"Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter."
It was the evening of the haupt-probe, a fine moonlight night in the
middle of May--a month since I had come to Elberthal, and it seemed so
much, so very much more.
To my astonishment--and far from agreeable astonishment--Anna Sartorius
informed me of her intention to accompany me to the probe. I put
objections in her way as well as I knew how, and said I did not think
outsiders were admitted. She laughed, and said:
"That is too funny, that you should instruct me in such things. Why, I
have a ticket for all the proben, as any one can have who chooses to pay
two thalers at the _sasse_. I have a mind to hear this. They say the
orchestra are going to rebel against von Francius. And I am going to the
concert to-morrow, too. One can not hear too much of such fine music;
and when one's friend sings, too--"
"What friend of yours is going to sing?" I inquired, coldly.
"Why, you, you _allerliebster kleiner Engel_," said she, in a tone of
familiarity, to which I strongly objected.
I could say no more against her going, but certainly displayed no
enthusiastic desire for her company.
The probe, we found, was to be in the great saal; it was half lighted,
and there were perhaps some fifty people, holders of probe-tickets,
seated in the parquet.
"You are going to sing well to-night," said von Francius, as he handed
me up the steps--"for my sake and your own, _nicht wahr_?"
"I will try," said, I, looking round the great orchestra, and seeing how
full it was--so many fresh faces, both in chorus and orchestra.
And as I looked, I saw Courvoisier come in by the little door at the top
of the orchestra steps and descend to his place. His face was
clouded--very clouded; I had never seen him look thus before. He had no
smile for those who greeted him. As he took his place beside Helfen, and
the latter asked him some question, he stared absently at him, then
answered with a look of absence and weariness.
"Herr Courvoisier," said von Francius--and I, being near, heard the
whole dialogue--"you always allow yourself to be waited for."
Courvoisier glanced up. I with a new, sudden interest, watched the
behavior of the two men. In the face of von Francius I thought to
discover dislike, contempt.
"I beg your pardon; I was detained," answered Courvoisier, composedly.
"It is unfortunate that you should be so often detained at the time when
your work should be beginning."
Unmoved and unchanging, Courvoisier heard and submitted to the words,
and to the tone in which they were spoken--sarcastic, sneering, and
unbelieving.
"Now we will begin," pursued von Francius, with a disagreeable smile, as
he rapped with his baton upon the rail. I looked at Courvoisier--looked
at his friend, Friedhelm Helfen. The former was sitting as quietly as
possible, rather pale, and with the same clouded look, but not deeper
than before; the latter was flushed, and eyed von Francius with no
friendly glance.
There seemed a kind of slumbering storm in the air. There was none of
the lively discussion usual at the proben. Courvoisier, first of the
first violins, and from whom all the others seemed to take their tone,
sat silent, grave and still. Von Francius, though quiet, was biting. I
felt afraid of him. Something must have happened to put him into that
evil mood.
My part did not come until late in the second part of the oratorio. I
had almost forgotten that I was to sing at all, and was watching von
Francius and listening to his sharp speeches. I remembered what Anna
Sartorius had said in describing this haupt-probe to me. It was all just
as she had said. He was severe; his speeches roused the phlegmatic
blood, set the professional instrumentalists laughing at their amateur
co-operators, but provoked no reply or resentment. It was extraordinary,
the effect of this man's will upon those he had to do with--upon women
in particular.
There was one haughty-looking blonde--a Swede--tall, majestic, with long
yellow curls, and a face full of pride and high temper, who gave herself
decided airs, and trusted to her beauty and insolence to carry off
certain radical defects of harshness of voice and want of ear. I never
forgot how she stared me down from head to foot on the occasion of my
first appearance alone, as if to say, "What do you want here?"
