THE LOAN-OFFICEFrom the Painting by Michael von MunkacsyPERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS
THE LOAN-OFFICEFrom the Painting by Michael von MunkacsyPERMISSION CH. SEDELMEYER, PARIS
The other had vanished; Antonio followed slowly along the same road, out of the park across the Thiergartenstrasse into the Springbrunnenstrasse to the front of the house in which the hated one lived. The windows were brightly illuminated. An equipage came up; an officer and richly gowned ladies, wrapped in their shawls, alighted; a second equipage followed—he was laughing and reveling up there now, and whispering into the ear of one of the fair ladies who had alighted what he had whispered ten minutes before to Ferdinande. If only he could inspire her with the poisonous jealousy which consumed his ownheart! If he could bring about something between her and him which would be insurmountable! If he could betray the whole thing to the grim signor, her father, or to the proud general, his father, or to both——
"Hello!"
A man coming along the pavement had run into him as he leaned on the iron railing of a front yard, arms folded, and had uttered the exclamation in a harsh voice.
"Scusi!" said the Italian, lifting his hat. "Beg your pardon!"
"Hello!" repeated the man. "Is it you, Antonio?"
"O Signor Roller! Mr. Inspector!"
"Signor Roller! Mr. Inspector! That's enough Signoring and Inspectoring," said the man, with a loud laugh—"for the present, at least, till we have given it to the old man—to him and his nephew and his whole brood! If I could only get at the throat of all of them—could only play them a real trick! I'd be willing to pay something for it! Only I have no money! It's all up!"
The man laughed again; he was evidently half drunk.
"I have money," said Antonio quickly, "and——"
"Then we'll take a drink, Signor Italiano," exclaimed the other, slapping him on the shoulder. "Una bottiglia—capisci?Ha! ha! I have not entirely forgotten my Italian!Carrara—marble oxen—capisci?—capisci?"
"Eccomi tutto a voi," said the Italian, taking the man's arm. "Whither?"
"To business, to the devil, to the cellar!" exclaimed Roller, laughingly pointing to the red lantern above the saloon at the corner of the Springbrunnenstrasse.
[The three upper rooms of the General's villa are arranged for a ball. Else appears in a blue gown, but is quite displeased with herself. All looks blue. It is Ottomar's fault, as usual; he has gone out and not returned. And then Wallbach doesn't love Luise, nor Luise him. The men spend so much money. Ottomar is deep in debt; Wartenbergcan't get along with his twenty thousand, and Clemda with his fifty thousand spends twice that much every year. Aunt Sidonie comes in, and is charmed with Else's tarletan; she tells Else she looks just like her princess in the book she is writing, and then refers to Count Golm as a good match for Else. Else is infuriated, says she would not marry Golm if he laid a crown at her feet. The General comes in and Schieler enters and gives the General an account of the railroad project, touching upon the sale of Valerie's estates to Golm, and suggests Golm as a prospective husband for Else.]
The Count had entered a few minutes before in his provincial uniform with the order of St. John. The reception-room had become almost filled with guests meanwhile, and it was with some difficulty that he made his way to the hostesses. Else had not spared him this trouble, to be sure; at this moment, when he caught sight of her at the door, she was eagerly continuing the conversation, which she had begun with Captain von Schönau, so eagerly that the Count, having spoken to Sidonie, stood behind her for half a minute without being noticed, till Schönau finally thought it his duty to draw her attention to the new guest with a gesture, and the words, "I think, Miss Else——"
"I think myself fortunate," said the Count.
"Oh! Count Golm!" said Else, with a well feigned surprise. "Pardon me for not seeing you at once! I was so absorbed. May I make the gentlemen acquainted: Captain von Schönau of the General Staff—a good friend of our family—Count von Golm. Have you seen Papa, Count? He is in the other room. Then, dear Schönau——"
The Count stepped back with a bow.
"That was a bit severe, Miss Else," said Schönau.
"What?"
Schönau laughed.
"You know, Miss Else, if I were not a most modest manI should have all sorts of possible and impossible silly notions in my head."
"How so?"
"Why, my heavens, didn't you see that the Count was on the point of extending his hand and stepped back with a face as red as my collar? Such things a young lady like Miss Else von Werben overlooks only when she wishes to do so, which is hardly the case, or if she—I shall not venture to finish the sentence. Who is that?"
"Who?"
"The officer there—yonder to the left, next to the Baroness Kniebreche—see, at the right!—who is speaking to your father, a stately man—has a cross, too. How did he get here?"
Else had to decide now to see Reinhold, though her heart throbbed quickly and she was vexed at it. She was already vexed that, in her conduct toward the Count, she had exposed and almost betrayed herself to the sharp eyes of Schönau; now it was to happen again!
"A Mr. Schmidt," she said, pressing more firmly the rosebud in her hair. "Sea captain. We made his acquaintance on the journey; Papa was greatly pleased with him——"
"Really a fine looking man," repeated Schönau. "Splendid manly face, such as I like to see, and not without carriage; and yet one recognizes the officer of the reserve at the first glance."
"By what?" asked Else, as her heart began to throb again.
"That you should know as well and better than I, as you associate more with the Guard than I do! Compare him with Ottomar, who seems to have been late again and wishes to atone for his sins by being doubly amiable! Just see with what perfect form he kisses the hand of old Baroness Kniebreche, and now turns on his heel and bows to Countess Fischbach with a grace which the great Vestris himself might envy!Allons, mon fils, montrez votre talent.And now he converses with Sattelstädt—not a line too little, not one too much! To be sure, it is a little unfair to compare the gentlemen of the reserve with the model of all knightly form. Don't you think so?"
Else gazed straight ahead. Schönau was right; there was a difference! She would have preferred to see him as he strode up and down the deck in his woolen jacket; then she had envied him the steadiness and freedom of his movements—and when afterwards he sat at the helm of the boat, and steered it as calmly as the rider his rearing steed! If only he hadn't come just at this time!
Then Reinhold, who had been conversing with her father, excused himself with a friendly nod, and catching sight of Else, turned about and came straight toward her. Else trembled so that she had to steady herself with her left hand against the arm of the chair, for she wished to remain entirely cool and unconscious; but as he stepped up to her, his beautiful honest eyes still aglow from the gracious greeting accorded him by her father, and a certain shyness in his open manly face, which seemed to ask, "Shall I be welcomed by you, too?"—her heart grew warm and kind; even though her hand remained on the arm of the chair, she extended to him the other at full length; her dark eyes sparkled, her red lips laughed, and she said, as heartily and frankly as if there had not been a fairer name in the world—"Welcome to our house, dear Mr. Schmidt!"
He had grasped her hand and said a few words which she only half heard. She turned around to Schönau; the Captain had vanished; a flush came to her cheeks. "It doesn't matter," she muttered.
"What does not matter, Miss Else?"
