Skittish foal, I prithee why,Flashing fear from thy large eye,Cruel, dost thou mocking flee?"Fool! he nothing is to me."Know for thee I soon shall bringAnd about thy proud neck flingThe bridle, and with firm, tight rein,Swift-racing, spur thee o'er the plain.Tarry now 'mid pasture-ground,Gayly frolic, lightly bound;But, my skittish foal, take heed!Thy right rider comes with speed.
Skittish foal, I prithee why,Flashing fear from thy large eye,Cruel, dost thou mocking flee?"Fool! he nothing is to me."
Know for thee I soon shall bringAnd about thy proud neck flingThe bridle, and with firm, tight rein,Swift-racing, spur thee o'er the plain.
Tarry now 'mid pasture-ground,Gayly frolic, lightly bound;But, my skittish foal, take heed!Thy right rider comes with speed.
The right rider! Alas! ere six weeks had passed, the right rider came!
It was a dark evening late in Autumn, like the present one. Men, women, boys and girls were all out of doors, for it was Saturday night, and the great wheat-field must if possible be mowed, the sheaves bound up and piled in heaps. They had paused to rest for half an hour, while waiting for the rising moon to disperse the dense clouds of mist and enable them to resume their interrupted task. Curt and he had busily helped the laborers, and even Cecilia tied up a few sheaves; then they carried the people the beer Cousin Boslaf had drawn from the huge cask. There had been shouting, singing, and jesting among the youths and maidens, but all had now become silent, and Herr Wenhof thought if they did not begin again soon the whole company would fall asleep, and then he should like to see the person who could get them on their feet again. But Cousin Boslaf said they must wait ten minutes longer until the moon shone clear, and Cousin Boslaf knew best. It grew more and more quiet, so quiet that the partridges thought every one had gone, and began to call loudly for their scattered families; so quiet that Gotthold fancied he could hear the beating of his own heart, as his eyes rested on the graceful figure that sat close beside him on a sheaf, so near that his hand might have touched her light dress, gazing up at the moon, whose white light made her face look strangely pale. But the dark eyes often flashed brightly from the pallid countenance, and a strange emotion thrilled the youth, as if a ray from the spirit-world had fallen upon him. Yes, from the spirit-world, where he hovered with his beloved, far above all earthly tumult, far as the pure fancy of a youth whose heart is full of a great, sacred love can soar. Oh! God, how immeasurably he loved her! How his whole being was bound up in this affection! How all his thoughts, feelings, emotions were merged into, carried away by, this passion! How every drop of blood that flowed through his throbbing heart glowed with this love! How every breath that passed over his fevered lips ever murmured: I love you, I love you!
And at this moment, when the heavens opened before his enraptured eyes and he gazed into the region of the blest--at this moment the blow was to fall, which closed the gates of the Paradise of his youth forever, and destroyed for years his faith in the sacred feeling that dwells securely in the human breast. "Some one is coming on horseback," old Boslaf said, approaching the group, and pointing towards the forest. No one else perceived anything; but that proved nothing, for the old man could hear the grass grow. Cecilia started up, went forward a few steps, and paused to listen, and Gotthold saw her press her hand upon her heart. His own stood still.
He and Curt had not been to Dollan during the weeks before the examination, now successfully passed, and he had heard nothing of all that had happened there except that one day Curt casually mentioned that Carl Brandow had returned; but now he knew everything. The horse, whose rapid hoof-beats he also distinguished, was not bearing Carl Brandow over the miles that intervened between Dollan and Dahlitz for the first time. Now he knew what the altered expression of her features, which had attracted his attention that day, meant--the dreamy softness that suddenly yielded to a strange excitement; he knew all, all,--that his temple was ruined, his sanctuary profaned. He stood apart, unable to move, while the others surrounded the rider, who had swung himself from his horse,--the slender rider, who now disengaged himself from the group--but not alone! They passed close by without noticing him, he with his arm thrown around her waist, bending down and whispering to her, she nestling to his side, every line in their figures clearly relieved against the bright moonlight; then he saw and heard nothing more, and afterwards could only remember that he lay long in a dull, terrible despair, in a place far from that spot, on the edge of the dark forest, and then started up and staggered through the silent, sultry woods as if in a horrible dream, sometimes crying aloud like a tortured animal, until he at last emerged from them upon the shore of the sea, which stretched before him in a vast, boundless expanse in the shimmering moonlight. Here he again threw himself down on the sand, but now tears came to his relief--burning tears which, however, flowed more and more gently, as if the lapping of the waves was a lullaby to the poor quivering heart. At last he rose to his knees, extended his arms, and in a long, fervent prayer, to which the roaring of the sea murmured an accompaniment, told the universal mother, who will never desert her child, that he would always love her with boundless affection. Just then old Boslaf suddenly stood beside him,--he had not heard his approach, nor did the old man say anything,--and they walked silently along the strand until they reached the old man's lonely little house among the downs. There he made him a rude couch carefully and silently, and mutely smoothed his damp hair with his hand, when he lay down to rest for an hour and looked at the moonlight which shone through the low window on the wall and glimmered upon the weapons, stuffed birds, nets, and fishing-rods, until the rustling of the treetops on the shore and the low murmur of the sea lulled him to sleep.
Gotthold awoke from his dream. The carriage was standing still, and the horses were snorting as they looked into the forest, through which the road led for a short distance. It was perfectly dark, save that here and there a ray from the moon, which had just risen, trembled through the dense foliage of the beeches.
"Why, what's the matter with the cursed jades?" said Jochen.
