On the first Sunday of the New Year, Ulrich alighted at the station at
Muensterberg, after seeing the grave close over his step-son. He had
decided, after long consideration, to have the boy buried in the place
where he died, and if his wife felt herself equal to the strain, to
have the body removed later to be interred in the family vault of the
Rhadens at Fichtkampen.
Felicitas had not spared him any of the details of her despair,
illness, and attempted suicide, and had painted all in the darkest
colours. She had too much to conceal to be able to express her grief
simply and sincerely. The task lay before her of excusing herself, as
far as was possible, of any blame in her child's death, and of
presenting the whole unhappy affair to Ulrich and the world and to
herself, tricked out in the guise of romance.
Above all, it had never occurred to her to spare her husband. The
letters she had written him from her bed with a feverish hand were full
of endless laments that they had ever sent the boy so far away to
school, which strengthened the pangs of remorse that already tortured
his sensitive soul.
With the instinct of self-preservation, she had tried to shunt the
responsibility for what had happened on Ulrich's shoulders, in the same
way as she had blamed Leo as an accomplice, so that Ulrich's easily
disturbed conscience began to accuse him of being the cause of all the
misery.
"She was only like an irresponsible child," he said to himself,
"following the whim of the moment. I ought to have thought of that and
have remained firm in opposing her, even when it was the fate of her
own flesh and blood that she was deciding upon."
And then, what was worst of all was, that she had done it for him and
him alone. So that he might continue to enjoy the friendship of the man
who bore on him the stain of having killed the child's father, that
child had been sent into banishment to meet his death. A sacrifice so
cruel and unnatural had, as it was bound to be, been avenged, and, as
things had shaped themselves, it had all been of no avail. The object
for which the stupendous sacrifice had been made was not attained.
For he could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that he was losing his
friend, his boyhood's comrade and well-beloved who, ever since he could
remember, had been first in his thoughts, who had been his pride and
glory and rock of strength, who seemed to embody all the health and
physical power that fate had denied to himself.
He no longer understood him. The laws that governed his emotions were
strange to him, and what once had seemed to him like a perfect, rushing
harmony of Mother Nature's, now was like a shrieking confusion of
discordant notes.
Whether it was himself who had changed so much, or the other, he
couldn't say; he was only clear on one point, that every fresh
utterance of Leo's estranged and hurt him.
No one knew better than his friend how dear the small step-son had been
to his heart; but on the day of the funeral he had got a letter from
Leo so stiffly and frigidly expressed, that it might have been the
conventional condolences of an absolute stranger.
It was indeed a melancholy home-coming for Ulrich. No one met him at
the station. But the station-master, who recognised the baron as he
flashed his lantern upon him, helped him out of the railway-carriage,
and spoke a few words of respectful sympathy.
The old coachman, Wilhelm, seated on the box, wiped away his tears at
his master's approach, and when he laid his hand on his shoulder and
said to him in a low voice, "Ah, Wilhelm, we shall not see our boy
again," he nearly let the reins slip out of his weather-beaten hands
from emotion.
Ulrich had brought back with him Paulchen's trunks and play boxes, and
these were piled high on the back seat of the sleigh. Among them were
the two big Christmas parcels of toys which the little fellow had
looked out for so expectantly on Christmas Eve, and gone in search of.
They had been delivered the next day by the pleased postman.
The sleigh glided on through the moonless night. On the plain the
whiteness of the snow made a faint glimmer; the poplars bordering the
road emerged in blurred outline one after the other out of the dark.
Ulrich fancied that from behind each tree Paulchen must appear and call
to him, "Take me home. I am afraid; so afraid. Take me home, please."
Then came the long bridge which had been Paulchen's delight. It was a
hundred and fifty paces in length, and had balustrades of black and
white palings, on which he had always said that he wanted to climb when
he was "big enough." Underneath the bridge, where it was often dry
enough to walk, there was an echo, and when a carriage passed overhead
it was like the rolling of thunder.
And a little further on was the chief wonder of the road, a windmill
that stood on a roof. Think of it! a windmill high up on a roof!
Forlornly it spread its snowy wings now, like the ghost of a giant
stretching its arms into the grey night sky.
