Frau von Sellenthin and Ulrich Kletzingk sat together on the terrace, keeping up a somewhat constrained conversation, because both were awaiting, full of impatience, Lizzie's return. A mounted messenger had been sent out to the fields to summon Leo home. Elly, irradiating placid rosy innocence, stitched at her embroidery, which was spread out on her knees; while Hertha, with idle fingers, was on thequi vivefor coming events. Even the presence of Ulrich, to whom she had felt drawn long ago in the bonds of a glowing friendship, could not dissipate the panic which the mysterious meeting between the two women had awakened in her. She was the first to become aware of their approach. Walking close to each other, they loomed against the background of the park--the one in her black, flapping weeds resembling a gliding shadow, and the other like a white summer cloudlet.
Now grandmamma saw them coming.
"Thank God!" she murmured, rolling up her crochet, and giving Ulrich a sign to look round.
"Thank God," he repeated, as he kissed the old lady's hand. "Now at last we are at peace."
Every one had got up and looked towards the two women as they ascended the steps of the terrace.
"Well, I don't think it seems altogether like peace," thought Hertha, observing the expression of bitter chagrin which made her mother's features appear more severe and sour than ever before. Her eyes were searching Ulrich's face. "She looks at him as if she would like to swallow him," thought Hertha.
And then she came under the spell of Felicitas's charms, which held her close captive.
"Oh, how very beautiful she is!" she said to herself with a sigh. "How I should love to be like her."
Greetings were exchanged, and half-murmured, significant words spoken; but Hertha heard nothing, being completely fascinated by the fair stranger whose smile was so melancholy, and who knew how to bow her head with such gentle grace.
She had a dim sensation as if hearing music--low, dreamy, strange music, which grew stronger directly the beautiful woman made a movement, and died softly when she sat motionless and silent.
When she kissed her husband, Hertha envied him; and when she greeted Elly in a friendly manner, Hertha felt herself alone and deserted. But then the fair creature turned to her and gave her an astonished yet exquisite smile. Hertha glowed to the roots of her hair.
"This is, then, Countess Hertha, of whom I have often heard?" asked Frau Felicitas.
"Whom has she heard of me from?" wondered Hertha, without daring to lift her eyes.
And now she beheld a rounded, snow-white hand stretched invitingly out to her. She would like to have rushed at it, to have kissed it; but in her awkwardness she could only lay three fingers in it uncertainly, and then quickly withdraw them.
"You are like a fairy princess, Countess Hertha," she heard the stranger's sweet, soft voice breathe close to her--"so tall and so proud. We must be friends."
"Oh!" exclaimed Hertha, glowing with gratitude for so much kindness, and what was more, the beautiful woman threw her arms round her and kissed her on the lips. Then something happened which she could not have explained. At the moment the stranger's lips touched hers, she was seized anew with the same uncanny feeling which her stepmother's exclamation had awakened in her a few hours earlier. As if turned to stone, she allowed herself to be kissed, and gasped, for the deadening perfume which this embrace exhaled streamed over her and almost took her breath away.
Then she heard grandmamma say, "She is still shy ... she hasn't seen much society yet." Dear, dear grandmamma, and she nearly crushed the old, protecting hand, that so kindly guided her stumbling destiny. Now every one sat down on the terrace, and tea was served. It was long past the vesper hour. Hertha sat in a dream, and eat and drank absently as if she hadn't broken her fast for days.
Her attention was first caught again by overhearing bits of the conversation which passed between her stepmother and the Baron Kletzingk.
There was nothing remarkable about the conversation itself, for it turned on the pedagogic principles which governed Ulrich's education of the village children. Only the tone in which it was conducted was extraordinary.
There was something like suppressed scorn in her stepmother's indifferent words, one moment she seemed as if she would like to cry, the next she would collapse into brooding reflection, and her eyes would be fixed on his face, full of stony pain. He, on his side, talked to her as if she were an invalid who was to be humoured. He did not contradict her, but modified at once anything that seemed to displease her ... and when she threw in a derogatory or incredulous remark with her nervously trembling lips, he pretended that he heartily shared her opinion, saying that her reasons were important enough to make him change his mind. But after such a concession he got hardly more than a shrug of her shoulders for answer.
"What can he have done to her that she hates him so," thought Hertha; and then her attention wandered again to Felicitas, at whom she stared admiringly.
In the middle of the flagging conversation a firm footstep was heard in the breakfast-room, accompanied by the pattering of the St. Bernard's feet. Whoever was speaking broke off before finishing his or her sentence.
Every one sat upright and glanced expectantly at the door. Hertha felt her heart beating quickly. For an instant her eyes met those of the beautiful woman, and it seemed to her that the pale face had grown a shade paler.
The door was flung back, and Leo burst on to the terrace. Suddenly he paused and drew back. His hand fidgeted with the ends of his beard, his eyes fastened on Felicitas with a searching, threatening gaze.
"He doesn't like her," was Hertha's inward comment.
Ulrich went up to him quickly, and seized his hand. "What you see here, old man, means reconciliation. Now we are all going to enjoy ourselves together at last."
"You two?" asked Leo, indicating with his finger the two women.
"Yes, certainly, we are reconciled," responded Johanna, with her bitterest smile. He was going to say more, when Ulrich admonished him. "Think of the children," he said.
"It is to be hoped now that you will not disdain to shake hands with me, sister," Leo said.
"I have come here expressly with that purpose," answered Johanna, rising.
Their hands touched, and they looked into each other's eyes. To him her hand said, "I hold you in its hollow," and her glance, "Be careful."
Then he turned to greet Felicitas with a fleeting smile.
"I wonder why he doesn't like her?" Hertha asked herself, rather puzzled at everything.
It was late in the evening of the following day. Hertha, already half undressed, stood at the bedroom window and looked at the moon. Her breast heaved under its burden of woe. She had just written to her best friend, Ada--Ada von Wehrheimb--with whom, since they were at school together, she had been supposed to share every joy and sorrow. The letter, with two postscripts, lay on the table.
At last she had had the courage to tell her friend of the utter wreck of all her hopes, and, having once written her woes, she realized, as she had not done before, their full extent, for till now a vague mistrust of herself had prevented her taking her own suffering altogether seriously. And when one wanted to feel thoroughly unhappy, there were so many little things to interrupt one--the cocks and hens, the foals, the saddle-horses, the swing, Elly's silly chatter, archery, and, last but not least, grandmamma and her cookery-book. On the other hand, friends and nourishers of the unhappy mood were "Poetic Greetings" by Elise Polkos, Leo the dog, embroidery, and, above all, the moon.
