GERMAN SOUP
HAMILTON was taken up senseless. Zedwitz rushed to his assistance.
Madame Rosenberg could not leave her children, but was obliged to hold
them fast by their hands. Major Stultz endeavoured with a half-offended
air to tranquillise Crescenz, whose screams had begun to subside into a
flood of tears. Raimund coolly exclaimed to Mademoiselle de Hoffmann
that Hamilton had been aware of the viciousness of the horse when he
purchased it, but had imagined himself too good a rider to be thrown.
Hildegarde, having obtained a flacon de l’eau de Cologne from a
stranger, was soon beside Zedwitz, endeavouring to restore Hamilton to
consciousness; he very soon opened his eyes, looked around him, and on
Zedwitz asking him where he was hurt, began to speak incoherently in
English.
“We must get a carriage and take him home as soon as possible,” said
Zedwitz; “he seems more seriously injured than I imagined from the
slight wound on his temple.”
“Well, this is really dreadful!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg; “and there
is not a soul in our house, for I gave Walburg leave to go out. Here is
the key of the door—what can I do with the boys?”
“Let me take charge of them,” said Madame de Hoffmann.
“I am as much obliged to you for the offer as if I could accept it,”
replied Madame Rosenberg, “but unfortunately they are so unruly that I
cannot leave them with you more than with their sisters and the Major.
There is no help for it. Hildegarde, you must go in the carriage, and
send old Hans directly for Doctor Berger.”
“May I not go, too?” said Crescenz, timidly; “I am so tired!”
“Oh, of course,” replied her mother, ironically; “another fit of
screaming would greatly benefit Mr. Hamilton. Here, Hildegarde, take the
key and be off.”
On their way home, Hamilton alone was loquacious; he spoke English
incessantly, sometimes murmuring, sometimes vehemently. Hildegarde
blushed deeply, and appeared unusually embarrassed, which Zedwitz
interpreted to his own advantage, totally unconscious that she
understood the ravings of Hamilton, which had already revealed much he
was anxious to conceal from her; his last thought before his fall had
been of her, his last feeling annoyance on her account, and he now
unreservedly poured forth both with wild volubility.
“I think we had better bind a handkerchief over his forehead,” said
Hildegarde at last. “The motion of the carriage has made the blood
flow.”
“I ought to have thought of that,” said Zedwitz, assisting her; “he does
not seem to know either of us, and evidently thinks you some other
person. Who is this Helene of whom he is speaking now?”
“Some one in England, I suppose.”
“Poor fellow! most probably he fancies himself at home. I am very glad
to perceive that he is beginning to be exhausted. There is something
frightful in this sort of raving, even when one does not understand it.”
“Do you think there is any danger to be apprehended?” asked Hildegarde,
calmly.
“I hope not; but his brain must be affected in some way, or he would not
talk as he has done.”
Directly on reaching the house they sent for Doctor Berger, who came,
accompanied by Mr. Biedermann; the latter declaring at once his
intention of remaining to take care of his friend. Hamilton looked
inquiringly from one to the other as they entered the room, and then
said quickly in German, “I know you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said the Doctor, adjusting his spectacles, and
turning to Biedermann, he whispered, “They have been unnecessarily
alarmed, it seems.”
“Yes, I know you. You are the ugly old doctor with the protruding chin
who married Crescenz, after she had walked by moonlight at Seon.”
The Doctor shook his head and turned to Zedwitz for an explanation of
the accident. This was quickly given, and he and Hildegarde waited with
evident anxiety to hear the Doctor’s opinion. It was not so favourable
as they had expected—severe remedies were necessary, and a fortnight
elapsed before Hamilton was pronounced quite out of danger. During this
time nothing could equal the attention bestowed on him by the Rosenberg
family and his friend Biedermann, who passed every night on a sofa in
his room. Zedwitz, too, spent daily hours with him—perhaps the visits of
the latter were not quite disinterested, for he often met Hildegarde,
who was employed to amuse Hamilton, as he was neither allowed to hear
reading, nor to attempt to read himself. As soon as he was pronounced
convalescent, he had a constant succession of visitors every day; not
only his own acquaintance, but everyone who had seen him with the
Rosenbergs; he felt at times perhaps quite as much bored as obliged, and
remembered occasionally with regret that more dangerous part of his
illness when Hildegarde had sat alone in his darkened chamber, and
Crescenz gently opened the door every quarter of an hour to ask if he
were better—her mother, at Major Stultz’s instigation, having strictly
forbidden her to enter the room. Even the fussy visits of Madame
Rosenberg, who invariably insisted on half making his bed and thumping
all his pillows, were recollected with pleasure, and he wondered at the
impatience with which he had received these well-meant civilities,
having once forgotten himself so far as to wish in very correct German
that the devil would come _in ipsissimâ personâ_ and take her out of his
presence! which speech had so alarmed her for the state of his brain
that she had immediately sent off for the doctor.
