"The time passes away, one scarcely knows what has become of it; even in
my solitude, it does not seem long to me. Really, the starlings are here
already. Where has the winter gone? Strange!"
Aunt Rosamond held this soliloquy at her chamber-window, as her gaze
followed the little messengers of spring, who vanished so briskly into
the wooden boxes, a large number of which had been placed for them on
the trees and buildings. It was no sunny spring day there without; the
clouds hung low and gray over the earth, and a warm, sultry wind tossed
about the budding branches unmercifully, as if to shake them into
complete awakening.
The old lady did not like the overcast sky at all, it put her out of
humor. She could not wander about far out of doors, to be sure, but she
would fain have seen the little spot of earth that lay stretched out
before her window looking cheerful, and blue sky and sunshine lighting
up the fresh green of the meadows, and the oaks in foliage.
"It ought to be always May or September here in the Mark," she used to
say; "then it would be the loveliest country in the world. In winter one
does best to draw the curtains, so as not to cast a single look out of
doors, it looks so melancholy outside, brown upon brown, with a shade of
dirty gray."
And so she turned from the window and its dull outlook, and limped
quickly through the room, here and there arranging or straightening
something. That was such a habit of hers. Now the candelabra on the
spinet were moved a little, and now the delicate, withered hands picked
a yellow leaf from a plant on the flower-stand, or gave an improving
touch to the canopied bed which so pretentiously occupied an entire side
of the room. Aunt Rosamond called that her throne; one had to climb up a
pair of carpeted steps to reach it, and with its crimson silk hangings,
somewhat faded indeed, and gilded knobs, it really gave you the
impression of one. Then here and there she pushed back a coverlet or
straightened a picture which tipped a little to one side. The latter she
did most frequently, for the high walls were almost covered with
pictures, a collection of portraits, mostly in oil or pastel. Aunt
Rosamond knew a history about each one of the faces that looked so
quietly from the frames in her room; she had known them all, these men
and women there above, and strangely enough it sounded to hear her, as
she stood before some picture, tell its story in a few words.
She had just limped to a card-table, over which was hung an oval pastel
portrait of a man with curled and powdered hair and a blue silk coat.
She gave the portrait a gentle push toward the right, but whether it was
the cord or the nail that had become loose, matters not, down fell the
picture, and lay face downward before Aunt Rosamond.
"Let it lie, aunt, I beg you!" called Anna Maria's voice at this moment;
and before the old lady could collect herself, the girl had bent her
slender form, and handed her the picture.
"_Merci, ma petite!_" she cried kindly, and looked into her niece's
face; and, indeed, if Aunt Rosamond missed the spring without, now it
had come, bodily, into her room.
Anna Maria still had on a dark-blue riding-habit which closely fitted
her fine, strong figure, and the young face looked out from behind the
blue veil with such a spring-like freshness, that it quite warmed Aunt
Rosamond's heart.
"Have you been riding, Anna Maria?" asked the old lady, as the girl
endeavored to find the fallen nail.
"Yes, aunt, I rode with Klaus for an hour on the Dambitz cross-road;
afterward we met Stuermer by chance, and took a cup of coffee at Dambitz
Manor."
"Indeed!" Aunt Rosamond seemed quite indifferent to this, although she
looked searchingly at the reddening face of her niece, who, apparently,
was very attentively regarding the rescued nail in her hand.
"Are the snow-drops in bloom already at Dambitz?" inquired the old lady.
"Well, the garden lies well protected. But what do you say, Anna Maria,
will you stay and rest with me? I think we will sit down a little
while--_n'est-ce pas, mon coeur_?"
Anna Maria stood irresolute; she looked over at her aunt, who had
already seated herself on the straight-backed, gayly flowered sofa, and
pointed invitingly to an easy-chair. It was so comfortable in this cosey
old room; the rococo clock with the Cupid bending his bow told its low
tick-tack, and a sudden shower beat against the window panes; it was a
little hour just made for chatting of all sorts of possible things, of
the past and of the future.
Anna Maria slowly seated herself in the chair; she neither leaned back
gracefully and comfortably nor rested her fair head on the cushions.
Always straight as a candle, she carried herself perfectly, and so she
remained now. But sudden blushes and deep pallor interchanged on her
face, which turned with an expression of perfect, modest maidenliness
toward the old lady's face. One could see that she wished to say
something, and that her severe, unsympathetic nature was struggling with
an overflowing heart.
Her aunt did not seem to notice it at all; she had taken up a book whose
once green velvet binding was worn and faded with age. The delicate
fingers turned leaf after leaf; then she glanced over a page, and after
a pause said:
"Actually, Anna Maria, Felix Leonhard has fallen from the wall on his
birthday; how singular! Now people call that chance, but how strange it
is! I have always remembered the day hitherto, until to-day, and have
been going about all the time with a feeling as if I had forgotten
something, I could not exactly think what And then he announced himself.
_Mon pauvre_ Felix! You shall have your flowers to-day, as every year."
And she caressingly touched the picture before her on the table. Then
she looked over to Anna Maria almost shyly, for she knew that her niece
sometimes smiled scornfully at signs and forebodings.
But to-day the deep line about Anna Maria's mouth was not to be seen;
she looked thoughtfully at the picture, and asked: "Who was Felix
Leonhard, aunt?"
"An early friend of my brother's," replied the old lady.
