The election is over. Pistasch has shaken hands with all the middle-class land-owners, and has done wonders with that haughty condescension of his wherewith he was wont to charm the hearts of such people. Truyn has been enlightened by his political friends as to the state of Bohemian affairs, and Oswald has been cordially congratulated by every one. He is one of those universally popular men before whom even envy and malice lower their weapons. His career has been hitherto like the triumphal march of a young king--let him but appear, and lo! an illumination, and flowers strewed before him.
After the election Truyn went to dine at the chief restaurant in Prague with some friends whom he had met for the first time for years;--Georges, Pistasch, and Oswald with the indifference of youth took their lunch at 'The Black Horse,' whither they went from the station. Then Georges departed to revive old associations in various quarters of ancient Prague. Oswald's father had been wont to pass his winters in Vienna, but his younger, poorer brother had his winter quarters in the comparatively humble Moldavian town. Georges looked up the confectioner who had been his first creditor, wandered dreamily through the gray precincts of the public school where he had studied for two years, after his tutors could do nothing more for him, walked across the picturesque Carl's bridge to the Lesser-town, the hoary old Lesser-town, the home of the aristocracy of Prague, cowering in pious veneration at the feet of the Kaiserburg, like a grey-haired child who still believes in fairy stories. There, in one of the angular, irregular squares, just opposite two tall narrow church windows, stood the small palace where Georges passed his boyhood, and which his father finally sold to a wealthy vinegar manufacturer. He scarcely recognised it again. The old stucco ornamentation had been painted a staring red; and a dealer in hams and sausages had his shop in the lower story.
"Tempera mutantur!" muttered Georges.
In a spacious room, tolerably cool, the shades all drawn down, the furniture consisting of dim misty mirrors in shabby gilt frames, of cupboards with brass hinges, and of green velvet chairs and sofas, Oswald lay back, in an arm-chair, laughing heartily at Pistasch's account of a late adventure.
Pistasch went to one of the three windows, and drawing the shade half up looked out into the street.
The front of 'The Black Horse' looks out on theGraben, theCorsoof Prague.
All whom cruel fate had compelled to remain in town during the intolerable heat of the season, were lounging about in the late afternoon upon the heated pavement of the square.
Students with the genuine High-German swagger, over-dressed misses, round-shouldered government clerks, a wretched poodle scratching at his muzzle, an officer with jingling sabre, hack drivers, dozing peacefully on their boxes while their horses, with forelegs wide apart and heads in their nose-bags, dreamed of the 'good old times' when they caracoled beneath the spurs of gay young cavalry officers,--those 'good old times' whose chief charm for hack horses as for mortals, may perhaps consist in the fact that they are irrevocably past.
The sultry heat beats down on all, debilitating, oppressive.
"How long have you known that Capriani," Oswald asked his light-hearted friend, after a pause.
"I really cannot tell you," was the reply, "he once did me a favour without knowing me, except by sight, and then--then he came to me one day with some trifling affairs that he desired I should arrange for him, and referred to the former kindness he had shown me."
"And ever since then you have been upon friendly terms with him?"
"Not quite all that," replied Pistasch, shrugging his shoulders, "but what would you have? He consults me about his horses--his ambition is to win at the Derby;--and I consult him about my investments, the purchase of stock, etc."
"And each overreaches the other?" said Oswald, smiling.
"Up to this time I have the advantage," affirmed Pistasch, "and I have a prospect too, of a sinecure as the President of the Grünwald-Leebach stock company."
"With which of course you will have nothing to do except to inspire the public with confidence, and rake in money," said Oswald.
"Incidentally," Pistasch rejoined calmly.
Oswald drummed upon the arms of his chair, sitting erect, and looking very grave.
"Take care, Pistasch; 'those who lie down with dogs, are sure to get up with fleas.'"
"You are a reactionary martinet," growled Pistasch. "Am I the first to associate with speculators? Barenfeld, Calmonsky, Hermsdorf--are all men very different from myself, but you see their names at the head of all kinds of banks and stock companies."
"Unfortunately;" said Oswald, "that charlatan of a Capriani has infected you all--you all want to learn from that gentleman the secret of manufacturing gold. But you will learn nothing, and will inevitably all burn your fingers. I should think you might take warning from poor old Count Malzin."
