_Progress of my friendship for Tilling.--The toy soldiers.--A
dinner at my father’s.--The brave Hupfauf.--Darwin.--A charming
tête-à-tête, ending in a misunderstanding.--Growing attachment.--A
call on Countess Griesbach.--Jealousy dispelled.--Absence of the
loved one.--A touching letter from Tilling on his mother’s death._
The carnival was over. Rosa and Lilly, my sisters, had “amused
themselves immensely”. Each had a list of half-a-dozen conquests. Still
there was no desirable _partie_ among them, and “the right person” had
not shown himself for either. So much the better. They would gladly
enjoy a few years more of maidenhood before taking on themselves the
married yoke.
And as to me? I noted my impression of the carnival in the red volume as
follows: “I am glad that this dancing is over. It has already begun to
be monotonous. Always the same rounds, and the same conversation, and
the same dancers, for whether it happens to be X----, lieutenant of
hussars, or Y----, brevet-captain of dragoons, or Z----, captain of
uhlans, there are always the same bows, the same remarks, the same sighs
and glances. Not an interesting man amongst them--not one. And the only
one who in any case--we will say nothing about him. He belongs, I know,
to his princess. She is a beautiful woman truly, I admit it, but I think
her very disagreeable.”
Though the carnival with its great balls was over, yet the enjoyment of
society had not stopped. Soirees, dinners, concerts--the whirl went on.
There was also a great amateur theatrical performance projected, but
not till after Easter. During the fasting season a certain moderation in
our pleasures was enjoined on us. In Aunt Mary’s opinion we were far
from being as moderate as we ought. She could not quite forgive me for
not going regularly to the Lenten sermons, and indemnified herself for
my lukewarmness by dragging Rosa and Lilly to hear all the preachers at
the Chapel Royal. The girls submitted to this easily. Occasionally they
found their whole _coterie_ assembled at church. Father Klinkowström was
as much the fashion at the Jesuits’ Church as Mdlle. Murska at the
opera, and so they were tolerably gay--in a mild way.
Not only from the sermons, however, but from the soirees too, I held
myself a good deal aloof during this season. I had all at once lost my
taste for society parties, and delighted in staying at home to play with
my son, and when the little fellow was taken to bed, to sit by the fire
with a good book and read. Sometimes my father visited me at these
times, and chatted away for an hour or two with me. Of course the
campaigning reminiscences came to the front then continually. I had
communicated to him Tilling’s account of Arno’s death, but he received
the story rather coolly. Whether a man’s death was painful or painless
seemed to him a secondary consideration. To be “left on the field”--as
death in battle is called--appeared to him an end so glorious, bestowed
by such an elevated destiny, that the details of the bodily suffering
which might possibly have occurred were not worth taking into account.
In his mouth to be “left on the field” always sounded like the grudging
admission of an especial distinction, and next to “being left” what was
most pleasant evidently was to be severely wounded. The style and manner
in which he proudly showed his respect for himself or any one else in
saying that he had been wounded at a fight named after this or that
place made one quite forget that the thing in itself could have given
anybody pain. What a difference from Tilling’s short recital! in his
sketch of the ten poor creatures who were shattered by the bursting
shell, and broke out in loud shrieks! What a different tone of
shuddering pity in it! I did not repeat Tilling’s words to my father,
because I felt instinctively that they would have seemed to him
unsoldierly, and would have diminished his respect for the speaker,
which would have hurt me, for it was just the horror--unsoldierly it
might be, but certainly nobly humane--with which he saw and told of the
terrible end of his comrades that had penetrated into my heart.
How gladly would I have spoken further on this theme with Tilling, but
he seemed not to wish to cultivate my acquaintance. Fourteen days had
elapsed since his visit, and he had neither repeated the visit, nor had
I met him in society. Only two or three times had I seen him in the
Ringsstrasse,[4] and once at the Burg Theatre. He bowed respectfully,
and I acknowledged his greeting in a friendly manner, but nothing more.
Nothing more? Why did my heart beat at these accidental meetings? Why
could I not for hours get his gesture as he greeted me out of my mind?
“My dear child, I have something to beg of you.” My father came into my
house one morning with these words. He held in his hand a parcel wrapped
in paper, and added, “Here is something I am bringing for you,” as he
laid the thing on the table.
“What, a request and a present together?” I said laughing. “That is
bribery indeed!”
“Then hear my request before you unpack my gift, and are blinded by its
magnificence. I have to-day a tedious dinner.”
“Yes, I know. Three old generals and their wives.”
“And two Ministers and their wives--in short, a solemn, stiff, sleepy
business.”
“But you do not expect that I----”
“Yes, I expect you there, because, as ladies are pleased to honour me
with their company, I must at least have a lady to do the honours.”
“But Aunt Mary has always undertaken that office.”
“She is again attacked to-day by her usual headache, and so I have
nothing else left----”
“But to offer up your daughter, as other fathers did in ancient times;
for example, King Agamemnon with Iphigenia? Well, I submit.”
“Besides, there are among the guests a pair of younger elements: Dr.
Bresser, who treated me in my last illness so excellently that I wished
to show him the attention of an invitation; and also Lieutenant-Colonel
Tilling. Why, you are getting as red as fire! What is the matter with
you?”
