Fortunately at this moment supper was announced; it was served from a buffet which had been prepared in the hitherto closed room, on two small tables which had in the meantime been laid.
"Are you not yet engaged?" asked Elsa of Reinhold as she passed him; "make haste, then; Fräulein Emilie von Fischbach is waiting for you; she is indeed, though you look so astonished! It is all settled; she is standing near the looking-glass with Fräulein von Rossow whom Schönau has engaged. I do not intend to engage myself--I shall follow you in--we are going to sit at the small round table in the window! Now make haste, for fear anybody should get there before us." Reinhold hastened to fulfil so agreeable a command; Elsa stopped Ottomar, who was passing her. "Do, dear Ottomar, take Carla in to supper; I am sure she is waiting for you. You really have got a fault to make up for."
"Which I shall not do by committing another."
"I do not understand you; but you owe something to her and to us all."
"I shall never be able to pay all my debts. Well, to please you--there!" and he glanced at Carla, who just then passed on Golm's arm to the nearest table; "you see how she has waited for me!"
"Paula!" exclaimed Elsa to a young lady, "my brother is anxious to take you in to supper, but does not dare ask you because you refused him the other day. At that table!--Prince Clemda, at that table, please, near Count Golm and Ottomar--there are just four places empty--every seat must be occupied."
"At your orders," said Clemda; "allons, Werben!" Ottomar, with the lady on his arm, still stood undecided.
"Will a Werben allow a Golm to say that he left the field clear for him?" whispered Elsa in his ear. She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken: how could any cause prosper that was fed from the spring of injured vanity? But Ottomar had already led away her friend, and it was high time for her also to take her place. She was too late already. She had hoped that Reinhold would sit by her; but room must be made for another couple who had been wandering from table to table, and the whole arrangement was thus disturbed. Still he was opposite to her, and she had the satisfaction of seeing him--of noticing his eyes so often, it could hardly be unintentionally, turned towards her--if only for a moment; of hearing his hearty laugh, which had so enchanted Meta, and which she herself, as she secretly acknowledged, found so enchanting; the calm clearness of his words when he joined in the conversation, the modest silence with which he readily allowed the witty Schönau to take the lead in the conversation. The latter, now that he thought it worth his while, spoke his real opinion of Wagner and Wagnerism, and explained how he saw in Wagner, not the prophet of the future, but, on the contrary, the last exponent of a great past; how the mixing and mingling of arts, which Wagner held up as their highest development, had everywhere and at all times prepared and accompanied their downfall; how the blind fanaticism of his supporters, and the tyrannical intolerance with which they cried down every opposite opinion, was for him not a proof of their strength, but, on the contrary, of their weakness, the overpowering consciousness of which they sought to drown in this manner; and how, to his eyes, the only comfort to be derived from the whole affair was that the despotism usurped by the Wagnerites hung on one life only, namely, that of the master himself, and that his empire must fall into ruins as soon as he abandoned the scene, because his so-called theory did not rest on true principles of art, did not result necessarily from the essence of art, but was nothing more than the abstraction of his own highly-gifted, energetic but capricious and exceptional nature, of which it might truly be said that its like would hardly be seen again.
