The gulf which malicious fortune and Elsa's overwrought nerves had
opened between the two married people had not lessened, but on the
contrary had daily become deeper, colder, and broader.
Erwin found no explanation for his wife's changed manner; after some
time he ceased to seek one. His was no brooding nature, and had no time
to become one. That Elsa could be jealous of Linda any more than of a
pretty work of art or an amusing book which unsuitably claimed a great
deal of his attention, Erwin had never understood.
"Poor Elsa, she is worried about Felix," he said to himself; "she will
come to her senses again," and for several days he kept away from her,
to give her time to calm herself. But three, four days passed, and she
still had the same pale face and stiff manner. Then he tried a
different plan, and once when they chanced to be alone together--it
happened very seldom--he laid his hand under her chin and began: "Well,
mouse----"
But she did not lean her cheek against his hand as formerly when she
was remorseful, neither did she resist his caress, as when she was
refractory, but simply tolerated him as if she were a statue of stone
or bronze. And she looked at him so coldly that all the loving words
which he had in readiness faded from his memory and his hand sank down
from her chin.
He turned away from her with impatience and irritation. It was not the
first time that she had been unjust and capricious to him. Her only
fault was an easily awakened irritability; but formerly her vexation
had been of short duration, and her bad mood had soon dissolved into
the most remorseful tenderness.
She had never begged his forgiveness after she had made a scene. Her
proud obstinacy was not capable of that; she was not one of those
sympathetic, dependent women who like to make little blunders so as to
be able to coquet with their charming penitence. No! But an anxious,
half-suppressed smile hesitated on her lips, when he returned to her
several hours after the vexatious scene, and he could see by the book
which she was reading, by the gown which she had put on, by the dinner
which was ordered, how she had thought of him during his absence.
But her manner now was of a quite different kind.
What could he think but that her love for him had become less; that
with Elsa, as with all good mothers, her children had gradually won the
precedence in her heart, and there was nothing to do for it. And Erwin
smiled peculiarly, shrugged his shoulders, for the first few days felt
painfully wounded, and finally began to accustom himself to the
situation. He hunted a great deal, and also occasionally rode to
Traunberg, where he was always sure of a hearty reception, often met
gay society, and from whence he brought back the comfortable conviction
that he had the best influence over a lovable but superficial human
being.
Now, after Elsa had barricaded herself on all sides with diligence and
pains and praiseworthy energy, against happiness, she was terrified at
her own work, and she would gladly have annihilated it, but she now
lacked the power. Erwin had become distant; formerly she would have
silently slipped her hand into his and with that all would have been
said, he would have understood. But now, now she no longer dared; she
was as shy and embarrassed as a bride. That it was hateful, yes, fairly
inexcusable to suspect a man who in all the different situations of his
life had acted so severely honorably as Erwin, of such disgraceful
conduct as her jealousy suggested to her, she knew, but----
"The Lanzberg shadow has fallen upon my happiness," she sometimes
thought sadly; "it must come so," but in the next moment she said, "No,
it must not come so. I--I myself am to blame that it has come; why did
I send him away from me on our wedding-day, from silly, childish
obstinacy? If I believed in danger for him, I should have tried doubly
hard to chain him to me; instead of this I have done everything to make
myself disagreeable to him, only because my pride did not consider a
threatened happiness worth defence. If what I feared now happens,
then----" but here her thoughts paused. "That cannot be," she murmured
impatiently; "It is not possible." Then suddenly she thought of her
brother, who in his time had stood almost as high in her respect as
Erwin, and who in one instant had sunken, oh, so deeply!
"If that were possible, then everything is possible in this world," she
decided, sternly.
One day after another passed--a cloud had shown itself in her sky so
small and transparent that a single sunbeam would have sufficed to kiss
it away; but the cloud had grown larger, and now covered the whole sky
so that it could not even be seen.
An unpleasant accident contributed to embitter Elsa's feelings
completely.
For a long time she had been urged by her heart to show Erwin some
little attention, and she ransacked her brains to think of something
which could please him, and yet would not be a too direct reminder of
her love. At last it occurred to her to have a photograph taken for him
of Baby, who with her childish coquetries had gradually become dearer
and dearer to her father's heart.