"Oh, Malzin was such an unpractical man, he looked at everything from an ideal point of view," replied Pistasch.
"So much the better!" exclaimed Oswald eagerly. "That was why throughout the whole business it was his property alone that was sacrificed. You cannot imagine the harm done by this dabbling in speculation. It undermines our whole social order. We are at best not much else than romantic ruins. So long as the ruins can succeed in inspiring the public with respect, just so long they may remain standing. But let them once lose their prestige, and they will be regarded as useless rubbish, and as such be cleared away as soon as possible. What preserves us is a strict sense of honour, and a contempt for ignoble methods of money getting. Pride without a chivalric back-ground is but a shabby characteristic, and if ...."
Some one knocked at the door, and the waiter entering handed Oswald a visiting-card.
"Le comteAlfred de Capriani," read Oswald, "it must be for you," he said contemptuously, without noticing the few words written under the name, as he tossed the card to Pistasch.
"No," said the latter, "it is for you--look there--read,--'begs Count Lodrin for a brief interview.'"
"Extraordinary presumption!" grumbled Oswald, and then, with a shrug, he told the waiter to show the Conte in.
"You consent to receive him?" asked Pistasch.
"Good Heavens, yes!" replied Oswald, smiling, "he has just done me a kindness, my dear Pistasch, and has come for his pay. There are people who play the usurer with their kindnesses as well as with their money. I will tell you the story by-and-by."
"Very well. Adieu, for the present; in half an hour I'll come and take you to the theatre;--she's not bad,--Giuletta asGretchen."
And Pistasch departed; a minute afterward Capriani entered the room.
There are two ways of manifesting haughtiness,--that of Count Pistasch, and that of Oswald. If Pistasch had to receive an obnoxious visitor, he kept his cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets;--Oswald, on the other hand, at such times observed the most marked and the most frigid politeness.
He received Capriani with a slight inclination of the head, and the conventional form of greeting, invited him to be seated, and took a chair opposite, naturally supposing that the Conte, with business-like promptitude, would immediately begin to speak of the purpose of his visit;--but no!--the Conte remained mute, only rivetting his large eyes upon the young man. Why should Oswald find those eyes so annoying? How came it that he seemed to have seen them before in some familiar face? There was nothing bad in them--on the contrary at that moment they expressed only intense admiration, an expression, however, by no means to Oswald's taste. There might be reasons why he should condescend to discuss business-matters with Conte Capriani, but he thought it entirely unnecessary to subject himself to the Conte's admiration. He therefore broke the silence.
"You have done me a great favour," he began drily, "I shall be glad to show my gratitude for it."
"Ah, such a trifle is not worth mentioning," said Capriani. "I was exceedingly delighted to have a chance to testify the cordial regard that I have always entertained for you."
"Quite insane," thought the young man. Then aloud. "I confess that this regard is rather incomprehensible to me,--moreover,--I believe you wished to speak with me upon business."
"Certainly!" replied Capriani, "but the business was merely a pretext,--imagine it,--a pretext for me,--a business-manpar excellence--to obtain an opportunity of conveying my personal sentiments ...."
"The obtrusiveness of these creatures passes all belief," thought Oswald. "I beg you," he said, "to take into consideration the fact that my time is,----unfortunately, not at my own disposal, and that consequently it would be well to come to the point. I think I can guess the purpose of your visit. Count Malzin informed me not long ago of your wishes. They are, so I understand, that I should give my support in an application to the government for a railway franchise, or rather that the plan of the railway, already projected, should be modified to meet your requirements--am I right?"
"A trifle,--a trifle," said Capriani taking a compendious map of Bohemia out of his pocket and spreading it out upon the table between Oswald and himself. "The projected track lies here--and here," he explained drawing his finger along the map.
With something of a frown Oswald attentively followed the course of that pudgy, sallow forefinger, saying in an undertone, "Pernik, Zwilnek, Minkau,--that track seems to me entirely to conform to the present pressing need of the country,--will you now show me the alterations that you desire."
Capriani's forefinger began to move again, "Tesin, Schneeburg, Barenfeld."
Oswald's face grew dark. "That track would be very disadvantageous for the X---- district," he observed.
