terra-cotta vases on the mantel-piece, and the copy of the Sistine
Madonna on the walk.
"Stay here," she finally said; "not because this lodging is convenient
for you, and is really original enough; nor because the fitting-up does
honor to your taste, wanting only a set of curtains, which I will make
for you, and a piece of carpet by your writing-table, which I undertake
to provide; for these are trifles. What determines my opinion is the
feeling that you belong here; that this place belongs to you already,
as if like a conqueror you had taken possession of this desolate
province, and planted your standard first of all. The rest will surely
follow. I fancy that I see these heaps of stone already growing up into
stately buildings, the fire leaping from the tall chimneys, and these
vacant courts alive with busy workmen; this house changed to a handsome
villa, and you ruling and directing the whole as master and owner. Stay
here, George; the place will bring you good fortune."
Words like these, from Paula's lips, had for me the force of
irresistible conviction, as the words of a consecrated priestess might
have for her trusting worshippers. Not that I always cheerfully and
willingly acquiesced in her views; it would have been, for example, far
more pleasant to me if Paula had said: "Your lodging is very well
situated for your purposes, it is true; but I would rather have you
nearer to me; I see you now once a week, and I could then see you
twice, or perhaps every day." And then I upbraided myself that I did
not value Paula's desire to advise me always for the best, higher than
all else; but still I could not help wishing that this advice, however
good, had not seemed quite so easy for her to give.
When I was thus brought to reflect upon my relations with Paula it
could not escape even my inexperience that these relations were
different from what they used to be. One circumstance especially proved
this fact. The boys and I had from the first used to each other the
familiar "thou;" but between Paula and myself the formal "you" had
never been laid aside, not even in those trying days after the death of
her father, when we had hand-in-hand to face the storm which had burst
over us all. Even then, when our hearts were moved to their lowest
depths, and our tears were mingled, the brotherly "thou" had never
risen to our lips. And now she used it to me from the very moment of
our meeting. The evening before I would have deemed it impossible; now,
that it was really so, I could scarcely believe it. Did I feel that the
very thing which made our intercourse easy and unrestrained was at the
same time a strong fetter with which Paula bound my hands? Was it with
that intention or, not? I did not know nor hope ever to know.
Of course I did not go about tormenting myself with this enigma.
Guessing riddles was a kind of work in which I had no skill, so for the
most part I enjoyed unalloyed the happiness which the friendship of
this noble-hearted girl, and of her amiable family afforded me. Every
moment spent in their society was precious to me, nor could I anywhere
have found more purifying and ennobling influences.
I do not recall a single instance of the slightest misunderstanding
occurring between the members of this family, or even of one raising
the voice in momentary irritation. In affectionate devotion to their
mother, in chivalrously tender love for their sister, the brothers were
literally one heart and one soul; and if even a shadow of
misunderstanding threatened to fall between them, one word of Paula's,
yes, often a mere glance from her loving eyes, sufficed to banish it.
Now as ever was Paula the good genius of the family, the honored
priestess to whose keeping was committed the sacred flame of the
hearth, the helper, the comforter, the adviser to whom each turned when
he needed aid, consolation or counsel. And with what maidenly grace she
wore this priestly crown! Who that did not know her could have divined
that this delicate creature was not only the moral support of the whole
family, but that this small, slender, diligent hand also provided their
daily bread? Yet this was the fact: indeed it could hardly now be
doubted that she would soon be able to raise her family to a
comparatively brilliant position. Her _Monk and Templar_ had been
purchased by one of the wealthiest bankers at an unusually high price,
and there was already another picture upon her easel which had been
bought at an even higher price before it was begun.
A picture-dealer--not the one who used to buy at a trifling price those
pictures of Paula's which he afterwards sold to Doctor Snellius for
handsome sums, but one of the first in the city, came to Paula and
asked if she could paint a hunting piece. Just at that time there was a
run on hunting-pieces: Prince Philip Francis had brought them into
fashion, and the nobility had run mad about them, so the Jewish bankers
naturally began to take an interest in hares and foxes. Paula answered
that she had not yet painted a picture of this kind, and did not feel
warranted to undertake the commission; but the dealer was so
importunate, and the price he offered so high--"what do you think of
it?" Paula asked me. "Do you think I can do it?"