There was a rustling and crackling in the thick underbrush on the right-hand side of the road; the noise grew louder, approached nearer and nearer, until, like a hurricane, a dark, compact, moving mass burst through the bushes and crashed into the undergrowth on the other side. It was scarcely seen before it disappeared, while the horses, in frantic terror, reared in the harness and swerved aside, so that it was only by the most violent efforts that the two men, who had sprung from the carriage, could control them.
"The confounded wretches," said Jochen, "the same thing happened to me once before in this very spot. The Prince ought to do something about it; but it gets worse every year, and if old Boslaf didn't often thin them out a little it would be unbearable. There, hark!"
The report of a musket rang through the forest at some distance on their left, whither the wolves had taken their flight.
"That was he," said Jochen, in a low tone; "he only needs to whistle and they run straight within reach of his gun. Yes, yes, Herr Gotthold, you said just now that there was nothing of the kind; but you'll make an exception of old Boslaf. He can do more than one trick which no honest Christian can imitate."
"So the old man is still alive?" asked Gotthold as they drove cautiously on through the forest.
"Yes, why shouldn't he be?" replied Jochen, "they say he can live as long as he likes. Well, I don't believe that; his end will probably come some day, though I may not be here; but this I do know, that people who knew him fifty years ago say that he looked just the same then as he does now."
"And he still lives in the house on the beach?"
"Where else should he live?" asked Jochen. They had emerged from the forest and moorland upon the beautiful smooth highway, which, lined with huge poplars, announced to the weary traveller the vicinity of the capital. It was still an hour's journey, but the road sloped gradually downward, and the horses, well aware that their long day's work was over and their cribs close at hand, collected all their strength and trotted briskly onward. The crescent of an increasing moon floated in the deep blue sky, shedding a pure radiance; here and there a flickering reddish light in the dark landscape marked the situation of some mansion house or lonely peasant hut. And now a brighter glow shimmered from the hill up which the road led. Stately houses gleamed forth from amid the dark foliage of the trees and bushes, the horses' hoofs rang upon a stone pavement, and a few moments after the carriage stopped before the "Fürstenhof," whose host welcomed the late arrival with northern cordiality.
Gotthold had expected to reach P. at an early hour; it was now nearly ten o'clock, too late to pay the visit he had promised Herr Wollnow by letter, yet in spite of the time the gentleman might perhaps be waiting, and what he had to settle with him could be despatched in a few minutes. Then the minor object of his journey would be accomplished and he could set out again early the next morning; he would have preferred to go on that night.
The ground seemed to be burning under his feet. The events of the last few hours, the meeting with the playmate of his youth, and his communications, had roused the greatest agitation in his mind. As he passed down the quiet street towards the house of his business acquaintance, he paused several times under the dark trees, gasping for breath, and made a defiant gesture, as if he could thus repel the ghostly throng of memories that hovered around him.
"Thank God that now at least you are sure not to meet an old acquaintance again," he said to himself, as he rang the bell at the door of one of the handsomest houses upon the market-place.
"Herr Wollnow is at home," said the pretty young servant-maid, "and--"
"Bids you a most hearty welcome," interrupted Herr Wollnow, who at that moment came out of his counting-room, and extended a broad, powerful hand to his guest. "I am very glad to make your acquaintance at last, though I deeply regret that the occasion should be so sorrowful. Have you supped this evening? No? Why, that is capital; neither have I. To be sure, you must be contented with my company, at least for the present; my wife has a meeting of her great society to-day. She did not want to go, for she is very anxious to renew her acquaintance with you, or rather make it, as I say; for you will hardly remember her. She promised to be back again at ten o'clock; but I know what that means,--we shall have an hour to ourselves."
Gotthold apologized for his late arrival, but said that he had thought it better to come late than not at all, especially as he intended to set out again early the next morning, if possible.
"I think you will allow us to keep you with us a few days," replied Herr Wollnow; "yet time is money, as Englishmen say, so we will devote the time Stine needs to prepare supper to money matters. I have set everything right." Herr Wollnow invited Gotthold to take a seat upon the sofa in the little private office, and sat down beside him in a leather-covered arm-chair at the round table, on which various papers lay arranged in the most methodical order.
"Here are the documents that concern your late father's legacies," he continued. "I have had wonderfully little trouble in executing the orders you sent me from Milan. The ready money amounted only to a few thalers, and as to furniture and other household appurtenances, the hermits of the Theban wilderness could not have possessed much less than satisfied your father during the latter years of his life. The only really valuable portion of his property was the library, and here I took the liberty of deviating a little from your commands. You had intended that the whole profit derived from the sale should be given to the poor of the parish, and also that your father's successor should be permitted to set his own price upon the books that pleased him, undoubtedly in the supposition that the gentleman would make a proper use of this favor. But that was not the case with Pastor Semmel. He believed in making hay while the sun shone; he not only wanted all the best, but wished to take advantage of the opportunity, and if possible get them for nothing. In a word, your two intentions could not be reconciled, and as I doubtless rightly supposed that the poor people would be nearer your heart than the Pastor, although he made a great ado about the intimacy that had existed between you at the university, and I believe even at school, I offered everything, with the exception of a few insignificant trifles I was obliged to leave with him, to a respectable firm which dealt in secondhand books, and after considerable bargaining came to an understanding with them. We obtained a large sum, as I wrote you, and if you are as well satisfied as the poor people in Rammin, I need not be ashamed of the way in which I carried out your command."
An amused smile flashed from Herr Wollnow's dark eyes as Gotthold warmly pressed his hand.