"You have estates in X----" said Capriani hastily, and imprudently. Cautious and diplomatic as he was in business, his caution could go no further than his comprehension of human nature. The circle of his experience had hitherto comprised only those human weaknesses in manipulating which he had always shown such consummate skill. He had no faith in genuine disinterestedness; he held it to be hypocrisy, or, at best, only traditional habit,--aristocratic usage. He had no idea of how his words grated upon Oswald's sensitive ear. "You have estates in X----, Herr Count."
Oswald's lips curled indignantly. "That seems to me a secondary consideration," he rejoined sharply.
"Not at all," asserted Capriani, "I would not for the world run counter to your interests, I have them almost as near at heart as my own...."
"That really is...." Oswald began to mutter angrily between his teeth,--and then controlling his impatience by an effort, he said coldly, lightly tapping the map as he spoke. "A little while ago you did me a favour, and it would be a satisfaction to me to testify my appreciation of your courtesy as soon as possible, but I think your projected alteration of the railway very disadvantageous for the country. However, I am quite ready to consult an expert."
The blood of the Crœ sus tingled to his very finger ends. There was something profoundly humiliating in Oswald's pale proud face. He did not comprehend the young man's moral point of view, he perceived only the haughtiness that rang in his words, and it aroused his antagonism. Suddenly he remembered,--and there was a kind of bliss in the thought,--the pecuniary embarrassments in which Oswald was probably involved. This was the only ground upon which he could show superiority, and make the young man aware of it. "Consult an expert? an empty formality!" he said in a changed, harsh voice.
"Let us be frank--the interests of the country in this whole affair are of very little consequence--private interests are at stake--yours and mine; I grant that the X---- district will be damaged by the new track, but on the other hand Tornow wilt gain immensely. And such trifles are not to be despised even by a Count Lodrin,--the track passes principally over very unproductive land in your estates my dear Count. You have only to name your price for that land, and I am entirely at your service."
For a moment there was absolute silence. An angry gleam flashed from Oswald's eyes as he fixed them on the Conte.
The ticking of the two men's watches could almost be heard, the lounging steps of the passers-by in the street below were distinctly audible. At last Oswald said contemptuously and clearly: "The sale of my pastures is not of the slightest importance to me in comparison with public interests. Moreover, we, you and I, do not speak the same language, we might talk together a long time and fail to understand each other. Therefore it seems useless to prolong this conversation." With which he arose.
Capriani, however, did not stir, but calmly returned the young man's look. Something like triumphant scorn, something that was almost a menace shone in his eyes.
"You refuse then to speak a word to the ministry in favour of my scheme?" he asked slowly and with a sneer.
"Decidedly," replied Oswald.
With head slightly thrown back, twisting his watch chain around his forefinger, he looked down at the Crœ sus. He was one of the few to whom haughtiness is becoming.
Was it possible that Capriani, the least imaginative, the most avaricious of men, could succumb to this personal charm?
The Conte suddenly arose, gathered up the map, crushed it together, and dashing it on the floor, stamped on it. "I could carry it out, and it is my favourite scheme," he cried, "but what of that, I give it up, Alfred Stein can do as he chooses. I throw away millions for your sake! For your sake, Count Oswald!"
His agitation was terrible and extreme, as he held out both hands to the young man.
Oswald angrily retreated a step. Had the man escaped from a lunatic asylum?
Just then the door opened.
"Well, Ossi?" Pistasch called.--"Ah!"--perceiving the Conte--"beg pardon for intruding."
"Not at all," said Oswald decisively, without looking at Capriani, "we have finished."
The Conte bowed and withdrew. But he turned in the doorway and said, "Might I beg you, Herr Count, to carry my remembrances to your honoured mother. For although she does not know Conte Capriani--she will surely be able to recall Doctor Alfred Stein." Whereupon he disappeared.
Oswald went to a marble table whereon stood a caraffe of water, and as he took it up he met his own glance in the mirror hanging above the table. A shudder crept icily over him. He poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a draught.
"What is the matter?" asked Pistasch.
"Nothing," Oswald replied slowly, and almost dreamily. "Talking with that--that scoundrel has agitated me. I feel as if I had just got rid of some loathsome reptile."
"Is smoking allowed, I should like to know?"
