When by a long and roundabout way he at last reached his home on foot, and walked through the stone-paved, whitewashed corridor, looking absently before him, he perceived sitting beneath a mulberry-tree, the lower boughs of which were covered with the blossoms of a climbing rose, an attractive female figure, whose golden hair gleamed in the sunlight. She was sitting in a basket chair, and was engaged upon a piece of delicate crochet-work. She wore a gown of some white woollen stuff, very simply made, and confined at the waist by a belt of russet leather; the sleeves, which were rather short, left exposed not only the wrists, but part of a plump arm, white and smooth as polished marble, and the finely-formed throat rose as white and polished from the turn-down sailor collar, beneath which a dark-blue cravat was loosely knotted. How deft and skilful, as she worked, was every movement of her rather large but faultlessly-shaped hands!
She was somewhat stout, but there was a certain charm in that. The broad full shoulders gave an impression of vigour that nothing could subdue. Lozoncyi could not but admire them. He was amazed. Yesterday there had been shrieks and screams, torn clothes and broken furniture, while to-day, after a scene that would have made any other woman ill, there was not a trace of fatigue, no dark shade beneath the steel-blue eyes, not a wrinkle about the rather large mouth. What a fund of inexhaustible vitality the woman possessed! what triumphant, healthy vigour! Not a sign of nervousness, of useless agitation; no breath of exaggeration.
Ah, she had her good side,--there was no denying it. He sighed, and, hearing himself sigh, was startled by the turn his thoughts were taking. Was it possible that after a forced companionship of scarcely two days--a companionship of which, when he could not avoid it, he had taken advantage to hurl in the woman's face his hatred and contempt for her--old habits were asserting their rights?
She went on crocheting. The sunlight crept down from among the climbing roses and glittered upon her crochet-needle. At last it shone in her eyes: she moved her chair to avoid the dazzling glare, and, looking up, saw him. Instead of the dark looks she had given him yesterday, she smiled slowly, blinking her strange cat-like eyes in the sunshine, and by her smile disclosing a row of pearly teeth. He passed her sullenly, as if she had taken an unjustifiable liberty with him, and went into the studio, wishing to persuade himself that he had a horror of her, that she repelled him. He hoped to feel that disgust for her with which the thought of her had inspired him since love for Erika had filled his heart; but he did not feel the disgust.
He lingered for less time than usual before Erika's portrait, which occupied a large easel in the most conspicuous place in the studio, and went to his writing-table. Several business letters awaited him there; he opened them with an impatient sigh. They were for the most part requests for answers to letters received by him weeks previously. Since he had been in Venice his business correspondence--in fact, his business affairs generally--had fallen into terrible disorder.
He opened the latest letter: it contained columns of figures. It was the account from his picture-dealer. He snapped his fingers, and, sitting down, tried to comprehend it. In vain! The figures danced before his eyes. Involuntarily he looked up. Through the glass door of the studio a pair of greenish eyes were gazing at him with an expression of good-humoured raillery. His heart began to beat fast. Formerly she had conducted his entire correspondence for him,--with what perfect regularity and skill! Before she had taken up the trade of model in consequence of a love-affair with an artist, she had been adame de comptoir; she was as skilled in accounts as a bank-clerk. He needed but to speak the word, and she would reduce all these provoking affairs to perfect order; but he would ask no favour of her. Then she opened the studio door, and, entering softly, laid a warm strong hand upon his shoulder. He tried to persuade himself that he disliked the touch of this hand. But he did not dislike it: it had a soothing effect upon his excited nerves. Nevertheless he forced himself to shake it off.
The woman laughed, a low, gentle laugh,--the laugh of a cynic. She lighted a cigarette and handed it to him, saying, "Pauvre bébé, try to rest instead of settling those accounts: I will do it all for you in the twinkling of an eye, while it would take you until next week."
This time she did not lay her hand upon his shoulder, but stroked his head gently. "Voyons, Séraphine!" he said, crossly, shaking her off.
She laughed again, good-humouredly, carelessly, with unconscious cynicism. Before three minutes had passed, she was seated in his stead at the writing-table, and he, with the cigarette which she had offered him between his lips, was standing lost in thought before Erika's portrait.
How long he had been standing thus he could not have told, when he heard a deep voice beside him say, "C'est rudement fort, tu sais. Sapristi!Shall you exhibit it?"
"I have not made up my mind," he replied, absently, and then he was vexed with himself for answering her.
"She is pretty, there's no denying it," Seraphine confessed. "I am really sorry to have interfered with your amusement, but nothing could have come of it. If I am not mistaken, you had gone as far as was possible. She is one of those who give nothing for nothing, and who never invest their capital except in good securities. I am sorry I cannot resign these securities to her;je suis bon garçon, moi, but,mon Dieu, lorsqu'il y a un homme dans la question--sapristi, chaque femme pour elle!"
Here Lucrezia opened the door, and announced that lunch was served in the garden. Lozoncyi had firmly resolved never again to sit down to a meal with this woman. But, before he could say so, she began, "It would be well if you could give them something to talk of again in Paris. When did you leave in the autumn? In October? You have no idea what a relief your departure was to the artists there. You ought to see the crazy carnival of colour held in this year's Salon! Bouchard exhibited a nymph with a faun, quite in your style, only yours is flesh and his is putty,--a poor thing; but the critics exalted it, and gave it amédaille d'honneur. You had begun to make the artists very uncomfortable: they are praising up mere daubers, to belittle you, doing what they can to knock away the floor from under you. But you need only show yourself to recover your ground. Becard told me lately that he had got hold of quite a new way of looking at things: his picture in the Salon----"
Talking thus, she had gone slowly towards the door; now she was outside. Unconsciously he had followed her.
