THE STORK'S VISITFrom the Painting by Karl SpitzwegPERMISSION FRANZ HANFSTAENGL, N.Y.
THE STORK'S VISITFrom the Painting by Karl SpitzwegPERMISSION FRANZ HANFSTAENGL, N.Y.
Since the tutor had recovered, Fränzchen no longeravoided him so shyly. The more power Dr. Théophile Stein acquired in the house, the more the poor niece realized that the relation between the doctor and the good Hans could not be altogether as she had at first imagined, and not without justification. On the day on which her aunt gave the candidate notice that his services as preceptor would not be much longer needed, Fränzchen sat in her room and wept tears of joy and murmured her mother's name as such poor, orphaned little things do when they meet with a great unexpected piece of happiness. And then she dried her tears and laughed in the midst of her last sob and into her damp handkerchief.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear Uncle Rudolf! Do you see—no, yes—thank you, thank you!"
Then she came down to take her place at the luncheon table and although the mental atmosphere during this meal was even more oppressive than usual and her aunt made more maliciously pointed remarks than ever, still, Fränzchen's dear little heart had not beat so free and light for a long, long time. And Candidate Unwirrsch seemed to feel that in a moment. He too looked at the people about him with less embarrassment and more cheerfulness; their doings and sayings no longer had their former bad influence on him; Fränzchen Götz no longer avoided his eyes, and he could breathe freely.
It could not be otherwise;—what had dragged on so long in monotonous unpleasantness had at last to show itself in all its nakedness and disconsolateness. The crisis was near at hand, and if, for the present, the evil went on without tangible, outward manifestations, yet the electric shock which was to throw the quiet, elegant household of the Privy Councillor into the greatest possible confusion and to make it the topic of conversation all over the town, could not fail to come. The threatening fist was clenched and struck menacingly at the door to put an end not only to all delusions, but to peaceful sleep as well.
After the long, dreary rain, a few days followed at thebeginning of October, when nature seemed to regret her bad humor and to endeavor to make up for it by being doubly amiable. The sun broke through the clouds, for thirty-six short hours the year showed itself in its matronly beauty and whoever could and would make use of the blessed moment had to hasten; for it is, after all, but seldom that such a change of heart is entirely to be trusted.
The lady of the house commanded her lord to get leave for one or two days and carried him and her precious Aimé off to the not too distant country house of some friends who most probably rejoiced exceedingly over the long announced visit.
Kleophea had refused to be carried off; she thoroughly hated the country, and the agricultural family to whom her parents were going perhaps even more. And if she had little fondness for the beauties of nature she had just as little taste for the marriageable eldest son of that worthy family, who succeeded only in boring the beautiful girl to death with his shining, healthy, but unfortunately somewhat protruding eyes, and his unsuccessful attempts at conversation. Kleophea Götz, who was not accustomed to give any account of her whims and moods, of her comings and goings, stayed at home, saw her parents drive away with a sigh of satisfaction, suffered all the afternoon with a nervous headache, declined to see Dr. Théophile and in the evening, with a family ofheracquaintance, went to the opera where she could not decline to see Dr. Théophile. She came home with a violent headache and locked herself in her room after having, strangely enough, given her cousin a kiss and called her a "poor, good child." She must really have passed a very restless night, for the next morning she appeared very late and very exhausted and nervous. When Fränzchen sympathetically called her attention to the sunshine she declared that she didn't care about it and called her cousin a "dull little thing who had no will of her own except to suffer." At the same time she began to cry, but a moment later sat down at the pianoto lose herself in a succession of the most piercing arias. Toward noon she became almost recklessly cheerful and at lunch she challenged Hans to confess that at the beginning of their acquaintance he had been terribly in love with her but that his simple uprightness had gradually found a more suitable object of admiration and so had turned to "gentle Fränzchen." Her cheeks were very hot and she laughed very loudly at the confusion into which she threw her companions. She spoke of her mother with very unfilial shrugs of the shoulders, called her father a "poor worm" and her brother a "worm" without any qualifying adjective. She begged her cousin to confess that this house had been a "hell" to her and asked the tutor to say frankly that he knew of more comfortable places in which "to breathe." She was indescribably sharp to the butler and finally drove him out of the room only to confess that she was a very "naughty girl" and that Franziska was a "poor darling." She drank to Hans and Fränzchen and begged them to be indulgent with her. Then her indisposition came on once more and she bolted herself again into her room. Toward five o'clock, when it was already getting dusk, she went out.
All the afternoon Hans sat at his window unable to make up his mind to do anything sensible. He opened a book, laid it down again however, filled his pipe, which he had unearthed from the bottom of his trunk, with secret trembling, but it soon went out again as if it too knew that no smoking was allowed in that house. As usual he looked down on the throng of passing riders, pedestrians and carriages and tried to concentrate his attention on the old organ-grinder with the fierce moustache and the Waterloo medal; but he did not succeed well even in that. Everything drew him back again and again into the house itself and an irresistible power compelled him to listen to the faintest sounds in the corridors and on the stairs.
Her light footstep?... No, no, it was only a maid creeping by who, together with the much-belaced Jean, hadreceived orders to keep a sharp eye on the tutor and on Miss Franziska so that they might later give a report of any incident that occurred.
Her sweet voice?... Foolishness; it was an old woman outside in the avenue offering smoked herrings to those who liked them.
Oh, if sighs could improve the world it would have become incapable of further improvement long since. Oh, how often and how deeply did Candidate Unwirrsch sigh on that unblessed afternoon! He gazed at the door of his room and thought of all those pleasant nursery tales in which the fairy, invoked or not invoked, always appears at the right moment. When she did not come and he had told himself a hundred times that he was a fool he went back to the window for the fiftieth time to gaze down again at the merry life below. He laid his forehead against the window pane and stood there long in that position; but suddenly he jumped back and looked out again more sharply. A shadow glided through the gay throng, a black, pale shadow. From underneath the trees a poorly clad, emaciated young woman came out and walked in front of the Privy Councillor's house, where she stopped, looking up at its windows. Hans recognized this woman, although he had only seen her twice and although she had changed very much since then.
