THE VISIT.
THE VISIT.
Earlyin the spring, Madame von Herbart had received an invitation from Madame von Carly, a friend of her youth, who owned a beautiful country-seat several miles distant from the city, to bring Ella, and spend a few days with her in the country. Madame von Herbart had declined the invitation, because she was averse to leaving her home and her aged father, who, during her absence, would be entirely alone. In the month of October, when but few fine days could still be hoped for, Madame von Carly came herself to the city, to carry away her friend, and would listen to no excuses.
"You must go with me, Maria," she said; "there is no use to say anything; I will dinewith you, and immediately after dinner you will drive out with me. Here, Ella! come here, my child! How tall you grow! And always in your little white dresses! They would look well upon my children! I believe five minutes would be long enough to change them into many-colored garments. Come now, talk a little; you are as dumb as a fish!" She continued, rapidly: "Will you not be glad to go to Sergow, and see my Louisa, and Freddy, and William? Both the wild boys long to see you; they call you always their white rose, and made me solemnly promise not to return without you."
"But, my good Lina," said Madame von Herbart, who had vainly striven until now to check this stream of words, "perhaps our visit will not be agreeable to your husband?"
"What an idea!" cried Madame von Carly. "When I invite you to see me, it is well understood that he will esteem it an honor to receive you. Did you never hear the French proverb: 'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut!'[1]That is the best and mostsensible one I know, and I never fail every day to make a little sermon on this text. But now, make haste! Pack up your things, whatever you may require, and let us dine early, that we may soon be off. The ground in the city burns under my feet. I should die if I were forced to live here a week; I always feel as if I could not draw a free breath until I am beyond the gates.—But I had almost forgotten. How is your father, Maria? The last time I saw him, I did not feel so pleasantly as usual in his society. This eternal talk about war and battles, glorious sieges and new taxes, seems to have thrown a black veil over his cheerful humor. He, too, must go with us to Sergow; one week with us, and the blues would soon be driven out of him. But where is the old gentleman? I would like myself to make the proposition to him."
"He is not at home," replied Madame von Herbart, "and I do not expect him in less than two hours. My poor father is now very busy; he has so many cares, and so much trouble, that we must not wonder if he sometimeslooks rather serious. He could not possibly leave the city, and you would only embarrass him were you to invite him, for he always finds difficulty in saying 'No.' Please do me the favor not to attack the old gentleman. Be goods now, Lina," begged she, in her most persuasive tones; "promise me that, and I will go with you, and remain three days, although it will be very hard for me to leave my poor father so long alone."
"Good! So let it be!'" said Madame von Carly, after a moment's hesitation. "You see I am a good-natured fool, and am always so easily persuaded. But now go and make your arrangements. Ella will entertain me during your absence."
Madame von Herbart left the room, wishing heartily that the three days were over. She dreaded the visit, for her friend's impetuosity and excitable temper always inspired her with a certain fear. She was never more polite or more considerate of her words than when with Madame von Carly, but she never felt herself more helpless, or more restrainedin her freedom of both thought and action, than when in that lady's company.
She feared still more for her daughter than for herself, and would willingly have spared Ella the three days' torment. Since her brother's death, the little girl had lost all desire to play with other children, and, although she was very patient and yielding, willingly enduring any annoyance for her mother's sake, it was impossible for her to make friends with Madame von Carly's wild slips, as she herself called her children, and always cheerfully to endure the pranks which the little pests were continually playing upon her.
While Madame von Herbart was packing up, and at the same time wondering over the peculiar mode of education practised by her friend,—whose rude, uncultured nature could not endure that a child should be taught to say "Good morning," and "Thank you,"—Theodore entered.
"Are you going away?" he asked, hastily, pointing to the half-filled travelling-bag. "And Ella, too?"
He spoke these words with a strange eagerness, and as Madame von Herbart replied with an affirmative nod, he seemed to be almost glad at this intelligence, for a burning red flushed his cheeks, and his eyes glowed: a moment later, all these signs of satisfaction had vanished. He grew very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked: "Are you really going away?"
"Yes, dear Theodore!" replied Madame von Herbart, quietly; "to-day, in a few hours. It seems strange to you, because you have seen how seldom I leave the house; and I only go now because I cannot avoid it. But," she added, smiling, "the whole journey will only last three days; on Thursday evening I shall be again at home, and will be very glad to find you much better than I leave you."
Theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his heart, as if he felt a sharp pain, then slowly turned away, and left the room.
