He hastily lighted a candle, took a small portfolio out of his traveling satchel and wrote a few lines to inform Mohr where he was to be found, in case his friend did not prefer to await his return, which he hoped would be speedy, at the hotel. "It would be best," he concluded, "for you to follow me at once, and take me away from the castle, where the duties of friendship and a vain hope of being useful, may perhaps detain me longer than I desire." He had just folded this note, to leave it in the hotel, and was looking at his letter to Leah, irresolute whether or not to open it and add a postscript, when he heard steps on the stairs and directly after Marquard entered with the count.
His first emotion was that of surprise, at seeing the very face he had imagined whenever he thought of his rival--the insipid regularity of the features, the haughty pose of the head, the hair already thin and streaked with grey, while a thick, carefully trimmed beard covered the cheeks and chin, the whole appearance indicating the scion of a noble house and the heir of large estates. But the bright light that fell upon his countenance revealed also traces of secret suffering, which weighed down the eyelids and compressed the lips. The painful suspense with which Edwin had awaited the man he had so long avoided, instantly disappeared. It cost him no effort to take the hand which his old antagonist frankly extended, and he returned its pressure without any feeling of bitterness.
"We both know enough of each other to meet, even at the first interview, as old acquaintances," said the count. "Our friend Doctor Marquard, has told you the sad circumstances which induced me to ask his advice. Unfortunately, he has been forced to confirm my fear that his science has no means of reaching this obstinate disease. In such cases we usually take refuge in all sorts of miraculous remedies, and I confess I'm not sufficiently free from superstition, to refuse to consult, if necessary, some old astrologist, or some woman who deals in herbs. But before proceeding to such extreme measures, I should like to try a better remedy. I know you were on very intimate terms with the countess before she became my wife. She told me at the time, that there was no man for whom she felt more esteem, nay reverence, than for yourself; perhaps for that very reason another man would inform anyone, rather than you, of his domestic unhappiness. But I believe you to be a man of honor, Herr Doctor, and therefore incapable of entering my house with selfish and malevolent joy to meet the woman who has not made your rival happy. Besides, my state of mind is such that I no longer care for myself, that I would risk everything to avert, if possible, the terrible misfortune that threatens my wife. I shall consider it a great proof of friendship, if you will go with me and after watching the patient for a time, give me your opinion of her. If you should succeed--" He paused and turned away. "However," he continued in a much more formal tone, "I've no excuse whatever for asking such a favor, and in case your time should not permit--"
"I'm entirely ready to go with you, Herr Count," replied Edwin. "But I repeat what I've already told my friend--I go without any delusion that I can exert any influence over the countess' mind. As in the old days, in spite of her great confidence, she remained a mystery to me, I fear that now, too, all my psychology will be baffled by the same problem. But precisely because I stand in such a peculiar relation toward you, you shall at least not be permitted to doubt my good will."
He took his hat and cane, passed the strap of his traveling satchel over his shoulder, and opened the door. The three men walked down stairs in silence side by side.
An elegant two seated hunting carriage was standing before the door of the hotel; the long limbed young man in a green livery embroidered with silver, who held the reins of the fiery horses which impatiently pawed the ground, fixed his round blue eyes with embarrassed delight on his old acquaintance, who nodded kindly to him as he came out of the house. Marquard was right, little Jean's body had grown, but the rosy beardless face remained unchanged. Edwin handed to the landlord for mailing, the letter he had written Leah, gave him the necessary information about Mohr's note, pressed Marquard's hand again and sprang into the carriage. The count followed, took the reins from Jean who sat behind, and waving his whip to the physician, spoke to the horses, which impatiently dashed forward with the light vehicle.
"You'll make allowance for me, and pardon me if I seem silent or abstracted," said the count, as soon as they had turned from the paved streets into the softer forest road. "I've two new horses, which I'm trying for the first time, and I must keep them well in hand. They're full blooded Trakehners, but still somewhat young and untrained. Do you take any interest in horses?"
"Yes, an interest, but I'm so ignorant that I should be laughed at by all connoisseurs. The Great Elector's steed on the long bridge is to me the crown of his race, and only now and then I find among brewer's horses a specimen, that distantly reminds me of this ideal."
"That breed is scarcely used now, except for certain purposes," replied the count gravely. "There's even a prejudice that muscular strength bears a necessary relation to coarseness. The capacity to use strength is the principal thing, and for that, thick fetlocks and broad chests are not always requisite. Ho! ho!"--he shouted, as the horse on the right did not know what to do with himself in his wanton caracoles. He made the beautiful animals walk for some distance, standing erect as he watched their pace with the eye of a connoisseur. When they had grown more quiet and yielded to his firm hand, he resumed his seat beside Edwin, and allowed them to trot.
Field after field, and forest after forest, tiny villages and lonely huts flitted past them; the air grew no cooler, but the earth grew darker, and the sky lighter. The horses dashed onward with their silent load; the deep stillness of the summer night enwrapped them; over the black tree tops hung the tender crescent of the moon, and now and then a flash of light lit up the firmament, as if from a distant thunder cloud; a dreamy, quiet mood stole over our friend, the subdued happiness of a half dormant soul; in such a state we do not take either joys or sorrows seriously and are scarcely surprised at the occurrence of the most fabulous things. For years he had not uttered Toinette's name; her image had become as dim in his memory as if she were no more real than a character in some book of fiction; and now he was driving toward her, who doubtless had as little expectation of such a meeting as he himself had entertained an hour ago. He wondered if he should find her so changed and why they fancied he would perform a miracle by acting upon her strange moods, he who felt that all the ties that had once bound him to her, were so utterly sundered.
He was surprised at the entire absence of anxiety with which he looked forward to the moment when he was to see her again. He rejoiced in this calmness. "If it had been an elementary power, to which I submitted in those days," he thought, "the poison would now seethe in my blood again. Though the iron be separated from the magnet a hundred years, it quickly becomes conscious of its approach. True, happiness has changed me much since then, so far as a man's nature can be changed and I am calmed and strengthened. What will Leah say, when I tell her about it!"
