THE CARNIVAL BALL.
"Aren't you coming to the ball, Eugen?"
"I? No."
"I would if I were you."
"But you are yourself, you see, and I am I. What was it that Heinrich
Mohr in 'The Children of the World' was always saying? _Ich bin ich,
und setze mich selbst._ Ditto me, that's all."
"It is no end of a lark," I pursued.
"My larking days are over."
"And you can talk to any one you like."
"I am going to talk to myself, thanks. I have long wanted a little
conversation with that interesting individual, and while you are
masquerading, I will be doing the reverse. By the time you come home I
shall be so thoroughly self-investigated and set to rights that a mere
look at me will shake all the frivolity out of you."
"Miss Wedderburn will be there."
"I hope she may enjoy it."
"At least she will look so lovely that she will make others enjoy it."
He made no answer.
"You won't go--quite certain?"
"Quite certain, _mein lieber_. Go yourself, and may you have much
pleasure."
Finding that he was in earnest, I went out to hire one domino and
purchase one mask, instead of furnishing myself, as I had hoped, with
two of each of those requisites.
It was Sunday, the first day of the carnival, and that devoted to the
ball of the season. There were others given, but this was the Malerball,
or artists' ball. It was considered rather select, and had I not been
lucky enough to have one or two pupils, members of the club, who had
come forward with offerings of tickets, I might have tried in vain to
gain admittance.
Everybody in Elherthal who was anybody would be at this ball. I had
already been at one like it, as well as at several of the less select
and rougher entertainments, and I found a pleasure which was somewhat
strange even to myself in standing to one side and watching the motley
throng and the formal procession which was every year organized by the
artists who had the management of the proceedings.
The ball began at the timely hour of seven; about nine I enveloped
myself in my domino, and took my way across the road to the scene of the
festivities, which took up the whole three saals of the Tonhalle.
The night was bitter cold, but cold with that rawness which speaks of a
coming thaw. The lamps were lighted, and despite the cold there was a
dense crowd of watchers round the front of the building and in the
gardens, with cold, inquisitive noses flattened against the long glass
doors through which I have seen the people stream in the pleasant May
evenings after the concert or musikfest into the illuminated gardens.
The last time I had been in the big saal had been to attend a dry probe
to a dry concert--the "Erste Walpurgisnacht" of Mendelssohn. The scene
was changed now; the whole room was a mob--"motley the only wear." It
was full to excess, so that there was scarcely room to move about, much
less for dancing. For that purpose the middle saal of the three had been
set aside, or rather a part of it railed off.
I felt a pleasant sense of ease and well-being--a security that I should
not be recognized, as I had drawn the pointed hood of my domino over my
head, and enveloped myself closely in its ample folds, and thus I could
survey the brilliant Maskenball as I surveyed life from a quiet,
unnoticed obscurity, and without taking part in its active affairs.
There was music going on as I entered. It could scarcely be heard above
the Babel of tongues which was sounding. People were moving as well as
they could. I made my way slowly and unobtrusively toward the upper end
of the saal, intending to secure a place on the great orchestra, and
thence survey the procession.
I recognized dozens of people whom I knew personally, or by sight, or
name, transformed from sober Rhenish burger, or youths of the period,
into persons and creatures whose appropriateness or inappropriateness to
their every-day character it gave me much joy to witness. The most
foolish young man I knew was attired as Cardinal Richelieu; the wisest,
in certain respects, had a buffoon's costume, and plagued the statesman
and churchman grievously.
By degrees I made my way through the mocking, taunting, flouting,
many-colored crowd, to the orchestra, and gradually up its steps until I
stood upon a fine vantage-ground. Near me were others; I looked round.
One party seemed to keep very much together--a party which for richness
and correctness of costume outshone all others in the room. Two ladies,
one dark and one fair, were dressed as Elsa and Ortrud. A man, whose
slight, tall, commanding figure I soon recognized, was attired in the
blue mantle, silver helm and harness of Lohengrin the son of Percivale;
and a second man, too boyish-looking for the character, was masked as
Frederic of Telramund. Henry the Fowler was wanting, but the group was
easily to be recognized as personating the four principal characters
from Wagner's great opera.
They had apparently not been there long, for they had not yet unmasked.
I had, however, no difficulty in recognizing any of them. The tall, fair
girl in the dress of Elsa was Miss Wedderburn; the Ortrud was Lady Le
Marchant, and right well she looked the character. Lohengrin was von
Francius, and Friedrich von Telramund was Mr. Arkwright, Sir Peter's
secretary. Here was a party in whom I could take some interest, and I
immediately and in the most unprincipled manner devoted myself to
watching them--myself unnoticed.
"Who in all that motley crowd would I wish to be?" I thought, as my eyes
wandered over them.