"I repeat, it was very little trouble," said he, "and I would have taken a hundred times as much with pleasure for a man to whom I am so greatly indebted."
"You so greatly indebted? To me?"
"To you, certainly. If, when you entered into the possession of your property five years ago, you had withdrawn the ten thousand thalers invested in my business, as I earnestly advised you to do, I might not now be in the pleasant situation of being able to return the money to you with my warmest thanks."
"For Heaven's sake," cried Gotthold, pushing back Herr Wollnow's hand, which was extended towards a larger package fastened with an India-rubber band.
"I have put aside the money at any rate," replied Herr Wollnow, "in cash and in good bonds."
"But I don't want it now, any more than I did then."
"Well," said Herr Wollnow, "I cannot persuade you to take it as earnestly as I did five years ago. To-day--I may venture to say it confidently--the money is perfectly safe, and I can give you the highest rate of interest. Then, when I was establishing a new business here under very peculiar circumstances, and in consequence of the impossibility of relying upon my business associates,--I mean the capitalists of this place--a crisis might occur at any moment, I only did my duty when I advised you to intrust your money, if not to more honest, to safer hands. Well, you would not hear of it; would have me keep the money; nay, I even believe I might have had it without interest."
"You will admit, Herr Wollnow, that in so doing I carried out my uncle's views."
"I don't know," replied the merchant. "Your uncle had a personal interest in leaving the money in my hands. The great profits which accrued to the business in Stettin through the new connections I formed, and I may say created here, were so important that they far outweighed the risk of a possible loss. But when your uncle gave you the free disposal of the property by will, he acknowledged that an artist's interests are and must be different from those of a business man."
"Why yes, the interests of his art," replied Gotthold earnestly; "I never had and never shall have any others. In this feeling, and this alone, after I had recovered from my first astonishment, I joyfully welcomed the rich inheritance that fell to my lot so unexpectedly."
"I know it," replied Herr Wollnow; "the assistance I have given from your property to that poor deserving Brüggberg during the last three years proves it, and he will not be your only pensioner."
"It has proved as fortunate for him as for me that help came in time," replied Gotthold.
He supported his head on his left hand, and mechanically drew arabesques on a sheet of paper that lay before him, while he continued in a lower tone:
"And it was also quite time for me. For two years in Munich I had already devoted every hour and moment I could spare from the labor of earning a livelihood, to art, beloved art, which is so infinitely coy to a tyro, especially one who is compelled to begin after his one-and-twentieth year. My strength was almost exhausted; I had seen the last star of hope disappear; nothing bound me to life except a sort of defiance of a fate which I thought I had not deserved, and the shame of appearing to rush out of this world like a simpleton, in the eyes of those who had aided me to live. How distinctly I remember the hour! I had returned to my little attic room towards nightfall, from the studio of a famous artist to which an acquaintance had procured me admittance, with a soul filled to overflowing with the mighty impressions produced by works of the greatest genius, and yet utterly exhausted, for I had resolved a few days before to give up no more lessons, even if I starved, and I was almost starving. I placed myself before my easel, but the colors blended into one confused mass. The palette fell from my hand; I staggered to the table to pour out a glass of water, and--there lay the letter which informed me that I had been made the heir of a relative whom I had never seen, and was the possessor of a fortune which, at a casual estimation, amounted to more than a hundred thousand thalers. What was more natural than that in this wonderful moment I should make the vow: this shall belong to Art, and to you only so far as you are an artist."
"Nothing is more natural and simple," said Herr Wollnow; "but that you should have kept the oath, and I know you have done so, is--as we children of Adam are now constituted--not quite so natural and simple. But now, as the business matters are settled, we will, if agreeable to you, talk more comfortably over a glass of wine."
Herr Wollnow opened the door of a spacious apartment handsomely furnished as a half dining, half sitting room, and invited his guest to take a seat at the table, which was covered with a snow-white cloth, and furnished with all sorts of dainties served in valuable china, and several bottles of wine. As Gotthold sat down, his eyes wandered over several large and small oil paintings which were skilfuly arranged upon the walls.
"Pardon an artist's curiosity," said he.
"I understand little or nothing of your beautiful art," replied Herr Wollnow, as he fastened a napkin under his fat chin; "but my wife is a great amateur, and, as she sometimes persuades herself, a connoisseur. You must give her the pleasure of showing you her treasures. I am afraid the little collection will not find much favor in your eyes, with the exception of one picture, which I also consider a masterpiece, and which is greatly admired by all who see it."
Gotthold would gladly have gone nearer to the paintings; one of them which hung at some little distance, seemed strangely familiar, but Herr Wollnow had already filled the green glasses with odorous Rhine wine, and a robust elderly woman came noisily in with a platter of freshly broiled fish in her red hands.
"Stine says that you were always particularly fond of flounders," said Herr Wollnow, "and so she would not give up the pleasure of offering you your favorite dish herself."
Gotthold looked up at the stout figure, and instantly recognized good Stine Lachmund, who, during his boyhood, had almost kept the house at Dollan in the place of its invalid mistress, and after her death managed affairs entirely alone, yet had always maintained a good understanding with the boys and all the world, in spite of the many difficulties of her position.
He held out his hand to his old friend, who, after putting the platter on the table, and wiping her red fingers on her apron in a most unnecessary manner, grasped it eagerly.
"I was sure you would know me again," said she, her fat face beaming with delight. "But goodness gracious, how you have altered! What a handsome man you have grown! I should never have known you again!"
"So I used to be desperately ugly, Stine?" asked Gotthold, smiling.
