The beginning of winter found everything the same as usual at the
Parsonage. The Candidate had not succeeded in raising the money for the
continuation of his studies. He therefore was preparing calmly to spend
the winter term under the paternal roof.
He decided to employ the many hours of leisure which stretched before
him, in settling on authorship as his calling in life, and to write an
epoch-making work, which would raise him with one bound to the highest
pinnacle of fame. The work was to be of a scientific character, and to
give shape and method to the floating chaotic ideas of modernity.
A public career lay open to him also. All you had to do to be elected
to the Reichstag, was to sit down and write a few social pamphlets on
prostitution, or the duel question; and if the ministry did not see its
way after that to give you an appointment, you must become active in
opposition, not that miserable half-hearted opposition of abortive
Liberalism, but the firebrand kind of Lassalles, which bore upon it the
imprint of genius, and left plenty of time over for love adventures.
Altogether it had been easier for an Oswald Stein. In those days, as an
adherent of the Sturm and Drang party, one knew what to be at. To cut a
path for freedom from the barricades, and then get hewn down by the
truncheons of tyranny. But since the seventies there had been no
tyrants; and people no longer stirred up revolutions. It was considered
neither gentlemanly nor "modern."
The only consolation that he found in this whirling chaos of emotions
was love. For Kurt loved and was beloved! The blessed knowledge had
been conveyed to him in a gilt-edged note sealed by a rosebud, the sort
of stationery affected by very young ladies. One day at the end of
September it had been delivered to him by the goose-herd at the farm
and had run as follows--
"Dear Herr Kandidat,
"The song 'Smiling Stars,' which you dedicated to me, is quite
charming. Unfortunately my brother took it away from me before I got
hold of it. I must warn you against my brother, for he is very angry
with you; and I am rather afraid he may challenge you. That would be so
awful, I think it would kill me. I beg of you, therefore, not to send
me any more poems; or if you do, please don't address them to Halewitz.
On the road between Halewitz and Wengern there are some milestones with
figures on them. The stone that I mean has the figures 24 on it. Will
you please bury your poems in the earth behind the stone, and as a sign
that you have buried them make a little cross out of twigs, and stick
it up in front of the stone. Then I should know directly when I come
by. And I entreat you to keep this a secret till your dying day, for I
am strictly watched. Even Hertha keeps a look-out on me--ah, it is
dreadful.
"With kind regards,
"Yours sincerely,
"E. V. S.
"P.S.--Please do it soon."
This was the beginning of a lively correspondence between Elly and the
Candidate, which was conducted partly in verse and partly in prose, and
left nothing to be desired in fire and ardour.
Kurt's opinion of himself rose tremendously under its influence. Oswald
Stein now had the advantage of him in nothing. In case Melitta--that
was to say, Felicitas--persisted in scorning him, at least the little
fair girl, who was so madly in love with him, still remained. He had
forgotten her name in the book, but he would call her "Elly" for the
nonce.
Elly's sentimental scrawls provided him with enough amusement to kill
time. They alternated between poetic gush, such as one finds in novels,
and comical outbursts of alarm. "Myrtle wreaths," "the song of the
nightingale," and "starlit spheres," were phrases as numerous as "stabs
of conscience," "suicide and desperation." Twice already she had
implored him to end the correspondence, and to set her free; but there
was always a fresh communication behind the milestone.
Kurt was amply employed in consoling and encouraging her, and
forecasting the golden time when they would be united for ever.
Seriously he had no hopes of anything of the kind happening. It was not
likely the proud clod of a squire would be so good-natured and
accommodating as to lay his still half-baby youngest sister in Kurt's
arms; and it would be derogatory for a man of his talent and prospects
to take her without leave, and hamper himself with an unprofitable
bride. He had difficulties enough to contend with without that.
His old father (set up to it, probably) was beginning to cast a
disapproving eye on his son's manner of life, and veiled allusions
concerning "the lilies of the field," and "loaves and fishes," made him
feel very uncomfortable. One day in the middle of October the bomb
burst.
Kurt, who had reposed till eleven in bed, feeling the necessity of a
little light refreshment before the midday meal, went on a foraging
expedition to the cupboard, the place where one would naturally expect
to find a miscellaneous assortment of ham, pickled eels, cold roast
veal, cold fried potatoes, and mashed turnips. He was interrupted in
the business of choosing between these dainties by the old pastor, who
laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, and asked whether he intended to
make it his vocation for the rest of his life to eat up all the remains
of the family meals.
Kurt assumed the air of an offended prince. "A man must live," he
replied loftily, "or do you wish to imply----"
"Come to my study," broke in the old man.