The procession was just forming; the voluptuous music of "Die Tausend
und eine Nacht" waltzes was floating from the gallery and through the
room. They went sweeping past--or running, or jumping; a ballet-girl
whose mustache had been too precious to be parted with and a lady of the
_vielle cour_ beside her, nuns and corpses; Christy Minstrels (English,
these last, whose motives were constantly misunderstood), fools and
astrologers, Gretchens, Clärchens, devils, Egmonts, Joans of Arc enough
to have rescued France a dozen times, and peasants of every race: Turks
and Finns; American Indians and Alfred the Great--it was tedious and
dazzling.
Then the procession was got into order; a long string of German legends,
all the misty chronicle of Gudrun, the "Nibelungenlied" and the
Rheingold--Siegfried and Kriemhild--those two everlasting figures of
beauty and heroism, love and tragedy, which stand forth in hues of pure
brightness that no time can dim; Brunhild and von Tronje-Hagen--this was
before the days of Bayreuth and the Tetralogy--Tannhauser and Lohengrin,
the Loreley, Walther von der Vogelweide, the two Elizabeths of the
Wartburg, dozens of obscure legends and figures from "Volkslieder" and
Folklore which I did not recognize; "Dornroschen," Rubezahl; and the
music to which they marched, was the melancholy yet noble measure, "The
Last Ten of the Fourth Regiment."
I surveyed the masks and masquerading for some time, keeping my eye all
the while upon the party near me. They presently separated. Lady Le
Marchant took the arm which von Francius offered her, and they went down
the steps. Miss Wedderburn and the young secretary were left alone. I
was standing near them, and two other masks, both in domino, hoveredää
about. One wore a white domino with a scarlet rosette on the breast. The
other was a black domino, closely disguised, who looked long after von
Francius and Lady Le Marchant, and presently descended the orchestra
steps and followed in their wake.
"Do not remain with me, Mr. Arkwright," I heard Miss Wedderburn say.
"You want to dance. Go and enjoy yourself."
"I could not think of leaving you alone, Miss Wedderburn."
"Oh, yes, you could, and can. I am not going to move from here. I want
to look on--not to dance. You will find me here when you return."
Again she urged him not to remain with her, and finally he departed in
search of amusement among the crowd below.
Miss Wedderburn was now alone. She turned; her eyes, through her mask,
met mine through my mask, and a certain thrill shot through me. This was
such an opportunity as I had never hoped for, and I told myself that I
should be a great fool if I let it slip. But how to begin? I looked at
her. She was very beautiful, this young English girl, with the wonderful
blending of fire and softness which had made me from the first think her
one of the most attractive women I had ever seen.
As I stood, awkward and undecided, she beckoned me to her. In an instant
I was at her side, bowing but maintaining silence.
"You are Herr Helfen, _nicht wahr_?" said she, inquiringly.
"Yes," said I, and removed my mask. "How did you know it?"
"Something in your figure and attitude. Are you not dancing?"
"I--oh, no!"
"Nor I--I am not in the humor for it. I never felt less like dancing,
nor less like a masquerade." Then--hesitatingly--"Are you alone
to-night?"
"Yes. Eugen would not come."
"He will not be here at all?"
"Not at all?"
"I am surprised."
"I tried to persuade him to come," said I, apologetically. "But he would
not. He said he was going to have a little conversation at home with
himself."
"So!" She turned to me with a mounting color, which I saw flush to her
brow above her mask, and with parted lips.
"He has never cared for anything since Sigmund left us," I continued.
"Sigmund--was that the dear little boy?"
"You say very truly."
"Tell me about him. Was not his father very fond of him?"
"Fond! I never saw a man idolize his child so much. It was only
need--the hardest need that made them part."
"How--need? You do not mean poverty?" said she, somewhat awe-struck.
"Oh, no! Moral necessity. I do not know the reason. I have never asked.
But I know it was like a death-blow."
"Ah!" said she, and with a sudden movement removed her mask, as if she
felt it stifling her, and looked me in the face with her beautiful clear
eyes.
"Who could oblige him to part with his own child?" she asked.
"That I do not know, _mein Fräulein_. What I do know is that some shadow
darkens my friend's life and imbitters it--that he not only can not do
what he wishes, but is forced to do what he hates--and that parting was
one of the things."
She looked at me with eagerness for some moments; then said, quickly:
"I can not help being interested in all this, but I fancy I ought not to
listen to it, for--for--I don't think he would like it. He--he--I
believe he dislikes me, and perhaps you had better say no more."
"Dislikes you!" I echoed. "Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes! he does," she repeated, with a faint smile, which struggled
for a moment with a look of pain, and then was extinguished. "I
certainly was once very rude to him, but I should not have thought he
was an ungenerous man--should you?"
"He is not ungenerous; the very reverse; he is too generous."
"It does not matter, I suppose," said she, repressing some emotion. "It
can make no difference, but it pains me to be so misunderstood and so
behaved to by one who was at first so kind to me--for he was very kind."