He could not forbare to wonder at the singular circumstances, which had decreed that the most unprejudiced witness of those past events, should be the very one to recognize him and thereby restore to his mistress her old friend. The old question of the connection between earthly destinies once more rose before his mind. "Is this an intentional exercise of some will that rules and guides our souls, or do we separate and meet again like the waves of the sea, which obey only the ebb and flow of the tide?"
Again he left these questions unsolved and became wholly absorbed in the enjoyment of the moment. His companion did not disturb him. The duties of a driver claimed his attention more and more, for the moon grew brighter and the fiery young animals often shied and reared at the sight of some, to them, mysterious object. For a time Edwin closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool night air which refreshed him like a bath, after the toilsome walk he had taken during the day. When, roused by a sudden jolt of the carriage, he again opened his eyes, he was amazed at the wondrous beauty of the scene. Before him, probably at the distance of a fifteen minutes drive, on a bold height appeared the battlements and pinnacles of a castle, to which a broad wide avenue led through the dark forests. The roofs glittered in the moonlight as if coated with silver, and when the wind moved the vanes, lines of light darted from their sharp edges like falling stars. All the windows seemed to be dark, no living thing seemed to be moving within; it was like some enchanted palace. But when the light carriage, despite the rising ground, had traversed the avenue through the forest at full speed, and entered the courtyard through a lofty portal, flanked by two griffens bearing coats of arms, there was a confusion of voices, mingled with the barking of dogs, lackeys bearing torches rushed out of the lofty and brilliantly lighted hall to meet the two gentlemen, a portly butler in a black coat and white cravat appeared at the carriage door and helped the stranger to descend, while the count threw the reins to a stable boy and said to the head groom, in excellent English, a few words about the first trial of the new horses. Then he too sprang out of the carriage and overtook his guest on the upper step.
"My dear Herr Doctor," said he, putting his arm through Edwin's with condescending familiarity, "I welcome you on the threshold of my home. I hope you may remain here some time, and only regret"--here he lowered his voice--"that I cannot present you to the countess to-day. She has entirely withdrawn from all our evening assemblies, and only occasionally appears at dinner. I hope the visit of an old friend may induce her to make an exception in his favor to-morrow. For to-day, you must be satisfied with masculine society. Have the gentlemen come down?" he asked, turning to the butler who, holding a silver candlestick, was preceding the gentlemen up the already brilliantly lighted marble staircase.
"Five minutes ago. Your Excellency."
"Then we'll not keep them waiting. But perhaps, Herr Doctor, before we sit down to supper, you'll wish to retire to your room a moment."
Edwin smiled. "I'm not able to make an elaborate toilette," he said glancing at his traveling satchel, which a servant was carrying after him. "You must apologize to your guests, Herr Count, for picking up a simple wayfarer and bringing him under your stately roof."
"No ceremony among friends," replied the count, still with the same immovably courteous face. "You'll find us too entirelysans gêne; some of my neighbors have ridden over in their hunting suits, as we have a deer hunt early to-morrow morning and I hope you'll give us the pleasure of your company on the occasion."
He did not wait for a reply, but approached the large folding doors, which were hastily thrown open by two footmen, and which admitted them to the broad, carpeted ante-room of the first story. With an easy, friendly gesture, the count invited Edwin to precede him, and they entered the lofty dining hall.
Several slender tawny greyhounds came bounding toward them and completed the illusion that they were entering a banqueting hall of therococotimes. The room was spacious and lofty, of an oblong shape, with rounded corners adorned in the richest style of the last century with gilded stucco-work and huge pier glasses which reflected the light of the candles in the large glass chandelier and the glittering silver on the table. At the other end of the apartment a glass door opened upon a balcony, and this, like the two windows on each side, afforded a view of the park, whose majestic trees towered above the long clipped hedges and arbors. Nothing recalled the present century except an elegant piano, at which a young man sat who failed to hear the entrance of the master of the house and his guest, amid the noise made by his dashing passages.
The others, who appeared to have been waiting some time, instantly turned toward the door, and one after another was greeted by the count and introduced to Edwin. Suddenly the musician paused, started up and with great cordiality, hurried toward the count. He was a handsome young man, in whom, despite his civilian's dress, the cavalry officer was recognizable at the first glance, and whom the count introduced as his cousin, Count Gaston. He seemed to feel perfectly at home, and even at the table, where with amicable familiarity he drew Edwin down by his side, almost wholly supported the conversation, which as usual turned upon women, horses, and hunting.