"How can you doubt it?" I replied. "The landscape and the figures will
give you no trouble, and as for the technical part, I can help you, if
you have any difficulty with it."
"You have told me so many things about your hunter's life with Uncle
Malte," said Paula, "and one scene has especially fixed itself in my
memory. It was in the earlier time of your stay at Zehrendorf, and you
were sitting at breakfast with my uncle on the heath, in the shadow of
a tree which grew on the edge of a hollow; my uncle was enjoying the
repose of the bivouac, when suddenly a hare came in sight on the edge
of the mound. Flinging bottle and glass away, you seized your gun, when
the hare turned out to be a lean old wether grazing on the heath. Would
not that make a picture!"
"You might try it at all events," I said.
She tried it, and the attempt, as I had never doubted, succeeded
capitally. Even one who took no interest in the somewhat humorous
character of the incident must at least have been captivated by the
beauty of the landscape. The autumnal sunlight on the brown heath, to
the left the white dunes between which here and there glistened the
blue sea,--all this was painted with a delicious freshness that one
felt invigorated even by looking at it. And the little scene which
comprised the action of the picture was so clearly rendered that no one
could fail to understand it--the elder hunter, lying in the grassy bank
with his hand under his head, only taking the short pipe from his mouth
to laugh at his companion, who with flashing eyes and in the greatest
excitement has half-risen to his knee, and a few paces off the silly
sheep's face looking over the heath, and saluting his over-hasty friend
with a bleat of insulting confidence;--it was enough to bring a smile
upon the face of the gloomiest hypochondriac. Naturally the elder
hunter gradually assumed the features of the Wild Zehren, and the young
novice day by day grew into a likeness of me.
"I ought not, really, to have introduced you again into one of my
pictures," said Paula, "for two reasons: first, that you may not grow
vain, and secondly that people may not think me barren of all
invention. But in fact I cannot picture the scene to myself without
you, any more than I can without my poor uncle; and I fear if I were to
leave you both out the picture would be a poor one. You must give me
one or two of your Sunday mornings. Of course I know your face well
enough, and could paint it, I think, with any expression; but the
action of a person throwing down a glass with his left hand, and
reaching for his gun with his right, half-raised on his right knee
while the left is still extended, is too complicated for me to paint
without a model."
Thus it came that for several successive Sunday mornings I spent
delightful hours in Paula's studio. The time never seemed long to us. I
had so frequently gone over the ground of Paula's landscape that I
could describe to her every bush, every tuft of grass, every
peculiarity of the surface, and every effect of light upon the sandy
dunes or the bushy heath. And while I was able thus to be really of use
to the dear girl, it was a sweet reward to me to hear from her own lips
that, if the picture turned out a good one, as she almost believed it
would, it was in great measure owing to me. Then we had so many things
to talk about: my progress in my trade, my increasing knowledge of the
steam-engine, were topics of which Paula could never hear enough. Or
else the question was discussed whether Kurt, who was now in his
sixteenth year, ought to remain longer at school, or commence learning
his trade, and if Streber's works were the right place, and Klaus, who
was now a master-workman, the right master for this richly-gifted
pupil. This led us again to speak of Klaus, what a good-natured and
excellent fellow he was, and of Christel, whether any one would respond
to her inquiry in the Dutch newspapers, and if so, whether this some
one would be a Javanese aunt, as Klaus and Christel firmly maintained,
or a Sumatran uncle.
So we were chatting together one morning, Paula at her easel, while I
was pacing backwards and forwards at the farther end of the room, with
my hands behind my back. The winter sun shown so brightly that the
light had to be lessened at the high window near which the easel stood,
while at the others it streamed brilliantly in, in clustering beams in
which the motes were dancing. Frau von Zehren was out walking with her
sons. A Sabbath stillness pervaded the house, and when Paula ceased
speaking I felt like Uhland's shepherd, who "alone upon a wide plain
hears the morning bell, and then all is silent, near and far."
