Christian wanted Crammon to accompany him and Alfred Meerholz, the
general’s son, to St. Moritz for the winter sports; but Crammon had to
attend Konrad von Westernach’s wedding in Vienna. So they agreed to
meet in Wiesbaden, where Frau Wahnschaffe and Judith would join them in
the spring.
Frau Wahnschaffe usually spent January and February in the family’s
ancestral home at Würzburg. She had many guests there and so did
not feel the boredom of the provincial city. Wolfgang had been
studying political science at the university there; but at the end
of the semester he was to go to Berlin, pass his examination for the
doctorate, and enter the ministry of foreign affairs. Judith said to
him sarcastically: “You are a born diplomatist of the new school. The
moment you enter a room no one dares to jest any more. It’s high time
that you enlarge your sphere of activity.” He answered: “You are right.
I know that I shall yield my place to a worthier one who knows better
how to amuse you.” “You are bitter,” Judith replied, “but what you say
is true.”
When Christian arrived in Wiesbaden in April his mother introduced him
to the Countess Brainitz and to her niece, Letitia von Febronius. The
countess was ostensibly here to drink the waters; but her purpose was
commonly thought to be the finding of a suitable match for her niece
among the young men of the country. She had succeeded, at all events,
in gaining the confidence of Frau Wahnschaffe, who was distrustful and
inaccessible. Judith was charmed by Letitia’s loveliness.
Christian accompanied the young ladies on their walks and rides, and
the countess said to Letitia: “If I were you I’d fall in love with that
young man.” Letitia answered with her most soulful expression: “If I
were you, aunt, I’d be afraid of doing so myself.”
Crammon arrived in an evil mood. Whenever one of his friends so far
forgot himself as to marry, there came over him an insidious hatred of
mankind which darkened his soul for weeks.
He was surprised when Christian told him of these new friends, and
wondered at the trick by which fate brought him into the circle of
Letitia’s life. He had a feeling that was uncanny.
He was anything but delighted over the Countess Brainitz. He was
familiar with the genealogy and history of the dead and living members
of all the noble families of Europe, and so was thoroughly informed
concerning her. “In her youth,” he reported, “she was an actress,
one of those favourite ingénues who attune souls of a certain sort
poetically by a strident blondness and by pulling at their aprons with
touching bashfulness. With these tricks she seduced in his time Count
Brainitz, a gentleman who had weak brains and a vigorous case of gout.
She thought he was rich. Later it turned out that he was hopelessly in
debt and lived on a pension allowed him by the head of the house. On
his death this pension passed to her.”
She was blond no longer. Her hair was white and had a metallic shimmer
like spun glass. Its hue was premature, no doubt, for she was scarcely
over fifty. She was corpulent; her body had a curious sort of carved
rotundity; her face was like an apple in its smooth roundness; it
gleamed with a healthy reddish tinge; and each feature--nose, mouth,
chin, forehead--was characterized by a certain harmless daintiness.
From the first moment she and Crammon found themselves hopelessly at
odds. She clasped her hands in despair over everything he said, and all
his doings enraged her. With her feminine instinct she scented in him
the adversary of all her cunning plans; he saw in her another of those
arch enemies that, from time to time, spun for one of his friends the
net of marriage.
She asked him to dine merely because of Letitia’s insistence. The
girl explained: “Even if you don’t like him in other ways, aunt,
you’ll approve of him as a guest. He’s very like you in one way.” But
Crammon’s dislike of the countess robbed him of his usual appetite, so
that the reconciliation even on that plane did not occur. She herself
ate three eggs with mayonnaise, half of a duck, a large portion of
roast beef, four pieces of pastry, a plate full of cherries, and
additional trifles to pass the time. Crammon was overwhelmed.
After each course she washed her hands with meticulous care, and when
the meal was over drew her snow-white gloves over her little, round
fingers.
“All people are pigs,” she declared. “Nothing they come in contact with
remains clean. I guard myself as well as I can.”
Letitia sat through it all smiling in her own arch and tender way,
and her mere presence lent to the common things about her a breath of
romance.
X
Her estate having finally been sold at auction, and she herself being
quite without means, Frau von Febronius had gone to live with her
younger sister at Stargard in Pomerania. In order to spare her daughter
the spectacle of that final débâcle she had sent the girl to the
countess in Weimar.
The three sisters were all widowed. The one in Stargard had been
married to a circuit judge named Stojenthin. She lived on her
government pension and the income of a small fortune that had been her
dowry. She had two sons who strolled through the world like gipsies,
wrapped their sloth in a loud philosophy, and turned to their aunt the
countess whenever they were quite at the end of all their resources.
The countess yielded every time. Both young men knew the style of
letter-writing that really appealed to her. “They will get over sowing
their wild oats,” said the countess. She had been awaiting that happy
consummation for years, and in the meantime sent them food and money.
It was not so simple to help Letitia. When the girl arrived she
possessed just three frocks which she had outgrown and a little linen.
The countess ordered robes from Vienna, and fitted out her niece like
an heiress.
Letitia permitted herself calmly to be adorned. The eyes of men told
her that she was charming. The countess said: “You are destined for
great things, my darling.” She took the girl’s head between her two
gloved hands and kissed her audibly on the porcelain clearness of her
forehead.
Nor was she satisfied with what she had done. She desired to create a
solid foundation and help her niece in a permanent way. That desire
brought to her mind the forest of Heiligenkreuz.
On the northern slope of the Röhn mountains there was a piece of forest
land having an area of from ten to twelve square kilometres. For more
than two decades it had been the subject of litigation between her late
husband and the head of his house. The litigation was still going on.
It had swallowed huge sums and the countess’ prospects of winning were
slight. Nevertheless she felt herself to be the future owner of the
forest, and was so certain of her title that she determined to present
the forest to Letitia as a dowry and to record this gift in proper
legal form.
One evening she entered Letitia’s bedroom with a written document in
her hand. Over her filmy night dress she wore a heavy coat of Russian
sable and on her head she had a rubber cap which was to protect her
from the bacilli which, in her opinion, whirred about in the darkness
like bats.
“Take this and read it, my child,” she said with emotion, and handed
Letitia the document according to which, at the end of the pending
lawsuit, the forest of Heiligenkreuz was to become the sole property of
Letitia von Febronius.
Letitia knew the circumstances and the probable value of the piece of
paper. But she also knew that the countess had no desire to deceive
any one, but was honestly convinced of the importance of the gift. So
she exerted her mind and her tact to exhibit a genuine delight. She
leaned her cheek against the mighty bosom of the countess and whispered
entrancingly: “You are inexpressibly kind, auntie. You really force a
confession from me.”
“What is it, darling?”
“I find life so wonderful and so lovely.”
“Ah, my dear, that’s what I want you to do,” said the countess. “When
one is young each day should be like a bunch of freshly picked violets.
It was so in my case.”
“I believe,” Letitia answered, “that my life will always be like that.”