IX.

About a week after the conversation between Erwin and Elsa, recorded in

the last chapter, a bowed man appeared in Steinbach whom at first Elsa

did not recognize, but into whose arms she fell with a cry when he

stretched out two trembling hands to her with a sad smile. She had

forgotten his unsuitable behavior; every bitter word which she had

pronounced against him fell heavily on her heart; she no longer felt

anything for him but boundless, compassionate love. The sight of him

shocked her, his hair had grown gray, his voice hoarse. An anxious

habit of raising his shoulders, and pressing his elbows against his

ribs, that shy manner of poor tutors and other despised individuals,

who seem to strive to make themselves as small as possible, to deprive

others of as little room as they can--lent his figure a sickly,

narrow-chested look. He spoke a great deal, with forced fluency, often

repeating himself. He whom for so long Elsa had at most only heard

laugh fondly at Litzi's little wise sayings, now laughed continually,

loudly and harshly at the slightest provocation, whereupon the wrinkles

grew deeper in his face, the shadows under his eyes darker. Often after

such an outburst of nervous hilarity, his face suddenly grew flabby, as

if wearied by too great exertion, and for a moment displayed the stony

features, the rigid pain of one who has died a hard death.

He had travelled in advance of his wife, who was staying with friends

at the Italian lakes, in order to prepare everything for her reception.

He talked a great deal about his son, whom he could not bring to Elsa

because the day was cold, and the little fellow was somewhat hoarse.

All the little habits of the child, his manner of pronouncing words, he

told his patiently listening sister.

His voice sounded sadder than ever when he spoke of the child, and from

time to time he sighed, "Poor boy, poor boy!"

"What he must have suffered!" sobbed Elsa, when she was alone again

with Erwin. "What he must have suffered!"

Yes, what he had suffered! Not even those who saw the evident traces of

suffering in this thin, gray, feverish man, could imagine the greatness

of his misery, could judge the darkness of his soul which his

intercourse with the world had caused.

Immediately after the intoxication of the honeymoon, even during the

wedding trip, which at Linda's wish they had made to Egypt, when he

began to learn to know his wife, he came to the sad conviction that the

most trivial acquaintance would have offered him as much distraction as

this marriage. Pretty, coquettish, graceful, seductive. Linda was all

these, but she had absolutely no mind. Like all narrow women without

intelligence she became, after continued acquaintance, tiresome.

Incessantly occupied with the ambition to appear a true aristocrat, in

whom one could not perceive the _parvenue_, she had no room for other

thoughts. Her joy at being now a "Lanzberg" was fairly naive. He really

could not be angry with her when she displayed her little vanities to

him. She wished to flatter him. He looked at her compassionately at

such times and turned away his head.

From Cairo she had dragged him to Paris. There, at first, they had led

an irregular, stranger life, with half-packed trunks in the Grand

Hotel, went to the theatre and drove in the Bois de Boulogne. Linda for

a while was satisfied with the acquaintances which she made in the

hotel reading-room, at the skating-rink, etc. Felix always avoided a

_table a'hote_, which Linda, even if the _tete-a-tete_ meals were at

times a bore to her, never opposed, as an elegant custom.

Then she was one day accidentally asked by one of her friends whether

she should attend the last _soiree_ of the Austrian ambassador. A pang

went through Linda's heart. She enveloped her denial of the simple

question in a confusion of excuses and explanations--she had only

recently married, she had not yet thought of paying visits. Scarcely

was she alone with Felix when she asked him if he knew the ambassador.

Yes, Felix knew him, but had not seen him for years. Naturally Linda

ascribed his evident objection to visiting His Excellency to the

shyness which his _mesalliance_ caused in him. A scene followed, tears,

cutting remarks--headache.

The next morning, Felix stood mournfully before one of

Froment-Meurice's windows and asked himself whether he should not buy

his wife a diamond cluster of wheat to calm her anger, when some one

seized his arm and cried, "Why, how are you, Felix?"

Felix turned, discovered an old friend, who, many years younger, had

served a degree lower in the same regiment with him at that time.

Now the friend was attache at the embassy, and a favorite with the

Parisian ladies, a gay, hot-blooded comrade for whom some one had found

the nickname, "Scirocco." "How are you, Felix?" he cried a second time,

offering his former comrade his hand.

Felix started. No one in all Austria knew his story better than this

very Scirocco, and Scirocco offered him his hand.

"Thank you, Rudi," he murmured softly. "It is very good in you to still

remember me."

Poor Scirocco grew very hot and uncomfortable. Lovable and impulsive,

he had spoken to Felix without thinking for a moment how hard it is to

associate with "such a man." Felix looked so miserable, so depressed

that Scirocco would have told all the lies which might occur to him to

talk him out of his sadness.

"I was going to run after you in the Bois the other day," he went on,

"but you were walking with your wife, and I did not wish to intrude.