Suddenly the hall-bell rang.
"I had hoped we should not be troubled with any visitors to-day," I
said with some annoyance.
"Eminence must pay its penalty," said Paula, jestingly. "Let us only
hope they will not stay too long."
At this moment the girl opened the door. I stopped my walk, and stood,
stark with amazement, in the background, as I saw two gentlemen enter,
one of whom was Arthur von Zehren, while the other, whom with a polite
bow he had motioned to precede him, awakened in me some faint
recollection which I could not precisely define.
"I have the honor," said Arthur, after apologizing to his cousin, with
that grace of manner that always belonged to him, for not having called
upon her immediately after his return--"I have the honor to present to
you Count Ralow, whose acquaintance I was so fortunate as to make in
London, and who is a great connoisseur, and an equally great admirer of
your talents."
"My friend has not described me quite correctly," said the count,
bowing respectfully to Paula. "I am by no means a great connoisseur;
but he is quite right in calling me a great admirer of your talents. I
have seen your picture at the exhibition, and been charmed with it,
like all the world; and as your cousin was presumptuous enough to offer
to present me to you, I could not forego a piece of such singular good
fortune."
The young man, whose glance now fell for the first time upon the
picture, suddenly started back, but rather with the gesture of one who
is unpleasantly startled than of one who is agreeably surprised. And
well might he be startled, when he suddenly recognized in the hunter by
the willow-tree the Wild Zehren, the man who had only needed an
opportunity to bathe his hands in the blood that flowed in the veins of
Prince Karl of Prora-Wiek.
It had been now eight years since I had seen him, and in my whole life
I had only seen him twice: once in the dim light of an autumn afternoon
as he flew by me at a rapid gallop, and the second time in the dark
forest by the glimmering moonlight; but the slender figure and the
pale, refined face had impressed themselves indelibly upon my memory.
"Beautiful!" said the prince. "Admirable! superb! This sunlight, this
heath--I know all this--know it perfectly. I tell you, Zehren, even to
the minutest details it is nature itself! Is it not?"
Arthur did not answer, for if the confusion of the prince at the first
sight of the picture had surprised him, he entirely lost his presence
of mind when he caught sight of me in the background, where I had been
standing motionless the whole time. I think there were few men whom
Arthur von Zehren would not have preferred to meet in his cousin's
studio just then.
"Is it not so, Zehren?" the prince repeated, rather impatiently.
"Certainly; it is perfectly superb: I said so before," replied Arthur,
evidently in doubt whether it would not be best to overlook me
altogether.
But as his hesitation did not prevent him from casting uneasy glances
at me, which caused the eyes of the prince to turn in the same
direction, the result was that the latter perceived, at the end of the
studio, a tall, broad-shouldered, plainly-dressed young man, with curly
blond beard and hair, whom he had already seen in the character of King
Richard in the picture at the exhibition, and now again saw in the
hunting-piece on the easel. Whom could he suppose that he had before
him but one of those persons who go from studio to studio, now as a
model for Joseph, and now for Pharaoh? And though it is probable that
the prince was by no means addicted to minute observation of models in
artists' studios, at this moment any opportunity of diverting attention
from the unlucky picture was too welcome not to be seized at once.
"Ah! here is our original for King What's-his-name! A splendid fellow,
whom I should like to see in the regiment of my cousin, Count
Schlachtensee; don't you say so, Zehren?"
The unlucky Arthur's part of second-fiddle was a hard one to play
to-day. But it was impossible for him, now that I had been brought
directly into the conversation, to pretend, not to know his old
schoolmate, apart from the fact that Paula would hardly have forgiven
such a piece of insolence; and he perceived, moreover, by my looks that
I was malicious enough to enjoy his confusion. Indeed I fear that I
even indulged in a smile whose significance could not escape him, so he
had no alternative--it was highly exasperating, but he really had no
other--but to turn to me with as pleasant a smile as he could force to
his whitened lips, and while toying with his eyeglass, so as to have no
hand free to offer me, to accost me in an affectedly condescending
tone:
"Ah! see there! are we at last out of the--ahem--again? Congratulate
you--congratulate you with all my heart--upon my honor--ahem!"