It was the little French girl, once so merry, whom he had met in Dr. Stein's rooms and it was as if in sorrowful helplessness her eyes were seeking him, Hans Unwirrsch. A strange feeling of anxiety came over him;—he had taken his hat and was already on the stairs before he could explain these feelings to himself. He went out of the house, passed quickly round the fountain and the lawn and crossed the driveway to the trees of the park; but the black shadow had vanished and Hans looked about for it in vain. Had his imagination led him astray again? He stood a moment in doubt; but the sun was shining, the air was so refreshing,—he did not return to the house but went slowly on underthe trees. Soon, of course, he forsook the broad promenades where most of the people were walking. He sought the lonely, winding paths among the bushes, the paths on which all those are most frequently found who walk with bent heads and have a way of standing still for no particular reason. But on that day scarcely any path was altogether deserted. Everyone was out of doors—everyone. There were the people who had dined and those who had dined too well and those who had not dined at all. There were the people who were able to drive and those who were obliged to go on crutches. There were the would-be-old children who thought it beneath their dignity any longer to jump through a hoop and the childish old men who would gladly have done so but could not and instead of that sent admiring glances after the young girls that passed. It was very difficult to find an unoccupied bench. In the seats which everyone could see sat people who had nothing to conceal, or perhaps even something to show, while the seats in the hidden nooks were occupied by loving couples or people who were ashamed of their shabby clothes; and when finally Hans did find an empty bench a badly spelt notice on the back of it frightened him away. Scribbled in pencil were the words:
"As I can't stand it no longer on account of Louise I am going to America and if Berger of Coblenz comes here and reeds this here notice it would be friendly of him if he would break the news to my folks in Bell Lane so they wont make no fuss about it and keep supper waiting for me."
Now there was indeed no real reason why Candidate Unwirrsch should take it to heart if the ne'er-do-weel ran off and Berger of Coblenz broke the news in Bell Lane;—but he did so nevertheless. After thinking for some time whether it was not his own duty to ask in Bell Lane whether Berger had been there and whether the old parents were not still waiting supper for their lost son, Hans jumped up to look for another seat. He could not endure it on that bench any longer.
A short path led him to those romantic expanses of water, those greasy green canals which adorn the more remote part of the park and which must fill with delight the hearts of all lovers of the microscope and infusoria; they certainly every spring provide whole Pharoanic armies of frogs with all they need for joyful and melodious existence.
There he found a place where no loving couples would sit down, a bench in front of a deep pool out of which more than one corpse had been dragged before this, a thoroughly hidden bench, in a thoroughly damp and dank place, a bench which was not so easy to find even at this season when so many trees and bushes were already losing their leaves. It suddenly came into view at a turn of the narrow path round a dense, thorny clump of shrubbery, just before it ended at the water's edge; and nothing was lacking to complete the miserable, melancholy impression but a black post with a black arm pointing into the stagnant, swampy pool.
With bent head Hans followed the narrow path and stepped out from behind the shrubbery to stand suddenly still, amazed and startled; close before him on the half-rotten bench sat the figure that he was seeking against his own will, the figure that had drawn him out of Councillor Götz's house,—the shadow of the little French girl who once, in Théophile's room, had laughed so merrily at his embarrassment.
It was she undoubtedly, and yet scarcely anything remained of her former appearance. She seemed to be ill, very ill, she still wore gloves but they were torn, as were her once so dainty little shoes. The shawl which she had wrapped round her shivering body was worn and faded;—alas, she was altogether the poor little cricket of her compatriot Monsieur Jean de la Fontaine!
And she recognized Hans Unwirrsch immediately, for she rose quickly, drew her shawl together and hastily reached for the handkerchief that lay on the bench besideher. With fearful, somewhat theatrical anger she looked at Candidate Unwirrsch.
"Ah, ce monsieur!"
She tried to pass him but he stepped in front of her and calmly met the contemptuous glance of her black eyes.
"Monsieur, your friend is acanaille!" she cried, clenching her fist. "Let me past—vill you?"
"I beg your pardon," said Hans Unwirrsch gently and sadly. "Dr. Théophile Stein is not my friend. Now won't you listen to me?"
"I vill not hear you more! I vill not see you more! I vill not see nozing of ze world more, butma figurein zis water 'ere!"
This was spoken with such vehemence, such wildness, that Hans involuntarily caught her arm to prevent her jumping into the pool; but she tore herself away, laughed bitterly and then covered her face with both hands and began to cry as bitterly.
"Do let me tell you," exclaimed Hans, "you have spoken hard words to me, you have troubled me very much. I am not conscious of any guilty act toward you and I will help you if I can;—I repeat, I am not Dr. Stein's friend;—I am no longer his friend!"
Slowly she let her hands fall and looked again into Hans' eyes.
"You too accuse him whom you have just mentioned? Tell me what part of his guilt I must take upon myself!" said Hans, softly, and she—she looked him over from head to foot and then,—it was so strange—and then a slight smile crossed her sick, sorrowful features.
"You are not 'is friend?" she asked.
"Not any longer, and it is a great sorrow to me."
Now the French girl took the candidate's hand and her fingers were like iron.
"Monsieur le curé, I am a poor girl and all alone in a strange countree. I am ill, and I am nothonnête. I 'ave 'ad a leetle child, but it is dead;—I am all left alone in astrange countree! Oh,Monsieur, 'e is a bad, vicked man and if you are not 'is friend forgive me vat I 'ave said—je n'ai plus rien à dire."
Hans could not understand her broken German well, nor her quick French at all, but her gestures and her expression enabled him to comprehend her. He led her back to the bench and she let him keep her hand when he sat down beside her and talked to her gently and soothingly. It was five o'clock, the sun sank behind the trees, a white mist rose from the ponds; it was cold and gray—it was the hour when the beautiful Kleophea Götz left her father's house.