When the champagne, which was not spared, began to heat the brains and loosen the tongues of even the quieter members of the company, the young gentleman turned to his neighbor, who had hitherto been a silent listener, and said in a low tone:
"There! I've done my share by dint of friction, in putting some enthusiasm into these wooden images and now the champagne must keep it up. I hope, my dear sir, you don't suppose I enjoy this insipid gabble. But what would you have? See how my cousin, the count, sits at his own table with a face like the statue of the Commandant. If I don't victimize myself and talk nonsense, the supper will be as tiresome and silent as a funeral feast. So I must introduce subjects that amuse the gentlemen, even though they may be terribly out of taste. But now let's renew our acquaintance. Of course you don't remember our meeting a few years ago in Berlin, at the rooms of one of my intimate friends, young Baron L., to whom you were acting as private tutor, while he was preparing to pass his examination for one of the higher government offices. He's now Secretary of Legation at Constantinople, and I hope does honor to your teaching. I am still what I was then, a man who learns nothing in any school, except that of life. There must be such odd sticks! But I can tell you, I no longer sit quite at the bottom of the class in my school; for instance, I have long since left behind the tasks at which our worthy companions are perspiring. You've been introduced to them all after the ridiculous fashion of murmuring a name. Allow me to make, you better acquainted with individuals. My left hand neighbor, who is addressed as Herr Colonel, is, as you've doubtless already supposed from his prominent cheek bones and peculiar accent, of Slavonian descent; a Pole of the good old race of Oginsky, who,as he says, having been compelled through a disagreement with the Russian authorities, to enter the Austrian service, was promoted in the Italian war to the rank of colonel; then,as he says, honorably discharged in consequence of a wound in the foot. He has already stayed several months with my cousin, as,so he says, a civil office has been offered him in France, and he's only obliged to wait for his Polish papers before becoming a naturalized citizen of that country. As he's an excellent judge of horses, a tolerably good huntsman, and an adept in all games of chance, my cousin has no reason to doubt the existence of these papers, and I of course still less. His next neighbor, the elegant gentleman of uncertain age, uncertain glance, and very certain doubtful movements of the fingers, which suggest great skill in tricks with cards, is, to speak frankly, what we call in plain prose, a blackleg, a Parisian acquaintance of my cousin, whom he invited here and can't shake off again, much as I've urged him to do so. But he seems to have his reasons for handling this Chevalier de Marsan--the only person here with whom I never exchange a syllable--with gloved hands, while I would show him the door without ceremony. My dear doctor, there are more doubtful personages between heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy. A real antidote to this corrosive sublimate pill, which I am daily compelled to swallow, is the stout gentleman on the other side of my cousin, a plebeian owner of an ancient estate, who married the daughter of an immensely rich banker; his wife never appears among us, probably because he's ashamed of her manners, which are not exactly suited to a drawing room; but nevertheless, as you see, he's an excellent man, an admirable landlord, a great huntsman, and a lover of old wine and old stories, in short, the most appreciative of auditors for my witticisms. You've heard how he can laugh. I once made a bet that I could make him laugh till he rolled under the table, merely by telling stories of great eaters, and to be sure, at the end of an hour, he lay gasping on the floor; we were actually afraid of a fit of apoplexy. Beside this harmless mortal and directly opposite you, sit two no less worthy specimens of the creatures of God, who, however, can hardly be very proud of these, his images. Did you ever see two people so exactly alike? They look as if they'd just stepped out of Pletsch, don't they? The same short, fair hair, the same low brows, small noses, close cropped brushes on the upper lip, and solemn faces when everyone else is roaring with laughter, which proves them very dull of comprehension. When they stand up, you'll see that both are very tall men. Moreover, these same brothers, Thaddäus and Matthäus von der Wende are noblemen of a most ancient family. It's seldom that twins have so much fraternel affection. Each is perfectly satisfied with half the usual portion of common sense, and carefully guards against becoming wiser than the other. We call them the Siamese twins, although they're not united by means of any corporal bond, and of course there can be no question of an intellectual one. However, they're rich and well bred and never annoy anyone. Next comes a short, rather high shouldered gentleman about fifty, with a white tie and crafty, humble smile, who says little, eats a great deal, and hears everything. Don't get his ill will, he's a piece of old family furniture, and was the physician, confidant, etc., of the late countess; he is called Dr. Basler, and I'd as readily trust my person to his physic, as my reputation to his tongue. Beside him sits the steward, who'll join the hunting party to-morrow and always drinks with us the night before, and the silent gentleman on your other side is my cousin's private secretary, an honest, clever soul, but afflicted with an unfortunate hobby. He's trying to find the secret of perpetual motion. There, now! you know the people assembled within this ancient house--even to the crown jewel," he added with a sigh, "which unfortunately disdains to shine except on gala days."
"Are you speaking of the countess? I knew her several years ago, before her marriage."
"And have not seen her since? Then you'll not recognize her. I confess that upon first sight she made a great impression upon me. I was prejudiced against the marriage, which I thought was a rash step on the part of my dear cousin, after the style of his formerliaisons. Unequal marriages always have their difficulties, although of course I'm sufficiently enlightened not to believe in 'blue blood.' But we see every day, how uncomfortable it is for people of position to receive into their circle a worthy little goose who feels 'honored' to live under the shadow of a pedigree centuries old, or a pretentious heiress, or any of the ordinary people whom it's all very well to love, but who are too good or too bad to marry. It's easiest to get along with actresses, opera singers--or for aught I care, ballet dancers. They at least possess style,savoir faire, self-possession, and know us well enough not to think us wholly unlike other human beings. But a ballet master's daughter from a little provincial town--I didn't hear of the princely paternity until afterwards--I confess I was furious. I love this family seat, and have enjoyed spending a few months of every year here, away from the gayety of the capital. Now, I thought, I should be compelled to see aroturièredo the honors. But after the first interview my feelings were entirely changed. Whoever her mother may have been, she at least didn't belie the father's blood. And yet--at that time she was but in the bud compared to the centifolia into which she has since expanded. Pardon me if I threaten to become poetical. Between ourselves--or even not between ourselves, since it's public talk--my unfortunate passion for my beautiful cousin, which is as hopeless as if I were in love with the Venus of Milo, has had so great an influence upon the development of my character, that I can truly say I'm no more like the man you met at little Baron L's., than an Ionic column is like a hedge pole."
