There are in the life of every family, as in that of nations, moments when all the members feel more or less distinctly that something great and extraordinary is going to happen. The dark future casts its shadow far back upon the present, filling the minds of some with dismay and of others with hope, but everywhere causing a restlessness which, in its turn, contributes to bring about the crisis.
Such a time of feverish excitement had come for the company at Castle Grenwitz also. Just now they had been so quiet--But Bruno's accident might have told the acute observer that beneath the smooth even surface, with its polite courtesy and its painful compliance with social forms, there was something seething and heaving; secret love and deep-hidden hate; hostility masked by the appearance of perfect peace and good-will--heartfelt sympathies under the cover of indifference and even antipathy. The very face of life had changed. The stillness, so perfect as almost to become oppressive, which had formerly reigned in the château, was now frequently interrupted. Baron Felix, who had little disposition to play the hermit, could not deny himself the pleasure of taking up one or the other of his favorite pursuits. The day after his arrival his two superb saddle-horses had already come, and thus larger excursions were made possible, when the carriage could be escorted by at least two of the gentlemen on horseback. In a remote part of the garden a rough shooting-gallery was knocked up, and during the late afternoon hours the short, sharp crack of rifled pistols could be heard in the quiet rooms that looked upon the garden. As riding, shooting, and hunting are amusements which demand numbers, Oswald, Albert, and even Bruno were never safe, lest Felix should come and beg them and plague them till they yielded to his wishes, and became his companions in one or the other of his pastimes. Felix was one of those men who are never idle, without ever being well occupied; he would spend hours at his toilet, and read between Béranger's songs or a few chapters in theLiaisons Dangereuses, his two favorite books; or he would play the first bars of a piece of music, stopping abruptly to complete the training of his handsome pointer, and thus continually waste very valuable natural gifts in the pursuit of frivolous and bootless purposes. For Felix had been richly endowed by nature, and even his idle and reckless life had not been able to destroy them all. No one could mistake the desire for something better that was in him, although it would show itself unfortunately only in a feverish restlessness with which he took up everything that was new, in an ambition to be everywhere the first, or at least to appear to be first, nay, even in his unmeasured vanity, and the incredible attention which he bestowed upon his appearance. He might have been saved, perhaps, if he had ever discovered the higher purposes of life, or at least had been forced to eat the bread of poverty. As it was, he slowly and pleasantly drifted down the current of his passions towards the point where he must infallibly sink and drown if a miracle did not intervene to save him.
Could he have been in earnest in the change of life which he so often discussed with the baroness? It may be doubted. He had become tired of living in garrison, and his position was such that when he applied for an extended leave of absence he was given to understand that he had better leave the army altogether, if his health was so very feeble. Just at that critical moment the baroness came with her offer about Helen. Felix found here a resource of which he had never thought,--for Anna Maria's views of money matters were well known to him from sad experience,--and he seized it with both hands; although he by no means liked the idea of marrying, still he was ready to yield that point. Great was his surprise, therefore, when he found in his cousin, whom he had never seen before, a girl more beautiful and more attractive than any lady he had ever known before,--a being whom the proudest on earth would be happy to call his own. Thus not two days had gone by before Felix's heart was filled with a passion for his fair cousin, which, closely examined, was probably nothing but sheer vanity, but which appeared to him like a miracle. Selfish men are vain of everything, even of their simple and natural feelings, and thus Felix never tired of speaking to the baroness of his love, as of an eighth wonder of the world, and overflowed even towards Oswald with his admiration of his own bold hopes. Was his passion returned? Felix did not doubt it for a moment. Had he not so far succeeded in all cases? Had not his luck with women become proverbial among his comrades, each one of whom looked upon himself as a Paris? And had he not seen again and again that love is fond of hiding under the mask of indifference? It is true, his fair cousin seemed to carry the comedy almost too far; she treated him with a coldness, a contempt, which became almost offensive at times--but this did not disturb him in his firm faith in his irresistible charms, and he laughed at the baroness whenever she advised him to be cautious. For Anna Maria, undisturbed by personal vanity, saw much clearer in this matter than Felix. She could not help even admiring the consistent uniformity of Helen's manner, and the modest firmness with which she uttered and sustained her views; for the baroness valued energy of character above other things, and most so in herself. There was something in the haughty beauty of her daughter which she was compelled to respect--a light from a higher world than that, filled with self-interest and petty ambition, in which she was living herself--Helen had, since that evening on the beach, become, if possible, more quiet and reserved than before. She retired, whenever she could do so, to her room. When she appeared in company she generally attached herself to her father, or tried to manage it so that Bruno became her companion when they walked out. She always had some little service to give him to do; now he had to carry her hat or her mantilla, and now to gather a flower on the other side of the ditch, or to give her his hand in climbing up the steep shore. Bruno performed every duty with a gentle earnestness which often provoked Baron Felix to mockery; but the others, who knew the boy, and the unbridled passions in his heart, were unspeakably touched. His whole being seemed to be changed when Helen's eye rested on him. He became gentle and kind, ready to help and to serve; a word from her, a mere sign of her long, dark eyelashes, and he became quiet after a sudden burst of temper. He rarely, however, showed his violence now, except against Felix, for whom he entertained a hatred and a contempt which he hardly attempted to conceal. He always had a scornful word for him in readiness, and the many little exposures to which his unmeasured vanity made him liable, found in Bruno a pitiless censor. He became all the more annoying to Felix as his youth prevented the usual weapons from being used against him, while a skilful blow from above was apt to be parried with still greater skill. Felix himself felt this to a certain degree, and if the boy appeared to him insignificant, he still proved very troublesome. Wherever Helen appeared, there was Bruno also; and if she ever had stayed behind during a walk, and Felix was just on the point of speaking to her of his love, Bruno was sure to join them, as if by agreement, and Felix, who knew nothing at all of botany and mineralogy, had to leave the two to their scientific researches. How would he have wondered if he could have found out that these "researches," as he called them, were broken off the moment he was out of sight, and that Bruno, tearing the flower in his hand to pieces, cried out: "Look, Helen, that is the way you will tear my heart, if you ever love this man Felix!"--"The old story, Bruno?"--"Yes, the old story, and I will tell it as long as there is a breath in my bosom. Do you think I do not know what it means when aunty and Felix put their heads together, and look from time to time stealthily at you? Oh, I have sharp eyes, and good ears, too! Yesterday, as I passed them, the fine gentleman said: She'll come to her senses! She--that was you; and come to your senses meant: She will forget her self-respect and marry a wretched, vain peacock like myself"--"But how can you imagine such things, Bruno?"--"Well, I think that is not so difficult. And you imagine them too, I know, or why do you look so often straight before you, in deep thought, and then suddenly at Felix or Oswald, as if you were comparing the two with each other? Yes, just compare them! Then you will see the difference between a man and--an ape!"--"Are you very fond of Mr. Stein, Bruno? Is he always so sad and silent?"--"Oh, no! He can be as wild as a colt; I don't know what is the matter with him now, or rather I know it, but----" --"But?"--"But I must not tell--yes, I think I can tell you; for you are not like the others. I always feel as if you ought to look right down into my heart, as they say God does; as if I ought to have no secret for you."--"But I do not want you to betray a secret"--"I won't betray anything, because Oswald has never said a word to me. I only know that he is so sad and silent since Aunt Berkow is gone. We were talking of it at dinner to-day, how long she would stay away, and whether she would marry again after Uncle Berkow's death, and I saw how Oswald turned pale, and did not raise his eyes from his plate during the whole conversation. And then, when Felix remarked that Baron Oldenburg might be able to answer that question, as he had gone to N. after Aunt Berkow, he suddenly raised his head, with an angry look, and opened his lips as if to say something; but he said nothing and bit his lips; and to-night he is sadly out of humor."--"And all that means----" --"All that means, simply, that Oswald is very fond of Aunt Berkow, and does not like her to be talked about; just as little as I like it when aunty and Felix talk of you."--"Ah, you do not know what you are talking about"--"Of course, that is always the refrain: I don't know what I am talking about! I am a foolish boy, hurrah! hurrah! I have no ears to hear, no eyes to see. Why? Because I am only sixteen, and my beard is not as long as it might be."
How did Helen receive this news? Was she disappointed in her heart? Or did she find another explanation for the melancholy look in Oswald's blue eyes? Perhaps she would not have been able to explain it to herself, but at all events it did not diminish the interest she had felt for Oswald ever since that evening on the strand. She began to observe him more closely than heretofore; she watched every one of his words; she played and sang by preference the music he liked best, and when he appeared once more in the garden in the morning, she was rejoiced. She thanked him in her heart if he, who was so silent everywhere else, always had some kind word for her, and entered cheerfully upon every subject she suggested, sometimes seriously, sometimes jestingly, but always in the cordial manner of an elder brother. Did the charm of Oswald's personal appearance really begin to have an effect upon the proud girl, susceptible as she was for everything beautiful and noble? Was it jealousy, or was it simply a kind of opposition to the plans of her mother, which appeared daily more clearly, that made her take such an interest in a man whom her aristocratic eye would otherwise have carelessly overlooked? The most contrary sentiments contended in her heart, as often, on a deep blue summer sky, light gray clouds are drifting aimlessly about till the tempest breaks forth in its full power.
The baroness had found herself inclined to follow Felix's advice, to take a more active part in the social intercourse of the surrounding nobility. She had reflected on it for some time, and then formed her decision. Not a day passed now that the family was not either invited out, or, more frequently, entertaining company at the château. People seemed to be delighted at seeing Castle Grenwitz once more the place of meeting for all the busy idlers of the neighborhood, and thus regaining its ancient fame for hospitality. They approved highly of Anna Maria's determination to exchange the convent life which she had led so far for a new life, more brilliant, and more suitable to the old renown of her noble family; they paid her so many compliments on her powers of conversation, her talent to arrange large entertainments, that she tried to plead the absolute necessity for such an outlay before her own conscience, when it charged her with recklessness in going to all the expense paused by the unusual hospitality.
It had happened in this manner that Oswald had met once more with several persons whom he had seen at the ball at Barnewitz; but none of those for whom he felt a special interest. It was a remarkable accident which brought one afternoon almost all the persons together who had then become better known to him. Some had been invited, others had come by chance. Thus he saw, with very different feelings. Baron Barnewitz and his wife Hortense enter the room; then Count Grieben and a few others; but his interest in the matter became a very special and downright painful one when at last, and quite unexpectedly, another carriage drove up, bringing Adolphus and Emily von Breesen, with their aunt, whose toothless mouth and sharp tongue Oswald had by no means forgotten.
"This way, my fine young gentleman," cried the old lady, when she noticed him after the first introduction. "Why did you not come to see us, as you promised? Was that my reward for holding you up to my nephew as a pattern of a well-bred young man who knows what he owes to ladies? And for praising your pronunciation of French to my niece? Are you very much ashamed? I honor you with my displeasure!"
"I do not deserve it, madam," said Oswald. "I was not able to come as I would have liked to do; and even if I really should have committed such a sin of omission, I am sure I have lost enough to be spared the punishment of your displeasure."
"Oh yes--fine phrases, you never want them. You are not less uncivil, I fear, than the other young men; you are only a little less awkward, and I see I shall have to pardon you. Here is my hand, and now see how you can make your peace with my niece without her scratching out your pretty eyes."
Thereupon the lively old lady turned her back upon Oswald, and left him to atête-à-tête, for which he had no desire just then, with pretty Miss Emily, who stood there before him with slightly flushed cheeks and heaving bosom, not daring to raise her eyes from the ground.
Oswald was determined not to renew the childish and yet dangerous play with the impassioned girl. He wished and hoped she would have seen her folly. He was rather pleased, therefore, when Miss Emily answered the few indifferent words which he addressed to her with apparent unconcern, and then joined a group of girls who surrounded Helen, and admired the new-fashioned cut of a dress which she wore for the first time to-day.
His meeting with Baron Cloten also was less uncomfortable than he had anticipated from his manner when they saw each other at Baron Oldenburg's house. The young nobleman pretended to be very glad to see him again; he inquired eagerly after Oldenburg, spoke of their pistol-shooting at Barnewitz, and asked if Oswald would now give him satisfaction.
Oswald was rather curious to see the meeting between Cloten and Barnewitz. To his great surprise, however, there seemed to be an excellent understanding between the two gentlemen; Oldenburg had evidently proved an excellent diplomat in this affair. The fact was, he had persuaded both that each one was eager to drink the blood of the other, and thus induced the two men to listen to his suggestions for an amicable arrangement, as they found, both of them, life far too pleasant to risk it without very grave provocation. He had represented Cloten's little trifling with Hortense as mere child's play to Barnewitz, and vowed that he was persuaded Cloten had never stood in any other relation to the good lady than many other acquaintances, he himself for instance,--a wretched ambiguity, which the somewhat simple husband, however, gratefully accepted as an evidence of his wife's innocence. The young rustic Don Giovanni, on the other hand, he had advised to be once or twice very rude, and even impertinent to Hortense, in her husband's presence, and, above all, to pick out some pretty girl among his friends, and to court her publicly. Cloten was very glad to get off so cheap; he had followed Oldenburg's advice to the letter, and begun, on the spot, to pay the most devoted attentions to Emily von Breesen. So far, however, he had not been successful in his efforts. Far from it. The thoughtless girl had overwhelmed him with pitiless scorn and scoffing; his assurances of love and devotion were met with ironical remarks, and his chivalrous services were accepted with an indifference which would have driven him to despair if he had been in earnest. And, as it happens in such things, he had gradually come to be in earnest; Miss Emily was by no means one of those young ladies whom one could with impunity see and serve almost daily. She was so charming even in her wanton recklessness, so lovely even in her insolence, that the unlucky bird-catcher caught himself, from day to day, more and more in his own net, and would now have given almost anything for a single kind word from the lips he adored. What was therefore his delight when Miss Emily, whom he hardly dared to approach, to-day met him with the greatest friendliness, chose him as her companion during the promenade they made through the garden, sent him to gather flowers for her, and to bring her a handkerchief she had forgotten at the house, and, in a word, seemed to do everything to make amends in an hour for all the insults of the last weeks!
Cloten was overwhelmed with happiness; his watery blue eyes beamed with delight; he twisted his little moustache unceasingly, and smiled with stupid vanity whenever some one whispered to him: "Well, Cloten, all right, eh?" or, "That's right, Cloten, don't be afraid."
Oswald did not know what to make of the comedy. At first he thought Emily only wanted to show him that she did not want admirers, for he could not believe that so clever a girl, who, with all her faults and foibles, was very lovely and exceedingly pretty, should take a fancy to such a stupid man as Cloten. When evening came the company gradually retired into the rooms adjoining the lawn, but Emily and Cloten remained almost alone outside, and Oswald had at last to fall in with the unanimous opinion of the company, that the engagement between Baron Cloten and Miss Emily could no longer be doubted. He was sorry for the girl, who could throw herself away in this manner; but then he thought again: It was not worth while to reproach yourself so much about so heartless a girl! They are, after all, in all probability, quite worthy of one another. I wonder if Cloten is not ashamed to play such a farce before the eyes of the woman he has loved?
He turned to Hortense, who was standing alone in the embrasure of one of the windows. The pretty blonde seemed to-day to be pleased with this neglect on the part of the gentlemen, although it was most extraordinary, as she generally was one of the best-attended ladies.
"Are you not going to dance to-night, baroness?" asked Oswald.
"Are they going to dance?" she replied, as if awaking from a dream.
"Oh, certainly. They are just carrying the piano into the large salon. Mr. Timm has offered to play. May I have the honor of the first dance, if I am not too late?"
"Too late? Oh, no! Those times are gone by when I used to be engaged for weeks ahead. I leave that to the younger ones now."
"You are pleased to jest."
"By no means; you are the first who asks me, and as I am afraid you will be the last also, I think I had better not begin at all. I would rather say: Come and sit down a little by me here, and let us have a nice little chat while they are dancing. What do you say?"
"The question requires no answer," said Oswald, drawing up a chair for Hortense.
"Won't you sit down? I am told, doctor, you have a great talent for satire. Let me see a proof of your talent; you cannot be in want of material, if you cast a glance at the company from our place here. Which of the ladies do you think the prettiest?"
"You mean the least plain?"
"You scamp! It is true, though, that there is not much to be seen that is pretty. A few nice dresses, perhaps. How do you like Helen Grenwitz?"
"I do not see her at all. Where can she be?"
"There, on the right, near the door. She is speaking to her Cousin Felix. How do they stand with each other? Has Cousin Felix yet made his declaration?"
"Certainly not to me."
"I suppose not. But do you think he will propose?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I consider the whole thing quite inexplicable."
"Are you enthusiastic about Miss Helen?"
"Infinitely so."
"I suppose you take a special interest in all girls who are fresh from school?"
"Only when they are really interesting."
"Not always. Or do you really mean to say that Emily von Breesen deserves being called so?"
"I have never been enthusiastic about her."
"Well--but then she has been all the more so about you. Lisbeth was the confidante of her grief, and Lisbeth has of course told me the whole story."
"Oh, that is simply impossible."
"Don't be excited! You see the child has found consolation. To-day she is hand in glove with Cloten; to-morrow she will have somebody else. That girl has talent. She will do much in that line. I am only sorry for poor Cloten."
"But why does he expose himself to the danger?"
"Certainly--and without his Mentor's advice?"
"Who is that?"
"Baron Oldenburg. He probably has misunderstood his friend's advice, and will marry little Emily from mere blundering."
"You are pleased to speak to me in unfathomable riddles."
"I beg your pardon. Tell me, have you really become the baron's bosom friend in this short time, as report says?"
"Report has, as usually, changed the mote into a beam."
"Do you think I mean it well with you?" said Hortense, and looked Oswald full in the face.
"I have no reason to suppose the contrary," replied the latter, who began to be peculiarly interested in the conversation, which he had begun without any purpose whatever.
"Then follow my advice: have a care of the baron as of your bitterest enemy."
"Why?"
"Because he is false to the core of his heart."
"Do you know him well? And--pardon me if I cannot at once believe so grave an accusation of a man whom, I confess, I have esteemed very highly until now--have you any evidence of his being false?"
"A thousand!"
"Can you mention one?"
"You will not betray what I am going to tell you?"
"I promise."
"Then listen. You know my cousin Melitta. Well, she has foibles as well as all of us, but at the bottom she is a charming woman, whom I love dearly, and whom I should be extremely sorry to see once more in hands from which I thought I had rescued her forever. If Melitta is not as good as she could be, Oldenburg alone has that on his conscience. He turned her head, when she was quite young, with his foolish notions, so that at last she knew no longer what was right and what was wrong. Then, when she made that capital match with Baron Berkow, he disturbed their good relations by his interference, and it was no wonder that Berkow at last lost his mind from jealousy. I saw how that came about. At last I succeeded in persuading Melitta to send Oldenburg away for a few years. He went, but when we shortly afterwards were travelling in Italy he reappeared, I know not whether by accident or called in by Melitta. From her manner I should have supposed the latter. The old story began once more. Solitary walks, low whisperings and vows, which took place even in the presence of third persons--in short, it was a downright unpleasant sight for one who, like myself, thinks rather strictly in such matters. In vain I begged and besought Melitta to think of her sick husband and of her child. I preached to deaf ears. Then I determined to use desperate means. In order to prove to her Oldenburg's worthlessness--of which I had heard on all sides fabulous accounts--I pretended to let him fall in love with myself. It did not require much effort, for the baron is both treacherous and reckless in his passions. After a little while he pursued me with his adoration--of course without committing himself before Melitta. At the same time he spoke so heartlessly, so wickedly of my poor cousin, that I was scarcely able to wear the mask which I had assumed. And yet I had to do it till Oldenburg should be impassioned enough to run blindly into the net which I had prepared. I managed it so that one day, in the garden of the villa Serra di Falco, near Palermo, he made me a declaration of love, while Melitta was standing a few feet from us behind a myrtle hedge. Poor woman! It was a painful operation, but it was necessary. Oldenburg disappeared of course the next morning. I tried to amuse Melitta as well as I could, and I must confess she bore the bitter disappointment, the cruel humiliation, better than I had expected. I hoped the severe lesson would have opened her eyes, as to Oldenburg, forever, especially when I found that the baron gave her time for reflection by staying away for several years. But suddenly he turns up again a few weeks ago. I anticipated evil at once--for the appearance of this man is always the signal for some calamity. How he has managed to regain Melitta's favor, and how it is possible that Melitta could be weak enough to readmit him to her house, is more than I can tell. Both of them possess a remarkable talent of concealing their actions from the eyes of the world. I only know that a reconciliation has taken place,--which I presume must have been a complete one between two persons of such experience,--and, to keep the solemnity duly secret, they have made a journey together, and where? To Fichtenau, the place where Melitta's husband has been confined for seven years! Really, I am sorry for Melitta. If she intended to ruin her reputation, she could not have done more. For even if Berkow is really on the point of death, what can Oldenburg have to do there, he who is the cause of the whole misery? And does Melitta really think she can marry Oldenburg after Berkow's death? Alas! If Oldenburg had to marry all the women to whom he has vowed love in his life he would have a nice seraglio, from the duchess to the maid, in which all nations and all races would be represented. But, heavens! what is the matter with you? You look like a corpse. Are you unwell?"
"It is only the excessive heat," said Oswald, rising. "Pardon me, I pray, for leaving you so abruptly. I must try if the cool evening air will help me."
He made Hortense a very formal bow, and went without waiting for her answer.
"Well, what does that mean?" asked the latter, looking after him as he hastened out. "Has my excellent cousin made another conquest there? And have I unwittingly killed two birds with one stone? I meant only to rob Oldenburg of his new friend; but if I have robbed Melitta at the same time of a new admirer, so much the better. I should think that young man could be made useful. To be sure, I must be a little cautious, for Barnewitz has become a real Othello since that affair with Cloten--there he is now.... My dear Barnewitz, do you look a little after your poor, forlorn little wife? I have been sitting here all the evening waiting for you."
"Why don't you dance?"
"Do you think I like to dance when you are away?"
"I have arranged a little game at cards with Grieben and some others, but I can jump about with you some little time. Come! They are just beginning a waltz! That is exactly my forte."
And the happy couple entered the room where the dancers were.
In the mean while Oswald was wandering about in the garden, restless, like one who suffers terrible pain. From the open doors and windows came bright lights and merry voices; around the lawn colored paper lanterns had been hung by Anna Maria's direction, and the moonlight became almost superfluous. From time to time a few couples would come out and promenade in the balsamic night air. It was a pleasant, festive scene, which, however, offended Oswald in his present frame of mind, as when a friend smiles at our suffering. He went up on the wall, sat down on a bench and stared, his head resting on his hand, into the water of the moat, on which the rays of the moon were dancing in weird confusion.
"Would it not be better you made an end to your miserable life?" he murmured, "than to drag the burden of life still farther, to your own harm and to nobody's joy? Will you vegetate on and on till every illusion has been killed, and you have thrown everything overboard that was once dear and sacred to you? Will you wait till your patience is fully exhausted, like poor, great-hearted Berger? That, then, is the true portrait of the woman before whom you knelt as before a saint! That is the man whose hand you thought it an honor to press! You never were anything but a foot-ball for her high and noble caprices; and he condescended to make glorious baronial fun of you. But it cannot, cannot be! Why not? Is not their whole life an unbroken intrigue? Here the wife betrays the husband, and there the husband the wife? The father sells his daughter for money, and the mother disposes of her own flesh and blood. The friend cheats the friend. One coquette proclaims aloud the secrets of another coquette, and you think they would treat you better--you, the plebeian, who have to work for your daily bread?--And yet! and yet! It is horrible! The wife whom you adored like a goddess, perhaps even now in the arms of another, deceiving him, deceiving you, only to be deceived by him in her turn! And you, good-natured fool, you struggle like a madman against your passion for the sweet, the glorious creature, the only pure one among these witches; for she is pure and good, or there is nothing pure left in this world. No, no! And if all around you is cheat and deceit, if all betray you, look up to this high star; it is your star, for only what is unattainably high is worthy of your love! Let the lizards and the toads quarrel about the will-o'-the-wisp as they dance over the morass."
A slight noise near him made him start up. A tall, slender figure in a white dress was standing before him. Through a little opening in the foliage above, a ray of the moon fell upon the slim form.
It was Emily.
"Hush!" she said, as Oswald rose with a suppressed cry of astonishment "Keep where you are! I saw you leave the salon; I followed you, because I wish to speak to you. I must do so. I shall not detain you long. I only ask one word--one single word--that is to decide my whole life. Do you love me? Yes or no?"
The young girl had seized Oswald's hand and held it with nervous violence. "Yes or no?" she repeated, in a tone of voice which betrayed but too clearly the intensity and madness of her passion.
But there was no echo to that voice in Oswald's heart; it remained closed, like the house of a man who has been robbed the night before.
"You mistake no doubt the person," he said, with cutting sarcasm. "My name is Oswald Stein; Baron Cloten is, as far as I know, somewhere in the house," and he tried to loosen his hand from that of the girl.
"Have I deserved that?" she said, in a voice almost stifled by tears, and let her arms sink in utter despair.
"The night is cool," said Oswald, rising; "the dew begins to fall; you will take cold in your light dress. May I have the honor to take you back to the house?"
"Oh my God! my God!" murmured Emily; "I cannot endure this! Oswald, do not treat me thus! How I have longed for this moment! How I have repeated to myself a thousand times all I would say to you. How I hoped you would again take me in your arms as ... oh God! what am I saying? Oswald, have pity on me! You cannot wish to punish my thoughtlessness of this evening so cruelly! I only wanted to tease you a little. I thought every moment you would come up and tell me,--but you did not come, and I had to keep up the comedy,bon gré, mal gré."
"Are you quite sure, Miss Emily, you are not playing comedy at this very moment?"
Emily made no reply. She sank with a groan upon the bench; she pressed her face in her hands, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
Oswald was not one of those men who can see a woman weep unmoved. He stepped close up to the unfortunate girl and said:
"Will you listen to me calmly a few moments?"
Emily's only answer was a violent sobbing.
"Believe me," Oswald continued, "I am heartily sorry for you; that such a scene should at all have been possible; and I feel that I, and I alone, am to blame for it. If I had told you that night what I must tell you to-day, your pride would long since have made an end to the matter.--I cannot love you. That sounds very strange, spoken to a woman of such loveliness and sweetness, but it is nevertheless true. Why then will you waste your love on one who shows himself so utterly unworthy of such a precious gift? Why not render somebody happy by it, who has more talent for being happy and for making others happy?--I am just now so low-spirited that I am more than usually incapable of looking at men and things in the right light. Pardon me, therefore, if I have offended you just now by my bitter words. I had no right to use them; it was thoughtless in me; I blame myself for them. I pray, I beseech you, forget all that has happened between us! And do not allow this mortification to lead you to sudden resolves, which you may and will regret hereafter. You see what it is to bestow your affections upon an unworthy person. If this cruel experience should aid you in the selection which you will sooner or later make, I am willing to endure for the moment your hatred and even your contempt."
Emily had, while Oswald spoke, gradually ceased to weep. Now she rose and said, in an almost calm voice:
"Quite enough! I thank you. You have opened my eyes. You shall never be troubled again, as far as I am concerned. Tell me only this one thing: Am I victimized for the sake of another? Do you love another person?"
"Yes!" said Oswald, after a little hesitation.
"Very well! And now listenyou! As I have loved you with all the warmth of my heart, so I hate you now; and as a few minutes ago I would have willingly given my love for you, so I wish now to be avenged on you for this disgrace. And I will be avenged; I will----"
Again she broke out into passionate tears; but she checked herself quickly.
"You do not deserve it, that I shed so many tears for you. Now crown your conduct and follow me into the house, so that the whole world may see what a fool I have been!"
And she hastened away from Oswald, down the wall, across the lawn, into the salon, where they were dancing merrily. Cloten, who had in vain looked for her everywhere, and now stood melancholy, leaning against a door-frame, saw her at once and hurried to meet her.
"Why, Miss Emily! Caused me real anguish! Upon my word, wasau désespoir! Thought, in fact, one of the heavenly ones had eloped with you."
"I have been quietly reflecting. Baron Cloten, on what you told me a little while ago," replied Emily.
"'Pon my word! Are an angel! and I may hope?" asked Cloten, who of course interpreted the reddened eyelids and the excited manner of the young girl in his own favor.
"Go to my aunt!"
"Really? 'pon honor? I can't believe it!" exclaimed the young man, and his surprise was by no means fictitious.
"Then do not go!" replied Miss Emily, in a tone which would have made anybody else very much afraid about the firmness of the tie that was about to be formed here.
"Great God! Emily, angel, do not be angry. I hasten, I fly----"
And Baron Cloten went away in most abject confusion to seek out the aunt.
Emily remained standing on the same spot, pale, her arms folded, her eyes fixed upon the groups of dancers, without seeing anything more than if she had stared into vacancy.
"You are wiser than others," said a voice close by her.
It was Baron Felix; he had thrown himself into a chair, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a delicate handkerchief.
"Ridiculous to jump about in this heat; I think it is time to stop. And now Helen has relieved Mr. Timm at the piano. That girl has strange notions. Don't you think so, Miss Emily?"
"Perhaps she had no one to dance with."
"Impossible."
"Well, perhaps not the right one."
"C'est-à-dire?"
"The one she likes to dance with."
"I have always been here."
"You do not imagineyouare the happy one?"
"Who else?"
"Don't you know what has become of Mr. Stein?"
"No, why?"
"I only ask for Miss Helen's sake. Do you not see how her big, proud eyes are searching steadily, but unceasingly, all over the salon?"
"You are surely not in earnest?"
"Why not? Is not Mr. Stein a very handsome man? And has not Miss Helen very strange notions?"
"Miss Emily," said Felix, gravely, "will you do me the honor to tell me whether you have any special reasons for such an assertion?"
"Of course I have special reasons."
"And will you have the kindness to mention them?"
"That I cannot."
At that moment Baron Cloten returned, his face beaming with delight.
"Miss Emily," he said, "your aunt wishes to speak to you. May I have the honor to take you to her?"
"Directly," said Emily, and then to Felix: "Rely on what I told you. You have sharp eyes and ears."
She took Cloten's arm.
"I must find that out," said Felix to himself when he was alone again. "Helen's manner has really been extraordinary of late."
He went up to the piano. "Shall I turn the music for you, Helen?"
"Thanks," Helen replied dryly. "I play from memory."
After a short pause: "Please, cousin, go away. It makes me nervous to have anybody stand so close behind me."
"It seems to me Doctor Stein stood yesterday half an hour behind you and you did not show any great nervousness."
"Then I will rise," said Helen. She wound up with a short finale and left the piano, without paying any attention to the general Ah! of the dancers.
"That is rather strong," said Felix to himself.
"Why did Helen stop playing so suddenly?" asked the baroness, who had watched the scene from a distance, and now came up.
"I do not know. She probably took something I said amiss. She is more capricious and obstinate than I thought. Don't you think, aunt, that man Stein, with his corrupt notions, may exercise a bad influence on Helen as well as on Bruno?"
"I have always told you I have no faith in that man."
"Why don't you turn him out?"
"Without any cause?"
"Pshaw! That is easily found. Will you give me permission to find one?"
"But there must be no scene?"
"Let me manage that."
"You must bring it about that he shall himself ask to be relieved."
"Why?"
"I have my reasons.--And, Felix, do not speak of it to Grenwitz. Of late he has become very self-willed. I am even afraid he thinks of interfering with our plan. I pray you, Felix, be cautious! I should be beside myself if we fail, after having represented the whole matter everywhere as afait accompli!"
"Pshaw! aunt! Anxious again? Rely on me; I'll carry out what I have begun!"
When Oswald came to his room, after the painful scene with Emily von Breesen,--for he found it impossible to return to the company,--he found on his table a parcel, which must have been placed there during his absence. The words: "Enclosed the books, with many thanks. Your faithful B.," told him at a glance who had brought the parcel and what it contained. And, strange! he hesitated to open it. He felt as if he had no right to Melitta's letters, since his heart was no longer entirely hers, as if, above all, she, who had never entirely given him her heart, had no right to give him this sign of her love. At last, almost mechanically, he opened the package. There were three books within. From the middle one fell two letters--one from Melitta and one from Bemperlein. Melitta's letter contained only a few cordial words, complaining "of the long separation, during which, besides the long distance, other disturbing elements also might come to stand between their hearts," and finally expressed the hope of a speedy reunion. The letter had no signature. "It might fall into wrong hands," said Oswald, bitterly. "I will be still more generous; I will destroy this witness of a love of which she begins to be ashamed." He burnt the paper in the flame of his candle. Bemperlein's letter was fuller, but it spoke almost exclusively of Professor Berger. Bemperlein had, during his residence in Grunwald, seen very much of Professor Berger, to whom he had carried letters from Oswald, and had become as enthusiastically fond of him as the professor had become attached to himself. His dismay, therefore, was great when Doctor Birkenhain informed him one day that Professor Berger had just been brought to the asylum. Bemperlein wrote Oswald that he had at once asked permission to visit Berger; the permission had been granted, and he had since spent daily several hours with the patient, who preferred his company to any other. Berger, he said, spoke reasonably on all subjects except his fixed idea of the Nothing. He was perfectly reconciled to being in an asylum, "for," he said, "the difference between the people inside and the people outside is only this, that the latter may and probably will soon become what the people inside already are. If, for instance, Doctor Birkenhain would just have the kindness to take his head to pieces, he would perceive its utter emptiness with his own eyes, and choose a nice, sunny room in his house, in order to meditate undisturbed on the great Original Nothing." Bemperlein wrote that Berger's aberration of mind was considered only temporary, and that Doctor Birkenhain hoped to be able to restore the great man very soon to his friends and pupils.
"As for us," concluded Bemperlein, "the baroness will have told you all that is of interest. I only add that we shall (God willing) not remain here much longer. Baron Berkow is sinking fast; the consumption makes rapid progress. Birkenhain gives him only a few days more. We shall stay here, at all events, until all is settled. I anticipate that moment with some impatience, which is perfectly disinterested. The death of this unfortunate man, who has for long years already ceased to live, will give new life to two persons--two persons who are unspeakably dear to me."
"Really," said Oswald, letting the letter drop in his lap, "are you quite sure of that, good Bemperlein? To be sure, your innocent heart knows nothing of most noble treason and baronial cunning! And yet: Why does he also say nothing of Oldenburg's presence? Why does he keep it secret, when he knows of how much interest it must be for me? Is he too in the plot? Well, then I will henceforth trust no one except myself. We must howl among the wolves, and he is a fool who would be honest among cheats and liars. If you deceive, I can do so too; if you play a farce, I won't sit in the pit; if you laugh at others, I do not mean to cry, and all's well that ends well. Ha, ha, ha!"
"I am glad to find you in such excellent humor," said a voice behind him.
Oswald started up from his chair and stared, frightened at the tall, slim form which seemed to have come out of the ground.
It was Baron Oldenburg.
"I beg your pardon," he said, offering Oswald his hand, which the latter took with some hesitation, "that I present myself thus unannounced, and coming, like Nicodemus, by night. But I have this moment returned from my journey, and learnt from a servant who passed me in the hall, with a waiter full of glasses and cups, that you had gone up to your room. The man had just time to tell me the way, and to go on with his glasses.--And here I am, and, as I said, delighted to find you so merry; otherwise I should hardly have the courage to tell you what brings me here. Do you know where we were a month ago this day? It is the night which the Brown Countess appointed for our rendezvous. If you are still sufficiently interested in myself and our little ward to follow me, we can go to the appointed place."
"I shall be at your disposal in a few minutes," said Oswald; "permit me only to change my dress."
He took one of the two candles that stood on the table and went into the adjoining room.
"Dress yourself warm," cried Oldenburg after him; "it is very cool now towards morning, especially in the woods."
"Hm!" he murmured, when Oswald had left him; "he looks pale and haggard, and was less friendly than usual. I hope he has heard nothing of my having been at Fichtenau. I wanted to keep it from him. I must try to find it out. It would be unpleasant, for I do not like to talk to anybody about Melitta and myself, and least of all to him."
In the mean time Oswald said, while dressing, to himself:
"Now, be wise as the serpent. If you play with me, I can play with you."
He came back to Oldenburg.
"I am ready."
"Then let us go.--My carriage is at the door," said the baron, as they went down the staircase that led into the garden. "The Czika is sitting inside, wrapped in my cloak. Don't you agree with me that it is better to take the child with us to the interview? If the gypsy woman is really the child's mother, we owe her at least this attention. At all events she can see that the child is alive and well, and tolerably well contented with her new home.--But what does all this stir mean at the château? Anna Maria is not ordinarily a friend of festivities. Did Malte run away and come back, and is this the feast of the fatted calf?"
"The question is not about a lost son but upon a returning daughter," said Oswald, forcing himself into a light tone; "Miss Helen has come back from school. Since then there has been no end of festivities."
"Tempora mutantur," Oldenburg said, laughing, as they were crossing the lawn; "I am exceedingly curious to see this marvel. I hope nobody will notice us."
He went towards the steps which led up to the terrace. The doors were now closed, as the air had cooled off outside; the windows likewise; but the curtains had not been let down, and one could see from the outside all that was going on in the brilliantly lighted rooms.
As they approached the window, they saw Helen sit just opposite to them at the piano. Felix was standing behind her chair. He bent over her and seemed eagerly to speak to her. Oldenburg's sharp eye had instantly caught the group.
"Who is that young man?" he asked.
As Oswald made no reply, the baron looked at him and saw that he was biting his under lip, while his eyes were fixed upon the two at the piano. Felix was bending still lower; Oswald bit his lip till the blood trickled down. Suddenly Helen rose and walked through the group of dancers, who were startled by the sudden ceasing of the music, straight to the window where Oldenburg and Oswald were standing. They moved back into the shade. When she reached the window she remained quiet, crossing her arms on her bosom and fixing her large gray eyes on the moon, whose golden disc was floating in the deep blue night sky. It was a face of irresistible power, mysteriously lovely and fatally beautiful.--A gentleman--Adolphus--approached her and spoke to her. She answered briefly, without changing her position, without scarcely moving her lips. He bowed and went away. Then, as if she had reconsidered, she turned round, went back to the piano, sat down and began to play again. As if touched by a magic wand, the dancers resumed their dance, and the gay picture which Oldenburg and Oswald had seen at first was quite restored.
"Who was the fool who caused this intermezzo?" asked Oldenburg, as they were going down the garden.
"Felix Grenwitz, her cousin."
"A nice little puppy; and the young beauty is to have him for her husband--is that so?"
"I believe so."
"And what do you say to that?"
"What Hamlet said: 'Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of the world!'"
"My evil anticipations are about to be fulfilled," said Oldenburg, through his teeth.
"You said?"
"I was wondering whether Charles had raised the top of the carriage, so that my little Czika does not sit quite in the open air. I believe, however, she would like it best if she never had any other ceiling above her. During our journey she always was delighted when we travelled at night, and she could see her beloved stars on high."
"And may I ask what took you away so suddenly from our neighborhood?" asked Oswald, and his voice trembled.
"A matter of business which interests me only indirectly. The illness of a man whose death may be of the utmost importance to two persons who are dear to me."
The baron waited to see if Oswald would reply.
"I was vain enough to fancy that my departure would make some noise in our society here," he added, when Oswald remained silent; "this seems, however, not to have been the case."
"Everybody has been so accustomed for years to see you come and go of a sudden that they no longer wonder," said Oswald; "but I think there is the carriage!"
"Where is Czika, Charles?" asked the baron.
"She is fast asleep in the carriage, sir," replied the coachman, who had come down from his seat to let down the steps. "I have covered her carefully."
"We will take her between us, as the other day when we found her on the high-road on our return from Barnewitz."
The baron was already inside.
"Is that you, master?" asked the child, awaking.
"Yes, my darling!"
"Who is the man with you?"
"Your friend, the man with the blue eyes."
"He must stay with us," Czika murmured, overcome by sleep and pressing close up to Oswald, who had taken his seat. "Czika is tired; Czika wants to sleep in your arms!"
"I believe," said the baron, when the carriage was in motion, "you have made an indelible impression upon the child. She often speaks of you, and asks why the man with the blue eyes does not come back again? She always calls you so. The human heart is, after all, a curious thing. The wisest of the wise has no key to it. What trouble I have taken to win the heart of this child! I should like so much to call some one being in this wide world my own! And have I succeeded? I hardly know. She follows me, but only as a child would do when the mother has said: Go with that gentleman, and behave well! I have surrounded her with the tenderest affection, and yet I am to her now only what I was to her the first day. She accepts everything, like a gift which we do not refuse merely because we do not wish to offend the giver."
"But is not that more or less the way with all children?" replied Oswald. "Is it not their privilege to be loved without being specially grateful for it? And then: what is a love which counts upon a reward? Is it not here also true, that he who asks for a reward has already his reward?"
"I hope you may never experience that in your own case," said the baron, with much feeling. "And may others never learn it through your agency! You would not say so if you knew what hopeless love is; what it means to carry about in you the feeling that your love, true, warm love, is returned with indifference and coldness! No, no! A heart that loves us is a treasure which we must not despise, and if we owned every heart in the world; to have pained a heart that loves us is a recollection which sears our conscience, and which no new love can ever extinguish."
"And haveyouhad such experience?"
"Unfortunately I have! I have formed and broken many ties of love, without feeling any remorse about it. I knew too well that I would not break the dear hearts! Only once--I was quite young yet, and that must be my excuse, if there can be one--only once I became guilty of the crime of rewarding a woman, who I knew loved me truly and faithfully, with vile ingratitude. The story would be ever present to my mind, even if the Brown Countess had not recalled it to me in a strange way. Did I not tell you how I met, quite accidentally, many years ago and far away in Hungary, a gypsy girl----"
"Yes," said Oswald, "I recollect your story very well. Baron Cloten's arrival interrupted you. I forgot afterwards to ask you for the continuation. Was it not this way? You were on a visit to a friend whom you had known in Vienna. You found the girl in a gypsy camp, as you were roaming through the woods far from the house. The band had gone away and left her behind. To see her and to love her was one. You spent several days with her in romantic bliss. The story ended with the following tableau: A gypsy encampment in the forest--sunset--under the overhanging shelter of a broad, branching beech-tree, a loving pair on a soft moss carpet----"
"You have a good memory," said the baron, "and you have reproduced my state of mind at that time very faithfully. I was sitting then with the Zingarella--Xenobia was her sweet name--in the manner mentioned by you. I was singing the old song of love which would never end, and the poor little bird trusted the false old melody, and came closer and closer to my heart. Suddenly horses' tramp was heard in the silent woods, and laughing and talking of a merry cavalcade. I had hardly time to push the little one rudely from my lap and to rise, when the troop came galloping from under the tall trees into the clearing. They were my friends: the young Count Cryvanny, with his sisters, and several ladies and gentlemen from the neighborhood. You may imagine the scene that followed--I was at once surrounded and overwhelmed with questions. Where had I been? How did I get there?--I thought you had been torn by wolves! said one--or you had killed yourself from unrequited love! cried another.--I have the key to the secret! Love is the cause, but by no means unrequited love.--Look there! and he pointed with the handle of his riding-whip at my poor Xenobia, who had crept behind the trunk of the tree. Universal laughter rewarded the witty man. One face only looked black. It was the youngest and prettiest of the three sisters, whom I had courted last, and who, I believe, honored me with her favor in her way--which, to be sure, did not amount to much. I was suddenly very much ashamed of my poor Xenobia, and had only one wish, to get out of this embarrassment without offending the proud Georgiana. I pretended to be indignant; I said I had wandered about in the woods, and that I had but just reached the encampment. 'But where does the girl get the gold chain from around her neck, which we admired only the other day, when you wore it?' asked Georgiana.--'She must have stolen it from me,' I said, 'while I slept here, tired by my wanderings.'--Then take it back.--I could have murdered Georgiana, but I had bound myself by my bold falsehood. I could not recall it. Xenobia anticipated me.--Here, sir! she said; take what I have stolen! and she handed me the chain. I shall never in my life forget the trembling hand, the face disfigured by pain and indignation. Let us get back home! cried Count Cryvanny, there is a storm coming up!--I took the horse of one of the servants, and off we went through the darkening forest. I dared not look back at Xenobia. Georgiana, by whose side I was riding, would never have forgiven me. I had fully reconquered her favor, but at what cost? On the evening of the following day--I could not get away sooner I hastened to the forest to make amends for my wrong, but I found, after a long search, only the place of the encampment. Xenobia was gone. The band had no sooner found their retreat discovered than they had broken up their tents and moved, no one knew where? I have never seen a trace again of Xenobia."
The baron was silent, and puffed the smoke of his cigar in mighty clouds high into the air.
"You see," he began again, after a long pause, "I am pious enough, or superstitious enough, if you prefer it, to believe that this wicked deed of mine has brought upon me a curse which no repentance can remove. That curse is fulfilled in my aimless life. From that day it has been my fate to sow love and to reap indifference. And now you will also understand what Czika is to me--an angel in the highest sense of the word, a sweet messenger from on high, who sings Peace! Peace! to my sick heart. The child's face, you know, has been for years before my mind's eye, and I have told you how I thought twice to be near the realization of my dreams. Here is the red rose Xenobia once more, but in the morning dew of sweetest innocence. The red rose has no doubt long since faded and withered amid the storms of life, and even if I had kept it at that time--what would the world, the cold, impudent, slandering world have said of the romantic love of a baron and a zingarella! I was too young then, and could not have defended my poor wife against the world: now I am a man, and have to protect a child only, a foundling. I shall give the gypsy whatever she may ask, and my warmest, sincerest thanks into the bargain. I hope she has not forgotten the appointment--stop, Charles!--We must get out here and walk through the woods. I know the way from of old. This is the hour appointed by the Brown Countess. We are just in time."
"Had we not better leave the child here," said Oswald.
"Why?" inquired the baron, who had left the carriage.
"The child is so very much attached to the woman, who, after all, may be her mother. Perhaps when she sees her again her old love of the forest life may awake, and we shall at the very least have a painful scene."
Oswald spoke in a low voice, for Czika was moving in his arms.
"Czika wants to go too," she said suddenly. "Czika wants to go into the woods and see the moon and the stars dance in the branches. Czika knows every tree and every bush."
She was standing on the damp wood-soil and clapped her hands with delight, and danced and laughed and said:
"Come! come! You, master, and you man with the blue eyes! Czika will show you a beautiful place; Czika knows every tree and every bush along the whole road."
She slipped ahead on a narrow path, which left the road where the carriage was standing, to enter the forest sideways, and then she ran on, gliding through the bushes like a wild cat. The two men had much trouble to follow. Czika was not to be persuaded to moderate her zeal. Her only answer to all the Not so fast! of the two men was the clear merry cry of the young falcon, which she uttered again and again, louder and shriller each time. Suddenly an answer came through the forest, the same proud cry which Oldenburg and Oswald remembered so well from that morning when the gypsy woman answered the child's cry from a great distance.
Now a rosy sheen became visible through the trees, which grew brighter and brighter at every step. "We shall soon be there," said the baron, who walked ahead.
In a few minutes they really came out upon the clearing, which Oswald had seen on the afternoon when he saw Melitta for the first time at her house. At the same place, near the edge of the pool, where the gypsies were then cooking their meal, a fire was now burning, but large and bright, as if to throw a flood of light upon the scene. The tops of the mighty trees glowed in rich purple or were lost in dark shade as the flames of the pile of wood blazed up or sank low; on the black mirror of the pool another fire shone in dim glow, and surrounded by this magic illumination the Brown Countess was seen on her knees before Czika, whom she overwhelmed with kisses and caresses. The child tried in vain to draw her up, and at last threw herself down by her side, hiding her head in the bosom of the woman. This was the sight that greeted the two men when they reached the clearing at last, completely out of breath.
They stood there silent and motionless, almost overawed by the strange, touching spectacle.
Then the gypsy rose, and taking the child by the hand she came up to the two, and said to Oldenburg, who stared at her with his eyes wide open:
"Do you know me, master?"
At that moment the flames blazed high up and fell with the brightness of daylight upon every feature in the noble, proud face of the Egyptian woman, and upon every line of her slight, lofty figure.
"Xenobia!" cried the baron, opening his arms, "Xenobia!"
The brown woman threw herself, with a cry of mad rapture, on his bosom, and held him as if she would never part again with the man of her love. But the very next moment she tore herself away from him, stepped back, and stood there motionless, her arms crossed on her bosom. Czika was standing between her and the baron, turning her large dark eyes full of amazement from the one to the other.
The baron took her by the hand, and stepping up to the gypsy woman, he said to her, in a tone which, in spite of all his efforts, betrayed his deep emotion:
"Xenobia, is this child----"
He could not continue; in vain he tried to utter the word. At last he stammered:
"Your and my child?"
"Yes, master," said the gypsy, without stirring, but fixing her dark, bright eyes on the baron.
Oldenburg lifted the child in his arms and pressed her to his bosom. Oswald felt he ought to leave the three alone, and went back into the wood. There he sat down near the edge. It was the same place where he had been lying the other day dreaming such glorious things of Melitta, and where he had afterwards heard Czika play the lute, while the Brown Countess was busy with the fire, and sang with her deep, sonorous voice the Hungarian melody. What changes had taken place since that day! How much he had lost and won since! Then his heart beat high with expectation; now his soul was filled with sadness and grief. Why had she made him so indescribably happy if her love was, after all, but the sovereign whim of a moment, only an amusing play to fill up a vacant day? Had he not all the time felt in his soul that she, the haughty aristocrat, would drop him again sooner or later? Had he not, the very first time when he heard Oldenburg's name mentioned, recognized in that man almost instinctively his rival? And he had to confess now that that man possessed everything calculated to kindle a heroic passion in a great lady. Rank and riches, eminent talents, the courage of a knight without fear or reproach, and just enough of the character of a man of the world to captivate the fancy of a woman whose heart is not absolutely pure.
And how attractive even his weariness of the world was, and his air of suffering! One would imagine, hearing him complain as he did, that he was on the point of going into the desert, to live there on locusts. Now he will probably take the gypsy to his solitude, to while away the hours till Melitta returns....
Oswald increased thus wilfully his own troubles of mind. The new passion which inflamed his imagination made him deaf to the voice of his conscience, blind to the evident proofs of the utter groundlessness of his assertions. He had an indistinct consciousness of his own weariness and exhaustion; he felt sick at heart, and perfectly unable to come to any clear conclusions about himself. He pressed his face into his hands, to see nothing, to hear nothing....
A hand, which touched his shoulder, aroused him from his revery. It was Oldenburg. The baron was alone. The fire of the piled-up wood blazed up fitfully, and was on the point of expiring. The moon, half covered by drifting gray clouds, twinkled ghastly in the dark water of the pool. The wind was whispering and wailing through the long reeds near the shore.
"Where is Czika?" asked Oswald.
"Gone," replied the baron. "Let us go. It is late."
"Is she not coming back?"
"I do not know."
"And you have allowed this child, your child, to follow the wild gypsy woman into the wide world?"
"What could I do? Is she not her child a thousand times more than mine? Has she not borne it amid pains, fed it, sheltered it many, many years, in rain and in sunshine, in need and in poverty, in the dark woods and on the open highway? Has she not begged and robbed and done worse things than that perhaps for her child? What have I done for my child? Nothing! Nothing but to stamp the mother as a thief before the eyes of a mob of nobles, nothing but to drive her from me like a lost dog, for the sake of a wretched coquette! No! No! I have no right to the child!"
While the baron was speaking he pushed with his foot the half-consumed, glowing firebrands into the pool, so that they turned black one by one.
"Why did the Brown Countess wish to see you, then? Why did she manage to put the child into your hands? Why did she herself appoint this rendezvous?"
"She wished to see once more the beloved of her youth, the only man she had ever really loved. She wished to put his child into his hands and then dive back into the darkness of the woods. But she cannot live without the child, and the child cannot live without her. I had to let them go both!"
"But why not take them both with you to Cona?"
"Shall I chain the falcon? The falcon is happy only in the immeasurable ether on high; he dies in the foul air of our houses. Come! It is high time for us civilized men to go to bed!"
The baron pushed the last firebrand into the water; the men turned to go.
From between the hurriedly drifting clouds the moon was peeping blear-eyed at the dark water of the pool, and the long reeds that grew near the edges whispered: Here is a pleasant resting-place for all the sorrows of earth!