It was in vain that she looked haughty and handsome. Addressing her as
Fräulein Hulstrom, von Francius gave her a sharp lecture, and imitated
the effect of her voice in a particularly soft passage with ludicrous
accuracy. The rest of the chorus was tittering audibly, the musicians,
with the exception of Courvoisier and his friend, nudging each other and
smiling. She bridled haughtily, flashed a furious glance at her mentor,
grew crimson, received a sarcastic smile which baffled her, and subsided
again.
So it was with them all. His blame was plentiful; his praise so rare as
to be almost an unknown quantity. His chorus and orchestra were famed
for the minute perfection and precision of their play and singing.
Perhaps the performance lacked something else--passion, color. Von
Francius, at that time at least, was no genius, though his talent, his
power, and his method were undeniably great. He was, however, not
popular--not the Harold, the "beloved leader" of his people.
It was to-night that I was first shown how all was not smooth for him;
that in this art union there were splits--"little rifts within the
lute," which, should they extend, might literally in the end "make the
music mute." I heard whispers around me. "Herr von Francius is
angry."--"_Nicht wahr_?"--"Herr Courvoisier looks angry too."--"Yes, he
does."--"There will be an open quarrel there soon."--"I think
so."--"They are both clever; one should be less clever than the
other."--"They are so opposed."--"Yes. They say Courvoisier has a party
of his own, and that all the orchestra are on his side."--"So!" in
accents of curiosity and astonishment--"_Ja wohl!_ And that if von
Francius does not mind, he will see Herr Courvoisier in his place,"
etc., etc., without end. All which excited me much, as the first glimpse
into the affairs of those about whom we think much and know little (a
form of life well known to women in general) always does interest us.
These things made me forget to be nervous or anxious. I saw myself now
as part of the whole, a unit in the sum of a life which interested me.
Von Francius gave me a sign of approval when I had finished, but it was
a mechanical one. He was thinking of other things.
The probe was over. I walked slowly down the room looking for Anna
Sartorius, more out of politeness than because I wished for her company.
I was relieved to find that she had already gone, probably not finding
all the entertainment she expected, and I was able, with a good
conscience, to take my way home alone.
My way home! not yet. I was to live through something before I could
take my way home.
I went out of the large saal through the long veranda into the street. A
flood of moonlight silvered it. There was a laughing, chattering crowd
about me--all the chorus; men and girls, going to their homes or their
lodgings, in ones or twos, or in large cheerful groups. Almost opposite
the Tonhalle was a tall house, one of a row, and of this house the
lowest floor was used as a shop for antiquities, curiosities, and a
thousand odds and ends useful or beautiful to artists, costumes, suits
of armor, old china, anything and everything. The window was yet
lighted. As I paused for a moment before taking my homeward way, I saw
two men cross the moonlit street and go in at the open door of the shop.
One was Courvoisier; in the other I thought to recognize Friedhelm
Helfen, but was not quite sure about it. They did not go into the shop,
as I saw by the bright large lamp that burned within, but along the
passage and up the stairs. I followed them, resolutely beating down
shyness, unwillingness, timidity. My reluctant steps took me to the
window of the antiquity shop, and I stood looking in before I could make
up my mind to enter. Bits of rococo ware stood in the window, majolica
jugs, chased metal dishes and bowls, bits of Renaissance work, tapestry,
carpet, a helm with the vizor up, gaping at me as if tired of being
there. I slowly drew my purse from my pocket, put together three
thalers and a ten groschen piece, and with lingering, unwilling steps,
entered the shop. A pretty young woman in a quaint dress, which somehow
harmonized with the place, came forward. She looked at me as if
wondering what I could possibly want. My very agitation gave calmness to
my voice as I inquired,
"Does Herr Courvoisier, a musiker, live here?"
"_Ja wohl!_" answered the young woman, with a look of still greater
surprise. "On the third _étage_, straight upstairs. The name is on the
door."
I turned away, and went slowly up the steep wooden uncarpeted staircase.
On the first landing a door opened at the sound of my footsteps, and a
head was popped out--a rough, fuzzy head, with a pale, eager-looking
face under the bush of hair.