"Your poetic fervor, Herr Count, has at least the merit of a certain impressiveness of style. But in what consists, if I may ask--"
"You're making sport of me, my honored sir. I still seem to you a frivolous nobleman, a child of the world, with whom a grave man of your stamp can at the utmost only chat away an hour at table. But learn to know me better. This lady first opened my eyes to the fact that the real charm of life consists in something forever unattainable, a yearning that is ever unfulfilled. Are you familiar with Richard Wagner's music? What I've just said of life he has striven to suggest in art. For in what does the secret of melody consist? Take Mozart, Glück, the Italian composers--there everything is complete, every piece has its beginning, its middle and its end, exactly like ordinary love affairs. We are allured, we enjoy, and we grow weary--voilà tout, and if the music or the girl is beautiful, after a time we're again allured--a new aria, a new ecstacy--and so on indefinitely till the world tires us and our hair grows grey. This is the usual course of life and art. But now think of a hopeless passion, such as I've felt for years. I feel the same that I hear when I listen to Tristram and Yseult--eternal longing, yearning and sighing, never repose and satisfaction, a mere analysis of dissonances, and withal a tumult of ecstacy in all the instruments, in which at last, as in a dream of love, sight and hearing disappear and we're fairly beside ourselves with restless longing, infinite melody, and voluptuous exhaustion. This is the secret of the success this great man has obtained--emotion increased to the utter exhaustion of all strength and constantly subduing the poor, coarse senses--appetite continually excited without being satisfied in the usual way--a sort of pathetic cancan, a musical hasheesh intoxication. And even in the choice of the text, the moral qualities of the characters, what consummate art is shown in the avoidance of everything palpable, simple, and true to nature; everything of which the ordinary human mind can form some distinct conception! Take Don Giovanni--there you know exactly where you are. From the peasant to the nobleman, from the light minded peasant girl to the noble lady--the characters are perfectly natural, people with flesh and bones, and red blood in their veins. I know them as well as if I'd lived in the same house with them. The characters of Wagner's music, on the contrary--why you might see the same opera ten times and be no whit wiser about these swan knights, gods, and flying Dutchmen, than at the first representation. I call this boundless characterization, and it supplements the boundless melody. And to enjoy such an endless master-piece, and in the meantime to brood over an endless passion, the one as hopeless and alluring as the other--"
The conversation, which also threatened to become "boundless," was here interrupted by the master of the house, who rose, bowed to his guests, and with a courteous wave of the hand invited them to follow him into the little drawing room adjoining the dining hall. Here there were several card tables, a magnificent silver bowl containing punch, several open boxes of cigars, and other paraphernalia for smoking. While the count, with the Polish colonel and French chevalier, were preparing to begin a game of hazard, in which no one else seemed disposed to join, the fat landed proprietor became absorbed in a conversation on agriculture with the steward, now and then asking the silent secretary for his opinion, which the latter always gave with the same grave bend of the head, often refilling his glass from the silver bowl. The inseparable brothers Thaddäus and Matthäus had stationed themselves behind the card players and gravely watched the alternations of luck. Count Gaston had returned to the dining hall and seated himself at the piano, evidently in the hope that his neighbor at table would follow and allow him to give a musical commentary on his knowledge of art and life. But Edwin was compelled to forego this instructive pleasure; for the little man with the high shoulders and clever old face, whom Gaston had introduced as the family physician, approached him and asked in his low courteous voice, if he was not the son of one of his college classmates who had suddenly abandoned the profession of law to marry a very beautiful wife. He had been struck by the resemblance before he heard the name. When Edwin answered in the affirmative, the little man became very confidential, and after inquiring very particularly about his old friend, acquainted the son with his own circumstances.
When a student of theology, somewhat advanced in life, he had entered the household to assist in educating the young count, who was then about six years old. The countess, already a widow, had taken a fancy to the clever man, who was better versed in every other department than that of theology--a fancy, which in spite of the tutor's insignificant appearance, seemed to have ripened into a still warmer feeling. Not a syllable on the part of the discreet speaker, only a peculiar glance from his piercing eyes conveyed this inference. As his prospect of advancement in his real profession became poorer and poorer, an old predilection for physical science obtained a stronger hold upon his mind; the idea of going to Berlin occurred to him, and he studied anatomy there for several years, absorbed all sorts of surgical knowledge, and at last, as the countess would not consent to dispense with his services any longer, returned to the castle with the title of doctor somewhat doubtfully obtained, but a most undoubted salary as physician-in-ordinary, as his former pupil had left home some time before to complete his education by foreign travel.
He had understood the art of maintaining his position, even after the death of his patroness; he had sustained it principally it appeared, by a marriage with the countess' by no means youthful waiting maid andconfidante. He spoke of this union with a lofty and sarcastic smile, that like many other things in the clever man, greatly disgusted Edwin. The gentleman seemed to perceive the impression his confidential communications were making on his hearer. "My dear Herr Doctor," said he, "you're still a young man, and have always been independent. You can scarcely imagine how the habit of accommodating one's self to others, and not being over rigorous, will in time degrade a man who originally is by no means a scoundrel. Ah me! when I think of the days when, with your dead father, I still worked toward our so-called ideals! Yet he died a bookkeeper, and I've written prescriptions in which I felt no faith. The longer one lives, the more plainly one perceives that there are very few mortals so happy as never to be placed in a false position, and that since it's a man's duty to preserve his life, there's but a single weakness that dishonors him: to believe what is false to be true. A pastor who assumes the duties of his parish a disbeliever in revealed religion, and gradually allows the voice of reason to grow weaker and ends by accepting the tenets of the faith he preaches, or a physician who begins the practice of his profession by disbelief in his own powers and ends by using his salves and plasters with a look of grave importance not wholly assumed--they falsify themselves and are utterly contemptible. But he, who in a world that is only too willing to be cheated, does not befool honest individuals, but swindles men in the gross, and meantime is ready at any moment, like the Roman augur, to laugh in unison with other clever men, seems to me to play his part as a weak mortal very tolerably. There was a famous Berlin doctor here yesterday, Herr Marquard, who's perhaps known to you by reputation. He performs on a large scale, what I practice here on a small one, and the fact of his being more learned is rather troublesome to him than otherwise, since each individual case gives him scores of things to reflect upon. But he's a clever man, and after the first fifteen minutes we no longer tried to impose upon each other. The gentleman was no more successful with the young countess than I, but she didn't make him feel her contempt so keenly as she did my insignificant self. Well, as you see, my back is naturally more bent than my colleague's. I can take more on my high shoulders."
