His wife started at the sound of the laugh, and rose. The little lifeless hand slipped from her clasp. She passed her other hand over her brow and her lips moved, but I did not understand what she was saying, and I only saw that her eyes were sullenly fixed on the floor.
Her husband entered softly. "O, God!" he exclaimed, as he glanced at the bed. "It is over!" He pondered a moment to find something to say to his wife, then with a deep groan went to the boy and was about to bend over him. But he started back as the mother suddenly stood before him, with her tall figure drawn up to its full height.
"You shall not touch him," she said, in a harsh, hollow tone. "Go, at once--we have nothing more in common with each other. May God forgive you for what you have done! Go, go!" she repeated, in a louder tone, as he made a gesture of entreaty--"I will not bear one word from you--here--by this bed--in this hour--"
"Luise!" he exclaimed wildly.
"Hush!" she replied sharply, "I pity us both, you as well as myself. I know you do what you cannot avoid. But go, go! Something is rising in my soul--something terrible. If I should see you before me longer, poor--comedian, I might utter words I should repent to-morrow."
Spielberg tottered out of the room. But, as soon as he had closed the door behind him, his wife sank down beside the couch of her dead child, and a convulsive sob burst from her sorrow-laden heart.
(Here in the manuscript follow several pages, in which a detailed account is given of everything that happened during the next few days. After so many years, every little circumstance was still present to the narrator, and his grief for the boy, his sympathetic insight into the soul of the hapless mother, burst forth with such renewed strength that he felt a sorrowful relief in again conjuring up, incident by incident, these melancholy recollections. But we will not take up the thread again until after the earth has closed over the little coffin, which was wholly concealed under the garlands bestowed by the actors and some kind people among the inhabitants of the little town. The mother, who could not be prevented from walking in the funeral procession, had watched with tearless eyes, as if they were "burned out," her "entire happiness" placed in the grave--the father had displayed a pathetic emotion, whose extravagance touched no one. The next evening a comedy was again played, and the great artist did not miss a word of his part.)
The fortunate star of the renowned company of artists seemed to have vanished when the child's eyes closed.
The audiences at the theater daily diminished, two of the most useful and indispensable members broke their contract and left the manager in great embarrassment, he himself, after having exerted some little self-control during the first period of mourning, plunged still more madly into his nocturnal carouses, and, when I earnestly remonstrated, asserted with tragic affectation that he had no other means of drowning his grief. Recently he had even smuggled a bottle of strong liquor into the dressing-room, contrary to his own rule, prohibiting the use of wine or spirituous drinks of any kind during the performances. So it happened that he sometimes declaimed his lines with a stammering tongue, and lost the last remnant of his authority over his company and effect upon the public.
I watched the increasing trouble with deep anxiety; but the mute abstraction in which the unhappy wife passed her days tortured me still more. At last I ventured to speak to her on the subject, and it seemed as though she had only been in an apparent death-trance, which was broken by the first tender word, the first touch of a friend's hand.
"I thank you, Johannes," she said, and for the first time her dull eyes grew wet with tears. "You are right, I must try to control my grief. It is not death which has clutched me in his bony arms and stifled every breath. Life, dear friend, is far more cruel; I cannot break the chains and bonds in which it has fettered me. But even a convict who drags an iron ball by a chain must perform his task. It was cowardly and childish to neglect my daily duties. Only have a little patience with me; I will hold up my head again."
From that moment she resumed all her duties to the company, managed the money matters, kept an eye, with Kunigunde's assistance, on the wardrobe, sent the members word that she would again provide the dinner, and only shrank from one thing--occasionally attending a rehearsal as usual.
She again treated every one pleasantly, but never spoke a word to her husband except when he addressed her. Her misfortune had drawn the members of the company nearer to her; the women, especially, showed her many little attentions, except Victorine, who held aloof as before, and no longer even appeared at the Round Table.
But, when darkness came, she always went to the graveyard and remained there an hour alone, declining even my companionship with a silent shake of the head. But we met each other several other times when she was returning home, and walked silently side by side, absorbed in the same thoughts, which needed no utterance. I only remember that I once asked her how she could reconcile this pitiless blow with God's fatherly kindness. She stopped and, raising her tearful eyes to heaven, answered:
"Never for one moment have I doubted him. Spite of all the burdens that weighed upon me, I was the most blessed among women, and God is wise and just. He lets the tree of no earthly happiness grow into heaven. But, for the very reason that he took the child from me, I know that he has not deserted me. If he had left him to me, and he had some day seen with his innocent eyes the ugly world around us as it really is, and been permitted only the choice between scorning it or becoming akin to it, who knows what he would have decided, and either course would have made both him and me wretched. Now I have buried him here in my heart, in all his purity and loveliness, and may love him forever, far better and more fervently than when I still clasped him in my arms. And, though this love is full of sorrow, neither time nor fate has any power over it, and for this I thank God, whom I always know near to me when I go down into the depths of my own heart and feel the dear child living on there."
What answer could I have made? My whole philosophy became pitiful and humble before the pious trust of this strong soul. She received the news calmly, when one day at table her husband said that they would be obliged to change their residence. The receipts were miserably poor, and he had had an invitation from the magistrates of the next town on the coast to give a series of plays, lasting several weeks.
As he spoke, he cast a side-glance at his wife, as though fearing she would object to leave the place where her child lay buried. He had long since fallen into the habit of discussing no subjects, when alone with her, except those required by absolute necessity.
To his surprise she simply assented. Even, when, three days after, we departed and I drove through the gate in the same carriage with her and the worthy lady whose young daughter played theingénues, while Spielberg, with Daniel and Victorine, formed the rear-guard, she had strength enough to give no sign of the emotions which must have assailed her in parting from the little grave.
But the hopes with which we had struck our tents were not to be realized. Just at that time a panic occurred in commercial circles that made itself felt in the seaport no less than in the large North German commercial towns. People kept their pockets buttoned, and even the renowned artist could not open them.
He became so irritated by this state of affairs that, to punish the ingratitude of the age, he intentionally hid the light of his art under a bushel, and played his parts with such haughty negligence that even the few patrons of the theater, who had known his reputation, shook their heads, and transferred their favor to the less famous members of the company. Victorine was the admiration of the young merchants; theingénuepreviously mentioned turned the heads of the older school-boys; Daniel, whose acting, even when most negligent, always had its interesting moments, found favor with the critics in the two local papers--yet, nevertheless, the receipts were so small that the company would have been compelled to disband had not Frau Luise's wise economy provided a reserve fund for such contingencies. She paid the salaries as regularly as ever, and kept the wardrobes and other requisites in decent order, without receiving any special thanks from any one.
I myself was entirely out of funds. Two and a half years of this wandering life had devoured my savings, I could scarcely be seen in my shabby clothes, and, though protected from any anxiety about food, had not even the small amount of pocket money required for trifling wants, so that I was sometimes seized by a mood of despairing melancholy, and should undoubtedly have been up and away some day had I not known how indispensable I had become. If I left the company, everything must go to ruin. I could tell myself, without vanity, that the breach of my--unwritten--contract would be equivalent to fracturing an axle in the car of Thespis.