Three times Pistasch made this impertinent little remark as he gazed about him in 'The Temple of National Art.' It was a temporary temple, neither unsuitable, nor wanting in taste, but built in the rapid, superficial manner of a circus, constructed over night as it were, and it was now filled to overflowing with Bohemian lovers of music.
The four gentlemen were sitting in a proscenium box; Truyn and Georges in front, Pistasch and Oswald behind them. The opera was Faust, themise en scènewas rather primitive, and the tenor had a cold; but the principal part was sung by an Italian prima donna who had not only a magnificent voice, but also a pair of uncommonly fine eyes.
It was during the thirdentr'acteafter the cantatrice had been enthusiastically applauded that Pistasch allowed himself the foregoing impertinent observation.
"Do you want to be turned out?" asked Georges.
"I spoke quite innocently, and seriously," said Pistasch.
Immediately afterwards he recognised in the next box a young man as a certain Doctor of Law, with whom he had been associated a few years before on the committee of a charity ball. He extended his hand to him round the front of the box, asked respectfully after the health of a deaf aunt, and after a talented sister, and even made inquiries about a cross cat, a pet of the doctor's, all in faultless idiomatic Bohemian, thus establishing his reputation as a thoroughly genial and national nobleman.
Truyn looked extremely dignified, repeatedly expressed his great pleasure in the progress made by his beloved countrymen, in the course of the last fifteen years, as well as in the advancement of the national cause. Once during the conversation he attempted to make use of the Bohemian idiom, but he only excited the merriment of his auditors.
Oswald was pale and silent.
"What is the matter with you, my boy?" asked Truyn, observing with some anxiety, his weary air, and the dark rings round his eyes.
"I am not quite up to the mark," said Oswald.
"I hope you're not going to be ill," remarked Truyn.
"Bah! He hasn't yet recovered from his conversation with Capriani," said Pistasch. "For my part I cannot understand how you can be in the slightest degree affected by what such a man as that says or leaves unsaid."
"We are not all such philosophers as you," Georges observed, glancing anxiously at his cousin.
The door of the box opened--a slender, dark-complexioned man entered. "Good evening! How are you?"
"It was Sempaly, younger brother of Prince Sempaly, to attend whose marriage he had just returned from the East. He was much tanned and his sharp features wore an air of languid weariness. Prince Sempaly had a few days previously married Nini Gatinsky. The new-comer was warmly welcomed, and then, of course, inquiries were made concerning the bridal pair, Truyn declaring his pleasure in their marriage.
"It pleases me too, exceedingly," said Sempaly, with more warmth than he was wont to display. "They are both to be congratulated. Nini was always a dear creature, and she is prettier now than ever; and a nobler character than my brother's I have never known."
"One thing however surprises me," observed Pistasch, the indiscreet, looking inquisitively at Sempaly, "your brother has been a widower for five years; it cannot be that he has spent all that time in bewailing the loss of the Princess. Why did he not grasp his happiness before?"
"I cannot enlighten you on that point," replied Sempaly with a shrug.
But Truyn said, smiling, "Perhaps it did not depend altogether upon Oscar; Nini may possibly have had a voice in the matter."
"You too are going to have a wedding soon," said Sempaly, apparently desirous of changing the subject. "How these young people are growing up! If the resemblance to his mother were not so striking, I should hardly recognise your future son-in-law. Let me congratulate you," and he held out his hand to Oswald, "congratulate you most sincerely. And how are you at home?" he added, turning suddenly to Truyn.
"All well," Truyn replied a little stiffly.
"Pray, carry to your wife and daughter the regards of--one who shall be nameless," said Sempaly with bitterness.
A short pause ensued; then he began, "What do you think of Seinsberg's suicide?"
"Suicide?" exclaimed Truyn.
"Did you not know it?" asked Sempaly.
"I suspected something of the kind," said Pistasch.
"What was the cause of it?" asked Truyn.
"Too intimate an acquaintance with the Conte Capriani?" surmised Pistasch.
"You have about hit the nail on the head, Pistasch," said Sempaly, turning his back to the stage and speaking towards the interior of the box. "It is terrible to think how many of us have fallen victims in quick succession to the rage for speculation."
"It is all over with us!" said Pistasch.
"Do have done with that eternal refrain of yours,"' said Truyn indignantly.
"Well, Georges agrees with me, and even Ossi seems to be infected with our disheartening ideas," rejoined Pistasch, "he declared to-day that we were nothing but romantic ruins."