"I shall tell you later, when there is to be some dancing after dinner; to be sure I don't know——"
"Whether I dance? Indeed I am passionately fond of it."
"The Rhinelander, too?"
"The Rhinelander, too! And, in spite of your increduloussmile, not so badly that Miss von Werben should not give me the honor."
"The Rhinelander, then! All the rest I have declined. Now I must mingle with the company."
She gave a friendly nod and turned away, but turned quickly again.
"Do you like my brother?"
"Very much!"
"I wish so much that you might become intimate with each other. Do make a little effort. Will you?"
"Gladly."
She was now really much occupied. Reinhold, too, mingled with the company, without any of the misgivings which he had felt upon entering the brilliant circle of strangers. For he had now been received by the hostess as a dear friend of the family! Even the eyes of her stately aunt had glanced at him with a certain good-natured curiosity, formal as her bow had been; on the other hand, her father had shaken his hand so heartily and after the first words of welcome, drawing him aside with evident confidence, said to him: "I must first of all make you acquainted with Colonel von Sattelstädt and Captain von Schönau, both of the General Staff. The gentlemen will be eager to hear. Please express yourself with entire freedom—I consider that important. I have yet a special request in the matter, which I wish to communicate to you as soon as I get that far. Then I shall see you later!"
"That was already flattering enough for the simple Lieutenant of the Reserve," Reinhold had thought to himself, as he went up to Else. And she! her kindness, her graciousness! He felt like a Homeric hero, who hoped, silently indeed, that the goddess to whom he prayed would be gracious to him, and to whom the divinity appears in person, in the tumult of battle, beckoning with immortal eyes and words which his ear alone hears. What mattered it to him now that the gold lorgnette of old Baroness Kniebreche was turned upon him so long with such an unnecessarystare, and then let drop with a movement which only too plainly said, "That was worth the effort!" What did he care that Count Golm looked past him as long as it was possible, and, when the manœuvre once utterly failed, slipped by him with an angry, snarling, "O, O, Captain—Very happy!" That the bow of young Prince Clemda might have been a little less indifferent when he was introduced! What difference did it make to him? And those were the only signs of unfriendly feeling which he had encountered in a quite numerous company during the hour just passed. Otherwise, amiable, natural friendliness on the part of the ladies, and polite comradeship on the part of the gentlemen, officers almost without exception, had been the rule throughout; even Prince Clemda seemed to wish to atone for his coolness, suddenly coming up to him and speaking through his nose a few phrases from which Reinhold heard with some clearness: "Werben—Orléans—Vierzon—Devil of a ride—sorry——"
The acquaintance of von Sattelstädt and von Schönau was the most agreeable to him. They came up to him almost at the same time and asked him if he was inclined to give them his views concerning the practicability and value of constructing a naval station north of Wissow Hook. "We both know the locality very well," said the Colonel; "are also both—the Captain a little more than I—opposed to the project. We have conferred frequently with the gentlemen of the Ministry, of course; but nevertheless, or, rather, now in particular, it would be of the greatest interest and most decided importance to hear the view of an intelligent, entirely unprejudiced and unbiased seaman, who is fully acquainted with the conditions—if he has in addition, as you have, Captain, the military eye of a campaign officer. Let us sit down in this little room—there is another chair, Schönau! And now, I think it is best that you allow us to ask questions; we shall come most easily and clearly to the point in that way. We do not wish to tax you long."
"I am at the service of the gentlemen!" said Reinhold.
The gentlemen intended to make only the most modest use of the permission thus granted; but as Reinhold had to go more into detail at times in order to answer the questions put to him, the conversation lasted much longer than anyone had intended, and, as it appeared, than he himself had realized. Flattering as was the respectful attention with which the two officers listened to his explanations, sincerely as he admired the keenness, the exactness, and the extent of the information exhibited by each of their questions, each word—nevertheless he could not resist casting a glance through the door of the room into the reception-room where the company was still mingling freely in the accustomed manner; and through the reception-room into the smaller room on the other side of the reception-room, in which a group of younger ladies and gentlemen had collected, among whom Reinhold noticed Ottomar and the lady who had been pointed out to him at the exhibition as Miss von Wallbach, and Count Golm, and, finally, Else too. A lively discussion was going on there, so that one could hear it across the reception-room, although only an occasional word could be understood. And Schönau's attention also was finally attracted to it. "I'll wager," he said, "that they are disputing about Wagner; when Miss von Wallbach is presiding, Wagner must be the subject of discussion. I would give something, if I could hear what ideas she is bringing forward today."
"That is to say, dear Schönau, if I am not mistaken, 'I would give something, if Sattelstädt would finally stop,'" said the Colonel with a smile. "Well, to be sure, we have tried the patience of our comrade longer than was right or proper."
He rose and extended his hand to Reinhold, Schönau protested; he had thought least of all of that which the Colonel imputed to him. The Colonel shook his finger. "Shame on you, Schönau, to betray your mistress! That is, you must know, comrade, the noble Dame Musica—for her hegoes through fire and flood, and lets the naval station go to the dickens! March, march, Schönau!" And off they went.
Schönau laughed, but left, taking with him Reinhold, who followed without reluctance, as he would thus have the best opportunity of coming into the presence of Else and Ottomar, the latter of whom he had seen and saluted hastily a few minutes before.
[Ottomar returns and quite outdoes himself in his attentions to the ladies, much to the disquietude of Baroness Kniebreche and Carla. The Baroness finally brings Ottomar and Carla together, and delivers a little homily to them but without improving their relations. Ottomar thinks to himself that the four charming girls with whom he is talking would not make one Ferdinande from whom he has just parted. And suppose he did have a hostile encounter with Wallbach, it would only be the fourth in four years; and if the bullet did hit him, it would only be the end of his debts and his amours! Ottomar is asked to introduce his friend Reinhold. Clemda tells Ottomar that he is to marry Antonie in a month, and that they wish Carla to be a bridesmaid. Colonel von Bohl tells Ottomar that he can hardly begin his furlough before spring, as Clemda's time is to be extended, and then speaks of a possible post at St. Petersburg for Ottomar. Ottomar is embarrassed and runs into a group of ladies gathered around Carla, who is discoursing about Wagner. Count Golm is shrewd enough not to express his opinion about Wagner as a great musician, but Ottomar, to the great confusion of the Baroness and Carla, says he thinks the whole Wagner business is a humbug!
Supper is announced. Else implores Ottomar to take Carla to supper and repair the injury he has done, but Carla has taken Golm's arm. Else urges Ottomar not to let Golm beat him out. The polka starts. The General, seeing Reinhold disengaged, asks him whether he dances? Reinhold says he does, but is waiting for the chat whichthe General had requested. The General proceeds to unfold the railroad scheme, and elicits Reinhold's opinion. At the close of the ball, the General finds a letter telling of Ottomar's escapade with Ferdinande.]
