The hours that had elapsed since Pomuchelskopp's visit had seemed to
Mrs. von Rambow the slowest and dreariest she had ever known. Wearily
had they passed over her, every new minute revealing new cares and
anxieties. She had tried to tear out the weeds that threatened to choke
the wheat in her field, but alas the busiest hand grows tired in time,
and the bravest heart craves rest, the rest that comes when the day of
toil is past. Her husband had not come home on the day he had promised;
instead of his arrival, a letter came from Slus'uhr brought by a
special messenger, who said that he had orders to wait until he could
deliver it into Mr. von Rambow's own hands. She had a very good idea of
what that meant. As it grew dusk that evening she seated herself in her
room beside her child, folded her hands in her lap, and gazed out of
the window at the sky over which heavy clouds were rising.
The day had been close and muggy, a day in which the blood courses
slowly through the veins, instead of circulating rapidly, and giving
the body a sense of lightness and vitality it cannot otherwise enjoy.
On such an enervating day as this the blood flows languidly, like the
black, almost stagnant water in a moorland ditch, and even as all
nature groans and sighs for a storm to clear the air, the heart longs
for the whirlwind of action, or the shock of fate to drive away "this
stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief," wishes at any cost to shake off
the deadly lethargy! Frida's feeling was much what I have described,
she longed for anything that would clear the air around her, and make
it possible for her to breathe once more; and she did not long in vain.
Caroline Kegel brought in the post-bag, and stood about as if she
wanted to find something to do in the room. At last she opened the bag,
and taking out a letter, laid it on the table beside her mistress. Then
she hung about again, and asked: "If you please ma'am, shall I light
the candles?"--"No, never mind." Still Caroline did not go, she said:
"If you please, ma'am, you told us we wer'n't to repeat any gossip to
you, but ...."--"What is it?" asked Frida, startled out of her reverie.
"The Guerlitz labourers have chased away Mr. Pomuchelskopp, his wife and
two daughters."--"You don't mean to say so!" cried Frida. "Yes, and all
of our labourers are down stairs in the yard, and wish to speak to
you."--"Do they want to chase us away too?" asked Frida, drawing
herself up proudly. "No, no! my dear, dear lady," cried Caroline,
throwing herself on her knees and bursting into tears; "there's no talk
of anything so dreadful, and my old father says that he'll be the death
of the first who dares to speak of such a thing. They only say that Mr.
von Rambow won't listen to them, and so they want to speak to you, for
they have great confidence in you."--"Where is Triddelfitz?"--"Lor,
ma'am, he's going about amongst them talking to them, but they won't
hear a word he says, they say they have nothing to do with him, and
must speak to you."--"Come," said Frida, and she went down stairs.
"What do you want with me?" she asked as she stepped out at the door,
before which the labourers were all collected. Fred Flegel, the
carpenter, came forward, and said: "Madam, we have come to you, for
we're all of one mind. We told the master about it some time ago, but
he wouldn't attend to us. The squire was affronted with us for saying
it; but you see we have no confidence in Mr. Triddelfitz, he is too
young and doesn't know enough, and we thought perhaps you could help us
if you would be so very kind. We are not so impertinent as to ask for
more than we have, indeed we're quite satisfied with what we've got,
and we get all we ought, though never at the right time so that our
wives sometimes find it difficult to manage."--"Yes," interrupted
Paesel, "and last year, which was a year of famine, the rye was all
sold, and, Madam, you see I always have my wages paid in kind, so when
I couldn't get the rye, how could I live; and when I didn't get it, I
was told to be patient. Yes, to be patient! Then there was the potato
disease! So how could one live?"--"Madam," said a white-haired old man,
"I won't speak of food, for we never really starved; but I am an old
man and I was sometimes kept standing so long in the marl pit pouring
water over the marl, that I couldn't straighten myself in the evening,
nor sleep at night from pain, and it might have been so easily managed
better. We were used to other ways when Mr. Hawermann was here, but now
we're ordered about by folk that don't know what work is."--"Yes,
Madam," resumed the carpenter, "that's why we've come to ask you to let
us have a bailiff put over us who knows what ought to be done, either
Mr. Hawermann or another as good; one who will listen to us quietly
when we've got anything to say, who will not abuse us when we don't
deserve it, and who will not use his stick to our children when
they are doing their work, as Mr. Triddelfitz was in the habit of
doing."--"That must never happen again," cried Frida.--"Well, Madam, he
has given up doing that now. It must be six months ago that I made bold
to speak to him seriously about it one day when I was alone with him,
and he has never done it since. I wish that the squire would only see
that it would be for his own advantage if he got a good bailiff, for he
understands nothing about farming himself, and then the wind wouldn't
blow all the grain out of a field of wheat from leaving it standing too
long, as was the case last year, nor would the people talk of him as
they do now. And, Madam, there's a great deal of talk just now. It's
said that he's going to sell the estate to Mr. Pomuchelskopp, but we
won't have him for our master."--"No," they all exclaimed, "we won't
have him."--"A fellow whom his own labourers have turned out."--"We
needn't have him."
