During the time when Oswald and Berger had watched the sun from the summit of the Lookout Mountain, as he sank slowly into the green ocean of the forest, a guest had arrived at the Kurhaus, whose arrival caused a certain joyous sensation in the hotel. It was a fair young lady, dressed in a dark, remarkably elegant costume, and accompanied by a not less handsome boy of about twelve years, who looked, however, pale and sickly. With them came an old man, whose gray moustache and military carriage gave him a very marked appearance, and who seemed to be partly a servant and partly a friend of the lady. The lady had spent several weeks in Fichtenau during the summer, though then without the boy, in order to attend her husband, who had been for seven years in Doctor Birkenhain's asylum, and who was now dying. Her sad fate, not less than her great gentleness and kindness towards everybody, especially the poor and the sick, had won her the love and admiration of the inhabitants of the little town to such a degree that even now they were blessing, in more than one family, the remembrance of the "good lady" with deep gratitude.
It did not look as if this time, also, a pleasant purpose had brought the lady to Fichtenau, for she had scarcely been shown by the landlord himself, amid countless bows and scrapings, into the best parlor of the second story, when she sat down to write a few lines to Doctor Birkenhain, which the old servant had orders to carry immediately to the asylum, a hotel servant showing him the way. In the meantime the boy, who was exceedingly tired from the journey, had been put to bed. Two rooms to the left of the parlor had been fitted up for the lady's use, and great regret was expressed that unfortunately the room on the right could not at once be added, since it was yet occupied by a gentleman, who, however, would certainly not stay beyond the next morning.
An hour later Doctor Birkenhain had driven up before the Kurhaus with the old servant by his side; he had gone up to the lady in her parlor, and had been engaged with her in a long conversation, which could not have been very satisfactory, for Jean, the waiter attached to those rooms, had seen, when he carried the tea-things into the parlor, that the lady had been weeping, and was trying to wipe her eyes.
Doctor Birkenhain had, after the conversation was ended, walked up once more to the bed of the boy, who was fast asleep, had put his hand on his heart, bent over him, and pressing his ear on the boy's bare breast, listened attentively for some time. Then he raised himself again, carefully covered the sleeper, pushed the abundant curly hair from the fair, pale brow, and turning to the lady with a smile on his lips which positively lighted up the stern, serious features of the man, said to her, while she held a light in her hand and looked up to him with the strained expression of painful uncertainty,
"Calm yourself, madame; I can, of course, not decide positively, but all that I have seen so far gives me great hope that matters are not half as bad with our little patient there as my colleagues in Grunwald seem to have fancied."
A beam of joy lighted up the lady's face, and her large eyes filled with tears.
Doctor Birkenhain took the light from her hand and escorted her back to the parlor.
"I shall come again to-morrow morning," he said, taking his hat and cane; "if it comforts you, you can let old Baumann sit up with the boy. But you yourself must go to bed early, and take one of these powders. You are very much exhausted and require rest."
"Stay another moment, doctor!" said the lady. "I have one more question to ask."
Her features betrayed great emotion, her bosom rose and sank with agitation; she seemed to be about to give utterance to a thought which she was unable from great fear to clothe in words.
Doctor Birkenhain laid dawn again his hat and cane.
"Sit down, madame, I pray you!" he said, sitting down by her side on the sofa. "I know what you are about to ask. I have read the question all this evening in your anxious eyes and upon your trembling lips. You do not believe in the disease of the heart, of which the physicians at Grunwald have said so much; if you did you would not have come to me, however kindly you may think of my modest knowledge and my experience. You fear the evil is more serious--in fact, that it is a hereditary disease, the first germ, the beginning, of an affection which has already once been so fatal for you. Am I right?"
The lady's answer was a flood of tears, which broke irresistibly from her eyes, like a long pent-up torrent. Sobbing, she pressed her handkerchief to her face.
"My dear madame," said the physician, taking her hand in his, "I pray you, I implore you, calm yourself. As far as I can judge from the written reports of my colleagues, from your own account, and from my observation, there is not the slightest ground for your terrible apprehension. Insanity is hereditary, to be sure; it descends through many generations, turning up here and there, often after a long interval; but in your husband's family his own case is the very first in the whole history of his family, and consequently for many hundred years. And this exceptional case had its own peculiar and very sad causes, which could affect only the individual, and could not possibly have any effect upon his descendants. Herr von Berkow was naturally in the enjoyment of very good health, perhaps even superior in his physique to most men; but remember, I pray that it is a physician who is speaking now--he had ruined this powerful constitution by dissipation. That which often saves others in his position--the marriage with a chaste, pure being--became in his case his ruin, for he felt his own unworthiness--felt it so deeply that he despaired of ever winning your love or attaining your forgiveness, and therefore abandoned himself hopelessly to that melancholy in which he quickly lost all pleasure in life and all energy of mind. The sins of the father will not be visited on the next generation. If there should really be an affection of the heart, it has as yet made very little progress and can easily be cured, with the aid of Julius's youth and excellent constitution. Therefore I pray you, madame, lay aside all your anxiety; confide in me; confide in your good fortune; the clouds that are hiding your star for a moment will soon disappear."