"Very well," said Kurt, wiping his mouth. "You are my father, so I must
obey you." And he made a sign to show that he bowed to the paternal
authority.
"Come, now, we will speak in plain language, my boy," the old fellow
began, sinking into his shabby, cushioned chair. "In all my days I have
never come across such a cursed jackanapes as you are. You drink like a
fish, swagger and bully like a sergeant-major--all very well, and most
pleasing to me. But do you think that you can go on loafing
_infinitum_?"
Kurt controlled his resentment with difficulty.
"I don't understand, father," he said, "how you can call it loafing.
Periods of inactive development are as necessary to the mind as the
winter-time of hibernating is to Nature. While I am to all appearances
idle, I work incessantly at my individuality. I cultivate my manhood;
my personality is maturing. That is worth more than any book learning."
"Very well, my son," the old man replied. "Don't be discouraged. Keep
up your calm impudence, and the rest will take care of itself. But, I
tell you, for all that the world is a big place. Go and mature your
personality somewhere else, and find another hunting-ground for your
fads."
"Certainly I would, with pleasure, papa," Kurt replied, "if I had the
necessary funds."
"The two months' salary the Baron von Kletzingk gave you would have
been enough to live on for a whole term if you had not squandered it.
You know that you needn't expect a farthing from me. Get the money as
best you can, but remember, in eight days you clear out of this!"
"All right," Kurt replied with dignity, getting up. "I will go to ruin
on the king's highway. But it seems a pity, just as my nature has taken
a start, and I begin to be conscious of unsuspected springs of energy
within me. But we won't speak about it further. The door of my father's
house is to be shut on me--and with justice. Your long-suffering has
been boundless, father. I thank you, and I will at once try and raise a
little money. Farewell!" And he left the room.
The old man looked after him, shaking his head. "What a young scamp it
is!" he said, full of admiration. "I was just such another."
Kurt, filled with bitter feelings, climbed up to the attic. He threw
himself on his bed to reflect on his position, and also to await the
dinner hour. There was baked ham with dumplings for dinner,--a dish
which could be cooked in no university town so excellently as in the
parental house. It was sad that the ham came to an end so soon, and
that his father announced there would before long be one less to feed
at the table.
When Kurt had composed himself a little, he went the round of
neighbouring estates to see what was to be done in the money line.
"How brutal it is," he thought, "that a man's fine ambitions should
be chased away by sordid cares!" And while he plodded along the
rain-drenched country roads, it became clearer than ever that pessimism
was the only philosophy of life worthy of consideration. He resolved to
air his views in some great work which should take the form either of
"Childe Harold" or "The Philosophy of the Unknown."
Grey clouds raced over the sky, the wind whistled across the furrows,
and ravens circled weirdly above the dung-hills. Everything was vast
and dreary, like his mood.
The proceeds of his first day's crusade was a ten-mark piece, lent by
the newly appointed bailiff at Ellernthal--a novel of Zola's, also
lent, and a fit of the blues.
The second day he fared no better, and on the third there seemed to be
little doubt that his credit for ten miles round had been exhausted.
Now he became so utterly disconsolate that he thought of taking his
life. But the same day he received a gilt-edged note, which bore a
certain family resemblance to Elly's missives, only there was no
rosebud. The signature was Hertha von Prachwitz.
"She too?" he thought, and an indescribable feeling of satisfaction ran
through his veins.
Hertha urgently requested an interview of ten minutes with him, and
named as a place of meeting the churchyard at Wengern, and the hour six
in the evening.
"One knows pretty well what those urgent interviews mean," he thought,
twisting his moustache with a smile. After all, any one who was invited
to a rendezvous with countesses need not despair.
To dodge those who might spy on his movements, he took a longish walk
towards evening, from which he tried to return unobserved, for the
churchyard was only a few steps distant from the parsonage.
On the stroke of six he emerged from the shadow of the church porch,
and saw Hertha's figure darkly silhouetted in the late twilight as she
sat waiting on a tombstone. His heart beat riotously in delighted
anticipation. He approached her with his hat in his hand. "What a
fascination and charm there must be about my person," he reflected, "if
even this haughty highflyer succumbs to it!"
Hertha shot up at sight of him. She wore her old grey cloak, and had
drawn the hood over her head and tied it under the chin. She was
painfully excited. Her hands clasped the grave railings convulsively.
Her eyes flashed in the darkness.
"You will think that this is a strange proceeding, Herr Kandidat," she
said, in a trembling voice.
"Oh no, not at all," he assured her with a gallant bow.
"Ordinarily," she went on, "girls like me are not in the habit of
appointing to meet people...."