“Me? It is curiosity. Now, I really must look at what you have brought
me.” And I began to take the parcel out of its paper wrapping.
“Oh, that is nothing for you. Don’t expect a pearl necklace. That
belongs to Rudi.”
“Yes, I see, a plaything. Ah! a box of lead soldiers! But, father, a
little child of four cannot----”
“I used to play at soldiers when I was only three years old. You can’t
begin too early. My very earliest impressions were of drums, sabres,
manœuvres, words of command: that’s the way to awaken the love for
the trade, that’s the way.”
“My son Rudolf shall never join the army,” I interrupted.
“Martha! I know at least it was his father’s wish.”
“Poor Arno is no more. Rudolf is all I have, and I do not choose----”
“That he should join the noblest and most honourable of professions?”
“The life of my only child shall not be gambled for in a war.”
“I was an only son also and became a soldier. Arno had no brothers, as
far as I know, and your brother Otto is also an only son, yet I have
sent him to the Military Academy. The tradition of our family requires
that the offspring of a Dotzky and an Althaus should devote his services
to his country.”
“His country will not want him as much as I.”
“If all mothers thought so----”
“Then there would be no more parades and reviews, no walls of men to
batter down, no ‘food for powder,’ as the common expression for them
goes. And that would be far from a misfortune.”
My father made a very wry face; but then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, you women,” he said contemptuously. “Luckily the young one will not
ask your permission. The blood of soldiers is running in his veins. Nay,
and he will surely not remain your only son. You must marry again,
Martha. At your age it is not good to be alone. Tell me, is there none
of your suitors that finds grace in your sight? For instance, there is
Captain Olensky, who is desperately in love with you; he has been just
now pouring out his sighs to me again. He would suit me thoroughly as a
son-in-law.”
“But not me as a husband.”
“Then there is Major Millersdorf.”
“No; if you run down the whole military gamut to me, it is in vain. At
what time does your dinner take place? when shall I come?” I said to
turn the subject.
“At five. But come half-an-hour earlier; and now, adieu--I must go. Kiss
Rudi for me--the future commander-in-chief of the Imperial and Royal
Army.”
* * * * *
A solemn, stiff, sleepy business, that is how my father qualified his
proposed dinner, and that is how I should have looked on the ceremony
also if it had not been for the one guest whose presence moved me in a
singular way.
Baron Tilling came the instant before the meat--so when he saluted me in
the drawing-room I had no time for more than the briefest exchange of
words; and at table, where I sat between two snow-white generals, the
baron was removed so far from me that it was impossible for me to draw
him into the conversation carried on at our end of the table. I was
pleased at the return into the drawing-room; there I meant to call
Tilling to me and question him still further about that battle-scene: I
longed to hear again that tone of voice which had at first sounded so
sympathetically in my ears.
But no opportunity offered itself to me at first to carry out this
intention; the two old generals kept constant to me after dinner too,
and sat down at my side when I took my place in the drawing-room to pour
out _café noir_. To them joined themselves in a semicircle my father,
the Minister, Dr. Bresser, and, finally, Tilling, but the conversation
which arose was on general topics. The rest of the guests--all the
ladies among them--had got together in another corner of the
drawing-room where smoking was not going on; whilst in our corner
smoking was allowed, and even I myself had lighted a cigarette.
“Suppose it should soon break out again?” suggested one of the old
generals.
“Hum,” said the other, “I think the next war we shall have will be with
Russia.”
“Must there always be a ‘next war’?” I interposed, but no one took any
notice.
“With Italy first,” my father persisted; “we must at all events get back
our Lombardy. Just such a march into Milan as we had in ’49 with Father
Radetzky at our head. I should like to live to see that. It was on a
sunny morning----”
“Oh,” I interrupted, “we all know the story of the entry into Milan.”
“And do you know also that of the brave Hupfauf?”
“I do; and I think it very revolting.”
“What do you understand of such things?”
“Let us hear it, Althaus; we do not know the story.”
My father did not wait to be asked twice.
“Well, this Hupfauf, of the regiment of Tyrolese Jaegers, he was a
Tyrolese himself; he did a famous piece of work. He was the best shot
that can be imagined; he was always king at all the shooting matches; he
hit the mark almost always. What did he do when the Milanese revolted?
Why, he begged for permission to go on the roof of the cathedral with
four comrades, and fire down from thence on the rebels. He got
permission and carried out his plan. The four others, each of whom
carried a rifle, did nothing else but load their weapons without
intermission and hand them to Hupfauf, so that he might lose no time.
And in this way he shot ninety Italians dead, one after the other.”
“Horrible!” I cried out. “Each of these slaughtered Italians on whom
that man fired down from his safe position above had a mother and a
sweetheart at home, and was himself no doubt reckoning on his opening
life.”
“My dear, all of them were enemies, and that alters the whole point of
view.”
“Very true,” said Dr. Bresser; “as long as the idea of a state of enmity
between men is sanctioned, so long the precepts of humanity cannot be of
universal application.”
“What say you, Baron Tilling?” I asked.