Slowly it sailed, now, above the rustling treetops. The true September moon--big, white and cold, with sharply defined shadows visible in its brilliant orb. It swept the grey clouds which seemed to disperse like silver dust, so soon as it touched them, leaving only a faint mist behind on the smooth floor of the sky.
The garden-lawns lay brightly illumined in the moonbeams. A swarm of silvery sparks chased each other over the carp pond directly the breeze ruffled its waters. It was like a shower of hoar-frost skimming a white body. In the middle of the flashing circle of light rose the obelisk--a clumsy pile of blackness with sharp-cut corners. On one side it seemed to project a little as if a round piece had been added on to it there, and within this arch something dark-red was glowing like a fiery eye.
Hertha looked at it again. She thought she must be mistaken; but the fiery eye did not disappear. It winked at her roguishly and pryingly as much as to say, "I know you. You and your stupid love-lorn heart!"
This heart began to beat louder. What could it be at this time of night making fireworks in the deserted sleeping garden? "If you had an atom of pluck you would go at once and find out."
When Hertha's will called her courage in question, she was sure to act. So she flung a grey waterproof over her shoulders, threw an inquiring glance at Elly, who, with slightly pouting rosy lips, slept the most profound sleep, and in her slippered feet slid out into the corridor, where the moonlit window-panes cast a galaxy of bright shapes on the long wall.
Now she began to be afraid in earnest, but it was not far to the wicket. The latch clicked, and, breathing quickly, she entered the garden, the damp dew-laden grass of which struck icy cold through her thin stockings. All the time the fiery eye still gleamed across at her. For a moment it seemed as if a lid had dropped over it, but then it appeared again in a somewhat darker corner. One instant she almost decided to turn round, but the next she was ashamed of her cowardice and began to hurry straight towards the suspicious object, at the top of her speed. Then suddenly a dog barked, and a voice that made her heart stand still, cried--
"Who is there?"
She was so terrified that she could neither speak nor move a step backwards or forwards. As if glued to the spot, she stood there till Leo, the dog, with a friendly whine, pressed his damp nose into the palm of her hand.
"Who the devil is there?" the voice called out once more, and thenhisfigure rose up like that of a huge Hun and began to stride towards the tree that she crouched behind.
"It's only me," she gasped chokingly.
"Child, you! Why aren't you in bed?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"And so are running about out-of-doors late at night. Grandmamma ought to know this."
He had caught hold of her hand, which in vain struggled to get free. The short pipe in his mouth emitted clouds of white smoke around her. Its glowing bowl had been the fiery eye which had blinked at her so suspiciously.
"You are out yourself," she answered, biting her lips till her teeth ground together.
"That is a different thing. I am a robust fellow who can stand all weathers."
"So can I."
"Now, now."
"And if I can't, what does it matter? Nothing could be worse than my life is at present."
He made a sound of pity with his tongue. "Child, child," he said, "are we beating our wings again?"
"Oh, go away--leave me alone." And she warded him off with her elbows; she was not far from sobbing.
"Don't begin the old game, Hertha; I haven't done anything to you for a long time."
"No, that's true," she replied, "you haven't done anything to me, nothing at all either bad or good."
He stroked his beard meditatively. "As we are here, child, and it seems that we both can't sleep, come and sit down. Sit down beside me; we may find lots to talk about."
She felt dimly, "Now I must defend myself." But how could she resist? Already he had seized her by the shoulder and drawn her to the steps of the obelisk, where he had been sitting before.
"What am I to do here?" she asked, cowering down.
"Be sincere, out with it. You are not happy, my child?"
She shrugged her shoulders twice. "Not evennow!" she said.
He suppressed a smile. "Come, confess.... What ails you? We have all remarked on the change in you. Grandmamma is beginning to worry about it. If you are fond of her, you will be sorry for that, eh?"
She shook her head, struggling with her tears. "I want to be fond of everybody--everybody."
"Yes, and don't you see we are all anxious that you should be happy? Don't you understandthat, you obstinate one?"
"Don't, you only try to hurt me." And she thrust her elbows at him.
"I?" he asked. "Good Heavens! how?"
"You will speak to me always as if I were a child."
"And that hurts you?"
She was silent. Now was the time to tell him all that was in her heart. The hour of reckoning had come.
But she felt as if her lips, had been sealed. There was a whirling and rushing in her head. She felt a sensation as of a douche of water falling from her crown over her limbs, and with a soft sigh she sank against the stone. He was afraid that faintness had attacked her; and supporting her with his left arm he bent his head down to hers. The moon lit up one half of her face, while of the other only the contour of the oval cheek showed faintly against the darkness.
"Be reasonable, sweet child," he begged.
She did not move, and he could contemplate her at his leisure. Here and there in the dusky masses of her loose hair shone a high light like a glowworm, and a few dark strands waved in spiral form over the high smooth forehead. A line of care which he had not noticed before hovered at the corners of her softly curved mouth. Taken altogether, it was no longer the face of a child that lay there shining white in the moonlight; and, clearer than weeks before after the meeting at the inn, there awoke in his heart the self-reproach, "Here is the happiness which you will pass lightly by."
The dreamy sunny premonition, "It will be," dared no more arise out of his soul's depths. Whathad been, held him in fetters. The past, of which he had delusively believed himself to be master long ago, ever stretched its spectre-like form in front of him with more threatening mien. It filled him at every pore with a dull repellant anguish.
Not for nothing had he come at midnight to set out here and brood over emotions, which would not exist if one tried to define them with names, but which suddenly overwhelm a man when he thinks that he is safest from them. Not for nothing had he foregone sleep, he who at daybreak must be up and at his work.
His heart went out in a tenderness that was half pain, to this naïve immature being leaning against his arm, full of the unconscious cravings of youth. It seemed to him that in helping her he must help himself. He stroked her cheek with an unsteady hand.
"Come now, be good, sweet child," he said in a comforting tone. "Speak ... unburden your heart."
She sighed heavily and turned her little head slightly towards his shoulder as if she would like to nestle there.
"Just the same as she was then," he thought--"shy and defiant, but completely melted by kindness."
She was still silent
"Look here," he said, "I live under the same roof with you, but of your life, of your past, I know absolutely nothing."
"You have never asked me about it," she replied.
"Would you have told me if I had?"
"Of course I would.... I will tell you now, this minute, if you like."
She disengaged herself from his arm; an eager blissful smile lit up her face.
"Of course I should like it. So fire away."
The expression, "fire away," did not please her. It seemed scarcely suitable to the solemnity of the occasion, but his interest so delighted her that she quickly forgot the jarring note.
"God knows," she said, "there isn't much to tell, after all. So far I haven't had many experiences, and what I have had are mostly stupid."