He laughed softly, but seemed surprised when Edwin's only reply to his extreme outspokeness was a curt: "Every one is entitled to his own opinions!" During the doctor's cautiously whispered speech, our friend had glanced from one member of the company to the other and said to himself: "These are the people with whose companionship she has been obliged to be satisfied for four long years!" The thought aroused within him an unspeakable sense of oppression, sorrow, and indignation. He took advantage of a pause in the card playing, to approach the count, and pleading that he was fatigued by his pedestrian tour, to take leave of him for the night. The count looked at him absently a moment, as if he were some stranger whose face he could not instantly recall, then pressed his hand with marked cordiality and apologized for having enjoyed so little of his society that evening. He hoped to make up for the loss on the morrow. Then he motioned the butler to show the guest to his room, and returned to his game, in which fortune, to judge from the piles of gold before his companions, turned her back on him as usual.
The room to which Edwin was conducted, was situated in a wing of some considerable length, a modern addition to the old castle, which had completely destroyed the symmetry of the rear of the edifice. The windows looked out upon the park, and on the other side a small staircase led down into the courtyard, which was surrounded by domestic offices, so that from thence the apartments in this one story wing could be reached without using the stairs and corridors of the castle.
The sun must have found free admittance to Edwin's room all day, for an oppressive atmosphere greeted him, which was not improved even after he had thrown both windows wide open. But under any circumstances, it would have been long ere he could have attempted to go to sleep. The events of the day and the anticipation of the morrow quickened his pulses. He went to the window and gazed out into the garden, where the lofty jet of a fountain fell into a basin lined with shells. The windows and balcony of the dining hall projected in softly rounded lines from the facade, now but dimly illuminated by a moon that was about to sink below the horizon. The remainder of the edifice lay in shadow, but in the other wing of the castle two lofty windows in the second story were brightly lighted. He did not doubt for a moment thatsheoccupied them. How many evenings he had gazed up at her windows in Jägerstrasse; now he found her here, once more in the count's rooms, this time of her own free will, and yet--
Voices in the corridor aroused him from the reverie into which this comparison had thrown him. The other guests were retiring to their rooms; Edwin distinctly recognized the different voices as they bade each other good night, and learned by the uniform double step, that the brothers Thaddäus and Matthäus occupied the room on his right, while that on his left was assigned to the fat landed proprietor. His right hand neighbors were perfectly quiet, and if their thoughts were as much alike as their faces, they could not have profited by any exchange. The stout gentleman was more troublesome. After spending half an hour in undressing, during which he whistled, muttered to himself, and several times, as if recollecting some story he had heard in the evening, burst into a roar of laughter, he at last threw himself on his bed so heavily, that it creakingly threatened to break under the burden, and almost instantly began to snore so persistently, and in such a variety of tones, that Edwin, who had been about to undress, renounced all idea of doing so and determined to spend the night in an arm-chair at the open window.
But even this became at last unendurable, and moreover the moist breath of the fountain allured him out into the silent night. He left the room without his hat and soon descended the little staircase and opened the door, which he found fastened with only a light bolt.
The courtyard lay as silent and deserted in the faint glimmering moonlight, as the garden on the opposite side. In order to reach the latter, he was obliged to pass around the whole wing, the stables, and the servant's rooms. As he glided by the little windows, he saw a dim light twinkling in one and involuntarily paused before it. He could look into a narrow chamber, where a young girl was sleeping, not in her bed, but on a stool before a low table, with her head leaning against the wall. A lantern beside her revealed her round, pretty face and graceful figure. She did not seem to have fallen asleep over her work, but while waiting for something or some one. The step pausing before her window roused her. She started up, hastily pushed her hair back from her forehead, and exclaimed as if still half asleep: "Is it you, Your Excellency?" Suddenly seeming to distinguish the strange face, she uttered a low exclamation, and upset the lantern. Then all was still.
Edwin walked on, wondering which of his table companions was the happy man expected. But when he passed through the courtyard gate into the park, all these thoughts vanished, and the magic of the silent night took complete possession of his senses.
He rested for some time on a bench near the fountain, cooling his hot brow in the spray that filled the air around him; then walked aimlessly down the principal avenue, and at last plunged into the more secluded portions of the park, where only a faint glimmer of moonlight pierced through the branches of the tall trees. Neatly kept paths ran in various directions, here and there stood a bench, a summer house, an umbrella-like tent, all tokens that the wanderer was not in the wild forest. Even the stream he now found, flowed between low, regularly formed banks, and was crossed at intervals by small bridges. Edwin turned into the narrow gravel walk beside the noiseless water, but the brook suddenly made a wide curve and ran under a high palisade, which surrounded a pond. At this spot the woods were less dense, and the stars were mirrored in the smooth surface of the little lake. Edwin walked around the enclosure, hoping to find an entrance. He thought of a bath here was tempting, and he saw at the end of the pond, under some tall shrubbery, a little building that was evidently used for this purpose. But a small entrance gate, which after some search he at last found, was securely locked, and he was about to give up his intention and return to the path, when he perceived a place in the palisade where the stakes stood so far apart that a deer, in case of necessity, could pass through. Urged on by his desire to bathe, he endeavored to widen the hole, and at last with some difficulty, succeeded in forcing his way through the opening.
He now went directly to the little building, but found it locked. The shore here, which was overgrown with bushes and marshy plants, was not suitable for bathing, but the opposite side, where a meadow sloped gently down to the water, seemed very well adapted to the purpose, and he bent his steps toward it. A feeling of strange delight stole over him, as he walked on through the soft night air, beside the still, dark water, from which no sound was heard save the melancholy croaking of a frog. A few tall trees stood at the end of the little lake, and some low bushes clustered around their roots. He determined to undress behind this natural screen.
But he had not even commenced, when he saw on the opposite shore dark figures approaching along the path by which he himself had come. As they neared the palisade, he also heard low voices, which grew more audible as they reached the little gate. Directly after a key rattled in the lock, and he saw two muffled figures enter the enclosure, which was lighted by the moonbeams--female figures wrapped in long black cloaks with hoods--who, after securing the gate behind them, turned toward the little bathing house.
