Thirty years had passed away, and on a stormy autumn evening a young
couple sat before a crackling fire, in Buetze Manor-house--she, a
slender, girlish figure, fair, with pleasant blue eyes; he, tall, or
seeming so from a certain delicacy of form, and also fair; but a pair of
bright brown eyes contrasted strangely with his light hair.
Without, the wind was raging about the old house, as it had done many
years before, and sang of past times; now and then it set up a howl of
furious rage, and then sounded again in low, long-drawn, plaintive
tones, as if singing a long-forgotten love-song.
The young wife in the comfortable easy-chair had been listening to it a
long time; now she said in a clear voice:
"Klaus, this would be just the evening to read aloud the journal."
He started up out of a deep revery. "What journal, my child!"
"That little packet of papers that we found the other day, in rummaging
about in Aunt Rosamond's writing-desk."
He nodded. "Yes, we will do it," he said, "it will be a bit of family
history, perhaps about my parents. I was just thinking how little I know
of them, and it makes me sad. Mother Anna Maria makes her account so
short and scanty, as if she did not like to talk about it, and whenever
she mentions her only brother her eyes grow moist. Come, sit down on the
sofa with me; I will get the papers."
He rose, went to an old-fashioned desk, and took a little packet of
papers from the middle drawer. The young wife had meanwhile taken up a
bit of dainty needlework, and now they sat, side by side, on the sofa,
before the lamp, and he unfolded the sheets.
"What a pretty old handwriting," he said. "See, Marie!"
She nodded. "One can make quite a picture of the writer from
that--small, delicate, and good, as loving as the first words sound."
"Yes," he replied, "she was good and kind. I remember her so distinctly
yet. She used to give me sugarplums and colored pictures, and at
Christmas she used to come as Knecht Ruprecht, and I should certainly
have been frightened if I had not recognized Aunt Rosamond by her voice
and limp."
"Ah, but please read, Klaus," begged the young wife impatiently; and he
began obediently:
"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus----"
"That is you!" interrupted the young wife, laughing.
He nodded; his fine eyes gleamed softly. "But now be still," he said;
"for Aunt Rosamond surely never thought such a disturber of the peace
would ever put her nose in here."
"You bad man! Give me a kiss for that!"
"That, too?" he sighed comically. "There, but be quiet now!" And he
began again:
"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus. It has
become very quiet at Buetze, not a sound in the great house; even
Brockelmann is no longer heard, for since last winter she has taken to
wearing felt slippers. All the rooms down-stairs are shut up, and it is
melancholy. Anna Maria consoles me, to be sure, by saying that there
will be life enough here again when the child has grown large; but, dear
me, by that time I shall have long been lying in the garden yonder! Oh,
I wish I might live to hear merry voices ringing again through the house
at Buetze, and see the rooms down-stairs occupied; but I do not believe
it possible. Well, I must not allow myself to be overpowered by the
loneliness and tediousness about me; I sit at my desk and will try to
narrate the late events here, in regular order. So much has happened
here; the stories rush to my mind all confused, but I should like to
recall the past in proper order.
"If I only knew how to begin! I have already cut three goose-quills to
pieces! I look out of the window, the trees are clad in the first green,
the sky is blue, only a dark line of cloud rising over the barn yonder.
It is warm and sultry, as before an approaching thunder-storm, and now
another spring day rises before my eyes, and now I know.
"It was a ninth of May, just as damp and sultry as to-day. Anna Maria
came in to me. My room was up-stairs here then, on the same story, the
same big flowered furniture stood here, and I was the same infirm,
limping old creature, only fresher and brighter; I laughed more than any
one in the house in those days. I can see Anna Maria before me so
distinctly, as she stood there by the spinet in her every-day gray
dress, with a black taffeta apron over it, and the bunch of keys at her
belt.
"'Aunt Rosamond, will you look at the room which I have been getting
ready for the child?' she asked, and I rose, and limped along beside her
down the hall as far as the large, dark room. I never could bear the
room, and to-day, as I entered it, it oppressed me like a nightmare. To
be sure, dazzling white pillows stood up beneath the green curtains of
the canopy, and a spray of elder on the toilet-table sent its fragrance
through the room; but neither this nor the sultry air which came in at
the window could improve the damp, cold atmosphere, or convey any degree
of comfort to the room.