"Do you remember your mother?" he interposed, to give her an opening.
She cast her eyes up at the stars. "Yes, thank God!" she said. "I was nearly seven years old when she died. Ah! how I cried.... We lived in a big castle, amidst pure Poles. The castle was on a hill, and it had a colonnade leading down to the Weichsel, which was at the foot of the hill. She used to sit in the colonnade when it was warm, and the maids with red handkerchiefs on their heads carried shawls for her. And every minute she would say, 'Mnie jest zimno,' which means, 'I am cold,' and then they used to put another shawl over her. The long rafts glided by on the river below, and on Wednesdays and Saturdays the steamboat came. She always watched the steamboat till it was out of sight and not a puff of its smoke to be seen, and when it had quite disappeared she used to say, 'Podniescie mnie,' and that meant, 'Lift me up.' She wanted to see if she could catch another glimpse of it, standing up. She had brown hair and a face like wax, with very big dark eyes. There were always drops of perspiration on her cheeks. She was not tall, but rather small, and she had thin arms; but that came from illness and from grief, and perhaps from ennui. For she said constantly, 'I am very unhappy, and dreadfully dull.'"
"And your father--where was he?" Leo asked.
Her face hardened into an expression of hate.
"I would rather not speak of my father," she answered; "he was bad.... Yes, he was bad, and I shall be bad too, for I am like him."
"Good gracious!" he remonstrated; "who put that nonsense into your head?"
"It isn't nonsense," she replied, full of conviction; "have you never heard of Darwin?"
"Yes ... the man who says we are descended from monkeys and such-like--rot!" he was going to add, but checked himself in time.
"And then there is heredity, you know, about our all inheriting the qualities of our parents. Our science-master explained that to us. If your father is given to drink, then you will drink too."
"Did your father drink?"
"Yes--he drank."
"And so you are afraid that you will become a drunkard, eh?"
"No, not that. A girl couldn't very well. But I am afraid about temper."
"What temper?"
"His was so violent. When he was in one of his rages he didn't know what he was doing; once he flew at me with a knife."
"Horrors! How old were you then?"
"Not quite eight. It was after mother's death. He came from I don't know where. We hadn't seen him for two years, and when he found out that nothing had been left to him, and that it was all mine, and had already been put in the hands of trustees, he was frantic, and it was then that he did it--snatched up the knife. Afterwards he took me with him when he travelled about. I was always to be with him, because then he could get the money for my education."
"And you understood everything even then?" he exclaimed, amazed and deeply moved.
A melancholy little smile flitted across her face, which made her look years older.
"You see, I am not so foolish as you thought," she said. "I have cried a good deal in my life. Oh yes! We were speaking of the violent temper.... Well, I have got it too. If I am angry I am blind, and don't know what I do, and my blood rushes into my head. I shall come to a bad end one day. Mamma says I ought to pray, and beseech the Lord Jesus every day to change my bad blood. But I am not sure that it would be right. For if I have my bad times, I have my good too. No one dreams what they are. Elly, for example. You know what she is like? always placid, always soft. I believe the sun shines brighter for me than for her, that to my eyes green is greener, and ... the moon ... how it sails up there.... She doesn't see it.... She is always too sleepy. So I say to myself often, every unhappiness may be happiness if one knows just how to enjoy things like that."
He laid his hands on his forehead and stared at her. "Great God!" he thought, "what magic there is in a young creature like this!"
She had talked herself into a high pitch of excitement, and, without heeding him, went on--
"Yes, and then he left me at Geneva and went to get married, and that is how you and I come to be related, you see. And when I heard that I had a new mother I wept for joy; but the others--the girls, you know--frightened me, and said, 'What will become of you now you have gotune marâtre?' for there we all talked French. But I thought to myself, 'Wait till she sees you; she will sure to be kind out of pity.' And, because Madame Guignaud wished me to pay my respects to her beforehand, I wrote her a letter. But there was not much respect in it, and it began like this: 'Ma mère voici une malheureuse enfant qui vous implore'--and so on. However, it did very well, and when she came she was good and loving to me, and my heart leapt out to her. Ah! in those days she often smiled. She seemed to love my father very much, and I hoped better days were now in store for me, and I should stay at home, but, properly speaking, there was no home. He refused to stay on the estate my dead mamma had left to him, for he said that he was ashamed to be 'mademoiselle's guest.' He meant me by 'mademoiselle.' His own estate, Malkischken, as you know, was so dilapidated that we had to get the furniture for three rooms on hire from a carpenter in Münsterberg. That's why we didn't stay long there, but started travelling about. We went to Baden-Baden, Spa, Nice; and everywhere it was the same, the same waiters and electric-bells, every morning two eggs with coffee, and at dinner twelve courses; but if one was hungry in between, one had to starve, because we were chargeden pension. Mamma was always sad, and papa always angry with me, and in want of money. Oh! it was terrible. One day he flew at me with his riding-whip, and was going to beat me, when mamma sprang between us and said, 'The child shall go away to-day, or----' What the 'or' meant I didn't understand, but he grew as white as a sheet, and the next morning I went away, first back to Geneva, where I stayed till I was thirteen. That is where Ada was----"
She stopped, thinking with a start of the letter she had left unblotted on the writing-table.
"Which Ada?"
"Ada von Wehrheimb, my greatest friend," she replied; and, turning her head aside, she added with a slight blush, "She is engaged already."
"Ha! ha!" he laughed, "quickly fixed up. Well, and then?"
"Then ... then." She lost the thread of her narrative for a moment. His laugh had put her out.
"Oh, then I went to Hamburg to Frau Lüttgen's, whom we knew in Wiesbaden. Frau Lüttgen'spensionatis the most notedpensionatin all Hamburg. Oh, what happy times I had there!... Frau Lüttgen was as tall and straight as a beanstalk, and was very particular about the pronunciation ofs. She 's-tärb auf der S-telle wenn man vor dem S-piegel s-tand, oder mit einer S-tecknadel s-pielte oder eine S-peise bes-pöttelte.' Oh, it was too lovely. And there I was confirmed, for I was to be a Protestant, although dear dead mamma was a Catholic. And I was quite willing to change, for we all reverenced the Pastor Bergmann. And when I was kneeling at the altar, I prayed to God with all my heart to take me, so that I might go to heaven at once. For at that time I was quite pious and good, and did not know how bad people could be and how bad I was to be myself."
"And you learnt all that afterwards?" he asked, smirking.
"Rather!"
And she gave a little snort, which was always a sign that she was thinking of her faithless friends Käthi Greiffenstein and Daisy Bellepool.
"Go on, my chick," he begged; "let's have the whole awful history."
"No, but I simplycan'ttell you."
"Why not?"
"Oh, dear, dear! If I do, your are sure to despise me."
"That I certainly shall not do, child."
"Well, one day you must know, so here goes.... Once, once, I was in love."
"Indeed?"
"Now you despise me, don't you? Say 'Yes,' say 'Yes' quite calmly. It doesn't matter."
"Who was it?"
"I'll tell you. We ought to have the courage of our sins, even if it costs us our head, oughtn't we? He was a commissionaire in a music-shop."
"Great Scot!"
"Dreadful, wasn't it? He had long fair curly hair--very long. And when we went for walks of an afternoon, Frau Lüttgen in front, he used to stand at the door and make eyes at me. And I always got red, like the donkey I was."
"Now listen, child, and I'll give you some good counsel," he said, laughing. "Not only must we have the courage of our sins, as you so wisely remarked just now, but we must do penance for them."
"You mean ... because I said.... But first hear how he behaved. I had two friends, called Käthi Greiffenstein and Daisy Bellepool, both Americans, and that is why I hate America."
"The whole country, from top to bottom?"
"Yes, and my heart felt lighter when you had cleared out of it. Well, I made those two girls the confidantes of my secrets, and one day--what do you think happened? Novels were found under Käthi Greiffenstein's mattress: 'The Broken Heart,' 'The Marble Bride,' and 'Hussar's Love,' and I don't know what else. There was an awful row. Frau Lüttgen held a court-martial. Käthi denied everything. She knew nothing about the books. Some one else must have put them in her bed. Another search was made, and behold in Daisy Bellepool's bed the same discovery! But besides the books there was a packet of letters too--love-letters. To whom? Why, to me, signed Bruno Steifel.... Of course I didn't know any one called Bruno Steifel, but who believed me when I said so? Not a soul! The letters were answers to those I was supposed to have written to him, in which I had asked him to get me novels from the lending library, ... as a knightly service and testimony of his love. Wasn't it awful?"
"Terrible," Leo said, biting his lips.
"I was locked up, and got nothing, for two days but bread and water and slimy lentil soup. I was prayed for every morning and evening, and Laura Below bad a dream in which she saw me burning in hell. The dream was made public at a committee meeting, and I was held up as a warning example. Who knows how long it might have gone on, if I hadn't thought of a means of saving myself?"
"If you want to know who Herr Bruno Steifel is,' I said, 'why not go to the library the label of which is stamped on the outside cover of the books?... They will be certain to know him there. And they did, sure enough. And who do you think it was?"
"He of the fair locks, of course...."
"Of course. And Frau Lüttgen goes at once to his chief and tells him the whole story. Herr Bruno Steifel is called and cross-examined. 'Have you got novels out from the library?' 'Yes,' he says, and gets horribly red. 'Are you in possession of letters?' He won't answer, but the chief threatens him with dismissal, and he produces them. The signature is: 'Your ever loving Hertha von Prachwitz,' but the handwriting is ... now guess."
"Daisy Bellepool's?"
"No, Käthi Greiffenstein's. Daisy Bellepool's mamma wished her daughter to have more freedom, like other American girls. So she was allowed to go out alone, and in consequence she arranged the whole business. Wasn't it disgusting?"
"Yes, disgusting."
"What do you think I did? I threw a jug of water at Daisy's head, and gave Käthi such a black eye that she was obliged to wear bandages for three days. So bad can you be when people behave badly to you."
"And what became of the pair?" he asked.
"Käthi was expelled soon after, but Daisy was allowed to stay on because her mamma had subscribed to the new school buildings. But it did her no good. Not any decent girl would speak to her again. What I have lived through. Think of it! Then I came here to Halewitz. Ah, and how I love it! though I have my troubles, even here." She paused and gave him a shy entreating glance, as if she would say, "I know who has only to speak one word to free me from them."
He laughed and stretched himself; and then thought with embarrassment of the other woman who had come into his house to disturb its peace.
"We all have our troubles, my dear," he said.
"You, too?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him in alarm.
"More than enough, my child."
"Yes, yes, I know," she sighed. "Grandmamma is always talking about it."
"About what?"
"About your having more debts than you have hairs on your head, and that you often don't know on Saturdays where to get money to pay the wages."
"Our dear respected grandmamma is an old chatterbox."
"But if s true, isn't it?"
"Yes, the devil can't deny it."
She was silent and seemed to be considering deeply. Then she inquired, crinkling her forehead--
"For about how much longer can you hold on?"
"Hold on--what do you mean?"
"How long, I mean, before you come a cropper, as the saying is?"
"Ah, now it is evident you were educated at Hamburg," he said, trying to joke.
But she would not be evaded. "Could you hold on, do you think, another four years and four months?"
"Why do you insist on the fours?" he laughed.
She drew down the corners of her mouth. "Now you are making fun of me," she said, "and it is really rather sad.... I amsorich, and have, so far, too much money."
"Ah I you would like to lend me some?"
"Ican't, that's the worst of it," she answered; "all through the stupid trusteeship. It is too provoking;" and she scuffled her feet impatiently.
"How much would you be prepared to give me?" he asked, for the subject amused him.
"All."
A stab of melancholy happiness shot through him; that feeling which he had not been able to recapture before. Now he was obliged to suppress it and goad himself into keeping to the comic side of the question. With a hurried laugh, he cried--
"Hullo, little one, no one can call you stingy."
An anxious look was cast at him, which asked plainly, "Don't you understand me?" Then she crouched down and drew herself shivering away from him, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, over her parted lips and clenched teeth.
"If this isn't love," he thought, "my name is not Sellenthin." A wild jocund impulse within him bid him snatch her in his arms, shout the house awake, shout to the whole world, "Here, see this child, this woman-child is--my wife." He knew that it would have been his salvation, but he did not do it. He did not do it because the fist of his giant care was on his throat almost throttling him, so that the breath was dammed up in his broad chest, and his mighty limbs shackled under the oppressive weight.
"Thank you, dear child, thank you," he said hoarsely. "You meant it well, and I shall never forget it of you."
He bent down and kissed the gleaming forehead held up to him so candidly.
"There is still time," cried the wild voice again....
"And now go to bed," he said. "It is getting very late."
She rose silently, and without wishing him "good night," walked away over the glistening gravel path and the darkling lawn to the garden gate.
It seemed to him that she reeled. He would have rushed after her, but he was as one paralysed. Because he was no longer certain of his honour, he feared to lose his sense of shame.
September was drawing to its close. Despite the disquieting turn that events had taken, Leo Sellenthin continued to live a fresh, healthy, and active life, without its ever occurring to him to doubt the indestructibility of his high spirit or the intrepidity of his adherence to his own doctrine of right. Not once had he felt the "tragic touch;" only a certain feeling of discomfort had taken up its abode within him. He was like a man who wears an ill-fitting coat, and doesn't know whether it is too wide or too narrow. The naïve self-assurance which had sat like an ornament on him hitherto was gone; he studied and examined himself, found flaws in his nature, and rejoiced in his good points.
Lively, whimsical sallies which once had rippled forth from him carelessly, seemed to him now something wonderful and striking; he enjoyed them while he gave them utterance, and was pleased when they caused laughter. In sharp contrast to this mood were his surly, taciturn fits, when those around did well to keep out of his way.
But sooner or later his original nature broke through the clouds again, if it was only to scoff cynically at the past. He wanted to be healthy and jolly, and he succeeded.
One afternoon, when Leo was in the act of starting to ride over to Uhlenfelde, there arrived in the courtyard, puffing and blowing, the hanging cheeks of his yellowish-brown face covered with sweat, the worthy old pastor Brenckenberg.
He and his son had walked over together, but the latter had considered it advisable to disappear in the direction of the bailiff's quarters, not being sure of his reception at the castle.
A spirit of devilry awoke in Leo at the sight of the old bigot, to whose philippics he had as yet had no opportunity of retaliating, being thus delivered into his hand.
The pastor's visits to his patron and quondam pupil had never been frequent; they had been limited, for the most part, to pastoral calls, when deputations had to be received or clerical matters discussed, but had generally ended by taking the form of solemn drinking bouts; for Leo, whose cellars were stocked with fine wines, delighted to pour his best into the old man's glass, whose connoisseurship failed only from want of practice. That was an accepted and invariable custom, dating from his father's hilarious times; and even the oldest amongst the retainers could not remember a day when their pastor had left the precincts of Halewitz sober.
"Hullo, old fellow!" called Leo, stretching out his hand to him. "How is it we haven't met all this time? Uneasy conscience, eh?"
"A man of God has never an uneasy conscience," replied the pastor, with a grin--"unless he has been drinking water;" and he mopped his shiny face and bacon neck with a red-cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"Wait," thought Leo; "you shall not get off to-day;" and he motioned to the groom to unsaddle the mare again.
As they walked up side by side to the portico, the parson whose corpulent figure swayed from side to side, appeared of more massive and powerful build than his old pupil, although the latter towered half a head over him.
Leo led him into the study, asked him to sit down, and rang for Christian.
"Bring us a bottle of sour cooking Moselle," he commanded.
The old servant gave him an astonished look. "It is not fit to drink even in the kitchen punch-bowl," he took the liberty of murmuring.
"Do what I tell you!"
Christian departed, shaking his head, and Leo settled himself comfortably opposite the pastor.
"Now let us hear all the scandal," he said. "What chimney smokes? Where has a hair been found in the soup?"
"Fritzchen! Fritzchen!" Brenckenberg rebuked him with his broadest smile. "You shouldn't hold up to ridicule the shepherd of your soul."
He had always called him "Fritzchen." Why, no one knew, not even he himself. The pet name had survived the decade during which their relations to each other had so altered. The "you," which was held to be officially correct, yielded to the familiar "thou" when they sat together over their wine. Sometimes Leo gave the signal, but oftenest it was the old man, whose heart overflowed in his cups, who adopted the more endearing form of address at his own peril.
Christian brought the wine with the conscience of a poisoner, and hobbled out again.
The small black eyes of the shepherd of souls sparkled with satisfaction under their fierce bushy brows; he smacked his full lips. The Lord's wrestler had doffed his armour, and wanted to be simply a man, a peace-loving, weak, lusty human being, who next Sunday would have something to repent. The bottles looked respectable enough, the wine somewhat pale, it was true, as it trickled into the dignified rummers in a watery stream, but that might be deceptive. He breathed hard through his distended nostrils, and thrust out his upper lip.
"Your health, old fellow!"
"Your health, Fritzchen!"
He tasted, started, half-choked, and coughed violently; then, with a countenance expressive of unutterable human grief and disappointment, he put down his glass.
"Nice wine!" remarked Leo, raising his forefinger to command assent.
The pastor, purple from coughing, would have liked to spit it out, but daren't.
"Fritzchen," he said plaintively, "what tricks are you up to now?"
"Isn't my wine to your taste, Herr Pastor?"
"I can't say it is. No. By Jove, Fritzchen!"
"I don't understand you, dear pastor. You see that I drink it. Indeed, since I began to repent my past sins I have drunk nothing else. It is what we call the wine of repentance and crucifixion! Pies-Porter.... Year '83.... An unusually cold and damp year, as you will remember."
"Ah!" exclaimed the pastor, suddenly enlightened.
"Yes, yes, old friend. Do you grasp it now? Since we condemned our Fritz to hell-fire there has been howling and gnashing of teeth at Halewitz. We don't wallow in luxury here, as David did with his Bathshebas. Sour Moselle is our only drink. Your health, old boy."
"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, relapsing, after his shock, into the affectionate "thou," "if the condition of your conscience compels you to drink it, that is your own affair. I don't wish to hinder any one in carrying out their principles; but you must allow me, if you please, to be only an onlooker."
Leo laughed triumphantly in his face, for this was what he expected.
"If I am not mistaken, my dear friend, you once expressed yourself in the following beautiful and touching words: 'Bareheaded will I go, and walk with my naked soles on red-hot bricks.' Yes, you said you would do that for your David, your Fritzchen. But now, when it comes to the point, it seems that you can't even share in his penitence to the extent of drinking a glass of Pies-Porter, year '83, with him."
The old man stroked his cheeks. "You take me for a fool, Fritz," he said; "but ... you are right." And with a desperate effort he emptied the glass in one draught.
Leo, in the name of all his sins, did the same, and refilled the glasses.
"Now, Fritzchen," the old man began, letting his bulldog glance, half severe, half servile, rest on his squire, "we are not Catholics, and I am not your father confessor. I simply came here to talk over with you the autumn conference, and, with the Lord's permission, to drink a glass of good wine in your company. Instead, you choose to set before me this trash, and to begin talking of that cursed business, which has already caused me enough headaches."
"Youbegan it, old man."
"Yes, in the pulpit. That is my damned duty.... And if you rascals will carry on such games, then----"
"You must rail and swear...."
"You've had many a clout from me, Fritzchen...."
"And I have kissed the hand that held the rod," he interposed, laughing.
"I thought I had done enough; but if I had knownthatof you ... ah! ah!"
"You would like to make it good?" mocked Leo.
"If possible ... with pleasure."
Leo seized his glass. "Health, Master Pastor!"
"Fritzchen, have mercy!"
"I say drink!Donnerwetter!"
And again the superb glasses made reproachful music as they met at being turned to such abominable uses.
Leo uncorked the second bottle, and offered the pastor a cigar.
"I beg pardon, Fritzchen, but are these also--so to say--penitence cigars?"
"What a pity!" thought Leo. "I didn't think of that;" and he shook his head, smiling.
The pastor kindled the excellent weed forthwith, and revelled in the fragrant clouds.
"There you sit, stretching your legs in your splendour," said he, "and split with laughter at the old fat fellow you love to make a fool of. But do you imagine that it makes what you have done one hair's breadth better?"
"Humph!" said Leo, curling his moustache.
"You may deluge it with rose-water, but it still stinks."
"Humph!" came a second time from Leo.
"That day in the church I gave you a scorcher, to the best of my ability. And now you resent it. That's not pretty of you, Fritzchen."
"What I resent," replied Leo, "is that, instead of coming to me and having it out fair and straight, you preferred to let a woman lead you by the nose in the matter, and tried, according to her receipt, to scourge me into creeping to the foot of the cross, howling and whining my penitence. That's not a manly course to take, and I believe that the old God of our fathers Himself wouldn't be pleased at it."
"Do you mean by this woman your sister?"
"Yes, I mean my sister."
"Very well. You must know, Fritzchen, that your sister came to me a couple of years or so before that, and said---- It doesn't matter what she said, except that I tell you it is no subject for joking, and you should lay it to heart that the unhappy story threatened to prove fatal to your sister's peace."
"What do you know about my sister's peace?"
"Simply this. She knew her bit, and I knew mine. So there was no beating about the bush between us. And when I saw that the story preyed on her mind, I administered consolation, as was my duty, and as I could not procure her exactly the solatium that she required...."
"You would say themanshe requires?"
"Quite right. That is what I do mean. Failing that, I directed her to Heaven. Don't laugh in such a godless fashion, Fritzchen. It is my vocation. And what is Heaven there for, unless it is to help us on our way through this vale of tears?"
"But it is not there to turn our brains."
The old man frowned in deep thought, and muttered, "For that purpose it is not there I agree."
There was a silence. Leo, who was no longer in the mood for jesting, called Christian, and ordered a wine that was drinkable.
"God reward you, Fritzchen," said the pastor. "Now, perhaps, a few sensible ideas will dawn in my addled brain."
Christian, eager to repair his master's sins against the clergy, brought up a fiery "Ranenthaler" brand, that hadn't seen the sun for many a long year.
Brenckenberg slowly damped his lips. His little swollen eyes became mere slits, while with a shudder of delight he emptied the glass. Then once more he was gloomy and silent.
"Aren't you satisfied yet?" Leo asked.
"It's a sin and a shame," he answered, "that one should enjoy one's self while talking of such terrible things. But it is the old Adam in us, Fritzchen--the old Adam."
"You are in a hurry to repent," said Leo. "Let your lips dry first, before you curse with them."
The old man pressed his fists to his forehead.
"The fact of the matter is, Fritzchen, I am no priest after God's heart," he said, as the wine began to bedew his inside. "Quite the contrary, my body is a perfect receptacle for the seven deadly sins. Chambering and wantoning, to use Biblical language, I have outgrown, of course, but gorging and carousing, Fritzchen, and naughty words ..."
"A propos, perhaps you would like a salmon sandwich with your wine," broke in Leo.
"Later ... Fritzchen ... later.... Our dear Lord and Saviour will have to be patient with me for these things till the end of my days. It's a waste of labour to struggle against nature. When I watch the elders as they slink into the Conference, lisping and mincing with a 'dear brother in Christ' here, and an 'in God's infinite mercy' there; how they cast up their eyes and fold their hands on their stomachs for sheer self-righteousness and humility ... Fritzchen, it turns my bile.... And yet I envy them. To give the lean their due, they live at least according to Scripture. The fat, on the contrary, are mostly sinners, and don't deserve the grace of God.--Amen."
"What do you want to prove by that argument?"
"That our flesh is the stumbling-block; that from time immemorial the flesh has seduced us into sinful acts, and that it is our flesh that must be crucified."
"If the thin are the saints, and the fat the sinners," interposed Leo, laughing, "then a course of baths at Schweringen must be the best moral cleanser."
"Don't be flippant," remonstrated the pastor. "I am one of the fat. I am a sinner. Many a time I feel my flesh begin to ferment for pure sinfulness. On warm summer evenings, or in winter, by the fire with a glass of grog, thousands of little devils prick you under the skin like pins, and from every button-hole a desire or an indulgence winks at you. Yes, yes, Fritzchen, I know what bulk is. There is no mist before my eyes. We have too good a time of it, and then we go the pace and break our legs."
Leo smilingly asked to have the parable expounded.
"What do I mean by it? I mean this.... Don't presume to come to me with such excuses as so-called passion, fate, destiny, and all that nonsense. You have had too good a time, and now the devil has got hold of you by the lappet. I am sorry, Fritzchen, but it can't be helped."
"What do you mean by the devil? Who is the devil?"
"The devil, Fritzchen, goeth about like a roaring lion----"
"Yes, yes; you taught me that in my infancy."
"Very well. And you want to know more? Would you like to see ... see with your own eyes what the devil is like?"
"I should esteem it an honour and pleasure."
"You shall have your wish."
He seized the under pocket of his long voluminous coat, and produced, with puffs and groans, first an apple, then another apple, then three ears of corn, then an end of wax-candle.... "Altar candle," he explained; "a charm against small-pox. Confiscated it yesterday from a lout who stole it from the vestry." Then a reserve pocket-handkerchief, sticky with bread-crumbs, then a taper, and last of all a leather case, about the size of a man's fist, of three-cornered shape. The case he left on the table, while he slowly stuffed the other miscellaneous articles back into his pocket.
"He is in there."
"The devil?"
"Yes, undoubtedly."
"Dear me!"
"Take care. I am going to open it."
The cover snapped back. Something that resembled a cigar-holder, and the greater part of which was wrapped in red wool, came to light.
"Here he is," said the pastor.
"Exactly as I have always supposed him to be," scoffed Leo.
"Shouldn't have credited you with so much acumen," replied the old man with imperturbable calmness, as he untied the strings which fastened the covering, "for of the many thousand shapes he likes to appear in, this is his favourite."