“I should have wished for the man a decoration to adorn his valiant
breast, and a bullet to pierce his hard heart. Both would have been well
deserved.”
I threw the speaker a warm, thankful glance; but the others, except the
doctor, seemed affected unpleasantly by the words they had just heard. A
little pause ensued. As the French say: “_Cela avait jeté un froid_”.
“Have you ever heard, excellency, of a book by an English natural
philosopher named Darwin?” said the doctor, turning to my father.
“No, never.”
“Oh yes, papa, just recollect. It is now four years ago since our
bookseller sent us the book, just after its appearance, and you then
said it would soon be forgotten by the whole world.”
“Well, as far as I am concerned, I have quite forgotten it.”
“The world in general, on the contrary, seems in a pretty state of
excitement about it,” said the doctor. “There is a fight going on for or
against the new theory of origin in every place.”
“Ah, you mean the ape theory?” asked the general on my right. “There
was a talk about that yesterday in the casino. These scientific
gentlemen hit on strange notions sometimes--that a man should have been
an ourang-outang to begin with!”
“To be sure,” said the Minister nodding (and when Minister ---- said “to
be sure” it was always a sign that he was making himself up for a long
talk), “the thing sounds rather funny, and yet it is capable of being
taken seriously. It is a scientific theory built up not without talent,
and with the apparatus of an industrious collection of facts; and
though, to be sure, these have been satisfactorily controverted by the
specialists, yet like all adventurous notions, however extravagant they
may be, it has produced a certain effect, and finds its defenders. It
has become a fashion to discuss Darwin; but this will not last
long--though the word Darwinism has been invented--and then, to be sure,
the so-called theory will itself cease to be taken seriously. It is a
pity that people get so hot fighting over this eccentric Englishman; his
theory thus acquires an importance to which it has no claim. It is, of
course, the clergy who especially set themselves in array against the
imputation, which, to be sure, is a degrading one, that man, created in
the image of God, should now all of a sudden be thought to be derived
from the race of brutes--an assumption which, to be sure, is very
shocking from a religious point of view. Still it is notorious that
ecclesiastical condemnation of a theory which introduces itself in the
garb of science is not capable of stopping its dissemination. Such a
theory does not become harmless till it has been reduced _ad absurdum_
by the representatives of science, and that in respect of Darwinism, to
be sure----”
“But what nonsense!” broke in my father, fearful, as it seemed, that
another long string of “to be sures” might weary the rest of his guests,
“what nonsense! From apes to men! Surely what is called the ordinary
healthy common-sense is enough to refute all such mad notions--scientific
refutation is hardly wanted.”
“Well, I can scarcely regard these refutations as so perfectly and
demonstrably certain,” said the doctor. “They have, it is true,
awakened reasonable doubts of it; but, still, the theory has much
probability in its favour, and it will take some little time to bring
men of learning to unanimity about it.”
“I think these gentry will never be unanimous,” said the general on my
left, who spoke with a harsh accent, and generally used the Viennese
dialect; “why, they live by disputing. I have also heard something of
this ape business. But it was too stupid, to my mind, to suit me. Why,
if one bothered oneself about all the chatter that the star-gazers and
grass-collectors and frog-dissectors use to make us believe that X is Y,
one should lose one’s ears and eyes. Besides, a little while ago, in an
illustrated paper, I saw the visage of this Darwin, and that is itself
so apish that I can well believe his grandfather was a chimpanzee.”
This joke, which pleased the speaker mightily, was followed by a burst
of laughter, in which my father joined with the affability of a host.
“Ridicule is, to be sure, a weapon,” said the Minister seriously, “but
it does not prove anything. It is possible, however, to meet
Darwinism--I may use this new term--and conquer it, with serious
arguments resting on a scientific basis. If one can oppose to an author
of no authority such names as Linnæus, Cuvier, Agassiz, Quatrefages, his
system must fall in pieces. On the other hand, to be sure, it cannot be
denied that between men and apes there is a great similarity of
structure and that----”
“In spite of this similarity, however, the cleft is miles wide,” broke
in the quieter general. “Can you imagine an ape capable of inventing the
telegraph? Speech alone raises men so far above beasts----”
“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” said Dr. Bresser, “speech and artistic
inventions were not originally congenital in mankind. Even to-day a
savage could not construct any sort of telegraphic apparatus. All this
is the fruit of slow improvement and development.”
“Yes, yes, my dear doctor,” replied the general. “I know ‘development’
is the cant word of the new theory. Still you cannot develop a camel out
of a kangaroo, and why does not one at this time see an ape turning into
a man?”
I turned to Baron Tilling.
“And what say you? have you heard of Darwin, and do you reckon yourself
among his followers or opponents?”
“I have heard a good deal about the matter, countess, but I have formed
no judgment on it; for as to the work under discussion, _The Origin of
Species_, I have not read it.”
“I must confess,” said the doctor, “that I have not either.”
“_Read_ it? Well, to be sure, I have not either,” said the Minister.
“Nor I--nor I--nor I,” came from the rest.