"Believe me, my friends, to his helpless disciples Mephistopheles' saying will be carried out; they will have the parts in their hands, but the spiritual bond that united them will be gone for ever." Schönau had addressed his words chiefly to Elsa, but Elsa's thoughts were wandering, and yet she generally listened to him with so much pleasure; and he was talking to-day even better than usual, with a certain passion which was very striking in the usually quiet, reserved man. Her friends had often teased her about Captain Schönau, and she had never denied that she liked him; and now, while he was speaking, and her eyes wandered from him to Reinhold and back again, and she compared, almost against her will, these two men who were so unlike one another, she asked herself how it could be that one should like one man so much and yet like another a great deal better, even though the former had undoubtedly far more brilliant ideas beneath his broad, sharply-chiselled brow, than the other who listened to him with such respectful attention; besides, how curious it was, that while the one had for years frequented their house as an intimate friend, she had never troubled herself to think whether he enjoyed himself there, while her head was now constantly troubling itself with the question whether the other, who was their guest for the first time to-day, had come willingly and would wish to come again, and she rejoiced to see how contentedly he was chatting with pretty Emilie Fischbach, and how he now, in his open-hearted way, lifted his glass to her and drained it, while his eyes looked so kindly and so steadily into hers. Yes, she was happy, and would have been entirely so if the talk at the long table near them had been somewhat less loud and excited, and if Ottomar's voice had not several times rung out so loudly that she started in terror, and was relieved when the sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses drowned his clear tones. She knew that it was always particularly noisy and jolly at the table at which Ottomar sat. To-day more than ever. "A Werben will not leave the field clear for a Golm!" The words sounded in Ottomar's ear as he sat at table by his partner, opposite to Golm and Carla, and they re-echoed in his passion-filled heart; and, if no one else remarked it, to Carla there was a tone in his voice as he now plunged into the conversation already started, in which he took and maintained the lead, as if it were a race, thought Carla, in which he was determined to be the victor in spite of all the efforts of his rivals. And Count Golm strove in every imaginable way--but in vain. Ottomar was inexhaustible in his amusing fancies, absurd jokes, and witty answers; Carla had never seen him so brilliant. Carla was enchanted; she knew what prize was being ridden for in this race, and why the foremost rider took the highest hedges and the widest ditches with such temerity, and that it was from her hands the winner would receive the prize. Poor Golm, he did all he could, and more than all; it was not his fault if he remained farther and farther behind, and at length seemed inclined to turn out of the course. But that could not be allowed; he must be cheered and encouraged, he must be allowed to receive at least the second prize, and be persuaded that it was only an unlucky accident that vanquished him this time, and that it was not impossible that another time he might win the first. But this must be done very carefully, by an encouraging smile, by a kind, rapid glance; before the company Ottomar must be crowned; to Ottomar she addressed herself as they rose from table, and holding out her hand, said, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders:
"You really surpassed yourself, Herr von Werben."
"You are too kind," answered Ottomar, with so low a bow that it was almost mocking. The mockery was not heartfelt. He was intoxicated by his success, and not by his success only. He had desired to forget his cares and troubles by drowning them in wine, and he had succeeded. The dark wood, and the beautiful girl whom a few hours back he had folded in his arms in that dark wood, it was all a dream--a wild, confused dream which he had dreamt, heaven only knew when; here were pleasure and mirth, and light and brightness, whichever way he looked; and whichever way he looked bright eyes sparkled, rosy lips laughed, white shoulders glistened, and all sparkled, laughed, and glistened for him! Here was his empire; here he was king; he had only to hold out his hand and the hand of the lady most courted here would be laid in his! Was there a to-morrow? Let it come; the present belonged to him; pleasure and mirth for ever! Bright eyes, and rosy lips, and white shoulders for ever! And as if all the spirits of pleasure and mirth were surrounding him, Ottomar flew through the rooms to apologise to the elder guests, if in the interests of the young people who wanted to dance a little they were somewhat crowded till the supper-room could be cleared, begging his brother officers not to waste precious time, but to engage their partners if they had not been wise enough to do so already, giving the young ladies the delightful information that the evening would wind up with a cotillon, with orders to be given by the ladies, and that there was room on his breast for more than one. And now the doors were re-opened, from the empty room resounded the notes of a merry polka, and----
"You will dance this with me, Carla?" exclaimed Ottomar, and without awaiting her answer--putting his arm round her--he flew with her into the dancing-room, followed by the other couples who had anxiously awaited this moment.
"Are you not dancing?" asked a deep voice behind Reinhold. Reinhold turned. "No, General."
"Do you not dance?"
"Oh yes; but you did me the honour to say you wished to speak to me. I was just about to----"
"That is very good of you. I was coming to fetch you."
"I am at your orders, General."
"Come, then." The General, however, did not move. The aspect of the room, which was almost filled with dancers, appeared to interest and absorb him. Reinhold, who had unconsciously turned in the direction in which the General was looking, saw that the eyes of the latter were fastened on Ottomar, who with Carla was engaged in the centre of the room in performing the skilful evolutions demanded by the polka. A smile passed over his grave, stern face; then, as if rousing himself from a dream, he passed his hand over his forehead, and said again, "Come, then." He put his arm through Reinhold's, and crossed with him the large drawing-room in front of a group that had assembled round Baroness Kniebreche. The Baroness suddenly stopped speaking; the round glasses of her pince-nez seemed to flash forth angry flames at the sight of the confidential manner of the General towards the young officer of the reserve.