Hans told the French girl as well as he could all that was necessary about his relation to Dr. Stein and then gradually he learnt the sad story of her life and the evil part that Moses Freudenstein of Kröppel Street had played in it.
Henriette Trublet was not made to keep a perfectly straight course through life and in this respect it was probable that Dr. Théophile had altered her fate but little. She carried an adventurous little head on her shoulders and lived only in the present. She had been a dressmaker's apprentice in Paris and there Théophile had met and won her. She had not really loved him but he had pleased her, and his Parisian friends and the way in which he enjoyed life appealed to her. She was the scintillating streamer on a very gay, bright wreath and when, as usually happens, the latter broke and Dr. Théophile had gone back to Germany she soon began to long for him. She had heard all sorts of marvelous tales of poor goodAllemagne. The people there were so honest and so musical and so blond;—to be sure, they probably were also a little backward in civilization and somewhat simple; but still they were much better than tall silly Englishmen. And they bought all their hats and caps and their artificial flowers and their champagne in Paris—those good Germans; and any pretty, clever child ofBelle Francemust be able to make her fortune there among them in spite of the fog, ice and snow, in spite of all the wolves and polar bears, Erl kings, nixiesand other monsters. One morning Henriette arrived at the Strassburg railway station with a leather trunk and a tremendous number of boxes of all shapes and sizes,—and she found pleasant traveling companions to the Rhine too—allons enfants de la patrie, onward to Homburg, Baden-Baden and so on—où le drapeau,là est la France,ubi bene,ibi patria!And one fine morning Dr. Théophile Stein heard a gentle tapping at his door and a soft giggle outside it; Henriette Trublet had found him again.
So far this was all very well and neither could reproach the other with anything; but from then on under other skies their relation was changed. Poor Henriette, deserted, helpless and not knowing what to do found herself entirely delivered over to Théophile; she became a despised, abused plaything and the light, gay bloom that had covered her frivolous butterfly wings was soon rubbed off and blown away. Dr. Stein had a reputation to sustain now and if he was weak enough not to be able to thrust the poor little Parisian away from him he had sufficient strength to hold her down low enough so that she was obliged to serve and obey him without being in any way able to interfere with his plans and hopes. It was his fault and owing to his intrigues that she was prevented from making use of her skilful hands. Only when she was entirely dependent on him could he exert complete tyranny over her. When he grew tired of her, he believed her much too broken to harm him, and so with no further thought he closed his door to her and left her to her fate. Her child was born in the hospital toward the middle of September and died on the second of October. It was an evil place, this bench beside the stagnant green pool, where, on the fourth of October Candidate Unwirrsch found poor Henriette Trublet sitting.
Traître—va!
Hans Unwirrsch grew hot and cold by turns as Henrietta Trublet told her story. It was his misfortune that even the most ordinary things excited him so and that it was so difficult for him to look upon any such incidents as ridiculous or insignificant. He sat there stupefied until the French girl suddenly jumped up, stamped her foot passionately and cried:
"Oh, he 'as treated me badly, but I vill revenge myself ven I can. I vill interfere, I vill, if it is ze last hour. And I vill go to her—I vill! I vill tell ze beautifulMademoisellewho he is—le juif! le misérable!He shall not 'ave his vill——"
"Kleophea!" cried Hans. "Good God, yes, yes, to be sure! Oh, tell me, do you know about that? My head swims—I, we, you must go to her, she must know this. No, no, and again, no, she shall not fall into his hands; we must save her, even if it is against her own will."
"I did know zat he vas running after ze beautiful young lady, zere in ze house by ze park; I vas much jealous of her—pauvre petite. I 'ave stood before her vindow and laughed,O mon Dieu, and my heart 'as bled. It vas very bad, it vas very vicked—pauvre cœur, I vill save her from zis man!Venez, monsieur le curé."
The evening was cold and dark, the beautiful weather was all gone and the wind began to move the mists above the ponds and to shake the twigs. It began to groan and sigh as on the day when Hans had gone from the university to his mother's deathbed. It rustled in the distance and whistled nearby, far away the lights and lanterns among the trees seemed to be thrown back and forth like the boughs. The fiery reflection of the great city on the dark sky was like the breath of the terrible, final abyss.
Now, indeed, the pleasure-seeking throng had long since dispersed; rich and poor had crept out of sight; the shadow-like forms that still slunk about the paths of the parkwere not to be trusted; it was well to avoid them if possible. From a distant pleasure resort the wind brought the sound of dance music, in fragments. Henriette Trublet walked close to Hans' side and he gave her his arm as she, exhausted by his hasty step, fell behind. More and more frequently and brighter the gas lanterns shone through the trees—there was the street, and there Privy Councillor Götz's house.
The two wanderers halted a moment.
Only a single window was lighted.
"Zat is not her light! Zat is not her room!" said the French girl.
Hans Unwirrsch shook his head; he could not utter Franziska's name in this company. Oh that lighted window in the wild, restless, dark night! Peace and rest;—God's blessing on Fränzchen! The candidate gazed reverently at the dim glow above them and then gently took hold of the hand of the poor girl who had again stepped away from his side as they came out of the gloom of the trees.
"Come,pauvre enfant,—we are going on a good errand!" he said.
They walked through the little garden and Hans rang the doorbell. They had to wait some time before it pleased Jean to open the door. At last he came and was much amazed to see the tutor's companion, and still more so at the emphasis with which Hans put an end to his expressions of amazement.
"Is Miss Götz at home?"
Jean stared, stared and remained silent; but a moment later the candidate had seized him by the shoulder-strap.
"Why don't you answer me? Announce me at once to Miss Götz—Miss Kleophea!"
This unheard-of audacity caused the elegant youth to lose his usual insolent balance for a few moments; and when he regained it at last his indignation knew no bounds. And the housekeeper appeared and the ladies' maid; thelittle kitchen maid looked shyly round a corner in the background; poor Henriette drew back as far as possible from the light of the hall lamp into the darkness. Hans, almost ready to die with annoyance and excitement at all these impudent, doubtful glances, repeated his request for Kleophea in a raised voice. At that moment Franziska Götz leaned over the banisters. She carried her small lamp in her hand.