She put the frock which Erwin liked best upon the little creature
herself, one which showed off Baby's charms most advantageously. She
kissed and smoothed the child's short curls, and hung a golden heart on
a thin chain round her neck, of which the vain rogue was not a little
proud, and tugged at it with both little fists to admire it, or put it
in her mouth. Then Elsa ordered the carriage and drove over to
Marienbad with Baby. Baby made the most attentive observations from the
lap of her mamma; from time to time she stretched out her hand for some
object which especially pleased her or was new to her, and gave a
little clear joyous cry, or uttered some of those disconnected
syllables which have significance for a mother's ear only.
The novelty of the situation at the photographer's impressed her; the
first attempt did not succeed. The photographer remarked that if the
Baroness would hold the child herself, it would perhaps be better. Elsa
replied blushingly that she did not wish to appear in the picture.
But Baby would not have it otherwise. Now the trial succeeded
admirably. The photographer showed the negative in which Baby's
delicate face, with the solemn, staring eyes, and the shy, smiling
mouth could plainly be recognized. Elsa nodded with satisfaction, but
begged that he would wash out her figure. Then the old photographer--he
knew Elsa from her childhood--surveyed his work with the look of an
artist, and said, "Ah, Baroness, it would be a shame for the pretty
picture. Has the Baroness one of the last photographs which I took of
her as a bride? It is just the same face."
And Elsa let him have his way; involuntarily the delight with which he
held the dim negative against his rough coat-sleeve amused her, and she
even stole a glance in the mirror, the first glance for a long time,
and thought that although somewhat pale and thin, she did not look so
very old and faded as she had thought. She rejoiced at this discovery,
and rejoiced that her richly embroidered black gown was so becoming,
and rejoiced over Baby's picture, and looked forward to the moment when
she should take it to Erwin.
When she now got into the carriage waiting below with Baby, and the
servant closed the door, the child suddenly almost sprang out of her
mother's lap, and stretched out her little arms, and cried in a clear,
bell-like voice, "Papa! Papa!" As Baby's vocabulary is still very
limited, and she had recently bestowed the title of Papa upon Litza's
pony, Elsa glanced somewhat sceptically in the direction in which the
child's arm pointed, but really saw Erwin about to enter a jeweller's
shop.
Linda Lanzberg was on his arm!
Elsa grew deathly pale. When the carriage, as upon entering she had
directed, stopped before a toy store, she did not alight, but ordered,
"Home!"
All reconciling feelings toward Erwin changed into a condition of
boundless excitement; for the moment she felt a kind of hatred for him.
When at dinner he asked, "Elsa, were not you in Marienbad to-day? It
seemed to me that I saw the carriage pass when I was in Stein's," she
answered, coldly, "I was there. I had something to attend to. And did
you buy anything of Stein?" she then asked, as if casually. "Will he
mention Linda?" she thought, but he replied half laughingly, "A pink
coral necklace for the little one. To-morrow is, if I am not mistaken,
her christening day." In fact Baby had been named after the Countess
Dey, the sensible name, Marie.
This explanation did not relieve Elsa in the slightest. The most
innocent significance which she could ascribe to his presence there
with Linda was that he had asked her advice in the choice of an
ornament for the child. It did not occur to her that he could have met
Linda in Marienbad quite accidentally. The rest of the evening she was
in a hopelessly bad humor. Every word that Erwin spoke pained her, his
manner of laying a pair of scissors on the table vexed her. With that,
fever shone in her eyes and burned in her cheeks. The kiss which every
evening he imprinted upon her forehead had long become a conventional
ceremony, but to-day she wished to evade this formality. She
disappeared from the drawing-room immediately after tea, upon some
pretext, and did not return again.
The next day was a holiday, Baby's christening day, the day after
Juanita's visit to Traunberg.
Most exceptionally, this time Erwin did not appear at breakfast, and
when Elsa asked after him, the word was, "The Baron breakfasted in his
own room, and had then gone away."
