"Allein, allein! und so soll ich genesen?
Allein, allein! und das des Schicksals Segen!
Allein, allein! O Gott, ein einzig Wesen,
Um dieses Haupt an seine Brust zu legen!"
I had a sharp, if not a long attack of illness, which left me weak,
shaken, passive, so that I felt neither ability nor wish to resist those
who took me into their hands. I remember being surprised at the goodness
of every one toward me; astonished at Frau Lutzler's gentle kindness,
amazed at the unfailing goodness of Dr. Mittendorf and his wife, at that
of the medical man who attended me in my illness. Yes, the world seemed
full of kindness, full of kind people who were anxious to keep me in it,
and who managed, in spite of my effort to leave it, to retain me.
Dr. Mittendorf, the oculist, had been my guardian angel. It was he who
wrote to my friends and told them of my illness; it was he who went to
meet Stella and Miss Hallam's Merrick, who came over to nurse me--and
take me home. The fiat had gone forth. I was to go home. I made no
resistance, but my very heart shrunk away in fear and terror from the
parting, till one day something happened which reconciled me to going
home, or rather made me evenly and equally indifferent whether I went
home, or stayed abroad, or lived, or died, or, in short, what became of
me.
I sat one afternoon for the first time in an arm-chair opposite the
window. It was June, and the sun streamed warmly and richly in. The room
was scented with a bunch of wall-flowers and another of mignonette,
which Stella had brought in that morning from the market. Stella was
very kind to me, but in a superior, patronizing way. I had always felt
deferentially backward before the superior abilities of both my
sisters, but Stella quite over-awed me by her decided opinions and calm
way of setting me right upon all possible matters.
This afternoon she had gone out with Merrick to enjoy a little fresh
air. I was left quite alone, with my hands in my lap, feeling very weak,
and looking wistfully toward the well-remembered windows on the other
side of the street.
They were wide open; I could see inside the room. No one was
there--Friedhelm and Eugen had gone out, no doubt.
The door of my room opened, and Frau Lutzler came in. She looked
cautiously around, and then, having ascertained that I was not asleep,
asked in a nerve-disturbing whisper if I had everything that I wanted.
"Everything, thank you, Frau Lutzler," said I. "But come in! I want to
speak to you. I am afraid I have given you no end of trouble."
"_Ach, ich bitte sie, Fräulein!_ Don't mention the trouble. We have
managed to keep you alive."
How they all did rejoice in having won a victory over that gray-winged
angel, Death! I thought to myself, with a curious sensation of wonder.
"You are very kind," I said, "and I want you to tell me something, Frau
Lutzler: how long have I been ill?"
"Fourteen days, Fräulein; little as you may think it."
"Indeed! I have heard nothing about any one in that time. Who has been
made musik-direktor in place of Herr von Francius?"
Frau Lutzler folded her arms and composed herself to tell me a history.
"_Ja, Fräulein_, the post would have been offered to Herr Courvoisier,
only, you see, he has turned out a good-for-nothing. But perhaps you
heard about that?"
"Oh, yes! I know all about it," said I, hastily, as I passed my
handkerchief over my mouth to hide the spasm of pain which contracted
it.
"Of course, considering all that, the Direktion could not offer it to
him, so they proposed it to Herr Helfen--you know Herr Helfen, Fräulein,
_nicht_?"
I nodded.
"A good young man! a worthy young man, and so popular with his
companions! _Aber denken sie nur!_ The authorities might have been
offering him an insult instead of a good post. He refused it then and
there; would not stop to consider about it--in fact, he was quite angry
about it. The gentleman who was chosen at last was a stranger, from
Hanover."
"Herr Helfen refused it--why, do you know?"
"They say, because he was so fond of Herr Courvoisier, and would not be
set above him. It may be so. I know for a certainty that, so far from
taking part against Herr Courvoisier, he would not even believe the
story against him, though he could not deny it, and did not try to deny
it. _Aber_, Fräulein--what hearts men must have! To have lived three
years, and let the world think him an honest man, when all the time he
had that on his conscience! _Schrecklich!_"
Adelaide and Courvoisier, it seemed, might almost be pelted with the
same stones.