"Look away!" thought Reinhold, while his heart beat proudly, "and heaven grant that I may prove worthy of the honour!" They entered the small room in which a little while before Wagner had been so warmly discussed. The room was empty.
"Sit down," said the General, taking possession of an arm-chair and motioning to Reinhold to sit by him; "I will not keep you long."
"I am really in no hurry. General; I am only engaged once for a later dance with your daughter."
"That is right," said the General. "Elsa is in your debt, and here am I going to take advantage of your good-nature again. In one word, you have spoken to Colonel Sattelstädt and to Schönau, and have given them your decided opinion upon the matter you know of. They both say that your explanations have put the matter in quite a new light, which they consider most important, and which ought to decide the question in the eyes of all who can see in our favour; that is to say, in mine and these two gentlemen's, who unfortunately stand pretty nearly alone in our views, and have every reason to look about us for allies. I ask you now, in our joint names, if you will be that ally, and if you will draw up for us a written statement of the circumstances of which we can make unrestricted use? Schönau will willingly provide you with maps and any other assistance you may want, if you will put yourself in communication with him. The first question now is, will you do us this kindness?"
"Most certainly, General, and will do it to the best of my ability."
"I felt sure you would; but I must draw your attention to one important point. President von Sanden has told me that he has you in his mind, and Elsa confided to me that you were not disinclined to agree to the President's wish, and accept the situation in question. The post is not in the gift of the Minister of War, but your report will cause ill feeling in more than one department, and we might find ourselves compelled to give up the name of our informant. Have you thought of that?"
"No, General; but I have never been ashamed of my name, and, thank God, have never had reason to be. From the moment that it is named in such company and in this affair, I shall be proud of it." The General nodded.
"One thing more: the matter is pressing, very pressing. When do you think you can have the report ready?"
"If I can communicate with Herr von Schönau to-morrow morning, it shall be ready the morning after."
"But you would have to work all night."
"I am a good sleeper, General, and I can keep awake too when necessary." The General smiled.
"Thank you, my dear Schmidt." It was the first time that he had spoken to Reinhold in the unceremonious manner usual from superior officers to their younger comrades. He had risen, and his usually stern glance rested with almost fatherly kindness on the young man who stood before him, colouring with pleasure and pride.
"And now go and amuse yourself for a little while with the young people; you are still young enough yourself, thank God. There comes my son, probably to fetch you."
"Just so," said Ottomar, who appeared hurriedly and excitedly in the doorway. "I apologise; but Elsa----"
"Off with you!" said the General. Ottomar drew Reinhold away. The General looked thoughtfully after the two young men.
"It is a pity," he said, "but one cannot have everything at once, and if Ottomar--what do you want!"
"This letter has just been left."
"A letter, now? How can that be?"
"The hall door is open, sir. The man who brought it said it was lucky, as otherwise he would have had to ring. It was very important."
"Very odd!" said the General, contemplating the letter which he had taken from the servant. It was a large, business-like looking letter, and the direction was in a clerk's hand.
"Very odd!" said the General again. He had opened the letter mechanically and began to read it. What was this? He passed his hand over his eyes and looked again; but there it stood quite plain, in clear, bold words. His face became purple.
"Have you any orders, sir?" asked August, who was anxiously waiting.
"No, no! nothing, nothing! You can go," murmured the General, as he put the letter down and pretended to fold it. But the servant had hardly left the room before he took it up again to read to the end. And then the strong man trembled from head to foot, while with a cautious glance around he quickly folded the letter, and tearing open his uniform, put it in his pocket.
"Unhappy boy!" he murmured.
The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the rooms under Sidonie's directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy. And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had laid her greatest treasures--the album with his portrait and the little compass--on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle, which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing the compass, and to assure herself that "it was still faithful," and "turned towards its master," and then opened the album at the place at which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not at the portrait--that was detestable--but at the inscription, "With all my heart," and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking. Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a "Good-night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?" and had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage leading to his room, he must pass his father's door. He stood still for a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good-night through the open door. This evening he did not do so. "I am tired to death," he repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this breach of his usual habit. But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples, "like mad," said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat, and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon--his shooting-coat--and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar. The night was very fresh, but the cold did him good; a drizzling rain was falling from the black clouds, but he did not heed it; he stood there looking out into the dark autumn night, and smoking his cigar, confused thoughts whirling through his troubled brain, and the beating of the veins of his temples and the sighing of the wind in the trees prevented his hearing a twice-repeated knock at the door. He started like a criminal when he heard a voice at his ear. It was August.
