When Eberhard von Auffenberg left the paternal home to strike out for
himself, he was as helpless as a child that has lost the hand of its
adult companion in a crowd.
He put the question to himself: What am I going to do? He had never
worked. He had studied at various universities as so many other young
men have studied, that is, he had managed to pass a few examinations by
the skin of his teeth.
He had had so little to do in life, and was so utterly devoid of
ambition, that he looked upon a really ambitious individual as being
insane. Anything that was at all practical was filled with
insurmountable obstacles. His freedom, in other words, placed him in a
distressing state of mind and body.
It would not have been difficult for him to find people who would have
been willing to advance him money on his name. But he did not wish to
incur debts of which his father might hear. If he did, his solemn
solution of an unbearable relation would have amounted to nothing.
He could, of course, count on his share of the estate; and he did count
on it, notwithstanding the fact that to do so was to speculate on the
death of his own father. He stood in urgent need of a confidential
friend; and this friend he thought he had found in Herr Carovius.
"Ah, two people such as you and I will not insist upon unnecessary
formalities," said Herr Carovius. "All that I need is your face, and
your signature to a piece of paper. We will deduct ten per cent at the
very outset, so that my expenses may be covered, for money is dear at
present. I will give you real estate bonds; they are selling to-day at
eighty-five, unfortunately. The Exchange is a trifle spotty, but a
little loss like that won't mean anything to you."
For the ten thousand marks that he owed, Eberhard received seven
thousand, six hundred and fifty, cash. In less than a year he was again
in need of money, and asked Herr Carovius for twenty thousand. Herr
Carovius said he did not have that much ready money, and that he would
have to approach a lender.
Eberhard replied sulkily that he could do about that as he saw fit, but
he must not mention his name to a third party. A few days later Herr
Carovius told a tale, of hair-splitting negotiations: there was a
middleman who demanded immodest guarantees, including certified notes.
He swore that he knew nothing about that kind of business, and that he
had undertaken to supply the needed loan only because of his excessive
affection for his young friend.
Eberhard was unmoved. The eel-like mobility of the man with the
squeaking voice did not please him; not at all; as a matter of fact he
began to dread him; and this dread increased in intensity and
fearfulness in proportion to the degree in which he felt he was becoming
more and more entangled in his net.
The twenty thousand marks were procured at an interest of thirty-five
per cent. At first Eberhard refused to sign the note. He would not touch
it until Herr Carovius had assured him that it was not to be converted
into currency, that it could be redeemed with new loans at any time, and
that it would lie in his strong-box as peacefully as the bones of the
Auffenberg ancestors rested in their vaults. Eberhard, tired of this
flood of words, yielded.
Every time he signed his name he had a feeling that the danger into
which he was walking was becoming greater. But he was too lazy to defend
himself; he was too aristocratic to interest himself in petty
explanations; and he was simply not capable of living on a small income.
The endorsed notes were presented as a matter of warning; new loans
settled them; new loans made new notes necessary; these were extended;
the extensions were costly; an uncanny individual shielded in anonymity
was taken into confidence. He bought up mortgages, paid for them in
diamonds instead of money, and sold depreciated stocks. The debts having
reached a certain height, Herr Carovius demanded that Eberhard have his
life insured. Eberhard had to do it; the premium was very high. In the
course of three years Eberhard had lost all perspective; he could no
longer survey his obligations. The money he received he spent in the
usual fashion, never bothered himself about the terms on which he had
secured it, and had no idea where all this was leading to and where it
was going to end. He turned in disgust from Herr Carovius's clumsy
approaches, malicious gibes, and occasional threats.
What an insipid smile he had! How fatuous, and then again how profound,
his conversation could be! He took upon himself the impudent liberty of
running in and out at Eberhard's whenever he felt like it. He bored him
with his discussion of philosophic systems, or with miserable gossip
about his neighbours. He watched him day and night.
He followed him on the street. He would come up to him and cry out,
"Herr Baron, Herr Baron!" and wave his hat. His solicitude for
Eberhard's health resembled that of a gaoler. One evening Eberhard went
to bed with a fever. Herr Carovius ran to the physician, and then spent
the whole night by the bedside of the patient, despite his entreaties to
be left alone. "Would it not be well for me to write to your mother?" he
asked, with much show of affection on the next morning when he noticed
that the fever had not fallen. Eberhard sprang from his bed with an
exclamation of rage, and Herr Carovius left immediately and
unceremoniously.
Herr Carovius loved to complain. He ran around the table, exclaiming
that he was ruined. He brought out his cheque book, added up the
figures, and cried: "Two more years of this business, dear Baron, and I
will be ready for the poor house." He demanded security and still more
securities; he asked for renewed promises. He submitted an account of
the total sum, and demanded an endorsement. But it was impossible for
any one to make head or tail out of this welter of interest,
commissions, indemnities, and usury. Herr Carovius himself no longer
knew precisely how matters stood; for a consortium of subsequent
indorsers had been formed behind his back, and they were exploiting his
zeal on behalf of the young Baron for all it was worth.
"What is this I hear about you and the women?" asked Herr Carovius one
day. "What about a little adventure?" He had noticed that the Baron had
a secret; and it enraged him to think that he could not get at the
bottom of this amorous mystery.
He made this discovery one day as Eberhard was packing his trunk. "Where
are you going, my dear friend?" he crowed in exclamatory dismay.
Eberhard replied that he was going to Switzerland. "To Switzerland? What
are you going to do there? I am not going to let you go," said Herr
Carovius. Eberhard gave him one cold stare. Herr Carovius tried
beseeching, begging, pleading. It was in vain; Eberhard left for
Switzerland. He wanted to be alone; he became tired of being alone, and
returned; he went off again; he came back again, and had the
conversation with Eleanore that robbed him of his last hope. Then he
went to Munich, and took up with the spiritists.
Spiritual and mental ennui left him without a vestige of the power of
resistance. An inborn tendency to scepticism did not prevent him from
yielding to an influence which originally was farther removed from the
inclinations of his soul than the vulgar bustle of everyday life.
Benumbed as his critical judgment now was, he went prospecting for the
fountain of life in a zone where dreams flourish and superficial
enchantment predominates.
Herr Carovius hired a spy who never allowed Eberhard to get out of his
sight. He reported regularly to his employer on the movements of the
unique scion of the Auffenberg line. If Eberhard needed money, he was
forced to go to Carovius, who would stand on the platform for an hour
waiting for the Baron's train to come in; and once Eberhard had got out
of his carriage, Herr Carovius excited the laughter of the railroad
officials by his affectionate care for his protege. Delighted to see him
again, he would talk the sheerest nonsense, and trip around about his
young friend in groundless glee.
It seemed after all this that Herr Carovius really loved the Baron; and
he did.
He loved him as a gambler loves his cards, or as the fire loves the
coals. He idealised him; he dreamt about him; he liked to breathe the
air that Eberhard breathed; he saw a chosen being in him; he imputed all
manner of heroic deeds to him, and was immeasurably pleased at his
aristocratic offishness.
He loved him with hatred, with the joy of annihilation. This hate-love
became in time the centre of his thoughts and feelings. In it was
expressed everything that separated him from other men and at the same
time drew him to them. It controlled him unconditionally, until a
second, equally fearful and ridiculous passion became affiliated with
it.