A FAREWELL GLASS AND A DEATH-BED.
Far removed from the fashionable quarter of Berlin, in one of those
east-end streets where labourers' carts are far more numerous than gay
equipages, stood Herr Nordstedt's house. It was quite a stately
structure, with two projecting wings, between which extended a
little front garden, lending a retired air to the whole, and
distinguishing it pleasantly among the old and rather shabby houses
of the neighbourhood. The hall door was adorned by rich carvings in
wood,--"The old cabinet-maker in me takes great delight in such
things," Herr Nordstedt was wont to say,--and yet was so simply
fashioned that it must always be regarded as a door, never as a
'portal.' Through this door on a certain evening in May walked Walter
Eichhof, who had returned to town shortly after his brother's marriage,
and who, before departing to continue his studies in a university town
on the Rhine, desired to take leave personally of his friend Dr.
Nordstedt. He passed through the hall leading to a small court-yard,
and into a garden which was really very large for a city so closely
built as Berlin. The wing looking upon this garden contained Dr.
Nordstedt's study and his office, where he received all in need of his
advice as oculist.
Walter made sure of finding him in his study, and was not disappointed.
He was seated at his table, writing busily.
"I have been expecting you, my dear fellow," the doctor exclaimed,
springing up and holding out both hands. "As you did not write, I knew
you would come. Well, and----?" He looked expectantly at the young man
for an instant. "Hm!" he went on, "clouds in the sky, I see. Well,
well, I expected them. But come, take a cigar, and tell me all about
it."
"There's not much to be told. It was very short work, and what will
come next I do not know,--which is what troubles me," replied Walter.
"At present I am on my way to Bonn to study law."
The doctor silently nodded.
"There would have been entire estrangement from my parents if I had
insisted upon my wishes," Walter continued.
"And I think you are quite right in yielding," said his friend. "You
owe it to your parents to make an attempt at least to adopt the career
in life that they have chosen for you. There must be difficulties to be
encountered everywhere. We cannot escape them, whatever freedom of
choice may be granted us."
"If I could only get up some small amount of interest in the law,"
sighed Walter.
"You know nothing about it yet," the doctor replied, seriously.
"Reflect, investigate, contemplate the _corpus juris_ in every possible
light, and depend upon it you will attain that ideal standpoint which
is what you desire, and which will give you all the interest you lack
in the study of equity. The struggle will strengthen your mental
muscles."
"At present, however, any old skull or bone interests me more than the
most complicated legal process," said Walter.
The doctor leaned back in his arm-chair, and puffed forth clouds of
smoke.
"Well, go on," he said, when Walter paused.
The young man looked at him surprised. His friend smiled. "Apparently
you come to-day not to discuss this matter, but to bewail it," he said.
"For many people this is a positive necessity when they find themselves
face to face with irritating circumstances. So go on, my dear fellow, I
entreat."
Walter arose and paced the room hastily to and fro. "If I did not know
you better I should take my leave of you this instant, convinced that
you were the most unsympathetic man in the world," he said; "but I am
sure that, in spite of your ridicule, you thoroughly understand what I
feel, and only mask with sarcasm your compassion for me."
"And I am sure that, in spite of your groans and plaints, you will
apply yourself to your new task like a man of courage," cried the
doctor. "There is genuine content and satisfaction to be found in the
conscientious performance of duty, however irksome that duty may be.
You have excellent powers of mind, and I know you will use them well."
Walter paused in front of his friend, and offered him his hand.
"I will try," he said. "You are right. 'Things without all remedy
should be without regard.' So there's an end of my groaning."
"When do you leave town?" asked the doctor.
"To-morrow, or the day after," was the reply. "There is not much time
left before the long vacation, and my father wishes me to spend that in
travelling."
"You will like that, at all events."
"Yes, that will be pleasant enough."
"I believe you. At your age it would have been the realization of my
most cherished hopes."
"Have you never travelled?"
"I spent a couple of years in Paris."
"Oh, yes, studying your profession; but you would have liked entire
freedom, and to wander where the paths were not quite so well worn, if
I am not mistaken in you."