Moreover, was I not bound body and soul to this woman, considering myself transcendently rewarded if she held out her large, firm hand to me in the evening and said, "Good-night, dear friend!"
Still, these miserable circumstances oppressed me more and more, and one day, when I met in the street a college friend who meanwhile had had a prosperous career, and while on a business journey had come to our Pomeranian coast, I bore his look of compassionate surprise with a bitter laugh, and willingly accepted his invitation to share a bottle of wine with him that evening at his hotel and make a general confession.
I had made no confession for years, and it was months since a drop of wine had moistened my lips. So only a single glass was needed to lure from me an unreserved acknowledgment of my wretched plight.
There was but one thing I carefully concealed--the strongest chain that bound me to this miserable existence, my mad, hopeless love for this woman. Yet, had the hand of a god suddenly aided me to tear myself free, what could I have done with my liberty? To what occupation in civil life should I have found the door open, I, a runaway Candidate of theology, who had not disdained to play the part of factotum to a company of traveling actors for two years and a half.
So when, toward eleven o'clock, I took leave of my former comrade, we were no wiser concerning my future, and what I had to hope and fear from it, than in the beginning.
He had told me, with a shake of the head, that there must be some love affair in the matter, and correctly understood my shrug of the shoulders. But, as he had been to the theater the night before, he seemed undecided between Victorine and the youngingénue.
"Let me sleep over the affair," he said at last, as he went out into the hall with me--we had had our wine in his chamber, as there was much noise and confusion in the public room below--"I sha'n't see you to-morrow, because I must leave very early, but I will write as soon as a good idea occurs to me."
I pressed his hand and thoughtfully descended the stairs. In going up, two hours before, I had seen in the public room below Luise's husband and several actors, among them Daniel, who was inseparable from the manager. Meantime, eleven o'clock had come, but they had not yet separated, and I wished at any cost to avoid meeting them. But, just as I was stealing softly past the door, it was thrown open, and my friend, tall Herr Laban, staggered out, supported by one of the younger actors. Both were in the gayest humor. "Look there, look there, Timotheus!" he shouted, laughing. "Where the deuce hast thou been hiding"--he always used 'thou' to me--"while we have been seeing the most capital farce played here? You have missed a great deal, I can tell you, Doctor; and, in not saying good-night to your traveling friend over our heads, you have stood very much in your own light. Isn't that so, Juvenil?"
The young man laughingly agreed that it had been a splendid joke--no comedy of errors had ever amused him so much.
I tried to pass on with some careless remark, but Laban seized my arm and, while we helped him down the last steps, began to tell me the story in his comical way.
They had drunk several glasses when Daniel began to boast of his talent for imitating living persons, and instantly gave several proofs of this ability by copying the voice and gestures of the landlord and some of the regular guests, to the delight of the whole company. Spielberg alone had sat in his heroic grandeur, looking on with an air of contemptuous dignity, and finally remarked that such monkey tricks, which dazzled the public, were easy, and besides found their limits in certain figures whose majesty rendered them, as it were, unapproachable for mimicry. Did he include himself among them? the insolent fellow asked, and, when the great man nodded silently, he laid a wager that he would personate him so exactly that he would hardly know whether it was himself or his double. They ordered a bottle of champagne, and then Daniel led the manager into the next room. After a short time the door opened again, and Spielberg strode in. Everybody asked whether Daniel was not ready or had given up his wager. "That young man promises much, and does nothing save to make fools of honest Thebans," was the reply, after which he approached the table with his stately walk, shook the bottle in the ice and exclaimed: "A plague on all cowardly poltroons!" Then they first discovered that it was Daniel, and not the great actor himself, and even then it was only the little hand he owes to his Polish blood that betrayed him. But, just as there was a general burst of applause and laughter, the door again opened and a second Daniel appeared, in a gray summer suit and Polish cap, with his cat-like tread and feminine movement of the hips, so that the uproar and clapping of hands grew louder than ever--for nobody had ever imagined the manager possessed such a talent. This, however, was merely the beginning of the farce. Each continued to play the character of the other: Daniel in the belaced velvet coat, with straw hat pulled over his forehead, toasted his image, amid constant quotations uttered in his resonant voice, and Spielberg, with all the Harlequin tricks the other was in the habit of using on the stage, never let the laughers stop to take breath, so that each of the two had won and lost the wager. But, when they had broken the neck of the second bottle, Daniel suddenly became silent, went to Spielberg, and whispered something which made the manager look puzzled. But his double seized his arm and led him out. When after a long time they did not return, we asked for them, and the waiter said that after whispering together for some time the two gentlemen had left the hotel arm in arm.
I do not know why I could not laugh at this amusing trick. But I hastily took leave of the two actors, whose room was on the top floor of the hotel, and, in a most uncomfortable mood, passed out into the street just as the clock in the nearest church-steeple struck eleven. Though I felt no inclination to sleep, a strange anxiety urged me homeward, as if I were expected there.
My way led through the street in which the other hotel stood. Here Victorine and Daniel lodged. And just as I glanced at the door of the house I saw the fellow--whom I easily recognized by his dress--ring the bell and, directly after, with a greeting from the porter, cross the threshold. But what thought occurred to me? Was that really Daniel--or was it his double in his clothes? And, if it were the latter, what was he doing in that house, where Victorine was now probably waiting for theother?
However, I had no time to ponder over this idea, for the question suddenly darted through my brain: What has become of that other, the false Spielberg?
Suspecting some deviltry, some base trick, I rushed through the deserted streets to the house where Frau Luise lived, and I, too, had my modest room in the upper story. She was in the habit of sitting up late with some piece of sewing or a book, usually alone, for faithful Kunigunde closed her eyes at nine o'clock. As I hastily drew out my night-key I noticed that the door, contrary to custom, stood half open. I did not take time to shut it again, but, with trembling hands, lighted the little pocket-lantern, which must illumine my way up the dark stairs, and rushed on. But I had not yet reached the landing on the first story when I heard Frau Luise's deep tones, and then saw her facing her husband--no, his double, who, with his straw hat on his head and his coat flung open, slowly retreated before her, his ardent dark eyes fixed with an indescribable expression on her face.
Frau Luise was holding a little lamp in her left hand, and had raised her right threateningly against the scoundrel, her face, whose waxen pallor usually formed a striking contrast to her mourning dress, was flushed with the crimson hue of wrath, and her eyes shone with a strange, supernatural luster.