He did not appear at dinner, immediately after which the carriage was announced, and Madame von Carly hastened her friend's departure. Ella most tenderly embraced her oldgrandfather. "Will you think of me, grandfather?" she asked, lovingly. "You must often think of me whilst I am away; but do not be sad, for I will soon return, and bring you something very pretty.—But where is Theodore?" she cried, looking round in surprise; "I almost believe he would let us depart without saying 'Farewell.' Naughty Theodore! I will not love him any more."
Apparently to prove the truth of her last words, she ran to the door of the young man's room, opened it a little, and called in, softly: "Theodore! dear Theodore! are you asleep? O do come out! We are going now."
"Already!" was the answer; "so soon!" A moment after, the door was thrown open, and the young man stood before the startled child, pale as death, and so agitated that Ella drew back half in fear. "Ella! Ella!" he cried, in a voice of the deepest anguish. He then bent down to the little one, and pressed her so tightly to his beating heart that she uttered a faint scream. Not heeding, or indeed seeming to hear this, he led her into the adjoining apartment, placed her on the sofa,knelt at her feet, and, stroking back the curls from her brow, looked long and earnestly into her dark eyes. They seemed to possess for him a magnetic power, so fixed and immovable was his gaze. The life appeared to be gradually leaving his frame, and he remained thus bowed and motionless until he was aroused from his lethargy by a loud call of "Ella! Ella!"
"I must go!" cried the child, springing up. "Did you not hear my mother calling me?"
"O, only one minute longer!" begged Theodore. He seized a knife, cut off one of Ella's long silken curls, and, hastily concealing his prize, embraced her again, and held her so fast that she could not escape. He kissed her hands repeatedly; great tears streamed slowly down his cheeks, and a few broken words escaped his lips. Again was heard the voice of Madame von Herbart. "Ella!" she said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "did you not hear me call you?"
"Ah! indeed I could not come," replied the child, raising her eyes, as if imploring pardon,to her mother's face, "Theodore held me so fast!"
The arm which had so tightly held her relaxed, and she was again free. The young Russian's eyes were fixed, as if on vacancy; he turned towards Madame von Herbart, knelt at her feet, and laid her hand upon his burning brow.
"What does all this mean, Theodore?" she asked, surprised and alarmed; "your head burns, and you are fearfully excited. You are certainly more unwell than you have permitted us to think you. Speak, I pray you, and relieve our anxiety. Is it bodily illness alone which has thus overcome you?"
Theodore looked at his benefactress; he heard her words, but they bore no meaning to him. He again pressed her hand convulsively; he moved his lips as if about to speak, but only uttered some inarticulate sounds. He then sprang to his feet, and, casting a long and agonized look upon Ella, he hastily fled through the open door, as if he had been pursued by evil spirits.
Madame von Herbart shook her head sadly,as she turned to leave the room. Uneasy and oppressed, she entered the carriage with Ella, where her friend, who had been long waiting for her, received her with open reproaches.
"One would think you were going to make a voyage round the world," said Madame von Carly, sulkily, "you make such a fuss about going a hundred paces from your own door. Such lamentable parting scenes always seem very comical to me, especially when the long separation which has occasioned so many tears is to last three whole days! Your father will not die if he does not see you until Thursday, and the young Russian can live till then without your care. What a useless burden you have laid upon your shoulders! I certainly should not have acted so, had I been in your place. It is sheer folly to waste so much kindness and sympathy upon a wild foreigner, who, I am quite sure, laughs in his sleeve at all you have done for him, and will reward you by the most shameful ingratitude. And an enemy of your country, too,—a Russian! It frightens me only to hear one named. I would not give a Russian a glass of water to save his life!"
"O, do not say so!" replied Madame von Herbart, earnestly. "If I had not known you so many years, I might at this moment doubt your good heart; indeed, such sentiments would induce any one to believe you pitiless and unfeeling. Before offering assistance to the suffering, must we then ask, Who are you? What is your creed? or, In what country were you born?—I am really sorry to hear such words from your lips, and the more so that you are not alone in your prejudices against the Russians; they are shared by nearly all my countrymen, and I cannot esteem it an honor to them. I will readily agree that the Russians are far behind the Prussians in cultivation, and even that many may possess the faults attributed to them; but that gives us no right to contemn a whole nation. It seems to me there is such self-exaltation and such pride in this cold, obstinate mode of judging, which not only outrages reason, but renders us forgetful of our duty as Christians. We should certainly esteem our fellow-men innocent, until they have given us proofs to the contrary.—Theodore ungrateful!" shecontinued, after a moment's pause; "O, if he could be so, where should we seek for truth and faith among men? If his candid face be that of a hypocrite; if his voice, apparently tremulous with excess of gratitude and feeling, could speak words of falsehood and treachery, in whom could we confide? No! no! it is not possible. So fair a form could not conceal so black a soul!"