The doctor laughed again. "He first bewails his own fate, and now is
bewailing mine," he exclaimed. "My dear Eichhof, you are in a deucedly
morbid, sentimental mood to-day, and farewells are scarcely propitious
to the cure of such maladies. If you are really going away to-morrow,
come and say good-by to my father and mother, and afterwards I will
walk home with you."
They repaired to Herr Nordstedt's study in the main portion of the
house.
"Ah, Herr von Eichhof," said the old man, as Walter entered. "Glad to
see you once more before you go to the university. Well, what cheer? Is
all right between you and your father? Has the Baron consented?"
His son in a few words made him acquainted with the state of the case.
"Well, well," said the father, running his fingers through his thick
hair, only faintly streaked with gray, as was his wont when anything
went "against the grain" with him, as he expressed it,--"well, well, it
will all come right in the end, and you will reconcile yourself to the
law, as I did to carpentering. You see, Herr von Eichhof, I believed I
was more of an artist than an artisan, and I was wild to take up the
brush instead of the chisel and plane. I longed to study, but that
would have cost money. I turned to the plane instead, and, thank God,
all came right in the end."
"And you never could have married me, Nikolas," said Frau Nordstedt,
who had entered the room meanwhile, "if you had been a learned man. For
I have heard my blessed father say a hundred times that like should
mate with like, and that a master-carpenter's daughter should marry
some one skilled in her father's trade."
"So, you see, my carpentering brought me happiness," said old
Nordstedt. "Nevertheless, now that my days are all holidays, I look
back with indulgence upon my youthful dreams. And since my wife and I
took our Italian journey together, she has nothing but respect and
admiration for art."
"As if I ever had anything else for what you delighted in," his wife
said, parenthetically.
"Take care," the old man rejoined, holding up a warning finger. "But
no, Therese, I must admit that you are and always were the most
sensible of women."
"We women always are sensible," she said; "and, since you acknowledge
the fact so frankly, you shall have some punch brewed by my own hands
in which to drink success to Herr von Eichhof."
She left the room on hospitable thoughts intent; the doctor pushed
forward the large, leather-covered arm-chair in which Walter had so
often sat, and the young man took his place between the father and son
and discussed the past, present, and future. The old man related many
an episode from his past life, which had been full of trials and
struggles, which he recounted as a soldier recounts the victories he
has won, lingering upon the incidents of many a well-fought field. And
the punch having been brought in and placed upon the table by a stout
maid-servant, Frau Nordstedt filled the glasses of the three men, and
in snowy cap and apron seated herself with her knitting at her
husband's elbow, nodding now and then with a smile as he spoke of early
days in their life together, her kind old eyes beaming with placid
content and pride in her 'boy' and his father.
"It is strange, and no less true than strange, Herr von Eichhof," said
the latter, "that life is made up so largely of mistakes and errors.
And it is an impregnable fact that content is the result of the
performance of one's duty, and that no man need look for anything
beyond genuine content."
"You are right, Herr Nordstedt," Walter said, eagerly, and the doctor
nodded a silent assent.
"To a faithful discharge of duty, then, and a successful career at the
university," exclaimed the old man, as he raised his glass filled with
the steaming mixture. The others touched it with their own and
exchanged a silent pressure of hands.
Shortly afterwards Walter took his leave, carrying with him the
farewell blessings of both the old people.
"How often I shall think of our pleasant evenings here!" he said to the
doctor as they crossed the street together. The doctor muttered a few
low words in reply, and strode on as if he were in a great hurry.
Walter knew him well, and that he always grew monosyllabic when
agitated by any emotion. Thus they reached Walter's lodgings in
silence.
"And now good-by," the doctor said, grasping the young man's hand; "I
know how I shall miss you, so I will cut short all leave-taking."
His voice was deep and low, as though he feared to betray how much he
felt his friend's departure. Then he turned hastily away, and walked
down the street with a rapid stride. Just as he reached his own door a
dark figure emerged from the shadow where it had apparently been
crouching, and said, timidly, "Ah, Herr Doctor."