"Miss Kleophea is not at home," snapped Jean. "Moreover I protest——"
"Malheur à elle!" exclaimed the French girl.
"Oh Mr. Unwirrsch, what has happened? What has happened to my cousin?" cried Fränzchen coming down.
"Isn't she at home? We must speak to her;—Good God, where has she gone?"
"She did not say; she left the house at dusk."
"Then you must hear, you must tell us what to do. Perhaps it is even better so."
Franziska too looked wonderingly at the stranger, then she said:
"If I can be of use to you—to my cousin;—Oh, she is going to faint!"
The French girl shook her head.
"No, no, it vill pass quick—ce n'est rien!"
"Come up to my room. What has happened? What have you to tell me? Oh, how pale you are,—lean on my arm."
The French girl shook her head again, she retreated timidly before the quiet, gracious, innocent figure and turned to Hans.
"If ze ozer is not here, what 'ave I to do in zis house? You tell her,monsieur le curé. I vill not enter in zis house, I vill go."
"No, no—stay, Miss Henriette," cried Hans, but the stranger drew her shawl closer about her and held out her hand to Hans.
"Adieu, monsieur le curé, you are honest man." Sheturned toward Fränzchen, bowed her head and whispered slowly and softly, "Priez pour moi!—Vous!"
Franziska laid her hand on her shoulder.
"I do not want to let you go away like this. You are unhappy—and ill; and you bring evil tidings to this house. Come, lean on my arm; oh come, Mr. Unwirrsch;—Kleophea will certainly come back soon."
Gently Fränzchen led the poor little French girl upstairs and beckoned to Hans to follow, while the servants put their heads together, sneered and shrugged their shoulders.
For the first time Hans entered the room which Franziska occupied in her uncle's house and his heart trembled much as he crossed the threshold.
It was like a dream. The moaning wind outside the windows, the rustling and creaking of the trees, was not all this just as it had been when, at the Post-horn in Windheim, Fränzchen's sweet face first appeared out of the darkness, and, for the first time, Lieutenant Rudolf Götz called Dr. Moses Freudenstein a scoundrel?
What a long time lay between the present anxious evening and that one!
Who was the pale, haggard stranger in the cheap, shabby dress and shawl? How came she here, in this house? What had she to do with Fränzchen and what house was this?
Where was the friend of his youth? Where was Moses Freudenstein of Kröppel Street?
It was, as if the weird, pitiless, cold wind outside gave an answer to all these questions.
"Woe to you, struggle as you may, ours is the triumph! Ours is the triumph over spring, over youth, over faithfulness and innocence. Transitoriness and egoism are your masters! Struggle as you may, it gives us joy to watch you struggle! The only faithfulness, innocence, eternity is in—us!"
And again darkness looked threateningly in at the window as if it had swallowed up every other light and as if, of all the brightness and brilliance in the world, Fränzchen's little lamp alone were left. Hans Unwirrsch stood in the narrow circle of light shed by this lamp with the feeling that here alone there was still refuge in every distress, satisfaction for all hunger, comfort for all pain. He scarcely dared to breathe.
An open book and some sewing lay on the table;—Fränzchen had just risen from that chair and now the strange, abandoned young woman sat there,—it could not be reality, it must be a delusion, one of the feverish delusions that had visited him lately.
No, no, that was Fränzchen's soft, sweet voice and Fränzchen had laid her hand on the shoulder of the poor girl who, with hidden face, was trembling and sobbing. Fränzchen Götz spoke in good, Parisian French to poor Henriette Trublet, but still Hans, who knew the language only from books, knew what she said. And the stranger raised her tearful eyes at the first sound of her mother tongue, listened with all her soul and then kissed Fränzchen's hand.
Speaking in her mother tongue she told her sad story for the second time.
As she went on Franziska looked more and more anxiously at Hans; she gripped the table against which she was leaning with a trembling hand and when the Parisian had finished she cried:
"Oh, Mr. Unwirrsch, and Kleophea? Kleophea! Where is Kleophea? If only she would come—now, now!"
She went to the window and opened it. The wind caught the sash and nearly tore it from her hand, the lamp flared with the wild gust; the gas flames at the edge of the park were blown about in their glass globes, throwing red, uncertain flickering lights on the street, but the street was empty and a carriage the sound of which seemed unbearably long in approaching, drove by without stopping.
"And her father, her mother! What is to be done, oh, what is to be done, Mr. Unwirrsch?"
Hans looked at his watch.
"It is nine," he said. "Calm yourself, Miss Franziska. She certainly will not stay out much longer; we must be patient and wait, that is all we can do."
Fränzchen had turned to the stranger; in spite of her anxiety and excitement she still had comfort enough for poor Henriette. She spoke to her softly and Henriette kissed her hand again and again. Hans stood at the window and listened to the soft words of the two women and to the loud voice of the gale. Now and then a figure passed through the flickering light of the gas lanterns, several more carriages drove by, but still Kleophea Götz did not come.
Franziska replenished the fire in the stove. She opened the door and asked the housekeeper, whose eye and ear had been taking turns at the keyhole for some time, to bring some tea and something to eat for the hungry, half fainting stranger. The farther the night advanced the greater did her anxiety become.
Henriette Trublet ate and drank eagerly, looked once more round the room with fixed, glassy eyes and then her head sank forward on her breast—she had fallen asleep.
It was the sleep of complete exhaustion.
"Poor, unfortunate girl!" sighed Franziska. "What a night! What a terrible night!"
She put her arm round the sleeping girl to keep her from falling; her locks touched the sinner's brow; and if Hans Unwirrsch had lived to be a thousand years old he would never have been able to forget the scene.
She looked across to him.
"Oh, please help me, let us lay her down on the divan! Listen—what is she saying?"
Henriette murmured in her sleep,—perhaps her mother's name—perhaps that of her patron saint. She did not feel it when Hans picked her up in his arms and carried her to the little sofa where Fränzchen arranged the cushions for her and covered her with a cloak and shawl.