"What has Becard in the Salon?"
"A woman on a balcony, after dinner, between two different lights,--on one side candle-light, and on the other moonlight; half of her is sulphur-yellow, the other half sea-green;c'est d'un dróle!"
"I saw the sketch for that monstrosity in his atelier," cried Lozoncyi, excited. "Did they accept it?"
She had taken her seat at the tempting table, upon which smoked a golden omelette; she did not answer instantly.
"Did they accept it?" Lozoncyi repeated.
"Accept it----! Why, my dear, they laud him to the skies: they hail him asle Messie!"
Lozoncyi had now seated himself opposite her. He brought his fist down upon the table. "Confound it!" he muttered between his teeth.
"You are wrong to be vexed," she said: "he is a good fellow, and your friend. He told me awhile ago with reference to his success, 'It is envy of Lozoncyi that is now standing me in stead.' Let me give you some omelette: it is growing cold."
He allowed her to fill his plate.
Two hours later he was pacing his atelier to and fro in gloomy mood.
He had enjoyed his breakfast, and had been entertained by his wife's chatter. With infinite skill she lured his fancy back to the old, careless, good-humoured Bohemian life in Paris. He questioned her with increasing curiosity as to the works of his fellows there, and she told him stories,--highly spiced but very amusing stories; she peeled his orange for him, and when the sun began to shine full upon the table at which they were sitting they drank their coffee in the studio. A sensation of intense comfort stole over him; but in the midst of it he was conscious of physical uneasiness. She looked at him, and disappeared with a laugh, returning with a pair of easy slippers. It was warm; his boots were tight; he took them off and slipped his feet into the easy shoes she had brought him. He felt as if relieved for the first time for a long while of a certain restraint. He yawned and stretched himself. Suddenly he shivered.
The question suggested itself, Could he ever allow himself such license in Erika's presence?
He started up. The momentarily-restored harmony between himself and his wife was interrupted. In the sudden change of mood to which in the course of years she had become accustomed, he repulsed her,--actually turned her out of the room, rudely, angrily.
Again his every pulse throbbed. He felt as if he should go mad. His revulsion of feeling with regard to Erika clothed itself in a new dress. It was odious, unprincipled, criminal, to take advantage of the enthusiasm of this inexperienced young creature, to drag her down to probable--nay, to certain--misery. He went to his writing-table; he would write to her that for her sake he withdrew from their agreement. But scarcely had he written the first word when a wave of passion swept over his soul, benumbing his energies: he knew that he was as powerless to renounce her as he was to carry out any other resolve. What did he really want? He sprang up, crushed in his hand the sheet of paper which his pen had scarcely touched, and threw it away. Once again he stood before the portrait.
At last, with bowed head, he went into the next room. Erika had left there by accident one or two articles belonging to her,--a lace handkerchief, a glove. He pressed them to his lips.
"Erika! Erika!" old Countess Lenzdorff calls in a joyful voice across the garden of the Hôtel Britannia. "Erika!"
The old lady is sitting by the breast-work bordering on the Canal Grande. Erika is coming out of a side-door of the hotel. Her grandmother had sent her upstairs for her parasol. How strange the girl looks, with cheeks so white and lips so feverishly red! But that is a secondary matter: what must strike every one who looks at her to-day is the transfigured light in her eyes,--a light shining as through tears.
"Come quickly!" her grandmother calls. "I have a surprise for you." But Erika does not come quickly: she walks slowly through the blooming garden to her grandmother, who has an open letter in her hand.
The little garden is basking in the sunshine; the heavens are cloudless; the lagoon looks as if it were sprinkled with diamonds, as the black gondolas glide past, the sinewy brown throats of the gondoliers shining like bronze. In the fragrant garden can be heard, now loud, now faint, the sound of gay voices on the water mingled with the constant lapping of the waves and the jangle of church-bells.
"From whom does this letter come?" her grandmother asks Erika, with a smile.
"I--I cannot imagine," the girl murmurs. Her pale cheeks grow paler, and a fixed look comes into her shining eyes.
"Indeed? From whom should a letter come which I am so glad to receive?"
Erika starts.
"From Goswyn!" says her grandmother. "But what a face is that!"
"Am I to be as glad as you are because Goswyn at last condescends to take some notice of the kind sympathy you have shown him?" says Erika. But the old hard intonation of her voice is gone: it sounds weary and dull.
"Never mind!" her grandmother rejoins, triumphantly. "First read the letter, and then tell me if you still have the faintest disposition to be vexed with him. Whether you have any regard for him or not, the letter will please you. He asks, among other things, whether we shall be in Venice next week, and if he may come to us here."
Erika holds the letter in her hands, but when she fixes her eyes upon it the bold distinct characters swim before them. She looks away into the dazzling sunlight above the lagoon.
Among the black gondolas with white lanterns she now perceives Prince Helmy in his yellow cutter, which usually lies at anchor in front of the Hôtel Britannia. Espying the two ladies, the Prince clambers up to them over one or two gondolas, and asks, "Can you ladies not be induced to intrust yourselves to me? It would be far pleasanter to go to Chioggia in my cutter than in the steamer."