"Is that you, Marianne?" he said, with a hasty glance at the woman.
"What do you want? Is anything going wrong?"
"Ah, Herr Doctor, very, very wrong, I am afraid," she sighed. "He is
out again, and indeed it would be better he should not come home, for
he earned a trifle to-day, and he is spending it in drink, I suppose.
If he should come home in one of his raging moods the lady will
die----"
"Is she worse?" the doctor asked, hastily.
"Ah, good heavens! I don't know, but she talks so strange-like that I
begged Christine, who lives just over me, to sit by her for a moment,
and I ran all the way here to beg you to come to her if you can. She
talked about you, and then prayed, and called herself wicked and
ungrateful; it's hard to hear her talk so, when I know how good and
gentle and unhappy she is, and how thankful she is for everything that
is done for her. I thought to myself that the Herr Doctor would know
just what to do, when you are so good as to pay my rent to the landlord
to let me nurse the poor lady, and I came directly to you; and when
they told me you were not at home I waited here until you should come,
for---- But here we are already; indeed, doctor, you can run faster
than I can."
Whilst Marianne had talked on they had reached the house where was
lodged the patient whom the doctor had been called to visit at this
late hour.
"Only wait one instant, Herr Doctor, till I light a candle," Marianne
called out, when they had entered the passage-way. But before her match
was lighted the doctor had groped his way up the narrow staircase and
stood at the door of the sick-room.
The woman hastened after him, and both entered a low room but feebly
illuminated by the light of a tallow candle.
A young girl, from her dress one of the working class, arose from the
bedside where she had been sitting and came towards them.
"How is she, Christine?" the doctor asked, under his breath.
"She is sleeping," was the whispered reply.
Nordstedt went to the bed, upon which lay a young woman, her face
turned to the wall, while her abundant fair hair hung down from the
pillows in two thick braids. Her little emaciated hand, upon the third
finger of which glistened a broad golden ring, lay upon the coverlet,
now and then twitching nervously in its owner's feverish sleep.
The doctor noiselessly took his seat by the bedside, and his eyes grew
dim with moisture as they glanced from the fair braids to the small
hand, and then to the bare, smoky walls of the room. Some minutes
passed in profound silence. Christine had left the place; Marianne sat
by the stove, her hands folded in her lap, looking anxiously towards
the bed where the sleeper was breathing painfully. The doctor leaned
over her, and smoothed her pillows with the tender skill of a father
watching beside the sick-bed of his child. Suddenly the invalid sat up
in bed and gazed at him from large blue eyes that gleamed with
unnatural brilliancy in the poor little face, deadly pale but for the
hectic flush of fever. "I cannot help it, Robert; don't be angry with
me!" she cried, clasping her hands in entreaty.
The doctor laid his own cool, strong hand upon them. "Robert is not
here," he said; "be quiet and calm."
She gazed at him, the eager, distressed expression fading from her
eyes, her face growing more natural and placid. "Oh, it is you!" she
said, with a sigh of relief, sinking back upon her pillows. "I have had
such a terrible dream! How kind of you to come to me when it is so
late!" she added, softly. "How can I ever thank you!"
"Hush, hush, child! you must not talk so much, and there is no occasion
for any gratitude. It is a doctor's duty to look after his patients."
She gazed at him with an intensity of fervour in her gleaming eyes. "I
shall not give you much more trouble," she said; "but I have something
to say to you," she added, entreatingly; "tell Marianne to go out of
the room."
The doctor motioned to the woman, who left the room, and then turned to
the invalid, saying, "But I cannot let you talk much; you must say only
a very few words."
A sad, weary smile passed over her face. "Nothing now can either harm
or help me. You know as well as I do that I shall soon be at rest."
The doctor would have interrupted her, but she begged him by a look to
let her speak, and he mutely inclined his head.