“But,” the Minister proceeded, “the subject has been so much spoken of,
the cant words of the system ‘fight for existence,’ ‘natural selection,’
‘evolution,’ etc., are in everybody’s mouth, so that one can form a
clear conception of the whole matter and select a side decidedly with
its supporters or opponents, to which first class, to be sure, belong
only some Hotspurs who love violent changes and are always grasping
after effect, while the cool, strictly critical people, who demand proof
positive, cannot possibly choose any other than the position of
opponents--shared by so many specialists of consideration--a position
which, to be sure----”
“That can hardly be positively asserted,” said Tilling, reviewing the
whole matter, “unless one knows the position of its supporters. In order
to know what the strength of the opposing arguments is, which, as soon
as a new idea comes up, are heard shouting in chorus all round it, one
must oneself have penetrated into the idea. It is generally the worst
and weakest reasons which are repeated by the masses with such
unanimity; and on such grounds I do not choose to pass a judgment. When
the theory of Copernicus came up, only those who had gone through the
labour of following the calculations of Copernicus could see that they
were correct: the others, who guided their judgment by the anathemas
which were thundered against the new system from Rome----”
“In our century,” interrupted the Minister, “as I observed before,
scientific hypotheses, if incorrect, are no longer rejected on the
grounds of orthodoxy but of science.”
“Not only if incorrect,” answered Tilling, “but even when they are going
afterwards to be established, new hypotheses are always at first
controverted by the old fogeys of science. This set does not like even
in our day to be shaken in their long-accustomed views and dogmas--just
as at that time it was not only the fathers of the Church but the
astronomers also who were zealous in attacking Copernicus.”
“Do you mean by this,” broke in the rough-speaking general, “that this
ape-notion of our eccentric Englishman is as correct as that the earth
goes round the sun?”
“I will make no assertion at all about it, because, as I said, I do not
know the book. But I will make a point of reading it. Perhaps (but only
perhaps, for my knowledge of such matters is only slight) I shall then
be able to form a judgment. Up to the present time I must confine myself
to supporting my opinion on the fact that this theory meets with
widespread and passionate opposition--a fact, ‘to be sure,’ which, to my
mind, speaks rather for than against its truth.”
“You brave, straightforward, clear spirit,” said I to myself,
apostrophising the speaker.
About eight o’clock the guests in general broke up. My father wanted to
detain them all longer, and I also murmured mechanically a few
hospitable phrases, _e.g._, “At least you will stay for a cup of
tea”--but in vain. Each produced some excuse: one had an engagement at
the casino; another at a party; one of the ladies had her box at the
opera and wanted to see the fourth act of the “Huguenots”; another
expected some friends at her house; in short, we were obliged to let
them go, and not so unwillingly as we pretended. Tilling and Dr.
Bresser, who had risen at the same time as the others, were the last to
take their leave.
“And what have you two so important to do?” asked my father.
“I myself, nothing,” answered Tilling smiling; “but as the other guests
are going, it would be indiscreet----”
“That is my case too,” said the doctor.
“Well, then, I will not let either of you go.”
A few minutes later my father and the doctor had seated themselves at a
card table, and were deep in a game of piquet, while Baron Tilling kept
close to the fire by my side. “A sleepy business,” this dinner? “No,
truly no evening could have passed in a more pleasant and more awakening
manner,” was the thought that passed through my mind. Then I said
aloud:--
“Really, I have to scold you, Baron Tilling. Why, after your first
visit, have you forgotten the way to my house?”
“You did not ask me to come again.”
“But I told you that on Saturdays----”
“Oh, yes; between two and four. But, frankly, you must not expect that
from me, countess. Honestly, I know of nothing more horrible than these
official reception days. To enter a drawing-room full of strangers, bow
to the hostess, take your seat on the outer edge of a semicircle, listen
to remarks about the weather--and if one manages to sit next to an
acquaintance, venture on a remark of one’s own; to be distinguished by
the lady of the house, in spite of every difficulty, with a question
which you answer in all possible haste, in the hope that it may
originate a conversation with her whom you came to see; but in vain. At
that moment comes in another guest, who has to be received, and who then
takes the nearest empty place in the semicircle, and, under the
impression that the subject has not yet been touched, propounds a new
observation about the weather; and then, ten minutes after, perhaps a
new reinforcement of visitors comes--say a mamma with four marriageable
daughters, for whom there are not chairs enough--and so you have to get
up along with some others, take leave of the lady of the house, and go.
No, countess, that sort of thing passes my talents for company, which
are only weak at the best.”
“You seem, as a general rule, to keep yourself apart from society. One
sees you nowhere. Are you a misanthrope? But, no; I withdraw the
question. From a good deal you have said I drew the conclusion that you
love all men.”
“I love humanity; but as to all men, no. There are too many among them
worthless, _bornés_, self-seeking, cold-blooded, cruel. Those I cannot
love, though I may pity them, because their education and circumstances
have not allowed them to be worthy of love.”
“Circumstances and education? But character depends chiefly on one’s
inborn disposition. Do you not think so?”
“What you call ‘inborn disposition’ is, however, nothing more than
circumstances--ancestral circumstances.”
“Then, are you of the opinion that a bad man is not blamable for his
badness, and, therefore, not to be abominated?”