"It certainly would," the old Countess replies, with more amiability than she is wont to display towards Prince Helmy. "But," she adds, "unfortunately I cannot have that pleasure. I have promised to act as chaperon to Constance Mühlberg's party, and I cannot disappoint her."
"I'm sorry."
At this moment a merry old voice cries, "Your obedient servant, ladies!" It is Count Treurenberg, dressed in a light summer suit, all ready for the excursion to Chioggia. "You are going to Chioggia too?"
"We are."
"'Tis a pity you cannot go with us."
"I have just been telling them," observes Prince Helmy.
"Do you know whether Lozoncyi is to be of the party?" asks Treurenberg.
"I have no idea," Countess Lenzdorff replies, rather coldly.
"What do you think of the wife who has made her appearance so suddenly? Something of a surprise, eh?"
"A surprise which does not interest me much," the Countess replies, haughtily.
"Of course not. But there are some of our Venetian beauties who could hardly say as much. 'Tis odd that the fellow should have been so close-mouthed concerning his 'indissoluble tie.' I saw him once in Paris with the individual in question, but I never dreamed that that yellow-haired dame had any legitimate claim upon him. Probably a youthful folly."
"A millstone that he has hung about his neck," Prince Helmy says, feelingly,--"a burden that will weigh him down to the earth. I am very sorry for him."
"H'm!" Count Treurenberg drawls, "my pity is not so easily excited. Such women make an artist's life very comfortable; and she certainly has interfered but little with him hitherto." He rubs his hands with a significant glance.
"Are you ready, Count?" Prince Helmy asks, after the pause that follows Treurenberg's words.
The Count is ready, and takes leave of the ladies. Shortly afterwards they see him in the cutter with the Prince, who is helping his two sailors to hoist the tiny sail. The gentlemen wave a respectful farewell to the Lenzdorffs; the cutter glides off, at first slowly from among the gondolas, then more and more swiftly, skimming the water like a bird in the direction of the line of foam which marks the boundary of the open sea.
It is a trifle which has made the weight upon Erika's heart heavier in the last minute. She has said to herself that never again after to-morrow will a man accord her the respectful courtesy just shown her by the two gentlemen in the cutter.
Her attack of cowardice is a short one, however. Immediately afterwards she feels the joy of a fanatic who delights in suffering one pang more for his convictions.
"I cannot see why we have not been called to lunch," Countess Lenzdorff remarks, consulting her watch; then, observing Erika, she is startled by the girl's looks. "What is the matter with you?" she asks, and when the girl's only answer is a rapid change of colour, the thought occurs to her for the first time, "Is it possible that she cares for Lozoncyi?--my proud Erika?" She observes her grand-daughter narrowly, and an ugly suspicion invades her heart. "What reply shall I make to Goswyn?" she thinks. "Good heavens! I had no idea! Perhaps it is only fancy. But if---- It would be my fault. And people call me shrewd! Poor child!"
Meanwhile, Fritz announces that lunch is served.
"My child, you are eating nothing," the old Countess says anxiously to her grand-daughter, who is doing her best to swallow a morsel of food.
"I am not very well," Erika replies, in a faint, weary voice. How often those tones will ring through the old Countess's soul! "I have a slight headache," and she puts her hand to her head; "I feel as if a storm were coming; but there is not a cloud in the sky."
"So, there is not a cloud to be seen. The sunshine is so powerful in the dining-hall that the shades have to be drawn down, thus diffusing a gray twilight through the room.
"Let us go to our rooms," says the old Countess, with a sigh of discouragement. They go, and Erika seems to be making ready for the proposed expedition. But when her grandmother, fully arrayed, enters the girl's room half an hour afterwards, she finds her in a long white dressing-gown with loosened hair, leaning back in an easy-chair.
"My child, my child! what is the matter with you?" the old lady exclaims, in terror.
"Nothing," the girl replies, without lifting her downcast eyes. "A headache. You can see I meant to go, but I cannot: you must go without me. Give all kinds of affectionate messages to Constance, and tell her how sorry I am."
"My dear child, I cannot go with those people if you are not well," the old lady says, beginning to take off her gloves. "No human being could expect me to do that."
Erika is trembling violently. "But, grandmother," she replies, "it is only a headache. You can do me no good by staying at home, and you know I cannot bear to make a disturbance."
"Yes, yes," says the grandmother. "But lie down, at least, my darling."
"You could not disappoint Constance Mühlberg: you know she depends upon you, she needs your support," Erika goes on, persuasively.
"Yes, that is true," the Countess admits.
She notices that Erika has hastily brushed away tears from her eyes, and the suspicion which had assailed her below in the garden is strengthened. Perhaps it would be better to leave the girl in peace for a while, she says to herself.
Meanwhile, Marianne appears, to say that the Countess Mühlberg is awaiting the ladies below in her gondola.
"Go, grandmother dear," Erika says, faintly; "go!"
"Yes, I will go; but first let me see you lie down, my child." She conducts Erika to the bed. "How you tremble! You can hardly stand." She arranges her long dressing-gown, strokes the girl's cheek, and kisses her forehead. She has reached the door, when she hears a low voice behind her say, "Grandmother!"
She turns. Erika is half sitting up in bed, looking after her. "What is it, my child?"
"Nothing, only I was thinking just now that I have not treated you as I ought, sometimes lately. Forgive me, grandmother!"
