It was the next week after the events narrated, and the chestnut trees
were already in bloom. They were blossoming also in Bellevue Street.
Baron Botho lived here in a ground floor apartment that extended
through from a front balcony to one that opened on a garden: there was
a living-room, a dining-room, and a bedroom, which were distinguished
by a tasteful furnishing decidedly beyond the means of their owner. In
the dining-room there were two pictures of still life by Hertel and
between these a bear hunt, an admirable copy from Rubens, while in the
living-room the "show piece" was a storm at sea by Andreas Achenbach,
surrounded by several smaller pictures by the same artist. The storm
picture had come into Baron Botho's possession by chance at a lottery,
and by means of this beautiful and valuable work he had gained the
reputation of a connoisseur and especially of an admirer of Achenbach.
He joked freely about this and used to declare "that his luck at the
lottery cost him quite dear, because it continually led him to make new
purchases, adding that it was perhaps the same with all good fortune."
Before the sofa, the plush of which was covered with a Persian rug, the
coffee apparatus stood on a malachite table, while on the sofa itself
all kinds of political journals were lying about, and amongst these
some whose presence in this place seemed rather peculiar, and could
only be explained by Baron Botho's favorite phrase "fiddlesticks before
politics." Stories which bore the stamp of imagination, so-called
"pearls," amused him the most. A canary bird, whose cage always stood
open at breakfast time, was flying as usual to light on the hand or
shoulder of his too-indulgent master, who, instead of being impatient,
put his paper aside every time to stroke his little favorite. But if he
omitted the caress, the little creature would cling to the reader's
neck and beard and chirp long and persistently until he had his way.
"All favorites are alike," said Baron Rienaecker, "they expect humility
and obedience."
Just now the door bell rang and the servant came in to bring the
letters. One, a gray, square envelope, was open and bore a three
pfennig stamp. "Hamburg lottery tickets or new cigars," said Rienaecker,
and threw envelope and contents aside without further consideration.
"But this one ... Ah, from Lena. I will save this for the last, unless
this third sealed one contends for the honor. The Osten crest. Then it
is from Uncle Kurt Anton: the Berlin postmark means that he is already
here. What can he want now? Ten to one, he wants me to breakfast with
him or to buy a saddle or to escort him to Renz, or perhaps to Kroll
also; most likely I am to do the one and not omit the other."
And he took a knife from the window-sill and cut open the envelope, on
which he had recognized also Uncle Osten's handwriting, and took out
the letter. The letter read:
"Hotel Brandenburg, Number 15
"My dear Botho:
"An hour ago I arrived safely at the eastern depot, warned by your old
Berlin notice 'Beware of Pickpockets,' and have engaged rooms in the
Hotel Brandenburg, which is to say, in the same old place; a real
conservative is conservative even in small things. I shall only stay
two days, for your air is too heavy for me. This is a smothering hole.
But I will tell you everything by word of mouth. I shall expect you at
one o'clock at Hiller's. After that we will go and buy a saddle. And
then in the evening we will go to Renz. Be punctual. Your old Uncle,
Kurt Anton."
Rienaecker laughed. "I thought as much! And yet there is an innovation.
Formerly it was Borchardt, and now it is Hiller. Oh, oh, Uncle dear, a
true conservative is conservative even in small things.... And now for
my dear Lena.... What would Uncle Kurt Anton say if he knew in what
company his letter and his commands arrived."
And while he was speaking, he opened Lena's note and read:
"It is now five whole days since I last saw you. Is it going to be a
whole week? And I was so happy that evening that I thought you simply
must come again the next day. And you were so dear and good. Mother is
already teasing me, and she says: 'He will not come again.' Oh, what a
pain in my heart that gives me, because I know that it must happen some
time and because I feel that it might happen any day. I was reminded of
that again yesterday. For when I just wrote you that I had not seen you
for five whole days, I did not tell the truth; I did see you yesterday,
but secretly, by stealth, on the Corso. Just fancy, I too was there,
naturally far back in a side path and I watched you riding back and
forth for an hour. Oh I was extremely happy, for you were the most
imposing rider (almost as imposing as Frau Doerr, who sends her regards
to you), and I was so proud just to see you that I didn't even grow
jealous. I mean I was jealous only once. Who was the pretty blonde,
with the two white horses? They were simply garlanded with flowers, and
the flowers were so thick that there were no leaves nor stems. I never
saw anything so beautiful in my life. When I was a child I would have
thought that she was a Princess, but now I know that Princesses are not
always the most beautiful. Yes, she was pretty and you liked her, I
could see that, and she liked you too. But her mother, who set beside
the pretty blonde, you liked still better. And that angered me. I grant
you a really young woman, if it must be so. But an old woman! and even
a mamma? No, no, she has had her share. In any case, my own Botho, you
see that you will have to quiet me and make me happy again. I shall
expect you to-morrow or the next day. And if you cannot come in the
evening, come in the daytime, even if only for a minute. I am so
troubled about you, that is to say, about myself. But you understand me
already. Your
"Lena."
"Your Lena," said he, repeating the signature, once more to himself and
a sort of restlessness took possession of him, because all kinds of
conflicting emotions passed through his heart: love, anxiety, fear.
Then he read the letter through again. At two or three passages he
could not forbear to make a little mark with his silver pencil, not
through pedantry, but through pure delight. "How well she writes! The
handwriting certainly, and the spelling almost ... _Stiehl_ instead of
_Stiel_.... Well, why not? Stiehl was a much dreaded school inspector,
but the Lord be praised, I am not. And '_emphelen_.' Shall I be put out
with her over f and h? Good Lord, how many people can spell 'empfehlen'
properly? The young Countesses cannot always, and the old ones never.
So where is the harm! Really, the letter is like Lena herself, good,
true and trustworthy, and the mistakes make it only the more charming."
He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes and brow with his
hand: "Poor Lena, what is to come of all this? It would have been
better for us both, if there had been no Easter Monday this time. Why
indeed should there be two holidays? Why Treptow and Stralau and
boating excursions? And now my Uncle! Either he is coming as a
messenger from my mother, or else he has plans for me himself, of his
own initiative. Well, we shall see. He has never been through any
training in diplomatic disguises, and even if he has sworn ten oaths to
keep silence, he comes out with everything. I shall soon find out, for
all that I am even less experienced than he in the art of intrigue."
Thereupon he pulled out a drawer of his writing table, in which there
were already other letters of Lena's, tied up with a red ribbon. And
now he rang for the servant to help him to dress. "So, John, that is
all I need.... And now don't forget to draw the blinds down. And if
anyone should come and ask for me, I shall be at the barracks till
twelve, at Hiller's after one and at Renz's in the evening. And be sure
to raise the blinds again at the right time, so that I shall not find a
bake-oven again. And leave the lamp lighted in the front room, but not
in my bedroom; it seems as if the flies are possessed this year. Do you
understand?"
"Very good, Herr Baron."
And during this dialogue, which was half carried on in the corridor,
Rienaecker passed through the vestibule, and out in the garden he
playfully pulled the braids of the porter's little girl, who was
stooping over her little brother's wagon, and got in return a furious
glance, which changed to one of delight as soon as she recognized him.
And now at last he stepped through the gate to the street. Here he saw
beneath the green bower of the chestnut trees the men and vehicles
passing silently to and fro between the great gate and the Zoological
Garden, as if through the glass of a camera. "How beautiful! This is
surely one of the best of worlds."