"I beg pardon, sir. I knocked more than once."
"What do you want?"
"The General begs you will go to him at once."
"Is my father ill?" August shook his head. "The General has not yet undressed, and does not look exactly ill, only a little----"
"Only a little what?" The man scratched his head. "A little odd, sir. I think, sir, the General----"
"Confound you, will you speak out?" August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, "I think the General had a disagreeable letter a little while ago; it may have been about half-past eleven. I did not see the man who brought it, and Friedrich did not recognise him, and I believe he went away again immediately. But I was obliged to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face when he read the letter."
"From a lady?" August could not help smiling, in spite of his sincere anxiety for his young master.
"Oh no!" said he. "They look different, one finds that out by experience; an important looking letter."
"Those infernal Jews!" muttered Ottomar. He could not understand what it meant; the next bill was only due in a week's time; but what else in the world could it be? His father would be in an awful rage again. Well, he would only have to propose a few days earlier, if he must propose, were it only to put an end to these everlasting worries, which left a man no peace even to smoke his cigar quietly in his own room at night. He tossed the cigar out of window. August had picked up his uniform coat, and was taking off the cotillon orders.
"What is that for?"
"Won't you put on your uniform, sir?" asked August.
"Nonsense!" said Ottomar. "It would only--" He broke off; he could not say to August, "It would only make this tiresome business longer and more solemn." "I shall simply tell my father that I do not mean to trouble him with these matters in future, but prefer to allow Wallbach finally to settle my affairs," said he to himself, while August went before him along the passage with the lamp, the gaslights having been extinguished, and stopped at his father's door.
"You may put the light down on the table and go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at six o'clock." He had spoken louder than was necessary, and it struck him that his voice sounded strange, as if it were not his own voice. Of course it was only because the house was quite quiet, so quiet that he again heard the blood coursing through his temples, and the beating of his heart.
"Those infernal Jews!" he muttered again through his teeth as he knocked at the door.
"Come in!" His father stood at his writing-table, above which a hanging lamp was burning. On the console before the looking-glass also the lamps were still burning. The room seemed disagreeably light and formal-looking, although it was exactly as Ottomar had always seen it, as long as he could remember. He had better have put on his uniform after all.
"I must apologise for my dress, father; I was just going to bed, and August seemed to think you were in such a hurry." His father remained standing at the table, leaning on one hand, with his back towards him, without answering. The silence lay like a mountain on Ottomar's soul. With a great effort he shook off his vague dread.
"What do you want, father?"
"First that you should read this letter," said the General, turning round slowly, and pointing to a paper that was spread out before him on the table.
"A letter to me?"
"In that case I should not have read it; and I have read it." He had stepped back from the table, and paced slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back, while Ottomar, standing where his father had stood just before, without taking the letter in his hand--the handwriting was legible enough--read as follows:
"Honoured Sir,--I trust your honour will forgive your humble servant, the undersigned, for venturing to call your honour's attention to a circumstance which threatens seriously to endanger the welfare of your honoured family. It concerns the relations which have for some time subsisted between your son, Lieutenant von Werben, and the daughter of your neighbour, Herr Schmidt, the owner of the great marble-works. Your honour will excuse the undersigned from entering into details, with which he is thoroughly conversant, but which are better consigned to the obscurity in which the parties in question seek in vain to remain, and if the undersigned begs you to ask your son where, and in whose company he was this evening between eight and nine, it is only to prove to your honour how far the said relations have been carried.
"It would be both foolish and unpardonable to suppose that your honour is acquainted with all this, and has connived at it till your son is on the point of being betrothed to the daughter of an ultra-radical democrat. On the contrary, the undersigned can imagine beforehand the painful astonishment which your honour will experience on reading these lines; but, your honour, the undersigned has also been a soldier, and knows what military honour is, as indeed all his life long he has cherished it, and he cannot endure any longer to see the honour of such a brave officer so criminally trifled with behind his back, by him who more than any other appears called to protect that honour.
"The undersigned feels he need say no more in assertion of the great veneration with which he is of his honour and his honour's whole family
"The obedient, humble servant."