The period of convalescence was not without its pleasures either, and
Hamilton knew how to appreciate them. Hildegarde was obliged to read or
talk to him whenever he choose, was forbidden to contradict or quarrel
with him, and, when on one day he complained of cold hands, she had been
ordered to knit cuffs for him, and had done so with apparent
pleasure—then she had learned to play chess in order to take
Biedermann’s place when he could not come, and had to submit to be
checkmated as often as Hamilton pleased without losing her temper. He
had insensibly grown tyrannical, too—upbraided her if she remained long
out walking—refused to eat his dinner if she did not bring it to him,
and insisted on the whole family spending the evenings in his room,
thereby effectually preventing her from going to the Hoffmanns.
Among Hamilton’s most constant visitors was Madame Berger, and she was
always welcome, for she amused him. “I should like to know,” she said
one day, seating herself on the sofa beside him, “I should like to know
how long you intend to play invalid? It is astonishing how desponding,
almost pusillanimous, you men become when you are in the least ill! I
lose all patience when I see the Doctor feeling his own pulse fifty
times a day, and consulting half a dozen good friends if his heart beat
a little quicker than usual—while I have palpitations every day of my
life, and never think of complaining or fancying that I have a diseased
heart! My father was even worse than the Doctor; if he had but a cold in
his head, he immediately mounted a black silk nightcap with a tassel
pendant, wrapped himself up in his dressing-gown, and wandered about the
house discovering all sorts of things not intended for his eyes or ears,
and finding fault with everybody and everything that came in his way,
although at other times the best-natured man imaginable. He had a habit,
too, on such occasions, of eating a bowl of soup every half hour, and
then imagining it was illness which prevented him from enjoying his
meals!”
Hamilton laughed, and at the same moment Hildegarde entered the room,
carrying a tray, on which was placed a double-handled china basin, the
contents of which, notwithstanding the cover, emitted a most savoury
odour; the little slice of toasted bread on a plate beside it seeming
intended to correct any doubts which might arise as to its being an
invalid soup. She placed it on the table before him, removed the cover,
and stood in waiting, as he first played with the spoon, and then
fastidiously tasted it.
“You have not prepared this for me yourself,” he said, looking up
discontentedly.
“No,” she replied; “I—I heard papa’s voice, and begged Walburg to——”
“I knew that,” cried Hamilton, pettishly. “Walburg always forgets the
salt. Just taste it yourself, and you will be convinced that I cannot
swallow it in its present state.”
“Let me try it,” cried Madame Berger; “I am an excellent judge of soup,
have learned cookery, and all that sort of thing. Let me see,” said she,
playing with the spoon exactly as Hamilton had done; “let me see; the
smell is excellent, but the taste?—hum! might require a little more
salt, perhaps, but—but still it is eatable. After a few spoonfuls one
scarcely remarks the defect—and,” she continued, raising the bowl to her
mouth, “and when one swallows it quickly, it is really quite refreshing
this cold afternoon.”
Hamilton laughed; Hildegarde grew angry. “You may consider this a good
joke, Lina,” she exclaimed, “but I find it very, very impertinent.”
“Now don’t get into a passion, my dear, about a miserable bowl of soup,”
said Madame Berger, laughing maliciously; “it is really not worth while.
Just go to the kitchen and bring another, and I promise not even to look
at it.”
“But there is no more.”
“Ah, bah! as if I did not know that there was soup put aside for
supper.”
“But not such soup as that,” cried Hildegarde, ingenuously; “mamma and
Crescenz cooked it together, and I was not allowed to touch it for fear
of its being spoiled.”
“What an opinion they must have of her cookery,” remarked Madame Berger,
looking towards Hamilton.
“It is of no consequence,” he said, laughing; “I do not deserve any for
having been so difficult to please.”
“I can bring you a cup of beef-tea—it is better than nothing,” said
Hildegarde, leaving the room.
“Most careful nurse!” cried Madame Berger, smiling ironically.
“Most indefatigable—most kind,” exclaimed Hamilton, warmly.
“And most domineering,” added Madame Berger.
“I have not found her so.”
“Because you have never contradicted her, perhaps. For instance, what
would you take now to refuse this cup of beef-tea when she brings it to
you?”