"Why," replied Stine, with a grave, questioning glance, "you had handsome blue eyes, it is true; but they always looked so large and sorrowful that it made one feel badly, and then your little thin face was divided by a scar from there to there--it looked terribly; such a good boy, too, it was too outrageous--"
"All that has been forgotten long ago," said Gotthold.
"And a big beard has grown over it," added Stine.
"Yen can tell Line to bring in a bottle of the red seal," said Herr Wollnow, who thought he perceived that his guest wished to cut short this recognition scene. "You must pardon me," he continued, turning to Gotthold, when Stine had gone out after again shaking hands, and the pretty young maid-servant, who moved noiselessly to and fro, began to wait upon the gentlemen, "you must pardon me for being unable to spare you this little scene. The good woman was so delighted to hear of your coming, and a man who returns home must make up his mind to meet familiar faces at every step."
"I have experienced that to-day," replied Gotthold; "your wife, too, you said--"
"Is proud of having known you when you were not a famous artist, but a diffident boy about thirteen years old, who obstinately refused to take part in a dance which some aristocratic mammas had arranged with difficulty, and then joined it when he heard that no one else would dance with little Ottilie Blaustein. She has never forgotten your magnanimity."
"And she--Fraulein Ottilie--"
"Has been my wife for six years," said Herr Wollnow. "You look at me with discreet astonishment; you have quickly calculated that the little dancer of those days cannot now be much more than twenty-five, and you set me down very correctly at some years over fifty--we will say fifty-six. But we Jews--"
"Are you a Jew?" asked Gotthold.
"Of the purest descent," replied Herr Wollnow; "didn't you perceive that, when I locked your money up in my desk so quickly just now? Of the purest Polish descent, although out of love for my wife, who declared that she had suffered enough from Judaism, and also from business motives, I have taken the step, a very easy one for me, from one positive religion which was indifferent to me, to another that was no less so. But I was going to say that we Jews, or we men who are educated in the Jewish faith, are as unromantic in regard to marriage as everything else, but we keep to the law; I mean by that the law of nature, which is not at all romantic, but very sober, and consequently all the more logical."
"Then you think that a great difference between the ages of the husband and wife is one of the laws of nature which should be strictly observed?"
"By no means, only that under certain circumstances it is no impediment."
"Certainly not, but--"
"Allow me to explain my opinion by some statistics. I am descended from a very long-lived family. My grandfather--he could not tell either the place or time of his birth positively--must have been more than a hundred years old when he died, blind and crippled, it is true, but with his mental powers almost entirely unimpaired. My father was ninety. I, who no longer needed to toil and moil for myself, was able six years ago, when in my fiftieth year, to marry, and thus I have the expectation of seeing my little family, even if an addition should be bestowed upon us, grow up to maturity, supposing that I attain my eightieth year, to which, as you will admit, I have on the father's side the most well-founded title."
Herr Wollnow rested his broad shoulders comfortably against the back of his chair, and passed his hands over his high forehead and thick black hair, in which Gotthold could not yet perceive the smallest thread of gray. "That is," said he, "if I understand you rightly, marriage ought to be in the first place arranged for the welfare of the children, and therefore it is only necessary to consider the signs of the times in and for which the children are born."
"Certainly," replied Herr Wollnow; "in the first place, I might almost say in the first and last."
"And the husband and wife?"
"Ought and will find their pleasure in their love for their children, their joy in the new fresh world which surrounds them, as well as a sufficient compensation for all lost illusions, and a reward for the anxieties and deprivations which necessarily spring from this love and joy."
"And their own love, the love which brought them together, which induced them to make this particular choice out of the countless multitude of possibilities--the love which ever increases and must continue to increase until it finally illumines every thought, heightens every feeling, warms every drop of blood--would you take this from marriage, or consider it as something which may or may not exist? Never! 'Love is everywhere, except in hell,' says Wolfram von Eschenbach. I know not whether he is right, but I do know that a marriage where there is no love, nay, where love does not exist as I understand it, is in my eyes a hell."
Gotthold had spoken with a passion which, eagerly as he strove to suppress it, had not escaped the keen ears of his host.
"Let us change the subject," he said kindly, "and try another upon which we shall certainly find it easier to agree."
"No, let us keep to this," replied Gotthold; "upon so important a subject I am anxious to hear the opinion of a man whose judgment and character I prize so highly--the full opinion; for I am sure you have still much to say."
"Certainly," replied Herr Wollnow hesitatingly; "a great deal, but I fear very little that will please you, as you now think of marriage. I say as you now think, and beg you not to misunderstand me; for you, who have grown up among romantic traditions, and, as an artist, are perhaps especially disposed to take an ideal view of human affairs, can probably not be induced to give up your preconceived opinion except by your own experience. But no matter; I should need to be far less firmly convinced of the justice of my own opinion than I am, or to esteem my opponent less than I do if I allowed your last proposition to pass without contradiction. You said that without love, as you so eloquently described it, marriage would be a hell; I assert that this very love, or rather the unrealized dream of this love, makes a hell of many, far too many marriages."
"Unrealized," said Gotthold; "oh! yes, that is just what causes the unhappiness."
"An unavoidable one, or at least in many cases not to be avoided. You will admit that most marriages must commence with this illusion, which is more or less vivid according to the nature and imaginative power of the dreamer. There are so few persons who do not desire to be specially rewarded for paying their debts to nature and society. When they perceive that the question of marriage concerns a very different object from the realization of their dreams, and that this object is the more easily attained the less they give themselves up to fancies, the majority, of course, will at first rub their eyes in some little perplexity, but no longer take the affair tragically, but as it is; and these are the marriages which I--with all due respect for humanity, which certainly consists of average mortals--call average marriages, and which in Germany, England, America, nay, even in France and Italy, wherever I have wandered in the civilized world, I have always found as much alike as two eggs. It is, take it all in all, very dry, but very healthful prose; there is much modest quiet happiness, and of course also much, very much sorrow; but none which would not befall a human being as such. I mean the frail, easily injured creature at last doomed to death--and very little which results from the marriage. But this misery is found in overwhelming measure when people wish to realize, nay to transform into a still more brilliant reality, the dream they have enjoyed as lovers. How many heart-breaking conflicts, how many vain struggles, how much strength wasted which was greatly needed for far more important purposes, how much senseless and useless cruelty towards one's self and others! You see I speak only of those who take life earnestly, not of the multitudes of stupid people who are incapable of any moral idea, nor of the, if possible, still greater number of frivolous natures; who snap their fingers at all morality."
"I know it," replied Gotthold; "but why should not earnest, honorable human beings, when they become conscious of their mistakes, seek to cast out the errors that have crept into the score of their lives while there is time?"
"In what way?"
"By restoring each other's freedom."
"Freedom? What freedom? The liberty of chaining themselves again as soon as possible, of making another choice at once if, as is usually the case, they have not previously done so; a new choice which will probably prove no wiser, no more circumspect, than the first? Consider, we are speaking of earnest, honorable human beings! Well, they doubtless went earnestly and honorably to work in making their first choice, and if, in spite of all their earnestness, they went astray where they could choose freely and without embarrassment, they certainly would the second time, when burdened by the weight of self-created suffering, blinded by a treacherous passion. If a new clerk begins the first calculation I allow him to make on an entirely false principle, I may not send him away, but I never intrust any important matter to him again without watching him. And--while there is time--did you say? When is there time? Perhaps never, if two people have belonged to each other body and soul--for earnest, honorable people will give their souls to each other--perhaps never, and certainly not after; and here I come back to the point from whence I started--after the bond which thereby becomes a hallowed one has been blessed with children. Believe me, I could make many other remarks upon this subject: the chasm that severs the parents goes through the hearts of the children; they will feel the gulf painfully sooner or later, and never wholly cease to suffer from it, if--which to be sure is not always the case--they have hearts."
"And will not a child's heart be torn," cried Gotthold, painfully agitated, "will it not bleed at the thought of its parents who have lived together in torment, and wasted away in this torture?"
"They would not have wasted away," replied Herr Wollnow, "if they had come to an understanding with each other in my acceptation of the term; if they had always said to each other, and kept faithfully in their hearts the thought: for our children's sakes we must not despond, must bear our sorrows, must sacredly keep the ledger of our lives, and, if any error has actually crept in, calculate and calculate until we have found it. Who in the world should be responsible for the result except the person to whom the book was intrusted? And then there is also a bankruptcy from which the unfortunate sufferer comes forth impoverished, perhaps a beggar, with nothing to cover his nakedness except the consciousness: you have done your duty, met your obligations. Woe to him who cannot think this of his parents: well for him who can think and say so; who by their graves can weep sorrowful but sweet tears, and pass on in peace."
Gotthold's head was resting on his hand. Let us have peace, he had said to his father's shade, and sorrowful but sweet tears had fallen from his eyes upon his mother's grave. Would they have been less sweet if she had left the father who could not make her happy, if she had sought and perhaps found joy in another's arms?
Herr Wollnow's dark eyes rested upon his guest's noble features, now shadowed by gloom and doubt, with an expression of mingled compassion and severity. Had he said too much, or not enough? Should he be silent, or ought he to say more, and tell the young man who so closely resembled his mother, and yet had so much of his father's character, the history of his parents?
Just then the door-bell rang, and at the same moment his wife's voice sounded from the entry. She was a woman to quickly inspire other and gayer thoughts in men's minds, even if the conversation had taken a grave and critical turn.
"I beg you to excuse me a thousand, thousand times," cried Fran Wollnow from the threshold of the door.
"That makes two thousand," said her husband, who with his guest had risen to meet her.
"You shan't always reckon up everything, you bad man."
"But take no notice of anything--"
"And you shan't always interrupt me and spoil my prettiest speeches. I had thought of the most charming things to say to our guest."
"Perhaps they begin with good evening?"
"Why, of course; good evening, and welcome, you are most heartily welcome," said Frau Wollnow, extending two plump little hands to Gotthold, and looking up into his face with the most eager curiosity in her brown eyes. "Dear me, how you have grown, and how much you have improved!"
Gotthold could not return the compliment. Ottilie Blaustein seemed to him to have grown much stouter, but neither taller nor handsomer than when he last saw her. Nevertheless the plump, somewhat flushed face beamed with mirth and good-nature, and it was by no means difficult for him to respond to the cordial greeting of his old acquaintance with no less warmth. She begged the gentlemen to sit down again; she would, with their permission, take a seat with them, and beg for a glass of wine, for she had been obliged to talk so much that evening that she was very thirsty. Then she instantly started up again, and asked her husband in a half whisper whether he had already showed it to him, in reply to which mysterious question Herr Wollnow smilingly shook his stately head. "I would not spoil your pleasure," said he.
"You good Emil!" she exclaimed, hastily kissing her husband on the forehead, and then turned to Gotthold. "Come, I must give you a proof that you obliged no ungrateful person when you enabled the little Jewish girl to join the dance. See, I bought this in remembrance of you, and would have purchased it if it had been as worthless as it is valuable, and as dear as the price for which I obtained my treasure was nominal."
She had seized a candle, and now led Gotthold to the landscape which had already attracted his attention, even across the room. The latter started, and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of surprise and pain.
"It is Dollan, isn't it?" said Ottilie.
Gotthold made no reply; he took the candle from the lady's hand, and held it so that the light fell upon the picture, which was hung rather too high. Yes, it was the very one into which he had painted his love and anguish, the picture of which he had just spoken to Herr Wollnow, that had been upon his easel on the evening which had made such a wonderful change in his life. To prove to himself that he had irrevocably broken all ties with his past, and must now begin a new phase of his life and struggles, he gave away the sketch and did not destroy the picture, but very prosaically presented it to an exhibition, from which it went to another, then to a third and fourth, and was finally sold, he did not know where or to whom, nor did he wish to know; it should disappear to him. And yet during all this time he had been unable to shake off the recollection of this picture. He could have painted it again from memory, but it would not have been the one hallowed by so much suffering. And he must find it again, here and now, when his soul was already so full of the magic fragrance which everything he saw and heard bore to him from the days when every breath that swept across »his brow or fanned his cheek, exhaled the odor of pine trees, of the ocean, and of love.
"And how do you suppose I obtained it?" said Frau Wollnow; "and especially how do you suppose I found out it was yours; for you know we do not judge from the style, or at least I did not at that time. But when people are to have a piece of good fortune! So I said to Cecilia Brandow, whom I--it is now six years ago, and I had just been married--met at the wool market in Sundin, I had almost said; but of course only the gentlemen went there, and we drove in with them on account of the exhibition, where I met her. We had so much to say, like any two friends who had not seen each other since they left boarding-school--you perhaps do not remember that Cecilia and I were in the same boarding-school at Sundin--or at least I had a great deal to say, for I found Cecilia very quiet. I believe she had lost her second child only a short time before. We were separated by the crowd, and I at last found her again in one of the most out-of-the-way rooms, standing alone before this picture with her eyes full of tears, which, as I came up, she tried to conceal."
"Good Heavens!" said I; "isn't that--"
"Yes," she replied; "and it is by him."
"By whom?"
"In a word, she had recognized it instantly, and would not admit that she was mistaken when I told her the 'G. W.' in the corner might be Heaven knows whom. You see I didn't understand much about pictures then--now when I--but your hand trembles, you cannot hold the candlestick any longer."
"Let me have the picture," said Gotthold; then perceiving that the husband and wife were looking at him in surprise, he added calmly, replacing the candlestick upon the table: "The painting is really not worthy to be hung among your other pictures, which are excellent. It is the work of a pupil, and moreover was painted from memory after a very hasty sketch, I will promise you another and better one of the same place, which I will make on the spot if you will--"
"Oh! that would be delightful, that would be splendid," exclaimed Frau Wollnow. "I will hold you to your promise: another, not a better one, you can't make it better, that is impossible; but to have a picture painted on the spot by the most celebrated landscape painter of the day will be a triumph of which I can boast all the rest of my life. Give me your hand upon it!" She held out both hands to Gotthold.
"Well," said Herr Wollnow, "the bargain is made, and now according to the good old custom we will seal it with a drink. You see, Herr Gotthold Weber, woman's wit surpasses priestly cunning. I might have preached a long time to induce you to remain here; my wife comes, and the timid bird is caught. Well, I am glad of it, heartily glad."
"And how delighted Cecilia will be," cried Frau Wollnow. "My poor Cecilia! she really needs something to divert her thoughts a little, and this will be so pleasant." Gotthold turned pale. When he made his over-hasty promise, the thought of thus creating a convenient pretext for seeing Cecilia again had certainly been farthest from his mind.
"I think we can spare our friend the trouble of the journey," said Herr Wollnow, "and you will be perfectly well satisfied with a copy."
"You certainly know that we are not talking about a copy, but a new, entirely new picture," exclaimed Ottilie. "But you understand nothing about it, my dear Emil, or he doesn't want to understand."
"I only do not want to send our friend away again immediately, but to keep him with us."
"Tell the truth, Emil, tell the truth," said Frau Wollnow, shaking her finger at him. "The fact, Herr Weber, is simply that he can't bear Brandow, Heaven knows why. To be sure I can't either, and have no reason for it except that he always teased me at the dancing lessons in his malicious way. But I care nothing about him, only his angelic wife."
"And since husband and wife are one--"
"If everybody thought as you do, dear Emil--and I too, of course; but there is no rule without an exception, and the Brandow marriage is one so thoroughly bad and unfortunate that I really do not see why we--"
"Should talk so much about it," said Herr Wollnow; "and it is all the more unnecessary, as our guest can probably take no special interest in the subject."
"No interest," cried Ottilie, clasping her hands; "no interest. Pray, Herr Gotthold--how I keep falling into the old habit--excuse me--but do tell this man, who thinks Goethe's 'Elective Affinities' in bad taste--"
"Pardon me, I said immoral--"
"No, in bad taste; the evening of the day before yesterday, when we were talking about it at the Herr Conrector's, and you made the unprecedented assertion that Goethe had committed a perfidy--yes, you said perfidy--when he made the only person in the whole novel who uttered anything truthful about marriage-the mediator--a half simpleton."
"But what do you want with your elective affinities!" exclaimed Wollnow almost angrily.