The General did not interrupt his son for some minutes, but as Ottomar still remained motionless, staring in front of him, his teeth pressing hard on his white lip, he stopped in his walk at the far end of the room, and asked:
"Have you any idea who wrote that letter?"
"No."
"Have you the slightest suspicion that the lady whom it concerns----"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Ottomar impetuously.
"I beg your pardon, but I am under the painful necessity of asking questions, as you do not appear disposed to give me the explanations which I expected."
"What am I to explain!" asked Ottomar half defiantly; "the thing is true."
"Short and conclusive," answered the General, "but not quite clear. At least, some points still require clearing up. Have you anything to reproach this lady with--I may call her so?"
"I must beg you to do so."
"Well, then, have you anything in the least to reproach this lady with, which, setting aside outward circumstances of which we will speak later, could prevent you from bringing her into Elsa's company? On your honour!"
"On my honour, nothing!"
"Do you know anything of her family, again setting aside outward circumstances, even the smallest fact, which would and ought to hinder any other officer who was not in your peculiar position from forming a connection with her family! On your honour!" Ottomar hesitated a moment; he knew absolutely nothing dishonourable of Philip; he only had the inborn instinct of a gentleman against a man who, in his eyes, is not a gentleman; but he would have considered it cowardly to shelter himself behind this vague feeling.
"No!" said he moodily.
"You have acquainted the lady with your circumstances?"
"In a general way, yes."
"Amongst other things, that you are disinherited if you marry a woman who is not of noble birth?"
"No."
"That was somewhat imprudent; however, I can understand it. But in a general way you say that she is aware of the difficulties which, under the most favourable circumstances, must stand in the way of a union between you and her?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever let her perceive that you have neither the will nor the power to remove these difficulties?"
"No."
"Rather have allowed her to believe, have probably assured her that you can and will set aside these obstacles?"
"Yes."
"Then you will marry her." Ottomar started like a horse touched by the spur. He had felt that this must and would be the end; and yet, as the words were spoken, his pride chafed against the pressure put upon his heart even by his own father. And in the background lurked again ghost-like the horrid sensation that he had had in the park; that he was weaker than she who so confidingly nestled in his arms. Was he to be always the weaker, always to follow, whether he would or no, always to have his path traced out for him by others?
"Never!" burst from him.
"How! never!" said the General. "Surely I am not speaking to a headstrong boy who breaks the toy that he no longer cares about, but to an officer and a gentleman who is accustomed to keep his word strictly." Ottomar felt that he must give a reason, or at least the shadow of a reason.
"I mean," he said, "that I cannot make up my mind to take a step in one direction that would compel me to do wrong in another."
"I think I understand your position," said the General; "it is not an agreeable one, but a man who pays attention in so many quarters should be prepared for the consequences. I must, however, do you the justice of admitting that I begin now to understand your behaviour to Fräulein von Wallbach, and that I only find wanting in it that consistency to which you have unfortunately never accustomed me on any point. In my opinion it was your duty to draw back once for all, the instant that your heart became seriously engaged in another direction. No doubt, considering our intimate acquaintance with the Wallbachs, this would have been extremely difficult and disagreeable, still a man may be deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of mind and their practical consequences, provided everything is done at the right time and in a proper manner. How you are now to draw back, without bringing upon yourself and us the most serious embarrassment, I do not know; I only know that it must be done. Or have you carried your misconduct to its highest point and bound yourself here as you are bound there?"