"My star?" asked the lady, with a melancholy smile; "my star? Why, doctor, I fear, if there ever was such a one, it has set long since and forever."
"That we shall see," said Doctor Birkenhain, rising. "I believe in favorable stars, and above all in your good star. One so fair and so dear and so good as you are must not and shall not be unhappy! Good night!"
Doctor Birkenhain took the lady's hand, raised it reverently to his lips, and left the room.
She remained sitting after the physician had left her, resting her head in her hand, and sunk in deep meditation.
As in a dream, all the scenes of her life passed before her mind's eye.
She saw herself a rosy-cheeked, wild child, playing in her father's park with a solemn, awkward boy, whom she at times loved dearly and then again hated bitterly; who, now haughty and imperious, resisted her caprices, and then, when she was kinder to him, spared no trouble and feared no danger in order to fulfil her childish wishes. She saw herself, a few years later, in company with the same boy and a few other boys and girls, perform very complicated steps in the large room of her father's chateau, while a poor man accompanied them with the violin, and the grown people, men and women, expressed their delight and overwhelmed the little coquette with praises and caresses; and she saw the boy, whose awkwardness she had ridiculed and derided in her exuberance of spirits, sit in a distant corner and weep bitterly. She saw herself again, a few years later, in the fresh brightness of a beauty of sixteen years, courted and admired on all sides, thoughtlessly sipping the sweet, precious beverage from the rose-crowned cup of life with eager thirst; flitting from pleasure to pleasure, as a light-winged butterfly flits from flower to flower, and yet feeling, amid all these blissful enjoyments, in her heart's deepest depth, a continuous restlessness, which made the golden Present appear gray and colorless in comparison with the bright-colored, glorious Future, which was to fulfil all her plans and all her hopes. She had lost sight of the solemn, awkward boy in those days. What could he have done in the midst of this fairy world, full of brightness and fragrance, in which nightingales sang, and all were playful and happy. But the Future had become the Present, and nothing had been fulfilled of all her promises; a poisonous dew had fallen upon her bright flowers, and had robbed them of their beauty and their fragrance; the nightingales had ceased to sing, and the whole spring landscape was concealed under a gray, dismal veil--a veil through which now and then fearful scenes became visible--a father kneeling before his daughter and beseeching her by his gray head, which he must bury in dishonor if she did not comply with his wishes to marry a man whom she does not love, and against whom an instinctive feeling warns the pure, innocent maid; a husband who--away, away with these fearful visions, which make the unfortunate woman hide her face with shuddering, even now, after an interval of so many years. And then she sees once more the form of the solemn, stubborn boy in the shape of a haughty, cold man, who yet, whenever he meets her, changes his haughtiness into humility, and his coldness into unspeakable kindness and love; who assists her with counsel, comfort, and help; who turns aside whatever harm he can avert, and helps her bear it where he cannot prevent it; who ever tries to take everything upon his own shoulders. And now the thought occurs to her, more and more frequently, that, after all, this man is probably worth more than all her fantastic dreams; but as yet she cannot, by any effort of her own, abandon all the ideals that once filled her youthful heart. She treats the man as she has treated the boy; she sends him on his travels as she used to send him in the garden, when he was not willing to fall in with her caprices.
And now come peaceful visions of years spent in the green solitude of her estate, and among them continually re-appearing the forms of a fair, delicate boy and an old gray-bearded servant in varied and yet always similar situations--peaceful visions, although a certain fragrance of melancholy attaches itself to all their bright perfumes, the effect of unsatisfied longing and vain hopes. She thinks often enough of the man whom she has sent into exile, but no longer with the warm heart, which is in truth ashamed of its ingratitude. Some bitterness has begun to mingle with her feelings towards this man, since he has dared--it happened during a journey to Italy--to speak openly of his love for her; since she has rejected him, fancying in her false logic that she was consistent when she only adhered obstinately to a caprice; and since he, proud as he was, had at once accepted her decision, and left the country to travel in Egypt and Nubia. She imagines even that she has begun to hate the companion of her youthful years, the faithful friend who has stood by her in every need and danger; and yet, any one who knows the human heart might have told her that hatred is only the wild brother of the sweet sister love, and indifference the only really impenetrable armor for a woman's heart.