The last carriage had rolled away; the servants were cleaning up the rooms under the direction of Sidonie; Else, who had usually relieved her aunt of the duties of the house, had withdrawn with the excuse that she felt a little tired, in order to allow the pleasant echo of the delightful evening to pass through her thoughts again while she sat in the quiet of her room, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It would not have been at all necessary for him to dance the Rhinelander with such grace; she would have given him in the waltz, also, the great flaming favor which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which she drew, luckily, with a bold grab, when it came her turn to fasten it with her trembling hands next to the iron cross on his breast. Yes, her hands had trembled and her heart had throbbed as she accomplished the great work and now looked up into his beaming eyes; but it was for joy, for pure joy and bliss. And it was joy and bliss also which now let her fall asleep, after she had laid her greatest treasures, the sketch-book with his picture and the little compass, upon her dressing-table, and put out the light—but again lighted it to cast a glance at the compass-box and assure herself that "it was always true" and "sought its master," and then opened the sketch-book at the place where it always opened of itself, to look at his picture once more—no, not the picture—it was horrible!—but at the signature: "With love!" Secretly, very secretly to impress a kiss upon it, and then quickly, very quickly, to put out the light, to press her head into her pillow, and, in her dreams, to look for him to whom she was ever true, dreaming or waking—who, she knew, would ever be true to her, waking or dreaming.
Ottomar, too, had taken leave of the ladies, as the lastguests left, with a hasty, "Good-night! I'm tired enough to drop! Where is Father?" and had gone downstairs without waiting for an answer to his question. In the hall which led to his room he had to pass his father's room. He had stopped a moment. His father, who had gone down a few minutes before, was certainly still up, and Ottomar had, on such occasions, always knocked and said at least, through the open door, "Good night!" This time he did not do it. "I am tired enough to drop," he repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself for the violation of a family custom. But, on reaching his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would not have been any use as long as the blood was raging through his veins "as if I were crazy," said Ottomar, opening his uniform covered with cotillion favors, and throwing it down. He opened his vest and collar, and got into the first piece of clothing that came to his hand—his hunting jacket—and seated himself with a cigar at the open window. The night was perceptibly cool, but the cool air was grateful to him; lightning flashed from the black clouds, but he took no notice of it; and thus he sat looking out on the black autumn night, puffing his cigar—revolving his confused thoughts in his perturbed mind, and not hearing, because of the throbbing of his pulse in his temples and the rustling of the wind in the branches, that there had twice been a knock at his door; shrinking like a criminal, as now the voice sounded close in his ear. It was August.
"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant! I have already knocked several times."
"What do you want?"
"The General requests the Lieutenant to come to him at once."
"Is Father sick?"
August shook his head. "The General is still in his uniform and doesn't look sick, only a little——"
"Only a little what?"
The man ran his fingers through his hair. "A little strange, Lieutenant! I think, Lieutenant, the General——"
"The devil! Will you speak?"
August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, "I think the General received a bad letter a while ago—it may have been half-past eleven. I didn't see the one who brought it, and Friedrich didn't know him, and he probably went away immediately. But I had to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face as he read the letter——"
"From a lady?"
August could not suppress a smile in spite of the genuine concern which he felt for his young master. "I—he said—they looked differently—one will get over that in time—a highly important letter——"
"These damned Manichæans!" muttered Ottomar. He did not understand the connection; the next note was not due for eight days—but what else could it be? His father would make another beautiful scene for him! Oh, pshaw! He would get engaged a few days earlier, if he must get engaged, if it were only finally to put an end to the disgraceful worries from which he had no rest at night in his room, and couldn't smoke his cigar in peace!
He threw his cigar out of the window; August had taken his uniform and removed the cotillion favors. "What's that for?"
"Does the Lieutenant prefer to put on his uniform?" asked August.
"Nonsense!" said Ottomar. "That was just lacking to——"
He broke off; for he could not tell August—to make the tedious story still more tedious and more serious. "I shall simply explain to Papa that in the future I do not intend to molest him further with such things, and prefer to have my affairs finally arranged by Wallbach," he said to himself, while August went on ahead with the light—the gaslights in the hall were already extinguished—down the hall, and now stopped at his father's door.
"You may put the light on the table there, and as far as I am concerned, go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at six o'clock in the morning."
He had spoken these words more loudly than was necessary, and he noticed that his voice had a strange sound—as if it were not his own voice. It was, of course, only because everything was so still in the house—so still that he now heard the blood coursing in his temples and his heart beating.
"The damned Manichæans!" he muttered again through his teeth, as he knocked at the door.
"Come in!"
His father stood at his desk, above which a hanging lamp was burning. And the lamps were still burning on the brackets before the mirror, there was an uncanny brightness in the room, and an uncanny order, although it was just exactly as Ottomar had seen it as long as he could remember. He ought really to have put on his uniform after all.
"I beg pardon, Papa, for coming in négligé. I was just about to go to bed, and August was so insistent——"
His father still stood at the desk, resting one hand on it, turning his back to him without answering. The silence of his father lay like a mountain on Ottomar's soul. He shook off with a violent effort the sullen hesitation. "What do you want, Papa?"
"First, to ask you to read this letter," said the General, turning around slowly and pointing with his finger to a sheet which lay open before him on his desk.
"A letter to me!"
"Then I should not have read it; but I have read it."
He had stepped back from the desk, and was going up and down the room with a slow, steady step, his hands behind him, while Ottomar, in the same place where hisfather had stood without taking the sheet in his hands—the handwriting was clear enough—read:
"Highly Honored and Respected General:"Your Honor will graciously excuse the undersigned for venturing to call your Honor's attention to an affair which threatens most seriously to imperil the welfare of your worthy family. The matter concerns a relationship which your son, Lieutenant von Werben, has had for some time with the daughter of your neighbor, Mr. Schmidt, the proprietor of the marble works. Your Honor will excuse the undersigned from going into details, which might better be kept in that silence in which the participants—to be sure, in vain—strive to preserve them, although he is in a position to do so; and if the undersigned requests you to ask your son where he was this evening between eight and nine o'clock, and with whom he had a rendezvous, it is only to indicate to your Honor how far the aforementioned relationship has already progressed."It would be as foolish as impermissible to assume that your Honor is informed of all this and has winked at it, so to speak, when your son is on the point of engaging himself to the daughter of an ultraradical Democrat; on the contrary the undersigned can picture to himself in advance the painful surprise which your Honor must feel on reading these lines; but, your Honor, the undersigned has also been a soldier and knows what a soldier's honor is—as he for his part has respected honor his whole life long—and he could no longer look on and see this mischievous machination carried on behind the back of such a brave and deserving officer by him, who more than any other, appears to be called to be the guardian of this honor."The undersigned believes that, after the above, there is no need of a special assurance of the high esteem with which he is to your Honor and your Honor's entire family
"Highly Honored and Respected General:
"Your Honor will graciously excuse the undersigned for venturing to call your Honor's attention to an affair which threatens most seriously to imperil the welfare of your worthy family. The matter concerns a relationship which your son, Lieutenant von Werben, has had for some time with the daughter of your neighbor, Mr. Schmidt, the proprietor of the marble works. Your Honor will excuse the undersigned from going into details, which might better be kept in that silence in which the participants—to be sure, in vain—strive to preserve them, although he is in a position to do so; and if the undersigned requests you to ask your son where he was this evening between eight and nine o'clock, and with whom he had a rendezvous, it is only to indicate to your Honor how far the aforementioned relationship has already progressed.