Madame von Herbart had spoken more vehemently than was her usual custom, and her cheeks glowed, for she felt herself wounded and misjudged. What she considered as a sacred duty towards her fellow-men, had been regarded as the foolish simplicity of a weak good-nature; and one whom daily intercourse, and the apparent candor and excellence of his character, had rendered dear to her heart, had been assailed by the most injurious suspicions.
In a few moments, however, she regained her tranquillity, and said, gently: "Even if you have judged rightly, and Theodore could be ungrateful, we will never regret what we have done for him: the hope of thanks was not our motive. Truly, neither my father,my daughter, nor myself had any thought of earthly reward when we opened our house and our hearts to the poor, forsaken, wounded Russian. But perhaps we had better say no more about it."
"Well, well!" replied Madame von Carly, hastily, "as you please; I am sure it is quite indifferent to me."
Thus saying, she leaned back in one corner of the carriage, and began to count the trees by the way-side. Her friend, however, soon succeeded in diverting her from this rather uninteresting occupation. She asked concerning the harvests; whether her dairy had been productive this year; and if her garden had yielded her as much as usual.
Madame von Carly was a notable housekeeper, and entered minutely into all the details of her household economy, and the management of her farm. She talked much, and, on this subject, knowingly. Her servants were all discussed, from her own maid to the lowest scullion; and, from her account, seemed to be endless sources of trouble, through their ignorance, stupidity, or evil dispositions.
Madame von Herbart listened most patiently, only now and then endeavoring to interpose a word in exculpation of the frailties of human nature, and by the time they reached Sergow her friend was again quite reconciled with her, and in the best of humors. It was, indeed, no easy task to maintain this good understanding unbroken during three whole days; but Madame von Herbart succeeded better than she had anticipated. On Thursday afternoon, as she was making her preparations for returning home with Ella, Madame von Carly could not conceal her emotion, and said, as she bade her farewell: "Indeed, I do not understand how it is that I love you so well. You can do what you please with me; I may sometimes be a little hasty, but I can never long feel angry with you."
She then kissed Ella affectionately, gave her a basket of fine fruit for her grandfather, and a bunch of those tiny roses, whose brilliant coloring, and the late season at which they bloom, render so precious in the autumn to all lovers of flowers.
"I will give two roses to grandfather," saidthe child to her mother, when they were again upon the public road, "and two to Theodore. How glad he will be! He is so fond of flowers, especially of roses."
She had scarcely uttered these words, when a sudden wind swept over her beautiful blossoms, and scattered all their tender leaves.
"Ah!" sighed Ella, "my joy is soon over! If my old nurse had seen that, she would have said that it boded no good. But you have taught me not to heed such omens."
"And yet this time," replied the mother, "your old Catherine would not have been quite wrong; for this first rude blast is but the forerunner of many storms which are to follow soon; winter will soon be here, and you know your good grandfather is never so well when the weather is cold."
"Oh!" cried Ella, clapping her hands, "I see the city towers, and even some of the houses! There is the great tree in our garden!"
She was so delighted at this discovery, that she wished to leave the carriage and walk, fancying she could thus sooner reach her belovedhome. Finally they stopped before the door, and Ella sprang joyfully into the old servant's arms. Atlas welcomed her with every sign of delight. "Aha, my good doggy, did you miss me, too?" she cried, stroking his shaggy coat.
The great dog leaped up, and placed both paws on her shoulders, so that she could scarcely free herself. Then quickly running up the steps, she was greeted by the burgomaster, who tenderly folded his beloved grandchild to his heart.
"God be thanked!" he cried, embracing his daughter. He then led both his dear ones into his room, whence gratefully streamed the inviting perfumes of the coffee he had had prepared for them. They soon laid aside their wrappings.
"But where is Theodore?" was Ella's first question.
"Is he better?" added Madame von Herbart, anxiously.
"By and by you can judge for yourselves," replied the old man slowly.
Ella again embraced her grandfather, caressinghim as if she had been many months away from him. She placed his great arm-chair near the table, arranged the cushions, and, seating herself upon his knee, began the narration of all her adventures. While her clear eyes gazed into his face, she remarked the downcast appearance of the old man, who seemed to have no relish for his little grandchild's prattle, to which he usually listened with such delight.
"Just see now, mother!" cried the child in a tragi-comic tone of voice, "does not grandfather look to-day exactly like the upper bailiff, when the hail spoiled his best rye-field?"