"_Mein Fräulein_," said I, eager, though puzzled, "I can not explain
it; it is as great a mystery to me as to you. I know nothing of his
past--nothing of what he has been or done; nothing of who he is--only
of one thing I am sure--that he is not what he seems to be. He may be
called Eugen Courvoisier, or he may call himself Eugen Courvoisier; he
was once known by some name in a very different world to that he lives
in now. I know nothing about that, but I know this--that I believe in
him. I have lived more than three years with him; he is true and
honorable; fantastically, chivalrously honorable" (her eyes were
downcast and her cheeks burning). "He never did anything false or
dishonest--"
A slight, low, sneering laugh at my right hand caused me to look up.
That figure in a white domino with a black mask, and a crimson rosette
on the breast, stood leaning up against the foot of the organ, but other
figures were near; the laugh might have come from one of them; it might
have nothing to do with us or our remarks. I went on in a vehement and
eager tone:
"He is what we Germans call a _ganzer kerl_--thorough in all--out and
out good. Nothing will ever make me believe otherwise. Perhaps the
mystery will never be cleared up. It doesn't matter to me. It will make
no difference in my opinion of the only man I love."
A pause. Miss Wedderburn was looking at me; her eyes were full of tears;
her face strangely moved. Yes--she loved him. It stood confessed in the
very strength of the effort she made to be calm and composed. As she
opened her lips to speak, that domino that I mentioned glided from her
place and stooping down between us, whispered or murmured:
"You are a fool for your pains. Believe no one--least of all those who
look most worthy of belief. He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is
from shame and disgrace that he hides himself. Ask him if he remembers
the 20th of April five years ago; you will hear what he has to say about
it, and how brave and honorable he looks."
Swift as fire the words were said, and rapidly as the same she had
raised herself and disappeared. We were left gazing at each other. Miss
Wedderburn's face was blanched--she stared at me with large dilated
eyes, and at last in a low voice of anguish and apprehension said:
"Oh, what does it mean?"
Her voice recalled me to myself.
"It may mean what it likes," said I, calmly. "As I said, it makes no
difference to me. I do not and will not believe that he ever did
anything dishonorable."
"Do you not?" said she, tremulously. "But--but--Anna Sartorius does know
something of him."
"Who is Anna Sartorius?"
"Why, that domino who spoke to us just now. But I forgot. You will not
know her. She wanted long ago to tell me about him, and I would not let
her, so she said I might learn for myself, and should never leave off
until I knew the lesson by heart. I think she has kept her word," she
added, with a heartsick sigh.
"You surely would not believe her if she said the same thing fifty times
over," said I, not very reasonably, certainly.
"I do not know," she replied, hesitatingly. "It is very difficult to
know."
"Well, I would not. If the whole world accused him I would believe
nothing except from his own lips."
"I wish I knew all about Anna Sartorius," said she, slowly, and she
looked as if seeking back in her memory to remember some dream. I stood
beside her; the motley crowd ebbed and flowed beneath us, but the
whisper we had heard had changed everything; and yet, no--to me not
changed, but only darkened things.
In the meantime it had been growing later. Our conversation, with its
frequent pauses, had taken a longer time than we had supposed. The crowd
was thinning. Some of the women were going.
"I wonder where my sister is!" observed Miss Wedderburn, rather wearily.
Her face was pale, and her delicate head drooped as if it were
overweighed and pulled down by the superabundance of her beautiful
chestnut hair, which came rippling and waving over her shoulders. A
white satin petticoat, stiff with gold embroidery; a long trailing blue
mantle of heavy brocade, fastened on the shoulders with golden clasps; a
golden circlet in the gold of her hair; such was the dress, and right
royally she became it. She looked a vision of loveliness. I wondered if
she would ever act Elsa in reality; she would be assuredly the loveliest
representative of that fair and weak-minded heroine who ever trod the
boards. Supposing it ever came to pass that she acted Elsa to some one
else's Lohengrin, would she think of this night? Would she remember the
great orchestra--and me, and the lights, and the people--our words--a
whisper? A pause.
"But where can Adelaide be?" she said, at last. "I have not seen them
since they left us."
"They are there," said I, surveying from my vantage-ground the thinning
ranks. "They are coming up here too. And there is the other gentleman,
Graf von Telramund, following them."
They drew up to the foot of the orchestra, and then Mr. Arkwright came
up to seek us.
"Miss Wedderburn, Lady Le Marchant is tired and thinks it is time to be
going."
"So am I tired," she replied. I stepped back, but before she went away
she turned to me, holding out her hand:
"Good-night, Herr Helfen. I, too, will not believe without proof."
We shook hands, and she went away.
* * * * *
The lamp still burning, the room cold, the stove extinct. Eugen seated
motionless near it.
"Eugen, art thou asleep?"
"I asleep, my dear boy! Well, how was it?"
"Eugen, I wish you had been there."
"Why?" He roused himself with an effort and looked at me. His brow was
clouded, his eyes too.
"Because you would have enjoyed it. I did. I saw Miss Wedderburn, and
spoke to her. She looked lovely."
"In that case it would have been odd indeed if you had not enjoyed
yourself."
"You are inexplicable."
"It is bed-time," he remarked, rising and speaking, as I thought,
coldly.
We both retired. As for the whisper, frankly and honestly, I did not
give it another thought.