"It would be as foolish as impermissible to assume that your Honor is informed of all this and has winked at it, so to speak, when your son is on the point of engaging himself to the daughter of an ultraradical Democrat; on the contrary the undersigned can picture to himself in advance the painful surprise which your Honor must feel on reading these lines; but, your Honor, the undersigned has also been a soldier and knows what a soldier's honor is—as he for his part has respected honor his whole life long—and he could no longer look on and see this mischievous machination carried on behind the back of such a brave and deserving officer by him, who more than any other, appears to be called to be the guardian of this honor.
"The undersigned believes that, after the above, there is no need of a special assurance of the high esteem with which he is to your Honor and your Honor's entire family
"A most faithful devotee."
The General allowed his son some minutes; now that Ottomar still stared motionless before him—only his teeth bit nervously against his pale lower lip—he remained standing, separated by the width of the room, and asked: "Have you an idea who wrote this letter?"
"No."
"Have you the least suspicion who is the lady in question——?"
"For Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Ottomar in anguish.
"I beg pardon; but I am in the painful situation of having to ask, since you seem inclined not to give the information which I expected."
"What shall I explain in the matter?" asked Ottomar with bitter scorn. "It is as it is."
"Brief and to the point," replied the General, "only not just so clear. There still remain some points which are obscure—to me, at least. Have you anything to object to the lady—I may so express myself?"
"I should have to request you to do so otherwise."
"Then have you anything, even the slightest thing—excepting external circumstances, and of that later—which would prevent you from bringing her into Else's company? On your honor!"
"On my honor, no!"
"Do you know anything at all, even the slightest, concerning her family, excepting external circumstances, which would and must prevent another officer, who is not in your exceptional position, from connecting himself with the family? On your honor!"
Ottomar hesitated a moment before answering. He knew absolutely nothing touching Philip's honor; he maintained toward him the native instinct of a gentleman who, in his eyes, was not a gentleman; but it seemed to him cowardice to wish to conceal himself behind this feeling.
"No!" said he solemnly.
"Have you acquainted the lady with your circumstances?"
"In a general way, yes."
"Among other things, that you are disinherited as soon as you marry a lady who is not of noble family?"
"No."
"That was a little imprudent; nevertheless I understand it. But in general, you said, she does understand the difficulties which will accompany a union between her and you in the most favorable case? Did you have her understand that you neither wish nor are in a position to remove the difficulties?"
"No."
"But led her to believe, perhaps assured her, that you could and would remove them?"
"Yes."
"Then you will marry the lady?"
Ottomar quivered like a steed when his rider drives the spurs into its flanks. He knew that would be, must be, the outcome of it; nevertheless, now that it was put into words, his pride revolted against any one forcing his heart, even his father. Was he to be the weaker one throughout—to follow where he did not wish to go—to allow his path to be prescribed by others?
"Not by any means!" he exclaimed.
"How? Not by any means?" returned the General. "I surely have not to do here with an obstinate boy, who breaks up his plaything because it does not amuse him any longer, but with a man of honor, an officer, who has the habit of keeping his word promptly?"
Ottomar felt that he must offer a reason—the shadow of a reason—something or other.
"I think," he said, "that I cannot decide to take a step in a direction which would put me into the position of necessarily doing an injustice in another direction."
"I think I understand your position," said the General. "It is not pleasant; but when one is so many sided he should be prepared for such things. Besides, I owe you the justice to declare that I am beginning to inform myself,now, at least, as to your conduct toward Miss von Wallbach, and I fail to find the consistency in that conduct which, to be sure, you have unfortunately never led me to expect. According to my conception, it was your duty to retire, once for all, the moment your heart was seriously engaged in another direction. In our close relations with the Wallbachs it would, indeed, have been very difficult and unpleasant, but a finality; one may be deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of heart and their practical consequences if all is done at the right time and in the right manner. How you will make this retreat now without more serious embarrassment I do not know; I only know that it must be done. Or would you have pursued the wrong to the limit, and bound yourself in this case as you did in that?"
"I am not bound to Miss von Wallbach in any way except as everybody has seen, by no word which everybody has not heard, or at least might have heard; and my attachment for her has been so wavering from the first moment on——"
"Like your conduct. Let us not speak of it further, then; let us consider, rather, the situation into which you have brought yourself and consider the consequences. The first is that you have forfeited your diplomatic career—with a burgher woman as your wife, you cannot appear at St. Petersburg or any other court; the second is that you must have yourself transferred to another regiment, as you could not avoid the most objectionable conflicts and collisions in your own regiment, with a Miss Schmidt as your wife; third, that if the lady doesn't bring you property, or, at least, a very considerable sum, the arrangement of your external life in the future must be essentially different from what it has been heretofore, and, I fear, one that may be little in accord with your taste; the fourth consequence is that you by this union—even though it should be as honorable in a burgher moral sense as I wish and hope—by the simple letter of the will lose your claim toyour inheritance—I mention this here once more only for the sake of completeness."
Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had generously kept silent about the twenty-five thousand thalers of debts which he had paid for him in the course of the last few years—that is, his entire private fortune except a very small residue—and that he could not pay back this money to his father in the near future as he had intended to do, perhaps would never be able to pay it back. His father was now dependent upon his salary, ultimately upon his pension; and he had repeatedly spoken recently of wishing to retire from the service!
His glance, which had been directed in his confusion toward the floor, now passed shyly over to his father, who was pacing slowly to and fro through the room. Was it the light? Was it that he saw him differently today? His father appeared to him to be ten years older—for the first time seemed to him an old man. With the feeling of love and reverence, which he had always cherished for him, was mingled one almost of pity; he wanted to fall at his feet, embrace his knees and exclaim, "Forgive me for the mistakes I have made!" But he felt riveted to the spot; his limbs would not move; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; he could say nothing but—"You still have Else."
The General had stopped in front of the life-size portraits of his father and mother, which hung on the wall—a superior officer in the uniform of the Wars of the Liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of the time, whom Else strikingly resembled about the forehead and eyes.
"Who knows?" he said.
He passed his hand over his forehead.
"It is late in the night, two o'clock, and the morrow will have its troubles, too. Will you be good enough to put out the gas lights above you? Have you a light out there?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Very well! Good-night!"
He had extinguished one of the lamps in front of the mirror, and taken the other.