"You will leave this house at once and the city tomorrow," I heard her say. "You are the most contemptible of human beings, and what you have presumed to do merits a bloody chastisement. I am a woman, and must leave it to my husband to avenge this insult as he deems best. But, if you should ever have the effrontery to appear before my eyes again--"
"Pardon me, madame," he interrupted--and, though he endeavored to appear entirely nonchalant, I detected in his tremulous voice that he did not feel entirely at ease while confronting this haughty figure--"I beg a thousand pardons; I did not imagine you would take an innocent jest so tragically, especially as your husband saw no offense in it. We had laid a wager that I could personate him exactly. The final and hardest test, of course, was whether his own wife would recognize me. Well, at first you certainly believed me to be Herr Spielberg, and were not undeceived until I took the liberty of embracing you--doubtless a husband's kisses are less ardent than those of a lover, who for two years has yearned to even once press his lips upon a mouth which never had aught for him save contemptuous silence. Though I have lost my wager, the kiss that betrayed me is abundant compensation, and so, fairest of women, I have the honor--"
He was not to have breath to finish the sentence. For, in a fury I had never experienced before, I rushed upon the miscreant, seized him by the chest, and, tearing off his hat with the other hand, shook him by the hair till his sneering face wore an expression of mortal terror, as I dragged him to the stairs and would have flung him down heels over head, had he not by a sudden movement, lithe as a young panther, escaped from my grasp, and, thrusting me aside, glided down the dark stair-case, muttering an imprecation between his set teeth.
We heard him shut the door of the house and, in the fear of pursuit, hurriedly lock it. Then, in the death-like stillness that again prevailed, we looked into each other's eyes to see if it were possible that we had actually experienced this, or whether some dream had conjured up the same vision before both. I saw her tremble as if some unclean beast had clutched her in its claws. A quiver of wrath and loathing contracted her brow and lips. "I thank you, Johannes," she said. "But excuse me, I must go in now and wash myself. O, Heaven! all the perfumes of Arabia--but no, we can only be sullied by our own evil thoughts. Do not you think so, too?"
She turned away and carried the lamp back to her room again. I followed her to the threshold.
"Frau Luise," I asked, "will you let me shoot the rascal down like a mad dog? Or do you consider him worthy to receive his punishment in an honest duel?"
"You must do nothing to him," she answered in a hollow tone. "If, as I still hope, it is false that another person knew of this knavish trick, it is that other's business to avenge the insult that was offered to him even more than to me. To-morrow will decide this. It is late now--you must leave me--I must wash my face and the hands that touched the scoundrel, even to push him away."
I shut the door, and sadly mounted the stairs to my room.
It was useless to think of sleeping. Not only because the detestable scene I had just witnessed still hovered before my eyes, but because I expected every moment that the other would return home, and wished to be ready in case his wife should need my assistance.
True, she was strong and brave enough to defend herself against any insult or injury. But who could tell in what state of recklessness, stung by his evil conscience, that "other" would confront her.
At any rate he delayed long enough. Therôleof double, which he played so admirably, seemed to have found an appreciative audience in the depraved girl for whom he was enacting it, or perhaps she had entered into the deception with malicious satisfaction in order to wound the noble woman she hated.
I heard the clock strike the hours--midnight, one, two. Then, without undressing, I threw myself on the bed and shut my burning eyes, but my ears remained open and watchful. Scarcely half an hour had passed when I heard a lagging step approach along the pavement below, and in an instant again stood at my window. Yes, it was he. By the gray light of the summer sky, I could distinguish the Polish cap, the loose coat, and the white hands which hastily rummaged his pockets for the key of the house door. But it was in the other suit of clothes, now worn by the double. The criminal who had shut himself out of the peace of his own home stood for a time gazing up at the windows, behind which he doubtless saw the glimmer of the night-lamp. Ought you to go down, open the door for him, and pour forth to his face all you think of him, all the wrath you have so long pent up concerning his sins against this woman, the tip of whose little finger he is unworthy to kiss? No, I thought. Let him suffer for his sin. It is only a pity that this isn't a winter night, and he is not obliged to stand barefoot in the snow until broad daylight.
He? He would have been likely to undertake such a penance! After twice calling, in a tone of assumed piteousness, "Luise!" he took off his cap, passed his hand over his waving locks, then pressed the little fur cap low over his forehead, and turned defiantly to seek the place from which some pitiful remnant of remorse had driven him.
I uttered a sigh of relief, opened the window, and cooled my heated face. At last I sought my couch, and toward morning really fell asleep.
My slumber was so sound that I was first roused by a very loud knocking at my door. When I opened it, Kunigunde was standing outside, and requested me to come down to Frau Luise. "Has your master returned?" I asked the faithful creature.
"Of course. But not until nearly nine o'clock, when my mistress had gone out to make some purchases. He seemed to know that she was not at home, for he did not even ask for her, but shut himself up in her room for a while, and then went away without leaving any message. But I saw a letter lying on the table, which the mistress read as soon as she came in, and then sent me up to you."
The good old woman was evidently troubled, and, in spite of having gone to rest so early, seemed to have heard enough of the nocturnal scene to pity her honored mistress.
When, following close at her heels, I entered Frau Luise's room, I found her sitting on the sofa beside a table, with the letter lying open before her.
She nodded to me with an absent look, and said in an expressionless tone: "Sit down and read this, Johannes; the end has come."
I took the sheet and hastily glanced over it. The letter was not short, and was written precisely in Spielberg's usual style, lofty, adorned with rhetorical ornaments, interspersed here and there with a quotation from Schiller. He saw that by yesterday's occurrence--of which, though without any evil intent, he had been the cause--he had forfeited even the last remnant of her love. So it would be better for him to go voluntarily into exile, and not return until he could meet her with new renown and in an assured position. True, what are the hopes, the wishes on which man relies? But he trusted to his star. She would lose all trace of him for a time, but he hoped he should afterward be able to repay her for what she had suffered through him. He closed by thanking her for her generous tolerance of his weaknesses. Genius was no easy companion for a life-pilgrimage--and similar high-sounding words.
In a postscript, he begged her to pardon him for having appropriated, in order to execute his plan, the reserve fund she had so carefully saved. He left in exchange, at her free disposal, the wholefundus instructus, scenes, costumes, requisites, and theatrical library; she might either sell them or continue the business. In the latter case, Cousin Johannes would assist her.
Then followed a pathetic farewell, another quotation, and the signature, with an elaborate flourish: "Ever your own Konstantin."
I probably looked like a person who, while eating raspberries, suddenly bites a wasp. For, as I silently laid down the letter, she said soothingly: "It has moved me very little. This must have happened sooner or later, and it is fortunate that it came now. Believe me, I feel perfectly calm, and am sincerely grateful to him for not having sought a personal interview. I am like a person recovering from a severe, insidious disease, a little weak, it is true, but I shall no longer be terrified by the hideous visions with which the fever tortured my brain."
"What do you intend to do?" I asked at last.
"My duty, so far as I can. True, I am as poor as a church-mouse. But the others must not suffer."
"Frau Luise," I said, "I know that you were formerly too proud to summon your guardian to give an account of his management of your property. But now, in such necessity--"
She smiled bitterly. "Too proud? My dear friend, I should not have been too proud even at that time to claim my rights. But, as you know, where there is nothing, even the Emperor cannot assert his rights, far less a poor Canoness who eloped with an actor. My uncle squandered the last shilling of my mother's property. Would you have me turn him out of house and home by appealing to the law? But let us say no more about these detestable things. Fortunately I paid the members of the company their monthly salary only a few days ago. As the business is now broken up, they are in a pitiable plight, for where can they obtain a new engagement in midsummer? So thefundus instructusmust be sold as quickly and as profitably as possible, and meantime be pawned. You will do me this one last favor, dear Johannes. I have another little plan, too. Why do you look at me so wonderingly? Surely you did not suppose that all this would find me unprepared. I have long expected something of the sort. Weak as he is--but we will not speak of him."