"'You ought to have had it warmed, Anna Maria,' said I, with a little
shiver, 'and had that unpleasant picture taken away.' And I pointed to
the half-length portrait of a young woman looking boldly and saucily
forth into the world, with a pair of sparkling black eyes, who was
called in the family the 'Mischief-maker.' According to an old,
half-forgotten story, she had come by her nickname from her black eyes
having been the cause of a duel between two Hegewitz brothers, in which
one was killed by his brother's hand. A Hegewitz herself, and lingering
at Buetze on a visit, she had deliberately married another man. How,
when, and where, it happened, the story did not tell; but her portrait
had remained at Buetze, and hung from time immemorial in this room.
"'Ah! let the picture stay: the child does not know whom it represents,'
replied Anna Maria. 'I think it is quite comfortable and pleasant here,
Aunt Rosamond, with the view into the garden.'
"Anna Maria had, literally, no idea of comfort, so her remark did not
surprise me. She lacked that charming feminine faculty of making all the
surroundings pleasing with a few flowers or a bit of graceful drapery.
'The poor thing,' thought I, 'coming from Berlin--to this dreary
solitude!'
"Anna Maria had suddenly turned around to me, and her face, usually so
austere, was glowing with tenderness. 'Aunt Rosamond,' she said, 'do you
know, I am really glad the little Susanna Mattoni is coming!'
"'And I am glad for you, Anna Maria,' I replied, 'for you need a
friend.'
"'I need no friend,' she replied bluntly, 'and how could that young
thing be a companion for me? She is a child, a poor orphaned child, in
need of love, and I will--' She broke off, and a hot blush spread over
her face.
"'You are still young yourself, Anna Maria,' I interposed, 'and I think
she must be seventeen years old.'
"'Years do not make the age, Aunt Rosamond, but the soul, the nature,
the experiences. If God will, she shall find in me rather a mother, for
as a companion I am worth nothing. I should have to conform her to
myself--oh, never!'
"I knew that Anna Maria's whole heart, usually so coldly closed, had
opened to receive a fatherless and motherless creature, to love it, in
her way, with all her might--in her way, indeed, and that was not
understood by every one. How much time have I spent in trying to fathom
that nature, which apparently lay open to every eye, against whose sharp
corners and angles almost every one ran, who had anything to do with
her.
"'Has Klaus gone to meet your guest?' I asked.
"'No, he rode out into the fields. Why should he?' she rejoined. 'Old
Maier drove away to S---- yesterday, and I think every second she must
come. I only hope it will be before the approaching thunder-storm
breaks!'
"The unpleasant stillness before the threatening storm pervaded the
outside world. I went up to Anna Maria at the open window and looked at
the black clouds looming up in the horizon. My eyes roved beyond the
trees in the garden, out into the country; strangely near seemed the
dark forests and Dambitz with its clumsy tower.
"'How near Dambitz looks,' I remarked, 'and it is really so far away.'
"Anna Maria turned quickly. 'Very far,' she said listlessly.
"'Stuermer still stays away,' I began, designedly. I felt compassion for
the man whom an incomprehensible whim of a girl had driven away into the
world, just when he had hoped to find a home and heart; I had once, for
the space of half an hour, imagined that she loved him.
"I received no answer, but about the girl's lips there lay such an
expression of pride and defiant resolution that I resolved never to
mention that name again. She gazed fixedly at the dark clouds, and at
last said, in a wearily oppressed tone: 'Is not that the rumbling of a
carriage?'
"'Perhaps the thunder,' I replied. But before we had closed the window
and I had looked around the room again, Brockelmann stood, with flushed
face, before Anna Maria. 'Gracious Fraeulein, she is--they are here--God
in Heaven!'
"'What is the matter?' asked Anna Maria.
"'There are two of them, Fraeulein, and queer enough she looks--the old
woman, I mean. And a thunder-storm like this is just the time for them
to come to the house in!'
"The storm had indeed broken loose, with thunder and lightning, and
torrents of rain. The old woman made haste to light the candles on the
great mantel, for it was almost dark in the room.
"'They are coming up-stairs already!' she cried, and hurried out,
leaving the door open.
"Anna Maria had not interrupted the old woman by a word; it was not her
way to apprehend quickly a new turn of affairs. So she snuffed the
candles quite composedly and remained standing by the mantel, so as to
keep the door in sight. Her face was as cold and still again as usual,
and did not show the slightest trace of expectation or curiosity, nor
did it alter when in the door-way. But how shall I describe the young
creature who, as suddenly as in a fairy-tale, stepped over the
threshold?
"There never was but one Susanna Mattoni! I do not know whether she
could be called a beauty; perhaps her sparkling brown eyes were too
large for that, too widely opened for the narrow face, the nose too
short, the lips too full, and the complexion too pale; but this I know,
that only by an effort I suppressed an exclamation of surprise, as she
stood there, so small and slight, in her closely-fitting black dress, as
if she had been charmed thither. Her light mantle had slipped from her
shoulders, and a pair of very slender hands had impetuously thrown back
the crape veil from her hat. It was evident that the young girl was in a
state of great excitement; her searching, anxious eyes rested on Anna
Maria's imposing figure, and then dropped to the floor in embarrassment;
she apparently did not know what to do now, and breathed timidly and
faintly.
"'God bless your coming, Susanna Mattoni!' said Anna Maria, in her deep
voice; and she put her arm for a moment around the slender figure. 'May
Buetze please you as a temporary home!' There was an unwonted sympathy in
these words, and as she bent down to the stranger I had to smile at my
former opinion. Anna Maria needed no friend; young as she was, she stood
by Susanna Mattoni with the maternal dignity of a woman of forty. It
was remarkable how she utterly belied her youth in everything she did.
"But at this moment it first became clear what Brockelmann had meant
when she spoke of two--of the old woman. At the threshold of the room
appeared the figure of a small, elderly woman, in a worn black silk
gown, a shawl embroidered in red and yellow over her shoulders, and an
ill-shaped hood of black crape on her head, from which a yellowish,
wrinkled face looked forth; a pair of small dark eyes darted like
lightning about the room; then she ran to Anna Maria, who was regarding
her in amazement, and with a theatrical gesture raised her clasped hands
to her. 'Oh, Mademoiselle, pardon my intrusion, but the child--I could
not part from Susanna!'
"'Stop that!' commanded Anna Maria, decidedly disturbed. 'Who are you?'
"The woman dropped her eyes and was silent.
"'Fraeulein Mattoni, who is the woman?' said Anna Maria, turning to the
young girl, who, it seemed to me, looked timidly at her companion.
Susanna was silent too. There was no sound but that of the rain beating
against the windows, and swaying the branches of the trees. Anna Maria
waited quietly a few minutes.
"'I have been in Professor Mattoni's household since Susanna's birth,'
the old woman now began, 'and----'
"'The child's nurse, then?' Anna Maria said, cutting off her speech.
'Very well, you may stay here twenty-four hours, and see how your
demoiselle is provided for. Brockelmann,' she ordered the old woman,
who, with a chambermaid, had just brought up a trunk that seemed as
light as a feather, 'make up a bed in the gray room for the woman. And
you, Susanna Mattoni, need to be alone after so long a journey. Make
yourself comfortable till supper-time; punctually at seven, I shall
expect you in the dining-room.' She took her basket of keys from the
mantel, and noticing me, motioned to Susanna and introduced her to me as
our future household companion. The little thing shyly kissed my hand,
and as I raised her chin a little to look at her face again, I saw that
tears were shining in the brown eyes. 'Heavens!' I thought as I went
out, 'how will this little princess get on here in that gloomy room, in
Anna Maria's chilling atmosphere?' I quietly patted the pale little
cheek, and followed my niece. Outside in the corridor we met Klaus,
dripping wet, having just dismounted from his horse.
"'And so she is really here, then, the new accession to the family?' he
asked, giving himself a shake in his wet clothes. 'Well, what does she
look like, the little Berliner?'
"I opened the door of my room, and the brother and sister entered.
"'You will see her, Klaus,' replied Anna Maria.
"'Right, little sister, that is true; I will change my clothes first of
all.'
"'Yes, Klaus, but be quick: I would like to settle something with you
before you see the young lady at table.'
"'Young lady? Whew!' rejoined the brother, and a disagreeable expression
lay for a moment on his kind, handsome face. 'Do you wish me to put on a
dress-coat, Anna Maria?' He laughed.
"'Well, you will open your eyes, too, Klauschen,' thought I; and all at
once a thought came to me that fell like the weight of a mountain on my
soul, whether it would not be better if this Susanna Mattoni, together
with her black-eyed witch of a nurse, were a thousand miles away?
"When Klaus and Anna Maria had gone, I stood still in the middle of the
room and said aloud, with a fierce conviction: 'The two children have
made an unpardonably stupid move; what will come of it?' And much came
of it! If the succession of sorrow, tears, and bitter hours that
followed Susanna Mattoni's little feet could have been foreseen on her
arrival, Anna Maria would have given not only the old woman, but Susanna
herself, no longer than twenty-four hours to stay in her house!
"I was still standing on the same spot when the door flew open, and
Susanna's old companion entered. 'Gracious Fraeulein,' she cried
anxiously, 'do come; the child--she is weeping, she is ill, she will
kill herself!'
"The excited creature wrung her hands, and her whole frame trembled. I
limped across to the girl's room, again with the thought, 'What will
come of it?' Susanna was sitting, half undressed, at the toilet-table,
her dark hair falling loosely over a white dressing-sack; her face was
buried in her hands, and she was crying. The old woman rushed up to her:
'Darling, the kind lady is here; she will be good to us, she will let me
stay here, and will speak a good word to the Fraeulein; please now, my
lamb, she surely will.'
"Susanna Mattoni raised her head and dried the tears from her great
eyes; when she saw me she sprang up, and again I felt the magical charm
that surrounded the young creature. 'What is the matter, my child?' I
asked tenderly.
"'You are very kind, Mademoiselle,' she answered; 'it is only the
strangeness and the long journey.' And she shivered with cold.
"'Dress yourself quickly,' I advised her, 'there is a fire in the
dining-room, and the warm supper will do you good.'
"The old woman seized a comb and drew it with evident pride through the
beautiful hair, and waited on the Professor's young daughter as if she
were really a princess. She talked meanwhile of her delicate
constitution and her nerves. I quite forgot going, and at that stood
still in amazement. Merciful Heaven! In old houses in the Mark 'nerves'
were not yet the fashion. What would Anna Maria say, what would----?
"Anna Maria had spoken of having Susanna acquire the art of
housekeeping, so that in the future she might help herself through life
with her own hands. And here! a maid, nerves, the beauty of a _grande
dame_ with the little hands and feet of a child.
"And now the old woman took from the trunk a little black dress,
evidently quite new, and trimmed with bows, flounces, and the Lord knows
what! Over the shining white neck she laid a black gauze fichu, which
she gracefully arranged on the bodice, and beneath the short skirts
peeped two shoes laced up with silk ribbons, such as scarcely ever
before glided over the old floors of Buetze Manor-house. Certainly the
old woman understood her business. Susanna Mattoni was, as she stood
there, the most charming girl I have ever seen, before or since, in my
long life.
"'God help me, what will be the end of it?' I asked myself for the third
time, as the old woman broke off a white spray of elder, and placed it,
correctly and not without coquetry, in the fichu.
"'But, my dear,' I said aloud, 'there is no company here this evening.
We eat to-day _en famille_, buckwheat groats with milk.'
"But I got no answer; the busy lady's maid bent quickly to pull one or
two bows straight, and I glanced from Susanna--the color in whose cheeks
had mounted to a bright red--to the trunk, which looked suspiciously
empty after the taking out of the new dress. The old woman observed me,
and quickly shut the cover. 'The clock is striking seven,' she said; and
in fact, the weak, thin tone of the Buetze church-bell was heard just
seven times, and at once began the noisy sound of the servants'
supper-bell.
"'Come,' said I to her, 'the servants' room is down-stairs.'
"'Thank you,' she replied, with a look of refusal. 'I am not at all
hungry; but I would like to ask for some wood, for the child cannot
sleep in this damp atmosphere.'
"I directed her to Brockelmann, and conducted Susanna Mattoni to the
dining-room.
"Oh, I could paint the scene now! The four candles on the table vied
with the rosy twilight, and in the vaulted window-niche stood Klaus and
Anna Maria. He had put his arm around her, and had been saying some
kind, serious word--they never stood so near each other again! I seem to
see, at this moment, how they turned around toward me--how Klaus, full
of surprise, looked past me at the slender, girlish figure; how Anna
Maria was suddenly transfixed--and I could not blame either of them! I
have scarcely ever seen Susanna Mattoni more charming, more maidenly,
than at that moment, when she stood in embarrassment before the young
friend of her father. I wondered if she had imagined he was different.
"A warm glow overspread her delicate face; Anna Maria blushed, too. I do
not know whether it was fear or anger that caused her to touch Klaus's
arm, as he stepped forward to say some words of welcome to Susanna.
"'Please come to the table!' called Anna Maria. 'Here, Fraeulein Mattoni,
beside Aunt Rosamond.' As we stood at our places she said, in a
strangely faltering voice, the old grace: 'The eyes of all wait upon
Thee, O Lord!' The 'Amen' almost stuck in her throat, and in the look
which she gave the young girl's dainty dress, and which fell with
especial sharpness on the white flowers, I saw what the clock had struck
for Anna Maria. It was almost amusing to me to compare the two girls, so
unlike, and to wonder whether the high-necked, gray woollen dress and
the dainty little silk gown would ever live side by side, without having
to make mutual concessions.
"Klaus talked to Susanna, who sat opposite him. He touched upon the
subject of her deceased father, but gave it up at once when he saw the
great eyes fill with tears, which she bravely tried to swallow with the
strange buckwheat groats. A fresh egg, afterward, seemed to taste better
to her, but with a timorous smile she refused a glass of foaming brown
beer, and I am convinced that she rose unsatisfied from the table.
"The candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and at the master's place
lay a plate of tobacco and a matchbox beside the newspaper. At Anna
Maria's place lay her knitting-work, and at mine spectacles and
Pompadour, just as Brockelmann arranged them every evening, except that
in winter Anna Maria had her spinning-wheel instead of her knitting.
To-night Klaus did not take his pipe from the shelf in the corner;
Susanna Mattoni's delicate form sank into his comfortable easy-chair,
and her small head nestled back in the cushions; but Klaus, like a true
cavalier, with a chivalry that became him admirably, sat on a stool
opposite her.
"The conversation, in which Anna Maria joined but little, turned upon
Berlin. Susanna was well informed about her native city, and now
chattered charmingly and without embarrassment; her eyes shone, her
cheeks grew red, and a roguish dimple displayed itself every instant.
Now she was in the opera-house or theatre, in the Thiergarten or in
Charlottenburg; now she related anecdotes of the royal family. All this
came out in a confused jumble, and Klaus did not grow tired of asking
questions. The newspaper lay disregarded, and his pipe did not receive a
glance.
"Anna Maria sat silent, and knit. At nine o'clock she broke into the
conversation. 'I think you must be tired, Fraeulein Mattoni,' she said;
and one could perceive what an effort she made to speak kindly. 'We
usually retire about ten, but you need an extra hour's sleep to-night.'
And as Brockelmann appeared, in answer to the bell, the little thing,
with a certain astonishment in her eyes, said 'Good-night,' like an
obedient child. She turned around at the door, and asked, with a sweet,
imploring expression on her little face: 'May Isa sleep in my room?'
"'A bed has been made up in another room for your companion,' replied
Anna Maria; 'you are surely not afraid? Brockelmann's room is next
door.'
"Susanna did not reply, but made another exceedingly graceful courtesy
and vanished.
"'Do let the old woman sleep with her,' said Klaus; 'think how forlorn
her first night in a strange house must be!'
"But Anna Maria did not reply; she got her brother's pipe from the
shelf, and, smiling, pushed him into his easy-chair, and took up her
knitting again.
"'There, Klaus, I beg of you, don't be so nonsensical in the future as
to sit on a footstool. That was very uncomfortable.'
"'Sooner dead than impolite!' he replied good-humoredly.
"'Everything in its time!' she rejoined. 'Susanna Mattoni is to be a
member of our household, and there is nothing so tiresome as formal
politeness and constraint. Susanna can sit on that stool just as well as
you.'
"'_Bon_, Anna Maria! But now, what do you really think of her?'
"'Since you ask me plainly, Klaus, I will answer you plainly. I say that
I expected to receive something different into the house.'
"'So did I,' he rejoined laconically, drawing the first whiffs from his
pipe.
"'And that if anything is to be made of the girl, the old woman must go
away to-morrow.'
"'She is right,' thought I to myself, 'if it is only not too late!'
"Klaus took up the newspaper. 'Well, Anna Maria, there may be something
to say about that by and by; but let her stay a week or two, so that she
may see how Fraeulein Mattoni gets on.'
"'Am I to bring up the girl or not?' Anna Maria interrupted, with a
roughness such as she had never before shown toward her brother. 'How is
this spoiled lady of fashion to learn to take care of herself and to use
her hands, if that person remains at her side, to put on her shoes and
stockings for her whenever it is possible, and turn her head with
flowers and frivolities? Twenty-four hours I have said, and not a
minute longer; two such totally different methods as hers and mine
cannot agree.'
"Klaus looked in surprise at the excited face. 'You are right, Anna
Maria,' he said appeasingly. 'I am only afraid that this being will
never develop according to your mind. She seems to me----'
"'Made of different material!' finished Anna Maria ironically. 'I tell
you, that will be no hindrance to me, in educating a girl whose calling
it is to make herself useful in the world; affected dolls, painted
cheeks, and theatrical pomp, I will not endure in my house!'
"She had risen, and all the indignation which the old woman's skill at
the toilet had called forth now glowed on her red cheeks and shone from
her sparkling eyes.
"Klaus laid down the newspaper which he had just taken up. 'I beg you,
Anna Maria,' he said, almost indignantly, 'cannot that be settled
quietly? The girl has only this minute come into the house, and is she
to make discord between us already?'
"Anna Maria sat down again in silence, and took up her knitting. But
after a little while she rose hastily, tied a black lace scarf over her
fair hair, and went out.
"Klaus followed her with his eyes. 'Aunt Rosamond, what is this?' he
asked, sighing.
"'She expected something different, Klaus,' I said; 'it is a
disappointment.'
"'The girl is charming, Aunt Rosamond. I can understand the Professor's
anxiety about her. But how will she get on with Anna Maria's energy?
There are not only hens and such useful creatures in the world, but the
good God has made birds of paradise as well!'
"'Klauschen,' came from the depths of my heart, 'let the bird of
paradise fly away; it is not suited to your nest.'
"'Never, Aunt Rosamond,' he replied quickly. 'I am bound by the last
wish of the man whom I loved best in the whole world!' He was red, and
his eyes shone moistly, and it struck me, at this moment, what a
handsome, stately man he was.
"Brockelmann's entrance put an end to our conversation. She was hunting
for Anna Maria, and looked irritated: 'It is too provoking, master; the
old woman isn't suited with her bed, and means to sit up all night in
her young lady's room. And there is a fire there hot enough to roast an
ox, and that in May! She is doing some cooking, too; the whole room
smells of green tea.' Muttering away, she disappeared.
"Klaus laughed aloud. 'Open rebellion, Aunt Rosamond! Do me a favor, and
look after these two strangers. Perhaps you will be able to point out to
the old woman that--well, that she can't stay here.'
"This really seemed to me the best thing to do, and I went up-stairs.
Through the hall window I caught sight of Anna Maria in the damp,
moonlit garden; she was standing motionless, like a dark shadow, and
looking out toward the dusky country. 'Strange girl,' thought I; 'if an
ugly little creature in a patched dress had come to the house to-day,
she would have taken it to her heart, and kissed it--and now?'
"As I entered Susanna's room without knocking, the old woman hastily
motioned to me to come softly, for her charge was asleep. She was
sitting in a high-backed chair by the bed, and, as I came nearer, rose
and drew aside the curtains for me to look at the girl.
"There lay the young thing in the deep sleep of fatigue, breathing
softly and quietly, a smile on the red lips; the drooping lashes rested
like dark shadows on the child's pale cheeks. Her little night-dress,
trimmed with imitation lace and adorned with a profusion of bows, did
not look badly in the dim light which came from two candles and the
dying embers in the fire-place. The slender hands were folded, and the
dark hair lay loosely over the white pillow. Yes, she was charming, this
maiden in her sweet slumber.
"'Is she not beautiful? Is she not lovely?' said the old woman's proud
smile.
"I nodded. 'Poor little bird of paradise!' I thought, 'how your gay,
shining feathers will be plucked. Well for you if you do not miss them!'
And, bethinking myself of my promise to Klaus, I turned and beckoned to
the old woman. By the fire-place I overturned a little silver kettle and
a cup that were standing on the floor. Aha, the tea-making apparatus! On
the sofa lay the clothes which Susanna had worn to-day, in picturesque
disorder; one little shoe was on the floor, the other I noticed on the
dressing-table, and beside it hats, ribbons, and all sorts of frippery,
in the wildest confusion.
"'Will you not put the things away in the wardrobes intended for them,'
I asked softly, 'so that Susanna can find them without your help?'
"'She will not need to,' the old woman replied confidently, and looked
at me with a friendly grin. 'They surely cannot be so cruel as to
separate us.'
"'Certainly, my dear, you will leave the house to-morrow, and Susanna
Mattoni will remain under our protection, as her father was promised.
There was nothing said about you in this matter.'
"'Then give me a rope at once,' whispered the old woman passionately,
'that I may hang myself on the nearest limb! What am I to do, then?
Where shall I go? I had a foreboding as we drove through the gate that
ill-luck awaited me!'
"'My niece will surely allow you to visit your former charge from time
to time,' I said, to console her.
"'And what is to become of her?' she asked, pointing to the sleeping
girl. 'She is not accustomed to be without me for a moment! No, no, I am
not going; I cannot go. If this young lady has no sympathy, surely the
kind gentleman will have, who used to come so often to the Professor.
Where is he? I will beg him on my knees, I will beg him to let me stay
here.'
"'Listen, my friend,' I said earnestly, and took hold of the flowing
silk sleeves of her dress. 'It will be for your young lady's best good
if you are parted from her. This much I know, that Professor Mattoni has
left the girl quite without means, and it is now high time she learned
to put on her shoes and stockings alone. A poor demoiselle, of citizen's
rank, needs no lady's maid. She must learn to work and to make herself
useful.'
"'Oh, Heaven!' sobbed the little dried-up woman, 'I thought she was to
be a guest in this house, and you will make a servant of her.'
"A harsh answer was at my tongue's end. Had her tenderness for the girl
made this woman perfectly crazy? At any rate, she was not to be reasoned
with. 'Go down-stairs,' said I, in vexation, 'and carry your complaint
to the master. He will know better, at least, how to make you comprehend
what sort of a position Susanna Mattoni is to occupy here.'
"She dried her tears, seized a candle, and flew to the mirror, bustled
about with comb and brush, and spread over her yellow face something
from various little jars. I began to feel a real horror of the old
woman, with her artifices. Now she tied her cap-strings afresh, pulled
from the trunk a lace-edged handkerchief, and holding it theatrically in
her hand, said she was ready to pay her respects to the master.
"'Were you formerly on the stage?' I asked, wondering at her red, full
cheeks.
"'For ten years, Mademoiselle!' she replied; 'I played the gay, her
mother'--she pointed to Susanna--'the tragic lovers. Oh, it was
glorious, that acting together!'
"What she further related I did not understand. 'Merciful Heaven!' I
faltered, as I opened the door softly and showed her out into the hall,
'what has Klaus brought upon us, in his kind-heartedness?'
"I sat still by the girl's bed, and looked at the young face. God only
knew in what slough this fair flower had grown! It was clear that the
old woman must go away, if anything was ever to be made of the girl;
please God it might not be too late!
"The light from the candles scarcely sufficed to light up the nearest
objects. Dense obscurity lay in the corners, but the oil-portrait of the
Mischief-maker was feebly illuminated, and her black eyes seemed to give
me a demoniacal look. A vague fear came over me; involuntarily I folded
my hands in prayer: 'O Lord, Thy ways are wonderful! Lead us gently, let
not the peace go out from us that has dwelt so long beneath this roof,
let no second Mischief-maker have crossed this threshold, preserve the
old, sacred bond between Klaus and Anna Maria. Amen!'
"At this moment the door opened and the old actress came back. She did
not deign to look at me, but knelt down by the bed, laid her head on the
pillow, and began to weep bitterly.
"'Isa! Isa!' murmured Susanna in her sleep. The old woman raised her
head and pressed the dark hair to her lips.
"'I am going, Mademoiselle,' she whispered to me; 'no one has a heart
here in this house. But if a hair of her head is hurt, or a tear falls
from her eyes, I--I--' She gasped out a few words more, and threw
herself down again beside the bed.
"'When shall you leave?' I asked.
"'Early in the morning,' she replied, in a lifeless tone.
"'Then lie down now, and go to sleep,' I said, pointing to the sofa, and
prepared to leave the room.
"'Oh, Mademoiselle!' She sprang up and held me fast. 'Promise me you
will be kind to Susanna, you will speak a kind word to her if she
cries!'
"'Certainly, as far as I can; but she will receive only kindness from
every one here.'
"'Not from the blonde lady,' she said. 'She is a girl without a heart;
perhaps she never had one, perhaps it is dead. She does not know what
youth, beauty, and love are. She never laughs. I notice that people who
cannot laugh are envious of every being that can be happy, that pleases
others by its charm; she will never love Susanna!'
"She spoke pathetically and theatrically, yet a tone of deep pain rang
through her words.
"'Life is so serious,' I returned.
"'But laughing, cheerfulness, beauty are the air she breathes,' began
the strange person again.
"'I promise you to look after the child,' said I, about to go; but in
vain. She held me by the dress, and begged me to hear first, for God's
sake, that it was not tyranny or arbitrary choice that bound her to the
child, but a sacred promise. And whether I would or not, I had to
listen to a story which the old woman delivered as if she were on the
stage, and which, in spite of the whispered tone in which it was given,
was, by means of gestures and rolling of the eyes, a perfect specimen of
high mimic art. I could not now repeat the words as they came from the
lips of the old actress, but only know now that she contrived to
announce that she was just forty years old and had been very beautiful.
The old song came into my head, which a poet puts into the mouth of his
old harpist:
"'I once was young and fair,
But my beauty's gone--ah, where?
On my cheeks were roses red,
And bright curls upon my head.
When I was young and fair!
When I was young and fair!'
"I did not dispute her pretended forty years, and she now unrolled
before my eyes a phase of life so varied and irregular, and yet again so
full of the poetry of a vagabond existence, that Father Goethe would
surely have been glad to have it to insert in 'Wilhelm Meister.' To make
a short story of it, Professor Mattoni had really loved _her_, when, in
consequence of a mood, to her inexplicable, he transferred his affection
to her fellow-actress. 'I was senseless from pain, Mademoiselle,' she
threw in, 'but I governed myself. I became the most indispensable friend
of Mattoni's young wife.'
