Since her success at the exhibition Paula had been overwhelmed with
invitations, and she had accepted one for this day from the banker
Solomon, the purchaser of the _Monk and Templar_. So I was left with
Frau von Zehren and her sons. Yet Paula was present with us all, and
with none more than her poor mother who was bereft of the pleasure of
seeing her daughter's works.
"But all that she has she has from you, mother," said Benno; "and she
knows that herself better than any of us."
"Then she has it from her grandfather," said Frau von Zehren. "He was
really a great artist: what I might have done I cannot say.
Unfortunately it was never granted me to develop the talent that I had;
but how can I say unfortunately? If it is true, as you say, that
Paula's talent is mine, then her success is my success, and thus I
perform the miracle of becoming a great painter with blind eyes."
A gentle smile played about the refined lips of the still beautiful
woman, and as shortly afterwards I retraced my steps homewards through
the dark streets her face continually recurred to my memory. She must
in her youth have been even more beautiful than Paula, though Paula's
beauty had wonderfully increased. How superbly indignation and shame
contended in her features as that coxcomb of a prince strutted about
her studio without the slightest idea of how impertinent he was, and
probably fancying all the time that he was making himself unspeakably
agreeable.
This meeting with the prince who had been my favored rival with
Constance, and with Arthur, whom I had so long believed to be the
favored lover of Paula, gave me much matter for reflection, more indeed
than was advantageous for the progress of my work, to which I had
applied myself on my arrival home. As I recalled the refined and
handsome but sadly worn face of the young prince, his eyes now vacant,
now burning with unnatural fire, the twitchings of his brow and cheeks,
his manner, at once insinuating and supercilious, I felt more and more
indignant that Arthur should have dared to introduce such a man into
Paula's house. What, at best, could be his motive for seeking the
introduction? The gratification of ordinary curiosity. And at worst? I
ground my teeth to think of the horrible possibility. My only
consolation was that my fear that Arthur might have won, or yet win,
Paula's affections, now appeared in all its absurdity. Clearly such a
fop as he could never be dangerous to such a girl as Paula; though fop
as he was, he was wonderfully handsome, the perfect model of an elegant
gentleman in irreproachable kid gloves and varnished boots; a little
vacant, perhaps, about the mouth, adorned with a slight black beard,
and a little hollow under the large dark eyes that had lost all their
brilliancy. It is possible that for certain women this rendered him all
the more dangerous; but what had Paula in common with such?
Then my thoughts wandered from the prince, whom I had seen again so
unexpectedly, to the fair Bellini who so singularly resembled
Constance; and I pushed back my chair, stepped to the window, which
Paula's kindness had furnished with dark curtains, and leaning my
heated brow against the glass looked out, in dreary musing, into
the yard, across which I observed a figure coming through the
freshly-fallen snow, directly to the house. My thoughts involuntarily
recurred to the figure I had once seen stealing by moonlight across the
lawn to Constance's window. Was it the prince? What brought him to me?
The figure came to the stair that led up from the yard, and began to
ascend the steps. I took the lamp from the table to give light to the
visitor, whoever he might be. As I opened the door of my room he was
just entering the house, and the light of my lamp fell brightly on the
face of Arthur von Zehren.
"Thank heaven that I have found you at last, and without breaking my
legs or my neck!" he cried upon seeing me. "How can any man in his
senses live in such a place? But you always were an original. And
really you seem comfortably fixed for a machinist, or whatever it was
that the fellow at the gate called you,"--and Arthur, who had entered
the room as he spoke, threw himself into the arm-chair which I had
pushed near the fireplace, and held his gloved hands over the coals.
I remained standing by the fire, and said: "What procures me the
pleasure of seeing you for the second time today?"
"The pleasure does not seem to be overwhelming, to judge from your
tone; and in fact I should scarcely have come had not the prince--I
mean to say, had not I--what was I going to say? oh, yes--had a bit of
business to settle with you. While you were--you know where--you were
several times so obliging as to help me out of some small difficulties.