She now explained her intention of obtaining, by means of a concert in the theater, a considerable sum for the benefit of the orphaned company, which, bereft of the manager and "the others," could give no more performances. By these "others" she meant Daniel and Victorine. While out of doors she had met an actor, who excitedly asked whether she knew that the couple had just gone on board an English merchant vessel lying in the harbor. He did not say that the manager was with them, but the wife did not doubt it for an instant, and therefore knew what she should find when she returned to the house again.
She would herself appear and sing at the concert, she continued. She knew that there would be a full house, for her misfortune, of course, was now in everybody's mouth, and, as she had always kept out of sight, curiosity and perhaps a better feeling would urge many to see and hear the woman who had led so strange a life, and must now reap what she had sown. She did not fear the eyes of strangers. It was a misfortune that her heart had prompted her to entrust her life to the keeping of one who was unworthy, but neither a disgrace nor a crime. So she would appear, with head erect, before a cold, malicious world, and not a note would falter in her throat.
She had not expected too much of her own powers. When she appeared on the stage, in a plain black dress, with a little black veil wound around her golden braids, and every eye in the densely-crowded house was fixed upon her, I saw--I was sitting at the piano to play her accompaniments--her face flush for a moment. But its natural hue instantly returned, and she sang her aria from Orpheus, several melodies from Iphigenia in Tauris, and Mignon's song composed by Beethoven, with such power and simple beauty that it seemed as if the tempests of life which had stirred the inmost depths of her soul had only served to bring the flower of her art to still more superb development.
The effect was so profound and overwhelming that a storm of applause, such as had never greeted even the finest scenes of the great actor, shook the theater.
She bowed modestly, with a sad smile that won every heart. When, in the waiting-room, I congratulated her, her face clouded. "Hush," she whispered hurriedly. "Would you tell the victim, about to be offered as a sacrifice, that the garlands are becoming?"
The other parts of the programme, two comic soliloquies by Laban, and some of Schiller's ballads recited by ouringénue, were well received. When I accompanied Frau Luise home, I held in the box under my arm a very large sum received from the evening's entertainment.
When we reached her room, I wished to give her the money. "No," she replied, "henceforth you must be the treasurer. I shall make but one stipulation--that you do not entirely forget yourself, but share equally with the rest. With foolish generosity you have spent all your savings in order to retain a laborious situation here, for which you received neither thanks nor payment. What do you intend to do now?"
"That will depend upon you, Frau Luise."
Her eyes sought the floor, then, raising them to mine with an indescribably tender glance, she said:
"No, my friend, we part this very day, this very hour. You need have no anxiety about me. I shall not pine away and die. You know that I am very strong, or how could I have endured everything?--and, as I am no longer a Canoness, I must not shrink from a little labor. But you must try to return to the life from which your friendship for me has torn you. Promise me that, after you have attended to the last details of business here, you will go back to your old profession, if not as a clergyman, as a teacher, or in some scholarly occupation. I will watch your course from a distance. You will promise, will you not?"
"Frau Luise," I stammered, "do you wish to banish me? Do you not know--"
"I know all, my friend; you need not add another word. And I also know that I love you with all my heart, and therefore it is better for us to part. A woman whose husband has vanished is not free to choose--surely you understand that. And I will suffer no stain upon my name. You will remain my friend, as I am yours. And to seal this, I will now, in bidding you farewell, affectionately embrace you and give you a sister's kiss. Your lips, my faithful friend, shall restore the purity of mine, which yesterday were desecrated by a scoundrel."
With these words, she embraced me, and for one brief, blissful moment her warm lips pressed mine in a pure and tender caress. Then, with a low "Farewell, my friend," she gently pushed me out of the door.
The next morning, when I woke from sorrowful dreams, and was hurriedly dressing, some one knocked at my door. Kunigunde entered and, with many tears, told me that her mistress had driven away at dawn in a hired carriage, telling nobody her destination, and leaving for me a farewell and a little package.
It was a sealed paper. When I opened it, out fell the gold chain on which she used to wear around her neck the locket containing her mother's picture.
Several weeks have passed since I wrote the last lines. When I laid the sheet in the portfolio--a music portfolio Frau Luise had left, and in which I usually kept some of the airs from Glück's operas arranged for the piano--I was startled by the bulk of the MS., and asked myself: "Will any one have patience to read all this? And why should you add to it?"
Ah, if you were a professional author, and, instead of a truthful narrative of the life of the woman so dear to you, could transform her fate into a genuine romance, skillfully blending fact and fiction, or if you at least possessed the gift of describing these experiences in hues so fresh and vivid that no one could help finding her as charming as she is to you! But you are only a clumsy, simple chronicler of events, and the man for whom you intend these records will smile at thelabor improbusyou have bestowed on so superfluous a work and at your innocent idea that you were thereby doing him a favor.
Well, I then thought, even if you are only pleasing yourself by again conjuring up your old joys and sorrows, what harm is there in that? He can let the avalanche of MS. you hurl into his house roll quietly aside with the others the mail brings to importune him. Who compels him to do more than cast a compassionate glance at it?
But, if he forgives the lonely man his volubility, and eats through this biographical mountain, as Klas Avenstak ate through the hill of pancakes, he must expect that I shall not defraud him of the end, especially as the early close the gods decreed to Luise's life was spiced with much that was sweet, to compensate for many bitter things in her previous destiny.
So I will summon courage to again take up my pen, endeavoring, however, to be as brief as possible, especially in the incidents which concern my insignificant self.
Therefore I will say nothing of the state of mind in which I spent the first few days after my friend's secret departure. Fortunately I had a number of disagreeable affairs on my hands, was forced to attend to the questions, complaints, business, and reproaches of the deserted company of actors, undertake the distribution of the money and provide for the sale of thefundus, which latter affair was settled more quickly and profitably than I had feared. Frau Luise's destination was as little known as the distant shore to which the great artist had shaped his course. So I took a sorrowful leave of my colleagues, who, with the exception of the three oldest members, Laban, Gottlieb Schönicke, and the good prompter, who grieved sincerely for the vanished woman, seemed to be tolerably consoled by the considerable sum that fell to the share of each, and, as I was far too sad at heart and dull of brain to form any sensible plan for the future, I sent my trunk to my native town, strapped my knapsack on my back, and wandered through Pomerania and the Mark to my old home. I believe that during those eight or ten days I did not have one sensible thought, for the Orpheus aria constantly rang in my ears:
"Alas, I have lost her,All my happiness is o'er!"
"Alas, I have lost her,All my happiness is o'er!"