"Can you find the door?"
Ottomar wished to exclaim, "Give me thy hand!" but he did not venture to do so, and went toward the door saying, "Good-night!"—which had a sound of resentment, because he had almost broken into tears. His father stood at the door of his bedroom. "One thing more! I forgot to say that I reserve the right to take the next step myself. As you have so long hesitated to take the initiative, you will have to grant me this favor. I shall keep you informed, of course. I beg you to take no further step without my knowledge. We must act in conjunction, now that we understand each other."
He had said the last words with a melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer, and rushed out of the room.
The General, too, already had his hand on the latch; but as Ottomar had now vanished he drew it back, took the lamp to the writing-desk, a drawer of which he unlocked, and drew out, where, among other ornaments of little value belonging to his deceased wife and mother, he kept also the iron rings of his father and mother from the Wars of the Liberation.
He took the rings.
"Another time has come," he muttered, "not a better one! Whither, alas! have they vanished? And your piety, your fidelity to duty, your modest simplicity, your holy resignation? I have honestly endeavored to emulate you, to be a worthy son of a race which knew no other glory than the bravery of its men and the virtue of its women. What have I done that it should be visited on me?"
He kissed the rings and laid them back into the box, and from the several miniatures on ivory took that of a beautiful brown-haired, brown-eyed boy of perhaps six years.
He looked at it for a long time, motionless.
"The family of Werben will die out with him, and—hewas my favorite. Perhaps I am to be punished because I was unspeakably proud of him prematurely."
[Old Grollmann, the servant, finds a similar letter directed to Uncle Ernst, and delivers it. Uncle Ernst reads it, drinks a bottle of wine, and falls asleep, after having rung for his afternoon coffee. He is found in this condition by Grollmann. Reinhold has been casting longing glances toward the Werben house over the wall. The General calls to speak with Uncle Ernst about the letter.
The General gives Uncle Ernst a brief story of his life and his social point of view, so far as they touch the family of von Werben, disclosing his aristocratic attitude. Uncle Ernst replies that he has no family history to relate, but gives a brief sketch of his own life, recalling vividly the incident in which he spared the General before the barricade, and was taken captive by him in return, and shut up in Spandau. It is a struggle between the aristocrat and the democrat of '48; a sullen silence prevails between the two men. The General finally asks, in the name of Ottomar, for the hand of Ferdinande. Uncle Ernst starts back in amazement.]
The night had had no terrors and the morning no gloom for Ferdinande. In her soul it was bright daylight for the first time in many months—yes, as she thought, for the first time since she knew what a passionate, proud, imperious heart throbbed in her bosom. They had told her so, so often—in earlier years her mother, later her aunt, her girl friends, all—that it would some time be her undoing, and that pride goes before a fall; and she had always answered with resentment: "Then I will be undone, I will fall, if happiness is to be had only as the niggardly reward of humility, which always writhes in the dust before Fate, and sings hymns of thanks because the wheels of grim Envy only passed over it but did not crush it! I am not a Justus, I am not a Cilli!"
And she had been unhappy even in the hours when enthusiastic artists, Justus' friends, had worshipped, in extravagant words, the splendid blooming beauty of the young girl; when these men praised and aided her talents, and told her that she was on the right path to becoming an artist at last—that she was an artist, a true artist. She did not believe them; and, if she were a real artist—there were much greater ones! Even Justus' hand could reach so much higher and farther than hers; he plucked fruits with a smile and apparently without effort for which she had to strive with unprecedented efforts and which would ever remain unattainable to her, as she had secretly confessed to herself.
She had expressed her misgivings to that great French painter upon whom her beauty had made such an overwhelming impression. He had evaded her with polite smiles and words; then he finally told her seriously: "Mademoiselle, there is only one supreme happiness for woman—that is love; and she has only one gift of genius in which no man can equal her—that again is love."—The word had crushed her; her art life was thus a childish dream, and love!—Yes, she knew that she could love, and boundlessly! But her eye was yet to see the man who could kindle this love to the heavenly flame, and woe to her if she found him! He would not understand her love, not comprehend, and most certainly not be able to return it; would shrink back, perhaps, from its glow, and she would be more unhappy than before.
TWO FAMILIESPermission Ch. Sedelmeyer, ParisMichael von Munkacsy
TWO FAMILIESPermission Ch. Sedelmeyer, ParisMichael von Munkacsy
And had not this dismal foreboding already been most sadly fulfilled? Had she not felt herself unspeakably unhappy in her love for him who had met her as if the Immortals had sent him, as if he were himself an Immortal? Had she not declared countless times in writhing despair, with tears in her eyes and bitter scorn, that he did not comprehend her love, did not understand it—would never comprehend or understand it? Had she not seen clearly that he shrank back, shuddered—not before the perils which threatened along the dark way of love—he was as bold as anyother and more agile—but before love itself, before all-powerful but insatiate love, love demanding everything!
So she had felt even yesterday—even the moment after the blissful one, when she felt and returned his first kiss! And today! Today she smiled, with tears of joy, at her dejection. Today, in her imagination, she begged her lover's pardon for all the harshness and bitterness which, in thought and expression, she had entertained toward him, but now, with a thousand glowing kisses pressed upon his fair forehead, his loving eyes, his sweet mouth, would never again think, never again express!
She had wished to work, to put the last touches on her "Woman with the Sickle." Her hand had been as awkward and helpless as in the period of her first apprenticeship, and it had occurred to her, not without a shudder, that she had sworn not to finish the work. It was a fortunate oath, though she knew it not. What should she do with this hopeless figure of jealous vengeance? How foolish this whole elaborate apparatus for her work appeared—this room with high ceiling, these easels, these mallets, these rasps, these modeling tools, these coats-of-arms, hands, feet, these heads, these busts, after the originals of the Masters, her own sketches, outlines, finished works—childish gropings with bandaged eyes after a happiness not to be found here—to be found only in love, the one true original talent of woman—her talent which she felt was her only one, that outshone everything which men had hitherto felt and called love!
She could not endure the room this morning; now her studio had become too small for her. She went out into the garden, and passed along the walks between the foliage, under the trees, from whose rustling boughs drops of rain from the night before fell down upon her. How often the bright sunshine and the blue sky had offended her, seeming to mock her pain! She looked up triumphantly to the gray canopy of clouds, which moved slowly and darkly over her head; why did she need the sunshine and the light—she,in whose heart all was pure light and brightness! The drizzling mist which now began to fall would only cool a bit the inner fire that threatened to consume her! Moving clouds and drizzling mist, rustling trees and bushes, the damp dark earth itself—it was all strangely beautiful in the reflection of her love!