So the drive continued till the demesne of Uhlenfelde came in sight.
Here there seemed scarcely an inch of land that was not sanctified by
some association with the dead boy. How gloomy and desolate were the
wide fields! They looked as if a bright day could never dawn again to
bathe them in sunshine; as if eternal winter had settled on the world.
He looked forward to the prospect that awaited him with shuddering. He
dreaded alike his work and his leisure.
Then he thought of Felicitas, and was ashamed of thinking so much of
his own feelings. The task before him was to coax with gentle patience
and tactful caution, a despairing woman, slowly back to the ordinary
walks of life.
A burst of compassionate love for her gushed forth from his soul. He
felt as if she and Leo were a legacy left to him by the poor little
fellow who had died so tragically.
Yes, with Leo too he must try and set things right. He would go to him,
look him straight in the eyes, clasp his hand; and say--
"Man, speak out, and over the dead tell me honestly, what is the
barrier that has grown up between you and me?"
The sleigh turned through the courtyard gateway. The servants and
labourers lined the drive in black groups, and in silent sympathy bared
their heads. All had foregone their beer, and none had spent the
sabbath hours of repose at home with wife and child, because they all
wished by their presence there to show him how they felt for him in his
bereavement.
The sleigh drew up. His heart beat faster, for he feared Felicitas
would come out to meet him; but she did not come. She was waiting for
him in her corner-boudoir, standing erect by the writing-table. Her
deep mourning-dress made her look taller. She appeared to him almost
majestic, or was it her sorrow which invested her in his eyes with
majesty? yet the expression of the haggard eyes, which looked bigger
than ever because her face had grown so thin, was not one of sorrow.
Rather did it appear to be anxiety and horror that gazed out of them,
as if she feared being surprised in a defenceless position.
"Lizzie," he stammered, holding out his arms to her.
She dropped her lids, and leant against the wall for support. He drew
her head to his breast and led her to an easy-chair, murmuring over
her, softly, words of comfort. All the love with which his heart was
overflowing he lavished upon her. He spoke of their belonging to each
other more completely than ever before, of the sacred hallowing
influence the death of the innocent child would have upon both their
lives. He promised to give her for the future boundless confidence,
most fervent trusty and tenderest consideration; all, indeed, that he
had given her for years, which for years she had accepted with smiling
indifference, and without heeding the giver.
So soon as it dawned on her that he was not in the least disposed to
make her responsible and call her to account, her nervous rigidity
relaxed; she slid on to the carpet, and, burying her head on his knees,
sobbed bitterly.
He went on speaking to her in the same soothing, gentle tone. She wrung
her hands, and beat her forehead. For an instant her maternal grief,
which in spite of everything was strong within her, had full sway
without any _arriere pense_ interrupting it. But her expressions were
so wildly exaggerated, that soon even her grief became artificial, and
the last remnant of pure and noble sentiment she had possessed was
destroyed.
Gradually she grew calmer, and she let her arms fall to her sides. A
lassitude that was almost pleasant overcame her. She let him raise her
and lay her on the couch. She felt the burning desire that children
feel after a whipping--to be pitied and consoled.
"Oh, Ulrich," she murmured, "what I have suffered!"
He started. A sense of disappointment suddenly damped his sympathy.
Surely at this hour her first words should not have been words of pity
for herself.
He said nothing; but his eyes wandered about the room as if he were
pondering on some new experience. Supper was announced. The officials
who generally sat at table with them had tactfully begged to be excused
to-night. Husband and wife were alone.
The tea-kettle hummed, and the bronze hanging-lamp shed a soft lustre
on the snowy damask and gleaming silver.
Felicitas busied herself about his creature-comforts, acting on an
impulse to pay off the gigantic debt she owed him with the small coin
of little kindnesses and attentions. She prepared his sardines in his
favourite way, cut him the thinnest bread-and-butter, and poured two
spoonfuls of rum in his tea--a pick-me-up he was obliged sometimes to
resort to. She put a cushion at his back, and drew the shade low over
the lamp, so that his "poor tired eyes" should not be dazzled.
He watched her in painful amazement. He would have preferred satisfying
his hunger to-night silently and unobserved, like a dog, and not to
have been reminded that there were such things as dainty living and
tit-bits in the world.