"Ah, the ruins in Austria stand firm;" rejoined Truyn, always the same reactionary idealist, "of course we must consider how to adapt the ancient structure to the needs of the age."
"Do you think so?" said Sempaly, twirling his moustache. "Would you turn the Coliseum into a gas-works? For my part I am not greatly in favour of the practical adaptation of historical monuments. Bah! leave us as we are! The ruins will remain standing for some time yet, and in virtue of their time-worn uselessness, will manage to overawe the practical modern architecture that is springing up all around them, until the next earthquake, and then--crash--" he made a quick, characteristic gesture--"and after the downfall those who carp at us the most now will perceive how large a share of poetry and civilisation lies beneath the wreck. It is all over with us, but what is to come hereafter?"
"What is to come hereafter? That is easy enough to foretell;" said Georges quietly, "the universal dominion of the Caprianis!"
"You do Capriani by far too much honour," rejoined Truyn.
"Do not be too sure," said Sempaly, "he is more dangerous than you imagine. It makes me fairly shudder to see how he encroaches upon us, how he hates us, and how much mischief he can do us."
"I wish I knew how he contrived to scrape together so much money in so short a time," sighed Pistasch plaintively.
"I have heard that like Sulla, and various other great men, he owes his rapid success to the fostering protection of the other sex;--they say he has had immense good fortune in that direction, and in spheres where it was least to be expected," said Sempaly.
"What! such a low cad as he!" The elegant Pistasch shrugged his shoulders incredulously.
"Well--" Sempaly gazed into space in a characteristic way; then still twirling his moustache he said with a melancholy cynicism all his own: "There are certain clumsy night-moths who are strangely skilled in brushing the dew from weary flowers in sultry nights."
Oswald, who had been bestowing but a languid attention upon the conversation, now exclaimed angrily, "I detest such vague imputations,--no one has any right to sully the fame of a number of unknown women by a suspicion that--that--" Confused by Sempaly's surprised, searching glance, he stopped short.
"What is he thinking of?" asked Sempaly, looking round at the others.
"A betrothed lover cannot tolerate any aspersion cast upon the fair sex," said Georges.
"Qu'a cela ne tienne," rejoined Sempaly, "the betrothed of Gabrielle Truyn ought to be above such sensitiveness. Gabrielle comes from the corner of the earth, which Love Divine sheltered beneath angels' wings, when the devil showered his poison over all creation. Happy he who meets with such a girl!"
"You do not know her," said Truyn, whose eyes, nevertheless, sparkled with gratified paternal pride.
"I knew her as a child," said Sempaly slowly, "and I know who completed her education."
For a moment they were all silent, and then Truyn began, "I must tell you a delicious bit of gossip, Sempaly;--only fancy, in the spring, in Paris, Capriani, one fine day, sent that goose, Zoë Melkweyser, to sue for Gabrielle's hand! What do you think of that?"
"Incredible!" exclaimed Sempaly.
"Was it not?" said Truyn, who took special delight in recounting this tale, and turning to Oswald, he went on, "Our Gabrielle and a son of Capriani,--was there ever such a joke?"
But Oswald was silent.
"You seem inclined to take your rival extremely tragically," rallied Pistasch.
"This is the tenth time, at least, that I have heard the story," said Oswald angrily.
"You'll have an irritable son-in-law, Truyn, at all events," interposed Sempaly with a sneer.
At this moment Pistasch, whose rage for popularity was always on the alert, called out over the heads of Sempaly and Truyn, "Good evening," to a tall, red-haired young man who had slowly made his way to the front of the pit. With delight in his eyes and a succession of nods, the red-head acknowledged the greeting.
"Who is that?" asked Georges.
"The surveyor's clerk who assisted at the polls to-day--an old acquaintance of mine," said Pistasch.
Oswald's glance fell upon the red-head. He had recognised in the man at the polls the same whom he had struck in the face with his riding-whip, in the dingy little inn-parlour. The encounter in the morning had made no impression upon him, but now....
"Good Heavens, how ill you look!" exclaimed Truyn.
"I feel wretchedly," said Oswald in a forced voice, putting his hand to his head, "do not let me disturb you, I will go home."
"You make me anxious, my boy," said Truyn, "wait a moment, and I will go with you."