She went in again and seated herself at the place where he had kissed her, and dreamed on, while in the next room they hammered and knocked and alternately chatted and whistled.—She dreamed that her dream had the power to bring him back, who now slowly and gently opened the door and—it was only a dream—came up to her with a happy smile on his sweet lips, and a bright gleam in his dark eyes, till suddenly the smile vanished from his lips and only his eyes still gleamed—no longer with that fervid glow, but with the dismal melancholy penetration of her father's eyes. And now it was not only her father's eyes; it became more and more—her father, great God!
She had started out of her dream, but sank back into her seat and grew rigid again. She had seen, with half-opened eyes, from the look in his eyes and the letter which he held in his hand, why he had come. So in half-waking, confused, passionate words, she told him. He bowed his head but did not contradict her; he only replied, "My poor child!"
"I am no longer your poor child, if you treat me so."
"I fear you never have been my child at heart."
"And if I have never been, who is to blame for it but you? Did you ever show me the love which a child is justified in demanding of a father? Have you ever done anything to make the life you gave me worth while? Did my industry ever wrest from you a word of praise? Did what I accomplished ever draw from you a word of recognition? Did you not rather do everything to humiliate me in my own eyes, to make me smaller than I really was, to make me dislike my art, to make me feel that in your eyes I was not and never could be an artist? Am I to blame that you never considered all this anything better than abig play house, which you bought for me to dally and play away my useless time in? And now—now you come to wrest from me my love, simply because your pride demands it, simply because it offends you that such a useless, lowly creature can ever have a will of its own, can wish something different from what you wish? But you are mistaken, Father! I am, in spite of all that, your daughter. You can cast me off, you can drive me into misery as you can crush me with a hammer, because you are the stronger; my love you cannot tear away from me!"
"I can, and I will!"
"Try it!"
"The attempt and success are one. Do you wish to become the mistress of Lieutenant von Werben?"
"What has that question to do with my love?"
"Then I will put it in another form: Have you the courage to wish to be like those wretched foolish creatures who give themselves up to a man, out of wedlock or in wedlock—for wedlock does not change matters—for any other prize than the love which they take in exchange for their love? Von Werben has nothing to give in exchange; von Werben does not love you."
Ferdinande laughed with scorn.—"And he came to you, knowing that you hated him and his whole family with a blind hatred, in order to tell you this?"
"He could not come; his father had to do the difficult errand for him, for which he had not the courage, for which his father had to enforce the permission of his son."
"That is——"
"It is not a lie! By my oath! And still more: He did not even go of his own will to his father; he would not have done it today, he would perchance never have done it, if his father had been content with asking him whether it was true, what the sparrows chatter from the roof and the blackmailers wrote to the unsuspecting father anonymously, that Lieutenant von Werben has a sweetheart beyond the garden-wall or—how do I know!"
"Show me the letters!"
"Here is one of them; the General will be glad to let you have the other, no doubt; I do not think the son will lay claim to it."
Ferdinande read the letter.
She had considered it certain that Antonio alone could have been the betrayer; but this letter was not by Antonio—could not be by him. Then other eyes than the passionate jealous eyes of the Italian had looked into the secret. Her cheeks, still pale, flared with outraged modesty.—"Who wrote the letter?"
"Roller; he has not even disguised his hand to the General."
She gave the letter back to her father quickly, and pressed her forehead as if she wished to remove the traces of emotion. "Oh, the disgrace, the disgrace!" she muttered; "oh, the disgust! the disgust!"
The dismissed inspector had taken up his residence in her family till Ferdinande had noticed that he was audaciously beginning to pay attention to her; she had made use of a pretense of a disagreement, which he had had with her father, first to strain the social relations, then to drop them. And the bold repulsive eyes of the man—"Oh, the disgrace! oh, the disgrace! oh, the disgust!" she muttered continually.
She paced with long strides up and down, then went hurriedly to the writing-desk which stood at one end of the large room, wrote hastily a few lines, and then took the sheet to her father, who had remained standing motionless in the same spot. "Read!"
And he read:
My father wishes to make a sacrifice of his convictions for me, and consents to my union with Lieutenant von Werben. But, for reasons which my pride forbids me to record, I renounce this union once for all, as a moral impossibility, and release Lieutenant von Werben from all responsibilitywhich he may consider he has toward me. This decision, which I have reached with full freedom, is irrevocable; I shall consider any attempt on the part of Lieutenant von Werben to change it as an insult.
Signed, Ferdinande Schmidt.
"Is that correct?"
He nodded. "Shall I send him this?"
"In my name."
She turned away from him and, seizing a modeling stick, went to her work. Her father folded the sheet and went toward the door. Then he stopped. She did not look up, apparently entirely absorbed in her work. His eyes rested upon her with deep pain—"And yet!" he murmured—"Yet!"
He had closed the door behind him and was walking slowly across the court through whose broad empty space the rain-storm howled.
"Empty and desolate!" he murmured.—"All is empty and desolate! That is the end of the story for me and for her!"
"Uncle!"
He started from his sullen brooding; Reinhold was hastily coming from the house toward him, bareheaded, excited.
"Uncle, for Heaven's sake!—The General has just left me—I know all.—What did you decide?"
"What we had to."
"It will be the death of Ferdinande!"
"Better that than a dishonorable life!"
He strode past Reinhold into the house. Reinhold did not dare to follow him; he knew it would be useless.
[Giraldi and Valerie have just returned from Rome and put up at the Hotel Royal in Berlin. Valerie writes her brother, the General, a note, which Else answers. Valerie thinks the friendly answer a trap. Giraldi has another interview with Privy Councilor Schieler, "the wonderworker,"about the Warnow estates and about enlisting the interests of Count Golm. The Count snaps eagerly at the bait held out by the company—namely, the sale of the Warnow estates through him to the company. Giraldi plans to have Golm get Else's part of the estate by marrying her. Giraldi discovers that Antonio is the original of the "Shepherd Boy" in the exhibition, and identifies him as the son of himself and Valerie. Justus had discovered Antonio in Italy and brought him home with him to Berlin. Antonio remains with Justus to be near Ferdinande. Jealousy leads Antonio to the discovery of the relation between Ferdinande and Ottomar. Ottomar's betrothal to Carla and Else's relations with Reinhold are touched upon. Giraldi goes out to receive His Excellency, tossing a few sweet phrases to Valerie, enough to show her that she is still in his grip, and that she will never be able to break his spell over her. Else calls and finds her in this frame of mind.
Aunt Sidonie calls to see Valerie and chatters long about the family and the betrothal of Ottomar and Carla. Else has thus been able to reestablish friendly relations between Valerie and her father's family.]
Giraldi had not intended to stay away so long. It was to have been only a formal call, a return of the one he had made on His Excellency yesterday morning—but that loquacious gentleman still had much to say about the things they thought they had settled yesterday—much to add—even when he was standing at the door with one hand on the knob, and the other, which held his hat, passing before his half-blinded eyes, covered by gray spectacles, in an effort to shield them from the light that came in too brightly from the window opposite.