"I am bound to Fräulein von Wallbach by nothing that the whole world has not seen; by no word that the whole world has not heard, or might not have heard, and my feelings for her have been from the first as undecided----"
"As your behaviour. Let us say no more about it, then; let us rather face the situation into which you have brought yourself, and deduce the consequences. The first is, that you have destroyed your diplomatic career--you cannot appear at the Court of St. Petersburg or any other court with a wife of low birth; the second, that you must exchange into another regiment, as you would never see the last of the collisions and rubs that must happen to you in your present regiment if you had a Fräulein Schmidt for your wife; the third, that if the lady does not bring you a fortune, or at least a very considerable addition to your means, you will have for the future to live in a very different way from what you have been hitherto accustomed to, and one which I fear will not be in accordance with your tastes; the fourth consequence is, that in forming this connection, were it as honourable in one sense as I wish and hope it may be, you will, according to the literal words of the will, lose all right to your inheritance. I mention this only in order to put the whole matter clearly before you." Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had been generously silent with regard to the five-and-twenty thousand thalers which he had in the course of the last few years paid for his son's debts, that is to say, all but a small remnant of his own property, and that he could not soon repay his father the money as he had fully intended to do; perhaps would never be able to repay it. His father would then only have his pay, and later his pension, to depend upon, and he had often spoken lately of retiring. His eyes, which in his confusion had sought the ground, now turned timidly towards his father, who, as before, slowly paced up and down the room. Was it the light, or was it that he looked at him more closely than usual? his father seemed to him aged by ten years, for the first time he looked like an old man. With the feelings of respect and affection that he had always entertained towards him were mixed a sensation almost of pity; he would have liked to throw himself at his feet, and clasping his knees, to cry: "Forgive me the sins I have committed against you!" But he felt rooted to the spot; his limbs would not obey him, or go the way he wished; his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth; he could utter nothing but: "You have still Elsa!" The General had remained standing before the life-sized pictures of his parents, which adorned one of the walls; an officer of rank in the uniform worn in the war of liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of that time, who strikingly resembled Elsa about the forehead and eyes.
"Who knows?" said he. He passed his hand over his forehead.
"It is late; two o'clock; and to-morrow will have its cares also. Will you be so good as to extinguish the gas-light above you? Have you got a light outside!"
"Yes, father."
"Good-night, then." He had himself extinguished the lamp in front of the looking-glass and taken up the other one. "You may go." Ottomar longed to ask for his hand, but he dared not, and with a good-night that sounded defiant, because he was ready to burst into tears, he moved towards the door. His father stopped at the door of his bedroom: "One thing more! I had forgotten to say that I reserve to myself the right of taking the next step. As you have delayed so long in taking the initiative, you will not refuse to grant me this favour. I shall of course keep youau courant. I beg that you will meantime take no step without my knowledge. We must at least act in concert, now we have come to an understanding." He said the last words with a sort of melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer and rushed out of the room. The General also had his hand on the door; but when Ottomar had disappeared he drew it back, carried the lamp to the writing-table, and took out a casket in which he kept, amongst other ornaments of little value that had belonged to his dead wife and his mother, the iron rings that his parents had worn during the war of liberation. He took out the rings.
"Times have altered," he said, "not improved. What, ah! what has become of your piety, your dutifulness, your chaste simplicity, your holy self-sacrifice? I have honestly endeavoured to emulate you, to be the worthy son of a race that knew no fame but the courage of its men and the virtue of its women. How have I sinned that I should be so punished?" He kissed the rings and laid them in the casket; and took from amongst several miniatures on ivory, one of a beautiful brown-eyed, brown-haired boy about six years old. He gazed long and immovably at it.
"The male line of the Werbens would die out with him, and--he was my darling. Perhaps I am punished because I was so unspeakably proud of him."
"Why did my brother ring for his coffee at four o'clock!" asked Aunt Rikchen in the kitchen.
"I do not know," answered Grollmann.
"You never do know anything," said Aunt Rikchen. Grollmann shrugged his shoulders, took the tray on which the second breakfast was prepared for his master and left the room, but came back in a few minutes and set down the tray, as he had taken it away, on the dresser.
"Well?" asked Aunt Rikchen irritably, "is it wrong again?"
"My master is asleep," said Grollmann. Aunt Rikchen in her astonishment almost dropped the coffee-pot from which she had just poured Reinhold's coffee. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "how can my brother sleep at this hour! He has never in his whole life done such a thing before. Is he ill?"
"I don't think so," said Grollmann.
"Has anything happened this morning?"
"This morning, no."
"Or yesterday evening?" asked Aunt Rikchen, whose sharp ears had detected the short pause which Grollmann had made between "this morning" and "no."
"I suppose so," said Grollmann, staring before him, while the wrinkles in his weather-beaten face seemed to deepen every moment.
"Miserable man, tell me at once!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen, seizing the old man by the arm and shaking him, as if she wished to shake his secret out of him.
"I know nothing," said Grollmann, freeing himself; "is the coffee ready for the Captain?"
"Why does my nephew want it in his room to-day?" asked Aunt Rikchen.
"I don't know," answered Grollmann, slipping away with the coffee, as he had done before with the breakfast-tray.
