In very truth the feeling that he had done wrong in thus opening his heart to Erna had come back in renewed strength to Bertram, since he had to admit to himself that he had emphatically broken his own dictum that bygones were to be bygones. The past was no longer a secret between those concerned; and what would henceforth happen--each word, each look which they exchanged, all, all would have a sense, a meaning for somebody else--for the beautiful girl who was so grave beyond her years, the girl with the great, still, godlike eyes.
Thus Bertram was profoundly in earnest when he declined to accept Erna's praise; but, anyhow, he hoped that the worst was over now.
How greatly he was mistaken in this, came most painfully home to him with the first stolen glimpse which he ventured to take of Lydia's face in the pitiless radiance of the bright candles which shone upon the round table in the dining-room, where he sat opposite her. Was that really ... Lydia? Or had some mischievous imp, by cruel witchcraft, put a caricature of herself in her place, and changed the picture of the bright and gifted girl, overflowing with jest and fun, with humour and wit; the girl with the somewhat irregular but most piquant features, with the big, light-blue, mischievous eyes, fresh and rosy of colour, with wild, fluttering, blonde locks, into the picture of an aging coquette, for ever pouting her thin lips, even when she laughed, so as to hide her false teeth; now lowering, now lifting her eyelids, like an actress, in vain endeavouring to give some light to her eyes--a light as treacherous as the all too bright pinkiness of the lean cheek, the all too dark carmine of the ears, adorned though they were with sparkling diamonds? An ugly old woman, who now let the gold embroidered white silk shawl glide from the scraggy shoulders, only to draw it up again immediately and attempt a more picturesque drapery--which was not a success, so that the game had to be renewed forthwith!
And he had once loved this painted, dressed-up, revoltingly coquettish person; had loved her with the best, purest strength of his heart, as, but a little while ago, he had assured Erna with passionate eagerness. It was horrible! Would Erna believe that yonder withered shrub had ever blossomed in vernal brightness and beauty? How could she believe it, when she looked at the friend of Lydia's youth, her own mother, whose majestic beauty was barely touched by Time in his flight? Her great brown eyes had lost none of their velvety softness, her raven hair still shone in undimmed splendour. And if the difference in appearance, in manner, was now so great between the two ladies, must it not always have existed? And must not the taste of a man, whose feelings could at any time have led him so far astray, have been at all times most lamentable?
And if the pitiless brightness had brought so terrible a discovery to him, how would he himself appear before Erna's searching gaze? Had not some horrible change taken place with him too? Why, these twenty years had altered Erna's father, who at college had been rightly surnamed 'The Beauty,' into an excessively stout gentleman, with a somewhat bloated countenance, and a mighty skull, which was getting painfully bald in the region of the temples! And he himself had never been distinguished for personal attraction; true, his hair was as dark as ever; and, before supper, in the glass, he had thought that he saw a pale and grave, but not a worn, face. But then the complaisant mirror of vanity might make one fancy one saw all sorts of things. No doubt Lydia had just such a mirror in her room!
Bertram felt more and more sad at heart. He no longer dared lift his eyes, but kept them fixed upon the plates, which the servants changed without his having tasted any of the dishes to which he helped himself mechanically. So he sat on, scarcely hearing a word of the conversation, which was principally carried on by Lydia and the Baron. Apparently they were talking about some Court affairs, and very amusing and piquant they would appear to be. Anyhow, there was much laughter, chiefly on the part of Lydia and the Baron, and My Lady held up her hand once or twice, and reminded the two of the respect due to the Grand Ducal family. Then the conversation touched upon the approaching manœ vres, and the Baron proclaimed his minute knowledge of every detail, and endeavoured to explain to the ladies, with the help of spoons and forks and what not, the original positions both of the attacking party and the attacked, and duly weighed the various events which might or must occur, according whether the commanding officers did or did not take certain steps. Under any circumstances, the decisive portion of the sham-fight must come off in the immediate neighbourhood of Rinstedt itself, if not in Rinstedt itself; unfortunately, the ground being singularly unsuitable for cavalry, the ultimate issue would lie between artillery and infantry. He himself, said the Baron, having formerly been a cavalry officer, was very sorry for that; but, anyhow, the ladies, could look forward to a glorious sight. What, a pity, he added, that in spite of his having so many friends in the army, he did not chance to have any personal acquaintances among the officers of this particular regiment.
"Well, I know a number of them," said the host. "The 99th were stationed at Erfurt until a twelvemonth ago. I used to meet the officers over and over again out shooting."
"Then," said the Baron, turning to Lydia, "you must know some of them too. They are sure to have attended some of our Court balls."
"Of course," the lady replied; "and they were also in the habit of coming over in shoals to the play; but who is to distinguish one red collar from another? Not I! I love plain, quiet, civilian colours. Ask Erna; she is sure to know. She spent six weeks last summer with her Aunt Adelheid in Erfurt, and there the officers, are constantly coming and going. Is it not so, Erna?"
