It was too late now to turn back. And however much Ulrich Kletzingk
might feel himself master of his will, he recognised the fact that he
would not be able to bear turning back. He clung to the repossession of
Leo with the whole strength of his passionate heart, which could never
do enough to show its love. The greater the sacrifice which had been
made for him, the more jealously he prized the value of what had been
regained.
For the most part, things went on in their old routine. Leo was seldom
able to come over, and then for only a few hours at a time, for at
Halewitz the oats were not yet disposed of. When he did come he was in
gay spirits, but in his solicitude for Ulrich there mingled a
nervousness that was altogether alien to his nature.
The first time that he had made his way over and looked his friend in
the eyes, his heart-beats rose to his throat, for he felt as if some
misfortune had happened, and as if either anger or pain blazed at him
from Ulrich's face. Then he seized the thin, transparent hands, which
the summer sun had powdered with a heap of freckles, and as he pressed
them felt thankful that his alarm had been uncalled for. But still it
could not be disguised that something in their friendship had been
severed--something which could not be cemented or grow together again.
Their mutual love had not lessened, their confidence in each other was
the same, but a shadow crouched between them, and rose its full height
when neither was on his guard. Ulrich too was conscious of this. The
more fervidly he clung to the refound friend, the clearer he saw that
the manner of their intercourse had altered. Hardly perceptible, of
course. No third person would have noticed it, but it could not escape
Ulrich, whose sensitive organism longed for the sunshine of harmless
gaiety. Leo's jokes were rarer. He weighed his words, and sometimes
stopped short in the middle of a sentence as if considering whether
what he was going to say would hurt his friend's feelings.
"Don't treat me as if I were a brittle article," he besought him once.
"You know I can stand a puff of wind, and you used not to spoil me."
"Perhaps not," replied Leo, wrinkling his forehead; "the devil knows
how it is that I have suddenly got into this mincing way."
After the manner of sturdy country squires, Leo, in old days, had
delighted to crack broad jests, which though in themselves distasteful
to Ulrich, he had let pass with a smile, feeling that no side of human
nature ought to be ignored.
It occurred to him now that Leo avoided all reference to sexual
subjects, and had ceased to retail gallant adventures.
"Have you secretly gone over to the monks?" Ulrich asked once.
"Why?"
"Because women don't seem to exist for you now."
"A time comes when one gets sick of that sort of thing," Leo answered,
and quickly turned the conversation into another channel.
A vague feeling of shyness kept him at a distance from the castle. He
much preferred to get his friend out into the fields and plantations
where they would ride silently side by side.
But while they were trying, out of doors, to enjoy once more the old
communion of interests, which had so long been sacrificed, Felicitas,
hidden behind the curtains of one of the balcony windows, cast wistful
eyes after them.
She had no just cause for complaining of Leo. He scarcely ever omitted
at the end of his visits to seek a short interview with her. And when
time would not allow of this courtesy, she received through Ulrich his
greetings and apologies. His manner towards her was uniformly natural
and kind. There was something in it of brotherly camaraderie, half
respectful, half facetious; and the pressure of his hand, and the
expression in his eyes, betokened sincere and warm friendship. In
short--she ought to have been content.
Nevertheless it dispirited and hurt her that no look or syllable of his
ever recalled what she had once been to him. It would seem as if not
the slightest trace had been left in his memory of that mad, blissful
time, vivid pictures of which lived on in hers; for despite all pain,
she could not banish them. What she had done for him was in vain if he
had thus erased everything from his mind, and made it blank to the
past.
She cried a good deal in these days, declared that her life had been a
failure, and revelled in old memories, which, whether painful or sweet,
filled her soul with bitterness. She looked back and saw herself from
earliest childhood, a burden to unknown relations, parentless and
homeless: an adventuress through circumstance on the look-out for lucky
chances.
She had never known her mother; her father, an impecunious officer, had
been embittered by an unsuccessful career, and out of disappointment at
his discharge, had taken his own life.
From his grave-side she had been taken by an old-maidish aunt to her
institution, where for three years she had gazed with yearning through
a barred window on the forbidden street. Then other relations sent her
to a fashionable Belgian school, where the pious sisters instructed her
in the art of dancing and embroidery, and inculcated coquetry; and
next, by one of those turns of fate which characterised the years of
her early girlhood, she found herself transported to the solitude of a
Polish magnate's estate. From there, after various stages of transition
and misery, she passed into the circle of Halewitz, which, in spite of
several efforts to get away from it--for she dearly loved change--she
was destined to take root in. After all, it was the only place where
she was not forcibly reminded of her helplessness and homelessness;
and, what was more, where her bewitching personality was allowed to
unfold itself according to her sovereign will.
At that time there had been a little flirtation between her and
Leo--the innocent prelude to their later guilty liaison. It had passed
without leaving any serious consequences behind.
The first to approach her in earnest with a proposal was Herr von
Rhaden, the proprietor of Fichtkampen, a former loose-liver, and at one
time a crony of old Baron Sellenthin's. He was at the end of his
forties, sallow, grizzled, and gallant. Felicitas, admired as she knew
herself to be, said "Yes" without much reflection. For since her
thirteenth year, she had determined to take the first husband she could
get, to throw herself into his arms whether he was the best or worst of
men, so that she might be released from her forlorn situation by an
early marriage.