"How can she think of these trifling matters, when a few moments ago
she was idling on the floor in despair?" he asked himself.
With a fine instinct she divined what was passing in his mind, and
changing her tack, began again to give a harrowing account of her own
sufferings.
"No, Ulrich," she said, "you can't conceive what torture it was to me
to think of you alone at his grave: not to be there to help you, and
stand by you. But it could not be helped. The doctor gave strict orders
that I was not to attempt the journey; besides, I was very ill; a
little more and you would not have found me alive."
She paused, expecting him to question her about the attempted suicide;
but as he was silent she led the conversation round to it herself.
"Are you still angry with me, dearest?" she asked.
"Why should I be angry?"
"Because I acted so wickedly, and, in the first shock of my grief,
doubted God and His mercy, so that I believed it was impossible to go
on living. Ah, Ulrich, if you knew the state I was in then, you would,
I am sure, forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive, Felicitas."
"But you say it so severely, Ulrich. I know, of course, that I have
committed a great sin, that one ought to endure patiently any misery
God inflicts on us; but I was so alone, so utterly alone--you away, no
one to turn to. First, I thought of throwing myself in the river. That
would have been the quickest; but the river was frozen. Next, I thought
I would roam about the fields and freeze to death--and I did stay out
half one night, and it didn't kill me, and so I came home, and snatched
up some poison--the first that came to hand--and drank, drank. It was
like liquid fire in my throat, and I saw dancing suns before my eyes,
and then I fell, and I don't know what happened afterwards. Do you see,
Uli, what a terrible time your poor little wife has gone through?"
In her longing to hear him console her, she began to cry once more. But
the desired consolation was not forthcoming.
"Ah! how much better it would have been," she lamented further, "if I
had never awoke. What is life? Nothing but sorrow, wretchedness, and
misunderstanding. When one's heart is torn, one is always most alone.
Ah, Uli! for you, too, it would have been best. Would you have mourned
for me a little?"
He did not answer. He looked at her, and looked again, and she turned
him to stone. He had been waiting for the bitter cry of maternal
anguish. But she talked of herself, and only of herself. His eyes
beheld her in her fair loveliness, rocking herself to and fro on her
chair. The rounded curves of her slender figure were set off by the
close-fitting mourning-gown. Her masses of curly golden hair shone like
a halo above her forehead and small rosy ears. The perpetual smile,
half-melancholy, half-injured, on the small face, seemed to say that
she would like to smile all death and pain out of existence. He was
conscious of a slight repulsion as he examined her, and was ashamed of
it the next moment. Why was he suddenly become so embittered? Had he
not always known that patience was very necessary in dealing with this
fair, light creature?
And in a voice more of reproach than blame, he said, "Have you no
questions to ask about the boy, Felicitas?"
She held out her hands in horrified entreaty.
"Not to-day, dearest," she implored. "Not to-day. It would excite us
both too much. I have pictured it all a thousand times over. All the
dreadful scenes have floated before my eyes by night and day, and
I am tired, oh, so tired, I crave for sleep--for one real good long
sleep--and never to wake again How beautiful that would be!"
Shutting her eyes, she laid herself across the arm of the chair, so
that her full creamy throat dimpled over the tight folds of black
chiffon that encircled it.
Again he had to struggle with a feeling of disgust; but with a quiet
determination, characteristic of his methodical nature, he adhered to
his purpose of giving her an account of Paul's last hours.
"Our feelings ought not to make cowards of us, Lizzie," he said. "I
know you must have suffered much. I should have known it, even if you
had not told me. But it is in vain to try and spare yourself this. Our
thoughts will always be returning to it, and not till you have drunk
your cup of sorrow to the dregs can you hope to get any truly
refreshing rest."
"Very well, speak, then," she said, cowering together, as if resigning
herself to her fate. "Tell me what you like."
But when he saw the terror with which she contemplated hearing his
story, the words froze on his lips, and he felt as if he could never
impart to her the painful and sacred impressions that were so fresh in
his memory. He had expected that she would have drunk in all with
passionate eagerness, and would have questioned him about every minute
that he had passed by Paul's deathbed, till she was in complete
possession of the whole scene. Instead, she shrank from it, in a vulgar
fear of her nerves being upset.