"It seems foolish to try to warn the wisest of men," said he with a cynical smile which, on his strange face, turned into a tragic grimace.
"Especially when the warning comes from the most courageous of men," answered Giraldi.
"And yet," continued His Excellency, "even he is wise—you underestimate his wisdom; even he is courageous—almost to foolhardiness. He gives proof of it every day. People like him, I think, cannot be appreciatedpar distanceat all; at least half of the charm which they have for their associates is in their personality. You have to be close to them, personally—come into contact with them in the same room—see them going to a Court soirée, to understand why the other beasts grovel in the dust before such lions, and, even when they wish to oppose, can do no more than swish their tails. Believe me, honored friend, separation in space is just as unfavorable to the appreciation of such truly historic greatness as is separation in time. You Romans think you can explain by the logic of facts everything that depends solely upon overpowering personality, just as our all-wise historians construe the marvelous deeds of an Alexander or a Cæsar, even to the dotting of an "i," all very coldly, as necessarily following the bare situations in the case, just as though the situations were a machine that turns out its product, whether master or menial set it going."
Giraldi smiled. "Thanks, Your Excellency, in the name of His Holiness; for you probably intended that brilliant little sermon for him anyway. It is a good thing, too, for His Holiness to be shown the other side of the medal once in a while, so that he may not forget fear, which is the foundation of all wisdom, and may remain mindful of the necessity of our advice and support. Only, at this moment, when the shadows of clouds that threaten all around our horizon lie dark on his soul, I would rather not represent the case to him as more troublesome, nor the man in the case more dangerous, than we ourselves see them from our knowledge of them. That is why I diligently used my very last interview to raise his dejected spirits a little. May I give Your Excellency an instance to show howvery necessary that was? Very well! His Holiness was speaking in almost the same words of the demoniac power of the arch-enemy of our most Holy Church; he calls him a robber, a Briareus, a murderer, a colossus, that plants his feet on two hemispheres, as the one at Rhodes did on the two arms of the harbor. This, Your Excellency, was my answer to His Holiness—that I could see even now the stone falling from on high, the stone which would crush the feet of the colossus. His eyes gleamed, his lips moved; he repeated the words to himself; soon he will proclaim iturbi et orbi, as he does everything with which we stuff him. Our enemies will laugh, but it will reassure the weak hearts among us as it visibly reassured that poor old man."
"I would it were as true as it is reassuring," said His Excellency.
"And isn't it true?" cried Giraldi. "Doesn't the colossus really stand on feet of masonry? What good is all this bloated boasting of the power and the majesty and the cultural mission of the German Empire? The end of the whole story, which he carefully avoids mentioning—or at most has added very obscurely—is ever the strong Prussian kingdom. What good can it do him to change restlessly from one rôle to another, and proclaim today the universal right of suffrage, to thunder against socialism tomorrow, day after tomorrow, in turn, to censure thebourgeoisieas though they were rude schoolboys. He is, and will always be, themajor domusof the Hohenzollerns, whether he will or not, in moments of impatience at his most gracious lord's wise hesitation on some point, of anger at the intrigues of the courtcamarilla, or whatever else may stir up his haughty soul. Believe me, Your Excellency, this man, in spite of the liberalism which he wears most diligently for appearances' sake, is an aristocrat from head to foot, and, in spite of his oft-vaunted broad-mindedness, is full of medieval, romantic cobwebs; he can at heart never desire anything, and will never desire anything, but a kingdom by divine right, and, while desiringa kingdom by divine right, he works away at one by the people's right. Or what else is it, when he uproots respect for the clergy in the people—not only for the Catholic clergy!—The interests of all sects have always been common, and the sympathy which a maltreated Catholic clergy awakens in the Protestant will soon enough come to light. But without clerics there will be no God, and no king by divine right—that is to say, he cuts off the branch to which he clings. Now if he were not to take the thing nearly as seriously as he does, if he were to be—which is incredible to me—so narrow-minded and frivolous as to regard it all only in the light of a question of etiquette, a dispute over precedence of themajor domusand grandees in the state of his own creation, which he wishes to justify in the eyes of the church, then history would lead him backad absurdum, for it teaches on every page that a priest never accepts this subordination; at the most, he endures it if he must. We are what we always have been, and always shall be. And, Your Excellency, that is his Achilles' heel—not to understand this, to believe that he can intimidate us by threats and frights, and make us into creatures of his will. When he sees that he will not get anywhere that way—and I hope he will not see it very soon—he will try to compromise with us, and compromise again and again, and be driven step by step into the camp of the reactionaries; he will be forced to express more and more openly the contradiction of his purpose—the kingdom by divine right and his methods which he has borrowed from the arsenal of the revolution; and this contradiction into which he is hopelessly driving, and from which the revolution must come—for no people will long endure a self-contradictory régime—is the stone which is already rolling, and will let loose the avalanche and crush the colossus."
"Serve him right, and good luck to him!" said His Excellency with a sarcastic smile, and then—after a littlepause—"I am only afraid sometimes that we too shall take thesalto mortalewith him, and——"
"And stand firmer than ever on our feet," interrupted Giraldi quickly. "What have we to fear from the revolution, the people? Nothing, absolutely nothing! If people dance around the golden calf today, they will grovel so much the lower in the dust before Jehovah tomorrow. If today they enthrone the Goddess of Reason, tomorrow they will flee, like a child that has frightened itself, back to the bosom of the Mother Church. And if, as you said, Darwinism is really to be the religion of the future for Germany—very well; then we shall be Darwinianspar excellenceand proclaim the new doctrine with holy zeal from the rostra of the universities; we know well enough that Nature wraps herself the more closely in her veil the more impatiently the inquisitive pupil pulls at it, and then, when he has looked into the hollow eyes of nothing, and lies crushed on the ground, we come and raise up the poor knave and comfort him with the admonition, 'Go thy way and sin no more'; and he goes his way and sins henceforth no more in the foolish thirst for knowledge, for the burden of ignorance is lighter and her yoke is easier—quod erat demonstrandum."
The corners of His Excellency's mouth were drawn apart as far as possible. Even Giraldi was smiling.
"I wish I had you here always," said His Excellency.
"To tell Your Excellency things which you have long worn off on the soles of your shoes with which you mount the rostrum."
"I generally speak from my place."
"And ever at the right place."
"It's often enough nothing but sound, and no one knows that better than I myself. One has to consider how things sound."
"And not for naught. To us across the mountain the little silver bell is the huge bell of the cathedral, whosebronze voice calls the tardy to their duty and spurs on the brave to fiercer fight."
"And that reminds me that I myself am a tardy one this moment, and that a fierce fight awaits me today in the Chamber."
"His Excellency will not forget my little commission," said Giraldi.