"He don't believe in them," said Ottilie triumphantly, "and says that, like ghosts, they only haunt the brains of fools. But the fact is, he only pretends to think so, and secretly believes in them more than many other people; and now he is troubled, as a child is afraid of ghosts, at the thought that you will go to Dollan and see your old friend again."
"How absurdly you talk," said Herr Wollnow, scarcely concealing his painful embarrassment by a forced smile.
"Why, we have talked of nothing else all the evening in our little society," cried Ottilie. "You must know, Herr Gotthold, that there are three members of our dancing class here besides myself--all married now: Pauline Ellis--well, she perhaps will not interest you; Louise Palm, the girl with the brown eyes--we always called her Zingarella; and Hermine Sandberg--you know, that handsome girl, it is a pity that she was a little cross-eyed and stammered. We knew everything, everything down to the smallest particulars, especially your duel with Carl Brandow--"
"At which, however, so far as I can remember, none of the ladies you have mentioned were present," said Gotthold.
"Good!" exclaimed Herr Wollnow.
"No, it isn't good," said Ottilie pouting; "it isn't at all good or kind in Herr Gotthold to make fun of the faithful friendship people have kept for him for so many years."
"That was very far from my intention," replied Gotthold. "On the contrary, I feel highly honored and greatly flattered that my humble self furnished such charming ladies with a subject for conversation, even for a few moments."
"Go on with your jibes."
"I assure you once more that I am perfectly sincere."
"Will you give me a proof of it?"
"Certainly, if I can."
"Well then," said Ottilie with a deep blush, "tell me how the duel chanced to take place, for I will confess that one said one thing, and another another, and at last we found out that nobody knew. Will you?"
"Very willingly," said Gotthold.
He had noticed Herr Wollnow's repeated attempts to give the conversation another turn, and thought he could perceive that his host's former remarks had not been so entirely unpremeditated as they had at first seemed. Had Frau Wollnow told her husband a romance to suit her own fancy, and made him play Heaven knows what ridiculous part? He must try to put an end to such rumors, and believed that the very best way of doing so would be to fulfil Frau Wollnow's wish, and tell the story with the utmost possible frankness, as if it concerned a third person.
These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind as he slowly raised the glass of wine to his lips. He sipped a little of it, and then said, turning to Frau Wollnow with a smile:--
"How gladly, honored lady, would I begin my story with the words of Schiller: 'Oh! queen, you wake the unspeakably torturing smart of the old wound, but it won't do, it won't do. True, when there is any sudden change of weather I have a twinge in the wound, but it is by no means unspeakably painful; and at all events at this moment I feel nothing at all, except the profound truth of the old saying, that young people will be young people, and will play youthful pranks, oftentimes very foolish ones. To this latter category undoubtedly belongs my combat with Carl Brandow, which did not, however, as you suppose, originate in the dancing lessons, but was only brought to a decisive issue there, after it had long been glowing under the ashes, and even threatened once before to break out into light flames. The first cause was this. In our fifth form it was an old custom, most sacredly observed, that an open space should be reserved between the first bench and the lecturer's chair for the 'old boys,' which no 'new boy' was permitted to enter before the close of the first term, on pain of a severe thrashing. Carl Brandow, it is true, belonged to the 'old boys,' indeed the very old boys; for he had been in the fifth form three years, but was still on the last bench, although if I remember rightly, he had already passed his eighteenth birthday. I was one of the 'new boys,' one of the latest comers indeed; for I had just entered at Michaelmas, a lad of fourteen, to the no small annoyance of my father, who had prepared me himself, and expected I should be at once enrolled among the first classes. It was not without reason, for when at the end of the first week, according to custom, the rank of the different scholars was assigned from the result of certain exercises we called extemporalia, mine proved to be without fault, and I was transferred to my well-earned dignity ofPrimus omniumwith a certain degree of ceremony. And yet I was not even now to be permitted to cross the space before the first bench! From the first moment I had felt this prohibition as an outrage; now I openly declared it to be one, and said that I would never submit to it, but on the contrary demanded the abolition of the brutal rule, not only for myself but all the new boys, whose champion I considered myself.
"In thus wording my demand I had really been guided only by my own intuitive sense of justice, without being actuated by any other motive; but the result proved that I could not have done better if I had been the most crafty demagogue. Standing alone, I should have had no chance of accomplishing my bold innovation; but now my cause was the cause of all, that is of all the 'new boys,' and chance willed that our numbers were exactly the same as those of the other party. Even in regard to bodily strength, which boys so well know how to rate according to age, we might probably have compared tolerably with them, and the little that was wanting would have been well supplied by the enthusiasm for the good cause which I unceasingly labored to arouse--if it had not been for Carl Brandow. Who could withstand this eighteen-years-old hero, slender and strong as a young pine? He would rage among us like Achilles among the Trojans, and strew the field--a retired open space in a little wood behind the school-house--with the bodies of the enemies he had hurled to the ground; for it was agreed that whoever in struggling should touch the earth with his back was to be considered conquered, and desist from the battle, which was to be decided in this manner before the eyes of six honorable members of the first class, who accepted the office of umpires with a readiness deserving of acknowledgment.
"Yet there was no retreat, even if we, which was not the case, had thought of making one. The hour arrived--one Saturday afternoon, on which we had contrived to evade the watchfulness of the teacher--and I do not believe that soldiers ordered to assault a battery vomiting death and destruction can feel more solemn and earnest than did we. I may say, especially I. I had caused the struggle; I had involved all the brave boys in it; I felt responsible for the result, and for the disgrace in case of defeat--an event which seemed more probable every moment. That I was determined to do my utmost and strain every nerve is a matter of course. I hoped and prayed the gods that Carl Brandow might fall to me--for the antagonists were to be drawn by lot, and only he who had conquered his opponent was permitted to choose from among those who had vanquished theirs until all was decided. I do not remember whether the senior boys, who devised these ingenious rules, had copied from Sir Walter Scott; I only know I have never read the famous description of the tournament at Ashby, in Ivanhoe, without being reminded of that Saturday afternoon--the shady forest glade, and the boyish faces glowing with courage and ardor for the combat.