Unmotherly, almost inhuman, did her conduct appear. Now, he felt that
to speak of the child's quiet, pathetic death to the mother, would be
profanation. Though there had been no tie of blood between them, he had
belonged to him in life and in death. This woman from whose womb he had
sprung, this smiling, frightened woman, who only thought of her own
discomfort, and wished to be pitied for herself, had become a
stranger--a stranger to her child, and a stranger to him. He saw, with
horror, the gulf that she set between him and her, which no seductive
charm, no flattering little speeches, could ever bridge again.
"Perhaps you are right, Felicitas," he said coldly. "We will leave it
for the present; it may be too sad a subject and too exciting for you."
"Ah, how good you are!" she whispered gratefully; "you can feel for
your poor, heart-broken wife."
And as she had often done when she wanted to bewitch him with a cheap
endearment, she stretched over to him and pillowed her head against his
arm, looking into his face with ecstatically uplifted eyes.
He submitted passively, and glanced down in cold astonishment on the
pale, pretty features on which an almost coquettish smile was now
playing. In a flash he seemed to see through the thousand machinations
with which, for years, she had chained him to her chariot-wheel: the
allurements with which she had awakened desires within him without any
intention of satisfying them, and the extravagant caprices, obeying
which had weakened his will and degraded his intellect. The whole
tissue, woven of laughing selfishness and self-seeking affability and
mock _naivete_, now fell away, showing the being he had humbly
worshipped in her naked unreality and insincerity.
He could not guess that all she said and did at the moment was a kind
of veiled apology, for in her mania to excuse her past faults she had
revealed herself to him in her true colours. He saw all that was hollow
and vain and false in her, without understanding why she prevaricated
and lied. They sat on together for another hour. The table was cleared,
but the spirit-lamp still hummed. The antique Dutch clock in the corner
kept up its solemn and deliberate tick. Now and then a shower of
snow-flakes whirled against the window and the sashes rattled gently. A
profound, dreamful peace seemed to have descended on the apartment, a
peace well ordained to bring healing to two wounded hearts.
Felicitas, all unsuspecting, yet inwardly anxious, continued to make
herself charming and amiable. She spoke of the sympathy shown her by
friends and neighbours, the countless letters of condolence which she
had received, the many callers she had refused to see. She even made
plans for the future, and promised all sorts of wonderful things to
comfort and distract him. He listened with grave courteous attention;
and in every word he found confirmation of his new reading of her
character. His eyes wandered round the room. He saw the lights and
shadows dancing on the walls; the dear old objects amidst which he had
been brought up, which he would have bequeathed to his step-son; so
soon as he could have legally adopted him. He listened to the ticking
of the clock and all the familiar sounds which in peaceful evening
hours are the music of happy homes.
But now everything seemed different, everything was strange, unreal,
almost disquieting.
"Away!" a voice cried within him. "Flee from this house which is no
longer yours." And when the watchmen whistled outside the hour of ten,
he rose. His torture had lasted long enough. She offered her forehead
to be kissed with a weary sigh, but he bowed low and kissed her hand
instead.
"And you really aren't angry with me?" she asked in a whisper, her
conscience stirring again.
He shook his head, smiling. The scorn which had taken possession of his
soul made him composed and frigid. He left her, and as the door closed
behind him she threw up her hands and exclaimed--
"Thank God!"
The next morning Ulrich explained to his wife that urgent business
called him to Koenigsberg, where the committee for the Agricultural
Exhibition was holding its meetings, and it was uncertain whether he
would return to Uhlenfelde before the opening of the Reichstag.
Felicitas was at first a little taken aback, then readily acquiesced.
The parting of husband and wife was friendly but undemonstrative.
Felicitas indeed regarded the separation so much in the light of a
deliverance that she forgot to act a part.
When the sleigh reached the top of the dyke, Ulrich halted, and took a
long look across at Halewitz, whose hoary old castle seemed to nod a
greeting at him amidst its snow-covered barns and out-buildings. Though
his heart cried out for his friend, he was afraid to meet him, afraid
that if he did the last precious thing left to him on earth might slip
through his fingers.