It struck eleven o'clock; Kleophea Götz had not come home yet.
"What a night! What a night!" murmured Fränzchen. "What shall we do? What can we do?"
Suddenly she jumped up and put out both hands as if warding off something.
"What if she should have gone away, never to come home again? What if this evening she left her parents' house forever? Oh no, that is too terrible a thought!"
"She can't have been so bereft of all reason, that is impossible!" cried Hans. "That would be too terrible; it is impossible!"
"Oh, this deadly fear!" murmured Franziska. "Is that rain?"
It was rain. At first only a few scattered drops pattered against the panes; but soon came the familiar sound of a drenching, pelting downpour. The gale drove the rain in gusts across the country, the broad park and the great city.
"In spite of everything, her mother would never have consented to an alliance with this—this Dr. Stein," said Franziska. "It is true that she likes to have him in her drawing room; but she is a proud woman and thinks that she has already arranged quite a different future for Kleophea. Shortly before she went away she spoke in her usual manner of a brilliant match. Oh, it would indeed be the worst misfortune that could happen if my cousin, with her contradictory spirit, had taken such a step. Listen—there's another carriage—thank God, there she is!"
They listened again and a moment later Hans shook his head and Fränzchen sank brokenly onto a chair; Henriette Trublet slept a deep and sound sleep.
"She would be lost for her whole life!" said Hans to himself, but Franziska heard the murmured words; she started, shuddered and nodded.
"She would be lost."
"That man would kill her, soul and body. Alas, that it is so and that I should be the one to have to say it."
Again Fränzchen rose from her chair; she went up to Hans, she laid her trembling hand on his arm and whispered scarcely audibly:
"Dear Mr. Unwirrsch, I have done you a great wrong. Can you forgive me? Will you forgive me? I have done heavy, heavy penance for it. It has cost me many, many tears and wakeful nights. Oh, forgive me for this distress; forgive me for my uncle's sake."
Hans Unwirrsch staggered as he heard these words.
"Oh, Miss—Franziska," he stammered, "not you, it is not you who have done me a wrong. We both have been caught in the confused whirl of this world. Evil powers have played with us and we could not defend ourselves against them! Is not that the clear and simple truth?"
"It is," said Fränzchen. "We have not been able to defend ourselves."
The rain poured down in streams; the wind shook the window like a wild beast, but both wind and rain, and the darkness that added to their terror might do and threaten and say their worst: from then on, even on this night when Kleophea Götz did not return to her home, they scarcely seemed dreadful or uncanny any longer. From then on the wind and the rain and the night were blessings; no longer were they voices from the abyss, proclaiming destruction—death and the reign of egoism.
It was long after midnight and still Kleophea had not come. Hans and Fränzchen sat beside the sleeping stranger and talked to each other in low tones. Ah, they had so much to say!
They did not speak of love,—they did not think of it at all. They simply spoke of how they had lived; and everything that had seemed so confused was now so easily untangled; and often a single word made everything that had been so dark and threatening become light and simple and consoling.
Franziska Götz talked of her father, and what the daughter told Hans of him was very different from what Lieutenant Rudolf Götz had said and even more so from what Dr. Théophile Stein had related. The daughter's eyes shone as she told how proud and brave her father had been and how on more than one battlefield he had shed his blood for freedom. Fränzchen talked of her mother, how lovely and kind she had been, how much anxiety, unrest and distress she had suffered in her eventful life without ever complaining and how at last in the year 1836 she had died a lingering death of consumption. Good little Fränzchen told how deeply her mother's death had bowed her father and how he had really never raised his head again joyfully after the funeral. She told how her good Uncle Rudolf had come to that funeral, an old invalid soldier himself, with a little bundle and a heavy, knobbed stick. She knew much to tell of the curious household of the two brothers in Paris and of how so many old warriors of all nations, Germans, Frenchmen, Poles, Italians, and Americans came and went in the house and were all so kind to Fränzchen. She told of the fencing lessons that the two brothers gave and of how, in a yard outside the barrier, they had taught the young pupils of the polytechnic school and the students of the Latin Quarter how to shoot with pistols. She told of the gruff old retired soldiers of the Old Guard who came to be such good friends with the two Germans whom they had met at Katzbach, Leipzig and Waterloo, and sat with them in their attic room smoking and drinking and telling stories like all the rest.
Then with bent head she told how good Uncle Rudolf had at last grown homesick for Germany; how he had gone away and then how evil times followed; times full of misery and trouble, evil, evil days. In a scarcely audible voice Franziska Götz told how life went worse and worse with her father, how, one after another, the sources from which he had drawn aid failed, and how more and more frequently he had sought comfort in stupefying strong drink and ofhow, gradually, many bad, false people had drawn close to him.
Finally Franziska Götz spoke in a low voice of Dr. Théophile, of how he had lived in the same house with them and how he had tried in the most abominable way to take advantage of her unhappy father's weakness. She spoke of her unutterable loneliness, and Hans Unwirrsch bit his lips and in imagination gripped the throat of Moses Freudenstein of Kröppel Street with his two good fists to squeeze his soul out of his body.
Franziska told of her father's death and how in her greatest distress Uncle Rudolf had come again to save her.
Franziska showed Hans a letter from Uncle Theodor and it was really most remarkable how differently Privy Councillor Götz could write from the way he looked and spoke.
Lieutenant Rudolf Götz was very poor and had no home to which he could take his brother's orphan child; and now for the first time Hans learnt how the good old man lived, how he roved about nomadically, actuallyomnia sua secum portansand settled down only in winter with some one of his comrades in war of the same age as himself, preferably with Colonel von Bullau in Grunzenow, far off on the shore of the Baltic.
Lieutenant Rudolf could only fetch the orphan from Paris, he could not offer her a protecting roof. Here now was the letter from Uncle Theodor which the Privy Councillor's wife had not dictated and which had not been written under her eyes but only under cover of one of his documents; and it was this letter which had led the lieutenant to bring his niece to his brother's house.
