It had looked for some time as though the Baron von Auffenberg had
retired from the political stage. In circles in which he had formerly
been held in unqualified esteem he was now regarded as a fallen hero.
His friends traced the cause of his failure to the incessant friction
from which the party had suffered; to the widespread change that was
taking place in the public mind; to the ever-increasing pressure from
above and the never-ceasing fermentation from below; to the feverish
restlessness that had come over the body politic, changing its form, its
ideals, and its convictions; and to the more scrupulous and sometimes
reactionary stand that was being taken on all matters of national
culture.
But this could not explain the hard trace of repulsion and aversion
which the Baron's countenance had never before revealed when in the
presence of men; it threw no light, or at most an inadequate light, on
the stony glare, gloomy impatience, and reticence which he practised now
even in those circles and under those circumstances in which he had
formerly been noted for his diverting talents as a conversationalist and
companion.
In his heart of hearts he had, as a matter of fact, always despised his
political constituents, their speeches, their action, their enthusiasm,
and their indignation. But he had never kicked over the traces, for
during the course of a rather eventful life he had made the discovery
that contempt and an icy disposition are invaluable adjuncts to any one
who wishes to control men.
Even though he had fought at the beginning of his career with all the
eloquence and buoyancy at his command for freedom and tolerance, it
remained a fact that he regarded liberalism as nothing more than a
newspaper term, a means of keeping men busy who were too indolent to
think for themselves, and a source of obstructive annoyance to the
openly hated but secretly admired Bismarck.
He had wielded a power in full consciousness of the lie he was acting,
and had done it solely by gestures, calculations, and political
adroitness. This will do for a while, but in time it eats into the
marrow of one's life.
In his eyes nothing was of value except the law, unwritten to be sure,
but of immemorial duration, that subjects the little to the big, the
weak to the strong, the immature to the experienced, the poor to the
rich. In accordance with this law humanity for him was divided into two
camps: those who submitted to the law, and the undesirable citizens who
rebelled against the law.
And of these undesirable citizens his son Eberhard was the most
undesirable.
With this stinging, painful thorn in his flesh, oppressed by the feeling
of loneliness in the very midst of a noisy, fraudulent activity, and
filled with an ever-increasing detestation of the superfluity and
consequent effeminacy of his daily existence, he had created out of the
figure of his son a picture of evil incarnate.
He visualised him in dissipation and depravity of every kind and degree;
he saw him sinking lower and lower, a traitor to his family name; as if
in a dream that appeases the sense of obscene horror, he saw him in
league with the abandoned and proscribed, associating with thieves,
street bandits, high-flying swindlers, counterfeiters, anarchists,
prostitutes, and literati. He saw him in dirty dives, a fugitive from
justice wandering along the highway, drunk in a gambling den, a beggar
at a fair, and a prisoner at the bar.
His determination to wait until the degenerate representative of the
human family had been stigmatised by all the world he finally abandoned.
His impatience to find peace, to throw off the mask, to rid himself
completely of all entanglements, dissimulation, and the life of luxury
to which he had been accustomed became so great, that he looked forward
to the day that would eventually mark his release as the day of a new
birth.
But why did he hesitate? Was there still an element of doubt in his
breast? Was there still slumbering, deep down in the regions of his
heart that were inaccessible to bitterness and revenge, another picture
of his son? Why did he hesitate from week to week, from month to month?
In the meantime he had donated great fortunes to poor houses, hospitals,
foundations, and similar causes. He wanted to give away other millions,
at least so much that his heirs would receive only the gleanings of what
had once been a field of riches. Emilia was to be given the income from
the breweries and the country estates.
To this extent he had firmly made up his mind. Now that his wife had
told him of the actual condition in which Eberhard found himself, he
felt justified in going ahead and carrying out his pre-determined plans.
The proofs of dishonourable conduct on the part of his son could now be
brought forward. The debts he had contracted, either through flippancy
or downright deception, in the name of his father were sufficient to
condemn him forever. And if not, then let them fight it out after he was
dead and gone; let his last will and testament be a ghost, a spectre
that would strike terror into their hearts and embitter such pleasure as
they might otherwise derive from life.
His will had been drawn up seven years ago; all that was needed was the
signature of the notary public.
But why did the Baron hesitate? Why did he pace back and forth in his
room with pinched lips? Why did he ring for the butler with the idea of
sending this functionary for the notary, and then suddenly change his
mind and give the butler something else to do?
_"Depeche-toi, mon bon garcon_," screeched the parrot.