Elfinger had been sitting up late into the night awaiting the return of
his friend, until at last he was forced to admit that there could be no
doubt but what the adventure had not ended very gloriously. He fell
asleep with a heavy heart, for his last hopes were now defeated.
The next morning he crept mournfully down to the bank, and left it
earlier than usual under some pretext or other. He hoped to find
Rosenbusch at home at last. But the little, scantily furnished, untidy
chamber of the battle-painter was still vacant.
Could he have done something desperate, left the city or even--?
In great excitement, for he loved his good comrade heartily, he mounted
the dark stairs for the second time, after the close of his evening
duties at his desk. He found on his little table an unmistakable
symbolical sign that his friend was still in the land of the living. A
large market-basket stood in the middle, provided with a long paper
label such as they put on medicine-bottles; and on it were written
these words:
"A REMEDY FOR BEARDLESS ARTISTS.
TO BE TAKEN ACCORDING TO THE NECESSITIES
OF THE CASE.
FROM THE ESTABLISHMENT OF
THE LEATHER GLOVE."[3]
There was nothing in the basket but the sketch-book, in which the
solitary outcast had written his lamentations the night before.
The actor had not yet finished reading the last strophes when the door
opened, and Rosenbusch solemnly entered, with such an indescribably
mournful expression upon his face that it was impossible to look at him
without laughing. As soon as he saw that Elfinger was once more capable
of appreciating the humor of the situation, it was easy to perceive
that a weight was lifted from his heart. He stepped hastily up to his
friend, and, giving him both his hands, cried:
"Drink to the lost, O stranger,
And pray for his poor soul!"
the final words of his own verses.
"But come, brother," he continued, "let us rise superior to our fate,
and although our manly spirit may not forbid us to shed a tear--
"So it is all over, and there is no more hope?" interrupted Elfinger,
shutting up the sketch-book.
"Over and gone forever! unless I should change my course in my old age
and become a cattle-painter, or should crawl back into the womb so as
to be born again as a pupil of Piloty. Just conceive it, Roscius! Only
yesterday, hardly an hour before I paid my visit to papa, this brave
Theban had fallen into the hands of a good friend at the art-club, who
had stuffed him with a long account of the wonderfully flourishing
financial condition of art in our good city of Munich. A flock of
sheep, that had just been sold for eight thousand gulden, and the
vivisection of a rabbit by some Hungarian or Pole whom that magician
Piloty had developed into a celebrated man in six months, and whose
pictures are now sold for unheard-of prices before they leave the
easel, had given the two Philistines a chance to air their aesthetics,
which are as irrefutable as mathematics. Figures show this. The export
of painted canvas from this city, which has attained a gigantic height
during the last few years, even surpassing the export of tanned
leather, could not but impress even Nanny's unpoetical father. I might
have carried off the little jewel without the slightest trouble if I
could only have shown him a single cow, or some little historical
atrocity. But for battles there was 'no demand'--eternal peace lay
before us. How much did I make a year out of my old-fashioned art?
Well--I lied like a trooper, and mentioned some unheard of sum
for a man in my condition. Whereupon the monster laughed: he knew
an animal-painter who had made double that amount from a single
sheep's-head, in which, to be sure, you could distinctly perceive the
quality of the wool by looking at it through a magnifying-glass. It was
then that my temperament played me a shabby trick. I could not resist
the temptation to make a disrespectful pun[4]--one, moreover, that was
much too obvious to make it worth the while--and after this there was
no helping matters. Unfortunately we could distinctly hear a burst of
laughter, over my poor joke at papa's expense, proceeding from the
adjoining room. The author of it had apparently been unable to
withstand her maidenly curiosity, and had been listening to all that
had been said. But I--"
He checked himself suddenly. His eyes unconsciously wandered to the
windows across the street, and what he saw there caused him to forget
the end of his report.