It will be considered perfectly natural that the news of my return excited no special rejoicing in the small provincial town, and no one felt impelled to kill a fatted calf to do honor to the Prodigal Son. At first I kept out of the way as much as possible, since wherever I appeared I was stared at as though I were some wild animal just escaped from a menagerie, or, still worse, shunned with evident fear of contagion, being regarded as a dangerous sinner who, lured by the lust of the world and the flesh, had exchanged the preacher's calling for a dissipated vagabond life among jugglers and strollers.
One old friend, however, who meantime had become principal of the highest public school, treated me with his old cordiality, listened sympathizingly to the account of my fate, and, as I was absolutely penniless, offered me temporary shelter in an attic room in his little house. Ere long, spite of my antecedents, he succeeded in getting me the position of teacher of singing to the three lower classes, as the old chorister was daily growing deafer. When he became wholly incapable of further service, the three upper classes were also transferred to me, and, after having conscientiously done my duty for several years, and meanwhile showed by my irreproachable conduct that I was not the Don Juan and demon of darkness rumor had pronounced me, I was advanced--partly in consequence of the services of my dead father, whose memory was still honored--to the position of teacher of geography and history, in which I was often reminded of the time when I had related the same beautiful stories to my little pupil and his haughty sister.
My kind fellow-citizens had pardoned my past--nay, with the feminine portion of the population, it merely helped to surround the commonplace fellow I was and am with that halo of impiety which is usually more attractive to the weaker sex than the most beautiful aureola of unsullied virtue. Many very estimable mothers of marriageable daughters greeted me in the street with an encouraging glance--nay, there was no lack of efforts to tempt me to their houses, especially after a small legacy, which I inherited very unexpectedly, enabled me, with my modest salary as a teacher, to establish a quiet home of my own. Even my friend and present colleague gave me numerous well-meant hints--Heaven would rather provide for two than for one, and so would the fathers of the city. But I answered all such admonitions with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. How could I have been such a scoundrel as to deceive an innocent, unsuspecting girl by letting her suppose a heart free which had long been firmly bound?
The ten years I spent in this way were joyless and desolate enough. I had lost my taste even for the society of men; foolish political discussions and standing local jests had no interest for me, and I had never cared for any game of cards except the one with which such beloved memories were associated. So I spent the evenings in my lonely room, and used the money I saved from gambling and drinking for the purchase of books, though the volumes were wholly different in character from those I had inherited from my dear father. Besides the newest philosophical works, I ordered novels by English authors, among whom Thackeray was my special favorite, while Dickens seemed to me a sentimental mannerist, striving for effect, who had no correct ideas of women. But I will leave this part of my life and hasten on to the main subject.
One Wednesday afternoon in March--I had no school, but a furious snow-storm prevented my taking my usual walk into the country--some one knocked at my door, and an old woman, on whom I had never set eyes before, hobbled into the room. She was almost out of breath, for, as she said, she had come from the alms-house at the opposite end of the town, and the wind had almost blown her away. She drew from the folds of her thick shawl a crumpled note, in which was scribbled in pencil:
"If you have not yet forgotten your old friend, dear Johannes, give her the pleasure of a visit. She has been ill for a fortnight, and is permitted to sit up to-day for the first time. The messenger knows where she is to be found.
Luise."
I will not attempt to describe the tempest of feeling those few words awakened in my soul. For a moment the room and all it contained whirled around me, and I should not have been surprised had the old woman suddenly thrown off her patched clothing and stood before me in the guise of a beautiful fairy.
With trembling haste I hurried on my coat, seized my hat and cane, and went out into the street ere I asked if this were really true, and how she had happened to serve the lady as a messenger.
There was nothing strange in that, the old dame had answered. Madame Spielberg had arrived a fortnight ago, in her own carriage, very ill with measles, and had asked to be taken to the hospital. But as, on account of the rebuilding, no one could be received there, and the only patient, by the burgomaster's orders, had meantime been removed to the almshouse, the stranger had been transported there, to her entire satisfaction for, thank Heaven, she had lacked nothing. The doctor had been instantly summoned, and then the seven old dames who now lived there shared the nursing, which had prospered so well that to-day she had eaten her soup with an excellent appetite and been able to drink a tiny glass of wine. The doctor had told them to be very attentive to the sick lady, who was of noble birth and a Canoness. Well, that was no hard task for them. There was not such another lovely lady in the whole world, she was always apologizing for giving so much trouble, and that day, after she sat up, had sent for her trunk and given each one some article of clothing for a present. Then she asked about the schoolmaster, but, when she saw the storm, said the note could wait till to-morrow. But she, the old dame, would not hear of that, and now I would see for myself how well the lady was taken care of. She occupied No. 12, the best room in the whole house.
When I had entered the dusky corridor and shaken the snow from my clothing, and my guide, pointing to one of the little doors, had said, "That's number 12," I was obliged to pause a few moments to calm myself before I knocked. Is it really true? I thought. Ten years have passed like one day! In your heart at least! And she--how will you find her? But I had scarcely heard her "Come in!" when I knew she must be just the same as ever; time, grief, and even want had no power over her strong soul; and, whether I found her in this wretched almshouse or on a throne, she would ever be the mistress of my thoughts and feelings.
So I entered, and the first look in which our eyes met thrilled me with the warmth and happiness a patient, on whom an operation for a cataract has been performed, feels when the bandage is removed for the first time.
She was sitting in a large arm-chair by the window, past which the snow-flakes were whirling, and held on her knee an open book. The large room was bare and wholly unadorned, the walls were white-washed, the bed was covered with a brown shawl that I distinctly remembered, her trunk stood at the foot, there was a plain table and two chairs--the usual almshouse furniture. But on the table beside thecarafestood a glass containing a bunch of snow-drops, in front of a daguerreotype of her child in a small easel-frame wreathed with the same white blossoms. Everything was just as usual, for she had always kept this picture near her, and she still wore, as at the time I last saw her, her mourning dress, with the little black silk kerchief wound in her fair hair, only its amber hue was not so deep, but seemed powdered with a gray dust. The beautiful oval face, however, was wholly unchanged, save for an expression of cheerfulness which had been alien to it during the last period of our companionship. How she smiled at me, how her voice sounded--was she really a sorely-afflicted woman, who had passed her fortieth year? And I, was I the dried up, provincial Philistine and pedagogue I had so long believed myself to be, or still a reckless young fellow, ready at any moment to commit the wildest folly for this woman's sake.
She did not rise to greet me, but held out both hands, and I could only clasp and hold them in the utmost embarrassment. I did not venture to kiss them. I had too often seen this knightly homage paid by the man who had inflicted the keenest suffering upon her heart, and would not remind her of any bitter experience.
"Frau Luise," I said, "it is really you--you have not changed in the least--I am so happy to see you again--and you were ill and I only learn your presence here to-day."
"Sit down by me, Johannes," she said. "I, too, am glad to see your face once more. You look very well; you have grown a little stouter, but it is becoming; teaching seems to suit you better than the dramatic business. Oh, my dear friend, this is like the day of judgment, when everything is to be brought together. True, only the shadow of the very best of all returns!" She glanced at the picture of Joachimchen on the table, and her eyes grew grave.