"Is he the one, aunt--I think you told me a strange story once about
some one shooting himself for the sake of a girl?"
"Yes, yes, quite right, my child. This gay, handsome man once took a
pistol and shot himself for the sake of a girl; quite right, Anna
Maria. And he was no youth then, he was well on in the thirties, and yet
did this horrible deed, unworthy of a peaceable man. Oh, it was a misery
not to be described, Anna Maria!" She shook her head and passed her
hands over her eyes, as if to frighten away a horrible picture.
"Why did he do it, aunt?" asked Anna Maria, in an unusually warm tone;
"was she faithless to him, or----"
"She did not love him, _ma petite_; she had been persuaded by her
parents and brothers and sisters to become engaged to him. He was in
most excellent circumstances, and one of the best men I ever knew. He
became acquainted with her at a ball in Berlin, and fell violently in
love with her, although before that no one had ever considered his a
passionate nature. She was not young at the time, not even particularly
pretty, and with the exception of a pair of melancholy great eyes did
not possess a charm. _Eh bien_, after endless doubts and struggles, she
accepted his suit. The engagement lasted a whole year, and she was as
shy and discreet a _fiancee_ as could be found; he, on the other hand,
was full of touching attentions to her; indeed, to use a worn-out
figure, he carried her about in his hands. The nearer the wedding-day
approached, the more dreadful grew the poor girl's state of mind. She
had repeatedly asked various people if they believed she could make her
lover happy, and she was always turned off with a jest, yet quite
seriously as well, on the part of her brothers and sisters. Then on the
wedding-day, half an hour before the ceremony was to take place, pale
and trembling, she announced that she must take back her word, she could
not speak perjury--she did not love him, and she did not wish his
unhappiness! Ah, I shall never forget that day--the anxious faces of the
guests as the report of this refusal began to spread, and the terrible
anger of her brother. What followed in her room was never made public; I
only know that she persisted in her refusal, and that same evening he
shot himself in the garden. _Voila tout!_"
Anna Maria was silent; she had turned pale. "And _she_, aunt?" asked the
girl after a pause.
"She! Well, she lived on, and even married not very long afterward; she
did not love him at all, Anna Maria. Who knows his own heart?"
For an instant it seemed as if Anna Maria was about to answer, but she
closed her lips again. The room was still. She was leaning back now; she
was almost trembling, and her eyes turned thoughtfully to the picture
before her. Without, the rain was beating with increased force against
the windows, and the wind drove great snowflakes about in a whirling
dance, between whiles; April weather, fighting and struggling, storming
and raging, so spring will come.
The old lady on the sofa looked out on this raging of the elements, and
thought how such a powerful spring storm rages in every human heart, and
how scarcely a person in the world is spared such a fight and struggle;
she knew it from her own experience, though she was only a poor cripple,
and a hundred times had she seen the storm rage in the breast of
another. To many, indeed, out of the struggle and longing, out of snow
and sunshine, had arisen a spring as beautiful as a dream; but for many
was the stormy April weather followed by a frosty May, killing all
blossoms; as for herself, as for Kla--She left the thought unfinished,
and quickly turned her head toward her niece, as if fearing she might
have guessed her thoughts. And then--she was almost confounded--then
the young girl's rosy face bent down to her, and Aunt Rosamond saw a
shining drop in the eyes always so cold and clear. Anna Maria sat down
beside her on the figured sofa, and threw her soft arms about her neck.
The heart of the old lady beat faster; it was the first time in her life
that Anna Maria had showed any tenderness toward her. She sat quite
still, as in a dream, as if the slightest movement might frighten the
girl away, like a timid bird. And "Aunt Rosamond!" came the half-sobbing
sound in her ear. "Oh, aunt, help me--advise me--for Klaus----"
Just then the door was quickly thrown open. "The master sends word for
the Fraeulein to come down-stairs at once," called Brockelmann, quite out
of breath. "He can't find Isaac Aron's receipts for the last delivery of
grain, and----"
"I am coming! I am coming!" called the girl. She had sprung up, and
quickly thrown the skirt of her riding-habit over her arm. The spell was
broken; there stood Anna Maria von Hegewitz again, the mistress of
Buetze, as firm, as full of business as ever.
She crossed the room with quick steps, but turning again at the door,
she said softly, and embarrassed, "I will come up again this evening,
aunt." Then she closed the door behind her.
Aunt Rosamond remained as still as a mouse in her sofa-corner; she had
to reflect whether this blushing, caressing girl who had just been
sitting beside her were really Anna Maria von Hegewitz, her niece. She
passed her hand over her forehead, and confused thoughts passed through
her mind. "_Quelle metamorphose!_" she whispered to herself, and at
length said aloud, "Anna Maria is certainly in love; love only makes
one so gentle, so--_je ne sais quoi_! Anna Maria loves Stuermer! How
disagreeable that Brockelmann happened to come in with her grain bills!
_Mon Dieu!_ the child, the child! I wonder if Klaus suspects it? What is
to become of you, my splendid old boy, if Anna Maria goes away? But what
if he should marry, too?"
She rose from the sofa and stepped to the window again. It had stopped
raining, and a last lingering ray of sunshine broke from the clouds and
was spread, like a golden veil, over the wet, budding trees and shrubs.
"Spring is coming," she said half aloud. And now she began to walk up
and down the room, but this time the pictures were undisturbed. Her
hands were clasped, and now and then she shook her gray head gently, as
if incredulously.