The woollen wrapper fell off, and what actually revealed itself was a cleanly carved meerschaum point in the form of a woman's leg. Above the amber shoe, which served as the mouthpiece, the part which extended to the knee had been smoked as black as ebony, but the rest, through the protection of the wrapper, had preserved its natural yellowish, white tint.
Leo laughed heartily, but the old man maintained his gravity.
"This is the method that I have discovered of hanging the devil up in the chimney," he said; "and I assure you it affords me holy joy when I do it."
He stuck the half-smoked cigar in the holder, and smoked with all the strength of his lungs.
"There's one thing that I don't understand," said Leo, who now tried to enter into the joke in earnest. "If you have got the devil so entirely in your power, why haven't you made him black all over?"
The old man laid his finger on his nose with a worldly-wise air.
"You speak like an ignorant sinner. Think what a poor creature the devil would be if he couldn't get some concessions from me and you! Just as I am hard at it, robbing him of all his power, he understands how to awaken my pity. This is the devil's peculiarity. He attacks us through our soft places. This, you see, was so smooth and fair and white. Well, I simply felt as if I couldn't. So, you see, I entered into a compact with him, which was just to smoke a stocking on to him, and to leave the rest as it was by wrapping it up in wool. And now do you see, Fritzchen, that is our whole art. We can't render him powerless, but we can put socks on him, and hide the rest." And as carefully as he had taken off the wrappings, he began to adjust them again on the part that was not discoloured.
"Good gracious!" ejaculated Leo. "This is symbolism with a vengeance. It reminds me of the second part of 'Faust.'"
"Don't talk of 'Faust' to me, Fritzchen. Goethe lived like an old heathen, and wrote like an old heathen. When he scanned his verse, he played with his five fingers on the piano and wasn't a bit inspired. Francke and Pusckin composed some fine and stirring verse; but they didn't do it in that fashion. And it is to be hoped the time is long passed when Schleiermacher and the whole lot of liberal divines were allowed to quote Goethe in the pulpit, as if he were one of the fathers of the Church. Besides, he was generally wrong. The eternal feminine draws us upwards, he says somewhere. A very fine noble sentiment, but there is another kind of feminine, equally eternal, that drags us down, Fritzchen, till we don't know at last whether there can be another slough for us to sink into. Many have the genius that helps them to get out of it, but many a one sticks fast and the bog closes over him."
Leo felt his blood rise hotly to his cheeks, for the eyes opposite were hurling at him their most ominous darts. He refilled the glasses. The old man gulped down his wine hastily, and the bushy brows began to twitch. It was a sign that he had reached the stage when his original tirades were at their height. The late baron's "round table," at which he had sat as jester, had always greeted this signal with roars of laughter.
Leo expected to find out now his old friend's most private and true opinion of his own position.
"Forget the priest for once," said he, "and speak to your Fritz as one man and sinner speaks to another. What do you think about my guilt, and what do you advise me to do?"
The pastor shot another shower of lightning darts from beneath his shaggy brows. The billows of his chin champed up and down as if he would crack the difficult nut between his ivory grinders.
"Look here, Fritzchen," he began, "on bright days, that is to say on days when this old brain is bright, I imagine myself to be God, or I put myself in His place. I try to understand what passes in His head when He looks down out of heaven on us miserable scum. He made us what we are. I say to myself, 'Why should He punish us for sins which are His work also?' (If you write all this to my consistory, Fritzchen, in spite of your patronage, I shall have to go begging for bread and office, so keep it to yourself, please.) And just to demonstrate the matter, I go into the fir wood near Wengern and find an ant-hill. I station myself straddle-legged above it--an exalted attitude, Fritzchen--and I imagine that I am God of this ant-heap. Why should it not be so when besides the German Emperor there is a Prince of Schleiz-Greiz-Lobenstein? There under me they crawl and work, quarrel and bite each other dead. I look on and--grin. Underneath they are certainly sinning, but I the Lord God look on and--grin. 'It is all right,' I say to myself, 'because they sin according to method. Otherwise my beautiful ant-heap would go to pieces.' And I say to myself further, 'So the Lord God is amused at the sins of men, because they are nothing more than the evidence of His laws. He wants sin as well as virtue, otherwise He would not have created it.'"
Leo gave a sigh of relief. He had not hoped for such conciliatory views from this hard old fanatic.
But the latter immediately proceeded to add a damping rider. "Don't make merry too soon," said he; "we haven't come to the end yet.Whythis is so we cannot know, our poor understanding is too feeble. But that good may come of sin, as good comes of virtue, that the sinner as well as the just man shall be answerable to the same laws. He has established His system of salvation. According to it every man is apportioned a certain measure of sin; he may not transgress the limits, or the whole structure would fall in ruins. Therefore God has ordained for him the following circular route:Sin--repent--penance--absolution--and afterwards with renewed zest start afresh, as a pure man, sinning again because every one else does. So all is done in order, and each is allowed the amount of sin that he needs to bring his old Adam into harmony with the Christian commandments. In short, sin means life, but sin without repentance is death."
Leo sprang up and began to pace the room with long strides. "And because of this bogey you are stoking the fires of hell for me," he cried.
"The salvation ordinance is no bogey," replied the old man. "That morning your sister came and said to me, 'He is back, lighthearted and gay, while I am crushed to the earth under the weight of his sin. Is that right?' I made answer, 'Certainly not. The fellow must be got hold of somehow. Repentance must be.'"
"You lie!" said Leo, and banged his fist on the table till the glasses danced. "It mustn't be. At least, not in my case.... The strong have their own code of morals as well as the weak.... Yours is 'sin, repent, sin again;' mine 'sin, don't repent,do better.'"
"As if that could ever work!"
"It would have worked. I had planned it all. And after long thought I was quite clear about its being practical. Would it, do you think, have been no penance to live near my dearest friend as if he did not exist? For that is what I had decided to do. But then you meddled, you and the women, and have hunted me along a crooked path to which I see no end, and from which there is no turning back. Every step forward is a lie; every prospect ahead fills me with new dismay. When I didn't repent, I was glad and strong and full of courage, but now there is some alien germ in my blood that spreads and spreads and is slowly poisoning my whole being.... I see it, and yet can't do anything. I shudder to think what may be coming. And this is what you have done with your cursed preaching of penitence."
"Must repent, Fritzchen," drawled the old man, and emptied his glass.
"Then if it must be"--he came behind the old pastor and seized him by the shoulders--"why haven't you let me bear the brunt of my sin alone? Why did you throw me with that woman again? I have sinned more against her than she against me, so I don't reproach her. Why have you kneaded me into such a pulpy condition that when she came and prayed for my society, I had no weapon of resistance left? She had no further part to play in my life, nor I in hers, and yet here I am, coupled, as it were, with her again. Does that belong to the course of repentance that you have prescribed for me?"