“The consequent is not determined by the antecedent; he may be not
blamable and still to be abominated. You also are not responsible for
your beauty, still you are to be admired----”
“Baron Tilling! we began to talk about serious matters like two
reasonable persons. Do I deserve then all of a sudden to be treated like
a compliment-hunting society lady?”
“I beg your pardon, I did not so intend it. I only used the nearest
argument I could find.”
A short pause followed. Tilling’s look rested with an admiring, almost
tender, expression on my eyes, and I did not drop them. I am quite aware
that I ought to have looked away; but I did not. I felt my cheeks glow,
and knew that, if he had thought me pretty before, I must at that moment
be looking still more pretty--it was a pleasant, “mischievous,”
confusing sensation, and lasted half-a-minute. It could not continue
longer. I put my fan before my face and changed my position; then in an
indifferent tone I said:--
“You gave Minister ‘To-be-sure’ a capital answer just now.”
Tilling shook his head as if he were rousing himself out of a dream.
“I? just now? I don’t recollect. On the contrary, I fancy that I gave
offence by my remark about Springauf--or Hupsauf was it?--or whatever
the name of the brave sharpshooter was.”
“Hupfauf.”
“You were the only one who liked what I said. Their excellencies, on the
other hand, I offended, of course, by an expression so unbecoming to an
imperial and royal lieutenant-colonel as ‘hard heart,’ applied to one
who had given the enemy so grand a sample of his shooting. Blasphemy!
Soldiers, as is well known, are the more agreeable company the more
coolly they deal out death, while there is no more sentimental character
to move the feelings in the melodramatic repertory than the warrior grey
in battle, but soft of heart--a wooden-legged veteran who could not hurt
a fly.”
“Why did you become a soldier?”
“You put the question in a way which shows you have looked into my
heart. It was not I, nor Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who
had seen three campaigns, who chose the profession, but little Freddy,
ten or twelve years old, who had grown up among wooden war-horses and
regiments of leaden soldiers, and to whom his father, the decorated
general, and his uncle, the lady-killing lieutenant, would put the
question cheeringly: ‘Now, my boy, what are you going to be?’ What else
except a real soldier, with a real sabre, and a live horse?”
“I had a box of leaden soldiers given me to-day for my son Rudolf, but I
am not going to give them to him. But why, now that Freddy has grown
into Frederick, why have you not quitted a condition which has become
hateful to you?”
“Hateful? That is saying too much. I hate the position of affairs which
lays on us men such cruel duties as making war; but as this position
does exist, and exists inevitably, why, I cannot hate the people who
take on themselves the duties arising from it, and fulfil them
conscientiously with the expenditure of their best powers. Suppose I
left the service of the army, would there be any the less warfare? Truly
not. It would only be that some one else would hazard his life in my
place, and I can do that myself.”
“Could not you render better service to your fellow-men in another
condition?”
“I do not know. I have learned nothing thoroughly except soldiering. A
man can always do something good and useful in his surroundings. I have
plenty of opportunity of lightening the lot of those around me. And as
far as concerns myself--for I may regard myself also as a fellow-man--I
enjoy the respect which the world pays to my profession. I have passed a
tolerably distinguished career, am beloved by my comrades, and am
pleased at what I have attained. I have no estate, and, as a private
person, I should not have the means to assist any one else, nor even
myself. So on what grounds should I abandon my way of life?”
“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”
“If it is a question of defending one’s life against another man
attacking it, one’s personal responsibility for causing death ceases.
War is often, and justly, styled murder on a large scale; still, no
individual feels himself to be a murderer. However, that fighting is
repulsive to me, that the sad entry on to a field of battle causes me
pain and disgust, that is true enough. I suffer from it, suffer
intensely, but so must many a seaman suffer during a storm from
sea-sickness; still, if he is anything of a brave man, he holds out on
deck, and always, if needs must, ventures to sea again.”
“Yes, if needs must. But must there then be war?”
“That is a different question. But individuals _must_ do their share in
it, and that gives them, if not pleasure, at least strength to do their
duty.”
And so we went on speaking for a time in a low tone, so as not to
disturb the piquet-players, and perhaps, too, in order not to be
overheard by them, for the views we exchanged, as Tilling sketched a few
more episodes of war and the horror he had experienced from them, and I
communicated to him the observations made by Buckle about the diminution
of the war-spirit with the advance of civilisation--such conversation
would have decidedly not suited the ears of General Althaus. I felt that
it was a sign of great confidence on Tilling’s part to display his
inward feeling to me on this matter so unreservedly, and assuredly a
stream of sympathy passed from one soul to another between us.
“Why, how deep you are plunged in your eager whispers there,” cried my
father to us once while the cards were being shuffled; “what are you two
plotting about?”
“I am telling the countess campaigning tales.”
“Oh, well, she is accustomed to that from her childhood. I tell her some
too occasionally. Six cards, doctor, and a quart-major.”
We resumed our whispered talk.
Suddenly, as Tilling spoke--and he had again fastened his gaze on mine,
and such intimate sympathy spoke in his voice--I thought of the
princess.
It gave me a stab, and I turned my head away. Tilling stopped in the
middle of a sentence.