“That would be ungrateful—almost rude,” said Hamilton.
“It will be bad enough to afford you an excuse, and I promise to assist
you to brave her anger,” said Madame Berger, laughing.
Hamilton shook his head and looked a little embarrassed.
“Tell the truth, and say at once you _dare_ not do it. She rules you, I
perceive, as she does her sister Crescenz, all in the way of kindness,
but no thraldom can be more complete. How I shall enjoy seeing you
swallow the scalding water dignified with the name of beef-tea. I dare
say this time there will be salt enough in it.”
“How mischievous you are,” cried Hamilton; “I do believe you want us to
quarrel merely for your amusement, after having remained for three weeks
the best of friends possible.”
“You are more than friends if you cannot take the liberty to refuse a
cup of bad soup.”
Hamilton was about to reply, when the door was opened by Hans to admit
Count Zedwitz.
“You have played truant to-day, Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, holding out his
hand; “I expected you an hour ago.”
“I have been skating on the lake in the English Garden. There was a
famous frost last night, and——”
“Skating! Here, Hans, look for my skates directly, there is nothing I
enjoy more than skating. We will go out together.”
“But,” said Zedwitz, hesitating, “is it advisable to go out so late?
Remember, you have been more than three weeks confined to the house.
What will the Doctor say?”
“Hang the Doctor,” cried Hamilton, rising.
“I am sure I am exceedingly obliged to you,” said his wife, pretending
to look offended.
“By way of precaution, and not to lose time, we will drive to the lake
in a hackney coach,” said Hamilton. “Come with us,” he added, turning
cavalierly to Madame Berger.
“I have no objection, provided you leave me at home on your way back.”
“Agreed,” cried Hamilton, entering his bedroom to make the necessary
change in his dress.
Madame Berger was standing opposite a long glass, arranging her bonnet,
Zedwitz turning over the leaves of some new book, and Hamilton issuing
from his room, when Hildegarde again appeared, carrying another bowl of
soup. She was so surprised at the appearance of the latter that she
stopped in the middle of the room, and looked inquiringly from one to
the other without speaking.
“Mr. Hamilton is going out to take a drive,” began Madame Berger,
fearing Hildegarde might try to make him alter his intention.
“I am going with Zedwitz to skate in the English Gardens,” said
Hamilton.
“Perhaps, Hildegarde, you will go with us; I can play chaperon on the
occasion,” said Madame Berger.
Hildegarde did not vouchsafe an answer, but turning to Zedwitz, she said
reproachfully: “This is not an hour to tempt an invalid to leave the
house for the first time.”
“I assure you I have not tempted him,” replied Zedwitz; “I only
mentioned having been skating to excuse my coming so late.”
“You surely will not think of going out this cold day,” she said,
turning to Hamilton.
“The weather,” said Madame Berger, “is not likely to grow warmer at this
time of the year, and I suppose he must leave the house some time or
other.”
“In fact, I am no longer an invalid,” said Hamilton, “and the air,
though cold, will do me good.”
“At least drink this beef-tea before you go,” said Hildegarde,
approaching him.
“How on earth can you expect Mr. Hamilton to swallow such slop as this!”
cried Madame Berger, raising the cover as she spoke.
Hildegarde angrily pushed away her hand.
“The carriage is at the door,” said Hans.
“Come,” cried Madame Berger, laughing, “you have no time to drink this
hot water at present, and if you do not make haste I must decline going
with you to admire your skating, for it will be too late for me. Have
you courage?” she asked, giving Hamilton a look of intelligence.
Hildegarde had perceived that he wished to avoid drinking the beef-tea.
She had placed it on the table, and was now standing near the stove
apparently tranquil, but a slight contraction of her brows, and the
extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes as she followed the motions of each
speaker betrayed the anger with which she was struggling.
“I perceive you are annoyed,” said Zedwitz, when about to leave the
room; “but,” he added, quickly, while the colour mounted to his temples,
“you need not be uneasy about your patient; I will bring him back as
soon as possible.”
“You are mistaken as to the cause of my annoyance,” said Hildegarde,
with a forced smile; “I am angry with myself for having been such a fool
as to prepare that soup.”
“You must excuse Hamilton this time. Madame Berger is such an
impertinent little person!” said Zedwitz, as he closed the door.
In the meantime Hamilton had nearly descended the stairs. “I can tell
you,” said Madame Berger, “that Hildegarde is in a towering passion. Did
you not see her eyes flashing, and her lips grow blue? I should not
wonder if at this moment she were literally dancing in your room!”