The labourers' words had fallen like heavy blows on Frida's heart. She
felt how little love and respect they had for her husband, and the
knowledge of the difficulty of her position made it hard for her to
speak. After a sharp inward struggle for composure, she said: "Hush, my
men! When the squire comes home he must decide whether he will grant
your request. Go home quietly and don't come back to the house in such
numbers again. I will tell the squire what you want, and I believe I
can promise you that there will be a change in the farming arrangements
at midsummer--one way or another," she added with a sigh. Then she was
silent for an instant, as though to swallow a lump in her throat.
"Yes," she continued, "wait patiently till midsummer, and then there
shall be a change."--"That's all right!"--"That's all we want!"--"And
we're very grateful to you."--"Good-night, Madam."--And they all went
away.
Frida returned to her room. It had begun to thunder and lighten, and
the wind which was blustering through the yard drove sand and straw
pattering against the window. "Yes," she said to herself, "midsummer
will decide it. I hav'n't promised too much, for there must be a change
then. But what will it be?" and involuntarily she thought of the
picture David had so mercilessly drawn of her future life. She saw
herself condemned to spend the rest of her days in a hired house in a
small country town with her husband and child, leading an idle useless
life without hope of remedy, and hearing people whisper that their fate
might have been so different. She saw her husband get up in the morning
and go out into the town, come home to dinner, spend the afternoon
lounging on the sofa, then go out again, and come home to bed. He had
always hitherto frittered away the time God had given him to work, and
he would continue to waste his days in idleness. She saw herself worn
out and wearied with household cares, comfortless and friendless,
fighting the battle of life alone; she saw herself dying and her child
standing by her bed. Her child! Her poor child! The penniless daughter
of a nobleman! There are few things that are a greater curse than the
possession of rank without the means of keeping it up.--A man can get
on pretty well, for he can go into the army; but a girl? Even if God
has endowed her with the loveliness of an angel, and her parents have
done the best they can for their darling, a gentleman says: "She is
poor, so I cannot marry her," and a man of the middle-class says: "She
has grand notions, so I cannot marry her."--Frida looked sadly at her
child, who was sleeping calmly through the storm that was raging out of
doors, and that which was raging in her mother's breast.
Caroline Kegel brought in candles, and Mrs. von Rambow hastily took up
the letter that was lying on the table, like one who did not wish it to
be perceived that she had been engaged in deep and painful thought. She
looked at the direction and saw it was from her sister-in-law,
Albertine. She opened the envelope, and another letter fell out
addressed to her husband.--"Put this letter on your master's writing
table," she said to the maid.--Caroline took it and left the room.