"You are forgetting," said Erna, "that aunt was in mourning at the time. Of course there were no parties then."
"But still," the Baron observed, "people go to a house without being actually bidden to parties, inspire of the family being in mourning, if there are six marriageable daughters in it, as is the case in your aunt's house."
"Possibly; then my power of discriminating between different red collars is not more strongly developed than Aunt Lydia's; anyhow, I do not remember any one of the gentlemen."
This was uttered in such a stern tone, as of one who would decline to pursue the subject, that Bertram looked up involuntarily. Her dainty features were perfectly composed, but the blue eyes, which she was bending upon him, not upon her interlocutor the Baron, seemed to have a deeper radiance than that of suppressed annoyance. This was the first time that their looks had met across the table, and a curious thrill passed through his frame. He felt the hot blood surging to his temples; and to mask his growing embarrassment, he asked who was in command of the regiment in question.
"Colonel von Waldor," the Baron replied promptly.
"I knew an officer of that name," said Bertram, "long ago, in Berlin; at that time he had been told off to the Military Academy of that town. For some years I kept up a correspondence with him, but somehow I lost sight of him afterwards. But I rather think that was not his regiment?"
"No," replied the Baron. "You are quite right; he used to be in the 210th. He got the colonelcy of the 99th about a year ago. He made quite a name for himself in the '70 campaign."
"Even at the time I recall, my friend was considered a very smart officer," said Bertram.
"No doubt, no doubt," replied the Baron; "it must be the same man. As far as I know, there are not two Waldors in the army, at least not among regimental commanders, for I think I know all their names by heart. Your Colonel is a queer fish, anyhow."
"What is a 'queer fish'?" asked Lydia, touching the Baron's arm with her fan.
He laughed, and said: "Well, that question is more easily asked than answered."
"Then, pray, do not answer it at all," said Hildegard, the hostess, glancing at her daughter Erna.
"Why not, my Lady?" the Baron exclaimed. "It is harmless enough to let the facts speak, and it is a fact that Waldor who--I do not know him personally, but Dr. Bertram will assuredly confirm my statement--was known throughout the army not only on account of his gallantry, but also on account of his manly beauty, and who had consequently broken countless hearts, is still a bachelor."
"You say 'consequently,'" exclaimed Lydia, "and consequently you think very meanly of our sex."
"How so?"
"Well, you seem to assume that manly beauty suffices to touch--or, as you are pleased to call it, to break--female hearts. Alas, my dear Baron, how little do you know our sex!"
"I beg a thousand pardons--but I really said nothing of the kind. Venus and Mars--the alliance of valour and beauty, you know--your poets know something of this. Why, there is a poet here among us--let him speak up for me!"
With these last words the Baron had turned to Bertram; his tone and the accompanying gesture had something insultingly patronising about them; in fact, in Bertram's eye the whole demeanour of the young man, almost a giant in stature, was saturated with an arrogant sort of self-complacency, which seemed to take unanimous applause for granted. Nevertheless he replied with calm politeness:
"I neither consider myself a poet, nor am I, to the best of my knowledge, considered one by anybody who has read the few miserable trifles in verse which I published years ago."
"I protest against this most emphatically," exclaimed Lydia. "I have read those 'miserable trifles in verse,' as you call them--what a horrible expression. I know them by heart, and I consider the author to be a poet--a poet by grace divine."
"I am extremely obliged to you," replied Bertram. "However, surely what a man is born for is wont to announce itself, sooner or later, in a man's own heart. With me that voice is absolutely silent; and, therefore, I might surely claim the right of refusing to give the evidence required of me. But not being specially qualified, and being absolutely impartial, I would fain warn my friends not to repose overmuch confidence in poets on that particular point. Anxious for the applause of the many, as their trade seems to demand, they accommodate themselves but too readily to the taste of the many, who, as we all know, like very children, seize eagerly upon anything bright, glistening, motley-coloured. Therefore, why should they not picture the heroine as beautiful beyond compare, the hero as valorous beyond comparison, and heap any number of additional titles to fame upon their blessed heads! Whether one quality does not perchance exclude another, whether the measure dealt out does not, anyhow, exceed all that is reasonably possible--dear, dear, there are few who'll ask that question; and if any one does, why, then, he is a pedant, and for pedants the heroes of romance have no existence, any more than real heroes have for their valets."
"Oh! you scoffer--you wretch!" exclaimed Lydia. "Why, you will prove next that beauty, that valour, that every virtue in the world, belongs to the region of romance. What a terrible thing scepticism is! But our friend was ever thus. Did I not say a short while ago: Hildegard, I cannot believe that he has changed; he cannot change! And behold, he is exactly what he always was!"
"Well, that's coming it pretty strong, seeing it's twenty years since ..."