"No, no, pray uncle, it is really not worth the trouble, I can easily find a fiacre," remonstrated Oswald, in a strained unnatural voice. But Truyn, always anxious about those dear to him, could not be deterred and the two left the box together.
"What is the matter with Lodrin to-night?" asked Sempaly as he took Truyn's seat. "I could not understand him. Eight years ago, when I saw him last, in Vienna, he was such a bright, merry fellow...."
"Well--" and Pistasch drew a long breath, "he is just beginning to suffer from the Phylloxera."
Georges replied to Sempaly's further inquiries, for Pistasch had become absorbed in an endeavour by sundry little grimaces to put out of countenance the Siebel of the performance, who was skipping awkwardly about the stage in boots much too tight. In this interesting amusement Pistasch forgot all else beside.
"You really do not know what you wish," said Truyn in surprise when Oswald changed his mind for the third time about leaving Prague. After going with Truyn to the races on the first day succeeding the election, he would not hear of attending them with Georges and Pistasch on the second day. It was settled that he was to return home with Truyn; then he began to waver and fidget, and at last he telegraphed, countermanding the carriage that had been ordered to meet him, and got up a sudden interest in the horses of the Y---- stud which were to race for the first time. Before long, however, this interest subsided, and to Truyn's great surprise Oswald informed him at a moment's notice, that after all he was going home with him.
"You will send me over to Tornow, uncle--or shall I telegraph for the horses?" asked Oswald.
"Good Heavens, no! You can spend an hour with us, at Rautschin and take a cup of tea, and then I will send you home, you whimsical fellow, you," replied his uncle, and so they drove together through the quiet summer morning to the station.
The streets were deserted except by the street sweepers, with their watering-pots busily laying the dust. The wheels of the hack rumbled noisily over the uneven pavement past brilliant cafés and shop windows, finally by the fine new National Bohemian Theatre, until their sound was deadened by the wooden planks of the Suspension Bridge. As usual the bridge is undergoing repairs; and this delays the hack, which, in addition is impeded by a battalion of infantry and two lumbering ox carts; there is a strong smell of mouldy planks, and hot pitch, by no means adding to the fragrance of the morning air. But these trifling annoyances cannot provoke Truyn, or destroy his pleasure in gazing on his native town.
The Moldau, slaty grey in hue, with silvery reflections, flows among its green, feathery islands, and, parallel with the modern suspension monstrosity, the mediaeval Königsbridge, picturesque, and clumsy,--the statues on its broad balustrade black with age like the primitive illustrations in some old Chronicle,--spans the stream with its solemn arches.
The Kaiserburg, surrounded by haughty palaces with an unfinished gothic cathedral, looks down from the summit of the Hradschin, upon its image mirrored in the water in waving lines, and columns tinged with green. The morning sun glows on the five red glass stars before the green St. John on the Karlsbridge, and far away on the left and right, far into the receding distance, until all objects are mellowed and blent, stretch the banks of the river like a long drawn symphony of colour dying away in palest violet.
"After all, it is a fine, a magnificent city!" exclaimed Truyn with enthusiasm.
"Pistasch said yesterday that Prague was a dismal hole," was Oswald's reply, "you may both be right--it all depends upon how you look at it."
The phrase falls keen and chilling upon Truyn's enthusiasm, like ice into boiling water. Surprised, and well nigh irritated, he turned to his future son-in-law. As, however, he is far less sensitive than good-natured, a glance at Oswald converts irritation into eager compassion: "I wonder where you can have caught it?" he sighed, shaking his head.
"Good Heavens, what?" asked Oswald.
"I wish I knew," said Truyn, "either intermittent fever or a slight touch of jaundice,--for a man of your age and with your constitution there's no cause for alarm, but your mother will reproach me with your looking so ill!" Then Truyn leaned out of the window of the hack to admire the Hradschin once more, before subsiding into a corner with a sigh of content, and lighting a cigar.
Oswald's nature is certainly as poetic as Truyn's, and never before had he driven over the suspension bridge, on a summer's morning, without revelling in the beauty of the Bohemian capital. But to-day everything is metamorphosed, beauty is ugliness. For him the world within two days had undergone a transformation.