About half-past eleven, as Elsa sat in the nursery, weary and languid,
holding Baby on her lap, the door opened and Erwin entered. Baby
stretched out her little hands joyously, but Elsa's eyes grew gloomy
and she struck the child's hand reprovingly. Erwin grew deathly pale,
pale as she had never seen him before.
"Later, Baby," he murmured somewhat hoarsely, and left the room. But
Baby began to cry bitterly, and would not stay in her mother's lap.
After lunch, during which Erwin did not address another word to Elsa,
she heard him down in the garden, talking and playing with the little
one; she heard Baby's soft happy laugh; she went to the window,
stretched out her head, and saw him swinging the child in the air. When
Baby was finally weary of play, she laid her little arm around her
father's neck, and leaned her delicate flower-like face against his
sun-browned cheeks.
Elsa's head ached; she burned with fever from head to foot, every nerve
quivered and her thoughts were gloomy. Slowly she dragged herself up
and down, finally seated herself with hands clasping her temples, upon
a divan. She was losing consciousness when suddenly she started up and
listened. She heard Erwin's horse pawing the ground in front of the
house. Where was he going so suddenly? She roused herself, and holding
to the walls, crept slowly down-stairs. Then, hidden by the turn of the
stairs, in the shadow of the hall, she heard Erwin's voice:
"If the Baroness asks for me, Martin, tell her that you do not know
where I am; in no case shall she wait dinner for me," said he, quickly
and softly.
With that he mounted his horse and rode away at a rapid pace.
Where? Elsa's heart stopped beating. Had anything happened?
She crossed the hall--she would force old Martin to speak; but he had
gone also. Then something on the floor rattled, a gray paper which the
hem of her dress had touched; she stooped for it--it lay there crumpled
as if it had just fallen from a violent hand. She committed no
voluntary indiscretion, she only looked at it as one scrutinizes a
paper to see whether one shall pick it up or throw it away. It was not
her fault that, thanks to the writing, which was as plain as print, at
the first glance her eyes had comprehended the whole contents.
Dear Erwin:
Come soon--to-day, now--at once--I expect you.
Linda.
She took the note, carried it to Erwin's room, and laid it
conscientiously upon his writing-desk. Then her knees trembled, and she
had to sit down. Not that he had received the note surprised her. What
fault was it of his if Linda wrote foolish notes? But what she did not
understand, what remained absolutely incomprehensible to her was the
fact that he had taken his valet into his confidence, that he had not
been ashamed to make him his confidant. Had she not heard wrong? Had he
gone to Traunberg? Now, when the facts spoke strongest against him, she
weighed most justly the probabilities for and against his fault; she
had acted imprudently towards him, and since the birth of the last
child, devoting herself entirely to her maternal duties, had neglected
him. He had borne this with goodness and patience; then Linda had
suddenly appeared, with her dazzling beauty, her picturesque elegance,
her coquettish heartlessness.
For hours Elsa sat there and waited. At five o'clock she sat down to
dinner; immediately after this she left the dining-room--she had no
more control over herself.
"It is all possible," she cried, giving way, desperate; her breath came
heavily and so feverish that it burned her lips--black clouds swam
before her eyes.
She looked at the clock. What kept him away from home so long--with
her? Another fifteen minutes passed--he must be with her. She could no
longer endure her distrustful suspense--she would go to Traunberg.
She ordered the carriage. On the way she started at every sound, at
every shadow, everywhere she saw him and her.
A fearful dread of the certainty came over her; at the last moment she
clung to uncertainty.
She wished to return, but she was ashamed of displaying such
inconsequence before the servants, and just then the carriage drove
through the iron gate into the Traunberg park. The lackey in the
vestibule announced that the Baroness was not at home.
Elsa sighed with relief; if Linda were not home, she could receive no
guests, and Erwin could not be there. That she could have denied
herself did not occur to her.
It was pleasant to her to enjoy Traunberg once more, without Parisian
anecdotes and French _chansonnettes_--without Linda.
All was as if dead; it reminded her of the old Traunberg, where she had
lived in loving solitude with her father. She did not think of
returning at once; the great tension of her nerves had suddenly given
way to vague dreaminess--the danger was not over but postponed.