“I should like to see her,” said Hamilton, stopping suddenly.
“But if you go back you will have to swallow the soup as a
peace-offering,” said Madame Berger.
“Do you think so? Zedwitz, will you assist Madame Berger into the
carriage?—I must return to Hildegarde; but I promise not to detain you
more than a minute.” He rushed up the stairs as he spoke, entered
without noise by means of his skeleton key, and, passing through his
bedroom, was able to ascertain the partial truth of Madame Berger’s
assertion. Hildegarde was walking up and down the room with flushed
cheeks, talking angrily to herself, and pushing everything that came in
her way. “What a fool—what an egregious fool I was—to make a fire with
my own hands to warm that soup!” She kicked the leg of the table as she
spoke, making the plates and spoons clatter. “If ever I warm soup for
him again I hope, yes, I _hope_, I may burn my arm as I have done this
time.” She raised her sleeve and looked frowningly at the suffering
limb, which in fact was extremely red and covered with blisters. While
she endeavoured with her handkerchief to remove the long streaks of smut
which still bore testimony to the origin of the mischief, Hamilton
advanced; and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, seized her hand,
and held it firmly, while he gulped down the soup as fast as he was
able. It was, as Madame Berger had said, very hot; and when he had
deposited the bowl on the plate, tears actually stood in his eyes from
the excess of his exertions.
“I feel quite warm now,” he said, turning to Hildegarde, who stood
beside him in great confusion, fearing that she had been overheard, and,
as usual, ashamed of her violence, now that it was over. She had covered
her arm, and was endeavouring to release her hand, as he added, “You
were quite right when you said it was too late for skating to-day. I
shall merely drive out for half-an-hour, by way of a beginning. This
sacrifice I make to your better judgment.”
Hildegarde looked up; her lips were no longer blue, and her eyes had
regained their usual serenity. “To-morrow,” she observed, with evident
satisfaction, “to-morrow you can go out directly after dinner, when the
sun is shining.”
“Exactly; pray don’t forget to bespeak a little sunshine for me,” he
cried, laughing, as he ran out of the room.
“Where is my little tormentor?” he asked, on perceiving that the
carriage was unoccupied.
“How could you expect her to wait for you?” said Zedwitz, gravely. “She
has had the good sense to go home.”
“I am glad of it,” cried Hamilton, springing gayly into the carriage,
“very glad.”
“It is confoundedly cold,” said Zedwitz, impatiently throwing the folds
of his cloak over his shoulder. “I must say your minute was a long one.”
“Why, my dear fellow, considering that I had to drink all that hot
water, and put Hildegarde in good humour again, I do not think I
required much time.”
Zedwitz looked out of the window in silence. Hamilton leaned back and
indulged in reflection of no disagreeable kind.
“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, suddenly, “we are at the lake.”
“Let us drive on. I don’t mean to skate to-day,” said Hamilton.
“You don’t mean to skate!” exclaimed Zedwitz.
“No. I promised Hildegarde merely to take an airing.”
“Why did you not tell me that before?”
“Because I feared being deprived of your agreeable society.”
“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, vehemently; and the carriage stopped. “I can tell
you,” he said, kicking the door to assist Hans in opening it, “I can
tell you that you have just received an extremely great proof of my
friendship, for if there be any one thing I particularly detest in this
world, it is driving about in a machine of this kind. I have an
inveterate antipathy to a hackney coach.”
“I understand and share your feelings on this subject, generally
speaking,” said Hamilton, amused at his violence; “but after being
confined to one’s room for three or four weeks, the air enjoyed even
through the windows of a hackney coach is agreeable and refreshing.
Come, you may as well drive back with me.”
“Sorry, I have a most particular engagement,” began Zedwitz, who was now
standing on the road, and stamping his feet on the frozen ground, as if
they had been cramped.
“You forget you intended to skate with me,” cried Hamilton, laughing,
while he jumped out of the carriage, took Zedwitz’s arm, and walked off
quickly with him, neither speaking for several minutes.
“Are you jealous?” asked Hamilton, at length.
“You know best whether or not I have cause to be.”
“You have no cause—although I am sorry to be obliged to confess to you
that I too begin to find Hildegarde altogether irresistible, but she
does not care in the least for me, and even were it otherwise, my case
is more hopeless than yours. Your parents will at least vouchsafe to
make a flattering opposition, which, as you are an only son, _must_
terminate in consent if you are firm—mine would overwhelm me with
scornful ridicule were I to hint at anything so preposterous as an early
marriage. It is I, in fact, who ought to be jealous, and desperately
jealous too, if you knew but all.”