_Sapristi!_ How long have you been married? Here in foreign parts one

loses all Austrian news. Your wife is a sensational beauty. Do not take

it amiss that I do not even know who she is. I absolutely do not

remember to have seen any one who could remind me of this fairy-like

apparition a few years ago in short clothes."

"You certainly never knew her," replied Felix. "She is the daughter of

a Viennese manufacturer--Harfink."

"Ah!" Somewhat robbed of his self-possession Scirocco, hastily leading

the conversation from an unpleasant subject, stumbles upon yet more

dangerous topics. "Do you live in jealous honeymoon solitude, do you

not go out at all?"

Felix looks pleadingly at him. "You know that I cannot go out," he

murmurs.

And Scirocco hurries over that--he will not understand. "Nonsense!" he

cries. "People are wiser here than with us at home. Mind and beauty

count for as much as nobility." Poor Scirocco, he was never guilty of a

more trivial platitude. "You must take your wife to the X's," he

continued.

X was the ambassador at that time. "Never!" said Felix, violently. They

had reached the Grand Hotel now.

"When may I call upon your wife?" asked Scirocco.

Felix had averted his face from his former friend. "When you wish,

Rudi," he murmured, then, suddenly turning towards him, "God reward you

for your kindness, but do not force yourself."

Scirocco saw that tears rolled over the cheeks of the "certain

Lanzberg."

Scirocco did not philosophize over the weakness of his former comrade,

he was far too deeply shocked. The result of his great cordiality to

Felix was an uneasy conscience, the feeling that with the best

intentions he had acted with a want of tact, and the need of inflicting

punishment upon some one for Felix's tears. "Poor Felix! such a

splendid fellow!" he murmured to himself.

Scirocco, whom we must introduce to our readers by his name Count

Sempaly, was noted for his good-natured precipitation and thoughtless

generosity, by which he was often subsequently forced pitilessly to

harshness which would be spared a less lovable but more prudent man.

For instance, at one time there was the American Smythe, who had been

guilty of a breach of etiquette in a Parisian circle at cards, and whom

society had avoided, without harshness, with the assurance that he had

assuredly been only stupid. They bowed to him on the street, they

invited him to large entertainments, but they hoped that he would not

accept the invitations; they cut him dead when he accepted them.

Then there was the Marquis de Coup de Foudre, who was accused of

cheating on the race-track, and who, from indignation--hm!--retired

from the track. He was not wholly given up, but every one would only

see him as far off as his neighbor did, in the beautiful bond of mutual

responsibility which holds society together.

Then finally there was Lady Jane Nevermore, who had permitted herself

several little irregularities with her husband, and who now, divorced,

with a grown daughter, rendered Paris and Nice uneasy.

How he had defended these people, with what deep respect, with what

sympathy he had spoken of them--showed himself with them on public

occasions, made good all their lack of tact (people in an uncertain

social position always develop a particular genius for this). He lent

them more of his shadow than the devoted Bendel lent his master, Peter

Schemil, procured the widest social credit for them.

He made a legion of enemies, but the clouds which rested on Lady Jane,

Coup de Foudre and Smythe--their names here stand for many--rested on

him. People said at last that he must have his reasons for defending

these people. Weary, angry, he then suddenly withdrew from his

_proteges_, whom by this he injured much more than he had benefited,

and who now could, without opposition, proclaim their social

bankruptcy.

Like many foolhardy heroes, at the last moment he was forced to beat a

shameful retreat, when a perfectly respectable withdrawal would have

been possible before.

But with however a wounded heart he might return from his campaign

against public opinion, he always ventured into battle again.

After this philosophical interlude, we would perhaps do better to

return to Scirocco, who is meanwhile breakfasting in the "Cafe Riche."

He was not hungry--he pondered. Lanzberg's fall did not in the least

remind one of Smythe's, Coup de Foudre's, or Lady Jane's. In regard to

these people, to a certain extent, prejudice had been justified, as if

prejudice is not always to a certain extent justified!

Scirocco's pondering ended in the resolution to launch Lanzberg in

Parisian society as one launches an unpopular _debutante_ of the

theatre.

The next day he called upon Linda, and the day after Count X---- paid

his visit.

How high she held her head among her acquaintances of the reading-room

and skating-rink: "X----, an old friend of my husband," etc., etc.

She took an apartment in the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, an apartment with

a large cold _salon_ which was distinguished by gilded mouldings and

white walls, pink doors, conventional chairs, and sky-blue satin

upholstering. Linda very soon understood that this dazzling elegance,

which at first had blinded her inexperienced eyes, was intolerably

"_dentiste_," as they say on the Boulevard.

She surrounded herself with old brocades, with modern bronzes, with

Smyrna rugs--an irregular confusion of picturesque treasures whose

unsuitableness justified the temporary look of the whole establishment.