The young prince's looks grew by no means brighter during this singular
salutation of his second. The expression of my face, which he now
observed more closely, and Arthur's evident embarrassment, showed that
there was something wrong here; and at this moment he happened to catch
a glance exchanged between Paula and myself, which probably seemed
another mesh in the net which was here being drawn over his princely
head. But now it seemed to Paula high time to interpose and put an end
to this singular scene.
"You would have sooner had the pleasure," she said, turning to Arthur,
"of meeting your old schoolmate, if you had found your way to our house
earlier during the fortnight that you have been here; George has been
in the city three months. This gentleman"--she went on, turning to the
prince--"is my oldest and dearest friend, who stood faithfully by me at
a time of great trial, and who now devotes a few hours of his valuable
time to aid my imperfect invention with his advice. I esteem it an
honor to introduce to you Herr George Hartwig."
At hearing my name the prince changed color and bit his lip, though he
made a great effort to accost the lady's oldest and dearest friend with
a polite phrase. Doubtless he had heard my name too often from
Constance and others, and the associations connected with it were of
too peculiar a character for more amusing and more agreeable
experiences to obliterate it entirely, even from the defective memory
of the young prince. A dim recollection of a tall figure before which
he had once crouched in a dark forest--and then the circumstance that
this man with the broad shoulders and the memorable name stood by the
side of the Wild Zehren in the picture by the hand of Paula von
Zehren,--all this suddenly fitted into one combination. The prince had
to find the meaning of it all, however pleasant it might have been to
have been spared the whole riddle.
Just at this disagreeable moment, that is to say just at the right
time, the Prince of Prora-Wiek remembered what he owed to himself. The
signs of embarrassment vanished from his face and his manner; he looked
calmly at the picture and at me, comparing the copy with the original,
and said a number of pretty things to Paula, which, if not quite well
considered, and possibly not even well meant, sounded as if they were
both. He hastily glanced at the drawings on the walls, and turned over
the sketches in an open portfolio, declared that the light in the
studio was admirable, and the whole arrangement exquisitely original
and poetic, then remembered that he had been summoned to an audience of
the princess, for which he would be too late if he did not take his
leave at once, and went off with his companion.
In half a minute we heard the prince's coupé, which had been standing
at the door, drive off, and we looked at each other and laughed,
laughed with great apparent enjoyment, and then suddenly became grave.
"This is the great annoyance of our calling," said Paula. "Inquisitive
visitors cannot be refused admission; indeed we are expected to be
highly gratified if they come, and then chatter everywhere about our
skill and the subject of our last picture. But, as I said, it is an
annoyance at best; and Arthur might have been more considerate than to
present himself in this fashion after staying away so long. His only
apology is that he meant kindly, and thought he was bringing me a
distinguished and wealthy patron. Certainly, if one may judge by the
exterior, this Count Ralow must be both very distinguished and very
rich."
"The inference is correct this time, at all events," I said; "and if
you want the proof--it was the young Prince Prora."
"Impossible!" said Paula.
"I am sure of it," I replied. "I have seen in the papers that the
prince has lately visited England, where Arthur says he made the
acquaintance of this Count Ralow. But I should have recognized him
without that; and besides, I now remember that the Princes of Prora are
also Counts von Ralow."
"I am glad to hear it," said Paula, "though I should have preferred to
make the acquaintance of the prince under his proper title."
"I consider this incognito a piece of rudeness. Why can he not call
upon you as he does upon the princess? But the real impertinence lies
in his coming here at all. The former lover of Constance had no
business to present himself to Constance's cousin. I felt all this
strongly enough at the time, Paula; but I also felt that your house and
your apartment were not the place to discuss these matters."
"I thank you for your considerateness," said Paula, taking my hand in
hers. "I saw in your eyes that you were placing a restraint upon
yourself about something. Men best prove their respect for women when
they do not suffer any storms of this kind to break loose in their
presence; and as to this matter, I beg of you to dismiss it from your
thoughts. You have suffered far too much from it already; it is time
you had rid yourself of it once for all."
