When Crammon was but a youth of twenty-three he had once been a member
of a large hunting party at Count Sinsheim’s. Among the guests there
was a gentleman named von Febronius who attracted his attention, first
by his silence, and next by frequently seeking his society while
carefully avoiding the others.
One day Febronius, with unusual urgency, begged Crammon to visit him.
Febronius possessed an extensive entailed estate on the boundary
between Silesia and Poland. He was the last of his race and name, and,
as every one knew, deeply unhappy on this account. Nine years earlier
he had married the daughter of a middle-class family of Breslau, and in
spite of the difference in age the two were genuinely devoted to each
other. The wife was thirty, the husband near fifty. The marriage had
proved childless, and there seemed now no further hope.
Crammon promised to come, and some weeks later, on an evening in May,
he arrived at the estate. Febronius was delighted to see him, but
the lady, who was pretty and cultivated, was noticeably chill in her
demeanour. Whenever she was forced to look at Crammon a perceptible
change of colour overspread her face.
Next morning Febronius showed him the whole estate--the park, the
fields and forests, the stables and dairies. It was a little kingdom,
and Crammon expressed his admiration; but his host sighed. He said that
his blessings had all been embittered, every beast of the field seemed
to regard him with reproachful eyes, and the land and its fertility
meant nothing to him who had brought death to his race, and whom the
fertility of nature but put in mind of the sterile curse which had come
upon his blood.
Then he became silent, and silently accompanied Crammon, whose head
whirled with very bold and equivocal thoughts.
After dinner they were sitting on the terrace with Frau von Febronius.
Suddenly the lord of the manor was called away and returned shortly
with a telegram in his hand. He said that an urgent matter of business
required him to set out on a journey at once. Crammon arose with a
gesture, to show his consciousness of the propriety of his leaving too.
But his host, almost frightened, begged him to stay and keep his wife
company. It was, he said, only a matter of two days, and she would be
grateful.
He stammered these words and grew pale. His wife kept her face bent
closely over her embroidery frame, and Crammon saw her fingers tremble.
He knew enough. He shook hands with Febronius, and knew that they
would not and dared not meet again in life.
He found the lady, when they were alone together, shier than he had
anticipated. Her gestures expressed reluctance, her glances fear. When
his speech grew bolder, shame and indignation flamed in her eyes. She
fled from him, sought him again, and when in the evening they strolled
through the park she implored him to leave next day, and went to the
stables to order the carriage for the morning. When he consented, her
behaviour altered, her torment and her harshness seemed to melt. After
midnight she suddenly appeared in his room, struggling with herself
and on the defensive, defiant and deeply humiliated, bitter in her
yielding, and in her very tenderness estranged.
Early next morning the carriage was ready and drove him to the station.
That marvellous night faded from his memory as a thousand others, less
marvellous, had done. The spectral experience blended with a host of
others that were without its aroma of spiritual pain.
X
Sixteen years later chance brought him into the same part of the
country.
He inquired after Febronius, and learned that that gentleman had been
dead for ten years. He was told, furthermore, that during his last
years the character of Febronius had changed radically. He had become a
spendthrift; frightful mismanagement had ruined his estate and shaken
his fortune; swindlers and false friends had ruled him exclusively,
so that his widow, who was still living on the estate with her only
daughter, could scarcely maintain herself there. She was beset by
usurious creditors and a growing burden of debt; she did not know an
easy hour, and complete ruin was but a matter of time.
Crammon drove over to the estate, and had himself announced under an
assumed name. When Frau von Febronius entered he saw that she was still
charming. Her hair was still brown, her features curiously young. But
there was something frightened and suspicious about her.
She asked where she had had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Crammon
simply regarded her for a while, and she too looked at him attentively.
Suddenly she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands. When she had
mastered her emotion, she gave him her hand. Then she left the room,
and returned in a few minutes leading a young girl of great sweetness.
“Here she is.”
The girl smiled. Her lips curved as though she were about to pout, and
her teeth showed the glittering moisture of shells to which the water
of the sea still clings.
She spoke of the beautiful day and of her having lain in the sun. The
broken alto voice surprised one in so young a creature. In her wide,
brown eyes there was a radiance of unbounded desires. Crammon was
flattered, and thought: If God had made me a woman, perhaps I should
have been such an one. He asked after her name. It was Letitia.
Frau von Febronius clung to the girl with every glance.
Letitia brought in a basket full of golden pears. She looked at the
fruit with greed and with an ironic consciousness of her greed. She
cut a pear in half and found a worm in it. That disgusted her and she
complained bitterly.
Crammon asked her what she cared for most, and she answered: “Jewels.”
Her mother reproached her with being careless of what she had. “Only
the other day,” said Frau von Febronius, “she lost a costly ring.”
“Just give me something to love,” Letitia replied and stroked a white
kitten that purred and jumped on her lap, “and I’ll hold on to it
fast.”
When he said farewell Crammon promised to write, and Letitia promised
to send him her picture.
A few weeks later Frau von Febronius informed him that she had taken
Letitia to Weimar, and placed her in the care of her sister, the
Countess Brainitz.