Thus, at nineteen, she migrated to Fichtkampen; became mother of a son;
danced, rode, made point lace, played patience, and waited for the
advent of the hero whom the cards promised her. She would gladly have
flirted, only the cantankerous disposition of her elderly husband would
not have permitted it. First, _faute de mieux_, and then, really to
satisfy her heart's hunger, she attracted Leo to her again. As a friend
of her youth, and a second cousin, he was placed beyond her husband's
jealous suspicion, and so things happened as they were bound to happen.
The famous duel which made her a widow was the climax. It would have
been sheer insanity to remain a widow, and no one blamed her when,
after nearly two years' mourning, she accepted the hand of the grave
and high-minded Uhich von Kletzingk, although he was the bosom-friend
of the man who had killed her first husband.
Now, for the first time, she was free, and enjoyed the liberty she had
so long yearned for. Ulrich's patience was admirable. He guessed that a
secret repugnance alienated her from him, the sickly man; as his innate
refinement of feeling would not allow him to take by force what was not
readily acceded, he put a bridle on his own wishes. His self-denial did
not make him reproach her. She found in her husband her ready and
sincerest friend, while she engaged in flirtations with the gentlemen
of the country round, scoring triumphs, which fed her vanity. But happy
she was not. It was part of her nature to luxuriate in feeling unhappy.
It raised her in her own esteem to a higher sphere, and increased the
charms of her personality. She posed to the world defenceless and
lovely, with a veil of melancholy draping transparently the mystery of
a soul devoured by a secret desire.
She knew perfectly well that with Leo's return a new epoch in her life
had opened. Folly was at an end; her existence had become serious once
more. It seemed to her clear that she didn't, perhaps never had loved
him, and daily and hourly she repeated this assertion to herself, as
his image rose before her again, laughing as of old, and would not be
obliterated from her mind any more. He roused her animosity, at times
she almost hated him; yet a gnawing, anxious curiosity drew her to him
irresistibly.
During the first eight days of his return, she had given her train of
admirers their _conge_; then she went further, and sacrificed her
child. She had found a thousand ways of deceiving herself into
justification of the act. She scarcely knew, and she didn't want to
know, what she was doing. Even the goal that she thought to attain by
it was misty and vague. Now the child had been gone nearly a second
month, and a dull anxiety filled the place in her heart left empty by
her motherly care for him.
One afternoon, when Ulrich was out, she took the letters from the
postman, and a note from Paulchen fell into her hands which increased
her anxiety. It ran--
"Dear Papa and Dear Mamma,
"It isn't nice here, and I should like to come home at once. And I am
very frightened. And we have to get up at six o'clock in the morning,
and then I get the morning banging from the boys, because I am the
youngest. If I was not the youngest, some one else would get the
banging; but, as I am the youngest, I get it. After dinner, there is
the afternoon banging, and after supper, the evening blessing, and that
hurts worst of all. Lotzen is the strongest boy. He can spin a top
splendidly; but he does everything else badly. But he says it doesn't
matter, because he is going to be a general; his uncle is a general,
and that is why he will be a general, too. I should like to be a
landowner. I wish I was not so frightened. How is Fido? And now I must
say good-bye.
"Your
"Paul.
"P.S.--It is 123 days to Christmas. One of the boys has counted it up."
A sharp struggle went on that day within her. She stood before
Paulchen's photograph, stared at it, wrung her hands, and pressed them
against her brow. In sheer fear, her face lengthened.
"What will be the end of it?" she stammered. "What can be the end of
it?"
Then she threw herself on the sofa, cried, prayed, and finally resolved
to keep the letter a secret from her husband. For she knew what he was.
She knew that he would never consent to the child staying another
moment in a place where his life threatened to become a torment to him.
But his being brought back must be prevented at any cost, or her ends
could never be achieved. She felt driven to resort to means of watching
over the fate of her child as a loving mother, without making Ulrich a
participator in her anxiety.
There was an old sewing-woman in the house, Minna by name, who in other
days had been her confidante and factotum. She had taken letters to
Leo, and had mounted guard for them at the garden gate. More lately she
had rendered assistance in the more harmless goings on with the boys of
the neighbourhood. She was always on the spot when wanted, and when it
was necessary to cloak and mask things.
That same evening Felicitas shut herself in her sanctum, and with a
fluent pen wrote the following answer--
"My dearest Paulchen,
"You must never write such letters to papa again. Then poor papa, as
you know, is often ill, and if you cause him anxiety he will distress
himself and get worse. You would not like to make him worse, would you?
Happily, I have managed to keep your last letter from him. For the
future, you must only write to papa that you are feeling happy and
getting on well. But if you would like to pour out your heart to your
mamma, put your little letter in one of the enclosed envelopes; then it
will reach me safely through old Minna, who sends her love to you. As
to the treatment you have to put up with from your schoolfellows, I
shall probably write and complain of it to the head-master, for such
roughness certainly ought not to be allowed in a boarding-school, meant
only for boys of good family. But don't you think you have exaggerated
a little, my darling boy? What they do to you is done in fun, you know.