"Yes, if that were only possible," I said; and then I told Paula, what
I had never mentioned to her before, about my meeting at the exhibition
with the beautiful Bellini, who had so striking a resemblance to
Constance. "I have certainly no reason to cherish any love for
Constance," I said; "on the contrary, I can meet her seducer without
the slightest feeling of hatred or revenge; and yet the image of that
beautiful woman follows me everywhere, and it could not be otherwise
had I seen Constance herself. Now why is this?"
"Constance was your first love," Paula answered, "and that makes a
difference with men."
"With men, Paula? Do you mean that with women it is otherwise?"
"I do mean that," she replied. "A woman's first love differs from a
man's, and exceeds it. Exceeds it in proportion as a man is more to a
woman than a woman to a man."
"What kind of new philosophy do you call that?"
"It is no new philosophy: at least it is as old as my thoughts upon
these matters, which is no very great age, it is true."
A faint flush tinged her usually pale cheeks, but it seemed that
altogether she was not displeased that we had fallen upon this theme,
and she continued with some animation:
"A man's life is more full of change, richer in deeds and events, than
a woman's; and for this reason individual impressions, even the
strongest, do not remain so long with them. They have so many new and
more important things to record on the tablet of their life that they
are obliged from time to time to efface the old writing with the sponge
of forgetfulness. With us women it is altogether different: we do not
willingly efface a word which sounds sweetly to our ears, much less a
line, much less a whole page of our poor life. And then even when a man
has an unusually tenacious memory, he can not act and choose as he
will: the stronger and manlier his nature, the more does he act and
choose as he must. And he must choose suitably to his age and
circumstances--to use another phrase, suitably to his development. The
man of twenty-five differs from the youth of nineteen far otherwise
than the woman of twenty-five differs from the girl of nineteen; and
the man of thirty-five again is another man. If the man of twenty-five
or thirty-five should make the same choice as the youth of nineteen--I
mean such a choice as youth makes, romantically unselfish and
inconsiderate--he would commit a folly, in my eyes at least."
"How did you come to be so selfish and practical, Paula?" I inquired,
in laughing astonishment.
"One grows so, I suppose," she said, taking up palette and brushes, and
beginning to work.
"It may be as you say," I said, "when one, as has been your case,
passes through a marked process of development; so that the laws which
you have just laid down as governing us men are very possibly
applicable to yourself. I knew you when you were but fifteen, and you
were then a beginner in your art; now, at two-and-twenty, you are an
artist, and at five-and-twenty you will be a distinguished one. In your
case it is intelligible enough that the Paula of to-day has no longer
those romantic illusions--to the future Paula, alas, I cannot venture
to raise my thoughts."
"You are jesting, and cruelly too," she said; "and your good face has
not the expression that I could wish it to wear at this moment."
"I do not jest at all," I answered emphatically. "I perfectly
understand that your claims upon life must rise higher with every
year--I might say with every picture you produce."
"Are you really speaking in earnest?"
"Perfectly so; do you not wish to become a great artist?"
"Assuredly," she replied; "but is that within a woman's power? How many
out of the hundreds and thousands of inspired girls and women who have
turned to the easel or the desk have become great artists? Upon the
stage they may; but I have often questioned whether the dramatic art be
a true art, or rather a half-art, in which half-talents can reach the
highest eminence. And those who are called actors of genius, what are
they in comparison with men of true genius in art, in literature, in
music? As far beneath them as I am beneath Raphael. And what have I
produced so far? Two or three passable heads; a striking scene or so,
which I took directly from the life; recollections from books; Richard
C[oe]ur de Lion, the Monk--where in these is an original invention, a
single trace of real genius? And what is this picture here? What have I
done towards it? Little more than mix the colors; the rest is all of
your invention. You told me how the sunlight falls in the sandy dunes,
how the wind waves the heads of the heath-flowers; you----"
"But Paula, Paula, you talk as if I were painting your picture, and as
if you could paint no picture without me."
"And I have painted none without you: there you see my miserable
poverty."
I could not see with what expression she pronounced these words, for
she had bent her face down to her easel.