Her husband's sisters had often written to her before, such letters as
women write to while away their time.--Frida unfolded the letter,
but--oh!--this was no commonplace chatty note such as she was
accustomed to receive,--Albertine wrote:
"Dear Sister,
"I don't know whether I am doing right. Bertha advises me to write to
you, and Fidelia has twice torn the paper from under my pen, for she
thinks it will make our dear brother Alick unhappy if I do. But however
that may be, I can't help it. Sheer necessity forces me to write. We
have already written to Alick twice, but he has never answered our
letters. I have no doubt that he has to travel about a good deal in
these bad times, and that besides that, he must have much to occupy his
attention at home--for we hear rumours of things going on about you, of
the probable truth of which we have only too many proofs here in
Schwerin--and so I think that I cannot be doing wrong in writing to
you. You will answer me soon, won't you?--You know that Alick has taken
the small capital our father left us as a mortgage on Puempelhagen, and
that he has promised to give us 5 per cent on the money instead of the
41/2 per cent we had formerly received. It was not necessary for him to
have done that, for we could live within our income before. But he
promised to send us the money punctually every quarter, and we have not
received a penny in the last nine months. Dear Frida, you may be sure
that we should never have complained if we had not been in very great
need. Our brother-in-law Breitenburg was here lately; he had never
heard of our having lent Alick the money, and as soon as he found it
out, he--you know how rough he is--swore at Alick, and told us we were
three geese to have given him the money. He asked to see our bond, and
when we could not show it to him, for Alick has always forgotten to
send it to us, he said outright, that our money was gone beyond recall,
as it was well known that Alick had ruined himself with his bad
farming, and that Puempelhagen would have to be sold to pay his
debts.--We know how to treat our brother in-law's talk, for he has
always disliked our dear Alick; and as for selling Puempelhagen, I don't
believe it. It has been in our family for centuries! The Grand Duke
would never allow it!--We told him that and a great deal more. Fidelia,
especially, gave him a piece of her mind very energetically. So he took
up his hat and stick, and said in his rude way: 'Your brother Alick has
always been a fool, and now he has capped all his former misdeeds by
behaving like a scoundrel.' Fidelia rose and showed him the door at
once.--It was a dreadful scene, and I should not have told you about
it, if I did not feel rather frightened lest Alick and Breitenburg
should meet, and act like those two brothers-in-law, Dannenberg and
Malzahn, who in order to avenge their injured sense of honour shot each
other dead across a pocket-handkerchief. Please warn Alick to avoid any
meeting with him, and if it is possible ask him to send us the interest
on our money.--We think of going to see you in autumn, and are looking
forward like children to the pleasure of seeing you, and of revisiting
the home where we played as children, dreamt our day-dreams as young
women, and where, alas, we saw our dear father die. Yes, Frida; Bertha,
Fidelia and I rejoice at the thought of seeing Puempelhagen again, for
we live in the past, our present is so dull and empty of interest. Only
now and then, and at very long intervals do we see the face of some old
friend of our dear father, who comes to tell us what is going on in the
world, and Bertha and I think there is something very pathetic in the
way our little Fidelia throws down her work on such occasions, and
listens eagerly to the news our old friend brings us.--She is
especially interested in all that concerns the court.--Good-bye for the
present, dear Frida. Forgive me for having troubled you with this
letter, and give Alick the enclosed note. I have entreated him
earnestly to help us, but have spared him all the disagreeables of our
position as much as I could.--We shall meet in August.
"Yours affectionately,
"Albertine von Rambow."
"Schwerin, June 11th, 1848."
Frida began the letter, but did not read to the end. When she got to
the place where Albertine has repeated Breitenburg's words: "Your
brother Alick has always been a fool and now he has capped all his
former misdeeds by behaving like a scoundrel," she threw the letter on
the floor, started up from her chair wringing her hands, and began to
walk rapidly up and down the room. "It's true," she moaned, "quite
true!" Her little girl was sleeping calmly near her. She threw herself
into the chair again, picked up the letter, and once more read the
dreadful words. As she did so the terrible picture her imagination had
before drawn of her child's future faded before the actual horror that
confronted her. The new picture she saw was burnt into her brain. She
saw in it the faces of the three sisters, and underneath it was written
in letters of fire: "Swindled! Swindled by their own brother!" Beyond
them she saw her husband, but his features were blurred and indistinct
so that she could hardly trace them, and underneath this figure the
single word "scoundrel" was written. Horrible, most horrible!--She had
lost her all!--And it was a double loss!--She had only herself to trust
to now on earth, for she had lost him she had loved as her own soul.
That was the terrible part of her grief! Oh for help to wash away the
brand of dishonour from the forehead she had so often kissed lovingly.
But how? Who would help her? Alas, the people whose names occurred to
her were all far away and she could go to none of them in her distress.