"I can not yet recover from my joyful surprise," I said, as I took my seat at the window opposite to her. "You here! And what tempted you to this out-of-the-way corner? And whence do you come?"
She smiled again.
"Youtempted me, my friend--you, and no one else. I was very ill and thought I should not recover. So, before my death, I wanted to again clasp the hand of my last friend, and thank him for all the love and fidelity he has shown me. Believe me, I know everything that has happened to you during our separation--it is not much--Uncle Joachim constantly inquired about you and wrote me all he learned. He alone, of all my acquaintances, knew where I was to be found."
"And did not answer one single word, the envious man, though I wrote to him three times to obtain news of you."
"He could not. I had strictly forbidden it. I wanted to be dead to every one, and always hoped that God would be merciful and speedily summon me from the world. But He had different plans for me, and I will not murmur against His will. Where did I hide myself? Why, in a very remote corner of the Uckermark, on the estate of a nobleman who had advertised for a companion for his invalid wife and a governess for his little daughter. How I fared in that house, and learned to practice every deed of charity, I will tell you some other time or not at all. I can only repeat the old words: 'With the sick I became well, with the poor rich, with the dying I learned to live.' And all this exactly in my own way, with people whom I tenderly loved. You know the professional neighborly love a deaconess practices would be contrary to my nature, like a public display of piety and love for God. But when the gentle sufferer died, and a few weeks after her little daughter followed her, I could no longer remain in the house; for the sorrowing widower, otherwise a thoroughly admirable man, offered me his heart and hand, and, when I told him that I was not free, proposed to make every effort to have my missing husband declared dead and then marry me. Just at that time I received a letter from our Liborius, the gardener, informing me that Uncle Joachim was very ill and wished to see me. This instantly afforded me an escape from my painful position. For, though I could be nothing to the worthy man, I pitied his desolation and his hopeless love. Willing or not, he was now obliged to let me go at once."
"Poor woman!" I said. "How you must have suffered in returning to the old scenes which had so many hated associations."
"You are wrong," she answered. "Those few weeks on the estate are among the most consoling my life has known. I saw none of the faces that were repulsive to me--indeed many of those I held dear were also missing. Aunt Elizabeth had slept for six years in the family vault. Her 'inconsolable husband,' as he styles himself on the tombstone, coupled with a verse from the Bible expressing a hope of a reunion--perhaps you have seen it in the newspaper?--Uncle Achatz, went to France directly after the funeral, accompanied by the young Englishwoman, who, after the separation from Mademoiselle Suzon, had become indispensable to him as a reader and companion. In Paris, where to improve his finances he frequented gambling-houses, he met a doubtful character, who quarreled with him at faro and then shot him in a duel. As the traveling companion disappeared the same day, leaving nothing of any value, the unfortunate man was buried in a very simple manner at the expense of the Prussian embassy, and is still awaiting in French soil the day when he is to be interred by his wife's side. Hitherto my young cousin has lacked time and means to do this. Immediately after his father's death, he set to work zealously, under Uncle Joachim's supervision, to extricate his financial affairs from their utter disorder, and in every possible way improve the estate, so that in time the former splendor of the family might be restored. I should have been very glad to see Achatz, who had not been your pupil one whole summer entirely in vain. But just before I arrived he had set out with his young wife on a wedding journey to Italy. Nor did I see my cousin Leopoldine, who as you know married Cousin Kasimir, and has had no light cross to bear. My best friend, Mother Lieschen, had long since gone to her last rest. So I found only the old servants, the gardener, the villagers, who were all fond of me because Aunt Elizabeth's kind deeds reached them by my hands--and my dear old uncle, the sight of whom fairly startled me. He was sitting, crippled with gout, our family disease, in an uncomfortable chair by the stove, his dog, a grand-daughter of our old Diana, lying beside him, and his pipe, which had gone out, between his teeth. He could not light it himself with his bandaged hands, and Liborius did not always have time to attend to him. But his mind was as clear and bright as in his best days, and his old heart still throbbed as warmly as ever. I can not tell you, dear Johannes, what joy and enlightenment, even amid the saddest feelings, I experienced during those last days spent with the dying man. There the last ring forged around me by my own hard fate was shattered into fragments, and I felt ashamed of my weak-hearted melancholy in the presence of the quiet, brave, cheerful sufferer, who never allowed a complaint to escape his lips. Only when the pain became too severe, a stiflednom d'un nom!sometimes slipped through his teeth with the smoke, and then he begged me to put my hand on his heart, that the raging thing might feel its mistress.
"So he at last died, with a chivalrous jest on his lips and a loving look at me. The gout, as people say, went to his heart. It was not until after his death that I fully realized what a noble man he had been. I sat for hours beside the open coffin, and resolved that I would fight as bravely through the span of life still left me, and again look forth upon the world with cheerful eyes.
"But I could not yet devote myself to my own affairs, an epidemic of measles had broken out in the village, and I was needed from early till late, in house after house, to help the doctor abolish the absurd torments still in use from the treatment of ancient times. Meanwhile, the small sum of money I had brought with me was consumed in the expenses of my uncle's funeral and the needs of the village hospital. When at last the disease attacked me also, I had just enough left to pay for the carriage which was to bring me here to my old friend.
"But when I had arrived it seemed kinder not to startle this faithful man, perhaps even expose him to the same calamity by summoning him to my sick bed. So I waited till I had had my first bath, which I took yesterday, and now I can give you my hand without peril, and tell you how glad I am that a respite on this chilly earth is still granted me, and that I hope to enjoy a few more beautiful springs in this lower world."
She had again given me her hand, which I now raised to my lips.
"Frau Luise," I replied, "you have bestowed upon me the greatest joy and honor I have ever experienced. I value your coming here as highly as though you had dubbed me a knight. And, in truth, during all these years, I have felt myself your knight and worn your colors."
A slight flush mounted into her face, which made her look still younger. "Do not overestimate me," she replied. "I had two objects in coming, only one of which was unselfish. I wanted to see you again to have you help me in my need, but also, it is true, to provide for your own future."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "What future can there be for a man like me, whose presence no one would miss. You see, my dear friend, men of my stamp are indispensable to the human race, but only like the stones the architect cements together in the earth, that they may form a solid foundation for his proud temple. We are invisibly bound together, and render service as a whole, but the individual is not much noticed; even if he is moldering, he does his duty while he fills his little space. Why do you talk to me of the future? So long as you stay with me, time will vanish."
Luise shook her head gravely.
"I am not in question," she replied, "and, if we are to remain good friends, you must not make any more of these extravagant speeches. You are no longer an enthusiastic youth, but still young enough to take a fresh start in life, have a beloved wife and a house full of children, without entirely forgetting your old friend. It is not necessary to have a proud ideal of the future for that. But you ought to be ashamed of so depreciating yourself, burying your talent, dreaming and grieving away your life in this secluded hamlet, instead of seeking a sphere of influence where all your gifts might develop. Or, if you have lost the courage and desire to live for mankind, why will you not at least make one individual happy, and diffuse warmth enough from your hearth-stone to benefit the immediate neighborhood?"