“But her anxiety about you just now——”
“Was more natural than flattering,” said Hamilton; “she has got the
habit of taking care of me during my illness, and even lately exacts a
sort of obedience in trifles, which, however, I willingly pay, as she
allows me to tyrannise in other respects.”
“But still, I consider you so very dangerous a rival——” began Zedwitz.
“By no means, for though I wish to gain some of Hildegarde’s esteem, if
not affection, I can never speak to her seriously on that subject which
alone could interfere with your wishes.”
“Do you advise me then to persevere?” asked Zedwitz.
“I must in future decline advising,” replied Hamilton; “my confession
just now was in fact tantamount to an acknowledgment of my incapacity to
do so.”
“Ah, bah!” cried Zedwitz, “your manner has convinced me that your love
is not very deep-rooted—my fears are more for her than for you. If she
once liked you, and confessed it, there is no saying how serious the
affair might become.”
“Very true,” said Hamilton, “you might in that case prepare for a voyage
to the moon, where you would be sure to find my senses in a little
phial, nicely corked and labelled.”
“Pshaw! Tell me seriously, what would you do in such a case?”
“Seriously—I believe I should act like a fool. Apply to my father with
the certainty of being refused, and laughed at into the bargain—write to
my Uncle Jack, that he might have time to make a new will and disinherit
me—and then, perhaps, enter into a seven years’ engagement.”
“Hildegarde would never consent to anything so absurd.”
“Not at present—but I thought you supposed her to return my——”
“Hang the supposition!” cried Zedwitz, impatiently, and they walked on
in silence until Zedwitz again spoke: “I wish, Hamilton, that at least
you would promise to tell me if ever you do enter into any kind of
engagement with Hildegarde.”
“No,” said Hamilton, firmly, “I will make no such promise. Let us start
fair, we both love her, each after his own manner. I will be honourable,
and tell you that you stand high in her estimation, and that the fear of
the opposition of your family, and not indifference on her part, caused
her former refusal. I have had to combat with her personal dislike, and
if I have overcome it, a very lukewarm kind of regard has taken place.
To counterbalance your advantages, I live in the same house, and see her
daily—hourly—often alone.”
“Let us start fair in good earnest,” cried Zedwitz, eagerly, “but in
order to do so, you must establish yourself in my quarters. The rooms
which belong to my father when he is in town are at your service;
neither he nor my mother comes to Munich this season, as Agnes’s
marriage takes place before the carnival. We will live together—visit
the Rosenbergs together, and at the end of two or three months write a
letter to Hildegarde, and——”
Hamilton began to laugh. “Had you proposed this plan at Seon, I might
have agreed to it—but now it would be absurd to think of such a thing.
Putting all other feelings out of the question, Hildegarde has become
absolutely necessary to me. When I am ill, she tends me—when I am well,
she reads with me, or for me, and amuses me; and when I am out of
temper, she quarrels with me!”
“In the last particular I could supply her place,” said Zedwitz, “for I
could quarrel with you easily enough. If I thought you really loved her,
I should not so much mind, but you are deliberately seeking a few
months’ amusement at her expense, and endeavouring to gain her affection
without any object whatever; for as to your seven years’ engagement, I
cannot for a moment believe you serious. Perhaps Englishwomen may
consider this pardonable, but my countrywomen——”
“Your countrywomen unfortunately do not understand the meaning of the
word flirtation,” said Hamilton, interrupting him. “I wish I had time
and opportunity to explain it to them.”
“Explain to me what flirtation is,” said Zedwitz, gravely.
“No,” said Hamilton, “I shall do no such thing, for I see by your face
that you are ready to preach a sermon upon the crime of endeavouring to
please any of your fair countrywomen without having both the intention
and power to marry with all possible despatch; and now, will you come
upstairs with me?”
Zedwitz shook his head.
“I do not mean to press you,” said Hamilton, “for I must say I never
found you less amusing than to-day. I wish you would make an agreement
never to mention Hildegarde’s name to me.”
“It is an excellent idea,” said Zedwitz, “but, as I am sincerely
attached to her, I hope you will consider it no breach of confidence,
should I warn her against this flirtation love of yours.”
“None whatever,” replied Hamilton, laughing. “You cannot say more and
will not probably say half as much in your warning as I have already
said, when she was present, to her sister Crescenz.”
“You are incomprehensible,” said Zedwitz, shrugging his shoulders, and
walking off with a slight frown on his usually good-humoured
countenance.
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