The corpulent host had laughingly given utterance to these words, then, feeling his wife's dark eyes bent upon him in stern disapproval, he broke off abruptly with Ahem! poured some wine into his own glass, which was but half emptied, and then wanted to know why the gentlemen present were not doing justice to the wine that night.
Bertram, wishing to relieve his friends in their evident embarrassment, came to the rescue, saying, with smiling, easy politeness: "Fräulein von Aschhof only proves by her kind assertion of my immutability, that she is indeed looking upon the world and mankind with a poetical eye. But let us remember this--the poets themselves allow only the fair sex to participate in the pleasing prerogative of the calmly careless ever youthful gods; and the poets may venture on this deception, because the listener is willing to be deceived. 'Breathes there a man with soul so dead,' who ever ventured to count up the years of an Antigone, an Iphigenia, a Helena? They are what they were--else they are not. But, even the poet's flattering arts cannot keep the man from aging; and if the poet would grant perennial youth to a man, he must needs let him die in his youth--like Achilles."
"I protest against this theory," Lydia exclaimed eagerly. "I assert that heroes age as little as heroines."
"Even that," Bertram replied with a smile, "would not help me, seeing that I am no hero, assuming even that you were right. But I may be permitted to indulge in some humble doubt. At best the hero of the Odyssey appears distinctly as a man of mature age,--to put it mildly,--and Pallas Athene must practise upon him her divine art of beautifying before she ventures to introduce him among the Phæaci."
The Baron was meanwhile playing with his spoons and forks again; he was evidently annoyed at having been so long kept out of the conversation.
Bertram went on as though he did not notice it at all; he very surely was not speaking for that fellow's sake. He only cared to clear himself in Erna's eyes from any suspicion that he, like the aged coquette opposite him, was laying claim to a juvenility which had gone by for ever; and seeing those eyes steadily bent upon him, he took heart of grace, and went on in the same tone of easy, good-humoured banter--
"Göethe, a modern, and in this case a tragic, poet too, in his Nausicaan fragments, wisely forebore to bring in that art of beautifying, which is only lawful for the epic poet in his antique naïvety, and in order to bridge over the mighty difference and distance of years, and to change the evidently improbable into something at least credible, he takes refuge in illusion, causing it to arise from the child's very heart, like a fog enveloping those pure eyes, that clear mind--
'That man must ever be a youthful man,Who is well-pleasing to a maiden's eyes.'[1]
'That man must ever be a youthful man,Who is well-pleasing to a maiden's eyes.'[1]
Thus the aged nurse, taking the unspoken words, as it were, from Nausicaa's chaste lips. A touching saying, touching, like children's belief in the omnipotence of their parents! And about that youthfulness, which exists nowhere except in the glorious dreams of a young, inexperienced, generous soul, well, Göthe has told us something with exquisite humour, not, as true humour indeed never is, without a touch of melancholy, in the novelette of the man of fifty. Poor old Major! I have always been heartily sorry for him. Remember how he begs the services of the valet (skilled in the use of cosmetics) from his friend the great actor; how that adroit official uses his balm, and his stays, and his wadding for the aged gentleman, and yet cannot save the diseased front tooth, and certainly cannot keep fair Hilarie from falling vehemently in love with young Flavio, solely because she sees him in raptures with the clever widow, solely because in Flavio's raptures she beholds for the first time a representation of genuine, ardent, youthful passion. All this is as true as it is charming, as charming as it is melancholy, at least for the reader who is in a position to test the hero's experiences and sentiments by his own sentiments and experiences."
"Of course; 'there's no fool like an old fool,' and I suppose that really is the final outcome of the whole business," said the Baron.
"How dare you talk of things you know nothing about, you prosaic individual?" exclaimed Lydia, bringing her fan down upon the giant's arm. "There is no talk of old people here. A man of fifty is not old, he is in the prime of life, and is often ten times younger than your used-up so-called young gentlemen. But I must really say something for Göthe against our 'learned friend.' Yes, yes, my friend, I know the novelette well; I read it aloud to the Court barely a week ago. Who bids you take a comedy in that tragic way?--for the novelette in question is a comedy--a 'Comedy of Errors.' Hilarie fancies she is in love with the uncle, and really loves Flavio; Flavio fancies himself in love with the young widow, whilst really he loves Hilarie; and how the Major--well, I think the final scene at the inn proves emphatically that he had only turned his feelings to--to--to--the wrong address, if I may venture upon the expression; and that he and the clever widow subsequently became a happy pair is perfectly clear to me. Or, do you think not?"
A warning glance flashed from Hildegard's dark eyes. Lydia positively blushed through her layers of paint. She had shown her hand too plainly!