She wrung her hand in agony. It seemed as though she were being more
and more hemmed in every moment. Pomuchelskopp's name flashed into her
mind, and Slus'uhr's and David's. She sprang to her feet and moved her
hands about as if to waive off once more the ghosts of the past. She
could think of very few names now, when suddenly in the midst of her
anguish she remembered a kind, womanly old face, Mrs. Nuessler's face,
and it looked as it had done when it bent over her child to kiss it.
Mrs. von Rambow immediately exclaimed aloud: "That woman has a heart, a
large heart that can feel the sorrows of others!" Out of doors the
thunder was still rolling, the lightning flashing and the rain coming
down in torrents. Mrs. von Rambow snatched up a warm shawl and
rushed out into the rain. "For God's sake, ma'am, tell me what's the
matter," cried Caroline Kegel, "see how it's raining and how dark it
is!"--"Leave me alone!"--"Nay, I won't do that," said the maid going
after her. "A kind heart, a kind heart!" murmured the poor thing as she
hastened on, the rain beating ever more violently in her face. She
still held the shawl in her hand without knowing it, and her feet
slipped often in the deep cut limestone road without her knowing it;
her whole soul was bent on getting on quickly. "If you _must_ go,
Madam, we'll go together," said Caroline, taking the shawl out of her
hand and wrapping it round her head and shoulders, then throwing her
strong arm round her waist, she asked: "Where do you want to go?"--"To
Mrs. Nuessler's," answered her mistress, and then murmured: "a kind
heart." A kind heart was beating close to her own and yet she never
thought of it; nothing separates two human beings so much as the words:
"Command and obedience." She had always been kind to her dependents,
and had met her servant's good feeling towards her half way; but at
this moment she did not think of Caroline Kegel, her heart was filled
with the thought of how Alick was to be saved from shame and dishonour,
and Mrs. Nuessler's honest face drew her on through the rain and
darkness as the only star of hope that shone on her path. "To Rexow, to
Rexow!"
"Goodness gracious me, Joseph!" said Mrs. Nuessler, going to the window,
"what a storm it is!"--"Yes, mother, but what can anyone do?"--"Oh
dear!" said Mrs. Nuessler, reseating herself. "I hope that no one's out
on the high road to-night. I feel very anxious." Mrs. Nuessler went on
knitting, Joseph went on smoking, and the parlour was as quiet and cosy
as heart could wish. Suddenly Bolster, who was lying under Joseph's
chair, gave a short sharp bark which was dog language for: "what's
that?" As he got no answer he lay still, but next moment he started up
and crept to the door on his stiff old legs. When he got there, he
began to snarl after the manner of his kind. "Bolster!" cried
Mrs. Nuessler. "What's the matter with the old dog?--What is it
Bolster?"--"Mother," said Joseph, who knew Bolster as well as Bolster
knew him, "somebody's coming." At the same moment the door opened and a
pale woman staggered into the room supported by a strong country girl,
who placed her on the sofa. "Good God!" cried Mrs. Nuessler jumping up
and taking her visitor by both hands, "what's the matter? What is it?
Oh dear, how wet you are."--"Yes, indeed she is," answered Caroline.
"Good gracious Joseph, why don't you get up from your chair? Go and
fetch Mina. Tell her to come here at once, and tell Dolly she must make
some camomile tea." Joseph hastened from the room, and Mrs. Nuessler
taking off Mrs. von Rambow's shawl, dried the rain off her face and
beautiful hair with her pocket-handkerchief. Mina ran into the parlour
and was about to ask a number of questions, but her mother stopped her
by saying: "Mina, this isn't the time to trouble Mrs. von Rambow with
questions, go and bring one of your dresses and some of your
underclothing to my bedroom." But as soon as Mina had run away to
do as she desired, she herself asked: "What's the matter, Caroline
Kegel?"--"I don't know, but she certainly got a letter this evening."
As soon as Mina said that she was ready Mrs. Nuessler and Caroline
helped Mrs. von Rambow into the bedroom and undressed her, laid her on
the top of the bed and gave her the hot tea Dolly had prepared. She
soon recovered her full consciousness and remembered why she had come,
for it was only the sense of her utter loneliness that had overcome her
and had made her feel so faint and weak, and now that she saw the kind
motherly face bending over her, she felt strong and brave once more.