He fairly gasped for breath, and began to consider whether he should have time and opportunity to retreat unobserved through the opening in the fence. But this seemed to be a dangerous venture. From the spot where he stood, to the low bushes that grew along the enclosure, there was not a tree or shrub to conceal him. And if he should be discovered--in what a light would his nocturnal entrance into this carefully guarded precinct appear!
But before he could think of any other expedient, all time for reflection was over. The door of the bathing house was opened and a slender white figure, whose unbound hair fell over her arms and shoulders, appeared on the upper step of the little flight of stairs that led into the lake. She raised her head and looked up for a moment toward the night sky, which had become slightly overcast, then let the bathing cloak wrapped around her fall, and stooped to the water to wet her forehead and breast, the next instant she sprang down the steps, disappeared a few seconds and then, shaking her dripping locks, rose to the surface.
Her companion appeared at the doorway and called out to her, Edwin could not distinguish her words but the bather replied in a smothered voice. Then both were silent. The swimmer divided the water with long, steady strokes, at intervals raising her head and shoulders above the surface to shake back the thick hair from her brow. Her face looked dazzling white in the dim light of the setting moon, but the middle of the pond, to which she had swum, was too far from the trees on the meadow, for any one standing there to obtain a distinct view of her features. Thus the mysterious nixie swam up and down the lake ten or twelve times, in the profoundest silence. Her companion had retired to the little house, and none but she seemed to be breathing in the forest solitude. Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the pond, not a leaf fell from the trees; the croaking of the frog had ceased; only at intervals, when the swimmer made a quick turn the water rippled audibly and the rushes along the shore swayed to and fro.
At last she seemed to grow weary, and lying on her back, floated for a time in a circle, so that only a little of the pale face appeared above the water. While so doing she came so near the shore, that the watcher behind the boughs could see the delicate white outline of the profile relieved against the dark water, and distinctly perceived how the eyes, raised quietly toward the night heavens, flashed with a peculiar light.
He had not doubted from the first moment the identity of the swimmer, and his heart leaped into his throat, as he recognized again the never to be forgotten face.
Finally as if the lake wished to draw the motionless figure down into its depths, the head sank lower and lower in the noiseless waves, as if resting on the softest pillows. At last the water rushed and whirled around the sinking form; she hastily turned and with powerful strokes swam back toward the steps.
Her companion was waiting, holding in her hands a large white linen cloak, which she threw over the swimmer as she ascended the stairs. The next moment both disappeared within the little house. The door, it is true, remained half open, but in the darkness it was impossible to distinguish anything within.
Ten minutes more elapsed, then the two muffled figures again appeared and proceeding to the gate of the enclosure, opened it, relocked it, and then retired along the foot path by which they had come.
A long time passed ere the secret witness of this scene left the spot through the hole in the enclosure of the pond. As soon as he found himself alone, he had instantly plunged into the waves, but it scarcely calmed the strange tumult in his blood. As the rising night-wind now tossed his wet hair and blew against his breast, it seemed as if instead of cooling him, it was trying to fan the glimmering sparks in the ashes of his memory.
He started at the thought and involuntarily paused, as something warned him not to return to the castle. "No," he said to himself, "that would be too cowardly, too pitiful. Four years, four such happy years--could I again be the old defenceless fool? And all for a pair of white arms and two nixie eyes? What power would man have over his own soul if the forces of nature could never be successfully battled against? No, brave heart, we will not evade the struggle."
He returned to the courtyard gate, after a long stroll in the park, which had thoroughly exhausted him. It was about two o'clock in the morning; the light in the countess' rooms was extinguished. Just as he was about to enter, he saw a man step cautiously out of the door of the room where the young girl slept and linger on the threshold a moment, as if to bid some one farewell. The doorway was in the shadow and the moon had set, yet as the late visitor now hurried past the buildings with elastic steps and then cautiously groped his way to the wing, Edwin distinctly recognized young Count Gaston; so the "endless yearning" which ennobled him, did not seem to prevent him from condescending to adventures whichhada beginning, a middle, and an end.
The noise Edwin's next neighbor, the fat landed proprietor, made in preparing for the hunt, roused our friend early the next morning from a sound sleep. He was obliged to reflect a moment to remember where he was, and that the events of the previous day had not been mere dreams; then he hastily threw on his clothes and followed the servant who came to ask if he could be of any assistance, into the great hall on the ground floor, where the breakfast table was laid.
It was about seven o'clock; the day was dull and cloudy, and a damp wind indicated rain. But the cheerful bustle in the courtyard, the noise of horses and dogs, the shouts and exclamations of huntsmen and servants prevented any feeling of depression from seizing the guests. Besides the remainder of the company who gradually assembled in the hall, congratulated each other on the excellent hunting weather which had mitigated the heat of the preceding day. The chevalier alone begged to be excused from taking any share in the day's entertainment. "The only hunting he likes," whispered Count Gaston to Edwin, "is the pursuit of yellow gold."
The Polish colonel, on the contrary, was full of sportsmanlike enthusiasm, and related with the utmost seriousness, incredible stories, at which the fat landed proprietor burst into roars of laughter; but the brothers von der Wende did not seem any wider awake in the morning, than they had appeared the preceding evening.
Neither the little doctor, nor any of the other household officers appeared; but to make amends a plain old man with thin parchment-like features and calm grey eyes arrived, and joined the gentlemen but without sharing in the breakfast. Gaston introduced him to Edwin as the head ranger. A slight curl of the corners of the mouth under the heavy yellow moustache, told our friend what a correct estimation of himself as an amateur sportsman, had been formed by this old master of the noble game.
Their host appeared at last, greeted every one with monosyllabic cordiality, and then approached the stranger.