And now there appears amid these peaceful scenes the form of a man whose beauty delights her artistic eye, whose gentle kindness lingers around her like the breath of spring, whose longing finds in her own heart, full of vague yearning, an eloquent echo--of a man who in everything seems to be the realization of all her dreams. And as in a dream she accepts his love, returns it with thousand-fold fire; she will not see the danger, she will not wake, she insists upon being happy once in her life. But morning breaks; it becomes impossible to keep her eyes closed any longer, and to retain the visions of her dream. Her friend has returned, contrary to all expectations, and appears before her, warning her, and the very next hour his prophecy has become true. Blow upon blow, misfortune falls upon her. Did he dream of it, when it drove him from the ruins of Karnak to his home in the far North? The news of the approaching death of the man whose name she bears summons her away from the arms of him whom she loves; she hastens to fulfil a duty which is all the more sacred to her because of the blissful happiness that she has enjoyed during the last weeks; and she returns, her heart full of sweet hopes, and at the same time full of painful anticipations, and she hears and sees that the man to whom she has abandoned herself with boundless love has betrayed her. And, as if that was not enough punishment for her short, secret happiness, her only child--that beautiful, lovely boy, who was her delight and her pride--is taken down with a disease which appears to her the beginning of an affection such as she has just seen end in the most fearful manner in the father of that child.
But this second blow is perhaps a blessing in disguise. It stuns her so that she scarcely feels the wound in her heart. The love of the woman is swallowed up in the love of the mother. She watches day and night by the bedside of the boy; she has eyes and ears only for his wants and his wishes; and as soon as he recovers slightly, she takes a journey to the man in whose experience she has unbounded confidence, and from whose lips she means to hear the sentence, the decision of life or death--no! a thousand times worse than death itself! And he has spoken; he has left her some hope; he has even encouraged her to hope--her boy is going to live; he will recover; the sins of the father are not to be visited on the next generation.
And now that her soul has been relieved of the fearful burden--now she thinks for the first time again of her betrayed love.
Was not this betrayal a just punishment for having cared so much for her own happiness, and so little for that of the boy? For having committed treason against her own child; for was not the love for a man who filled her whole heart treason against her child?
Here, in this very room, she had during the past summer dreamt so often of a future which was to be realized in such a sad present, and now the current of life had floated her back to the same place, almost into the same situation! Was it not as if Fate wished to give her time to consider before she acted--before she laid her own happiness, and that of her child, into hands which were far too feeble to defend such a treasure successfully?
Here, in this very room, her friend had warned her against these hands that were grasping with childish eagerness at everything that was great and beautiful, in order to cast it aside again in childish caprice, as if it were worth little. Here, in this very room, he had prophesied to her things which had since come true, word by word.
Here, in this very room, he had spoken to her thus: "And when you lie crushed by this blow, and wish to die, and yet cannot die; then you will be able to feel what anguish a heart suffers when it sees its love betrayed and despised; then you will make me amends in your heart, and be sorry for the wrong you have done me."
Where was he now? this faithful, noble friend, who--she had often felt it, though never so deeply as at this moment--was wasting his proud strength for her sake in idleness or senseless adventures, as a tree whose heart has been taken out breaks forth in abundant branches and leaves, but never bears fruit again? Once more he was wandering restlessly, like the wandering Jew, through the wide, desert world. And, as if he should never call anything his own, the child whom he had loved before he knew her to be his child, had vanished again like a short, fair dream. He had let her go, because his sense of justice told him that he had no claim upon this child, for whom he had done nothing but to call it into existence. Was it really to be his fate to sow love and reap indifference?
No! no! not indifference; although it might not be love such as he felt, and such as he wished for, but certainly not indifference! Did she not feel hearty friendship, deep, sincere regard for him? Would she not have sacrificed whole years of her existence, if by so doing she could have restored his child to him?
Where was he now? She had become so accustomed to seeing him by her side, whenever the dark hours of her life were coming, that she missed him sadly now, when he was for the first time absent. And yet, what right had she to a love which she had refused a hundred times, and which she had so grievously insulted by her love for another man?
The fair lady had been so lost in such thoughts that she did not hear a gentle knock at the door. The door opened, and an old, gray-bearded face peeped in. Behind the grim, bearded face the form of a tall man was visible.
"Madame," said the moustache, "a good friend who has just arrived wishes to present his respects, if possible yet, this evening."
"Who is it?" asked the lady, rising with surprise from her seat.
The tall gentleman entered.
"Oldenburg!" cried the lady; "Oldenburg! Is it really you?"
"Yes, Melitta!" said the baron, seizing the proffered hand of the lady and carrying it to his lips. "It is I, in person."