Scirocco helped her in everything. He found out auction sales in the

Hotel Drouot for her, stood for half the afternoon on an old Flemish

chair, to drive a nail with his own hands in the wall for her to hang a

Diaz or a Corot upon--procured all the invitations for her which she

wished--in short, was unweariedly obliging, and, _nota bene_, he only

paid her enough attention to make her the fashion.

She was clever enough to take with him the good-natured, brusque tone

of a woman who may permit herself little liberties because she is sure

of her heart and of the respect of the man with whom she associates.

She lived in the seventh heaven. To drive every day, leave orders with

Worth and Fanet, not to dine at home a single day, to attend two balls

and three routs in one night, never to have a moment for reflection, to

be always out of breath with pleasure, and besides this, to be

surrounded by a crowd of young men with distinguished attractions and

fine names, animated by the consciousness that for her sake an attache,

in despair over her virtuous harshness, had had himself transferred to

Persia--oh! in her romantic boarding-school dreams she had never

suspected such a lovely life.

And Felix.

Scirocco had proposed him in the most exclusive club. Felix had not

resisted this, and came seldom to the club. He could not avoid playing

little games of _ecarte_. He won. His opponent doubled, increased

tenfold the stakes--Felix continued to win. The sweat stood on his

brow; he was deathly pale. "Do not play with me--I always win--it is a

curse!" he cried suddenly, throwing down the cards and completely

losing his self-control.

Scirocco grew embarrassed and nervously bit his nails. "If he had

anything to reproach himself with!" he thought to himself. "But that is

absolutely not the case, absolutely not!"

The others who did not know Baron Lanzberg's history only laughingly

called him "_un drole de corps!_"

The story went that Felix Lanzberg had once lost his mind from an

unfortunate love-affair, and had spent two years in an insane asylum.

Scirocco had probably invented this rumor and set it in motion to take

away room for other rumors.

Except Scirocco and Count X, none of the Austrians in Paris at that

time knew the true state of affairs. A single one had a suspicion,

wrote to Vienna to inform himself, and received for answer--this and

that. But this one was a _parvenu_, and when he wished to spread his

news the others listened to him with mocking smiles, shrugged their

shoulders arrogantly, and condemned the communication so harshly that

he never again referred to it. He noticed that it was considered the

thing to believe in Lanzberg.

Felix grew daily more unsociable, and liked to go to places only where

he was sure of meeting no one whom he knew, no people of society. He

took long trips on the steamboats, passed the afternoon in the quiet

peace of the gardens, sometimes stood for a quarter of an hour gloomily

before a half-decomposed corpse in the morgue, or wandered through the

quiet rooms of the Louvre, which are so persistently avoided by certain

Parisians.

Formerly knowing as little of art as any other Austrian Uhlan officer,

he now daily found greater pleasure in the pictures.

His natural taste for glaring coloring, _decollete_ cigarette beauties,

humorous or sentimental _genre_ pictures disappeared. The soft

harmonies of the old masterpieces had a strangely soothing effect upon

his sick nerves.

With slow, dragging steps, his eyes dreamily wandering from one picture

to another, he sauntered through the long rooms.

The gallery officials soon knew him, and with French talkativeness

often spoke to him of the weather or politics.

He never became a critic, but he had his favorites. For instance, he

felt a quite inexplicable preference for Greuze, the Guido Reni of the

eighteenth century, of whom one might think that he had mixed his

colors of tears, moonbeams, and the dust of withered flowers, and

instead of Beatrice Cenci had painted a "Cruche Casse." Every day he

stood for a while before the "Cruche Casse" and murmured "Poor child!"

In one of the galleries there was the gloomy portrait of a woman from

the hand of the Jansenist, Philippe von Champaigne, pale with dark,

mournful eyes; in the carriage of the emaciated frame the weary

rigidity of vanquished pain. Everything in the appearance was so dead

and ethereal that one almost fancied one could see the flesh dying

around the soul. Felix stood before this picture every day.

He loved the Samaritan and the Christ on the road to

Emmaus--masterpieces in which the sublime mystery of the Rembrandt

colors glorifies the harsh reality. He could not gaze often enough at

the mysterious eyes of the Christ, the eyes in which compassion is as

large as the world, the eyes which pardon all, and yet ever sad,

despairing, seek the means of salvation for sinful creation.

But the picture which beyond all attracted and repelled him, which

he loved and which yet terrified him, was Watteau's Pierot, pale,

ghost-like, with glassy eyes in a rigid face; it looks down from the

wall of the Salle Lacaze. To-day he has gone to a mask-ball to distract

himself, and his weary eyes ask in disappointment, "Is that all?"

To-morrow he lies perhaps in the morgue, and his glassy eyes gaze with

the same look at the solved riddle of eternity, as yesterday, at the

hollow show--the same gaze which asks, "Is that all?"