Bertram struggled successfully against a strong inclination to smile; nay, curiously enough, something like pity for her indiscretion stirred within him. He went on--
"To be sure, you are right, right, above all, in calling the novelette a comedy. How little Göthe cared to have a tragic conflict is evident from the fact that he chose circumstances as favourable as possible for a happy conclusion, and that he from the very beginning secured a line of retreat for every one concerned. The Major is the uncle of Hilarie, the only daughter of his widowed mother, and he has doubtless acted the part of father to her--has, up till now, loved her as his own child. His rival, in whose favour he resigns his claims, is his own only son, to whom he is also very much attached, and with whom he is on excellent terms, whom he in fact treats like a comrade. Again, behind Hilarie, as she vanishes from him, stands as it were the young widow; and in her arms the Major will speedily forget the small humiliation. And lastly, and this seems to me to be the chief point, Göethe has wisely avoided to introduce the one element whereby he would have been enabled, nay compelled, to turn the comedy into tragedy; he has ... but I beg pardon of our fair hostess for being so garrulous. To be sure, it is high time we rose from table!"
Truly enough, the turn which the conversation had taken had, for Erna's sake, been unwelcome to her mother. So she seized the opportunity and rose from table. Erna, who had sat without turning her gaze from Bertram, took a deep breath, like some one who is being recalled from deep dreams to the consciousness of present realities, and followed the example of the others. She and Bertram were the last couple that left the dining-room on their return to the garden-saloon, which had meanwhile been lighted up, and Bertram thought she was walking very slowly--on purpose.
"What was the one element, Uncle Bertram?" she asked.
"What one element?"
He knew what she meant; but he had broken off at table, because he himself dreaded the utterance of the word. So he delayed his reply, and just then his host appeared, bringing cigars: the gentlemen might smoke on the verandah, whilst Lydia would give them some music.
"You remember, Charles, do you not," he went on, "thesonata pathétique--that used to be your favourite piece? And Lydia has practised it often since, I think."
Lydia was ready. Bertram, however, begged to be excused from remaining. He felt, he said, after all, tired with the day's journey, and it was but the charm of their company which had made him forget that he was still a convalescent. He barely gave Hildegard time to draw him aside, and to say to him in a whisper--
"You really are most amiable. How good of you to take it so kindly. I had not at dinner to-day courage enough to make my confession. Indeed I have to confess, to say much to you--to-morrow ..."
"To-morrow be it, fair friend," said Bertram, kissing the lady's hand, bowing to the rest, and making hastily for the door. He had not reached it before Erna was by his side.
"You used to say good-night to me less formally."
He did not venture to press a kiss on the proffered brow, but only took her hand.
The great grave eyes gazed at him as though they would fain read what was passing in his inmost soul.
"Good-night, dear child," he said hurriedly.
"Good-night," she replied slowly, letting his hot, trembling hand glide out of her own cool little one.
"It is lucky," said Bertram to himself, after he had dismissed Konski, and as he stood alone by the open window in his bedroom, "it is very lucky, indeed, that it is not very easy to read what is passing in somebody else's soul. She would have found queer reading!"
He leaned out of the window and gazed into the darkness. Not a breath of air. From the garden below the fragrance of mignonette was wafted up; the brook murmured aloud; a thin white veil was spread over the valley, with here and there a dim speck of light. The sky was cloudless, of deep blue, almost black colour; the moon looked like a mass of gold, and one solitary star near it shone forth in red splendour.
Bertram recalled just such a night, long years ago, when a friend, the assistant-astronomer, had given Erna's father and himself the opportunity of witnessing, from the Bonn Observatory, the transit of that same star--Aldebaran--through the moon! Afterwards he had accompanied Otto back to Poppelsdorf, and Otto had in his turn walked back with him to the Pförtchen in Bonn; and so backward and forward, all through the mild summer's night, until the light of morning had come, and the birds were beginning to twitter in the leafy crowns of the chestnut trees. And they had been raving of friendship and love--of the love they both, most fraternally, cherished for one and the same black-eyed beauty, the daughter of one of their professors, and they had both been sublimely happy, all their misery notwithstanding, for the black-eyed one was known to love another--"Great Heaven, how long, how long ago? A generation, and more. And now ...?"
"Now," he went on, "you are about to fall in love with the daughter of the same man whom then you rivalled in absurdly exaggerated, donkey-like phantasies--with a girl of eighteen, whose father you could be. And this time you would not get off with raving incoherently for a night of two, and with scribbling a few mediocre sonnets! Be reasonable, old man. Let it go--let it go! You know full well you can have no abiding place here, any more than the horseman in the Piccolomini. Behind you, too, as you ride along, crouches the lean companion and clasps you in his bony arms, and every now and again taps at your heart, to test if it is still stupid enough to throb for a beauteous maiden who is seated by the window among wallflowers and rosemary.
"And behind the curtain stands her lover, and bends across her, that he, too, may look upon the mad horseman, who is stretching out his neck to see his darling. And the clumsy fellow with the bull's neck wrinkles his silly brow, twirls his mustachio, strokes his beard, muttersMort de ma vie!and shakes his coarse fist. But she pouts, and giggles and bursts out laughing, and falls on the neck of the jealous one ...