The old man had remained where he stood, rubbing his hands and looking at the two, as they were shaking hands, with an eye full of hope and apprehension. When he saw the unmistakable expression of joyful surprise upon the fair face of his beloved mistress, and the tear which glistened in her eye as the baron bent over her hand, his own eyes slowly filled with tears. He left the room with noiseless steps, closed the door very gently, and one who could have observed the old man afterwards--but there was no one there to see him--would have seen how he folded his hands, when he was outside, and murmured an ardent prayer with trembling lips, in his gray beard--a prayer which thanked God for this meeting between his mistress and the only man whom he thought worthy of her, and implored Him to turn everything, oh everything, to the best, in this the eleventh hour, by His infinite mercy and kindness.
* * * * *
When old Baumann had left the room, the baron had, according to his old habit, walked silently up and down the room with long strides, to overcome a feeling which threatened to get the better of his self-control. Melitta had seated herself on the sofa, since her own excitement, which was probably not less strong than Oldenburg's had deprived her of the power of standing.
After a few minutes the baron came and took his seat by her side on the sofa, and said with a soft voice, which did not show the slightest trace of the vehemence of his rough manner,
"And you do not ask, Melitta, what has brought me here through night and storm, across these mountains, to this village and this room?"
"No!" replied Melitta, looking full and clear into his eyes; "no! for I know it without asking."
"I thank you, Melitta!"
This was all he answered; but the whole heart of the man was in these few words.
"Yes, and even more than that," continued Melitta. "I was but just thinking of you--of the faithful friend who has as yet always stood by me in the hour of misfortune, aiding me by counsel and deed, however I may have rejected his advice and rewarded the sacrifices he has made for my sake with bitter ingratitude.
"Sacrifices--ingratitude!" said Oldenburg, and a melancholy smile played around his lips; "those are words, Melitta, which have no meaning for us--I mean for myself. At least they have none now, whatever else I may have thought of them in former years. In the end everybody submits to his fate; and when the captured lion has come to an end with his despair, and sees that his strength can do nothing against the iron bars of his cage, he lies down in the corner and is for the future as gentle as a lamb. But no more of that; I did not come here to plead for myself, and to renew a suit which has already been lost in all the stages of appeal; I did not come for my sake, but for yours. I was told in Grunwald, where I was on business, that Julius had been attacked by serious sickness, and that you had gone with him to Fichtenau. I feared the worst, and followed you at once, travelling day and night, in order to help you as far as I could. Fortunately our apprehensions were unfounded. I have spoken with Birkenhain downstairs, after he left you. He has completely reassured me, and thinks you can go back as soon as you feel strong enough. That is all I wished to know; and now, when the purpose of my journey is fulfilled, and I have been able by a lucky accident, thanks to the gods, to see you and to hold your dear hand in mine--God bless you, Melitta! and may misfortune--for good fortune has nothing to do with us--not make us meet soon again."
The baron said these last words with a smiling air, but in his voice there was a secret pain, the pain of a noble heart full of love, which finds no home in all this wide, rich world.
He had taken Melitta's hand in bidding her farewell, and was about to rise; but he could not do it, for the hand so dear to him not only returned warmly the pressure of his--he felt, at least he thought he felt, that Melitta would not let him leave her, that she would be pleased to see him stay.
This was something so new to him that he looked at her, wondering whether it were really possible--whether his presence was for once no punishment to her.
"You must not go yet," said Melitta, with some precipitancy, while a passing flush colored her pale cheeks for a moment. "I cannot bear to see that, while all the world praises my kindness and every beggar leaves me contented, you alone should look upon me as upon a statue, which never gives and always takes without ever saying Thank you! You have not told me a word yet about yourself; not a word how and where you have been all this time. You come from a distance of several thousand miles to look at my Julius, and you mean to go again before I have even been able to ask you if you have had any news of your Czika? Is that generous? Why, it is not even right in you."
The baron looked at Melitta as she said this, almost frightened.
"Melitta," he answered, so seriously as to be almost solemn; "it is not right to awaken the desire to live, in a man who is sick unto death. Do not spoil me, from pure pity, with a kindness which does not come from the heart!"
"Not from the heart!" repeated Melitta in a low voice. "To be sure I have deserved that reproach; I ought not to complain."
"I did not mean to reproach you, Melitta."
"And yet I deserve it. Yes, Oldenburg, I must tell you, or it will oppress my heart beyond endurance. I feel deeply ashamed before you. The burden of gratitude which you impose upon me weighs me down."
"A burden, Melitta! A burden! By God, I did not wish to lay any burden upon you by the few services I have been able to render you."
"You will not believe me. I cannot measure and weigh my words as you do. If there is no voice in your heart speaking for me--if you are not willing to listen to me with your heart, then----"
Her voice was drowned in tears.
"What is this?" said Oldenburg, seizing his head with both his hands. "Am I dreaming? Is this my head? Are these my hands? Am I Oldenburg? Are you Melitta? You, who are shedding tears, because I, Oldenburg, do not understand you, or will not understand you?"