She went out into the garden; her heart grew more and more heavy, and
her step slow. Her dress caught upon a branch. It seemed to her that a
warning hand held her back. In mysterious dread of choosing the very
gloomy path which lay before her, she took another. Her heart beat
rapidly, she stood still, resolved to return. Between the trunks of the
lindens, the water of the large pond which bounded one side of the
Traunberg park shone in the sunset glow. With the gentle murmur of the
water mingled the regular strokes of oars. Elsa stood still, she
listened. Who could it be? Linda was not home. Elsa glanced at the
pond. In a little boat she saw two figures, one, Linda, leaning back in
the end of the little skiff, flowers in her hair and in her lap, one
hand in the water, an evil light in her eyes, something luxuriantly
melancholy in her whole form. Opposite her, with his back to Elsa,
sat a man, slender, broad-shouldered, in a light summer suit, with
close-cropped hair of that striking light blond which shines like
molten gold in the sunlight.
Elsa started back--it was surely Erwin--she turned away, she would
see no more--but no--it seemed to her that she must call after
him--there--the little row-boat had reached the small island covered
with roses which was in the middle of the lake. In the gray-white
August twilight she saw the two figures turn into the overgrown thicket
of the island--they disappeared behind the bushes as if immersed in
shadow.
Elsa was as if paralyzed by a kind of gloomy numbness; a fearful
excitement overcame her--she must go--where she did not know, only far,
far away from the accursed spot.
She did not think of ordering her carriage, of driving home. She
scarcely thought of anything, only moved mechanically on, and
instinctively took the path to Steinbach, as an animal wounded unto
death seeks its hole to die in.
She groped before her with her hands, she blinked as if blinded by a
terrible light, she hit blindly against the trees as she passed, like a
bat--she saw nothing but two light figures disappearing amid gloomy
shadow. She hurried on and on--at first very rapidly--it seemed to her
that she could fly, but she was mistaken. The unrest which raged within
her was that of fever, of over-exhaustion, not of unused strength. Soon
her feet felt like lead, and a heavy weight seemed resting upon her
breast; she dragged herself wearily on like one in a bad dream, who
wishes to flee from some monster and cannot. The more weary her body
became, the more clear what had really frightened her became to her.
"He and Linda," she murmured to herself, "he and my brother's wife."
And with a desperate smile, a smile which condemned faith, hope and
love to death, she added, "Yes, everything is possible in this world!"
How good he had formerly been, how loving! The loveliest moments of her
married life came to her mind with the sad charm of the irrevocably
lost. On she tottered, in her wide-open eyes the wild look which seeks
nothing more, which looks away from everything, the look of a being who
has seen happiness die. "I was happy," she murmured to herself with
unspeakable bitterness.
But soon the poisonous breath of doubt tainted the happiness which had
been also. How did she know how false it might have been, whether she
had not merely been "considerately deceived"?
Then it seems as if a frost falls upon her loveliest recollections,
even upon those which until now she has treasured in the most secret
corner of her heart. The past is desecrated--she has nothing more.
She does not think of her children--in this moments he has forgotten
that she has children.
Slowly she drags herself through the wood, the same path which she had
taken with Erwin before. Over her head the trees sing in melancholy
peace their old song. Elsa can scarcely proceed; now the wood lies
behind her, before her the dew on the meadow sparkles in the gray
twilight, the colors are all dead--she shudders--here is the spot where
he had carried her over that evening when for the first time she had
been apprehensive for her happiness. Here he had put his arms round her
and clasped her tightly to him and called her his treasure. She
trembles in her whole body, then she gives a short gasping cry and
sinks to the ground. She sobs, she has forgotten everything, she exists
only in the feeling of weeping, of wishing convulsively to throw off a
weight which oppresses her chest, and behind her the primeval forest
still sings its melancholy peaceful song.
How long she lies there she does not know; she does not notice either
that the gray evening darkens to black night, does not notice that the
dew falls heavier and heavier, that its cool dampness steals through
her light gown to her weakened frame.