"No, no; it cannot be! You only want to hear from her lips that it cannot be. And then--away, away--ride out of the gate--to swift, honourable death. And God's blessing on thee, thou gentle, lovely, and beloved child!"
He closed the window gently, and so to bed; to bed, but not to sleep. He could not find that repose he stood so much in need of. The brook murmured so loudly, or was it the hot bloody surging to his temples?
And was he about to sink into slumber, he would start up again immediately; he seemed again, to be holding her by the hand, and she bent her forehead to be kissed by him.
"No--no! Lead me not into temptation! Do not ask me what the one thing is! I would not say it, even, if--what God forbid!--it were so. I will not let you beguile me into a tragedy, any more than from one comedy into another."
This thought, which had at length quieted Bertram's, wildly tumultuous spirits, was also his first, when late next morning he awoke from deep and dreamless slumbers--neither tragedy nor comedy! Calm and clear observation, as best becomes a solitary individual who has done with life; who neither hopes nor fears anything from Fate for himself; maintaining a benevolent interest in the fate of others, where benevolence is merited and interest is justified; cherishing throughout the conviction that, after all, every one makes or mars his own life; that interference and advice are rarely of much use, and generally distinctly hurtful; and that, even under the most favourable circumstances, the task of mediator is ever, of all tasks, the most thankless.
In the clear light of these contemplations and of the delicious morning which was resting in sunny radiance above the lovely landscape, last night's scenes appeared to Bertram like the confused darkness of a feverish dream; nay, he derived some comfort from the thought that he probably had been ill, and was therefore only partly responsible for his extraordinary demeanour. Still, he was gravely responsible for one thing--he ought sooner to have become conscious of his condition. He might well thank his stars that in his excited state he had not behaved even more strangely; above all, that to-day, for the first time since his last long and severe illness, he felt as fresh and strong as in his best days. Assuredly with the morning all things seemed to have become better--much better than he could have expected--than he deserved!
The master's disposition was singularly serene, and he gave it a most friendly expression in the course of his toilet, showing himself ready for a friendly gossip with Konski; but Konski, strange, to say, was out of temper, and refused to be gossiped with.
At last Bertram said: "What ails you? If you are displeased, at what I said yesterday about our speedy departure, you may calm yourself. We still remain here for the whole time we had originally arranged. I see you have unpacked already."
"We may leave to-day, for aught I care!" grumbled Konski.
"What's up now? Out with it, Konski! You know I cannot bear sour looks. Anything in connection with Mamsell Christine?"
"Of course it is!" replied Konski; "and I wonder who's to keep from sour looks under these circumstances! I had written to her that this was to be my last trip with you, and when we returned from Italy in March we might go and be spliced. I did not want to tell you at all, but don't you see, sir, one gets older every year, and it has to be some time or other, and ..."
"And now you wish to marry at once, and I am to give you your discharge?"
"Marry at once, indeed!" sniffed Konski; "she won't marry at all now--leastways, not me--and that, after we have been engaged these five years! But there is no trusting them women, and especially the old ones! She is five and forty years of age, she is,--a year older than I am myself; and now she's going to marry a young greenhorn of five and twenty!"
It was some time before Konski, generally so calm and patient, could explain in detail to his master how badly he had been treated. According to his account, Mamsell Christine had written the tenderest letters to him until a few weeks ago, and had declared herself agreeable to all his suggestions and proposals; and now it appeared from the statements of the other servants whom he had cross-questioned, and whose evidence the faithless one could not but corroborate, that she had been "carrying on" for a long while with one Peter Weissenborn, who had formerly been head-gardener at Rinstedt, and who had been settled in the neighbouring town for the last six months, and who was now, it was said, likely to be appointed one of the Court gardeners, thanks to the protection of the Herr Baron. The Herr Baron, Konski went on, had also induced My Lady to give Mamsell Christine leave to quit her service at any time without formal notice; and, indeed, the servants all said, that the way to get My Lady's consent to anything, was to get the Herr Baron on your side; that made success quite certain. And My Lady was said to be quite in favour of this marriage between Christine and the future Court gardener. In that case she would always have two of her former servants at hand when she came to town, and that was likely to be an event of frequent occurrence now; if, indeed, she did not go to live there altogether, as some of the servants asserted--Aurora, for instance--My Lady's maid, who was her second favourite, next to Christine.
Bertram endeavoured to comfort the poor fellow. He pointed out to him that he should be glad to be rid of a person who had evidently never meant honestly by him, and who would in all probability have been as faithless in marriage as she had now proved before. This conviction led him to reject any wish there might exist to get the matter rectified again, as was done sometimes, and in much higher social circles too; otherwise he would have been willing to use his influence with My Lady, which presumably would have been at least as telling as that of the Herr Baron.