"And on the way I was fortunate enough to meet you in the Post-horn in Windheim," cried Hans. "I was going to my mother's deathbed and Mr. Götz called Moses a scoundrel, and the gale—and you, oh Miss Franziska ... Good God, and it is truth and reality that we are sitting here and waiting for Miss Kleophea!"
They both started at the mention of that name andlooked toward the black windows on which the rain still poured down, which the wind still shook. They had given up hoping for the return of the unhappy girl.
Henriette Trublet stirred in her sleep and fearfully called the name of Théophile. Gently and with a merciful hand Franziska replaced the cloak over the forsaken girl's shoulders and then sat down again.
They went on talking of the evening when they had first met and Fränzchen told how much the candidate had pleased her Uncle Rudolf and of how often he had spoken of him during their journey. Hans told about his mother's death, of his Uncle Grünebaum and Auntie Schlotterbeck and took the latter's last letter out of his pocket-book to show it to Fränzchen. He told of how Dr. Théophile had read that letter while he, Hans Unwirrsch, lay ill with fever; he told how a dreadful glance and flash had shown him Dr. Théophile in all his malice and duplicity.
Fränzchen now unlocked a little box and showed the tutor a whole series of letters from Uncle Rudolf—all of them nearly as illegible as Uncle Grünebaum's epistles and the last few all written from Grunzenow on the Baltic. Since summer the lieutenant had been lying, in great pain with gout, in Colonel von Bullau's house in Grunzenow and Fränzchen confessed with tears in her eyes that she had written her poor uncle only joyful, cheerful and contented letters and that she could not have written differently for anything in the world. At that Hans would have liked to kiss her brave, soothing little hand again and again; but he did not dare to, and it was better so. Angry at himself, however, he deeply repented the doubtful blessings that at times he had called down on the absent lieutenant's head. He regretted them deeply, especially when he read the lieutenant's letters in which the old warrior confessed plaintively that he would rather run away with the devil's grandmother than ever again introduce and smuggle into his "gracious sister-in-law's" house a tutor after his, though not after the devil's, own heart.
"You won his whole heart that evening," said Fränzchen. "He talked of you so much on our journey, and I—I did not forget you altogether either in the years that followed. Oh, I had much time and great need to think of all those who had treated me with friendliness. Oh, Mr. Unwirrsch, we have neither of us been able to live happily in this house, but still my lot was the harder to bear. I have often been terribly, terribly hungry for a friendly face, a friendly word. I would gladly have gone away to earn my own bread, but my aunt would not hear of that. But you know all about it, Mr. Unwirrsch,—why should we say any more about it? It is wrong too, to think only of ourselves at this moment."
"It is not wrong," cried Hans with unaccustomed vehemence. "Oh, Miss Franziska, we may certainly talk of ourselves in this hour; the hard, cold world has thrust us back to the very core of our lives,—we may talk of ourselves, in order to save ourselves. This night will pass, a new day will come. What will it bringus? In all probability it will plunge us into an entirely new state of things. How will it be tomorrow in this house? I shall have to go; but you—you, Miss Franziska, what will you have to do and suffer? How gloomy, how drearily bleak and dead this house will be tomorrow! Any other existence would be blissful compared with life in this house! Oh, Franziska—Miss Fränzchen, write tomorrow to your uncle, to the lieutenant; or—or let me write to him! Don't stay here; don't stay in this house; its atmosphere is deadly—Oh, Fränzchen, Fränzchen, let me write to Lieutenant Götz!"
Franziska shook her head gently and said:
"I must stay. If I could not go before there is all the more reason why I may not go now. I have not been happy in this house but still it has given me shelter, and Uncle Theodor—Oh no, how could I leave poor Uncle Theodor now? My head swims now, to be sure; but I must stay—I am not mistaken, that is the right thing for me to do and I will not do anything wrong. Dear friend, I mustnot write to Uncle Rudolf to take me away from here, and you must not do so either. I know that that is right."
Hans Unwirrsch dared to do it—he kissed the gentle, loyal little hand that was stretched out to him so shyly and yet with such unconquerable power. Hot tears ran down his cheeks.
Yes, she was right. She was always right. Blessings on her! On this stormy night, this night of misery and ruin, she sat like a beautiful, lovely miracle beside the foreign girl and laid her pure, innocent hand on the latter's hot, feverish brow; yes, indeed, she was merciful and of great kindness and she would have to remain in this desolate house; that was certainly right!
It was long past two o'clock.
"Let us part now, dear friend," said Fränzchen. "She has not come home,—she has taken her destiny into her own hands; may God have mercy on her and protect her on her way. Let us part now, dear friend; I will watch over this poor girl here and tomorrow morning we will talk over the rest."
"Tomorrow morning," said Hans. "It seems to me as if this night would never come to an end. I am afraid of the morning for, in spite of all my doubts, I know that it will come. Oh, Miss Fränzchen, it has been a long and yet a short, short night. It has been terrible and yet full of sweetness. God bless you, Franziska. Oh, what shall I say to you,—how shall we be when the new day has come?"
Franziska lowered her head and gave Hans Unwirrsch her hand in silence. They parted from each other troubled and blissful. They could not yet quite grasp the blessing which this dark, weird night had brought them both. They parted, and their hearts beat loudly.
[The morning came shrouded in gray mist. Hans and Fränzchen stepped to the windows shivering. They had notslept; they drew long breaths and greeted the gray light thankfully. They were no longer alone;—Hans and Fränzchen had gained a great, great deal in the night in which Kleophea Götz had left her home.
At seven o'clock the French girl waked from her deathlike slumber and began to cry violently. Fränzchen spoke to her soothingly and then began to talk earnestly and urgently of the future. Sobbingly Henriette replied that she wanted to go home to her own country and to be good and work hard and make her own living according to God's will. And Fränzchen Götz put all her worldly treasures into the girl's hands and then—monsieur le curéknocked at the door and added his father's venerable and curious watch to what Franziska had given, as well as a purse containing five hard thalers and a few small coins.