Felix almost daily passed a couple of hours in the Louvre. "_Bonjour!_"

a diligent little artist cried to him here and there, some little

person whom perhaps he had given some small assistance, and who greeted

him as an habitue. Except for this all was silence. No one speaks in

the Louvre; one only whispers.

A hollow mutter and murmur woven of a thousand soft echoes pervade the

old rooms in their vast monotony like the faint echo of the great

tumult of the world, or like the murmur of the eternal stream of time.

A year later, in a pretty country-house in Ville d'Avray, where they

had passed the summer, a little son was laid in Felix's arms. The tiny

creature, wrapped in white lawn, grew indistinct before his eyes; he

scarcely saw it, only felt something warm, living, between his hands,

something the touch of which caused him a wholly new, tender sensation,

and lightly and carefully he kissed his son's little rosy face.

Then remembrance smote his heart, a convulsive sob overcame him, and in

a broken voice he murmured, "Poor child! poor child!"

From Ville d'Avray Linda dragged Felix to Biarritz, then to Rome, where

they passed three winters. These were still worse than the winter in

Paris. Rome is the city of social consideration, a kind of free city

for dubious characters. Felix's martyr nimbus had vanished through his

intercourse with society in Paris. Scirocco who had been removed to

Rome, was vexed with Linda for following him. Her manner of chaining

herself to his protection irritated him, but he still assisted her

social advancement where he could.

The other Austrians were not exactly unfriendly to Felix, but cold and

distant. On their faces could be read, "We are surprised that you show

yourself," or even, "We will not turn our backs upon you--we are in

Rome."

With the certain feeling of kinship which characterizes the Austrian

nobility, they, to be sure, never spoke of his affairs with a stranger,

but so much the more among each other.

At last Rome was tired of, and even London, where Linda spent a

season and enjoyed her greatest triumph. But one place remained to

try--Traunberg.

It was a cool, unpleasant evening when Felix returned to Traunberg from

his short visit in Steinbach. Gray and white strangely scattered clouds

rose along the horizon, the lindens shivered, and threw long pale

shadows over the smoothly-shaven lawn and the yellow gravel. The sun

hung on the horizon almost without light, behind a pale mist like a

half-faded spot of blood.

Life had never been as hard to bear for a "certain Baron Lanzberg" as

on this evening. Slowly he wandered through the large, gloomy rooms of

the castle, in which the cold air was as close and mouldy as in a

cloister, and where every step seemed to charm a remembrance from the

floor.

He saw Elsa, tall, somewhat pale, with the charming awkwardness of her

fourteen years, hurry to meet him, shy before her handsome, brilliant

brother who, a week before, had won a race--her brother of whom she was

so proud. He saw his father, as he smiled joyfully at him, and pulling

his ear, cried: "Do you amuse yourself, my boy? Do you amuse yourself?

Have you debts? Out with it--not many? Always tell me what you need; I

no longer know what circumstances require. You are my golden boy, you

are your old father's joy!" He remembered the expression with which the

Freiherr had surveyed him, a glance in which a kind of exaggerated

paternal pride was glorified by the deepest love, and the gesture with

which he had merrily cried to the old family portraits, "Are you

satisfied with my boy?"

His memory did not spare poor Felix a word.

He had passed through one after another of the large rooms. In some of

them stood great piles of furniture which Linda had sent here.

Suddenly he found himself before a picture which hung in a dark corner,

concealed by a curtain, in his father's former room. Hastily he drew

back the curtain, then he clutched his temples and turned away from the

painting with the short, dull groan of a dying animal. What had he

seen? The portrait of an unusually handsome, merry, good-tempered young

officer, who smiled at him through the twilight. Felix hurried away.

In the lofty, arched corridor, the echo doubled the sound of his

footsteps. It seemed to him as if that gay comrade had stepped down

from the frame, and now, relating old stories, wandered at his side.

The sweat of terror was on his brow. He met a servant, and hastily

commanded him to remove the picture from the green corner room. His

voice was always sharp when he spoke to servants, and yet he was the

best, most generous master in the world.

He entered his child's room. The French _bonne_ laid her finger on her

lips to signify to him that the child slept. He bent over the little

creature, who, with one little arm under his cheek, with the other

clasping a gay gilded doll to him, lay in the embroidered pillows.

Without, the lindens, sighing compassionately, shook their great black

heads, the tower clock, indifferent as time which it serves, played its

old piece in a flat tone, hesitating and pausing--a minuet to which the

grandparents had courtesied and bowed.

Felix listened, listened, like an old man who suddenly hears once more

the cradle song with which he used to be lulled to sleep.

It overcame him. He bent down deeper over his little son, and murmured

softly, "Poor child, poor child!" And the words woke the child, he

opened his large eyes and lisped, unabashed, "Why, poor child? Is Gery

sick?"