In spite of all Isabeau's efforts no genuine cheerfulness would return
to the group since the walk. But the worst of it was, at least for
Botho and Lena, that they could not regain any real cheerfulness even
after they had bidden good-bye to Botho's comrades and their ladies,
and were beginning their homeward journey quite alone in a coupe that
they had engaged. An hour later they had arrived, somewhat depressed,
at the dimly lighted depot at Goerlitz, and here, as they were getting
out, Lena had at once asked quite urgently to be allowed to go the rest
of the way through the city alone. "She was tired and out of sorts,"
she said, "and that was not good." But Botho would not be turned aside
from what he considered to be his duty as an escort, and so the two
together had traversed in a rickety old cab the long, long road by the
canal, constantly trying to keep up a conversation about the excursion,
and "how lovely it had been"--a terribly forced conversation, which had
made Botho feel only too plainly how right Lena's feeling had been,
when in an almost imploring tone she had begged him not to escort her
further. Yes, the excursion to "Hankel's Ablage" from which they had
expected so much, and which had actually begun so charmingly and
happily, had ended only in a mingling of ill humor, weariness and
discontent; and only at the last moment, when Botho, with a certain
feeling of being to blame, had bidden Lena a friendly and affectionate
"good night," did she run to him, take his hand and kiss him with
almost passionate impetuosity: "Ah, Botho, things were not as they
should have been to-day, and yet no one was to blame ... not even the
others."
"Never mind, Lena."
"No, no. It was nobody's fault, that is the truth, and it cannot be
altered. But the worst of it is, that it is true. If anyone is to
blame, he can ask pardon and so make all good again. But that is no
help to us. And then too, there is nothing to forgive."
"Lena ..."
I "You must listen for a moment. Oh, my dearest Botho, you are trying
to hide it from me, but the end is coming. And quickly too, I know it."
"How can you say so!"
"To be sure, I only dreamed it," Lena went on. "But why did I dream it?
Because all day long it had been in my mind. My dream was only what my
heart told me. And what I wanted to tell you, Botho, and the reason why
I ran after you a few steps was, that what I said last night holds
good. That I could pass this summer with you was a joy to me, and
always will be, even if I must be unhappy from this day forth."
"Lena, Lena, do not say that ..."
"You feel yourself that I am right; only your kind heart struggles
against it and will not admit the truth. But I know it: yesterday, as
we were walking across the meadow, chattering together, and I picked
you the bunch of flowers, it was our last joy and our last beautiful
hour."
With this interview the day had ended, and now it was the following
morning, and the summer sunshine was streaming brightly into Botho's
room. Both windows stood open and the sparrows were quarreling
in the chestnut tree outside. Botho himself was leaning back in a
rocking-chair, smoking a meerschaum pipe and striking with his
handkerchief now and then at a big blue-bottle fly that came in at one
window as fast as he went out of the other, to buzz persistently around
Botho.
"If I could only get rid of the creature. I should enjoy tormenting it.
These big flies are always bearers of bad news, and then they are as
spitefully persistent as if they took pleasure in the trouble that they
announce." And he struck at the fly once more. "Gone again. It is no
use. Resignation then is the only help. On the whole, submission is the
best. The Turks are the cleverest people."
While Botho was thus soliloquising, the shutting of the little wicket
gate led him to look into the garden, where he saw the letter carrier
who had just entered and with a slight military salute and a "Good
morning, Herr Baron" first handed him a paper and then a letter through
the low window. Botho threw the paper aside, and looked at the letter,
on which he easily recognised his mother's small, close, but still very
legible handwriting. "I thought as much ... I know already, before I
have read it. Poor Lena."
And he opened the letter and read:
"Schloss Zehden, June 29, 1875."
"My dear Botho:
"The apprehension of which I told you in my last letter, has now proved
well founded: Rothmueller in Arnswalde has demanded his money on October
1 and only added 'Because of our old friendship' that he would wait
until New Year, if it would cause me any embarrassment. 'For he knew
very well what he owed to the memory of the departed Baron.' The
addition of this expression, however well it may have been meant, was
doubly humiliating to me; it showed such a mingling of pretentious
consideration, which never makes a pleasing impression, least of all
from such a source. You can perhaps understand the care and discomfort
that this letter gave me. Uncle Kurt Anton would help me, as he has
already done on former occasions. He loves me, and you best of all, but
always to claim his benevolence again, is somewhat oppressive and all
the more so because he lays the blame for our continual difficulties on
our whole family, but especially on us two. In spite of my honest
efforts at good management, I am not thrifty and economical enough for
him, in which opinion he may be right, and you are not practical and
sensible enough for him, in which opinion also he may be quite correct.
Well, Botho, that is how things stand. My brother is a man of very fine
feeling in regard to justice and reason, and of a perfectly remarkable
generosity in money matters, which cannot be said of many of our
nobility. For our good Mark of Brandenburg is a province characterized
by economy and even, when help is needed, by nervous anxiety. But
however kind my brother is, he has his moods and his obstinacy, and
finding himself continually crossed in his wishes has for some time
past put him seriously out of humor. He told me, the last time I took
occasion to mention the demand for the payment of our debt which was
then threatening again: 'I am very glad to be of service, sister, as
you know, but I frankly confess that to be constantly obliged to help,
when one could help oneself at any minute, if only one had a little
more foresight and a little less self-will, makes great claims on the
side of my character which was never the strongest: I mean on my
indulgence....' You know, Botho, to what these words of his referred,
and I ask you to take them to heart to-day, just as your Uncle Kurt
Anton wished me to take them to heart then. There is nothing which
causes you more cold shivers, as I conclude from your own words and
letters, than sentimentality, and yet I fear that you are yourself more
deeply involved in something of the kind than you are willing to
confess, perhaps than you know yourself. I will say no more."
Rienaecker laid down the letter and walked up and down the room, while
he half mechanically exchanged the meerschaum for a cigarette. Then he
picked up the letter again and read on:
"Yes, Botho, you have the future of all of us in your hands, and it is
for you to decide whether this feeling of constant dependence shall
continue or cease. You have our future in your hands, I say, but I must
indeed add, only for a short time yet, in any case not very much
longer. Uncle Kurt Anton spoke with me about this also, especially in
connection with Katherine's Mamma, Frau Sellenthin, who, when he was
last in Rothenmoor, expressed herself not only very decidedly but
with some access of irritation, as to this matter which interested
her so keenly. Did the Rienaecker family perhaps believe that an
ever-diminishing property increased constantly in value, after the
manner of the Sibylline books? (Where she got the comparison, I do not
know.) Katherine would soon be twenty-two, had had enough social
experience to form her manners, and with the addition of an inheritance
from her Aunt Kielmannsegge would control a property whose income would
not fall far behind that of the Rienaeckers' forest land and the eel
pond together. It was not fitting to keep such young girls waiting,
especially with such coolness and placidity. If Herr von Rienaecker
chose to drop all that had formerly been planned and discussed by the
family and to regard agreements that had been made as mere child's
play, she had nothing to say against it. Herr von Rienaecker would be
free from the moment when he wished to be free. But if, on the
contrary, he did not intend to make use of this unconditional freedom
to withdraw, it was time to make his intentions known. She did not wish
her daughter to be talked about.
"You will not find it difficult to see from the tone of these words,
that it is absolutely necessary to come to a decision and to act. You
know what my wishes are. But my wishes ought not to bind you. Act as
your own intelligence dictates, decide one way or the other, only act.
A withdrawal is more honorable than further procrastination. If you
delay longer, we shall lose not only the bride, but the whole
Sellenthin house as well, and what is worst of all, the friendly and
helpful disposition of your Uncle also. My thoughts are with you, and I
wish that they might guide you. I repeat, this is the way to happiness
for you and for us all. And now I remain, your loving Mother,
"Josephine von R."
When he had read the letter, Botho was much excited. It was just as the
letter said, and further delay was no longer possible. The Rienaecker
property was not in good condition and there were embarrassments which
he did not feel the power to clear away through his own energy and
ability. "Who am I? An average man from the so-called upper circle of
society. And what can I do? I can ride and train a horse, carve a capon
and play cards. That is all and therefore I have the choice between a
trick rider, and a head butler and a croupier. At the most I might add
a soldier, if I am willing to join a foreign legion. And then Lena
could go with me as daughter of the regiment. I can see her now with a
short skirt and high-heeled shoes and a knapsack on her back."
He went on speaking in this tone, and actually enjoyed saying bitter
things to himself. Finally, however, he rang and ordered his horse,
because he meant to go riding. And it was not long before his beautiful
chestnut, a present from his uncle and the envy of his comrades, was
waiting outside. He sprang into the saddle, gave the stable boy some
orders and rode to the Moabiter Bridge, after crossing which, he
turned into a broad road that led over fens and fields to the Jungfern
Haide. Here he let his horse change from a trot to a walk, and while
he had thus far pursued all sorts of dim thoughts, he now began to
cross-examine himself more sharply every moment. "What is it then that
hinders me from taking the step that everyone expects of me? Do I mean
to marry Lena? No. Have I promised her that I would? No. Does she
expect it? No. Or would the parting be any easier if I should postpone
it? No. Still no, again and again. And yet I delay and hesitate to do
the one thing which positively must be done. And why do I delay? What
is the cause of this vacillating and postponing? Foolish question.