The old lady clasps the trembling girl in her arms. "Little goose!" she says. "As if that were of any consequence, my darling! Only go quietly to sleep, that I may find you well when I return. Where is my pocket-handkerchief? Oh, there is Goswyn's letter: when you are a little better you can read it. You need not be afraid that I shall try to persuade you; that time has gone by; but I think the letter ought to please you. At all events, it is something to have inspired so thoroughly excellent a man with so deep and true an affection; and you will see, too, that you have been unjust to him. Good-bye, my darling, good-bye."
For the last time Erika presses the delicate old hand to her lips. The Countess has gone. Erika is alone. She has locked her door, and is sitting on her bed with Goswyn's letter open on her lap. Her tears are falling thick and fast upon it. It reads as follows:
"My very dear old Friend,--
"Shall you be in Venice next week, and may I come to you there? I do not want you to tell me if I have any chance: I shall come at all events, unless Countess Erika is actually betrothed. This is plain speaking, is it not?
"Have you known, or have you not known, that through all these years since my rejection by the Countess Erika not a day has passed for me that has not been filled with thoughts of her? In any case my conduct must have seemed inexplicable to you: probably you have thought me ridiculously sensitive. It is true, ridiculous sensitiveness, as I now see, has been the true cause of my foolish, unjustifiable behaviour, but it has not been the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor. God forbid!
"I should never have been provoked by the Countess Erika's rejection of me,--no, never,--even if it had not been conveyed in so bewitching a way that one ought to have kneeled down and adored her for it. There was another reason for my sensitiveness. A certain person, whose name there is no need to mention, hinted that I was in pursuit of Countess Erika's money. From that moment my peace of mind was at an end. I could not go near her again, because, to speak plainly, I was conscious that I was not a suitable match for her.
"You think this petty. I think it is petty myself,--so petty that I despise myself, and simply ask, am I any more worthy of so glorious a creature, now that I have a few more marks a year to spend?
"I dread being punished for my obstinate stupidity. Perhaps there was no possibility of my winning her heart, but it was worth a trial, and she has a right to reproach me for never in all these years making that trial. Inconceivable as my long delay must appear to you, I am sure you can understand why I have not thus appealed to you lately, so soon after the terrible misfortune that has befallen me.
"It was too horrible!
"In addition to my sincere sorrow for my brother's death, I am tormented by the sensation that I never sufficiently prized the nobility of character which his last moments revealed. To turn so terrible a catastrophe to my advantage would have been to me impossible. I could not have done it, even although I had not been so crushed by the manner of his death that all desire, all love of life, has for some weeks seemed dead within me.
"Yesterday I met Frau von Norbin, who has lately returned from her Italian tour. She informed me that Prince Nimbsch is paying devoted attention to Countess Erika, although at present with small encouragement.
"Jealousy has roused me from my lethargy. And now I ask you once more, may I come to Venice? Unless something unforeseen should occur, I could obtain a leave without much trouble. Again I repeat, I do not ask you what chance I have,--I know that I have none at present,--but I only ask you, may I come?
"Impatiently awaiting your answer, I am faithfully yours,
"G. v. Sydow."
She read the letter to the last word, her tears flowing faster and faster. Then she threw herself on the bed, and buried her face among the pillows. A yearning desire assailed her heart, and thrilled through her every nerve, calling aloud, "Turn back! turn back!" But it was too late; she would not turn back. She was entirely possessed by the illusion that she was about to do something grand and elevating.
A low knock at the door recalled her to herself. It was Marianne, who, instructed by the old Countess, came to see if she would not have a cup of tea.
"By and by, Marianne," she called, without opening the door. "I want nothing at present. I am better."
Marianne left, and Erika looked at her watch. Four o'clock! It was time to begin her final preparations.
She gathered together all her trinkets,--an unusually large and valuable collection for a girl. She had been fond of jewelry, and her grandmother had denied her nothing. Without one longing thought of them, she selected all that were of special value, running through her fingers five strings of beautiful pearls, and calculating as she did so their probable worth. These she added to the heap, and then wrapped all together in a package, upon which she wrote "For the Poor." Then she sat down at her writing-table and explained her last wishes, arranging everything as one would who contemplated suicide. Not one of her numerousprotégéesdid she forget, commending them all to her grandmother's care.
After everything in this respect that was necessary, or at least that she considered necessary, was arranged, she reflected that she must write a farewell to her grandmother.
It was a terribly hard task, but after she had begun her letter there seemed to be no end to it. She covered three sheets, and there were yet many loving things to say. Now first she comprehended all that her grandmother had been to her of late years. She forgot how often the old Countess's philosophy had grated upon her, how often she had rebelled against it. How hard it was to leave her! But retreat was not to be thought of.
And she wrote on.
At last she concluded with, "Every one else will point the finger of scorn at me; you will bewail my course, but you will not call it evil, only foolish. Poor, dear grandmother! And you will mourn over the misery which I have voluntarily brought upon myself. It is terrible that I cannot fulfil the mission in life which lies so clearly before me without giving you pain. But I cannot help it! One thing consoles me. I know how large-minded you are: you will have to choose between the world and me, and you will be strong enough to resign the world and to turn to me, and then nothing will be wanting to me in my new life, let people slander me as they will!"
Three times did Erika fold up the letter, and three times did she open it again to add something to it.
At last it was finished. She put with it into the envelope the draft of her wishes as to the disposal of the effects she left behind her, and then asked herself where she should put the letter so that her grandmother might find it instantly upon her return. At first she took it to the Countess's room, but then, reflecting that the old lady would come at once to her bedside to see how she was, she laid it, with eyes streaming with tears, upon the table beside her bed. "Poor grandmother!" She kissed the letter tenderly as she left it.