The human mind is like a mirror, upon the quality whereof depends the character of the reflection in its depths; in one mirror all things are reflected yellow, in another green, in a third every line is vague, shadowy and undecided; one shows objects lengthened, another broadened, and should the mirror be cracked, everything that it reflects will be distorted.
Zinka and Gabrielle were at the railway station to meet Truyn, both gay, cordial and surpassingly lovely. The sight of them, and their merry talk at first brightened Oswald's mood. But suddenly at tea, which on the travellers' account was a substantial meal, a wretched sense of discomfort attacked him anew.
As he had often laughingly boasted of his punctilious fulfilment of any commission from a lady, Gabrielle, before he left for Prague, had entrusted to him, to have repaired, a gold clasp of Hungarian workmanship set with rare, coloured stones.
When at the table she asked him, "How about my clasp--did you bring it with you, or is the jeweller to send it?" he started, saying, "Forgive me, I forgot all about it."
Gabrielle stared--"Forgot--my commission?"
"Good Heavens! I am not the only man who ever forgot anything!" exclaimed Oswald irritably.
It was the first unkind word he had ever uttered to his betrothed. Astonished and grieved she cast down her eyes. But Truyn, who, as long as Oswald was well and merry, was continually finding fault with him, being now seriously concerned about the young man's health took his part.
"Have a little patience with him, comrade," said he to his daughter, "he is not well,--look at him, a man who looks as he does must not be scolded. When he is himself again we will both scold him roundly."
"Forgive me, Ella," entreated Oswald humbly, holding out his hand to her. "I have an intolerable headache, uncle. Please have the carriage brought round, I must go home."
The road from Rautschin castle to Tornow goes directly through the village, across the market-place, and past the inn, 'The Rose.'
Involuntarily Oswald glanced towards the unpretending front of the tavern. Conceited and bedizened, with a dirty coat, and with bare feet thrust into morocco slippers down at the heel, the same waiter is standing in the doorway, just as he stood there on that rainy afternoon in spring, when Oswald took refuge in the inn-parlour.
Was everything to be forever reminding him of that odious scene?--In Prague he had fancied that he should soon be able to shake off the hateful sensation produced by the interview with Capriani, just as we all overcome the nervous shudder, caused by some revolting spectacle. But no! for three days it had lasted and he could not rid himself of it,--on the contrary this hateful sensation was growing more defined.
Of course he did not frame his suspicion in words, he was ashamed of it; he called it anidée fixe, resulting from nervous irritability still remaining from a slight sunstroke which he had had the year before, but for all that, he could not away with it. Countless memories of trifling events, dating from earliest childhood, crowded upon his mind, all pointing, with a sneer, one way. There was a lump in his throat, a weight as of lead upon his heart; the pain waxed more and more intolerable. He could have leaped out of the carriage and have flung himself down in the road with his face in the very dust, in an agony of shame and horror!
For the first time in his life he was reluctant to go home; he was afraid of meeting his mother. There was a kind of relief in the thought that she was not expecting him, and would not come to meet him. He clinched his hands tightly, and gazed abroad, striving by the sight of distinct, familiar objects, to exorcise the evil phantoms that possessed his soul. But everything that his eyes beheld was stamped with ugliness and dejection. The leaves on the trees were limp and dusty. The grain, lodged by the storms, lay on the ground, half rotted in its own luxuriance. The farmers could recall no former year so rich in promise, so poor in fulfilment.
When at length he reached the castle, he could hardly bring himself to ask after his mother, or to go and look for her. How could he, while his mind was filled with such vile abomination? He went up to his room, where the first object that met his eyes was the white death-mask upon the wall. He grew dizzy, a black, crimson-edged cloud seemed to rise before him; he flung open the window,--the air cooled by the sunset, and laden with the fragrance of flowers, played about him, and refreshed him,--he breathed more freely.
Just then a soft, gentle sound fell upon his ear--his mother's voice! He shivered nervously from head to foot. How sweet, how noble was that voice!
"So, so, old friend; fine, good Darling! Bravo, old dog, bravo!"