I took exact note of it all, for a man who owes as many people as I do
must be particular in these matters to keep his creditors from
swindling him. Of course I had nothing of the sort to fear from you;
but out of mere habit I took a note of it, and this is the amount,
without the interest, which I cannot calculate, and therefore would
rather leave off--a hundred and sixty _thalers_. I happen to be in
funds just now, and it is a pleasure to me to acquit myself of my debt
to you."
And rising from his chair he counted down a pile of treasury-notes on
the table.
"Will you count them over?" he continued; "I have just come from a
dinner where we had famous champagne, and a charming little game
afterwards; and it is quite possible that I may have miscounted them."
He looked at me with a smile that was meant to be sly, and balanced
himself unsteadily on his toes and heels: it was too evident that he
had come from a dinner at which the champagne had not been spared.
"What I was going to say," he went on--"your lamp burns so dim that one
can hardly collect his ideas--going to say, was this: it was with the
very best motive that he sent me here. He is the noblest fellow
living--heart and purse--all genuine gold, as long as he has any. So
you need not have any scruple, old fellow. And I was going to say--oh,
in what relation did you ever stand to the prince? He told me himself
that he was under an obligation to you; but what it can be is a
mysterious enigma to me--a mysterious enigma," he repeated, leaning
back in the arm-chair into which he had thrown himself again, and
warming his feet alternately at the fire.
"You do not seem to be in a condition to solve enigmas," I said.
"Because I have had a little wine, you mean? Oh, that is nothing at
all; on the contrary, but for that I should never have found my way
here, notwithstanding I took the precaution this morning to get your
address from Paula's porter. Was not that a happy idea? But one must
always be ready in matters of that kind when one wishes to be intimate
with men of high rank; and he takes an interest in you, too--a most
astonishing interest."
I had by this time enough of his tipsy talk, and said: "I do not know,
Arthur, if you are in a condition to understand me. If you are, let me
tell you once for all, that I am fortunately in a position not to care
a single farthing whether Prince Prora takes an interest in me or not;
and you yourself, as far as I can see, would be doing yourself a
service by mixing yourself as little as possible in the prince's
concerns, in this direction at least."
"Thank you," said Arthur, "but that I foresaw. You are a lucky fellow;
you need no one, and are sufficient for yourself. Always sober, always
prudent, always clear-headed, and always in funds; while a fellow like
me is forever in some devilish embroilment. But so it always has been
and always will be. I have often wished I had been the son of a carter,
had been beaten and knocked about, and forced to work for my bread,
instead of this glittering misery, in which I starve one day and live
in luxury the next. It is a misery, old fellow, a misery; but the best
thing is that one can blow his brains out whenever he chooses."
I knew this declamation of old. It was the same, with but a slight
alteration of the words, which Arthur used to deliver in our
school-days when he had drunk too much of the bad punch at a boyish
carouse, and got to talking of his unpaid glove bills and his little
dealings with Moses in the Water-street. And it was the same Arthur,
too, the same frivolous, selfish, cold-hearted voluptuary, with the
soft voice and the insinuating manners; and I--I was just the same
good-natured fellow, whom a light word carelessly spoken could move as
if it came direct from the heart. And I had loved him in my young days,
when I wore a linen blouse and he a velvet jacket; we had played so
many merry pranks together, and so often basked in the afternoon
sunshine in field and wood, and in the boat at sea; and things like
these cannot be forgotten--at least I never could forget them.
"Arthur," I said, "_must_ you then always be in trouble and distress?
Could it not be otherwise if you chose? A man like you, with so much
talent, so much tact, such engaging manners----"
"And such a father!" cried Arthur, with a laugh that went to my heart.
"Do you suppose that one can do anything with such a father, who
compromises me every moment--every moment places me in the pillory, or
at least keeps me in perpetual fear that he will do it?"
"I would never speak thus of my father, Arthur," I said.
"I suppose not," he answered. "You never had reason to: if I had had
such a father as yours I would be a different man. But my father! Here
he runs from this man to that, and begs for me a sort of position in
our legation at London, and a few weeks later he goes round to the very
same men and begs for himself; and the result is that they don't want
in the London legation the son of a man whom they have to shut their
door upon at home; and if I had not in London made the acquaintance of
Prince Prora, who most kindly took an interest in me, I should not know
how to pay for my cup of coffee to-morrow morning."