At eight o'clock Henriette Trublet stepped out again from the Privy Councillor's house accompanied by Hans and Franziska as far as the garden gate. At parting she raised her lowered head and said: "The good God vill reward you for vat you have done for me. I vill zink of you alvays and alvays. I vill go and I vill not tire. I vill seek zem and find.Malheur à lui!"
Then she disappeared in the thick fog. The postman came up hurriedly and handed Hans a letter from Kleophea addressed to her father.
Hans quietly beckoned to the man-servant: "We have a message to go immediately to your master. How long will you need to take a letter there?" Jean thought that with good horses he could get there by one o'clock. At nine he drove away with a package containing Kleophea's letter and another from Franziska;—by four o'clock the parents could be home. They came between three and four.
Hans Unwirrsch stood at the window and saw the Privy Councillor's mud-bespattered carriage driving up. In the house, doors were opened and slammed; the carriage stopped, and servants rushed out, Jean jumped down toopen the door. Privy Councillor Götz stepped out first followed by his wife, deeply veiled; she led her boy by the hand and went into the house with a quick, noisy tread without paying any attention to her niece who had hurried up. As he stood in front of the door the Councillor swayed for a moment as if overcome by sudden dizziness; he pushed Jean's arm away and gripped Franziska's hand. Leaning on her he went slowly and unsteadily up the steps. Thus he met Hans, past whom his wife had also swept like a tempest. He gave the tutor his hand, which trembled as with fever. And as at that moment his wife's bell rang sharply through the house, he grasped Fränzchen's arm more tightly and whispered: "My poor child, poor Kleophea! It could not have ended differently—poor Kleophea!"
With tears in his eyes Hans Unwirrsch stood at the foot of the stairs and watched Fränzchen as she supported and led the broken man.
It was nine o'clock on the morning of the sixth of October and it was raining so hard that all the dogs let their ears droop and put their tails between their legs. At the corner of Grinse Street appeared the unhappy individual who was hunting for lodgings in such weather, Mr. Johannes Unwirrsch, candidate for the ministry, from Kröppel Street in Neustadt. It was by no means pleasant to be turned out of doors in such weather but in Grinse Street he found what he was seeking—an attic room at a remarkably low price and he moved in on the spot without making use of his right to remain in the house of Mrs. Privy Councillor Götz till the end of the year. He fetched his belongings and settled himself in his new quarters. If the feeling of being his own master was not altogether without a tinge of melancholy it was still most refreshing. When Hans sank down on a chair in front of his table a feeling of comfort came over him such as he had not known since his student days.
The bell that rang so shrilly through the house as Kleophea's father staggered to his room gave the household very definite information as to the mother's mood. Paroxysms and faints had been the first consequence of Kleophea's letter; during the drive to town Mrs. Götz had sat in the corner of the carriage in a state of brooding apathy; on her arrival at home her passion had broken out into a wild fury. Mrs. Privy Councillor Götz raged; and it was dangerous to go near her. It was not her daughter's fate, but theéclatwhich the dreadful event would make, doubtless was already making, that almost drove the mother mad. She shrieked at the tutor that it was his fault that the disgraceful traitor, Dr. Stein, the Jew, had ever come into the house. She gave him all the blame for the horrible scandal. Hans defended himself to the best of his ability but it was impossible to maintain any position of right where this woman was concerned. Utterly exhausted he went up to his room to pack his trunk: he was to leave the house the very next morning.
At eight o'clock the next day the Privy Councillor sent for him. Kleophea's father had become a weak, sick man. With surprising, heartfelt emotion he took the candidate's hand, expressed regret that he had to leave, thanked him for the faithful service that he had wanted to do his son, and for not having left before, as well as for the manner in which he had represented the house. He informed Hans that Kleophea had gone to Paris and that he had written to give her his blessing on her marriage. He had not been able to do otherwise. As soon as Dr. Stein should have explained his puzzling intentions more clearly he would have to treat with his wife, as all their property was hers.
Fränzchen slipped into the room, embraced her afflicted uncle with tears and promised to stay with him and to hold fast to him. She smiled through her tears and her uncle kissed the little hand that lay between his dry, cold fingers.
Then they talked of the candidate's plans, the Privy Councillor paid him the vast sum owing him for the lastterm and Hans was glad that Fränzchen was thus able to see that, in spite of his dismissal, he would not yet be exposed to a miserable death from starvation. He declared that he intended to spend the winter in the city as a free man and—to write a book.
Hans left the house gladly, but he parted from these two people with a very heavy heart.
After Hans had taken possession of his room and his trunk had received its place in the corner, he bolted the door and counted out on the table the fabulous sum of one hundred and twenty-five thalers. Every piece of silver turned into one of the stones with which he built his castle in the air and the notes did beautifully for the roof. It was an indescribable pleasure to go out in the rain and purchase a bottle of ink, half a ream of writing paper and the pens necessary for the literary work.
He soon recognized, however, that he could not sit down at once to begin the manuscript of the "Book of Hunger." Now that he was physically at rest the tumult in his soul began and the ghosts, once roused, made a mockery of all attempts to lay them. For three days Hans remained locked in his room, thought over the gain and the loss of the past year and arrived at the result that the gain exceeded the loss. On the evening of the third day the weather improved and he went out to get some fresh air. Naturally his way led him to Park Street past the house of the Privy Councillor. It looked unutterably dead and lifeless to Hans. Shivering, he hurried home and tried to begin his manuscript, but after a good hour he laid the first page of his "book" aside with no mark on it but three crosses that he had drawn. The next morning he wrote one page, but tore it up again in the evening. On the twentieth of October he tore up the first sheet of the manuscript and found himself in a mood which did not justify "high hopes for the future." He also counted his supply of money and gradually the conviction dawned in his mind that one ofthe main wings of his castle in the air was near collapse and that the foundation of the building was insecure.