"Because I am no longer free, but have long languished in bonds and fetters," I replied, and, unbuttoning my vest at the neck, drew out her gold chain, which I never laid aside. She again flushed slightly, but forced herself to assume a stern expression, and said: "You are incorrigible; but I won't give you up yet. I know that you will do much to afford me pleasure. First, however, you must do me another service. I have told you that I spent my last thalers for the carriage which brought me here. I should like to look about me for another position, where I can make myself useful, and you shall help me by advancing a small sum. I don't need much, but I haven't paid a farthing in this house, and should not like to live on at the expense of a community upon which I have not even the claim of being a native of the place. But I am not too proud to beg from you."
"You could have made me no more valuable gift," I exclaimed. "And now we won't say another word about this trifle. Tell me about yourself, and, above all, whether you are well cared for here, and what I can do for your comfort."
She smiled again.
"I am treated like a princess. You know that old women were always fond of me. Now I have no less than seven of them in one group, and they are so attentive and so jealous of my favor that I am obliged to act on the defensive. Whenever I rang, all seven of them would come hobbling in to ask my wishes. They felt honored by the presence of an ex-Canoness in the almshouse; the coachman, who came from our estate, had told them who I was, or rather might be, if I had not destroyed my own prospects. My coming here ill with such a commonplace disease, and lying down contentedly in so plain a bed, as if I had never slept in a castle, won their hearts at a single stroke. But, to escape their officious zeal without wounding the jealous devotion of any one, I arranged to have each dame serve me one day in the week. In this way I learned to know them all, and am now aware of everything Mother Schulzen, Mother Jenicke, Mother Grabow and the others have suffered during their insignificant, sorrowful lives. But you will be little interested in this. Besides, I have already talked too much--the doctor would scold. Go now, dear friend, and if you have time come again to-morrow. While I am here, we will see a great deal of each other."
These were pleasant and prophetic words. I owe the happiest part of my life to the time Frau Luise spent beneath this humble roof.
Of course, I now visited her daily, and as she rapidly recovered our talks became longer, so, when the last snow had disappeared and the world grew warm and bright again, we did not stay within the four bare walls, but took the most delightful walks, at first near the house and church, but afterward we rambled for hours along the shore of the lake, and even entered the little grove beyond.
We were always compelled to do this when my princess desired to escape from the attendance of her court. So long as we remained near the house, the seven old dames persistently followed us, the one who was on duty that day in front, the six others, each holding her knitting in her old withered hands, behind, as if to do the honors of the neighborhood, but really because their hearts drew them to this new inmate of the household. They seemed to find comfort in merely looking at her or hearing the distant sound of her voice. But their feeble old limbs would not carry many of them farther than the shore of the lake, and the two youngest, who were only seventy and still very vigorous, dared not take any special liberties.
We never went into the city. Frau Luise did not wish to fan the public curiosity, already excited. True, the burgomaster had considered it his duty to wait upon the lady, and urge her to move into more elegant lodgings which he had secured for her.
He, too, was so charmed by her appearance and manner that his first embarrassment soon vanished, especially after she had requested him not to call her Baroness, but simply Frau Spielberg, and had thanked him for the hospitality extended to her here. So comfortable an abode for old women--to whose number she herself would soon belong--could scarcely be found in the whole Mark, and she begged to be allowed to stay until she had decided how to shape her future life.
But, as she could remain nowhere without bestowing on her environments the impress of her own nature, the burgomaster at his first visit marveled at the changed appearance of the almshouse and its inmates. The seven old dames, who had formerly crept about in forlorn tatters, with their thin hair hanging over their brows, and lines of discontent on their faces--nay, sometimes bearing tokens of very unchristian deeds, the result of their quarrels--suddenly appeared transformed into neat, civil matrons, for they had noticed that they did not please their mistress unless they appeared with clean faces and carefully mended dresses. Even the building itself had changed. The corridors and rooms were spick and span from scouring, and strewed with clean sand. The most beautiful of all was the garden, a narrow strip of ground beneath the low windows. Without saying much about it, Frau Luise one day dug with her own hands the patch below her own window, divided it into small beds, and planted some flowers she had asked me to get for her. Her old guard had scarcely seen this ere they became possessed with an ambition to imitate the noble lady, and, as the latter willingly helped them with seeds and young plants, the wilderness, in which formerly nothing but nettles and weeds of all kinds had flourished, was transformed into a gay garden, and under each window stood a small, rudely made bench, painted with cheap green paint, on which every leisure evening one of the old crones sat in the sunset glow with the everlasting knitting in her lap.
I had ordered Frau Luise's bench to be made somewhat larger, so that there was room for a slender person by her side. There I sat many an hour, often with a book from which I read aloud to her, or talking cheerfully and earnestly about God and the world, not infrequently recalling memories of the beloved child, whose smallest trait of character had not been forgotten by either of us. His father's name was never mentioned. I only knew that he was still dragging out his useless existence in some foreign land.
At that time I learned to know the deep wisdom of the words "All things work together for good to them that love God." For all the good and evil, strange and detestable things this woman had experienced, had worked together in her strong, clear soul, till after the dross had been separated pure gold remained. Now, as ever, she was reluctant to needlessly mention the name of God, and, had she been catechized about her faith, probably would not have passed the examination well. But she possessed the consciousness that, whenever she went down into the depths of her heart, she would find the spirit of peace, love, and truth, and this consciousness was so vivid that a divine calmness and confidence, visible to the dullest senses, illumined her brow. But a new trait in her was a peculiar sense of humor, a mirthfulness which had rarely flashed out in her youth, yet now appeared to be the predominant mood of her nature. When she was gay, she could make the most comical remarks about herself and her surroundings, mutual old acquaintances, and the seven dames knitting on their little benches, remarks whose drollery could not be surpassed by Dickens or Thackeray. Her merry satire did not even spare me. But, as I was utterly defenseless, she soon let the subject drop, though she could see by my hearty laughter that I was flattered rather than offended.
This uniformly charming idyl would have satisfied all my wishes, had I been able to shake off the fear that it would some day come to an end. For Frau Luise daily studied all the advertisements for governesses or nurses, and several times had applied for something, fortunately without success. I racked my brains to discover some plan that would keep her near me. But, though she unhesitatingly accepted my friendly assistance as a loan, she was inexorable whenever I spoke of having no question concerning "mine and thine" rise between us in the future.
"Whoever can work must gain a living!" she answered once, in a tone that deprived me of all courage to return to the subject.
Then a fortunate chance caused, in a very simple and easy way, the fulfillment of the sum total of my wishes.
One Sunday afternoon in May we had taken a delightful walk, and on our return the little almshouse chapel stood before us in its dense robe of ivy, illumined by the full radiance of the sun, looking so beautiful and venerable that, for the first time, we gazed at it attentively and remarked how strange it was that we had never desired to see the interior. Though we now heard from the seven matrons that it was perfectly bare and the walls had nothing but spiders' webs, Frau Luise asked for the key, which had not been used for years, and, attended by the whole train of knitting courtiers, we entered the deserted old chapel.