“Why do you change countenance so, countess?” he asked in alarm. “Have I
said anything to displease you?”
“Oh no! it was only a painful thought: pray go on.”
“I have forgotten what I was talking about. I would rather you would
confide your painful thought to me. I have been the whole time pouring
my heart out to you so openly. Now repay it to me.”
“It is quite impossible for me to confide to you what I was thinking
about just now.”
“Impossible! May I guess? Was it about yourself?”
“No.”
“Me?”
I nodded.
“Something painful about me, and something you cannot tell me. Is
it----?”
“Do not trouble your head about it: I refuse any more information.” Then
I rose and looked at the clock. “Why, it is half-past nine! I am going
to say good-bye to you now, papa.”
My father looked up from his cards.
“What! are you too going to a party?”
“No; I am going home. I went to bed very late yesterday.”
“And so you are sleepy? Tilling, that is not very complimentary to you!”
“No, no,” I protested laughingly, “it is no fault of the baron; we have
been talking very livelily.”
I took leave of my father and the doctor--Tilling begged to be permitted
to see me into my carriage. It was he who put my cloak on in the
ante-room and gave me his arm down the steps. As we went down he stopped
for a moment and asked me seriously:--
“Once more, countess, have I anyhow offended you?”
“No; on my honour.”
“Then I am pacified.”
When he put me into the carriage he pressed my hand hard and put it to
his lips.
“When may I wait on you?”
“On Saturday I am----”
“At home--I understand--not at all then.”
He bowed and stepped back.
I wanted to call after him, but the servant shut the carriage door.
I threw myself back in the corner, and should have liked to cry--tears
of spite like a naughty child. I was in a rage with myself; how could I
ever have been so cold, so impolite, so rough almost to a man with whom
I feel such warm sympathy? It was the fault of the princess. How I hated
her! What was this? Jealousy? Then the explanation of what was moving me
burst on me--I was in love with Tilling. “In love, love, love!” rattled
out the wheels on the pavement. “You are in love with him!” was what the
street lamps as they flew past darted on to me. “You love him!” was
breathed to me out of my glove, which I pressed to my lips on the place
that he had kissed.
Next day I wrote the following lines in the red book: “What the carriage
wheels and the street lamps were saying to me yesterday is not true--or
at least much exaggerated. A sympathetic attraction to a noble and
clever man. True; but passion? Ha! I am not going to throw my heart away
on any man who belongs to another woman. He also feels sympathy for me.
We understand each other in many things. Perhaps he is the only man who
shares my views about war; but he is not on that account anywhere near
falling in love with me, and I ought to be just as far from falling in
love with him. That I did not ask him to visit me on another day than
the regular reception day, which he hates so, might indeed have looked a
little unkind, after the intimate conversation we had been having. But
perhaps it is better so. After the interval or a week or two, after
yesterday’s impressions, which have shaken me so, I shall be able to
meet Tilling again quite calmly, relying on the idea that he is in love
with another lady, and shall be able to refresh myself with his friendly
and suggestive conversation. For it is indeed a pleasure to converse
with him; it is so different, so totally different, from all others. I
am truly glad that I am able to-day to sum up this so calmly. Yesterday
I might for an instant have even apprehended that my peace was gone,
that I might become the prey of torturing jealousy. This fear has to-day
disappeared.”
The same day I paid a visit to my friend Lori Griesbach--the same at
whose house I heard of the death of my poor Arno. She was the one among
the young ladies of my acquaintance with whom I associated most, and
most intimately. Not that we agreed in many of our views, or that we
understood each other completely--though this is no doubt the foundation
of a real friendship--but we had been playmates as children, we had
shared the same position as young married women, had then seen each
other almost daily; and so a certain habitual familiarity had sprung up
between us, which, in spite of so much difference in the principles of
our nature, made our conversation together quite pleasant and
comfortable. The province on which we met each other was limited and
narrow, but in it we were perfectly happy together. Whole pages of my
spiritual life were quite closed to her. Of the views and judgments
which I had reached in my quiet hours of study I had never told her a
word, nor did I feel any desire to do so. How rarely can one give
oneself _entirely_ to any one! I have often experienced this in life,
that I could lay open to one person only one side, to another only
another, of my spiritual personality; that, as often as I conversed with
one or the other, a certain part, so to say, of the register was opened,
while all the rest of the notes remained mute.
Between Lori and me there were plenty of circumstances which gave us
material for hours of chat--our childish recollections, our children,
the events and incidents in the circle of our acquaintance, dress,
English novels, and the like.
Lori’s boy Xavier was of the same age as my son Rudolf and his favourite
playmate, and Lori’s little daughter Beatrix, who was then ten months
old, was playfully destined by us to become one day Countess Rudolf
Dotzky.
“So here you are again at last,” was Lori’s greeting to me. “Lately you
have become quite a hermit! Even my future son-in-law I have not had the
honour of seeing for ever so long! Beatrix will be quite offended. Now
tell us, dear, what are you about? and how are Rosa and Lilly? Besides,
I have some interesting news for Lilly, which my husband brought me
yesterday from the café. There is some one deeply in love with her, one
that I thought was making up to you; but I will tell you all about it
later. What a lovely gown that is that you have on! It is from
Francine’s I know. I could tell that at once. She has such a peculiar
style of her own. And your bonnet is from Gindreau? It suits you
completely. He makes dresses too, now, not bonnets only, and with
immense taste too. Yesterday evening at the Dietrichsteins (why were
you not there?) Nini Chotek was there with an Gindreau dress, and looked
almost pretty.”