She sat up in bed, looked at Mrs. Nuessler trustfully, and said: "You
once told me that you would help me if ever I was in need."--"And I
will do so," said Mrs. Nuessler with tears in her eyes, and stroking
her visitor's hands softly, "tell me what it is."--"It's a dreadful
state of things," cried Frida, "our labourers are discontented,
we're in debt, deeply in debt, and our creditors want to sell the
estate ...."--"Good gracious!" interrupted Mrs. Nuessler, "surely it's
early days to talk of that!"--"I can't see my way at all," continued
Mrs. von Rambow, "but it was for something else I came to you, and I
can't, I dar'n't tell you what it is."--"Don't tell me, Madam. But what
you have already told me is not a case in which a woman's advice is
worth anything, we must consult some man, and if you like, we can drive
over to Rahnstaedt and speak to my brother Charles."--"Ah, if I could!
But how could I ever expect the man, whom I ...."--"That's a mistake on
your part, Madam, and shows that you don't know my brother. Joseph,"
she called putting her head out at the door of her room, "tell
Christian to get the carriage ready and to make haste, and do you make
haste also. Mina, quick, bring me your new Sunday hat and cloak, we are
going out." Everything was done as she desired, and as soon as they
were seated in the carriage, Mrs. Nuessler said to Christian: "You know
that I don't like going too fast, Christian, but you can't drive too
quickly to-day; we must be in Rahnstaedt in half an hour. If we don't
make haste they'll all be in bed," she added, addressing Mrs. von
Rambow.
Anna had just gone home after spending the evening at Mrs. Behrens'
house; Hawermann and Braesig had said good-night, and Braesig had just
opened the window, and looking out at the weather had said: "What a
sweet smell the air always has after a storm, it's quite full of
atmosphere!" when a carriage drove up to the door, and the light from
Mrs. Behrens' bedroom streamed into it. "Bless me, Charles," cried
Braesig, "there's your dear sister and Mina, and every one ought to be
making ready to go to bed just now."--"There must be something wrong,"
said Hawermann taking his candle and leaving the room. "Why have you
come so late, Dorothea," asked Hawermann, meeting his sister on the
stairs, "Mina ...." then interrupting himself, "and you too, Madam, at
this hour?"--"Quick, Charles," said Mrs. Nuessler, "Mrs. von Rambow
wants to speak to you alone, so make haste before anyone comes."
Hawermann opened the door of Mrs. Behrens' best parlour and showed Mrs.
von Rambow in; as he followed her and closed the door he heard the
beginning of what Braesig said to Mrs. Nuessler. "As sure as your nose is
in the middle of your face, tell me what's brought you here? Excuse me
for having come down in my shirt sleeves, but you see Charles is a
thoughtless fellow and he took away the candle so that I couldn't find
my coat in the dark. But where is he, and where's Mina?" Mrs. Nuessler
did not need to answer the question, for at this moment Louisa came out
of Mrs. Behrens' ordinary sitting-room with a candle. "Why, you here.
Aunt?" she said. "Come back with me to the parlour, Louie; and you
Braesig, go and put on your coat again and then you can join us." This
was done, and Mrs. Behrens came too. All was silent and still in the
passage, and anyone who had chosen to listen at the keyhole of the best
parlour might have heard Mrs. von Rambow telling Hawermann her story.
She began shyly and tearfully, but gained courage as she went on, and
felt her hope and confidence in the old bailiff grow stronger every
moment. Anyone who had chosen to listen at the door of Mrs. Behrens'
sitting-room, which was to the left of the passage, might have heard
the horrible fibs that Mrs. Nuessler was telling, for it had suddenly
occurred to the good woman that she could not do better than allow
everyone to imagine that Mrs. von Rambow was Mina until she had had
time to tell all her tale to Hawermann, and that she might not be
troubled with questions. So she said that Mina was suffering from
dreadful toothache, and that she knew her brother Charles had a
wonderful remedy for it which could only be used with effect between
twelve and one at night, and in complete silence. Mrs. Behrens said she
was sure it could be no Christian work if that was the way of it, and
Braesig remarked: "I never knew that Charles had any knowledge of
medicine or doctoring."
Soon afterwards Hawermann put his head into the room and said: "Will
you leave the house door ajar, Mrs. Behrens, I have to go out, but will
soon return," and before Mrs. Behrens could answer he was half way down
the street leading to Moses' house.