"I thank you, Herr Doctor," said he, "for giving me the pleasure of your company on our hunt, though you told me yesterday you were no sportsman. You've only to say whether you'll accompany us on horseback, or whether you prefer to drive in a light carriage over the beautiful road that leads through the forest to the ranger's house, which is the generalrendezvousand where, after the hunt is over, lunch will be served."
"Unless you happen to have in your stable a descendant of Gellert's grey, I must decide in favor of the carriage," replied Edwin smiling. The count nodded carelessly, leaving it uncertain whether his knowledge of horses extended back so far, and gave an order to the groom. He seemed even more absent minded and gloomy than on the evening before, busied himself in adjusting his hunting suit, and from time to time glanced at his watch. "It's getting late," he said to the head ranger, who had risen and was quietly awaiting his master's orders. "The countess doesn't usually keep us waiting."
At this moment the butler appeared at the door, and said: "Her ladyship is descending."
"Eh bien, gentlemen, if you please, we'll set out, and good luck to our sport."
He hastily led the way into the ante-room, followed by the rest of the company. In spite of the cloudy morning, the staircase was light enough to make it easy to distinguish faces, even on the landing above. Edwin was the last who entered the hall; he trembled and was forced to pause on the threshold and close his eyes; everything was whirling around him. When he opened them again, he saw a slender female figure descending the broad marble steps, holding the train of her green velvet dress under her left arm, and resting her right hand lightly on the banister. Count Gaston was walking beside her, and a huntsman, holding his plumed hat in his hand, followed. She wore a little green velvet cap with a long grey veil, and her hair was simply dressed in wide braids. All this Edwin could observe at leisure, as she was talking to her companion and thus kept her head averted. She now reached the lower landing and with a graceful movement turned toward her husband, who welcomed her with knightly courtesy. She nodded a good morning to him and her face was quite devoid of expression as she raised her hand to her hunting cap to salute the rest of the party. At this moment her foot caught in the folds of her riding habit, she stumbled, turned pale, and with a gesture of alarm and a half suppressed cry fell back into the arms of Gaston and the huntsman, who had hastily sprung forward.
She could not have hurt herself seriously, yet it was at least five minutes, ere, with the assistance of the two men, she again stood erect, with a face whose ghostly pallor seemed scarcely warranted by the little fright she had had. The other guests had rushed up to offer their very unnecessary services, and Edwin and the head ranger alone remained in their former places.
"It's nothing," they now heard the countess say. "I slipped and grew dizzy for a moment. I thank you, gentlemen."
She bowed with a winning smile to the company and then, leaning on Gaston's arm, slowly descended the rest of the stairs. When they approached the main entrance to the castle, beside which Edwin was standing, she started as if she could not believe her eyes.
"I have the pleasure of presenting to you an old acquaintance, my dear wife," said the count--"the Herr Doctor Edwin, who has been our guest since yesterday; an accidental meeting at the railway station--he's taking a little pedestrian tour--I knew it would give you pleasure."
She did not answer immediately; her eyes were fixed upon Edwin but her expression was undefinable. "Is it really you?" she said at last, suddenly recalling her self-control. "It's delightful to see you again. I thank you," she continued turning to her husband. "But why did you wait until today--"
"It was late in the evening when we arrived. You don't usually appear at that hour."
"True," she answered with an absent smile. "However, I might perhaps have made an exception for the sake of an old acquaintance. You're very welcome, Herr Doctor, I hope you'll remain our guest for some time."
She had removed her glove and now held out her hand to Edwin, who, stammering a few incoherent words, pressed his lips upon it in great embarrassment. Then she turned to the other gentlemen, addressing a few courteous words to each. It was impossible to discover whether the sight of her old friend had made any deep impression upon her. But Edwin couldn't take his eyes from her face. When Count Gaston passed him and whispered: "Well? Did I say too much?" his only answer was a forced smile. He was ashamed of himself when he thought how stiff and ill at ease he must appear, not to others but in her eyes. But there seemed to be a spell upon him.
She had walked out to the flight of steps which led down into the courtyard, where the head groom was holding the bridle of a beautiful English horse which wore a lady's saddle. When it saw its mistress approaching, it turned its head toward her with a joyful neigh and impatiently pawed the ground. The countess paused a moment, patted the animal's neck and let it take a piece of sugar out of her hand. Then she prepared to mount, but when her foot was already in the stirrup, she drew back again.
"I see I can't ride to-day," she said carelessly. "My foot is still lame from the mis-step I made."
"If that's the case," replied the count, "don't tax it. The stag will lead us a long distance to-day; it's the old one we chased last year, but which finally escaped. I've ordered the hunting carriage for the Herr Doctor. Perhaps it will be pleasant for you--"
"Certainly," she carelessly interrupted, without looking at Edwin. "We can drive to the ranger's house together. I'll take Jean with me."
The lad, evidently proud of this preference, stepped forward from the crowd of footmen, hurried toward the carriage, which stood a little apart, behind the saddle horses and hounds, sprang on the box, and taking the reins drove skillfully through the groups of huntsmen and idle grooms to the steps.
"You shall witness my skill as a charioteer," said the countess in a jesting tone to Edwin, who had hastily approached. "Don't be afraid; I know how responsible science would hold me if I should upset one of her votaries." Then she entered the carriage and took the reins and whip; Edwin followed her, and urging on the beautiful animals she guided the light carriage through the gate of the courtyard into the wide forest avenue.
Her attention seemed to be entirely occupied with the horses; for the first ten minutes at least she did not turn her eyes away from them or utter a word. "How beautiful this forest is," said Edwin at last. She smiled and then nodded gravely, but was still silent. She evidently had not heard what he said. So he had plenty of leisure to watch her, and was compelled to acknowledge that her beauty had really gained some mysterious charm. The face was longer, the nose seemed to have lengthened and the eyes to have grown larger and darker, but her smile was no longer the same. It was not that strangely wearied sad smile, that appears when we are too proud to show we have cause to weep, but something far more mournful; a strange, fierce, implacable expression hovered around the lips, the expression that a face might wear after a heavy life storm in which every hope has perished, or when madness is approaching. Edwin was overwhelmed with an emotion of such deep sorrow, that after his fruitless attempt to break the ice, he remained perfectly silent. The air was still and oppressive, a few solitary drops fell, but there was no steady rain; not a bird moved in the forest, no human being met them; only from the distance they occasionally heard sounds from the hunting party, the barking of a dog and the thud of horses' hoofs, which at last died away in the forest.