"That is the first step, called 'contritio,' or prostration," said the old man, sagely.
"Stop your drivel," roared Leo. "Again I ask you, why you have hounded me and that woman into each other's arms?"
The old man wiped his forehead. His head was beginning to grow heavy.
"Collect your thoughts," demanded Leo. "Wasn't it my sister's idea?"
"Sister--which sister?" was the dreamy answer. Then suddenly waking up he exclaimed, "Yes, you are right--quite right. She was the first to think of it. A brilliant idea; a blessed idea. Then the souls of two people have to be saved, Fritzchen, and that is no trifle."
"Save them, then, by all means; but separately, and each on its own account."
"Ah, you don't understand, Fritzchen.Similia, similibusis an old doctrine. Jesus Christ became man in order that he might save men. The sinner can only be saved through the sinner. You cast that soul into the abyss, you alone can lift it out, and yourself with her. Then it is written in Romans, or is it Corinthians, Fritzchen----?"
He emptied his glass, and forgot the passage he was going to quote. The more difficult he found it to think rationally, the easier seemed the solution of the problem under discussion.
"The matter is quite simple," he said. "As simple as A B C. Either you don't repent, and the devil gets you; or, you repent and the devil leaves you alone. If you can't remember it, I'll write it out for you. Give me some more to drink, Fritzchen. This wine is first-rate. And perhaps now if there's a salmon sandwich going----"
Leo rang and ordered provisions.
Christian, who grasped the situation, respectfully made the announcement that the Herr Kandidat wanted to know when the Herr Pastor would be likely to think of going. He considered that this little ruse was permissible.
"Is your son here, too?" asked Leo, in quickly rising displeasure, for he remembered the song of "The Smiling Stars."
"Yes, he is there, the spark," laughed the old man, radiant with paternal pride. "Tell him he may trundle home alone. I don't want him."
Christian made his obeisance and retired, casting reproachful eyes up to heaven. That even the clergy should drink too much seemed to him a flaw in the divine dispensation of the world.
"That boy is a good-for-nothing!" exclaimed the pastor, enthusiastically. "You can have no conception, Fritzchen, what a good-for-nothing the boy is!"
"Why don't you whip him and send him back to school?" asked Leo.
"You are always ready with your tongue, Fritzchen. But I'll tell you this." He leaned over to Leo, lowering his voice into a mysterious whisper. "You can have no notion what a good-for-nothing he is." Then, running his fingers through his scant, grey locks, he went on with renewed enthusiasm, "He can drink, he has whiskers, and can write verses. Ah, Fritzchen, when he sings his student-songs--oh, the grand old days of youth where are they, tral-la-la?"
"Hush!" admonished Leo, for Christian was bringing in the tea-tray loaded with cold viands, which had been ready waiting in the kitchen for some time.
He vanished directly.
"And the duels, Fritzchen! Fire! ready! and there he stands on the measure, as I used to do when I belonged to the Westphalian. Yes, Fritzchen, this old world is a fair place, and it is worth enjoying yourself in it--that is to say, when you are a full-blooded chap. In the end, of course, the devil fetches us all. Look, Fritzchen, this is the wing of a partridge in jelly.... Now, that reminds me of a story. I took my scoundrel of a son once on a visit to Berlin. Pretty town, Fritzchen, only a little too cultivated. As for the preachers and their sermons, no force there; every sentence a piece of cooked veal in raisin sauce. Where, I should like to know, does the Christian scourging come in in such discourses, Fritzchen? Well, I said to my boy Fritz--I mean Kurt--I said let us go and swell it for once. I vegetate amidst the bullocks of Wengern, but before I die I should just like to see and taste the proper thing.... Very good. So we went to a restaurant--all gold, and mirrors, and chandeliers, and waiters in tail-coats. One, as we came in, looked so curiously at us that I said to myself, 'What's he staring at?' But he wanted us to order.... And Kurt was not behindhand; hedidorder. Fritzchen, there came first oysters and truffles in pastry and sherry, then hare soup, salmon-trout, Bayonne ham, with sauer-kraat in champagne.... Fritzchen, mere common, homely sauer-kraat, but inchampagne. Ha, ha, ha! And--and artichokes, and so on. The fellow with the white cravat and the cursed grin hovered in the background the whole blessed time. So I said to my boy, 'Look out! That's the devil,' and right enough----"
"It was?"
"Yes; it was. For when we got up to go, what do you think the fellow did? He brought a piece of paper with a long list of items on it, and at the foot a total of seventy-eight marks! Do you see, Fritzchen, thus it is with human life? We may be as bad as we like, always convivial, but the devil stands at the door of our grave and presents the bill. That's why we'll--we'll----Huzzah!"
The voice of thunder reverberated through the house.
"For God's sake stop singing," cried Leo, "or you'll completely ruin your reputation with the women-folk."
"I don't care! I don't care! ... Oh, the women! Ah, if I was you, Fritzchen! In your place I would be unrepentant. I'd just whistle through life in junketing and tra-ra-la. For to you it is all the same. You have gambled away your chances of eternal bliss. The devil will fetch you for certain."
"Children, fools, and drunkards are supposed to speak the truth," thought Leo, "and here is all three rolled into one." Then he inquired, "You don't think there is any deliverance for me?"
"Pshaw! Deliverance!" cried the old man, growing furious. "Deliverance belongs to the dictionary of those philosopher dogs.... Schleiermacher, the rascal, would have talked of 'deliverance.' But amongst honest Christians we say 'salvation' and 'forgiveness of sins.' Yes, Fritzchen, but they are not for you. It is all up. Truly one can never tell the infinite depth of Christ's compassion; but if hell really does exist, you belong there. Do you know how I came to this knowledge? It's nearly five years ago, Fritzchen. I'll tell you how it was, Fritzchen. But it is a terrible secret. You must close the door."
Leo, who was listening with keen attention, reassured him. "Only speak low," said he; "that is the only precaution necessary."
"Very well, then," began the old man, spitting and spluttering as he lowered his voice, and thrusting out his lips like the spout of a steam-kettle. "One evening I sat with my brats, reading the Bible. My wife, however, was out in the kitchen, baking apple turnovers. I remember that quite well. Some one came to the door whom I didn't know, and I asked him with apostolic gentleness, 'Fellow, what do you want with me?' 'You are to come at once and administer the sacrament,' said he. 'Pure cussedness,' thought I. 'Here has a man arranged to die on this day of all others, just because I was going to sit down to something good for supper. The ties of our profession, Fritzchen! But when he let fall the words Fichtkampen and Rhaden----"