So she went on for some time, and I answered in the same style. After I
had dexterously led the talk to the gossip which was current in society,
I put this question in the most unconcerned tone possible:--
“Have you heard that Princess ---- has a _liaison_ with a certain Baron
Tilling?”
“I have heard something of it, but, anyhow, that is _de l’histoire
ancienne_. To-day it is a perfectly well-known thing that the princess
is mad after a low comedian. What, have you any interest in this Baron
Tilling? Why, you are blushing! Ah! it is no good shaking your head!
Better confess! But for this, it would be an unheard-of thing that you
should remain so long cold and unfeeling. It would be a true
satisfaction for me to know you were in love at last. It is true that
Tilling would be no match for you; for you have more brilliant
suitors--and he must have absolutely nothing. To be sure, you are rich
enough yourself, but then, besides, he is too old for you. How old would
poor Arno have been now? Oh! that moment, it was too sad, when you read
my brother’s letter out to me. I shall never forget it. Ah! war is
certainly a sad business, for some. For others it is an excellent
business. My husband wishes for nothing more ardently than that
something should occur, he so longs to distinguish himself. I can
understand it. If I were a soldier I should also wish, myself, to do
some great exploit; or, at least, to get on in my profession.”
“Or to be crippled or shot dead?”
“I should never think of that. One should not think of that, and besides
it only happens to those whose destiny it is. Your destiny, my love, was
to be a young widow.”
“And the war with Italy had to break out to bring it about?”
“And suppose it is my destiny to be the wife of a relatively young
general.”
“Well then, must there be a general war in order that Griesbach may get
quick promotion? You prescribe a very simple course for the government
of the world. But what were you going to tell me in reference to Lilly?”
“That your cousin, Conrad, raves about her. I expect he will very soon
make an offer for her.”
“I doubt that. Conrad Althaus is too flighty a madcap to think of
marrying.”
“Oh! they are all madcaps and flighty--still they do get married when
they get foolishly fond of a girl. Do you think Lilly likes him?”
“I have not observed at all.”
“It would be a very good match. On the death of his uncle Drontheim he
inherits the Selavetz estate. Talking of Drontheim, do you know that
Ferdy Drontheim--the same that broke off his connection with Grilli the
_danseuse_--is now to marry a rich banker’s daughter? However, no one
will receive her. Are you going to the English embassy to-night? What,
again no? Well, really you are right. In these embassy routs one feels
after all not quite at home, there are such a lot of funny people there,
of whom one never can be certain whether they are _comme il faut_. Every
English tourist who can get an introduction to the ambassador is
invited--if he is only a commercial man turned landowner, or even a mere
tradesman. I like Englishmen only in the Tauchnitz editions. Have you
yet read _Jane Eyre_? Is it not really wonderfully pretty? As soon as
Beatrix begins to talk I shall hire an English nurse. About Xavier, I am
not at all pleased with his French maid. A little while ago I met her in
the street, as she was walking out with the boy, and a young man, who
looked like a shopman, was walking with her, and seemed in intimate
conversation. All at once I stood before them--you should have seen
their confusion! One has always some trouble with one’s people. There is
my own maid, who has given me warning, because she is going to get
married just now when I had got used to her! There is nothing more
intolerable than new faces among one’s servants. What! do you want to
go?”
“Yes, my love. I must pay some calls now that cannot be put off. Adieu.”
And I would not be moved to stay “only for five minutes more,” though
the calls that could not be put off were a fiction. At another time I
might no doubt have entertained myself for hours in hearing such
meaningless tittle-tattle and tattling back again, but to-day it
displeased me. One longing had seized me--for a talk like yesterday
evening! Ah, Tilling! Frederick Tilling! The carriage wheels were right
then in their refrain! A change had happened in me, I had been raised
into another world of feeling; these petty matters in which my friend
was so deeply interested--dresses, nursemaids, stories about marriages
and estates--all that was too pitiful, too insignificant, too stifling.
Away from it--above it--into a different atmosphere of life! And Tilling
was really free; the princess “is mad after a low comedian”. He could
not surely have ever been in love with her! some transitory, yes,
_transitory_ adventure, nothing more.
* * * * *
Several days passed without my seeing Tilling again. Every evening I
went to the theatre, and from thence to a party, expecting and hoping to
meet him, but in vain.
My reception day brought me many visitors, but, of course, not him. But
I did not expect him. It was not like him after his decisive “That you
really must not expect from me, countess,” and his saying at the
carriage door in so hurt a manner “I understand--then not at all,” to
present himself after all at my house on a day of the kind. I had
offended him that evening--that was certain; and he avoided meeting me
again--that was clear. Only, what could I do? I was all on fire to see
him again, to make amends for my rudeness on the former occasion, and
get another hour of a talk such as I had had at my father’s--an hour’s
talk the delight of which would now be increased to me an hundredfold by
the consciousness, which had now become plain to me, of my love.