These words spoken with caressing tenderness, reached him through the silence. He leaned out of the window--there she sat in a large wicker garden-chair, playing with his Newfoundland, that, with huge forepaws upon her lap, was looking familiarly into her face. Her full, elegant figure, about which some soft, black material fell in graceful folds, stood out against the background of a clump of pale purple phlox in luxuriant bloom. Oswald watched her in silence; the beautiful placid expression of her features, the rich harmony of her voice, the tender grace of her movements, as she passed her hands lovingly over the dog's head and neck,--all appealed to him. He never could tire of watching those hands. So slender and delicate that a girl of eighteen might have coveted them, there was something more about them than mere physical beauty, something clinging, pathetic, which is never found in the hands of young girls or of childless women. They were true mother-hands,--hands with an innate genius for soothing caresses; Oswald recalled the time when he had been extremely ill, and those delicate, white hands had tended him day and night with untiring patience and unsurpassable skill;--he could even yet feel their touch upon his suffering, weary limbs.
And this saint,--his mother, his glorious, incomparable mother,--he had presumed to sully by such vile suspicions! He, her son!
Without another thought he hurried down into the park. He saw her at a distance. The dog was lying quiet at her feet; she sat with hands clasped in her lap, and in her half-closed eyes there lay the look of the visionary, dim or far-seeing, always beholding more, or less than the actual. The dog heard his master's step and began to wag his tail, then rose, barking with joy, and ran to meet Oswald.
"Ossi!" and the Countess opened her arms to him. Not even from his betrothed had he ever heard a tone of welcome so fervent, and as his mother clasped him close, and kissed him, he felt as if God Himself had laid His hand upon his sore heart and healed it. Gone were all his evil surmises, all fled, leaving only a sensation of angry self-reproach.
"You are a day sooner than you said," she exclaimed, kissing him affectionately. "Well, I shall not complain, I am a few hours richer than I thought."
"How so, mamma?"
"Do you not understand? Do you really not yet know that I am counting the thirty-three days before your marriage--the last days that I shall have you to myself--and that to each one as it goes, I bid a sad farewell? Let me look at you,--my poor child, how you have come back to me! you look as if you had had an illness."
"I have felt miserably, really wretchedly ever since I went away," he admitted, speaking slowly and without looking at her. "Uncle Erich diagnosed either the jaundice or intermittent fever, but it does not amount to anything, I am well again."
"You do not look so," said the Countess, shaking her head. "Take an arm-chair, that seat is very uncomfortable."
He had seated himself upon a low stool at her feet.
"No, no, mamma," he replied smiling, "this seat is all right, and now tell me of what you were thinking as I came towards you. Your thoughts must have been very pleasant!"
"Must you know everything," she replied gaily, "I had no thoughts,--my dreams...." she patted him lightly on the cheek and whispered--"were of my grandchildren."
"Indeed? Perfectly reconciled, then, to my marriage?"
"We must learn to acquiesce in the inevitable, and--and--it really would be delightful to have a chubby little Ossi, in miniature, to pet, and cosset."
He did not speak, but leaned a little forward and pressed the hem of her gown to his lips.
"You goose!" she remonstrated; but when he raised his head she perceived that his eyes were filled with tears. "What is the matter?"
"A momentary weakness, as you see," he said with forced gaiety; adding earnestly,--"I am not ashamed of it before you. Of the evil that is in us, we are more ashamed before those whom we love than before all the rest of the world; but of our weaknesses we are ashamed only before those to whom we are indifferent!"
Paler and paler grow the blossoms of the sweet rocket, sweeter and sweeter their fragrance rises aloft, like a mute prayer,--twilight hovers over the meadows and the leafy summits of the lindens grow black. The quiet air is stirred by the village bells ringing the Angelus. The Countess folded her hands,--of late years she has grown devout. Oswald is overcome by intense lassitude, the lassitude that follows the sudden relaxation of nervous tension in men upon whom severe physical exertion has no effect.--He lays his head upon his mother's knee, and recalls the time when, only twenty years old, and smarting under a severe disappointment, he had taken refuge there. Then he had lain his head upon her lap, and sleep, wooed in vain through feverish nights, had fallen on him.--He remembers how, regardless of her own discomfort, she had let him sleep there for hours, never moving, lest he should be disturbed. And how many other instances of her love and self-sacrifice fill his memory! She strokes his hair, and for a moment he wishes he might die, thus, now, and here,--yes, it would be far better, a hundredfold better to die thus at her feet, his heart filled with filial adoration, than to have to live down again the anguish of the last three days.