"He is a horrid man," said Aunt Rikchen; "he will be the death of me some day, with his mysteries. He shall tell me when he comes back." But Grollmann did not come back, although Aunt Rikchen almost tore down the bell-rope. Aunt Rikchen was very angry, and would have been furious if she had heard Grollmann relating above to Reinhold unasked, with the minutest details, what he would not have told her for any money.
"For you see, sir," said Grollmann, "she is so good in other respects, Fräulein Frederike; but what she knows she must tell, sooner or later, if it cost her her life; and the master cannot bear that, especially from his sister, and we are the sufferers."
"What did happen?" asked Reinhold.
"This was it," said the old man. "About twelve o'clock last night he came back from the second meeting of the manufacturers; I lighted him to his room, as usual, turned up the lamps in his study, and went into his bedroom to shut the windows, which always stay open till he goes to bed, winter and summer; and there, close to the window, on the floor, lay, what I took at first for a piece of paper, till I took it up and found that it was a regular letter, which somebody must have thrown in from the street, and the small stone that had been fastened to it by a bit of packthread lay close by. I hesitated for a minute or two whether I would not hide the letter, without saying anything to the master, till it occurred to me that the letter might possibly be from a friend, and contain information of something which the master ought to know--a fire, an attempt at murder, or God knows what, of which the rabble are quite capable; so I took it in to the master and told him where and how I had just found it. The master just looked at the address and said: 'That is written in a disguised hand; I will have nothing to do with it; throw it into the fire.' But I urged him so that he at length gave way and opened the letter. The master was standing at one side of the table and I at the other, and of course I could see his face while he was reading; and I was terribly alarmed, for the blood rushed to his head, and the hand in which he held the letter trembled so, that I thought, begging your pardon, that he was going to have a fit. But it passed off; the master only let fall the letter and said: 'It is nonsense; I knew it before. They will not burn the house over our heads; you may go to bed in peace.' I went, but I was not in peace, and was not much surprised when the master rang for me this morning at half-past three--he is always particularly early when he has had any trouble or annoyance in the evening, or if he has anything in particular on his mind. This time it must have been something very bad; the master was in exactly the same dress in which he had come home yesterday evening, and the bed had not been touched. On the other hand, the bottle of wine which I always put in his room at night, and out of which he generally drinks only a glass or two, sometimes nothing at all, was empty to the very last drop; and he looked so wild and strange that I was naturally alarmed, and asked the same question that the Fräulein asked just now, if he was ill. He denied it however, said he had been very much vexed yesterday evening, and added something about the gentlemen who would not hear reason and were going to spoil all by their cowardice, and so on; but it all sounded confused and strange, as if, begging your pardon, he were not quite right in his head. I asked him if he would sleep now for a few hours, and was relieved when he lay down on the sofa and let me cover him up, saying, 'I wish to be woke at half-past eight, Grollmann.' And at half-past eight I went back again, but the coverlet lay on the ground near the sofa, and I saw at a glance that the master had not slept a minute. He had however washed and dressed himself, and now looked very ill. He said he had not been able to sleep, and had no time now. He wanted his breakfast in half an hour; at ten he had to be at another meeting, to which the workmen were going to send delegates. 'I promised to be there,' he said, 'though I had rather not go; I might meet some one there whom I had rather not meet to-day.' I did not dare to ask who the some one was, but I thought to myself, I am glad it is not me, for he gave a look, Captain, that filled me with terror. If he would only go to sleep now, thought I to myself, for while he was speaking he had sat down on the sofa and stared before him as if he were half asleep already. Well, Captain, and sure enough when I went in just now with the breakfast, quite quietly, he was sitting asleep in the corner of the sofa. For heaven's sake, let him sleep, thought I, slipping gently out of the room with my breakfast; and now I only ask, Captain, shall I wake him when it is time, or shall I let him sleep? He wants it, God knows."
"Let him sleep, Grollmann," said Reinhold, after a short pause; "I will take the blame on myself."
"He won't blame you," said Grollmann, passing his hand through his grey hair; "he thinks too much of you; I will risk it."
"Do so," said Reinhold, "on my authority, and do not trouble yourself any more about it. I am convinced that your first idea was correct, and that it was a threatening letter. You know my uncle; he fears nothing."
"God knows it," said Grollmann.
"But it has vexed and excited him still more, when he had already come back vexed and excited from the meeting. These are troublesome times for him, which must be gone through. We must be prepared for bad days till the good ones come again."