And then, you want to grow up a brave man, and so you must try and bear
teasing, and laugh at pain. Have you thought of that?
"A thousand kisses, my own sweet Paulchen,
"From your very loving
"Mamma."
She addressed half a dozen envelopes with the address under which she
had received other clandestine letters. It was--.
"Fraeulein Minna Huth,
"Muensterberg,
"Poste restante."
Then she put all together into a big envelope, and rang for old Minna,
to whose secret care she entrusted the missive.
The sewing-woman, a withered hag with a large parchment-coloured face
in which her toothless jaws incessantly champed, rejoiced in the new
intrigue. She clung to her beautiful young mistress with the
faithfulness of a pampered dog, and her only ambition was to be useful
to her. Paulchen's scrawls would be as safe in her hand as formerly the
outpourings of amorous souls.
The danger of the little boy's return was thus averted; but Felicitas
was no happier. She longed so intensely to see Leo, for once, alone.
She had proved that she understood how to sound the depths of his soul.
But it was clear as daylight that he avoided being _tete-a-tete_ with
her. He always chose with punctilious exactitude the hours for his
visits when Ulrich was to be found in the yard, and turned invariably
towards the stables instead of dismounting before the portico.
"Is this the reward for the sacrifice I have made in becoming
reconciled with him?" she asked herself; but she did not take into
consideration that the self-sacrifice only existed in Ulrich's
imagination. In her heart's estrangement, she almost thought of
resorting again to the old flirtations for distraction. "Enjoy
yourself, deaden yourself with the old pleasures," she said to herself,
"so that he will see how things are with you, and approach you again."
But she hurled the temptation from her. Looking into her mind and
probing it to the sad depths, she saw clearly that she must spurn low
standards and dishonest means, if she was to preserve the power of
conjuring up the beautiful and pathetic picture which she delighted to
dwell on as the reflection of her soul. "Be noble, let your motives be
exalted," a voice said within her; "perish like a vestal who offers up
body and soul as a sacrifice. Renunciation is beautiful. How wonderful,
without desires or inclination, to fade slowly away." A shiver ran
through her as the word "fade" echoed within her. She repeated it with
trembling lips. Then she went to the mirror, folded her hands, and
contemplated herself for a long time. So fair, so young, yet fated to
wither and die.
A well-known picture of Queen Marie Antoinette came into her mind,
representing her in prison, with folded hands, behind a bed-screen,
glancing heavenwards, chaste and resigned. She fetched a lace fichu,
which she knotted loosely on her bosom. The resemblance seemed to her
most striking, though in reality her pretty Watteau-like face had
nothing at all in common with the haughty features of the aquiline-nosed
daughter of the Hapsburgs. "So fair and so young to perish thus," she
repeated. She almost fancied that she felt the cold steel of the
guillotine fall upon her neck. "Poor, poor Queen," she whispered, and
tears of belated compassion filled her eyes.
The uneasiness which Leo's distance caused her, gave her no more peace
of mind. Indeed every day it grew worse, so that at last, after
thinking and thinking it over, she conceived an enterprise, the
boldness of which nearly took her breath away.
The only road to Halewitz for her she knew lay over Johanna's
threshold; and she resolved to take it.
"Don't you find," she said at lunch to Ulrich, in a low voice, "that
your intercourse with Leo leaves much to be wished for as regards
freedom?"
Ulrich gave her a hurried, alarmed look. Was it, then, as plain as a
pikestaff that which he had hardly dared own to himself?
She confided to him her observations. His visits were too rare and too
fleeting; and, above all, he seemed to think he must hold aloof from
her.
"It has never occurred to me," he said, much relieved. "But, my
dearest," she replied, "we women have quicker insight into such things.
I rejoice from the bottom of my heart over his scruples, but they are
really no longer necessary; and that there may be no further doubt
about the sincerity of my forgiveness, and that you, too, may not doubt
it, mistrustful man, I propose that we order round the new landau this
afternoon and drive over to Halewitz."
He was so astounded that he nearly dropped his wine-glass.
"But your rupture with Johanna?" he asked. "I thought you were deadly
enemies."
She shrugged her shoulders, laughing lightly. "Women's squabbles," she
explained; "I can easily put that right."
"I never asked you the reason of that feud," said he; "but perhaps now
the time has come when I may."
"Don't be curious, beloved," she whispered, and at this moment,
noticing that the bailiffs had done rolling up their serviettes, she
threw them a friendly "Gesegneter Mahlzeit," accompanied by a
fascinating smile, which filled the poor devils, who were a long way
off being society men, with extreme delight. "Doesn't it seem, Uli, as
if the whole of your staff were in love with your little wife?" she
asked, when they were alone together, nestling within his arm to
receive the customary kiss after meals.
He was going to administer an affectionate rebuke, for this kind of
pleasantry was abhorrent to him, when he remarked that her whole body
trembled with excitement.
"What is the matter?" he asked in alarm.
She drew away from him quickly. "With me!" she laughed; "what should be
the matter? The carriage will be round at four. Yes?"