Konski shook his head. "I am extremely obliged to you, sir," said he. "I am quite content if you will still keep me on, after I have proved myself to be such a thorough ass. And, as far as talking to her Ladyship goes, that would be in vain--the Herr Baron is cock of the walk there. I could tell you a good deal more about that, but I know you do not like that sort of thing!"
Bertram was startled. The man's last remark could have but one meaning, and the image of the girl among the wallflowers and with the jealous lover, emerged in singular distinctness from last night's feverish phantasies. He would fain have for once broken through his rule of never going out of his way to listen to the gossip of kitchen and servants' hall, but, as Konski did not volunteer any further remarks, he was ashamed to put any direct questions. Just at that moment, too, there came a knock, and a servant brought a message from her Ladyship. She had learned that the Herr Doctor had risen, and might she request the Herr Doctor's' company on the verandah to tea?
Bertram lost no time in following the invitation. Hildegard, who had been sitting in a shaded corner of the verandah at the deserted breakfast-table, came forward to meet him. As she moved towards him with well-balanced step, he could not but recall last night's talk about the never-changing beauty of a poet's heroine. He gazed upon the lofty figure in its youthful slimness, the clear, deep colouring of the incomparably beautiful countenance, the blue-black splendour of the ample hair, smooth at the temples, and crowning the glorious head with a dense braid.
There was a smile on her dainty lips, and if deepened a little as she saw her guest's speaking eyes bent upon her in undisguised admiration. She was making tender inquiries about the state of his health, leading him the while to the table and making him sit beside her, with the kettle bubbling in front of them.
"Otto," she said, "is, as usual, somewhere about the estate. The Baron is painting a portion of the village from the bottom terrace, and Lydia is, I believe, keeping him company with a book. Erna, you will probably find later on in her favourite place, under the big plantain tree. I have sent them all away, because I so long to have a comfortable confidential chat with you. Yesterday we did not manage to have one. And first of all, dear friend, accept my hearty thanks for having so kindly pardoned a breach of confidence of which I--not from choice--had been guilty. Nay, do not refuse the expression of my gratitude. I saw how hard you found it to appear unconscious and serene; I thank you all the more. But I knew that with your wonted cleverness you would at once find the only correct point of view--that of pity. Whatever has been done and sinned between the two of you,--she is the one to be pitied. A poor girl, growing old, even if she is in favour at Court; and although the Grand Ducal family could not be kinder, yet all this cannot satisfy the cravings of her eager mind--but I perceive that this is a painful topic for you!"
"It is not painful for me," replied Bertram; "or at least only so far as the description of a dissatisfied, unquiet soul must ever be painful for us, if it is hopelessly out of our power to bring satisfaction and peace to it."
"I understand you," said Hildegard; "and you will understand me when I beg of you not quite to rob the poor soul in question of its utterly foolish hopes to which it clings, alas! with incredible tenacity. You can do this so easily: you need but be amiable and, courteous to her, as you are to everybody--no more, but, to be sure, no less--do you consent?"
"I will try, since you wish it--on one condition!"
"And this condition?"
"I have come to the following determination--indeed, it is a matter of course for me. In the drama of human life I will not henceforth ever again leave, my well-won place in the stalls, and under no circumstances will I take a part on the stage itself--no tragic part--and still less a comic one!"
"From the latter," replied his fair hostess with a smile, "you are safe under any circumstances, through your own cleverness; from the former----"
"Through my age."
"I meant to say, also through your cleverness; or, if you prefer it, through the cool, unimpassioned frame of mind which you have grown into, and which I often envy you!"
Bertram looked up in amazement, and then quickly busied himself with his tea-cup. Hildegard, to envy him his coolness! Hildegard, who had ever appeared to him the very embodiment of conscious equanimity!
"You may be surprised to hear this from me," she continued; "but must we not all, sooner or later, learn the lesson of resignation? And my time surely has come. Indeed, it has been so all my life. What have not I had to resign in the course of my life! Or do you think that the husband's wealth can blind the wife, if she be proud, to the consciousness that she is not loved as she longs, and as, may be, she deserves to be loved?"
Bertram knew these phrases from of old; but he said to himself that to-day particularly he must make the best of everything, so he exclaimed--
"Is it possible, my friend, that you still cherish this hypochondriacal fear which you have given utterance to before, but from which I deemed you cured long ago? How can you complain of a deficiency in love, when your husband positively adores you? You can utter no wish, simply because what you could wish for is already fulfilled. Or you need but have a wish, and it is forthwith fulfilled."
"You are pleading for the friend of your youth," she made answer, raising her dark eyebrows. "Do not forget this: I am bringing no charge against him. I am resigned. Were I to die to-day, what would his loss come to? What would he miss?"
"The brightness of his life," Bertram replied gallantly.