Madame von Herbart looked up as she handed her father his cup, and was startled by the sorrowful expression of his countenance.
"What is the matter, my dear father?" she cried, hastening to his side. "Has anything disagreeable happened? O, do tell me quickly!"
"It is nothing, my daughter!" answered the burgomaster, endeavoring to soothe her; "several little circumstances have transpired,which have somewhat disturbed my equanimity."
"And am I not to know what has troubled you?"
"Wherefore not, my child? You must learn them some time, and perhaps it would be better to do so at once. You know I hate all useless secrecy and mysteries. Listen, then. Our king was defeated on the 13th; the news came yesterday, and has been confirmed to-day. He has been forced to pay dearly for his unhappy obstinacy. All his generals warned and implored him to leave the camp which he occupied on the heights of Hochkirch. But he would not be persuaded; he could not be induced to quit his dangerous position, although it was within gunshot of the enemy, because he did not think the Austrians would venture to attack him. The consequence was, that, on the night of the 13th, the crafty Daun left his intrenchments as noiselessly as possible, and surrounded the sleeping Prussians. The watchful Ziethen, who had anticipated such a step, was ready to receive him, fully armed, with allhis men. The others were soon aroused, and assembled as best they could in the darkness of the night. All must allow that great order and discipline reign in our army, and thus, although compelled to abandon their position, they performed prodigies of valor, and the enemy did not dare to follow them. But they were forced to leave all their baggage behind them, and many a brave fellow lost his life. The noble Keith and Franz of Brunswick are both dead."
"Well, father," said Madame von Herbart consolingly, "we must rejoice that the king is still alive. If he has this time been unfortunate through his own fault, he will soon be able to retrieve his losses.—But what sad news have you still to tell us? I can see that you have not yet unburdened your heart."
"You are right," replied the burgomaster reluctantly; "and what I have to tell you will distress the child even more than it does you. If my little Ella will only be reasonable, she will see that it was inevitable; I have often tried to prepare her mind for it. Theodore has gone away! You will never see him again!"
"Theodore gone!" cried Ella, "that is impossible! O tell me, grandfather, you are surely jesting! Is it not so? You only want to tease me a little."
The old man shook his head, and said: "He left our house secretly yesterday evening."
Ella wept quietly.
"He is ungrateful, too, then!" sighed Madame von Herbart, "and Lina was right. I never could have believed that he would have deceived us!"
"Do not blame him," replied the burgomaster; "I cannot condemn him. I had long observed the inward struggle which was so clearly depicted in his countenance. Believe me, he suffered greatly in being forced to leave us."
Thus saying, he drew a letter and a small package from his pocket, which he gave to his daughter, adding: "There, take them! I found them both upon my bed when I awoke this morning. He must have placed them there himself, for I remember distinctly that some one kissed my hand several times when I was in a state between sleeping and waking. Theaction aroused me; but when I looked up, all was quiet, and I thought it must have been a dream."
Madame von Herbart silently took the letter and broke the seal; she read and read, and seemed as if she could not finish it. Her hand trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. Ella glided behind her chair, and looked over her shoulder; but in vain did she wipe her eyes, she could not distinguish a syllable.
"O dear mother!" she cried, "read it aloud; I can see nothing, and I would so like to know if he thought of me."
The mother read as follows:—
"I can no longer remain in a house in which, after so many stormy days, I had again found peace, and felt so happy. My father's brother, who is the general of the division of the Russian army to which I belong, has learned my wonderful escape, and discovered my retreat. He has secretly sent me an order to join him as soon as my wounds would permit; and as a soldier I must obey, although my heart bleeds at the sad necessity."How has my poor heart already suffered. How soon in life was I not forced to learn that happiness is a rare sojourner among men. I lost my father before I could lisp his dear name; of course I was too young to know the loss I had sustained, and the less, because my beloved mother redoubled her care and love towards the poor orphan child who lay so helpless in her gentle arms. The boy clung to this one stay with all the passionate tenderness of his character; his mother's eyes were the stars which guided him through the labyrinth of life; nothing could so grieve him as to see them veiled and darkened through his fault. But he was forced with the deepest sorrow to see that the brightness of his stars was fading. His mother's cheek became ever more and more transparent, the words which fell from her pale lips grew fainter and weaker, her wearied feet refused to bear the light weight of her frail figure, and finally—O Heaven! how was it possible that I survived her death?"Men say of many a bitter sorrow, that it is unendurable; and yet I have lived throughthe deepest anguish. I know no pang of which it may be truly said, that no one has ever borne it,—that all efforts are in vain, and a speedy death the sole refuge. And thus will I strive to overcome the agony which now rends my heart."Farewell, honored lady, in whom I have found the image of my lost mother so vividly renewed. Your gentle voice will ever echo through my soul. Nothing can efface from my memory the kindness with which you have overwhelmed a stranger, and an enemy to your native land; the remembrance will be most dear to me so long as I shall live."And you, my little Ella, who would not suffer the glance of a poor wounded man, beseeching you for aid and compassion, to pass unheeded, and who have so often prayed to God for his recovery,—how could I ever forget you? You can scarcely comprehend how two whole nations can feel so bloodthirstily towards one another, how their murderous rage can exceed that of wild beasts, and all because their rulers disagree. You will shudder when you hear that I have again enteredthe ranks of that army so hated by your countrymen; but I am sure that you will shed more than one tear for the sake of one to whom the memory of the happy days passed near you is so precious. I have but one request to make, and that is, that you will always wear the little cross which accompanies this letter. My mother hung it round my neck when I was a child, since when I have kept and worn it as a sacred relic. Whenever your eyes fall upon it, remember your own kindness and my gratitude."And what will you say, my venerable benefactor, when, in the morning, instead of me, you will only find this letter? Will you condemn my conduct? I must see you once more, and again press my lips upon your hand! Once more will I give free vent to my feelings, and then must I stifle my emotions, be again a man, and fearlessly bare my breast to the blows of fate."Farewell!"Theodore."
"I can no longer remain in a house in which, after so many stormy days, I had again found peace, and felt so happy. My father's brother, who is the general of the division of the Russian army to which I belong, has learned my wonderful escape, and discovered my retreat. He has secretly sent me an order to join him as soon as my wounds would permit; and as a soldier I must obey, although my heart bleeds at the sad necessity.
"How has my poor heart already suffered. How soon in life was I not forced to learn that happiness is a rare sojourner among men. I lost my father before I could lisp his dear name; of course I was too young to know the loss I had sustained, and the less, because my beloved mother redoubled her care and love towards the poor orphan child who lay so helpless in her gentle arms. The boy clung to this one stay with all the passionate tenderness of his character; his mother's eyes were the stars which guided him through the labyrinth of life; nothing could so grieve him as to see them veiled and darkened through his fault. But he was forced with the deepest sorrow to see that the brightness of his stars was fading. His mother's cheek became ever more and more transparent, the words which fell from her pale lips grew fainter and weaker, her wearied feet refused to bear the light weight of her frail figure, and finally—O Heaven! how was it possible that I survived her death?
"Men say of many a bitter sorrow, that it is unendurable; and yet I have lived throughthe deepest anguish. I know no pang of which it may be truly said, that no one has ever borne it,—that all efforts are in vain, and a speedy death the sole refuge. And thus will I strive to overcome the agony which now rends my heart.
"Farewell, honored lady, in whom I have found the image of my lost mother so vividly renewed. Your gentle voice will ever echo through my soul. Nothing can efface from my memory the kindness with which you have overwhelmed a stranger, and an enemy to your native land; the remembrance will be most dear to me so long as I shall live.
"And you, my little Ella, who would not suffer the glance of a poor wounded man, beseeching you for aid and compassion, to pass unheeded, and who have so often prayed to God for his recovery,—how could I ever forget you? You can scarcely comprehend how two whole nations can feel so bloodthirstily towards one another, how their murderous rage can exceed that of wild beasts, and all because their rulers disagree. You will shudder when you hear that I have again enteredthe ranks of that army so hated by your countrymen; but I am sure that you will shed more than one tear for the sake of one to whom the memory of the happy days passed near you is so precious. I have but one request to make, and that is, that you will always wear the little cross which accompanies this letter. My mother hung it round my neck when I was a child, since when I have kept and worn it as a sacred relic. Whenever your eyes fall upon it, remember your own kindness and my gratitude.
"And what will you say, my venerable benefactor, when, in the morning, instead of me, you will only find this letter? Will you condemn my conduct? I must see you once more, and again press my lips upon your hand! Once more will I give free vent to my feelings, and then must I stifle my emotions, be again a man, and fearlessly bare my breast to the blows of fate.
"Farewell!
"Theodore."
A deep stillness reigned in the little circle,only broken by Ella's faint sobs. The old burgomaster also dried a quiet tear.
"And that was a Russian!" he cried finally, rising to hide his emotion.
Madame von Herbart opened the package; it contained a fine gold chain, to which was suspended a cross of the same metal. She hung it silently round her daughter's neck, and Ella found upon her mother's bosom a free place to weep out all her sorrow.