"How could I!" exclaimed His Excellency. "I hope, indeed, to have a chance before the day is over to mention the matter. Of course they won't do it without a littlebaksheesh—they don't do anything there for the love of God; fortunately we always have such stuff on hand. The promise to drive the screw one turn less tight in Alsace-Lorraine and not to disturb rudely the childish pleasure of the old Catholic gentlemen in Cologne, and not to beat the drum quite so loudly in the coming discussion about the brave Bishop of Ermeland—every single one of these kindnesses is worth a General, especially if he has such antediluvian, unpractical ideas concerning the state, society and the family."
"And such a thing passes withoutéclat?"
"Absolutely withoutéclat. Oh, my honored friend, you must not consider us any longer the honest barbarians of Tacitus; we really have learned something since that time!—God help you!"
"Will Your Excellency permit me to accompany you to your carriage?"
"Under no circumstances; my body-servant is waiting for me in the hall; have him come in, please."
"Grant, Your Excellency, that now, as ever, I be your humble servant."
Giraldi was about to offer his arm to the half-blinded man, when a new caller was announced.
"Who is it?" asked His Excellency with some anxiety; "you know I must not be seen here by every one."
"It is Privy Councilor Schieler, Your Excellency."
"Oh, he!—By the way, don't trust that old sneak anymore than is necessary! He is a box that contains many good wares, but is to be handled with care. Above all things, don't trust him in the matter in question; it is quite unnecessary; his high protector can do nothing about it."
"That is why I took the liberty to turn to Your Excellency."
"One is always too late with his advice to you. Another thing: In this little clan war, as you have to carry it on here with the North German centaurs, you need what is known to be thrice necessary in real war. Are you sufficiently provided with that?"
"I was ever of the opinion that war must sustain war. Besides, I can draw on Brussels at any time for any amount, if it should be necessary."
"Perhaps it will be necessary. In any case, keep the party in hand. There is, in spite of your sanguine hopes for the future, which I, by the way, share fully, a period of lean years ahead of us first. We shall have to lead the life of a church mouse, and church-mouse precaution behooves us now more than ever. You will keep meau courant?"
"In my own interest, Your Excellency."
The Privy Councilor had entered; His Excellency extended him his hand. "You come as I am leaving—that's too bad. You know that there is no one with whom I would rather chat than with you. Which way does the wind blow today in Wilhelmstrasse? Did they sleep well? Did they get out of bed with the right foot or the left first? Nerves faint or firm? Is country air in demand or not? Good Heavens! Don't let me die of unsatisfied curiosity!" His Excellency did not wait for the smiling Privy Councilor to answer, but shook hands again with both gentlemen, and, leaning on the arm of his body-servant, who meanwhile had come in, left the room.
"Isn't it wonderful," said the Privy Councilor,—"this prodigious versatility, this marvelous ready wit, this quickness in attack, this security in retreat. A Moltke of guerillawarfare. What an enviable treasure your party has in this man!"
"Our party, my dear sir? Pardon me, I really must first stop and think each time that you don't belong to us. Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you, no. I haven't a moment to spare, and I can only tell you the most essential part in flying haste. First, in the Department of Commerce they are beside themselves over a just reported vote of the great General Staff on the Harbor matter which, as a colleague has informed me—I myself have not been able to get a look at it—is as much as a veto. The finished report is by a certain Captain von Schönau—but the mind behind it—it is an unheard of thing—is there, right in the War Department, and is, of course, none other than our friend the General. That sets us back again I don't know how far or for how long. I am beside myself, and the more so because I am absolutely at a loss in the face of this obstruction. Good Heavens! A man may have influence and could use this influence if he had to, even against an old friend, but he surely would not do that sort of thing except in the last extremity. Now what is your advice?"
"The purity of our cause is not to be clouded by intermingling with such repugnant personalities," replied Giraldi.—"If you think that you must spare an old friend, then there is, as you know, an old feud between the General and myself, and everything which I personally might do against him, or cause to be done, would properly seem to every one to be an act of common revenge—which may God Almighty forbid! If he will, he can have some incident occur which will disarm our enemy, and which doesn't need to be an accident because people call it so."
"You mean if he should die?" questioned the Privy Councilor with a shifty look.
"I don't mean anything definite at all, and certainly not his death. As far as I am concerned he may live long."
"That is a very noble sentiment, a very Christian sentiment," replied the Privy Councilor, rubbing his long nose.—"And it is my heart's wish, of course; and yet his opposition is and always will be a stumbling block. I wish that were our only obstacle! But Count Golm tells me now—I have just come from him—he will give himself the honor immediately after me—I have just hurried on ahead of him because I have another little bit of information about him to give you, which I'll tell you in a moment—Count Golm tells me that his efforts with the President in Sundin—he had come over in his semi-official capacity as president of the board of directorsin spe—that they had been fruitless, quite fruitless; that he had been convinced, and unalterably, much as he would like to do it for the Count, for a thousand reasons—regard for a fellow countryman, and personal friendship, and so on. Golm, who, between you and me, is crafty enough and by no means a fool, finally hinted at the great sacrifices which we had decided to make—but all in vain. In fact, Golm says that he rather made matters worse than better by that."
"As ever when one does things by halves," said Giraldi.
"By halves, my dear sir! How do you mean that? What did they offer him?"
"Fifty thousand thalers as compensation, and the first position as director of the new road, with six thousand a year fixed salary, besides customary office rent, traveling expenses, and so forth."
"Well then, that, I suppose, is just half of what the man demanded himself!"
"He didn't demand anything."
"One doesn't demand such things; one has them offered him. Authorize the Count to propose twice as much, and I'll wager the deal is closed."
"We can't go as far as that," replied the Privy Councilor, scratching his close-cropped hair.—"We haven't the means to permit that; and the rest of us, too—and then, for the present, Count Golm is satisfied with fifty thousand; we could not offer the President twice as much withoutinsulting Golm. He is already not so very kindly disposed toward us, and that is the point that I should like to settle with you before he gets here. Is it really impossible for you to—I mean for us: the Board of Trustees of Warnow—to sell directly to us: I mean the corporation?"
"Over the Count's head?" cried Giraldi.—"Goodness, Privy Councilor, I think that you are bound by the most definite promises, so far as the Count is concerned, in this respect!"
"Of course, of course, unfortunately. But then even Lübbener—our financier, and at the same time——"
"The Count's banker—I know——"
"You know everything!—Even Lübbener thinks that one could get a little assistance from a man who, like the Count, falls from one dilemma into another, and is always inclined or compelled to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage. Only we do not wish or intend to act contrary to your plans, and if you insist upon it——"
"I insist upon nothing, Sir," replied Giraldi; "I simply follow the wishes of my mistress, which, on this point, are identical with those of von Wallbach."
"Good Lord," exclaimed the Privy Councilor impatiently, "I quite understand that, to keep up appearances, one would rather sell to an equal in rank than to a committee, even though the man concerned be a member of this very committee; but you ought not to forget, too, that we should have to pay direct to you just as much, or about as much, as we shall hereafter have to pay the Count."