"Arthur," I said, "I believe you need the money more than I do. Suppose
you take it back to the prince, for it comes from the prince, as you
might as well confess--and say to him from me that I neither need it
nor desire it, and request that it may be given to you. As for our
little account, that we can settle when you really are in funds."
"You dear old George!" cried Arthur, springing up and seizing my hand.
"You are the same dear fellow you always were; I intended it for you,
but if you don't need it--" and he hastily clutched up the notes which
he had so carefully counted, and thrust them into his breast pocket.
"Cannot the prince open some definite career to you?" I asked.
"The prince!" he replied. "Bah! you remind me of the game the young
girls used to play when we were children--Emilie Heckepfennig, Elise
Kohl, and whatever their names were--the game of the meal-pile, into
which a ring was stuck, and each one of the girls cut away in turn a
part of the pile, and then more, and then a little more, until down
fell the meal-pile, and the little snub-noses went to rooting in it for
the ring. That is the very image of the man: everyday one charming hand
or another cuts away a portion of the meal-pile that is called Prince
Karl of Prora-Wiek, and before long down the pile will tumble; it leans
over now, I can tell you," and Arthur buttoned up his overcoat, and
drew on again his right glove, which he had pulled off to count the
money.
"I should be sorry to know that, if I were, as you are, a friend of the
young man."
"Friend?" said he, lighting a cigar at the lamp. "Friend? pah! I am as
little his friend as he is mine. He needs me, because--well, he needs
me, and I need him; and whoever first ceases to need the other will
give him a friendly kick; only I imagine I shall need him longer than
he me, or than his lungs will hold out, which I suspect are more than
half gone already."
Arthur had put on his hat, and as he stood before me, and the light
fell upon his handsome, pale, smiling face, I felt a sharp pang of
sorrow for him, which he probably perceived in my looks, for he began
to laugh heartily, and said:
"What a doleful face you are making, as if I were on my way direct to
the gallows, and not to the Albert Theatre to see the fair Bellini who
makes her _début_ to-night. And afterwards a supper at Tavolini's with
her, if we can manage it. You see my life has its bright sides, for
all. Good-by, old raven!"
And he nodded familiarly to me, and lounged out of the door, which he
forgot to close behind him.
I closed it, and put fresh coals on the half-extinguished fire, trimmed
the light, and sat down at my table, and said as I opened my books: "It
is very singular that a young prince should take such an interest in a
poor blacksmith. Bah! I should be a fool to let such people move me
from my path."
But though I strove to be wise, and to banish from my thoughts the
folly of the world, it kept drawing as by some magnetic power my
thoughts away from the dry formulas to bright life, of which I had
caught, as it were, a glimpse in the opening and closing of the door.
Gay enough was the scene; a table covered with half-emptied bottles and
the dainties of a dessert, and around the table a half-dozen jovial
faces ruddy with the wine, and mine among them, glowing with wine and
pleasure brighter than all the rest, since I was so much stronger than
they that I could have drunk them all under the table, and I sang a
bacchanalian song, and they all clapped and stamped, with cries of
_Bravo_! _Encore_!
I passed my hand across my brow. What insane dream was this? What had
the solitary workman to do with things which had been invented only for
rich idlers? Here was the work to which I had devoted myself; it was a
jealous mistress, and I could, not divide my affection between it and
the fair Bellini.
I sprang up, and I believe I struck my forehead with my clenched fist
without producing any perceptible result. There she stood in my
imagination just as she looked when, going out of the door, she turned
round to take another look at the picture--the woman who so resembled
Constance--the actress who made her first appearance to-night. And in
a box close to the stage would be sitting the young prince with his
boon-companions, staring through their opera-glasses at the fair
Bellini, while I sat here by the comfortless light of a lamp, in a
chilly room, with burning head and freezing hands, putting down upon
paper long rows of figures which would lead to no result.
I do not know by what steps the evil thought that had arisen in my soul
suddenly mastered my will; I only know that a few minutes later I was
hastening through the dark snow-covered streets, and soon arrived,
breathless, at the ticket-office of the Albert Theatre. Every place was
taken the box-keeper assured me, but in the lowest proscenium-box on
the right there was a standing-place.