The road led through the village at the foot of the mountain. Peasant women with their children stood in the doorways as they passed, and eagerly greeted the young countess. A very young woman with a baby stepped directly before them. Toinette stopped a moment, lifted the rosy-cheeked little creature into the carriage, kissed it and asked the mother various questions concerning it. When she gave it back to her again, a crowd of village children had collected, who all held out their little hands and cried good morning. The countess gave the oldest a handful of shining silver. "You must divide it, Hans," said she. "Give something to each. But you must be good and go to school regularly." The mothers came forward and thanked her in the name of the little people. The next moment the horses moved forward again, and they left the village behind them.
"They love you very dearly here," said Edwin.
"I can't help it," she replied. "It's easy to seem like a divinity to these poor people, if we merely treat them kindly. But if the gods have no other happiness than that of being idolized, they're really not to be envied."
Then they were both silent again. They had left the wide highway and turned into a narrower road, where the carriage rolled noiselessly over the soft earth. Meantime the sky had grown darker, and a fine warm summer rain was beginning to sprinkle their faces. Suddenly Toinette stopped the horses.
"If it will be agreeable to you," said she, "let's get out and walk a little way on foot. We shall reach the ranger's house too early even then."
He sprang out and offered her his arm, which she only touched with the tips of her fingers. Jean, who was holding the reins, asked if the countess would like an umbrella. "Why?" she asked. "It's scarcely raining at all. Or yes, take it out of the case, the Herr Doctor will be kind enough to open it."
"May I offer you my arm, Countess?" said Edwin.
Again she did not seem to hear him, but stood gazing into the dark, silent forest, as if lost in thought. Then she shook back her hair--Edwin involuntarily thought of the scene in the park the night before--and took his arm. "Come," she said quietly. "Open the umbrella. Doesn't this remind you of something? Haven't we walked together in the rain before? To be sure, it was a long time ago, a whole life lies between. Don't you think I have altered very much?"
"Certainly. You've accomplished the seemingly impossible; you have become yet more beautiful."
She looked at him quietly, almost sternly. "Promise me not to say such a thing again. It doesn't become you, and it wounds me. And don't address me as 'countess.' I don't know whether I can still venture to call you 'dear friend' as in old times; but I shouldn't like to have you treat me precisely the same as an ordinary acquaintance. No, I've grown old, much older than you suppose, so old that I often think I've outlived myself, and you must perceive that too. But we won't talk about that. Only tell me, why did you come here? I knew you would come sometime; If I'd not been sure of it, who knows whether I should still be alive! And yet it took me by surprise; for I could never imagine what was to bring you to me again, after all that--"
She hesitated. He frankly told her of his interview with Marquard, and that his old interest in her had been vividly awakened by the news that she was only separated from him by a two hours' drive.
"No, no," she said as if to herself, "that was not it, you don't tell me all. But as you please; I am weaned from wishing to know things that are concealed from me. They're rarely pleasant. The more we get to the bottom of people and things, the uglier they seem to us. Enough, you're here, and I'm delighted to see you again, though at first I was as much startled as if your ghost had appeared. More than once--on lonely walks and in large assemblies--I've fancied I saw you just as you stood in the hall below me, but it was only a freak of memory. You've not changed in the least. If I could only forget these four years a moment, I could fancy we were again walking beside the carp pond and I was telling you Toinette Marchand's story. Those were pleasant times." Then suddenly adopting a totally different tone, she continued:
"I heard you were married. Your wife was one of your old pupils. Have you any children? No? That's a pity. Although, if nothing else is wanting--! Tell me about your wife. But no, what can be learned from a description? one can merely mention traits of character. One's real nature is indescribable. You must bring her to me some day, will you?" He nodded silently; but he knew that he should never do so.
"You've had a child and lost it," he said after a pause. "How much you must have suffered!" She suddenly stopped and let his arm fall.
"More than any human being suspects!" she said with great emphasis, laying a stress upon every syllable. "Let's say nothing about it. And yet, why may I not speak of it to you, the only person I know who can even understand what that anguish was, and also the only one who will not be cruel enough to say: 'it served you right,' and you would have more reason to say so than any other human being!"
She cast a backward glance toward the carriage, which was moving slowly along about twenty paces behind them.
"Please shut the umbrella," she said in a low tone. "I'm so warm, the damp air does me good. Dear friend, how often I've wished to be able to talk with you so. I thought everything would then be easier. Although in my hardest trials I should not have been able to show myself, even to you, exactly as I was. I did not like to confess the truth to myself; I dreaded to look in the glass, as if it were written on my brow and I must die of shame if I read it. Now--when everything is past--even the guilt, which I could not help--I only think of it all as a great misfortune, the greatest that can befal a woman. You said I must have suffered deeply when the child died. What will you think of me, when I tell you--that I suffered as long as it lived, and ceased to suffer when I lost it!
"It sounds horrible, does it not? And yet it is literally true. You'll think me an unnatural mother, and you're right. But can I help it, that I was born with this unnatural disposition, that everything which makes others happy becomes a torture to me?"
"You're silent, dear friend. But what could you say? We should draw a veil over that which is contrary to nature, and turn away. You were also silent, in the olden time when I informed you through Balder, why I must unfortunately live my life an exceptional creature; an unhappy variety of the species. At first your silence wounded me deeply; I thought, a friend ought not to make us suffer so keenly for what is not our fault. Afterwards I saw that you were right to act as the heavenly powers: