Princess Sophie had arrived at Bucheneck with her lady of honor and the elder ladies in carriages, and now attempted, above everything, to lay hands on her illustrious nephew; but he developed an incredible aptness at keeping out of her reach. He was everywhere except in the near presence of his most gracious aunt, until finally she lost patience and ordered a gentleman to call Prince Adelsberg into her presence.
Egon had to obey this command, but he used the precaution of taking the "lightning rod" with him. Rojanow was at his side when he stood before the Princess.
"Well, Egon, do I really get a glimpse of you?" was the not very gracious reception. "You seem to have been taken possession of on all sides to-day."
"I am always ready for the service of my most gracious aunt," declared Egon in honeyed accents; but the sweetness did him no good. The Princess measured him with an annihilating glance.
"As far as your knightly service to Frau von Wallmoden leaves you time. She will give this chivalry a glowing mention to her husband. You may know him, perhaps?"
"Certainly. I revere him highly as a man, as a diplomat and as His Excellency. Your Highness may believe that."
"I believe you unconditionally, Egon. Your love for veracity is far above any doubts with me," said the lady, with stinging sarcasm. "I just happen to remember speaking the day before yesterday with the steward of Rodeck--the old Stadinger--who is still very active for his years."
"But he suffers seriously from failing memory," the Prince hastened to assure her. "I am sorry to say that Stadinger forgets everything. Is it not so, Hartmut? He positively does not know to-day what he saw yesterday."
"On the contrary, I found that his memory was exceptionally fresh. Besides, he is the oldest and truest servant of your house, reliable--careful----"
"And a churl," interrupted Egon, sighing. "Your Highness, you have no idea of the unlimited gruffness which dwells in this Peter Stadinger. He tyrannizes over Herr Rojanow and me shamefully. I have actually thought of retiring him."
Of course, he did not dream of that. His Highness knew better than to make Peter Stadinger such a proposition, and would have fared badly if he had. But Princess Sophie, who had the reputation of being very haughty and relentless toward her servants, now favored a very mild course.
"You should not do that," she remonstrated. "A man who is now serving the third generation of the ducal family may be pardoned such a thing, particularly considering the somewhat loose housekeeping which the young gentlemen lead at Rodeck. It seems that they do not like to see visitors there, preferring the solitude."
"Ah, yes, the solitude!" sighed Egon, sentimentally. "It does one so much good after the stormy life of travel, and we enjoy it in full draughts. I occupy myself mostly----"
"With the taming of your wild animals," finished the Princess maliciously.
"No, with--with my travelling memoirs, which I intend to publish; and Hartmut composes melancholy songs. He has just now the material for a ballad under his pen, to which Your Highness drew his attention."
"Why, Herr Rojanow, have you really utilized the theme?" asked the lady, whose face now suddenly beamed with sunshine, as she turned to the young poet.
"Certainly, Your Highness. I am very grateful to you for the suggestion," said Hartmut, who had not the slightest idea what the subject was, but felt that he had to go into action now.
"I am glad of that. I love poetry and seek it at every opportunity."
"And with what understanding and appreciation!" cried Egon, enthusiastically. But he quickly embraced the opportunity of slipping away, leaving his friend behind as the victim. He hastened to the presence of the Duchess, which meant the presence of Frau von Wallmoden, where he seemed to feel decidedly better than with his most gracious aunt.
The chase was resumed after luncheon was over. It was now a hunt for large game, which was commenced with renewed zeal.
But the hitherto sunny weather changed in the afternoon. The sky grew cloudy and dark, but it remained warm, almost stifling, and a heavy bank of cloud arose in the west. It looked as if one of those late thunderstorms was preparing, which passed at times over the Wald at this season.
The Duchess, with a portion of her attendants, had taken her stand upon a hill which seemed to afford the best view, but soon the chase took another quite unexpected direction, and the onlookers made ready to follow.
Frau von Wallmoden met here with a slight accident. The girth of her saddle suddenly broke and she sprang lightly from the stirrup, thus saving herself from a fall. It was not possible to continue her ride, for although the accompanying groom could have given her a horse, there was no lady's saddle at hand; consequently she had to give up further participation, and decided to walk back to Bucheneck, to where one of the grooms would lead her horse.
Adelaide had requested the servant to precede her, and she lingered on the hill which had become quiet and lonely. It almost seemed that the accident had been welcome to her, since it relieved her from attending the chase to the end.
It is always a relief when one can drop a mask which has deceived the world and can breathe in solitude, if it only brings conviction of the heavy load one had to bear under that mask.
Where had the cold, proud calm vanished with which the young wife had entered her new home upon the arm of her husband? Now, when she knew herself alone and unobserved, it could be plainly seen that she had changed much.
That strong will-line which had made her resemble her father so much had become more pronounced, but besides that there was another line--a painful one--as of a person who has to struggle with secret torture and anxiety. The blue eyes had lost the cold, dispassionate expression. A deep shadow rested within them which also told of struggle and pain, and the blonde head drooped as if under an invisible but heavy load.
And yet Adelaide drew a breath of relief at the thought that this would be the last day she should spend at Furstenstein. By to-morrow she would be far from here. Perhaps there would be rest in the far removal of the dark power against which she had struggled now for weeks so painfully, and yet so vainly.
Perhaps she would get better if she did not see those eyes day after day, nor hear that voice.
When she should have fled from the enchanted circle the charm would have to break, and now at last she could flee--oh, the happiness of it!
The noise of the chase sounded in ever-increasing distance, and was finally lost, but steps now sounded in the forest which encircled the hill closely, and warned the young Baroness that she was no longer alone. She started to leave, but at the moment she turned the one approaching emerged from under the trees.
Hartmut Rojanow stood before her.
The meeting was so sudden and unexpected that Adelaide's composure was not proof against it. She retreated to the trunk of the tree, under the boughs of which she had been standing, as if seeking there a protection from this man, upon whom she gazed with fixed, fearful eyes--with the gaze of a wounded animal which sees the huntsman approach.
Rojanow did not seem to notice it. He saluted her and asked hastily: "You are alone, Your Excellency? The accident did not have any serious consequences?"
"What accident?"
"It was said you had a fall from your horse."
"What exaggeration! The girth broke, but I knew it in time to spring from the stirrup, while the horse stood perfectly still--that was the accident."
"God be praised! I heard something of a fall--an injury--and as you did not reappear at the chase I feared----"
He paused, for Adelaide's glance showed him plainly that she did not believe this pretense; probably he knew the whole occurrence and had learned why and where Frau von Wallmoden had been left behind. She now regained her composure.
"I thank you, Herr Rojanow, but your being at all concerned was not necessary," she said coldly. "You could have told yourself that had there been a real accident the Duchess and the other ladies would not have left me helpless in the forest. I am on my way to Bucheneck."
She attempted to pass him. He bowed and stepped aside as if to let her pass, but said in a low voice:
"Gracious lady, I have yet to ask your pardon."
"My pardon! For what?"
"For a request which I uttered thoughtlessly and for which I have had to suffer seriously. I only asked for a flower. Is that, then, so severe a transgression that one should be angry over it for weeks?"
Adelaide had paused almost without knowing it.
Again she was under the charm of these eyes--this voice, which held her fast as with magnetism.
"You are mistaken, Herr Rojanow. I am not angry with you."
"Not? And yet it is this icy tone I have always to hear since I dared approach you in that hour. You have learned, too, to know my work, for which I begged a recognition. You were present when I read it at Furstenstein. My Arivana was praised overwhelmingly on all sides, but from your mouth alone I heard no word--not one. Will you refuse it even now?"
"I thought we were hunting to-day," said Adelaide with an attempt to pass the subject by, "where it is surely not admissible to speak of poetical works."
"We have both left the chase; it is running now toward the Rodeck forest. There is only forest solitude here. Look at this autumn-tinted foliage which warns so mournfully of fleeting existence--the silent water down there, those thunder clouds in the distance. I believe there is a more endless amount of poetry in all this than in the halls of Furstenstein."
He pointed to the landscape which spread out before them, but no longer in the bright sunlight that had favored the chase at the beginning. Now it lay in the dim light of an overcast sky, which made even the gay foliage appear withered and dull.
They could see far out into the mountains, which, retreating on both sides, left the distance free. The endless ocean of forest crowns which only a few weeks ago waved green and airily in the breeze, now bore the color of the fall. They shone from the darkest brown to brilliant golden yellow in every shade all around, and shining red gleamed from the bushes and shrubs.
The dying forest adorned itself once more with deceptive splendor, but it was only the coloring of the passing away and dying. All life and bloom were at an end.
Deep in the ravine lay a little forest lake, which, dark and motionless, seemed to dream in the wreath of reeds and rushes which surrounded it. It resembled strangely another pond that, far away in North Germany, lay in the midst of a pine forest--the Burgsdorf pond--which, like this one, ended in a meadow where rich green beckoned, nourished by the swamp and bog, hiding itself deceitfully beneath it, and drawing the ignorant one into its depth without hope of rescue.
Even now in daylight it seemed to breathe fog and twilight, and when night should descend the will-o'-the-wisp probably commenced here also its ghostly play.
At the horizon, where in clear weather the summits of the mountains were visible, towered now a dark bank of clouds. As yet in the distance, its stifling breath rested already over the Wald, and at times a dull light flashed from it.
Adelaide had not answered Hartmut's question. She gazed out over the country to avoid looking into the face of the man who stood before her, but she felt the dark, passionate look which rested upon her face, as she had always felt it in the last weeks, as soon as Rojanow was in her presence.
"You are going away to-morrow, gracious lady," he commenced again. "Who knows when you will return and when I shall see you again? May not I beg for your opinion? May I not ask if my work has found grace in the eyes of--Ada?"
Her name again upon his lips; again that soft, veiled, yet passionate, tone which she feared, and yet to which she listened as to enchanting music!
Adelaide felt that here she was a prisoner; there was no chance for flight. She had to look the danger full in the face.
Adelaide von Wallmoden turned slowly toward her questioner, and her features betrayed that she was determined to end the hard struggle the struggle with her own self.
"You play strangely with this name, Herr Rojanow," she said emphatically and proudly. "It stood over the poem which was put into my possession in a mysterious manner last week, written in a strange hand, without signature----"
"And which you read, nevertheless," he interrupted triumphantly.
"Yes, and burned."
"Burned!"
From Hartmut's eyes flashed again the uncanny look which had startled even Egon and made him exclaim, "You look like a demon!"
The demon of hate and revenge had risen wildly against the man who had insulted him unto death and whom he therefore wished to hurt unto death, and yet he loved that man's wife as the son of Zalika alone could love--with wild, consuming passion; but that which he felt at this moment resembled hatred more than love.
"The poor leaf," he said with ill-concealed bitterness. "And so it had to suffer death in the flames--perhaps it deserved a better fate."
"You ought not to have sent it to me, then. I dare not and will not accept such poetry."
"You dare not, gracious lady? It is the homage of a poet which he lays at the feet of the woman who has been his from the beginning of time--and you will concede that to him also."
The words came but half-aloud from his lips, but so hot and passionate that Adelaide shuddered.
"You may pay homage like that to the women of your country, and in such words," she said. "A German woman does not understand it."
"But you have understood it, nevertheless," Hartmut burst forth, "and you also understood the doctrine of the intense ardor of my Arivana, which bears off the victory over all human laws. I saw it that evening when you turned your back apparently so coldly upon me, while all the others overwhelmed me with admiration. Do not deceive yourself, Ada. When the divine spark falls into two souls it flames up, in the cold north as well as the fervent south, and it already burns within us. In this breath of fire, will and will-power die the death; it smothers everything that has existed, and nothing remains but the holy, blazing flame which shines and makes happy, even if it destroys. You love me, Ada--I know it--do not attempt to deny it, and I--I love you boundlessly."
He stood before her in the stormy triumph of the victor, and his dark, demoniacal beauty had, perhaps, never been as captivating as at this moment, when the fire which breathed in his words burst also from his eyes--his whole being.
And he did speak the truth!
The woman who leaned there against the trunk of the tree so deathly white, loved him as only a pure, proud nature can love; that nature which so far had lived in the delusion that her emotions would forever lie in slumber, called by the world coldness of heart.
Now she saw herself awaking before a passion which found a thousand-fold echo in her own breast; now that breath of flame floated around her also with its scorching glow; now came the test!
"Leave me, Herr Rojanow, instantly!" cried Adelaide.
Her voice sounded half smothered, almost inaudible, and she addressed a man who was not wont to yield when he felt himself victorious.
He started to approach her hastily--he suddenly stood still. There was something in the eyes--in the bearing of the young Baroness which kept him within bounds, but again he breathed her name in that tone, the power of which perhaps he knew best--"Ada."
She shuddered and made a repellent gesture.
"Not that name. For you I am Adelaide von Wallmoden. I am married--you know that."
"Married to a man who stands on the border of old age, whom you do not love, and who could not give you any love if he were young. That cold, calculating nature knows no emotion of passion. The Court, his position, his promotion, are everything to him--his wife, nothing. He perhaps boasts of the possession of a jewel which he does not know how to value, and for which another would give his soul's eternal bliss."
Adelaide's lips quivered. She knew only too well that he was right, but she did not answer.
"And what binds you to this man?" continued Rojanow, still more impressively. "A word--a single 'Yes' uttered by you without knowing its full meaning--without knowing yourself. Shall it bind you for your life? Shall it make us both miserable? No, Ada, love the eternal, undying right of the human heart does not bow before that. People may call it guilt, they may call it doom. We stand now under this doom, and must follow it; a single word shall not part us."
Far off at the horizon the flame burst up with such glaring light that it shone also over the opening on the hill.
Hartmut stood for a moment in this light. He was now so fully the son of his mother; resembling so closely her beautiful but pernicious features; but it was that flash of lightning that brought Adelaide back to consciousness; or had it shown her the unholy fire which burned in his eyes? She retreated with an expression of unveiled horror.
"A solemnly given and accepted word is a vow," she said slowly, "and he who breaks it breaks his honor."
Hartmut started. Sudden and glaring like that flash of lightning flamed up a remembrance in his mind--the resemblance of that hour when he had given a solemn word--a word of honor, and--had broken it!
Adelaide von Wallmoden straightened her slender figure; her features still showed the deathly pallor as she continued in a low but steady tone to Rojanow:
"Abandon this persecution which I have felt for weeks. I shudder before you--at your eyes, your words. I feel that it is destruction that goes out from you, and one does not love that."
"Ada!"
Passionate entreaty sounded in the word, but the low voice of Adelaide gained firmness quickly as she continued:
"And you do not love me. It has often seemed to me as if it were your hatred that pursued me. You and your kind cannot love."
Rojanow kept silence in bewilderment. Who taught this young woman, still so inexperienced in life, to look so deeply into his inmost heart? He had not made clear to himself yet how inseparably hate and love were combined in his passion.
"And you tell this to the writer of Arivana!" he burst out in bitterness. "They have called my work the high song of love----"
"Then they have let themselves be deceived by the veil of the Oriental legend in which you shrouded your characters. They saw then only the East Indian priest sink with his beloved one under an iron, inhuman law. You are perhaps a great poet, and perhaps the world overwhelms you with praise, but it tells me something different--this fervent, ardent doctrine of your Arivana. It has taught me to know its creator--a man who does not believe in anything, and to whom nothing in the world is sacred; no duty and no vow; no man's honor and no woman's virtue--who would not hesitate to drag the highest into the dust as play for his passion. I still believe in duty and honor; I still believe in myself, and with this faith I offer defiance to the doom you hold so triumphantly before me. I could force myself to death, but never to your arms!"
She stood before him, not as just now in trembling fear--in the tortured wrestling with a secret struggle, It seemed as if, with each of the annihilating words, one ring of the chain which held possession of her so mysteriously was broken. Her eyes met fully and freely the dark look which had kept her a prisoner so long; the charm was broken now and she felt it, and breathed like one rescued.
Again that flash in the distance--noiseless, without the rumbling of thunder--but it was as if heaven had opened in all its vastness. Fantastic formation of clouds was in this flaring light--forms which seemed to wrestle and struggle with each other, born of the storm, and yet that bank of cloud stood motionless at the horizon--and just as motionless stood the man, whose dark features showed now an ashy paleness in the glare of the lightning.
His eyes were fixed upon the young woman, but the wild fire in them had died out, and his voice had a strange sound as he said: "And this is the opinion I asked for? I am nothing more in your eyes than an--outcast?"
"A lost man, perhaps. You have forced me to this confession."
Hartmut slowly retreated a few steps.
"Lost!" he repeated hoarsely. "In your meaning, perhaps, yes. You may rest assured, gracious lady, I shall not approach you any more. One does not desire to hear such words a second time--you stand so high and proud upon your virtue and, judge so severely. Of course you have no idea what a hot, wild life can make of a person who wanders restlessly, without home and family, through the world. You are right--I have not believed in anything, either upon high or here upon the earth--until this hour."
There was something in his tone, in his whole bearing, that disarmed Adelaide. She felt that she would not have to fear another burst of his passion, and her voice softened involuntarily at her answer.
"I do not judge anybody; but with my whole mind and being I belong to another world, with other laws than yours. I am the daughter of an idolized father, who, all of his life, knew but one road that of earnest, severe duty. On that he worked himself up from poverty and want to wealth and honor. He led his children along this road, and his memory is the shield which covers me in every hard hour. I could not bear it if I had to cast down my eyes before the picture of my memory. You probably have no father?"----
A long, heavy pause ensued. Hartmut did not answer, but his head sank under those words, the crushing weight of which the Baroness had no idea, and his eyes were upon the ground.
"No," he at last replied, hoarsely.
"But you have the memory of him and your mother."
"My mother!" Rojanow started up suddenly and violently. "Do not speak of her in this hour--do not speak to me of my mother."
It was an outburst of mingled bitterness, of accusation and despair. The mother was being judged by her son in this exclamation. He rejected her memory as a desecration of this hour.
Adelaide did not understand him; she saw only that she had touched a topic which did not admit of explanation, and she also saw that the man who stood before her now with this dark look--with this tone of despair--was a different being from that one who had approached her a quarter of an hour ago. It was a dark, mysterious depth into which she gazed, but it no longer caused her fear.
"Let us end this conversation," she said earnestly. "You will not seek a second one--I trust you. But one more word before we part. You are a poet. I felt it in spite of all when I heard your work, and poets are teachers of mankind. They can lead to happiness or destruction. The wild flames of your Arivana seem to burst forth from the depths of a life which you yourself seem to hate. Look there!" She pointed into the distance, which was now lighted up again in a flaming glow. "Those are also signs of flame, but they come from on high, and they point to another road---- Farewell!"
* * * * *
She had disappeared long ago, but Hartmut still stood as if rooted to the ground. He had not replied with one word--had made no motion; he only looked with hot, fixed eyes to where now one flash of lightning after another tore the clouds asunder, shrouding the whole country with a fiery cloak, and then he looked at the little forest lake which resembled so closely that one at Burgsdorf, with its waving reed and the deceiving, foggy meadow, which here also pressed so close to the water.
The boy had once dreamed among such whispering rushes of soaring up like the falcon of which his race bore the name, in boundless freedom--ever higher toward the sun--and at the same place the decision over his fate had been made on that dark autumn night, when the will-o'-the-wisp led its ghostly dance.
But the deserter had not risen to the sun--the earth had held him fast; the rich, green meadow had drawn him down deeper and deeper. He had felt at times that the intoxicating cup of freedom and life which the hand of his mother gave him was poisoned, but no precious memory shielded him; he did not dare to think of his father.
Over there in the distance the forms of cloud struggled and wrestled wilder and wilder; closer and closer together they drew, and in the midst of this struggle and this darkness the flames again burst victoriously--the powerful flames from on high.
The winter social life had commenced at the Residenz, where the professional element played a conspicuous rôle. The Duke, who loved and encouraged art, took great pride in gathering renowned members of it into his presence, seeking to retain them in his capitol, and, of course, society followed largely in the same direction.
The young poet who was being so highly favored by the Court, and whose first large work was to appear on the court stage, was from the first an interesting person to everybody, and the tales which were told about him served to increase this interest.
It was very unusual for a Roumanian to compose his work in the German language, even when it was whispered that he had received his education in Germany. Besides that, he was the bosom friend, and the guest here in town also, of Prince Adelsberg, and all sorts of touching and wonderful stories were narrated about this friendship.
Above all, Hartmut's personality gave him a favored position wherever he went. The young, handsome, highly-gifted stranger, whom a half-romantic, half-mysterious air surrounded, had only to make his appearance even here to draw all eyes upon him.
The rehearsal of Arivana had commenced immediately after the return of the ducal party to the Residenz, under the personal supervision of the poet; while Prince Adelsberg, who in his enthusiasm for the work of his friend, had changed into a kind of manager, made life hard to the performers by all sorts of requests in regard to the filling of characters and the setting of the play.
He knew how to get his way, and the scenery and setting were brilliant; the rôles were all filled by the first talent of the Court Theatre, and even the opera singers were called into service, since one of the rôles required a rather extensive part of song. One could not expect this from an actress, therefore a young singer--Marietta Volkmar--was entrusted with it.
The performance of the play, which was to have taken place at a later date, was being hastened as much as possible, as guests were expected at Court, and the new drama, which toyed so poetically and airily with the Indian legend as a background, was to be performed before the illustrious guests. An unusual success was anticipated.
This was the state of affairs at the return of Herbert von Wallmoden, who was naturally painfully surprised. Although he had learned from a casual question to his wife that Rojanow still kept up his intercourse at Furstenstein, and although he had not counted upon a sudden disappearance on Rojanow's part which would necessarily have caused comment, still he had been of the firm opinion that in spite of his haughty decision to remain, Hartmut would consider it again and make his retreat as soon as Prince Adelsberg left Rodeck. Surely he would not dare to appear at the Prince's side at the Residenz, where his stay might be made impossible through those threatened "explanations."
But the Ambassador had not counted upon the unyielding defiance of the man who ventured and dared a high game here. Now, after a few weeks, he found him in a favored position in every respect and in closest intercourse with the court society.
If now, just before the performance of the drama which the Duke favored so decidedly, and of which the whole town was already talking, one should publish the disclosures of the former life of the poet, it would touch all circles unpleasantly and appear malicious.
The experienced diplomat did not deceive himself about the fact that the deep displeasure which would doubtless take possession of the Duke would then fall back upon himself, because he had not spoken before at the first appearance of Rojanow. Nothing was left for him to do but to keep silence and await developments.
Wallmoden was far from having an idea that a heavy danger had threatened himself from that quarter. He supposed that his wife knew Hartmut only as a companion of Prince Adelsberg. She had never mentioned the name since, after her arrival in Berlin, she answered a seemingly careless question just as carelessly, and he had also kept silence. She must not and should not learn anything of those old connections which he had kept from her from the beginning.
But he dared not be silent toward his nephew, Willibald, if he did not wish to live to see another scene of recognition like that upon the Hochberg.
The young lord had accompanied his relatives to South Germany; was to remain but a few days at the Residenz, and go from there to Furstenstein to his betrothed, for the Chief Forester had specially requested that the visit, which was so suddenly broken off in September, should be finished now.
"You were here barely a week," he wrote to his sister-in-law, "and now I beg for my son-in-law a little longer. Everything has been put in order now at your much-loved Burgsdorf, and there is not much to do in November. Therefore at least send us Willy if you cannot get off. A refusal will not be accepted. Toni expects her betrothed."
Frau von Eschenhagen saw that he was right and was willing to send Willy--for she, of course, decided the matter. He had made no new attempt to rebel against the maternal ruling, and seemed, anyway, to have come to his senses completely again. He was, perhaps, more quiet than before, and threw himself with quite unusual zeal into his agricultural work after his return, but otherwise bore himself especially well.
He remained obstinate only upon one point: he would not speak with his mother about that "silliness" which had caused the sudden departure, and avoided every explanation concerning it. Apparently he was ashamed of that quickly-flaming affection, which probably had never been serious, and did not wish to be reminded of it.
He wrote frequently to his fiancée, and received just as punctual replies. The correspondence, however, was more of a practical than a tender nature, and mostly concerned plans for their future lives and farm arrangements; but one saw from this that the young lord considered his marriage, for which the day had been set, as quite decided, and Frau Regine, who deemed it her indisputable right to read all of the letters of the engaged couple, declared herself satisfied with them.
So Willibald received a gracious permission to visit his betrothed, which was now so much less hazardous since the dangerous little person--Marietta Volkmar--was at present at the Residenz, where her position kept her. But to be quite sure, Frau von Eschenhagen put her son under the protection of her brother, who, with his wife, had paid a brief visit to Burgsdorf upon his return from the Stahlberg works.
If Willibald, during the two or three days of his visit at the Residenz, remained at Wallmoden's house and went with them exclusively, no danger was to be feared.
The Ambassador saw soon after his arrival that he would be forced to enlighten his nephew regarding Hartmut Rojanow, for the name was mentioned on all sides already the first day. Willy, who at that former time had been the confidant of the secret rendezvous of Hartmut and his mother, and knew her name, started upon hearing it, coupled with a remark that a young Roumanian was the gifted poet, which made him still more suspicious.
He glanced in perplexity at his uncle, who managed to signal to him just in time not to question any further, and who then embraced the first opportunity to tell him the truth.
He did this, of course, in the most inconsiderate manner, and presented Hartmut as an adventurer of the worst kind, whom he would in a very short time force to give up the rôle which he was playing here, without being in the least entitled to it.
Poor Willibald's head swam at the news. His bosom friend--to whom he had always been attached with the fondest affection, and to whom he still clung in spite of the harsh sentence which was being pronounced upon him--was here in his immediate vicinity, and he was not to go to see him--was not even to recognize him if chance should bring about a meeting. Wallmoden especially impressed the latter upon his nephew, who, quite stunned, promised obedience and silence, as well toward Adelaide as to his fiancée and the Chief Forester; but he could not understand the thing by a long shot yet. He needed time for that as for everything.
The day upon which Arivana was to be presented had arrived. It was the first work of a young author and quite unknown poet, but the circumstances made it a professional event, which was viewed by everybody with intensest interest.
From the earliest hour the Court Theatre was filled to its utmost capacity, and now the ducal couple also appeared with their guests to occupy the large court box. Although not formally announced, the performance had the character of a benefit, to which the brilliantly lighted house and the rich costumes and uniforms bore witness.
Prince Adelsberg, who appeared in the court box, was as excited as if he had written the drama himself. Besides, he found himself in as rare as joyful accord with his most gracious aunt, who had called him to her, and was speaking about the work of the poet.
"Our young friend seems to have caprices like all poets," she remarked. "What a notion to change the name of the heroine at the last moment!"
"It did not happen at exactly the last moment," replied Egon. "The change was made at Rodeck. Hartmut suddenly took a notion that the name 'Ada' was too cold and pure for his fiery heroine, and so her name was changed forthwith."
"But the name Ada stands on the programme," said the Princess.
"Yes, but it has been turned over to an entirely different character of the drama, who appears only in one scene."
"So Rojanow has made changes since his reading at Furstenstein?"
"Only a few; the piece itself has remained quite the same, except the changing of names and that short appearance of Ada; but I assure Your Highness this scene which Hartmut has added to the play is the most beautiful thing he has ever written."
"Yes, of course, you find everything beautiful which comes from the pen of your friend," said the Princess, but the indulgent smile with which she dismissed the Prince showed that she was of the same opinion.
In one of the proscenium boxes were seen the Prussian Ambassador and his wife--returned only a day or two from his vacation. His presence at the theatre to-day was indeed not of his free will, for he would gladly have remained away from this performance, but dared not out of consideration for his position. The Duke himself had disposed of the boxes, and had invited the foreign diplomats and their ladies; there was no possibility of remaining away, particularly as Herr and Frau von Wallmoden had, only a few hours previously, participated in a large dinner at the ducal palace.
Willibald, who had won permission from his uncle to at least get acquainted with the work of his friend, sat in the parquette. Wallmoden was not pleased with his presence here, but could not well forbid him what he was going to do himself. Willy, who with difficulty had found a seat, had not thought that a member of the opera could be employed in the theatre, but when he opened the programme and came suddenly upon the name of "Marietta Volkmar," whom he was to see to-night, he folded the paper with a quick gesture and hid it in his pocket, regretting now sorely having come to the theatre.
The performance now commenced. The curtain rose and the first scene passed quickly. It was a kind of preface, to acquaint the audience with the strange, fantastic world into which they were to be introduced.