There was, in truth, nothing remarkable to be seen. A tolerably bright light fell through four long, narrow, arched windows, but illumined nothing save bare walls destitute of pillars, entablatures, or other architectural decorations. Within the choir there was only the square, brick foundation of the altar, raised one step above the floor. In a corner opposite stood a bier covered with a black pall, thickly coated with dust. The little almshouse chapel had doubtless served for a receiving tomb so long as the graveyard outside was used. This thought did not make the cellar-like place more agreeable, and we were about to go back to the warm spring sunshine when my eyes fell upon a high, narrow, wooden box, which stood on the other side just opposite to the altar. Great was my surprise when, after having vainly fumbled about the case for a time, a lid suddenly flew back, and an old harmonium appeared. How it came there I could never ascertain. These instruments are still very rare in our province, and it is hardly probable that years ago the almshouse had a pious and wealthy patron in the city, who desired to aid the religious service in the poor little church by such an endowment.
So we examined our treasure with astonished eyes. When I touched the keys, dull and somewhat rusty, yet not wholly discordant notes stole forth, as if the sleeping soul, so long confined there, were waking, and its first sound was a timid expression of thanks to its deliverers.
The case was instantly drawn forward, and I prepared to play. Frau Luise, with sparkling eyes, came to my side. I began "A mountain fastness is our Lord," and she joined in with her voice, at first timidly, it was so long since she had sung a note, but soon with all her former depth of feeling, till my heart thrilled with ecstasy. When it was over, I began the introduction to our beloved Orpheus aria, and how my friend's marvelous alto voice rang through the lofty, empty chapel! The seven old dames sat silently on the step of the altar, the click of the knitting-needles was no longer heard, nothing mingled with the melody except the low twittering of the birds. So in the utmost delight we practiced for some time, not stopping with this one aria, and many airs which we had sung to our little Joachim returned to his mother's mind.
At last emotion overpowered her, and I ceased playing, rose, and held out my hand, which she cordially pressed. We knew what remained unuttered.
"This must not be the last time we are happy here," I said; "later in the summer this concert-room will be a pleasant refuge, though now the damp, close atmosphere oppresses us. I wonder that you could control your voice so well, Frau Luise."
She made no reply, but passed out through the doorway. I walked by her side, and the seven maids-of-honor followed. But what was our amazement to see a crowd of people gathered outside the threshold, who respectfully formed into two lines to allow the singer and her train to pass. Not only some of the plain people from the few neighboring houses had flocked hither, attracted by the music, but several of the prominent families in the city, among them the burgomaster and his two daughters, who while returning from a Sunday walk had heard with astonishment the strong, beautiful tones issuing from the long silent chapel, and stopped to enjoy the free concert.
The burgomaster himself, a great lover of music, seemed so amazed by the discovery that so admirable an artist had been concealed in the humble almshouse that he did not utter a word to express his homage--only bowed low and silently lifted his hat as she passed. The audience of both high and low degree speedily dispersed; yet, as I walked home in the evening, I caught many a word from the worthy citizens, sitting before their doors or going to get their beer, which betrayed how our church-music still echoed in the ears of the listeners.
The Canoness at the almshouse formed the topic of every conversation during the evening, and no three women whispered together ten minutes over their coffee without saying something for or against their interesting new neighbor.
When, on the following afternoon, I went to my friend, she asked, smiling: "Guess what distinguished visitor I have had to-day, Johannes?" Then she told me that the burgomaster himself had called on her, and, amid many compliments on, her singing, asked if she would give lessons to his daughters. The two girls, who had been waiting outside, entered, blushing, and, as she did not refuse the request, sang to her at their father's bidding in fresh, though untrained, young voices, after which she gladly consented to give them two lessons a week, and was to begin the next morning. The only point now was to procure a piano, the harmonium being far too powerful to be used to accompany singing.
It was difficult for me to repress my joy at these glad tidings. Now she is ours, I thought. Now she need no longer pore over the advertisements in the last pages of the Voss and Spener journals.
But I said quite calmly: "This happens capitally. I have a piano"--this one luxury had been procured for little money, as, though the old instrument was originally good, it had seen much service--"and I will send it early to-morrow to the almshouse, where there are plenty of vacant rooms which would be cheerfully given up to you for your lessons."
This plan was accomplished. Ere a month had passed, all the girls from fifteen to five-and-twenty were enrolled in my friend's volunteer corps of singers, and it was considered as fashionable to send a daughter to the Canoness as it is in the capitals to secure admission to the conservatory.
She had fixed a very moderate price for her lessons. Still, as she also superintended choir-singing, and soon had all her time occupied, her income was so large that I jestingly said she would soon be able to buy an estate.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling, and I well knew what this meant. For her left hand was never aware of what her right hand was doing, and, though our town had an organized system of charity, there was ample opportunity for deeds of benevolence.
We never exchanged a word about her remaining in the almshouse. But she persistently resisted the entreaties of her young pupils and their parents to move into better lodgings in the city. "I could not do without my seven guardian angels," she said, smiling. She merely obtained somewhat better furniture for her room, sent for Uncle Joachim's old chest of drawers and the two pictures of Napoleon--he had left her everything he possessed--and added two beautiful engravings from my aunt's legacy. The large room with two windows, adjoining her own, was fitted up for her lessons, and my piano was moved into it. Many an afternoon, when I had arrived before the close of the lessons, I sat outside on the bench in her little garden, listening to the chirping within, the regularsolfeggiosand runs, and the magnificent bell-like tones of the teacher ringing out between them, or the sweet voices of the full choir, which practiced not only solemnmotettosandcantatas, but sought recreation in Mendelssohn, Schubert, and Schumann.
The service she was rendering the young people could not fail to dispel their parents' prejudices against the wife of the strolling actor, and make them endeavor to draw her to their houses. But on this point she was inexorable. "I detest these provincial entertainments," she said to me. "I will cheerfully give the people among whom I live as much of my life as can be of service to them, but the rest I will keep for myself. To sit on the sofa a whole evening between the wives of the burgomaster and the councilor, and talk about servants and betrothals, would kill me. Besides, my opinions would rouse their displeasure before an hour was over. There is where Mother Schulzen, Mother Grabow, and the other five Fates deserve praise. They think me a saint, though I don't go to church."
But, while she retained this view and avoided the society of the mothers, she was all the more friendly in her intercourse with the daughters. Every other Sunday her pupils, about twenty in number, were allowed to spend the evening with her, and she gave them a little supper of tea, cake, and bread and butter. But these pleasant meetings were not intended merely for merry talk with the children--they were expected to produce better results. She read to them from the works of our classic writers the most beautiful and ennobling selections adapted to their age and culture, a couple of acts from one of Schiller's tragedies, which they were afterward to finish at home, once the whole of Iphigenia, at another time ballads from Goethe and Uhland, and then let her youthful audience express their ideas of what they had heard, only adding a few wise remarks of her own.