A most charming girl made her appearance behind the window-pane, and
two little hands could be seen fastening a little straw-hat firmly on
the brown head; then the window was opened and the sky was eagerly
scanned, apparently in order to find out whether it threatened rain or
promised to be fair. At the window to the left a slim figure could also
be discerned, as it shut up some sewing in the drawer of the little
work-table, and then threw open the window so that the evening air
might benefit the flowers. But while the mischievous eyes of the
younger sister, in roving merrily about, lighted on Rosenbusch, who had
quickly stepped up to his window, and gave him a stolen glance in
passing, the second sister refrained from all such worldly arts and
immediately disappeared from the window, after having said something to
the younger which the spy opposite could not understand, in spite of
the windows being open.
"Elfinger," cried the painter, "it was a wrong conclusion after all.
The affair is not over yet by any means, and I am willing to bet that
the chapter we have just reached won't be the most tiresome one in this
great sensational romance."
He quickly dragged his astonished friend, who, in his despondency,
could not understand this sudden change of mood, out of the door and
down into the street. They stepped out of the house-door just as the
two sisters over opposite crossed the threshold of their home, both
modestly veiled, and carrying little black prayer-books in their hands.
But, before they turned down the street to the right, a bright smile
passed over the face of the younger one, which Rosenbusch noted through
her veil and knew well enough how to interpret.
"Let's wait a second," he said. "We'll give them a little start. That
little Philistine is a perfect witch! I wonder where she got it from!"
"They seem to be going to church. Is there any open so late as this?"
"You forget that this good city of Munich is called _Monachum
monachorum_. If it's too late for vespers, then it's just early enough
for a vigil. So now--march! Otherwise they will be round the corner,
and we shall lose track of them."
It was still light in the street, but Sunday evening sets in pretty
early in Munich, especially on summer days, when a hot air prevails
that is provocative of an early thirst. The two slight girlish figures
made their way through the throng in the inner town as skillfully as
lizards, now disappearing from the gaze of their faithful followers,
and now coming into view again. They turned into a rather broad but
deserted side-street, in which stood an insignificant little chapel,
scarcely to be distinguished from the row of dwelling-houses, though it
had the reputation of enjoying the special protection of the Virgin. A
slight jutting out of the decorated facade was the only thing which
indicated its whereabouts, just as a well-to-do ecclesiastical
gentleman going about in the midst of his flock shows, by the gentle
outward curve of his body, that he has dedicated his life to
contemplation, and to thanksgiving for all the good gifts of Heaven.
From the low portal of this out-of-the-way little church, which was
guarded by a plain wooden door, a dense crowd of worshipers were just
streaming forth, mostly old women and shriveled-up old men, and a few
early-converted sinners with faded faces and restless looks. No sooner
did they come out into the street than most of them gave themselves up
to the refreshing enjoyment of fresh air and cheerful conversation--two
luxuries which they had been forced to dispense with inside. Only a few
wheezing old men crept along alone, counting their beads with their
long bony fingers as they went. The pious company were far too much
occupied with themselves to pay any attention to the two sisters, who
now entered the deserted sanctum. It was dark and gloomy enough within.
A gaunt, fellow in a white surplice, who figured as sacristan, was
sleepily engaged in putting out the candles on the principal altar,
with a rod on which was fastened an extinguisher. When this was done,
he spread a covering over the altar-cloth. And now the fading daylight
found its only entrance through two arched windows, on which the
figures of the Virgin and Joseph with the Child stood out in brilliant
red and blue. Over opposite, where two red columns of porphyry
supported the organ-loft, deep darkness had already settled down, but
faintly broken by the little stumps of tapers before which a few
tireless suppliants continued to read in their little books, though the
regular service had long since come to an end. An iron stand, with
prongs and nails with the sharp ends up, also bore a number of large
and small wax-candles, which had been planted there by the devout as a
modest offering. A reddish light from this fragrant candelabrum, which
stood before one of the side shrines, fell upon the numerous crucifixes
and silver votive offerings near the altars, upon the artificial
flowers that decorated the reliquaries, and upon the dilapidated finery
of the figure of the Madonna standing at the feet of her crucified Son.
It had a singularly weird and depressing effect--the soft crackling of
the lights, the subdued mumbling from those toothless lips, the
sniffing and wheezing of the kneeling old women, and the peculiar smell
of the wax-tapers, incense and snuff, which last article seemed to be
in constant use to prevent the devotional spirit from falling into a
doze.