"She now described this person as a dreamy creature, beautiful as a
picture but quite uneducated; and the Professor, as an imperious man,
who, when he failed to find in his wife the companionship of his soul's
creation, treated her worse than a servant-maid. '_En verite_,
Mademoiselle, she was stupid; the thickest wall would have--' And she
made a gesture, as if to test with _her_ head whether the walls at
Buetze were a match for it. 'Oh, the men, even the wisest and best of
them are blinded when they love, Mademoiselle! He had received his
punishment for his breach of faith toward me.'
"Then followed a description of the Mattoni household, in which Isabella
Pfannenschmidt, as my informant was called, heartily interested herself.
She became housekeeper for Frau Mattoni, who read novels all day long or
played with her cat. The women lived in a little back room, and the
Professor occupied two rooms as formerly. They received from him such
scanty means of support that often they knew not how to satisfy their
hunger. The troupe with which Isabella Pfannenschmidt had an engagement
went away from Berlin, but she could not go with them: 'for,
Mademoiselle, she and the child would have perished in dirt and misery;
she was a person who would go hungry if food were not put right under
her nose, rather than get up from her lazy position on the sofa, and the
Professor took all his meals at a restaurant. He did not want people to
find out that he had a wife and child, anyway. We dared not stir if any
one was with him. Susanna's first frock was made from a cast-off red
velvet dress, cut over, in which her mother once used to play queens.
The father never looked at the charming child till his wife had closed
her dreamy eyes forever. Then, as he went up to her bier, and his child
reached out her little hand after the few scanty flowers I had bought
with my last penny, he was first shaken out of the stupidity of the last
few years. He knelt down with the child and prayed God to forgive him
his wrong-doing! Well, good intentions are cheap, to be sure! He did
give somewhat more for our household expenses, and I was enabled to
dress Susanna so we could show ourselves publicly without attracting
attention; he even let her have lessons, and she learned bravely. He
never inquired for me, and yet I have remained true to him all these
long years; it was as if my care and work were a matter of course. He
had no longer a look for me, the past seemed to be wiped out from his
memory; and yet I have passed my youth in sorrow for his sake, I have
taken care of his wife and child, and now--now she is taken from me!
What have I done to deserve this?'
"I was truly sorry for the little weeping woman, though the facts as to
her age and former beauty might be somewhat different, and though her
statement that he once had loved her might not be strictly true; at any
rate, she had loved him as truly as a poor, weak woman's heart can love.
For his sake she had loved his child, and without a murmur suffered want
and hunger for her sake. And now he repaid her by taking the child away
from her. Poor Isabella Pfannenschmidt, you have lived in vain! The
flame which burns in your heart shines forth triumphantly over all the
theatrical trumpery and baubles clinging to you, poor old Isabella! And
yet it would be a pity for this child to have to breathe in that dusty,
paint-scented atmosphere any longer. No, Isabella, you must go, though
the heart of the once gay actress break over it.
"'Susanna will always be fond of you,' I comforted her, 'and never
forget what you have done for her.'
"'Oh, that she will--that she will! She has her father's nature,' sobbed
the old woman; 'she will forget me, and, what's more, she will be
ashamed of me.'
"'You make a sad exposure of the child's heart, my dear,' said I
reprovingly.
"She started up. 'Oh, no, no! she really is good.' she murmured, 'very
good. And,' she continued, 'I shall not go very far away either, only to
the nearest town. What should I do in Berlin? I should die of longing. I
will hire a room in S---- and sew for money; I can embroider well, with
colored wool and gold thread. And if the longing becomes too great, I
can run up the highway, and if need be up here, to look at the house
where she lives.'
"And now she began, amid streaming tears, to pick out one after another
of the garments lying around, and to lay them in a white cloth, and in
so doing caught up the little shoe on the table, and pressed the narrow
sole to her cheek.
"'Don't forget the little jar of paint,' I whispered, in spite of my
sympathy.
"She shook her head. 'No, no, I shall pack up everything. I will do it
at once, for if she wakes I cannot say good-by. I shall go before
daybreak.'
"I held out my hand to her, for I was sorry for her. 'Go away easy; the
child is well off here--and may the thought console you, that it is for
Susanna's best good.' I went out, and as I turned again, in closing the
door, I saw in the dim light the little gypsy-like creature sitting on
the floor, amid all her rubbish and trumpery, and weeping, her face
buried in her hands."