"Ugh!" said the owner of this amiable visage, and shut the door with a
bang. I looked at the plate upon it; it bore the legend, "Hermann
Duntze, Maler." To the second _étage_. Another door--another plate:
"Bernhardt Knoop, Maler." The house seemed to be a resort of artists.
There was a lamp burning on each landing; and now, at last, with breath
and heart alike failing, I ascended the last flight of stairs, and found
myself upon the highest _étage_ before another door, on which was
roughly painted up, "Eugen Courvoisier." I looked at it with my heart
beating suffocatingly. Some one had scribbled in red chalk beneath the
Christian name, "Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter." Had it been done in jest
or earnest? I wondered, and then knocked. Such a knock!
"_Herein!_"
I opened the door, and stepped into a large, long, low room. On the
table, in the center, burned a lamp, and sitting there, with the light
falling upon his earnest young face, was Helfen, the violinist, and near
to him sat Courvoisier, with a child upon his knee, a little lad with
immense dark eyes, tumbled black hair, and flushed, just awakened face.
He was clad in his night-dress and a little red dressing-gown, and
looked like a spot of almost feverish, quite tropic brightness in
contrast with the grave, pale face which bent over him. Courvoisier held
the two delicate little hands in one of his own, and was looking down
with love unutterable upon the beautiful, dazzling child-face. Despite
the different complexion and a different style of feature too, there
was so great a likeness in the two faces, particularly in the broad,
noble brow, as to leave no doubt of the relationship. My musician and
the boy were father and son.
Courvoisier looked up as I came in. For one half moment there leaped
into his eyes a look of surprise and of something more. If it had lasted
a second longer I could have sworn it was welcome--then it was gone. He
rose, turned the child over to Helfen, saying, "One moment, Friedel,"
then turned to me as to some stranger who had come on an errand as yet
unknown to him, and did not speak. The little one, from Helfen's knee,
stared at me with large, solemn eyes, and Helfen himself looked scarcely
less impressed.
I have no doubt I looked frightened--I felt so--frightened out of my
senses. I came tremulously forward, and offering my pieces of silver,
said, in the smallest voice which I had ever used:
"I have come to pay my debt. I did not know where you lived, or I should
have done it long before."
He made no motion to take the money, but said--I almost started, so
altered was the voice from that of my frank companion at Köln, to an icy
coldness of ceremony:
"_Mein Fräulein_, I do not understand."
"You--you--the things you paid for. Do you not remember me?"
"Remember a lady who has intimated that she wishes me to forget her? No,
I do not."
What a horribly complicated revenge! thought I, as I said, ever lower
and lower, more and more shamedfacedly, while the young violinist sat
with the child on his knee, and his soft brown eyes staring at me in
wonder:
"I think you must remember. You helped me at Köln, and you paid for my
ticket to Elberthal, and for something that I had at the hotel. You told
me that was what I owed you."
I again tendered the money; again he made no effort to receive it, but
said:
"I am sorry that I do not understand to what you refer. I only know it
is impossible that I could ever have told you you owed me three thalers,
or three anything, or that there could, under any circumstances, be any
question of money between you and me. Suppose we consider the topic at
an end."
Such a voice of ice, and such a manner, to chill the boldest heart, I
had never yet encountered. The cool, unspeakable disdain cut me to the
quick.
"You have no right to refuse the money," said I, desperately. "You have
no right to insult me by--by--" An appropriate peroration refused
itself.
Again the sweet, proud, courteous smile; not only courteous, but
courtly; again the icy little bow of the head, which would have done
credit to a prince in displeasure, and which yet had the deference due
from a gentleman to a lady.
"You will excuse the semblance of rudeness which may appear if I say
that if you unfortunately are not of a very decided disposition, I am.
It is impossible that I should ever have the slightest intercourse with
a lady who has once unequivocally refused my acquaintance. The lady may
honor me by changing her mind; I am sorry that I can not respond. I do
not change my mind."