"You shall understand me," said Melitta, drying her tears, with an impetuosity very unusual in her. "You have seen me so often weak and irresolute in our intercourse, that you do not think me any longer capable of forming a resolution. And yet I have the strength to do so; and that I have it, I owe to you, Adalbert. During the sickness of my child you have spoken to me, and I have not closed my heart to your voice. I have heard it very distinctly during the long, anxious night hours which I spent watching and weeping by the bedside of my child. Then I have asked my child's pardon with silent, burning tears, that I could ever forget being a mother. Then I have vowed to myself that I would never, never forget it again. Then I have----"
She was silent; burning shame flooded her cheeks with deep glowing blushes; but she made a great effort and said,
"Then I have abjured a passion which humiliates me in my own eyes, in my child's eyes, and, Adalbert, in yours."
"Stop, Melitta! stop!" cried Oldenburg, rising suddenly. "You are beside yourself! You are not alone! You are in the presence of another person--of a man who loves you, Melitta. He does not want to hear what you ought to say to no one but to yourself."
"Let me finish, Adalbert! I trust in your goodness, as I trust in your strength. I have not told you all yet; not even all the vows I have made by the bedside of my sick child. I have often thought of your child, then, and that a most terrible fate has robbed you of the love of your child as well as of the love of her whom you love. And then I vowed that, if I cannot make you as happy as you deserve to be; if much, far too much, has happened which parts you and me forever; I can yet help you bear your fate, as far as in me lies. I will try to reconcile you to life, and live for you as far as I am able."
Melitta had, while she said these words, risen from the sofa. She stood before him with deep-red cheeks and beaming eyes.
Oldenburg had heard her with breathless excitement, with an emotion which grew stronger and deeper with every word. His eyes flashed, his bosom heaved, he pressed his hands upon his heart, which felt as if it would burst with unspeakable bliss.
When Melitta's last word had dropped from her lips he approached her, knelt down before her, and said, with a voice deep and firm, like the sound of an iron shield,
"And now hear my vow, Melitta! As surely as I have loved you ever since I can think, as surely as the night of my life has been lighted up but by a single star, as surely as I have wandered about restlessly and aimlessly in the vast desert of life, only because I despaired that that star could ever shine down upon me benignly--so surely will I, from this moment, strive to attain the highest aim of man with all the power I may possess. I will lay aside all little weaknesses and all my cowardice; I will try to make up for the time which I have lost in inactivity. And as sure as my heart is at this moment overflowing with a happiness which words cannot describe, so surely will I seek neither rest nor repose till you love me as I love you--till you are mine. Do you near, Melitta--till you are my wife!"
He had risen, too.
"And now, Melitta," he cried, and his words sounded like shouts of joy, "farewell! I cannot bear it any longer under this roof; the whole, wide world has become too narrow for me. Farewell! farewell! till we meet again!"
He embraced Melitta impetuously, and kissed her on her brow. Then he hastily left the room.
Melitta had remained standing in the middle of the room, as if she were petrified. She had not had the strength to keep Oldenburg back, nor to return his farewell. She placed her hand upon her beating temples.
"What have I done? What have I said?" she asked herself. And the voice of her heart answered: "Nothing you need be ashamed of, before yourself or before your child."
She hastened into the adjoining room. She bent over the sleeping boy; she kissed him amid burning tears.
Then she heard the rolling of a carriage, which rapidly drove away from the door of the hotel.
"That is he!" she said, listening; and then, pressing her face in the cushions, "Farewell! farewell! till we meet again!"
While this interview between Melitta and Oldenburg was taking place at the Kurhaus, and, as by the blow of a charmed wand, the barriers fell which had seemed to be destined to part two good hearts forever, there had been sitting in the room on the right hand--which "was occupied by a traveller who would surely not stay beyond the next morning"--this very traveller quite near the door which led from one room to the other, supporting his feverish head with his hands, and suffering in his lacerated heart unspeakable anguish.
Oswald had returned, on his way from the asylum, along the river, almost as in a dream; for when he left Berger at the gate of the institution, the parting with him and the last terrible words of the unfortunate man had quite overwhelmed him, and kept him from every effort of thinking calmly.
His brains and his heart were a perfect chaos, filled with all that he had heard and seen since his arrival in Fichtenau on the preceding evening--with all the impressions which he had so suddenly received, all the thoughts that had been stirred up, all the passions that had been unchained. He had a dim presentiment that such a state of mind must in the end lead to insanity, if it were not already itself a kind of insanity.