Now everything was finished: she had only to dress herself. But she was not content. Once more she sat down at her writing-table and wrote. This time the words came slowly and with difficulty from her pen, as if each one were torn singly from her bleeding heart.
"My dear, faithful Friend,"--she began,--"Do not come to Venice. When this letter reaches you I shall have vanished from the world in which you live. I could not endure to have you hear from strangers of the step I am about to take, and so I write to you myself. Yes, when you read this letter I shall have broken with all that has constituted my life hitherto, and shall have fled with--with a married man. How grieved you will be when you read this! My whole soul cries out with pain as I think of it.
"You will not understand it. 'Erika Lenzdorff fled with a married man!' It sounds incredible, does it not?
"You know that I am not light-minded, nor corrupt, and so you will believe me when I tell you that the reasons which have induced me to take so terrible a step are unanswerable in my mind.
"I can redeem the life of a noble and gifted man. His moral nature is deteriorating, he suffers frightfully, and I cannot avoid the conviction that without me he must go to destruction.
"He hoped to be able to procure a divorce from his wife. It was impossible. Without hesitation I resolved of my own accord to follow him. In the midst of the agony which it has cost me to break with all my former associations, I am sustained by a sense of right.
"It is grand and beautiful to suffer for a noble and highly-gifted fellow-being,--beautiful to be able to say, 'Providence has chosen me to shed light into his darkened soul.' I do not waste a thought upon what I resign in thus fulfilling my mission, but the consciousness of the pain I shall cause my dear grandmother and you weighs me to the earth. She will forgive me, and you, my poor friend, you will forget me. I would gladly find consolation in this conviction; but no, it does not comfort me. Of all that I must give up with my old life, your friendship is what I shall lack most painfully.
"Goswyn! for God's sake do not judge me falsely and harshly! What I do, I do in the absolute conviction that it is right. If this conviction should ever fail me, then---- But I cannot harbour that idea!--it would be too terrible. I cannot be mistaken!
"I have a fearful attack of cowardice as I write to you, and a sudden dread takes possession of me. Am I equal to the task I have undertaken? Will he always be content to live apart from the world with me alone?
"I am prepared for that also. If his feeling for me should wane, my task will be done, he will need me no longer. Then I will vanish from his life, and from life itself, like a poor taper that is extinguished when the sun rises. I shall have the courage to extinguish it; it will be a trifle in comparison with what I am now doing. Oh, God! how hard it is! Goswyn, adieu! One thing more, and this I tell you because this is my farewell to you. Whether it will console you, or add one more pang to your sorrow, I cannot tell, but I am constrained to lay bare my heart before you: these are as it were the words of a dying woman. If last autumn you had said one kind word to me, I should now have been your wife, and you should not have repented it! All that is over. Fate had another destiny in store for me.
"Once more, farewell!
"Forgive me for causing you pain, and sometimes think of your poor friend,
"Erika Lenzdorff."
Now all was done. She put on her travelling-dress, a plain dark suit in which she was wont to pay visits to the poor.
She looked at the clock--seven! One half-hour more, and she must go; and she could not go without something to lend her physical strength. She rang for a cup of tea, swallowed it hastily, and for the last time walked through the four rooms occupied by her grandmother and herself. Then she took her travelling-bag, which she had packed with a few necessaries, put on her straw hat, and went.
It was half-past seven: the servants were at their evening meal. No one noticed her departure at so unusual an hour. How often she had been seen leaving the hotel in the same dress to visit her poor people!
She walked for some distance, and dropped her letter to Goswyn into the nearest post-box, feeling as she did so that she was casting her whole life thus far into a dark gulf whence it could never be recovered. Then she hired a gondola, an open one,--she could find no other,--and it pushed off with her.
She was very weary; with her eyes fixed on vacancy, she leaned back among the black cushions.
The tragic wretchedness of the situation no longer impressed her. She only felt that she was about to undertake a journey. If it were but over! Sssh--sssh--the strokes of the oars sounded monotonously in her ears: the gondola glided rapidly over the water.
The garish daylight had faded; the spring twilight, with its incomparably poetic charm, was casting its transparent veil over Venice. The gondola glided on.
Erika's battle was fought. She leaned back, pale and still, with gleaming eyes. The sound of the church-bells droned in her ears. Dulled to all that lay behind her, she was conscious of nothing save of the enthusiasm of a young hero ready to brave death for a sacred cause.
Around her was the breath of the waning spring, and beneath her was the sobbing of the waves.
It was later by about an hour and a half. The old Countess, who had felt it her duty to be present at the fête, had not thought herself obliged to remain until its close. She was very uneasy about Erika, and had gratefully accepted Prince Nimbsch's offer to take her home in his cutter, leaving Constance Mühlberg and her guests, with the Hungarian band that had been telegraphed for from Vienna for their amusement, to return to Venice in the steamer.
With the velocity of a skimming swallow the little vessel shot through the water. Prince Nimbsch, leaving the management of the sail entirely to his sailors, leaned back beside the old lady among his very new velvet cushions, and made good-humoured, although futile, efforts to entertain her. She was absent: her thoughts were occupied with Erika's altered appearance.