"You must let us part on equal terms," I reiterated. "It is unjust--"
"Yourself closed all possibility of the faintest attempt at further
acquaintance, _mein Fräulein_. The matter is at an end."
"Herr Courvoisier, I--"
"At an end," he repeated, calmly, gently, looking at me as he had often
looked at me since the night of "Lohengrin," with a glance that baffled
and chilled me.
"I wish to apologize--"
"For what?" he inquired, with the faintest possible look of indifferent
surprise.
"For my rudeness--my surprise--I--"
"You refer to one evening at the opera. You exercised your privilege, as
a lady, of closing an acquaintance which you did not wish to renew. I
now exercise mine, as a gentleman, of saying that I choose to abide by
that decision, now and always."
I was surprised. Despite my own apologetic frame of mind, I was
surprised at his hardness; at the narrowness and ungenerosity which
could so determinedly shut the door in the face of an humble penitent
like me. He must see how I had repented the stupid slip I had made;
he must see how I desired to atone for it. It was not a slip of the
kind one would name irreparable, and yet he behaved to me as if I
had committed a crime; froze me with looks and words. Was he so
self-conscious and so vain that he could not get over that small slight
to his self-consequence, committed in haste and confusion by an ignorant
girl? Even then, even in that moment I asked myself these questions, my
astonishment being almost as great as my pain, for it was the very
reverse, the very opposite of what I had pictured to myself. Once let me
see him and speak to him, I had said to myself, and it would be all
right; every lineament of his face, every tone of his voice, bespoke a
frank, generous nature--one that could forgive. Alas! and alas! this was
the truth!
He had come to the door; he stood by it now, holding it open, looking at
me so courteously, so deferentially, with a manner of one who had been a
gentleman and lived with gentlemen all his life, but in a way which at
the same time ordered me out as plainly as possible.
I went to the door. I could no longer stand under that chilling glance,
nor endure the cool, polished contempt of the manner. I behaved by no
means heroically; neither flung my head back, nor muttered any defiance,
nor in any way proved myself a person of spirit. All I could do was to
look appealingly into his face; to search the bright, steady eyes,
without finding in them any hint of softening or relenting.
"Will you not take it, please?" I asked, in a quivering voice and with
trembling lips.
"Impossible, _mein Fräulein_," with the same chilly little bow as
before.
Struggling to repress my tears, I said no more, but passed out, cut to
the heart. The door was closed gently behind me. I felt as if it had
closed upon a bright belief of my youth. I leaned for a moment against
the passage wall and pressed my hand against my eyes. From within came
the sound of a child's voice, "_Mein vater_," and the soft, deep murmur
of Eugen's answer; then I went down-stairs and into the open street.
That hated, hateful three thalers ten groschen were still clasped in my
hand. What was I to do with it? Throw it into the Rhine, and wash it
away forever? Give it to some one in need? Fling it into the gutter?
Send it him by post? I dismissed that idea for what it was worth. No; I
would obey his prohibition. I would keep it--those very coins, and when
I felt inclined to be proud and conceited about anything on my own
account, or disposed to put down superhuman charms to the account of
others, I would go and look at them, and they would preach me eloquent
sermons.
As I went into the house, up the stairs to my room, the front door
opened again and Anna Sartorius overtook me.
"I thought you had left the probe?" said I, staring at her.
"So I had, _Herzchen_," said she, with her usual ambiguous, mocking
laugh; "but I was not compelled to come home, like a good little girl,
the moment I came out of the Tonhalle. I have been visiting a friend.
But where have you been, for the probe must have been over for some
time? We heard the people go past; indeed, some of them were staying in
the house where I was. Did you take a walk in the moonlight?"
"Good-night," said I, too weary and too indifferent even to answer her.
"It must have been a tiring walk; you seem weary, quite _ermüdet_," said
she, mockingly, and I made no answer.
"A haupt-probe is a dismal thing after all," she called out to me from
the top of the stairs.
From my inmost heart I agreed with her.