"I know that the end is near, and I am so glad of it," she said,
softly; "but before it comes I want so much to thank you,--thank you
from my very heart, and to beg you to think of me kindly when I am no
longer here. Tell me that you have forgiven me. Although you have shown
me your forgiveness in a hundred ways, I long to hear your lips utter
it."
"Hedwig," he murmured, and his lips quivered; for a moment the strong
man was unable to utter a word.
"Have you quite forgiven me?" she asked again, looking eagerly up at
him.
"Utterly and entirely," he replied, controlling his emotion.
"Ah, how happy you make me! My suffering has atoned for my sin against
you. Ah, how I thank you,--I thank you!" She paused suddenly and put
her handkerchief to her lips.
The doctor sprang up and called aloud to Marianne, as he raised the
invalid's head from the pillows and supported her in his arms.
She opened her eyes and gazed into his. "Friedrich," she whispered. But
a crimson stream choked the words she would have spoken. A spasm passed
through her frame; she threw back her head. All was over. The doctor
gently laid her back upon the pillows, and, kneeling beside her,
pressed his lips upon the cold little hand that lay motionless on the
coverlet.
Marianne was not in the next room; she did not appear in answer to the
doctor's call, and her presence was not needed.
A moment afterwards he arose, covered the quiet figure, so that only
the pale, calm face was visible, and then sat down beside the bed,
riveting his gaze upon the marble features as if to call them back to
life,--the life that now informed them in his mind's eye. Yes, she
stood vividly before him, a little fair-haired girl, the daughter of a
neighbouring tradesman, his playfellow through many childish years. And
then she was again the blushing, still childlike girl, who replied to
his passionate wooing by a low 'yes,' breathed almost inaudibly as she
hid her face on his breast. Then came a change in the picture. The
petty tradesman, her father, embarked in a lucky speculation and
suddenly achieved wealth. And the girl was clad in costly silks and
velvets, and lived in a showy villa surrounded by luxurious gardens,--a
fit home for a parvenu millionaire, where the daughter, but lately so
shrinking and modest, suddenly learned to talk and laugh loudly and to
bandy pert jests with the young fortune-hunters that thronged about
her. She grew to delight in their homage, and would have missed it had
it been withdrawn. She never was haughty or arrogant towards the friend
of her youth, but she began to suppress a yawn when he spoke of his
love. She had just begun to live, she said, and wished to enjoy for a
while. They had deferred any public announcement of their mutual
affection until Nordstedt should have passed the coming examinations,
and he left her to her new-found enjoyment, coming but seldom to visit
her. The day before he was to go up for examination he went to her
house, and was told that she had been betrothed the week before, and
was paying some visits of ceremony. He turned away, and a few steps
from the house passed her carriage returning home. He saw her smile,
saw the handsome faded face of her lover, and the satisfaction in her
father's air. He was proud of the wealthy son-in-law, who had,
moreover, lately become his partner. Nordstedt hurried along the street
where he had so often walked with his head and heart filled with dreams
of future happiness, and from that day her name never passed his lips.
Thenceforth he belonged only to his books and his patients. The years
went by. He knew that her father had become bankrupt, and that her
husband had suffered some losses in consequence. But he did not know
how soon the remainder of his property had been lost or squandered.
Without either the capacity or the desire to exert himself, the man had
sunk into depths of abject poverty, until at last his wretched wife was
discovered by chance by the lover of her youth in a garret room, the
victim of a mortal disease. He did not now dwell upon the care that he
had from that moment lavished upon the first, the only woman whom he
had ever loved; pictures of a distant past floated too vividly before
him, and the quiet face on the pillow was to him as a last greeting
from his youth, the faint, fading shadow of what once had been. Youth
and love, how far away and unattainable they were now! Lost, gone
forever. He bade a long farewell to that pale face and to all of which
it spoke to him.
At last he arose, and, walking slowly and like one in a dream, left the
room, and, calling Marianne, gave her directions as to the decent
burial of his lost love. And as the street door closed behind him and
the black night received him, the strong man shivered. "She is dead,
and Walter is gone," he muttered to himself. "It is my lot to be a
lonely man."