"Give me that, then."
The man looked at me with surprise; he had mentioned the fact as a mere
piece of information without the slightest intention of offering it to
me, whose place was evidently in the pit or gallery. He looked
doubtfully at me; but he had shown me the ticket and could not now deny
it, so he put the best face on it he could, and let the plebeian pass
to the aristocratic box.
The box was entirely full with the exception of the place I had taken,
which was in the furthest corner, on the side that looked toward the
stage, so that I could see but a small portion of the latter, but could
look into the depth of one of the wings, and had a view of the opposite
proscenium-box, and of so much of the audience as occupied the extreme
places in the various tiers.
When I took possession of this enviable place a couple of
elegantly-curled heads looked around to see the disturber, and then
exchanged remarks of a nature apparently not flattering to me; but as I
had not the look of one who could be unceremoniously shown the door
they left me unmolested, and I was allowed to give myself up to that
delight which a feeling heart can find in the contemplation of an empty
proscenium-box, and a side-scene in which a dozen painted ladies and
gentlemen in Spanish costume were apparently only waiting the
prompter's signal to step upon the stage. The signal was given. The
Spanish ladies and gentlemen marched in couples out of the wing, and I
observed one or two in the extreme foreground taking their places upon
chairs. Then I heard a tumult upon the stage, as if from a throng
crowding in, and the chorus broke forth--
"Hail, Preciosa, maiden most fair;
Twine ye fresh flowers to garland her hair!"
During this chorus castanets clicked and tambourines resounded: there
was applause upon the stage, all crying "Hail to Preciosa!" and as if
the cry had found an echo, the whole house, from pit to gallery, burst
into a shout of "Brava! Brava!" and I saw the men applauding like mad,
and the ladies straining forward to see better, and it seemed as if
their rapture would have no end. At last they were quieted a little,
and one of the Spanish gentlemen upon the chairs in the foreground, who
was called--I think, Don Fernando--said to another: "By heaven, a
lovely girl!" and the other--Don Francisco--answered: "An enchanting
little beauty, indeed!" and at this the shouts and the bravas and the
applause burst forth again, as if the house were coming down, so that
the old gypsy mother could scarcely make herself heard when she
asked if it was the gentlemen's pleasure to hear a song from her
grand-daughter Preciosa.
Don Fernando asked for "something describing the happiness of a child
in the arms of its loving parents." The voice of Don Alonzo, whom I
could not see--a voice vibrating as if with passion--pronounced it "a
cruel thoughtlessness to ask an orphan to sing of joys which heaven had
denied her." Don Fernando expressed his regret that he had hit upon so
ill-chosen a theme; but Don Francisco interrupted him with the words:
"Hush, she is about to sing; she begins--" Then a momentary pause, and
then----
I had followed all these preliminaries with an intense expectation
which could have been shared by none in the house. I knew nothing of
the piece, had never even heard of it, that I know, but a sort of
instinct revealed to me everything that, invisible to me, was going on
upon the stage; and I knew that the moment had now come in which she
who took the part of Preciosa would speak for the first time. But a few
seconds elapsed between the last words of the old Don Francisco and the
first words of Preciosa, and yet they seemed to me an age. A wondrous
intuition seized me that it was certainly _she_, and my heart beat
wildly at the thought, when the first sound of her voice reached my
ear, and my head sank against the side of the box as I involuntarily
gasped, "It is she!"
The ear has a faithful memory, more faithful perhaps than that of any
other sense; and the ear it was that had drawn me into my passion for
Constance von Zehren when in the evening I stood at the open window and
listened to catch the sound of her voice when I might no longer see
her, though it were but a word to her old servant. And sometimes I
caught the notes of those songs which her deep, rich voice poured forth
with such matchless melody. Yes; it was herself, Constance von Zehren,
the daughter of the proudest of the proud, the kinswoman of Paula, an
actress here upon the stage of a suburb-theatre!
How strangely the times had changed! A sadness seized me, and I could
have wept; I wished to be away, for it seemed to me a crime against the
memory of my unhappy friend that I should listen here to what would
have been so horrible to him; but I could not go; I stood as if
spellbound, my head leaned against the partition, without motion and
almost without breathing; I stood thus during Preciosa's improvisation,
and scarcely moved when the curtain fell and the storm of applause
broke forth more furious than ever.