In default of Tilling, the following Saturday brought me at least
Tilling’s cousin, the lady at whose ball I had made his acquaintance. On
her entrance my heart began to beat. Now I could at least learn
something about the man who gave me so much to think about. Still I
could not bring myself to put a direct question to this effect. I felt
that I was not in a condition to speak out his very name without
blushing so as to betray myself; and therefore I talked to my visitor
about a hundred different things--even the weather amongst the rest--but
avoided that very topic which lay at my heart.
“Oh, Martha,” said she, without any preparation, “I have a message to
give you. My cousin Frederick begs to be remembered to you. He went away
the day before yesterday.”
I felt the blood desert my cheeks. “Went away? Where? Is his regiment
moved?”
“No; but he has taken a short leave of absence, to hurry off to Berlin,
where his mother is on her deathbed. Poor fellow, I am sorry for him,
for I know how he adores his mother.”
Two days afterwards I received a letter in a hand I did not know, with
the postmark of Berlin. Even before I saw the signature, I knew that the
letter was Tilling’s. It ran thus:--
“8 FRIEDRICH ST., _Mar. 30, 1863_, 1 A.M.
“Dear Countess,--I _must_ tell my grief to some one, but why to
you? Have I any right to do so? No; but I have an irresistible
impulse. You will feel with me. I know you will.
“If you had known her who is dying you would have loved her. That
soft heart, that clear intellect, that joyous temper--all her
dignity and worth--all is now destined for the grave. No hope! I
have spent the whole day at her bedside, and am going to spend the
night also up here--her last night. She has suffered much, poor
thing. Now she is quiet. Her powers are failing. Her pulse is
already almost stopped. Besides me there are watching in her room
her sister and a physician.
“Ah! this terrible separation! Death! One knows, it is true, that
it must happen to every one; and yet one can never rightly take in
that it may reach those whom we love also. What this mother of mine
was to me I cannot tell you. She knows that she is dying. When I
arrived this morning she received me with an exclamation of joy.
‘So that is you! I see you once more, my Fritz. I did so fear you
would come too late.’ ‘You will get well again, mother,’ I cried.
‘No! No! There is nothing to say about that, my dear boy. Do not
profane our last time together with the usual sick-bed
consolations. Let us bid each other good-bye.’
“I fell sobbing on my knees at the bedside.
“‘You are crying, Fritz. Look! I am not going to say to you the
usual “Do not weep”. I am glad that your parting from your best and
oldest friend gives you pain. That assures me that I shall long
live in your remembrance. Remember that you have given me much joy.
Except the anxiety which the illnesses of your childhood caused,
and the torture when you were on campaign, you have given me none
but happy feelings, and have helped me to bear every sadness which
my lot has laid on me. I bless you for it, my child.’ And now
another attack of her pain came on. It was heartrending to see how
she cried and groaned, how her features were distorted. Yes! Death
is a fearful, a cruel enemy; and the sight of this agony called
back to my recollection all the agonies which I had witnessed on
battlefields and in the hospitals. When I think that we men
sometimes hound each other on to death gratuitously and cheerfully,
that we expect youth in the fulness of its strength to offer itself
willingly to this enemy, against whom even weary and broken old age
yet fights desperately--it is revolting!
“This night is fearfully long. If the poor sufferer could only
sleep! but she lies there with her eyes open. I pass constantly the
space of half-an-hour motionless by her bedside; and then I slip
off to this sheet of paper, and write a few words, and then back
again to her. In this way it has come to four o’clock. I have just
heard the four strokes pealing from all the clock towers--it
strikes one as so cold, so unfeeling, that time is striding on
steadily and unerringly through all eternity, while at this very
moment for one warmly-loved being time must stop--for all eternity.
But by how much the colder, the more unfeeling, the universe seems
to our pain, by so much the more longingly do we fly back to
another human heart which we believe is beating in unison with our
feelings. And therefore it is that this white sheet of paper, which
the physician left lying on the table when he wrote his
prescription, attracted me, and therefore it is that I send you
this letter.
“Seven o’clock. It is over.
“‘Farewell, my dear boy.’ Those were her last words. Then she
closed her eyes and slept. Sleep soundly, my dear mother. In tears
I kiss your dear hands.
“Yours in deadly sorrow,
“FRIEDRICH TILLING.”
I still keep this letter. How frayed and discoloured the sheet looks
now! It is not only the twenty-five years that have elapsed which have
caused this decay, but also the tears and kisses with which I covered
the beloved writing: “In deadly sorrow”. Yes, but “shouting for joy” was
what I felt also when I read it. Though there was no word of love in it,
yet no letter could give plainer proof that the writer loved the
recipient, and no one else. That at such a moment, at the deathbed of
his mother, he longed to pour out his grief into the heart, not of the
princess, but into mine, must surely stifle every jealous doubt.
I sent on the same day a funeral wreath of a hundred large white
camelias, with a single half-blown red rose in it. Would he understand
that the pale scentless flowers belonged to the departed as a symbol of
mourning, and the little rose--to himself?