"His wife, they say, died of grief at the disgrace--"
"Yes," said I, wincing. I could not bear this any longer, nor to discuss
Courvoisier with Frau Lutzler, and the words "his wife," uttered in that
speculatively gossiping tone, repelled me. She turned the subject to
Helfen again.
"Herr Helfen must indeed have loved his friend, for when Herr
Courvoisier went away he went with him."
"Herr Courvoisier is gone?" I inquired, in a voice so like my usual one
that I was surprised.
"Yes, certainly he is gone. I don't know where, I am sure."
"Perhaps they will return?"
Frau Lutzler shook her head, and smiled slightly.
"_Nee_, Fräulein! Their places were filled immediately. They are
gone--_ganz und gar_."
I tried to listen to her, tried to answer her as she went on giving her
opinions upon men and things, but the effort collapsed suddenly. I had
at last to turn my head away and close my eyes, and in that weary, weary
moment I prayed to God that He would let me die, and wondered again, and
was almost angry with those who had nursed me, for having done their
work so well. "We have managed to save you," Frau Lutzler had said. Save
me from what, and for what?
I knew the truth, as I sat there; it was quite too strong and too clear
to be laid aside, or looked upon with doubtful eyes. I was fronted by a
fact, humiliating or not--a fact which I could not deny.
It was bad enough to have fallen in love with a man who had never showed
me by word or sign that he cared for me, but exactly and pointedly the
reverse; but now it seemed the man himself was bad too. Surely a
well-regulated mind would have turned away from him--uninfluenced.
If so, then mine was an ill-regulated mind. I had loved him from the
bottom of my heart; the world without him felt cold, empty and
bare--desolate to live in, and shorn of its sweetest pleasures. He had
influenced me, he influenced me yet--I still felt the words true:
"The _greater_ soul that draweth thee
Hath left his shadow plain to see
On thy fair face, Persephone!"
He had bewitched me; I did feel capable of "making a fool of myself" for
his sake. I did feel that life by the side of any other man would be
miserable, though never so richly set; and that life by his side would
be full and complete though never so poor and sparing in its
circumstances. I make no excuses, no apologies for this state of things.
It simply was so.
Gone! And Friedhelm with him! I should probably never see either of them
again. "I have made a mess of my life," Adelaide had said, and I felt
that I might chant the same dirge. A fine ending to my boasted artistic
career! I thought of how I had sat and chattered so aimlessly to
Courvoisier in the cathedral at Köln, and had little known how large and
how deep a shadow his influence was to cast over my life.
I still retained a habit of occasionally kneeling by my bedside and
saying my prayers, and this night I felt the impulse to do so. I tried
to thank God for my recovery. I said the Lord's Prayer; it is a
universal petition and thanksgiving; it did not too nearly touch my
woes; it allowed itself to be said, but when I came to something nearer,
tried to say a thanksgiving for blessings and friends who yet remained,
my heart refused, my tongue cleaved to my mouth. Alas! I was not
regenerate. I could not thank God for what had happened. I found myself
thinking of "the pity on't," and crying most bitterly till tears
streamed through my folded fingers, and whispering, "Oh, if I could only
have died while I was so ill! no one would have missed me, and it would
have been so much better for me!"
* * * * *
In the beginning of July, Stella, Merrick, and I returned to England, to
Skernford, home. I parted in silent tears from my trusted friends, the
Mittendorfs, who begged me to come and stay with them at some future
day. The anguish of leaving Elberthal did not make itself fully felt at
first--that remained to torment me at a future day. And soon after our
return came printed in large type in all the newspapers, "Declaration of
War between France and Germany." Mine was among the hearts which panted
and beat with sickening terror in England while the dogs of war were
fastened in deadly grip abroad.
My time at home was spent more with Miss Hallam than in my own home. I
found her looking much older, much feebler, and much more subdued than
when she had been in Germany. She seemed to find some comfort from my
society, and I was glad to devote myself to her. But for her I should
never have known all those pains and pleasures which, bitter though
their remembrance might be, were, and ever would be to me, the dearest
thing of my life.
Miss Hallam seemed to know this; she once asked me: "Would I return to
Germany if I could?"