There was a movement in my box. A young lady, who found the high
temperature of the box more than her nerves could endure, had fainted,
or was about to faint, and was conducted out by two elder ladies,
followed by several young gentlemen of the party. In this way some
half-dozen seats were left vacant, which were at once taken by those
who remained. And thus it happened that when the curtain again rose,
besides the left wing I could now also see a part of the gypsy camp
under the Spanish cork-trees, and one or two members of the respectable
gypsy family, who were reclining about the great kettle under which a
fire was flickering. The captain and Viarda have determined to go to
Valencia. They are only waiting for Preciosa, who is wandering alone in
the woods. The gypsies scatter in various directions; for a moment the
stage is empty, and then I saw her as I had seen her before.
As I had seen her on that autumn morning under the beeches of
Zehrendorf, through whose lightly-waving branches the golden sunlight
fell upon her; a slender, deep brunette, in a strangely fantastic dress
of green velvet with golden braidings, her beloved guitar by her side.
Just as she was then--as if the years that had flown had left no trace
upon her, nor been able to steal one of the dark roses from her cheeks,
or quench the lustre of her radiant eyes. And just as then my heart
palpitated, and I could scarcely breathe as she began to descend the
rocks under the lofty trees as she before came down the mossy bank to
the tarn where I was standing, and sitting upon a mossy bank at the
foot of the rocks, and raising her voice--that soft rich voice of which
my heart remembered every tone--she sang:
"Lone I am, but am not lonely;
When the moonbeams round me glide,
One loved presence hovers near me,
One dear form is at my side."
Just so I had heard her voice in those balmy moonlight nights, floating
to me from the glimmering park, and the memory of those happy days
completely overcame me. My throat seemed compressed, my heart beat
violently, hot tears burst from my eyes and hid her and everything from
my sight.
The thunder of applause with which the public greeted the close of the
_romanza_ recalled me to myself. I saw that she bowed, and prepared to
obey their repeated calls; I saw the leader raise his baton, and heard
the first notes of the charming melody,
"Lone I am, but am not lonely----"
when suddenly a tumult occurred in the theatre. All eyes were turned
upon the lower proscenium-box on the left, directly opposite to me,
into which at this moment a party of young gentlemen, elegantly
dressed, and with heated faces, as if they had just been dining,
entered noisily, and seated themselves upon the two front rows of
chairs. In the left-hand corner a young man took his place, who seemed,
by the attentions the rest paid him, to be the most distinguished among
them. His right hand, in a yellow glove, hung indolently over the front
of the box, and his face was turned to one of his companions. The
threatening hisses of the audience did not disturb him as he conversed
half aloud, and he only turned his head when the singer suddenly
paused. At this moment I recognized Prince Prora, and plainly saw him
change color as he caught sight of Preciosa. She had recognized him at
the first glance, and the blood forsook her cheeks and her voice failed
her. Suddenly she arose from her seat, as if intending to hasten off
the stage; then stopped, as if about to faint, and pressed her hand
upon her heart. The audience imagined that their favorite--for this the
beautiful girl had at once become--was so deeply hurt by the rude
behavior of these aristocratic young gentlemen that she could not sing,
and they began to hiss more loudly--to cry "Silence!" and even "Turn
out the aristocrats! turn out the yellow gloves!"
The young prince looked around with the expression of one whom the
matter did not concern in the least, but his companions felt called
upon to do more: they laughed loudly, bowed with ironical politeness,
and openly scorned the audience, who now seemed disposed to carry their
threats into execution. Several Hotspurs were clambering over the backs
of the seats towards the box, when suddenly the singer, who had been
standing with her eyes riveted upon it, gave a cry, dropped her guitar,
and would have fallen had not Don Fernando, in whom I recognized her
companion at the exhibition, rushed out of the wing and caught her in
his arms. At the same moment the curtain fell. I hastened out of the
box, not knowing what I was doing nor where I was going, and only
recovered myself when the icy-cold air of the winter night blew in my
burning face.