But all these impressions, which at first almost took away the breath
of the two friends, seemed, from long familiarity, to have lost all
power over the sisters. After sprinkling themselves with holy-water out
of a basin near one of the red columns, they stepped softly up to the
candelabrum, and each fastened her little taper to one of the sharp
points, carefully lighting it before doing so, and then returned to the
columns and knelt down in two of the back pews, one on one side and one
on the other of the middle aisle.
Both appeared to be immediately absorbed in devotional exercises, the
forehead pressed upon the open prayer-book, the little hands busied
with the beads of their rosaries. But they could hardly have had time
to repeat a paternoster before the places at their side were occupied
by two voluntary participants in their worship. On the footstool to the
right, next the startled Fanny, knelt Elfinger, while Rosenbusch had
sunk gently down on the stool on the other side, close to his more
worldly sweetheart, who appeared not to take the slightest notice of
him. The muttering, wheezing, snuff-taking old hags, who sat about here
and there, evidently took no offense at this symmetrical group, which
quietly busied itself with its own affairs; and only a round, red-faced
little priest, who was kneeling before his own taper and reading out of
a book, with his spectacles shoved high up on his forehead, seemed to
be suddenly disturbed in his perusal. The spectacles quickly slipped
down upon his nose, and his little eyes strove earnestly to pierce the
dim light that played about the two red columns.
"Are you really in earnest?" whispered Elfinger, bending down close to
the ear of his neighbor. "You really want to turn your back upon this
beautiful world and bury yourself in a convent? You, so young, so
charming, so well fitted to be happy and to make others happy."
A deep sigh was the only response he received. At the same time she
almost imperceptibly hitched her stool about half an inch farther away
from the speaker, and buried her delicate little nose still deeper in
her prayer-book.
"Fraeulein Fanny," he whispered, after a pause, "what horrible thing
have you seen or experienced in the world that has made you already
weary of it? Or does the air here in this house of prayer seem to you
easier to breathe than the lovely air of heaven outside? And do you
think you will find a convent better ventilated than this place, and
filled with a better company?"
"_Ave Maria, ora pro nobis, nunc et in hora_--" murmured the girl,
making the sign of the cross.
"And do you think I will be put off in this way?" whispered Rosenbusch
to his neighbor. "Oh, my adored Fanny, you do not know me! If painting
battles does not exactly make a man fat, it makes him strong, bold as a
lion, invincible. You shall see what heroic deeds I will yet
accomplish--on condition, of course, that you remain faithful and true
to me. Or do you doubt me?"
She was silent for a moment. A quick, mischievous side-glance rested on
him for an instant: "Go away!" she whispered, scarcely above her
breath. "You are only joking. It was very wrong of you to follow us
here. I still have six paternosters to repeat, and it is a positive
sin--"
"It's a sin of your papa, sweet Nanny mine, to shut you up like a nun
and let you go nowhere but to church, as if a young creature needed
nothing but to be pious. When should one be merry, then, unless it is
when one is young? Come, Fraeulein Nanny, if your father had not been so
angry yesterday, and I were sitting by your side--not here in the dark
corner, but in your own house on the sofa--and were whispering all
sorts of silly love-talk in your ear, and your sister, who was left to
matronize us, should find her presence absolutely necessary in the
kitchen, and--"
The round red face in the window-niche assumed a highly displeased
expression, for the two heads near the red columns had approached so
near together that their hair touched, and the softest whispering
sufficed to make itself understood. Over opposite, where the other
couple were, a space two spans broad still intervened between the two
kneeling figures. But even there not a syllable appeared to be lost.
"I know I have no right to hope for any great happiness," whispered
Elfinger. "I am a poor cripple. If you reply by saying that it is a
piece of audacity for me to hope, with my single eye, to find favor in
the most beautiful pair of eyes that ever read in a prayer-book, I find
it very natural. Yes, you will even do me a favor, Fraeulein Fanny, if
you will tell me so--if you will confess to me that a man who looks
as I do can never win your heart. I would try then to come to my
senses--that is to say, to become quite hopeless. Will you do me this
favor?"
Deep silence. Nevertheless she hardly seemed inclined to make such a
declaration.