Arivana, the ancient, sacred place of sacrifice, appeared in a magnificent and appropriate setting. The most prominent character of the piece, the young priest, who, in the fanaticism of his belief, renounces utterly everything worldly and unholy, enters, and the vow which removes him for time and eternity from the world, and binds him body and soul to his deity, resounds in powerful, soulful verse.
The vow was offered--the sacred fire flamed high, and the curtain fell.
Applause, for which the Duke gave the signal, came from all sides. Although it was assured that a work which was encouraged and favored so by all should have a certain success, at least upon its opening night, there was something else mingled in the applause. The audience already felt that a poet spoke to them; his creation had perhaps needed the approval of the Court, but now, since it was before them, it sustained itself. One was attracted and held by the language--the characters--by the theme of the drama, which already betrayed itself in its principal features, and when the curtain rose afresh, intense, expectant silence rested over the vast audience hall.
And now the drama developed upon a background as rich and glowing in color as were its language and its characters. The magnificent verdure, the fairy-like splendor of its temples and palaces, the people with their wild hatred and wilder love, and the severe, iron laws of their belief--all, all, was fantastic and strange; but the feeling and acting of these people were familiar to every one, for they stood under the power which was the same centuries ago, as to-day, and which takes root the same under the glowing sky of the tropics as in the cold North--the passion and power of the human heart.
This was indeed a "glowing doctrine," and it preached without restraint the right of the passions to storm over law and institutions--over oaths and vows--to reach their aims; a right such as Hartmut Rojanow had understood and practised with his unreined will, who recognized no law or duty, but who was all in all unto himself.
The awakening of the passion--its powerful growth, its final triumph--were all depicted in transporting language, in words and acts which seemed to originate, now from the pure heights of the ideal, and now from the depths of an abyss.
Not in vain had the poet shrouded his characters in the veil of Oriental legend, but under this veil he dared to speak and indorse that which would hardly have been permitted him, and he did it with a boldness which threw igniting sparks into the hearts of the listeners, enchaining them demoniacally.
Arivana's success was assured already at the second act. The work was done by artists who belonged to the best on the stage, and they were doing the best playing ever witnessed. Those taking the principal rôles especially acted with the perfection of abandon which only real enthusiasm can give.
The heroine's name was no longer Ada. Another form now bore this name--one who was strangely foreign to this excited picture of passions; one of those tender, half-fairy-like beings with whom the Indian legends inhabit the snow dwellings upon the icy heights of the Himalayas--cold and pure as the eternal snow which shines upon them.
Only in one single instance, in the parting scene, she floated on spirit's wings through the stormy, excited gathering, remonstrating, entreating, warning; and Egon was right. The words which the poet had put into her lips were, perhaps, the most beautiful of the entire drama. It burst suddenly like pure, heavenly light into the flaming glow of a crater; but the scene was as short as beautiful. Quick as a breath the apparition disappeared again into her snow dwelling, and down yonder at the moonlit bank of the river floated the entrancing song of the Hindoo girl--Marietta Volkmar's soft, swelling voice--under the coaxing charm of which the cry of warning from the heights was dispelled and unheeded.
The last act brought the tragic end; the breaking of the doom over the guilty pair; the death in the flames. This death was no atonement, but a triumph--"a shining, divine death," and with the flames there also flared up to heaven the demoniacal doctrine of the unconditional right of the passions.
The curtain sank for the last time, and the applause, which had increased after every act, now grew to a storm. Usually the applause at the court performances was kept within measured bounds, but to-day it broke over the barriers. The flames of Arivana had kindled the enthusiasm with which the whole house demanded the appearance of the author.
Hartmut finally appeared--without embarrassment or timidity--glowing with pride and joy; he bowed acknowledgment to the audience, which today offered him a drink he had never yet tasted in his wildly tossed life. They were intoxicating, these first sips from the cup of fame, and with this intoxicating knowledge, the celebrated poet now looked up to the proscenium box, whose occupants he had long ago recognized. He did not find, however, what he sought. Adelaide was leaning back in her chair, and her face was hidden by her open fan. He saw only the cold, unmoved face of the man who had insulted him so deeply, and who was now a witness of his triumph.
Wallmoden understood only too well what the flash of those dark eyes told him: "Do you dare yet to despise me?"