"If they ever do come," said Grollmann. The old man had left the room; Reinhold tried to return to the work he had begun, but he could not collect his thoughts. He had tried to comfort the old man, yet he himself now felt uneasy and troubled. If his uncle did not learn to moderate himself, if he continued to look and to treat in this passionately tragical way an affair which, near as it lay to his heart, was in fact a matter of business and must be considered from a sober, business-like point of view, the bad days might indeed last long, inconveniently long, for all concerned--"to whom I myself belong now," said Reinhold. He stood up and went to the window. It was a raw, disagreeable day. From the low-hanging clouds was falling a fine, cold rain; the tall trees rustled in the wind, and withered leaves were driven through the grey mist. How different had it looked when a few days ago--it was only a very few, though it seemed to him an eternity--he had looked down here one morning, for the first time. The sky had been such a lovely blue, and white clouds had stood in that blue sky so still, it seemed as if they could not weary of contemplating the beautiful sun-lighted earth, on which men, surrounded, indeed, by the smoke of chimneys and distracted by the noise of wheels and saws, must earn their bread in the sweat of their brow, though the sun shone brightly and the birds sang cheerily in the thick branches--that earth on which there was so much pleasure, and love, and blessed hope, even in the heart of a poor blind girl, and a thousand times more for him who saw all this beauty spread out before him, doubly glorious in the reflection of the love which shone and glittered through his heart as the sun through the dewdrops on the leaves. And because the sun was now for a time hidden behind a cloud, was all the glory passed away? Because a few hundred idle men had cast their tools from their horny hands, must every one feel life a burden, and refuse to carry that burden any longer? No; a thousand times no! The sun will shine again; the men will return to their duty; and you, happy man--thrice happy man--for whom the sun shines in spite of all in your innermost heart, return to your work, which for you is no hard duty, but rather a joy and an honour. Reinhold greeted with eyes and hand the neighbouring house, one window of which he had long ago discovered between the branches of the plane trees, which he watched more eagerly than any star; and then hoped that Ferdinanda, whom he suddenly perceived in the garden, would take his greeting to herself if she had seen him. She could hardly have seen the greeting, and could not even have seen him at the window as she walked up and down between the shrubs, under the rustling trees, without appearing to notice the rain which was falling on her. At any rate she was without hat, without umbrella, in her working dress, without even a shawl; sometimes standing still and gazing up into the driving clouds, then walking on again, her eyes turned to the ground, evidently sunk in the deepest thought.
"Curious people, those artists," thought Reinhold, while he seated himself again at his work. "What a fool you were to think that her heart could beat for any creature of flesh or blood, or, indeed, for anything but her Reaping Girl and Boy, if she has a heart at all." In the meantime Grollmann was standing undecided at the top of the staircase, before the door leading to his master's room. His conscience was not quite satisfied by Reinhold's assurance that he would take the responsibility on himself, if the master overslept himself. Should he go downstairs? should he go in? He must make up his mind; it was a quarter past nine. "If only something would occur to oblige me to wake him," said Grollmann. At that moment he heard the door open on the lower floor, and some one came up the stairs. Grollmann looked over the banisters; an officer--a general--the old General from over the way. "That is curious," thought Grollmann, and stood at attention, as was fitting in an old servant who had been a soldier. The General had come up the stairs. "I wish to speak to Herr Schmidt; will you announce me?"
"It is not exactly his hour for receiving," said Grollmann; "and----"
"Perhaps he will receive me, however, if you tell him that I have come on most important business; here is my card."
"It is not necessary, General. I have the honour, General----"
"Take the card, all the same." Grollmann held the card undecided in his hand; but, if the business was so important--and he could not very well send a general unceremoniously away. "Will you excuse me a minute. General?" The old man slipped through the door. The General looked gloomily around on the broad carpeted marble steps with their gilt banisters, on the dark, gilded folding-doors which led on three sides out of the gallery in which he stood, while the fourth wall, in which was the window, was decorated with magnificent plants; on the polished stucco walls, on the richly decorated ceiling.
"I wish the man lived in a plainer house," murmured the General.
"Will you step this way, sir?" Grollmann had his hand on the door. "He has not slept all night," he whispered, as if he must apologise for his master, who would probably not do so for himself.
"I have not slept either," answered the General with a melancholy smile, as he walked with a firm, quiet step through the door, which the old man now opened and shut after him.