"You are cruel!" he continued; "I am neither to live nor die. But of
what account am I? If I could believe that _you_ would be happy--O
Fanny, I would really suppress my own feelings and call the convent a
paradise in which you lived and were content. But I shudder to think
that you may regret what you have done when it is too late; that then
even a life by the side of such an ugly, insignificant, unknown man as
I am, who loves you more than himself and would do everything for you,
and who finds his whole world in you--"
He raised his voice so loud as he said this that she looked up in
affright, and made a beseeching sign for him to calm himself. In doing
this, she involuntarily moved a little nearer to him.
"For Heaven's sake!" she stammered, "what are you doing? Pray--pray
leave me. It can never, it must never be!--never, never! A secret, that
I dare not tell to any one, not even in the--"
"In the confessional," she was about to add. Suddenly she started back,
in alarm at what she had already said, and bowed her face down upon her
book again.
"This miserable, faint-hearted, wretched world of shopkeepers!" raved
Rosenbusch, on his stool over opposite. "Can there still be bold and
manly deeds? O Nanny! if it only were as it once was, I would come
spurring up to your father's castle some fine night on my gallant
charger. You would let down a rope-ladder from the donjon-window, and
would swing yourself up behind me on my horse--and away we would go
into the wide, wide world! But nowadays--"
"Hm! nowadays we have railroads," she murmured, slyly.
"Girl!" he cried, in a sepulchral voice, "are you really in earnest?
You would--you have the courage? O dearest Nanny of my heart! If I
should elope with you, you would love me so dearly that you would
follow me to the end of the world--"
She shook her head. There was a sound like a suppressed giggle.
"Nonsense!" she said, "we need only go as far as Pasing. Then papa will
steam by us; or we can do as another couple once did. They merely went
to the top of the church of St. Peter and sat concealed there with the
warden, and their people went searching about all over the country for
them, while they sat there and laughed at them all."
"Nanny, love, you really will--oh, what a heavenly idea! To-morrow--if
you are truly in earnest--to-morrow evening at this time--"
This time she actually laughed out loud, but she held her handkerchief
before her face.
"Oh, stop!" she said, "I was only joking! It is absurd to talk of such
a thing! Mother would worry herself to death, and besides--but we must
go; Fanny has risen already."
She put her book up near her face, so as to pray as quickly as
possible. But he, burning with his adventurous spirit, and encouraged
by the darkness of the place, quickly whispered to her:
"And you will send me away in this fashion? Not a single stolen--oh,
Nanny dear, you would be doing a good deed--a kiss, in all honor!"
She seemed to have suddenly become deaf, so motionless did she kneel
there, with her eyes tightly closed. At last, however, she made a
movement as though she would stand up. In doing so, her little book
slipped from the slanting rack and fell between her and her chivalrous
neighbor. She stooped down hastily to pick it up, and, as he could not
help doing likewise, nothing was more natural than that their faces
should approach near enough, there in the darkness, for him to impress
a hasty kiss on the girl's round cheek. She did not even seem to be
conscious of what had occurred.
"Thank you," she whispered as she rose up again, holding the book he
had officiously handed her. "Goodnight--but you mustn't follow us!"
She said this in a tone which made it very doubtful whether she meant
it seriously. At the same time she rose from the stool and hurried to
her sister, who stood waiting for her, with downcast eyes, near the
holy-water basin.
The two slim figures reverently bent the knee before the principal
altar, sprinkled themselves again with the holy-water, and left the
little church in the same manner as they had come, deeply veiled and
carrying their prayer-books before them in their hands.
Five minutes after, Rosenbusch might have been seen stepping out of the
porch, arm-in-arm with the actor. The battle-painter threw the only
sixpence he had about him into a lame beggar's hat.
"Holy Mother!" he cried, "life is splendid, after all, in spite of
leather-glove-makers."
"Where shall we go?" asked his gloomy friend, whose spirits had been
completely crushed by the "secret" of his sweetheart.
"To the tower of St. Peter's, noble Roscius! I must get acquainted with
the warden this very evening, and take a look at the arrangement of the
place. One can never know what devilish queer adventures one may
encounter, when it would be very useful to have such high friends and
patrons."