On the twenty-first of October the postman brought him a letter which upset him completely and made the completion of the manuscript altogether questionable. For the second time Uncle Nik'las Grünebaum called him to a deathbed, this time to that of faithful Auntie Schlotterbeck. At five the next morning Hans was on his way to Neustadt, that is to say, at this early hour, some time before the departure of his train, he stood shivering in front of the iron garden gate in Park Street, taking dumb leave of the Privy Councillor's house. Fränzchen still slept and dreamt. In her dream she heard a noise like that of the sea and some one whom she did not recognize in her dream, said it was the sea.
The following morning Hans arrived in Neustadt. He had made the last part of the way on foot. Now he stood in front of the door of his house and stared into the hall and saw four candles burning round a coffin. Auntie Schlotterbeck was dead and had left greetings and many messages for him with Uncle Grünebaum. The coffin had been closed that morning and the funeral was to be at four in the afternoon. Everything had gone on as it should and still Hans could not comprehend that it must be so.
There was Uncle Grünebaum. At first he did not recognize his nephew; he had become a decrepit, half childish old man, sat in the corner and whined and asked for Auntie. It was only gradually that he came to a clearer consciousness of the events of the last few days.
Auntie Schlotterbeck had passed away gently and without pain after impressing on Uncle Grünebaum to tell Hans that she had loved him very, very much, that he had always been in her thoughts, that he could never leave her thoughts and that in her eternal life she would pray for him that it might go well with him in his life on earth. Moreover, she had said to tell him that the thing aboutwhich he was now worrying would end well though she could not say in what way.
A remarkable number of people accompanied Auntie Schlotterbeck to the grave and Hans led Uncle Grünebaum directly behind the hearse. After the funeral many came to shake hands with the mourners.
When Johannes and his uncle were once more at home Uncle Grünebaum sat down in Auntie Schlotterbeck's armchair and went to sleep with grief and fatigue.
For the first time Hans was left to himself and sat looking about in the room. His father's glass globe was in its place and the rays of the evening sun fell upon it. In the dusk Uncle Grünebaum suddenly rose up out of his chair, called all shoemakers together in a strangely uncanny voice, took farewell of Hans, greeted Auntie Schlotterbeck and collapsed as he spoke the words: "Amen, the boot is finished." He had followed Auntie Schlotterbeck.
And again Hans stood on God's acre, but this time he was quite alone. The few who had followed the hearse had dispersed. Beneath the mounds lay the guardians of his youth and he would have liked to go down after them into the depths.
But out of the gloom and the depression that surrounded him there came a gentle figure. This figure held him back and for her sake he said that his time was not yet come.
A schoolfellow who had studied law settled the matter of Hans' property for him. The house in Kröppel Street was put up at auction, the movables were sold; he kept nothing but the glass globe. The day came when Hans Unwirrsch had nothing more to do in his native town. The attorney accompanied him to the post-house, saw him drive away and a quarter of an hour later thought of him no more.
Hans arrived in Grinse Street in the middle of the night and the next morning the landlady gave him Colonel von Bullau's card which he had left there for the candidatewith a message asking him to go to the "Green Tree" where he would learn more.
Hans appeared at the "Green Tree" before breakfast, only to hear that Colonel von Bullau was no longer there, that the landlord knew nothing, and that he had better come again in the evening when the other gentlemen would be there. He did so and was greeted with a "Hullo!" by half a dozen "slayers of nine." From the captain he learned that he was ordered to Grunzenow, to Comrade Götz, that the colonel had wanted to take him with him at once and had been not a little put out at not finding him in his burrow. They were to send him on. He might do a good deed for Comrade Götz, who seemed to be tied to his chair and to be in great distress on account of the little girl, his niece, whom he had brought from Paris a few years before.
To Grunzenow, to Grunzenow! All Hans' exhaustion had disappeared. Yes, that was the right thing, to go to Grunzenow, to Lieutenant Rudolf. There advice and help were to be had; that was the starting point from which to untangle all these knots. The "Hunger Pastor" had not been so light-hearted for a long time as in this hour.
The same evening he told his landlady of his intended journey. He also made a vain attempt to see the Privy Councillor. Jean answered him insolently, his master was not at home. The card which he left did not reach its destination either.
This time the candidate's way was northeasterly and however fast the wheels of the cars went round they did not take hungry Hans forward quickly enough. He longed with too great a longing for Grunzenow and the gouty old "beggar lieutenant." Toward the end of the second day he reached a small town in a bleak, unfruitful, heather-covered region. Why it should have been called Freudenstadt was more than anyone had been able to discover. This was as far as the "Post" went with which Hans had traveled since the morning. Hans was able to get a carriage from the landlord of the "Polish Buck" where Colonel von Bullau sometimes came, but he walked the last part of the way, toward the sea. Louder and louder sounded the voice of the sea. He climbed one more hill and it lay before him spread out in the pale evening light and the fog swallowed up the horizon and rolled across the water to the bleak shore on which, farther down below to the right, the lights in the cottage windows of Grunzenow gleamed red.
Hans had not imagined the sea thus. In his dreams it had appeared to him in broad daylight, immeasurable, shining with the greatest brilliance known on earth;—and now this too was different, but still he was so overpowered that he had to press his hand to his heart and his breath choked him.
Hans was met at the big gate of the castle of Grunzenow, in which it looked barbarous enough, by Colonel von Bullau, who took him across a rather extensive court, up a broad stairway and with one push of his hand landed him in the middle of the apartment where Lieutenant Götz and an aged, clerical gentleman were sitting at a table covered with glasses and cards.
The lieutenant had changed very much, he had grown much older in the short time. His legs were packed up in cushions and covers and his left foot rested heavily on a low footstool. Impatiently he asked for news of his child, his Fränzchen. The colonel introduced the candidate to the vicar, Pastor Josias Tillenius. Old Josias' step was firm; his eyes were still keen and clear, his face was rather reddish to be sure, but his hair was the whiter on that account. He was a real seamen's pastor and well able to stand a good gale; he was in thorough keeping with the seasoned colonel and Lieutenant Rudolf. They were a curious trio and the housekeeping too was odd and mad enough.