"As if he cared for the brightness of his life!" said his wife. "Is it so? Does he share one of my fancies, my harmlesspenchants? Does he not vainly strive to appear interested in the things of beauty with which I love to surround, myself and to decorate our dwelling? Did he not consent wit evident repugnance to have the mansion-house restored in a style befitting a whilom princely residence--to let me seek out and renew the old, tangled paths through the Park? Does he support me in my humane undertakings? Have I not had to beg the few thousand thalers from him that I required for my Kindergarten and for my poorhouse? Why, he lives solely for his porcelain factory, his sugar refinery, his coal-mines, his new railway project! I say again: I have accepted all this as inevitable, and as a matter of course, as long as I alone was concerned, as long as I alone suffered. But, indeed, to bring Erna into this life of trivialities, to leave the dear child in a sphere where she sees nothing, hears nothing, that could give the slightest nourishment to head or heart, where anything and everything revolves round Mammon, is sacrificed to Mammon--that is beyond me, beyond my strength!"
"Then, if I understand you aright, you wish, to get Erna married?"
Through the soft, velvety radiance of the deep-brown eyes flashed something like a deeper light. The question was evidently not expected--at least not yet--but the next moment already her eyes had resumed their customary expression, and she forced those beautiful lips to smile, as she said, in a tone of gentle reproach--
"Let us express it rather less egotistically. I should like Erna to find a husband worthy of her."
"A most natural wish too! One which every mother cherishes for a grown-up daughter. And as an old friend of the family I heartily join in the wish, and do not for a moment doubt that we shall readily agree as to what we shall expect her husband to be."
"I am not so sure on that point."
"Let us try anyhow. Firstly, he should be noble!"
"That is not your conviction."
"Then let it be a concession. If people wish to come to an understanding they must be prepared to make concessions."
"This concession I accept gladly. Go on, please."
"He should not be a scholar by profession; but have a good--a man of the world's--education, and a taste for the fine arts. In fact, we want a cavalier, of course, in the best sense of the word."
"Agreed."
"He need not be wealthy. In fact, it would be preferable that he had no fortune, he would in that case be all the more indebted to Erna."
"Most true!"
"He should not be a landed proprietor, or at least not a man who feels it a duty and an absolute necessity to live in the country and devote himself to agriculture. Best of all, he should have no definite calling, or, anyhow, only one which did not impose difficult and troublesome duties; say a position which should have it as a natural consequence that the man in question moved in the best society, and even came occasionally into pleasant contact with Court circles."
"Best of friends, how strangely skilled you are in reading a mother's heart!"
"Let me, then, look to the very bottom of it, where possibly the name of the individual in question is already written. If I read the characters correctly, they form the name ..."
"Now I am truly keen to know."
"Baron Kuno von Lotter-Vippach."
"Lydia has told you!"
"No. Neither Fräulein von Aschhof nor any one else has spoken to me, I give you my word of honour."
"But it is most strange ..."
"Why so strange? Am I not a very old friend, to whom you have many a time talked on most important topics, and whom you have many a time honoured with your most intimate confidence?"
"Then it is all the better, all the more deserving of my gratitude; and I thank you heartily, sincerely ..."
She had seized both his hands; her beautiful countenance, now lighted up with a flush of gladness, had never been more beautiful; yet to Bertram it appeared like some hideous mask.
"I cannot accept your thanks," he said, withdrawing his hands with slight and very hurried pressure. "I could but do so honestly, if I shared those wishes of yours which I have guessed. That is not quite the case. The impression which Baron Lotter made upon me yesterday was not specially favourable; to be quite open, the impression was unfavourable."
"That," Hildegard replied eagerly, "leaves me very calm. You men seldom like each other at a first encounter, and at a second you find one another charming. In the Baron's case no second encounter has even been necessary; he overflows with your praises; he calls you the cleverest and most amiable of men; he is charmed to have made your acquaintance; and I am convinced that you, too, my friend, will soon modify your judgment--I should almost like to say your prejudice--once you come to know the Baron better. He is somewhat spoiled, like all very handsome men; somewhat conceited, if you like; but at bottom very modest, easily led, good as gold. He will please you, believe me, and more than please you! You will come to esteem and love him!"
"Is the more important question, to me the most important, already settled? Does Erna think as favourably of the Baron? Does she love him? For that he loves her, I must, I suppose, assume."
"That is beyond all doubt," Hildegard made answer; "as for Erna, I hope so, I believe so; anyhow she does not express herself unfavourably about him, and that, with Erna, means a good deal, for she is not at all easily pleased, and is not accustomed to conceal her dislike, if dislike there be. It is of course difficult to form a correct opinion of Erna's sentiments; doubly difficult for me, because she has been so long from home, and we are not always in accord in our views and tendencies. Again, in Lydia she has never placed full confidence--which, by the by, I can scarcely wonder at. I only know one being whom she thoroughly trusts--and you dear friend, are the one!"
"I?"