"Poor child!" she thought, "I was foolish. It was my fault; but how could I suspect it? She seemed so strong, so unsusceptible. It is the same folly, the same disease that attacks us all once in a lifetime. I had it myself: I can hardly remember it now. It hurts,--it hurts very much. But she has a strong character and a clear head. I am very sorry; I might have prevented it, if I had only known. My poor, proud Erika! What shall I write to Goswyn? Of course that he must come. I think she will be glad to see him: this cannot go very deep; but I am very sorry."
Venice lay before them, gray and shadowy, a reflection of the pale summer sky, whence the sun had long disappeared, and where the stars were not yet visible.
They reached the hotel, and the old Countess looked up at Erika's windows. "She is not in her boudoir," she said to herself. "Perhaps she is asleep."
"Tell Countess Erika how stupid thefêtewas, thanks to her absence," the young Austrian said as he took his leave, "and how we all anathematized that headache for depriving us of her society. I shall call to-morrow, and hope to find her quite well again."
He kissed the old lady's hand, and she hurried upstairs to her rooms. She softly entered Erika's apartments. The boudoir was dark, as she had seen from below. She gently opened the door of the bedroom; that was dark also. Had the poor child gone to bed? She approached the bed very softly, not to disturb her, and stooped above it. There was no one there.
A foreboding of something terrible instantly took possession of her. For a moment she lost her head: she grew dizzy, and would have screamed and alarmed the house, but her voice died in her throat. Suddenly something fluttered down from the table upon which she leaned to support herself. She stooped to pick it up: it was a letter. She turned on the electric light and read it through. After the first few lines, half blind with grief, she would have tossed it aside,--what could it contain that she did not now know?--but at last she read it through, read every word to the very end, feeding her pain with each tender, loving expression of the unhappy, mistaken girl.
Not for one moment did she blame Erika for what had happened: she blamed herself alone. She accused herself of plunging Erika into wretchedness, as years before she had done with her daughter-in-law. She had required of both of them that they should accede to her materialistic views. She had never allowed them to entertain any idealistic conception of life. She had never understood that such idealism was a necessity of their existence, and that if deprived of it in one shape they would take refuge in some exaggeration which might shield them from a life of coldly-calculating egotism. Her daughter-in-law's unhappiness had not affected her much; her grand-daughter's misery would blot the sun from her sky.
She was so clear-sighted: ah, why was she so, when she could see nothing but what agonized her?
For a creature like Erika it was as impossible to disregard the dictates of morality as it would be to breathe in the moon with lungs constructed for the atmosphere of the earth.
There were women capable of braving the opinions of the world and of quietly going on their way, women for whom the pillory was converted into a pedestal as soon as they stood in it. But Erika was not one of these. Before the stars in their courses had twice appeared in the heavens she would writhe in misery. She had none of that self-exalting quality which must veil the moral lack of which she would surely be made conscious. Yes, she would then find no other name for the sacrifice she had made to the wretch who had been willing to receive it at her hands than the one which the world has given to it for centuries when it has been made to men by worthless women, inspired by no lofty desire. In her own eyes she would be a fallen woman.
The moisture stood upon the old Countess's forehead. "My Erika! my proud, glorious Erika!" she murmured. She knew that the peril of a woman's fall must be measured by the moral height from which she falls. And Erika had fallen from a very lofty height. Her life was ruined.
Once more she opened Erika's letter and read the line, "You will have to choose between the world and me." Choose! As if there could be any question of choice. Of course she was ready to open her arms to her and do for her what she alone could; but what could she do?
Suddenly a picture arose in her memory,--a terrible picture.
In the waiting-room of a railway-station she had once seen among some emigrants a poor woman with a child, a boy about six or seven years old. His face was frightfully disfigured by scars. All the passers-by stared at him, and some nudged one another and whispered together. The child first grew scarlet, then very restless, and finally burst into a passion of tears; whereupon the mother sat down upon a bench and hid the poor face in her lap.
A quarter of an hour later, when the Countess passed the same spot the woman was still there with the child's face in her lap. She sat stiffly erect, glaring at the unfeeling crowd whose cruel curiosity had so hurt the boy, and with her rough hand she gently stroked his short light hair. The sight had made a profound impression upon the Countess. "She cannot sit there always, concealing in her lap her child's deformity," she said to herself: "sooner or later she must again expose the poor creature to the gaze of the crowd."
What now recalled this poor, powerless mother to her mind?
She could do no more for Erika than hide her head in her lap from the contemptuous curiosity of the world. So entirely did this thought take possession of her imagination that she seemed to feel the warm weight of the poor humiliated head upon her knee; she raised her hand to stroke it, when with a start she awoke to consciousness. "Ah, even that will be denied me," she thought. "As soon as Erika comes to herself, she will cast away her life. Yes, all is over,--all,--all!"
Marianne came into the room. She waved her away without a word. She never thought of inventing a reason to the maid for Erika's absence. She sat there mute and motionless, looking into the future. A vast misfortune seemed to have engulfed the world, and she alone was left to suffer, she alone was to blame.
Lozoncyi had gone to the station. He had delayed until the latest minute, intimidated by the difficulties of his undertaking, swayed by intense agitation. At last, passion for Erika had gained the mastery, although it had shrunk to very small dimensions. All the poetry had faded out of it. The lofty conception of life and its duties which had lately raised him above himself had vanished like a fit of intoxication of which nothing is left save a torturing thirst. Will she come? he had asked himself, with quivering nerves, as he sprang from the gondola, and, after purchasing the tickets, looked around him anxiously.
He had in fact expected that she would be there before him: he was disappointed at not finding her. He went out upon the steps leading from the railway-station to the Canal, and looked abroad over the shining green water. As each gondola approached he said to himself, "Here she comes." But no; she did not come.