Because I love her."
His soliloquy was here interrupted by the sound of gun shots from the
Tegler shooting range, and only when he had once more quieted his
restive horse did he take up again the thread of his thoughts and
repeat: "Because I love her! Yes. And why should I be ashamed of this
affection? Feeling reigns over all, and the fact that one loves also
gives one the right to love, no matter how much the world may shake its
head or talk about riddles. For that matter it is no riddle, and even
if it were I can solve it. Every man according to his own nature is
dependent upon certain little things, sometimes very, very little
things, which in spite of being so small, mean life for him or the best
there is in life. And for me the best there is in life is simplicity,
truth, naturalness. Lena has all this, that is how she won me, and
there lies the magic from which it now seems so difficult to free
myself."
Just now his horse shied and he saw a hare that had been driven out of
a strip of meadow land, and was darting right in front of him towards
the Jungfern Haide. He watched the creature curiously and only resumed
his reflections when the fugitive had disappeared among the trunks of
the trees. "And was what I wanted," he went on, "anything so foolish
and impossible? No. It isn't in me to challenge the world and declare
open war against its judgments; besides, I do not believe in such
quixotism. All that I wanted was a still, secluded happiness, a
happiness which I expected would sooner or later win the approval of
society, because I should have spared it the shock of defiance. Such
was my dream, such were my hopes and my thoughts. And now shall I
abandon this happiness and exchange it for another that is no happiness
to me? I am wholly indifferent to a _salon_, and I feel a repulsion for
all that is untrue, high-flown, dressed up or disguised. _Chic_,
_tournure_, _savoir faire_--are all just as ugly to me as their foreign
names."
At this point in Botho's reflections, the horse, whose reins had been
lying loose for the past quarter of an hour, turned as if of its own
accord into a side path, which led first to a bit of farm land and
immediately behind this to a grass plot surrounded by undergrowth and a
few oak trees. Here, in the shade of an old tree, stood a low, solid
cross, and as he rode up to have a better look at the cross, he read:
"Ludwig v. Hinckeldey, died March 10, 1856." What an impression this
made upon him! He had known that the cross was somewhere in this
region, but had never been exactly here before, and he now regarded it
as a sign, that his horse left to his own devices had brought him to
this very spot.
Hinckeldey! It was now nearly twenty years since the death of this man,
whose power was then almost absolute; and everything that had been said
in his parents' house when the news came, now came back vividly to
Botho's mind. And more clearly than anything else he remembered one
story. One of the citizens, who was especially trusted in other ways as
an adviser by his chief had warned and admonished him against duels in
general, and especially against such a duel under such circumstances,
as a folly and a crime. But his chief, suddenly taking his stand as a
nobleman on this occasion, had answered brusquely and haughtily:
"Noerner, you do not understand anything about such matters." And an
hour later he was dead. And why? For the sake of a conception of what
was required of a nobleman, for a whim of a class of society, which
proved more powerful than reason, even more powerful than the law to
uphold and protect, which was especially his duty. "Instructive." And
what in particular have I to learn from this story? What does this
monument preach to me? In any case, one thing, that our ancestry
determines our deeds. He who obeys this principle may go to ruin, but
he goes to ruin in a better way than he who disobeys it.
While he was thinking thus, he turned his horse around and rode across
the field towards a great factory, a rolling mill or a machine shop,
from the many chimneys of which flames and smoke were rising. It was
noon, and part of the workmen were sitting outside in the shade, eating
their dinner. The women, who had brought them their food, stood near by
chatting, several with babies in their arms, laughing amongst
themselves whenever a playful or sarcastic remark was made. Rienaecker,
who quite rightly believed that he appreciated naturalness, was
delighted with this picture, and with a sort of envy he gazed at the
group of happy people. "Work and daily bread and an orderly life. When
our people from the Mark marry, they have nothing to say about love and
passion, they merely say: 'I need to lead an orderly life.' And that is
a fine trait in the life of our people and not at all prosaic. For
order is a great thing, and sometimes it is worth everything. And now I
must ask myself, has my life been 'orderly'? No. Order means marriage."
In this strain he talked to himself for a while longer and then he saw
Lena standing before him once more, but she did not look at him
reproachfully or complainingly, but rather the reverse, as if she were
in friendly agreement with him.
"Yes, my dear Lena, you too believe in work and orderly living, and you
will understand and not make it hard for me ... but it is hard all the
same ... for you and for me."
He put his horse to the trot again and kept along by the Spree for a
little while more. Then, however, he turned aside into a bridle path,
which led past the tents which lay in the noonday silence, then past
the Wrangel Spring and soon afterwards to his own door.