She halted. There was something in her tone which made him feel a
trifle less triumphant; it was almost as if she would have said,
"people of your position."
"Wait a bit," he thought; "I'll soon bring her down."
"But your stupid conduct to my cousin," she continued, "compels me to
speak very seriously to you."
Kurt felt very much as if a bucket of cold water had been hurled at
him. It was evident what had happened. Elly had told tales, and Hertha,
whether jealous or not, had made up her mind to put obstacles in his
way.
"I beg pardon, countess," he said, raising his hand in dignified
protest. "This is a matter of a very private nature. I don't know how
far and by what means you have gained the confidence of your cousin
Fraeulein Elly, and I, for my part, cannot flatter myself that I have
your confidence; therefore, if you will allow me----"
He raised his hat as a sign that he desired to end the conversation.
"Listen to me, if you please, Herr Kandidat," said Hertha, and her eyes
flashed wrathfully. "If you adopt this tone towards me, it will be the
worse for you."
"You talk in riddles," he replied, with a smirk.
"I am ready to express myself as plainly as you like," said Hertha. "I
have run over here secretly, and at great risk, and you thought of
going away and leaving me in the lurch like a naughty schoolboy."
In his most cavalier style he begged her pardon, and submitted to hear
what was coming.
"Why don't you leave my cousin alone?" asked Hertha, measuring him with
a scornful eye from head to toe.
"I love Fraeulein Elly," he replied, "and I will annihilate all who
thwart my love."
"Don't be so impertinent, Herr Kandidat. No one will believe you."
"They shall be made to believe," he said; "when two young hearts love,
who shall come between them?"
Hertha shrugged her shoulders. "Elly does not love you, Herr Kandidat,"
she said.
"I happen to possess proofs to the contrary," he replied, with another
polite bow.
"Ah! You mean the silly letters?" asked Hertha. "If she hadn't begun to
write them behind my back, I should long ago have put a stop to it.
Yesterday she came to me and implored me to save her, and I mean to
save her, Herr Kandidat, even if it should cost me my life."
"Save her from what, if I may venture to ask, countess?"
"From you, Herr Kandidat. She has begged you more than once to leave
her in peace, and told you that you frightened her. But you have
continued, in spite of that, to bombard her with your crazy letters,
verses, and stuff. The verses aren't even original, and the rest is all
lies. So now you know what I think, Herr Kandidat."
Kurt gnawed his moustache. It seemed as if the prospect of a double
defeat lay before him. But he would not lose the battle without a last
struggle.
"My good breeding prevents my answering a lady in the tone which you
have chosen to adopt towards me. But I should be glad to know why, if
your cousin Fraeulein Elly holds me in such detestation, and finds my
letters so senseless, has she demeaned herself to invite me to enter
into a correspondence with her? And why, up to the present, has she not
disdained to answer my letters?"
Hertha bit her lips. It was no easy task to defend Elly's folly.
A silence ensued. The autumn wind moaned in the larches, and brought
down with every gust a shower of fine prickly rain.
Hertha appeared to herself unspeakably stupid and silly. If she had had
her riding-whip, she would have loved to bring it about the ears of the
youth, who maintained his dandified air, and was straining every muscle
to impress her as a model of gentlemanly forbearance. But it would not
have helped matters.
"You don't answer me!" exclaimed Kurt Brenckenberg at last,
triumphantly. "Then, naturally, I draw my own conclusions."
"Good gracious! Herr Kandidat," said Hertha, elevating her shoulders
contemptuously, "do you imagine I am going to dispute with you? Elly
has not had my experience of life. She is still a silly young thing,
and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of her silliness. She
thought that she was bound to answer your letters. That is the long and
short of it. And now I will give you a piece of advice. Don't dare come
near her again, or write notes, or sing songs in the park, or carry on
any more of that nonsense. For if you do, I will tell my brother the
whole story, and he will point out to you clearly your duty in the
matter. Good evening, Herr Kandidat!"
She drew her skirts together and passed by him, with the dead leaves
fluttering around her.
For a long time Kurt stared blankly after her. The slender, upright,
girlish figure was silhouetted in picturesque outline against the
sulphur-coloured sky, and then vanished behind the churchyard wall.
"What a dog's life it is!" he murmured. "One begins to think one has a
heart, and then it all comes to nothing."
He sat down on the edge of a grave and brooded. The wind howled, and
the dry leaves came whirling down like autumnal spirits. He reflected
on fame, heroism, the madness of love, and the perishableness of all
earthly things.
"When a man has no money, he is nearly as good as dead," he quoted
sadly, and then stood up, for supper-time was drawing near.