The first bell rang. He went on the platform, his pulses throbbing feverishly. While he had been sure that she would come he had been comparatively calm; now his longing for her knew no bounds. He eagerly scanned every woman whom he saw in the distance.
Fortunately, he saw no one whom he knew: the train was not very full.
The second bell rang; the passengers hurried into their several compartments, porters ran to and fro with travelling-bags and trunks, farewells were waved from the windows of the train. The third bell rang, and the train steamed noisily out of the station. She had not come.
His disappointment was largely mingled with anger, and was so intense that it amounted to physical nervous pain. "At the last moment her courage has failed her," he told himself. But then her pale beautiful face, lit up with enthusiasm, arose before his mind's eye, and in the midst of his frenzy of passion he was conscious of the yearning tenderness which had been a chief element in his feeling for her. "No," he said to himself, "even if her courage has failed her, she is not one to break her word. She must have been prevented at the last moment."
A burning desire for certainty in the matter mastered him. He went to the Hôtel Britannia, under the pretext of calling upon the Lenzdorffs. He was told that her Excellency had gone out early in the afternoon and had not yet returned. He hesitated for a moment, and then, in a tone the indifference of which surprised himself, he asked if he could see the Countess Erika, as he had a message for her. The porter, a presuming fellow who meddled in everybody's affairs, informed him that the young Countess had just gone out, but would probably return shortly.
"Why do you think so?" asked Lozoncyi.
"Because she was not in evening dress. She went out in a street suit, and carried a leather bag in her hand: that always means 'charity' with the young Countess. I know the bag: I have often carried it for her to the gondola. This time she walked, and carried it herself. She is a little----" he touched his forehead with his forefinger, "but a good lady: she is always giving."
Lozoncyi stayed no longer. He got into his gondola again, uncertain what to do. What could have kept her? After some reflection, he went again to the railway-station. "She has been detained by some acquaintance; she will be here for the next train," he thought. He waited until the next train left,--in vain. Then a fierce anger against her arose within him and transcended all bounds. He forgot that he himself had delayed for a moment. He could not find words bitter enough to express his contempt for her. He never should have taken such a step of his own accord: he had simply acquiesced in the inevitable. She had carried him away by her enthusiasm, which had levelled all barriers between them, and now--now her cowardice had left him in the lurch. It was hardly worth while to devise so fine a drama, when it was never to be played out! How stupid he had been ever to believe that it could possibly be played out! he ought to have known that at the last moment the censor would prohibit it. In the midst of his anger he experienced a sensation of dull indifference. What did anything matter? everything of importance in his life was at an end: what became of the rest he did not care. He had been lured on by a Fata Morgana; he laughed at the thought that he had taken it for reality,--a dull, joyless laugh,--and then--he could not spend the night at the station--he resolved to go home.
It was about ten o'clock when he passed through the green door of his house and along the narrow corridor into the garden. The moon was high in the sky, and the trees and bushes cast pitchy shadows upon the bluish light lying upon the grass and gravel paths. The air was warm; rose-leaves lay scattered everywhere; Spring was laying aside her garments, and there was a dull weariness in the atmosphere.
Lozoncyi, with bowed head, walked towards the atelier, where was the portrait. On a sudden he heard a light foot-fall behind him. He turned, and stood as if rooted to the earth.
"Erika!"
She came towards him lovely as an angel. Her head was bare, and her golden hair gleamed in the moonlight.
"Erika!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, without advancing a step towards her. He took her for an illusion conjured up by his fancy. But as she drew near he felt the reality of her young life beside him. "Then it is really you?" he murmured. "I thought it a phantom to deceive me. Why are you here?"
"No wonder you ask," she said, and her voice expressed unutterable compassion. "I come to bid you farewell."
"Farewell!" he gasped. "Then I was right to doubt you. And yet how bitterly I have reproached myself because----"
"Because----?" she asked, sadly.
"Because I ventured to suppose you had lost courage. What could I think? I waited for you at the station from one train to the next: you did not come. Then I told myself that you had simply treated me to a farce. But I cannot believe that now: as I look into your dear face I can find there no cowardice, nothing paltry. You have been detained against your will, and you are here yourself to tell me so. It is noble of you, Erika! my Erika!"
He drew closer to her, and extended his arms towards her: she evaded them.
"All is over between us," she said, wearily. "It cannot be."
She saw him turn ashy pale in the moonlight.
"Over? It cannot be? Erika! What does this mean? Have you robbed me of all self-control only to desert me thus at the last moment? I cannot believe it of you, Erika!" There was passionate entreaty in his voice. Again he stretched out his arms towards her: gently, but firmly, she repulsed him.
"Do not touch me," she begged. "I can scarcely stand. Something horrible has happened; I must tell you of it as quickly as possible, but I cannot stand upright." She grasped the bough of the mulberry-tree around which the climbing roses were wreathed, and as she did so the bough shook, and a cloud of white rose-leaves fluttered to the ground. All about her was fading! How sultry the night was!
She sat down on the bench beneath the mulberry, above her the moonlit sky with its hosts of stars, at her feet the fading garment of the spring.