Ought he not to turn back and knock at the gate behind which Berger had disappeared? Was not that house, with its high prison-walls, the best refuge for hearts that were as weary of the world as his was? Or still better, ought he not to throw himself over the railing into the river below, where it rushed, deep and silent, between the steep, high banks, gliding noiselessly along like a serpent? Would he not be sure thus to cool his heated brow forever, and to silence the hammering pulsations in his temples for all eternity? How could he hope ever to find an issue into rosy light from a labyrinth in which so noble, so lofty a mind as Berger's had lost its way irretrievably? Was not Berger far superior to him in strength of mind, as well as in nobility of soul? And yet, and yet--"that I may fully measure the depth of this wretchedness, that I may touch with my own hands the incredible," the poor man had said, when he fell into the arms of the rope-dancer. Was that, then, the last conclusion of wisdom? The high-minded idealist saw himself excelled by the rude slave of sensuality in courage of life and joyousness of life! The pupil of Plato acknowledged a drunken clown as his master! The man who, like the youth of Saïs, had striven all his life only after truth, fraternized with a coarse story-teller, a charlatan, who defied all rules, of probability even, and lived merrily and cheerfully on the credulity of others, as the swallow lives on midges. As old Lear in the tempestuous night on the heath tears the royal mantle from his shoulders, so as to have no advantage over poor Tom, the "poor bare-backed animal, whose belly cries for two red herrings," so Berger also had laid aside the philosopher's cloak, that did not warm him half as well as the rope-dancer's bare vulgarity. Berger had learnt from this man that only he can hope to enjoy real happiness who gives up all pretentions to wealth, to honor, and splendor, and who sees neither a punishment nor a disgrace in the contempt of the world. Did those men of olden times think differently about it who fed on locusts, and exposed their bodies to the heat of the sun and the chill of rains--Indian penitents. Christian anchorites, Flagellants, pillar-saints, and ascetics of every kind? Is asceticism not the consistent pursuit of holiness? Is not contempt of the world, and of one's self, the consistent effect of asceticism? Can we reach the Holiest of Holies--the blissful original state, the sweet Nirvana--unless we first annihilate ourselves, as far as it can be done in life? And is such annihilation possible as long as we continually cling to life and to all that makes life dear to us? Is it an accident that saints appear odd in the eyes of the multitude, and the company of publicans and sinners is the best in the eyes of holy men? Yes, indeed! Berger and Schmenckel, arm in arm! Was that the solution of the great mystery, the squaring of the circle?
Oswald could not get rid of the picture, and the terrible impression it had made upon him at last brought him back to calmer views. His sense, of the beautiful was shocked by the abhorrent garb which that ascetic wisdom had adopted. He agreed with all his heart to join the order of the threefold contempt, but he could not be reconciled to the costume of the order. He thought of himself in the dress in which he had seen Berger--a blue, faded blouse, a coarse slouched hat, a stick cut from a thorn-bush--and he shuddered all over. He thought of Doctor Braun, and what he would have said if he had met him in company with Berger--he who gainfully fastidious about his appearance, and considered it a fundamental principle, that if we wished to remain physically and psychically healthy, we must be careful not to come in contact with bodily or mental uncleanliness. Despise the world!--why not? Despise one's self! I have done that often enough; and, alas, generally for very good reasons. But despise being despised! Never!--rather die!--rather, a thousand times.
And why die? Why not rather live? Is life so very contemptible? Have I not found in Braun a friend of whom I have every reason to be proud? Might I not succeed in finding my way out of this labyrinth, if I had such a friend by my side? May not much come right again, even if everything does not turn out well? Suppose I were to make up my mind to abandon this striving after exalted ideals which threaten to ruin my mind? If I were to turn back, even at this the eleventh hour, from the way which leads in the end to Doctor Birkenhain's insane asylum? If I were this very night to leave Fichtenau, where the air is filled with ill luck for me, as Doctor Braun anticipated.
Oswald was standing before the Kurhaus. A carriage which had just arrived was waiting at the door. In the dining-room, at the end of the long table, two gentlemen were sitting in close conversation. He thought one of them was Doctor Birkenhain. He did not desire in the least to meet the physician, whose wishes with regard to Berger he had so lamentably failed to fulful. He would drop him a few lines before leaving, and excuse himself on the score of pressing business and Berger's express desire, for his failure to say good-by in person.
He went to his room and rang the bell.
"Is there any mail leaving to-night?"
"In half-an-hour, sir."
"I shall leave by the mail, then. Secure me a seat in the coach, and bring the bill," said Oswald, already busy packing his things.
"Yes, sir, directly."
"Yes! yes! I must leave here," murmured Oswald, passionately, strengthening himself more and more in his resolution. "Away from here before more ill luck befalls me!"
"The bill, sir!" said the waiter, coming back again. "Much obliged to you, sir. Need not be in such a hurry, sir; you have twenty-five minutes left; the office is close by here. Thought you would stay over night, sir. Might have given this room to a lady, sir, if we had known, who has just arrived; she has taken the parlor next door, and two rooms on the other side. We had to give her those rooms, although they are not good enough for such a grand and beautiful lady."
The waiter uttered these words in a whisper, which made it clear that the doors of the Kurhaus were not exactly impenetrable to sound.
"Who is the lady?" asked Oswald, locking his trunk.
"A Frau von Berkow; old customer of ours. Told you this morning about her, sir. Will send the porter directly to carry your trunk to the office. Anything else, sir?"
The waiter left the room, waving his napkin in a most graceful manner. Oswald rose. His face was deadly pale. He had to support himself on the table; his limbs trembled.
Had he heard right? Melitta here? In this house? Next door? How did she get here? What did she come for? To this place, which had such mournful associations for her? Was it an accident? Was it purpose? Could she have come for his sake? Could she have found out the purpose of his journey? Was she looking for him? Had she failed to receive the letter which he wrote to her after Bruno's death, and an hour before his duel with Felix--that letter in which he told her with unfeeling cruelty, though he thought it heroism then, that "his heart was no longer exclusively hers, that he did not intend to deceive her and himself, and that he was bidding her--and perhaps life itself--an eternal adieu?" Or had she received it, and read it with the incredulity of a loving heart, which does not comprehend faithlessness, because it knows itself no other love but true love? Had she come to tell him that she had forgiven him?--that she was still his Melitta? If he were to hasten to her and to fall at her feet, would she raise the repentant lover and tell him that all was forgiven and forgotten?--that she had never ceased to love him?
He listened to hear if anything was stirring in the adjoining room. He heard nothing--nothing but the beating of his violently-agitated heart.
She was alone. She waited for his coming. Were the blissful days of Berkow really to return once more? Was really everything to end well, after all?
He listened. A door opened.
Probably a waiter, who has executed an order.
A deep male voice. The soft notes of a woman's voice.
The soft voice was Melitta's! But the other?
He listened. The voices rose, became more distinct.
A convulsive spasm flew across the features of the listener; a hoarse, unpleasant laugh broke from his lips. The man who was speaking so warmly to Melitta was Baron Oldenburg.
The sofa on which the two speakers were sitting, stood close against the door which led from one room to the other. Oswald could not hear everything they said, but why was that necessary? The meeting of the two in this remote little town, which had already once before been the scene of their stealthy rendezvous, spoke eloquently enough. He had been right, after all! The two had after all but made a fool of him! He had done Melitta no wrong which she had not inflicted on him also. They were quits.
A knock at the door.
The porter came to carry the gentleman's trunk to the office.
"It is high time, sir. The postilion has blown his horn twice."
Oswald followed the man mechanically down the long passages, out of the house, across the dark street to the coach.
A minute later and the heavy coach was rumbling over the pavement. The postilion played a merry melody in the silent night-air, and Oswald furnished a text to the air: to despise one's self, despise the world, despise being despised.
It was an early hour of a murky day in autumn. Fogs were brewing in the mountains around Fichtenau, and hung so low that the traveller on the high road, which makes a steep ascent close behind the village and loses itself in thick woods, could scarcely distinguish the pine-trees on the edge of the forest.
By the wayside, at a place where two roads crossed each other, sat Xenobia and Czika. Their faithful companion in all their wanderings, the little donkey, with the red feathers on his head and the scarlet saddle-cloth on his back, was grazing peacefully in the ditch on the short, ill-flavored grass. He did not seem to relish it much; he shook his head indignantly, as if he wanted to say: I am frugal, but everything has its limits.
Nor did the gypsy woman and her child seem to enjoy the weather any more. They sat there, each wrapped in a large coarse shawl, silent and motionless, like a couple of Egyptian statues. This attitude, natural as it might be to the woman, had something very uncanny in so young a child as Czika.
And Xenobia herself was no longer the hearty woman whom Oswald had seen on that afternoon in October in the forest near Berkow. Was it the effect of the weather, or was it sickness and sorrow--but her features had little now of that haughty energy which formerly made them so remarkable. Her brow was furrowed with small lines; her eyes had sunk deep into their orbits and did not shine with the same brightness as of old, as she now glanced in the direction from which her sharp ear heard the noise of a carriage comings from Fichtenau.
"That is not theirs," she said, letting her head sink again. A few minutes later a well-closed travelling carriage, drawn by two horses, appeared rising out of the fog. On the box, by the side of the driver, sat an old man with a long, silver-gray moustache. He turned round continually, to cast a look at the inside of the carriage, and to smile respectfully and yet amicably at the occupants--a lady and a boy.
Thus he had failed to notice the gypsy woman, who had stepped forward as she saw the great lady in the carriage, and asked for alms. What was his amazement therefore, when he saw that the lady suddenly called to him to stop the horses, exhibiting all the signs of extreme consternation, and that she was standing in the road itself long before the horses could be checked.
