September was drawing to its close. Despite the disquieting turn that
events had taken, Leo Sellenthin continued to live a fresh, healthy,
and active life, without its ever occurring to him to doubt the
indestructibility of his high spirit or the intrepidity of his
adherence to his own doctrine of right. Not once had he felt the
"tragic touch;" only a certain feeling of discomfort had taken up its
abode within him. He was like a man who wears an ill-fitting coat, and
doesn't know whether it is too wide or too narrow. The naive
self-assurance which had sat like an ornament on him hitherto was gone;
he studied and examined himself, found flaws in his nature, and
rejoiced in his good points.
Lively, whimsical sallies which once had rippled forth from him
carelessly, seemed to him now something wonderful and striking; he
enjoyed them while he gave them utterance, and was pleased when they
caused laughter. In sharp contrast to this mood were his surly,
taciturn fits, when those around did well to keep out of his way.
But sooner or later his original nature broke through the clouds again,
if it was only to scoff cynically at the past. He wanted to be healthy
and jolly, and he succeeded.
One afternoon, when Leo was in the act of starting to ride over to
Uhlenfelde, there arrived in the courtyard, puffing and blowing, the
hanging cheeks of his yellowish-brown face covered with sweat, the
worthy old pastor Brenckenberg.
He and his son had walked over together, but the latter had considered
it advisable to disappear in the direction of the bailiff's quarters,
not being sure of his reception at the castle.
A spirit of devilry awoke in Leo at the sight of the old bigot, to
whose philippics he had as yet had no opportunity of retaliating, being
thus delivered into his hand.
The pastor's visits to his patron and quondam pupil had never been
frequent; they had been limited, for the most part, to pastoral calls,
when deputations had to be received or clerical matters discussed, but
had generally ended by taking the form of solemn drinking bouts; for
Leo, whose cellars were stocked with fine wines, delighted to pour his
best into the old man's glass, whose connoisseurship failed only from
want of practice. That was an accepted and invariable custom, dating
from his father's hilarious times; and even the oldest amongst the
retainers could not remember a day when their pastor had left the
precincts of Halewitz sober.
"Hullo, old fellow!" called Leo, stretching out his hand to him. "How
is it we haven't met all this time? Uneasy conscience, eh?"
"A man of God has never an uneasy conscience," replied the pastor, with
a grin--"unless he has been drinking water;" and he mopped his shiny
face and bacon neck with a red-cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"Wait," thought Leo; "you shall not get off to-day;" and he motioned to
the groom to unsaddle the mare again.
As they walked up side by side to the portico, the parson whose
corpulent figure swayed from side to side, appeared of more massive and
powerful build than his old pupil, although the latter towered half a
head over him.
Leo led him into the study, asked him to sit down, and rang for
Christian.
"Bring us a bottle of sour cooking Moselle," he commanded.
The old servant gave him an astonished look. "It is not fit to drink
even in the kitchen punch-bowl," he took the liberty of murmuring.
"Do what I tell you!"
Christian departed, shaking his head, and Leo settled himself
comfortably opposite the pastor.
"Now let us hear all the scandal," he said. "What chimney smokes? Where
has a hair been found in the soup?"
"Fritzchen! Fritzchen!" Brenckenberg rebuked him with his broadest
smile. "You shouldn't hold up to ridicule the shepherd of your soul."
He had always called him "Fritzchen." Why, no one knew, not even he
himself. The pet name had survived the decade during which their
relations to each other had so altered. The "you," which was held to be
officially correct, yielded to the familiar "thou" when they sat
together over their wine. Sometimes Leo gave the signal, but oftenest
it was the old man, whose heart overflowed in his cups, who adopted the
more endearing form of address at his own peril.
Christian brought the wine with the conscience of a poisoner, and
hobbled out again.
The small black eyes of the shepherd of souls sparkled with
satisfaction under their fierce bushy brows; he smacked his full lips.
The Lord's wrestler had doffed his armour, and wanted to be simply a
man, a peace-loving, weak, lusty human being, who next Sunday would
have something to repent. The bottles looked respectable enough, the
wine somewhat pale, it was true, as it trickled into the dignified
rummers in a watery stream, but that might be deceptive. He breathed
hard through his distended nostrils, and thrust out his upper lip.
"Your health, old fellow!"
"Your health, Fritzchen!"
He tasted, started, half-choked, and coughed violently; then, with a
countenance expressive of unutterable human grief and disappointment,
he put down his glass.
"Nice wine!" remarked Leo, raising his forefinger to command assent.
The pastor, purple from coughing, would have liked to spit it out, but
daren't.
"Fritzchen," he said plaintively, "what tricks are you up to now?"
"Isn't my wine to your taste, Herr Pastor?"
"I can't say it is. No. By Jove, Fritzchen!"
"I don't understand you, dear pastor. You see that I drink it. Indeed,
since I began to repent my past sins I have drunk nothing else. It is
what we call the wine of repentance and crucifixion! Pies-Porter....
Year '83.... An unusually cold and damp year, as you will remember."
"Ah!" exclaimed the pastor, suddenly enlightened.
"Yes, yes, old friend. Do you grasp it now? Since we condemned our
Fritz to hell-fire there has been howling and gnashing of teeth at
Halewitz. We don't wallow in luxury here, as David did with his
Bathshebas. Sour Moselle is our only drink. Your health, old boy."
"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, relapsing, after his shock,
into the affectionate "thou," "if the condition of your conscience
compels you to drink it, that is your own affair. I don't wish to
hinder any one in carrying out their principles; but you must allow me,
if you please, to be only an onlooker."
Leo laughed triumphantly in his face, for this was what he expected.
"If I am not mistaken, my dear friend, you once expressed yourself in
the following beautiful and touching words: 'Bareheaded will I go, and
walk with my naked soles on red-hot bricks.' Yes, you said you would do
that for your David, your Fritzchen. But now, when it comes to the
point, it seems that you can't even share in his penitence to the
extent of drinking a glass of Pies-Porter, year '83, with him."
The old man stroked his cheeks. "You take me for a fool, Fritz," he
said; "but ... you are right." And with a desperate effort he emptied
the glass in one draught.
Leo, in the name of all his sins, did the same, and refilled the
glasses.
"Now, Fritzchen," the old man began, letting his bulldog glance, half
severe, half servile, rest on his squire, "we are not Catholics, and I
am not your father confessor. I simply came here to talk over with you
the autumn conference, and, with the Lord's permission, to drink a
glass of good wine in your company. Instead, you choose to set before
me this trash, and to begin talking of that cursed business, which has
already caused me enough headaches."
"_You_ began it, old man."
"Yes, in the pulpit. That is my damned duty.... And if you rascals will
carry on such games, then----"
"You must rail and swear...."
"You've had many a clout from me, Fritzchen...."
"And I have kissed the hand that held the rod," he interposed,
laughing.
"I thought I had done enough; but if I had known _that_ of you ... ah!
ah!"
"You would like to make it good?" mocked Leo.
"If possible ... with pleasure."