"Yes," said I, "I would."
To say that I found life dull, even in Skernford, at that time would be
untrue. Miss Hallam was a furious partisan of the French, and I dared
not mention the war to her, but I took in the "Daily News" from my
private funds, and read it in my bedroom every night with dimmed eyes,
fast-coming breath, and beating heart. I knew--knew well, that Eugen
must be fighting--unless he were dead. And I knew, too, by some
intuition founded, I suppose, on many small negative evidences unheeded
at the time, that he would fight, not like the other men who were
battling for the sake of hearth and home, and sheer love and pride for
the Fatherland, but as one who has no home and no Fatherland, as one who
seeks a grave, not as one who combats a wrong.
Stella saw the pile of newspapers in my room, and asked me how I could
read those dreary accounts of battles and bombardments. Beyond these
poor newspapers I had, during the sixteen months that I was at home, but
scant tidings from without. I had implored Clara Steinmann to write me
now and then, and tell me the news of Elberthal, but her penmanship was
of the most modest and retiring description, and she was, too, so
desperately excited about Karl as to be able to think scarce of anything
else. Karl belonged to a Landwehr regiment which had not yet been called
out, but to which that frightful contingency might happen any day; and
what should she, Clara, do in that case? She told me no news; she
lamented over the possibility of Karl's being summoned upon active
service. It was, she said, _grausam, schrecklich_! It made her almost
faint to write about it, and yet she did compose four whole pages in
that condition. The barrack, she informed me, was turned into a
hospital, and she and "Tante" both worked hard. There was much
work--dreadful work to do--such poor groaning fellows to nurse!
"_Herrgott!_" cried poor little Clara, "I did not know that the world
was such a dreadful place!" Everything was so dear, so frightfully dear,
and Karl--that was the burden of her song--might have to go into battle
any day.
Also through the public papers I learned that Adelaide and Sir Peter Le
Marchant were divided forever. As to what happened afterward I was for
some time in uncertainty, longing most intensely to know, not daring to
speak of it. Adelaide's name was the signal for a cold stare from
Stella, and angry, indignant expostulation from Miss Hallam. To me it
was a sorrowful spell which I carried in my heart of hearts.
One day I saw in a German musical periodical which I took in, this
announcement: "Herr Musik-direktor Max von Francius in ---- has lately
published a new symphony in B minor. The productions of this gifted
composer are slowly but most surely making the mark which they deserve
to leave in the musical history of our nation; he has, we believe, left
---- for ---- for a few weeks to join his lady (_seine Gemahlin_), who
is one of the most active and valuable hospitable nurses of that town,
now, alas! little else than a hospital."
This paragraph set my heart beating wildly. Adelaide was then the wife
of von Francius. My heart yearned from my solitude toward them both. Why
did not they write? They knew how I loved them. Adelaide could not
suppose that I looked upon her deed with the eyes of the world at
large--with the eyes of Stella or Miss Hallam. Had I not grieved with
her? Had I not seen the dreadful struggle? Had I not proved the nobility
of von Francius? On an impulse I seized pen and paper, and wrote to
Adelaide, addressing my letter under cover to her husband at the town in
which he was musik-direktor; to him I also wrote--only a few words--"Is
your pupil forgotten by her master? he has never been forgotten by her."
At last the answer came. On the part of Adelaide it was short:
"DEAR MAY,--I have had no time till now to answer your letter. I
can not reply to all your questions. You ask whether I repent what
I have done. I repent my whole life. If I am happy--how can I be
happy? I am busy now, and have many calls upon my time. My husband
is very good: he never interposes between me and my work. Shall I
ever come to England again?--never."
"Yours,
"A. von F."
No request to write again! No inquiry after friends or relations! This
letter showed me that whatever I might feel to her--however my heart
might beat and long, how warm soever the love I bore her, yet that
Adelaide was now apart from me--divided in every thought. It was a cruel
letter, but in my pain I could not see that it had not been cruelly
intended. Her nature had changed. But behind this pain lay comfort. On
the back of the same sheet as that on which Adelaide's curt epistle was
written, were some lines in the hand I knew well.