"Isabel, it is you! and the Czika! My God, how fortunate!" cried Melitta, seizing both hands of the gypsy. "Now I shall not let you go again. My God, how very fortunate!" and the young lady embraced the gypsy woman with tears in her eyes.
But the latter freed herself almost violently, and stepping back some little distance she crossed her arms on her bosom and looked at Melitta with a suspicious, almost hostile glance.
"Do you not know me, Isabel?" said Melitta; "it is I! Have you forgotten the days at Berkow five years ago? That is my Julius, there! And how tall and how beautiful the Czika has grown."
Julius had jumped out of the carriage; old Baumann also had climbed down from the box.
Melitta hastened up to Czika, embraced the child, and kissed and caressed her over and over again. The others spoke to Xenobia, who paid no attention to them, but looked with anxious eyes at Melitta, who now came back to her, holding Czika by the hand.
"Isabel!" said Melitta, "you must, really you must, give me the little one. I dare not, I cannot, continue my journey without her."
"Why will you not leave us as we are?" said the gypsy. "You are a great lady, fit for the house; the gypsy is fit only for the forest. You would die in the forest; the gypsy would die in the house. I cannot go with you."
"Then give me the Czika?"
"Will you give me your boy?"
Melitta did not know what to answer. She felt too deeply that the gypsy woman could not act differently, and that she, in her place, would have done the same. And yet could she let the two go out again into the wide world? To see Oldenburg's little daughter, whom he yearned after, whom he was searching for everywhere, disappear once more, after an accident such as might never happen again in all her life, had brought her right in her path--she could not bear the thought, and like a child that feels how helpless and friendless it is, she broke into tears.
The gypsy woman seemed to be touched. She took Melitta's hand and kissed it.
"You are very kind, I know," she said; "I know it well. I would rather give you the Czika than anybody else."
She reflected deeply. Suddenly she took Melitta's hand once more and led her aside.
"Do you know," she asked, "who Czika's father is?"
"Yes."
"And are you doing what you do for the father's sake, or for your own?"
Melitta's cheeks reddened.
"For the sake of both," she replied, after some hesitation.
"Where are you going to now?"
"Home--to Berkow."
"And are you going to stay there?"
"Yes; at least during the winter."
"Then listen to me. I swear to you by the Great Spirit, I will bring you the Czika as soon as I feel that I am to be gathered to my fathers. That may be very soon. More I cannot promise; more I dare not say."
Melitta felt that she must be satisfied with this promise. She knew the character of the Brown Countess too well not to be aware that if she had once formed a resolution, all persuasion was in vain. She re-entered her carriage, therefore, sadly, after having embraced Xenobia and the child once more, and soon was out of sight.
The rattling of the wheels and the trot of the horses were no longer heard. The gypsies were still sitting by the wayside.
Another carriage came up in the direction of Fichtenau. One could hear from afar off the cries of the driver, and the clanking of chains which formed part of the harness.
A few minutes later the wagon appeared out of the mist. It was a huge box--a whole house on four wheels, stuffed up to the roof and high above the roof with chests and boxes, kettle drums and trombones, stage scenery, poles and ladders, and all kinds of kitchen utensils and stage property. The four horses who drew this Noah's Ark had hard work of it.
Before the wagon a number of men were walking on foot--Cotterby, the Egyptian; the artist of the gigantic cask, Mr. Stolsenberg; and the clown, Pierrot. All these gentlemen wore gay-colored shawls around the neck, and had short pipes in their mouths. From the open windows of the ark the crying of children was heard, and the scolding voice of Mamselle Adele. Behind the wagon followed, apparently in eager conversation, the director, Mr. Schmenckel (also with a bright shawl around the neck and a pipe in his mouth), and a man in a blue blouse, with a heavy stick in his hand, and an old slouched hat on his head. Director Schmenckel had made his acquaintance a few nights before under very peculiar circumstances, in the drinking-hall of the Green Hat; he had met him since very frequently at the same tavern, and found him quite unexpectedly that morning, ready to join the rope-dancers, just as they were leaving the village.
When the wagon reached the cross-roads the driver stopped to let the horses breathe.
The gypsy woman with her child stepped up and was vociferously greeted by the rope-dancers.
Mr. Schmenckel shook hands with her, and patted the Czika paternally on her brown cheeks.
"That's right, Xenobia! here you are, back again!" he said. "By the great dickens, we could not get on at all without you. Good-by, professor! Thanks for the escort! You must turn back here, or you won't find the way to Fichtenau."
"I'll go a little further with you," replied the man in the blouse.
"All right!" said Mr. Schmenckel; "the further the better. Such a good old brick, like yourself, we do not meet with every day. Is all right in there? Well, go on then!"
The wagon was set in motion. After a few minutes the whole procession--wagon, horses, and men, had been swallowed up by the thick gray fog.