Then she began her story: "I was on my way to the station. I should have been punctual: perhaps I should have been there before you. I was convinced that I was doing right, and so long as that was so I could not delay. The way to the station leads past this house. My gondola had not yet reached the bridge that spans this canal when I heard a loud splash in the water. A woman had thrown herself from the bridge. You can imagine my horror. In an instant the suspicion darted into my mind that it might be your wife. I implored my gondolier to save her, and he plunged into the water just in time. It was indeed your wife, whom I could not but feel I had thus hunted to death. She lay in the bottom of the gondola, covered with sea-weed and slime--oh, horrible! I brought her home. We carried her up-stairs, with Lucrezia's help, and then recalled her to life. That was comparatively easy; but scarcely had she opened her eyes when she was seized with frightful spasms of the chest, and I feared she would die."
Lozoncyi had listened breathlessly; now he nodded slowly. "I know she suffers from such attacks frequently," he said, bitterly, "but they are not dangerous: they are usually the result of a fit of fury."
"That I did not know," Erika murmured, in the same weary, self-accusing voice,--the voice of a criminal arraigning herself. "Her condition made a terrible impression upon me. We put her to bed, and I stayed with her while Lucrezia went for a physician. She returned without him, but the unfortunate woman seemed better and calmer, and I was about to leave her, when I heard your step in the corridor. I came hither to take leave of you. Forgive me, and farewell!" She had risen from the bench, and held out her hand to him; her eyes were full of tears.
He did not take her hand. "And for this you would desert me?" he exclaimed, angrily. "You have given me no reason,--not the slightest. That devil up-stairs has simply played you a trick,--nothing more. Can you not see it? She knew what we were about to do, and watched for you: she had not the least idea of taking her own life."
"I do not know," replied Erika, passing her hand across her brow: "it may be that she meant only to prevent me from arriving in time at the station. But it was frightful: the canal is very deep there; she would surely have been drowned; and how could I have lived after witnessing her death? No! as I sat beside her bed a veil seemed to fall from my eyes,--a veil which had blinded me to what I was doing. I saw that, with the best will in the world, I could do only harm. I was ready to give my life for you,--I am always ready for that,--but I must not sacrifice the lives of others who stand in close relation to you and to me; I cannot!--I cannot! I ought not to have robbed you of your peace, to have taken from you the power of self-renunciation; I acknowledge it. If you could but know how bitterly I reproach myself, how fearful it is for me to see you suffer! My poor friend, I entreat your forgiveness from my very soul!" She took his hand and humbly touched it with her lips.
The night grew more sultry and oppressive. A bewildering fragrance exhaled from the earth, from the plants, from the faded blossoms on the ground, and from the fresh buds opening to life. The moonlight fell full upon the statue of a dancing faun beneath an acacia-tree, and upon the scattered rose-leaves around it.
Hitherto Lozoncyi had stood still, with bowed head. But at the touch of her lips upon his hand he looked up. His veins ran fire.
"Farewell!" she murmured, gently.
He repeated "Farewell!" and then suddenly added, "Will you not take one more look at the studio before you go?"
She found nothing unusual in this request. He led the way; she followed him, her whole being filled with compassion: she would have been nailed to the cross to relieve his pain,--the pain for which she was to blame.
The moonlight flooded the studio, lending an unreal appearance to the room, and in the magic light stood forth the figure of 'Blind Love,' athirst to reach its goal, staggering in the mire.
From the garden breathed a benumbing odour, and from the far distance floated towards the pair, like a yearning sigh, the song of the Venetian night-minstrels.
Erika looked about her sadly. "It was fair!" she murmured. "I thank you for it all. Adieu!"
She held out both her hands to him; she had wellnigh offered him her lips, in the desperation of her compassion.
He took her hands in his and bent over them. "It is, perhaps, better so," he said, and his voice had never been so tremulous and yet so tenderly beguiling. "The sacrifice you would have made for me was too great: I ought not to have accepted it at your hands. And you are right, we must spare those who are near to us; it must be. But for God's sake do not desert me quite! do not consign me to utter misery!"
She looked at him with eyes of wonder. She could not comprehend. What was there left for her to do for him?--what?
He kissed her hands alternately: she did not notice how he drew her towards him until she felt his hot breath upon her cheek. Then he said, softly, very softly, "You must return to your grandmother tonight, I know; you cannot devote your life to me; but--oh, Erika! our existence is made up of moments--grant me a moment's bliss now and then! you will not be the poorer, and I--I shall be richer than a king! The world shall never know; no shadow shall fall upon you, be sure----"
At last she understood. She tore her hands from his grasp; a hoarse sobbing cry escaped her lips, and without a word she turned and fled past the faun gleaming in the moonlight, past the fading blossoms, across the garden, through the long cold corridor, without once taking breath until the green door with the lion's head had closed behind her. A despairing cry pursued her: "Erika! Erika!" It was the voice of the man who had been suddenly aroused to the consciousness of what he had done.
But she never heeded it: she had a horror of him.
For a moment she stood uncertain on the border of the canal. Her gondolier had departed, having judged it best to be rid as soon as possible of his wet clothes. It was late, and she was alone.
Around her was the ghostly moonlight, before her the dark lapping water. She was not afraid: what was there to fear? But, with the world in ruins as it were about her, what should she do? What, except return to the Hôtel Britannia?
She threaded her way through the zigzag narrow streets, across bridges and along the shores of the canals, her eyes bent on the ground. It never occurred to her that any one whom she knew could meet her wandering thus late at night with uncovered head; for she had left her hat in the sick woman's room. All through these last terrible hours she had had no thought for her reputation. She walked on and on. Suddenly there fell upon her ear,--
"Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, Toi, qui n'as pas d'amour? Comment vis-tu----"