"Are you surprised to hear this? Surely not? Has not the child always been so fond of Uncle Bertram, that we, her parents, might have grown jealous? Has she not ever been your favourite? If she is so no longer, for goodness sake do not let the poor girl see it. She would be inconsolable."
"Now, you are laughing at me."
"Indeed, I am not. Ask Lydia. That Lydia often speaks of you, you will find natural enough, and that now and again a word of bitterness slips in, you will find pardonable. Erna does not pardon it. In her eyes you are once and for good raised above all reproach. You are, as it were, her ideal. It is a downright case of infatuation, and it goes so far that she once assured us, with all a child's gravity--she was still almost a child--that if ever she married, Uncle Bertram must be her husband and she got quite angry when Lydia and I laughed at her."
The beautiful lady smiled, and Bertram succeeded in forcing a smile too.
"How very funny," he said; "but then very young girls are proverbially prone to conceive infatuation for some one or other of their masters, and I think, in Lydia's eyes, I have always been one of her instructors, in literature and what not. Poor girls! they give their affections to old Mentor, but they mean young Telemachus. Well, and there is apparently a young Telemachus on the stage already, if you have seen aright."
"Just to decide that point," replied Hildegard, "Mentor must not yet resign his functions. On the contrary, I must entreat him most urgently to help the mother with his clear vision and his advice, and to use his old influence with the daughter. I may rely upon this, my trusty friend, may I not?"
She held out her hand to him with these words. He raised it deferentially to his lips and said--
"You may rest convinced that Erna's well-being is dearer to me than anything else in the world."
Hildegard had wished and had expected another, a more definite, answer. It was still doubtful whether she had really acquired an ally in him. However, the main point was gained; she had taken the initiative, had represented the affair from her own point of view, had appealed to Bertram's friendship, had asked for his assistance, had given him a proof of her confidence, which he would doubtless accept as unconditional. This sort of thing is always flattering to a man, always makes him feel indebted. Of course, a woman must flatter a man if she would make him feel indebted.
Just then it was anyhow impossible to obtain a more definite assurance from Bertram, for the Baron and Lydia were ascending the main steps of the terrace; the Baron, in his temporary capacity as artist, clad in a costume of brown velvet, and a straw hat with a stupendously broad brim, and Lydia in such a grotesquely fantastic morning costume as to suggest the idea that she had been acting as model for some wonderful sketch of the artist. And indeed she did figure upon the canvas, but only as a bit of the foreground, which represented a portion of the terrace, across which you looked down into the valley and at the village, with the wooded hills rising behind. The Baron was evidently much pleased with his work, although he declared again and again not to have half finished it; it was not fair, he added, to apply to a hasty sketch the same standard of judgment as to a regular studio picture, in which everything would of course turn out quite different. This, Bertram could not but think, would be most desirable, but hardly very probable. This so-called sketch was evidently a picture which had already been touched and retouched, some portions had been painted over two, even three times, and divers desultory dilettante endeavours had failed to bring anything like harmony into the composition. Nevertheless he politely agreed with the ladies' words of praise, which flowed freely from Hildegard's lips, while Lydia, as was her wont, launched out in extravagant eulogy: wonderful, was it not, what progress the Herr Baron made day by day? At last there was once more a painter with a mission for historical landscapes on a grand scale! The resemblance of his genius to that of a Rottmann, a Preller--became more and more apparent. Nor did she alone think so. Only the other day, at Court, when they were talking of the pupils at the Academy of Arts, and some one mentioned the Baron's name, Princess Amelia said, and said with marked emphasis, "No pupil he, ladies, nay, a master, and a great master! The Baron is a distinct acquisition for our School of Arts; he represents a triumph!"
"Yes, it is true; the august lady is very graciously disposed towards me," asserted the Baron, stroking his natty beard. "I wonder what she will say to my new sketches."
Fortunately for Bertram, who was planning his escape under some pretext or other from this painful scene, his host now came up to greet his friend, and to ask if he felt strong enough and was inclined to go for a little drive with him; only to the porcelain factory, they would be back in an hour. Bertram declared his readiness.
"The Baron would surely like to go with you," said Hildegard, exchanging glances with her husband; "but I fear there is barely comfortable room even for two in your little trap."
The Baron hastened to assure her that he could not go, anyhow, as he had promised Miss Erna to try the accompaniment to some new songs with her.
Hildegard asked Bertram if he would not, before starting, say good morning to Erna, who would be hurt if he left without having done so.
They called for Erna in vain. It seemed to Bertram that Hildegard only wished to find time enough to beckon him aside, and to whisper to him that he need not conceal from her husband what they had been discussing in reference to Erna. On the contrary, she was anxious to learn Otto's opinion of the whole matter; he would probably speak with less reserve to his friend than, alas! to her, and that Bertram would take her side she felt sure now.
"But Erna is not coming, I see," she exclaimed aloud; "I will not keep you gentlemen any longer.Au revoir--an hour hence."