"LIEBE MAI"--they said--"Forgive your master, who can never forget
you, nor ever cease to love you. You suffer. I know it; I read it
in those short, constrained lines, so unlike your spontaneous words
and frank smile. My dear child, remember the storms that are
beating on every side--over our country, in on our hearts. Once I
asked you to sing for me some time: you promised. When the war is
over I shall remind you of your promise. At present, believe me,
silence is best.
"Your old music-master,
"M. v. F."
Gall and honey, roses and thistles, a dagger at the heart and a caress
upon the lips; such seemed to me the characters of the two letters on
the same sheet which I held in my hand. Adelaide made my heart ache; von
Francius made tears stream from my eyes. I reproached myself for having
doubted him, but oh, I treasured the proof that he was true! It was the
one tangible link between me, reality, and hard facts, and the misty yet
beloved life I had quitted. My heart was full to overflowing; I must
tell some one--I must speak to some one.
Once again I tried to talk to Stella about Adelaide, but she gazed at me
in that straight, strange way, and said coldly that she preferred not to
speak of "that." I could not speak to Miss Hallam about it. Alone in the
broad meadows, beside the noiseless river, I sometimes whispered to
myself that I was not forgotten, and tried to console myself with the
feeling that what von Francius promised he did--I should touch his hand,
hear his voice again--and Adelaide's. For the rest, I had to lock the
whole affair--my grief and my love, my longing and my anxiety, fast
within my own breast, and did so.
It was a long lesson--a hard one; it was conned with bitter tears, wept
long and alone in the darkness; it was a sorrow which lay down and rose
up with me. It taught (or rather practiced me until I became expert in
them) certain things in which I had been deficient; reticence,
self-reliance, a quicker ability to decide in emergencies. It certainly
made me feel old and sad, and Miss Hallam often said that Stella and I
were "as quiet as nuns."
Stella had the power which I so ardently coveted: she was a first-rate
instrumentalist. The only topic she and I had in common was the music I
had heard and taken part in. To anything concerning that she would
listen for hours.
Meanwhile the war rolled on, and Paris capitulated, and peace was
declared. The spring passed and Germany laughed in glee, and bleeding
France roused herself to look with a haggard eye around her; what she
saw, we all know--desolation, and mourning, and woe. And summer glided
by, and autumn came, and I did not write either to Adelaide or von
Francius. I had a firm faith in him--and absolute trust. I felt I was
not forgotten.
In less than a year after my return to England, Miss Hallam died. The
day before her death she called me to her, and said words which moved me
very much.
"May, I am an eccentric old woman, and lest you should be in any doubt
upon the subject of my feelings toward you, I wish to tell you that my
life has been more satisfactory to me ever since I knew you."
"That is much more praise than I deserve, Miss Hallam."
"No, it isn't. I like both you and Stella. Three months ago I made a
codicil to my will by which I endeavored to express that liking. It is
nothing very brilliant, but I fancy it will suit the views of both of
you."
Utterly astounded, I stammered out some incoherent words.
"There, don't thank me," said she. "If I were not sure that I shall die
to-morrow--or thereabouts, I should put my plan into execution at once,
but I shall not be alive at the end of the week."
Her words proved true. Grim, sardonic, and cynical to the last, she died
quietly, gladly closing her eyes which had so long been sightless. She
was sixty-five years old, and had lived alone since she was
five-and-twenty.
The codicil to her will, which she had spoken of with so much composure,
left three hundred pounds to Stella and me. She wished a portion of it
to be devoted to our instruction in music, vocal and instrumental, at
any German conservatorium we might select. She preferred that of L----.
Until we were of age, our parents or guardians saw to the dispensing of
the money, after that it was our own--half belonging to each of us; we
might either unite our funds or use them separately as we choose.
It need scarcely be said that we both chose that course which she
indicated. Stella's joy was deep and intense--mine had an unavoidable
sorrow mingled with it. At the end of September, 18--, we departed for
Germany, and before going to L---- it was agreed that we should pay a
visit at Elberthal, to my friend Dr. Mittendorf.
It was a gusty September night, with wind dashing angrily about and
showers of rain flying before the gale, on which I once again set foot
in Elberthal--the place I had thought never more to see.