"And, as in the tournament of Ashby, a wholly unforeseen accident in the person of the Black Knight, theNoir Fainéant, saved the hero's otherwise hopelessly lost cause, so it was here.
"Among the new boys was a lad of sixteen, with a frank honest face, which would have been handsome if it had possessed a little more animation, and the large earnest blue eyes had been a shade less dreamy. Although not tall, he was powerfully built, and we should perhaps have reckoned upon his assistance had not his indolence seemed to us to be very much greater than the strength he might possess, for he had never given any proof of it; and in reply to our eager questions about how he rated himself, merely shrugged his broad shoulders in silence."
"Curt Wenhof!" exclaimed Frau Wollnow.
"Yes, Curt Wenhof, my poor dear Curt," continued Gotthold, whose voice trembled at the recollection of the beloved friend of his youth. "I can see him now, as, after throwing his adversary to the ground as easily as a binder casts the sheaf behind him, he stood there as idly as if he had nothing more to do with the affair. I had also hurled my antagonist down and was just rising, gasping for breath, when Carl Brandow, who meantime had disposed of two or three, rushed upon me. 'Now,' I thought to myself, 'you must make it as hard for him as possible.' I did not dream of victory. But at the same instant Curt sprang before me; the next moment the two opponents had seized each other, and at the first grip Carl Brandow perceived that he had to deal with an adversary who was at least his equal in strength and courage, and, as the result proved, greatly his superior in coolness and endurance. It was a beautiful spectacle to see the two young athletes wrestling together--a spectacle we all enjoyed, umpires, victors, vanquished, and combatants; for by a silent agreement we had all formed a wide circle around them and watched every phase of the conflict with hope, fear, and loud cheers, according to the side to which we belonged, until at last a wild shout of exultation rang from my party, as Curt Wenhof raised his opponent, whose strength was utterly exhausted, and hurled him upon the turf with such violence that the poor fellow lay half senseless, unable to move.
"The conflict was decided, so said the seniors, and in truth it was; who would have ventured to cope with Carl Brandow's conqueror? In the joy of my heart I embraced the good Curt, vowed an eternal friendship with him, and then turned to Carl Brandow, who meantime had risen from the ground, and, as the leader of one party to the representative of the other, offered him my hand, expressing the wish and hope that an honorable peace might follow the honorable struggle. He took my hand, and I believe even laughed, and said he was not a fool to grieve over a thing that could not be helped."
"That's just like him," cried Frau Wollnow eagerly, "friendly and agreeable to your face, and malicious and cruel behind your back."
"You see my wife has already taken sides," said Herr Wollnow.
"Already!" exclaimed Fran Wollnow. "Why, I never thought or felt otherwise; I have always been against him, and certainly had good reason for it; I should like to know what would have become of me at those dancing lessons, if you had not come to my assistance so kindly. I shall never forget it, and it was all the more noble in you, because you cared nothing about me, but were in love with the beautiful Cecilia, which I never suspected."
"I fear it would be useless to contradict you."
"Entirely useless. I can see you now starting from the chair beside me, pale with anger and trembling in every limb, when Carl Brandow kissed Cecilia, and she burst into tears."
"And had I not reason to be angry!" exclaimed Gotthold. "It was an agreement among us young people that the kisses which were ordered in the games of forfeits were to consist in pressing the lips upon the hand. All were bound by it, even Carl Brandow; and until then the compact had been inviolably kept. I had a right not to suffer this insolent breach of the bargain, or permit it to pass unpunished,--a double right, since during the last year I had been to Dollan with Curt so often, and was on such friendly terms with the brother and sister, especially as Curt, as you may remember, in his indolent way, would not share the dancing lessons, and I might therefore be permitted to consider myself the legitimate protector of my friend. Moreover, Curt, whom I had with great difficulty pulled through the examination for the senior class, was not in favor with the teachers; a flagrant breach of the peace such as would now be necessary, would undoubtedly have caused him to be suspended; and finally I will confess I thought Carl Brandow intended to vex and insult me by his impertinence, and resolved to take up the gauntlet and fight out the battle for Curt as he had appeared for me. It was all youthful folly, my honored friends; I blush even now when I think of it, and so I will relate what remains to be told in as few words as possible.
"The preparations for the duel--for us proud seniors it must of course be a genuine duel"--continued Gotthold, "were conducted with all possible secrecy. Only those immediately concerned,--that is, the principals and seconds, to use this classic expression,--knew the place and hour. It was not difficult to procure weapons, for in spite of the strictest commands, there were at least half a dozen pairs of rapiers among us. Carl Brandow had one, and his particular friends told wonderful stories of his skill; but Curt was also the fortunate possessor of two good swords, with whose terrible clatter we had often, when at Dollan, startled the quiet woods from their repose. I had a quick eye, and, spite of my fifteen years, a firm hand, and Carl Braudow was probably no little surprised when, at the decisive moment, he found his despised opponent so well prepared; at least, he grew more restless and violent every moment, and thus made it possible for me, although he was really greatly my superior in skill, not only to hold my ground but even to change my posture to one of attack, and deal him a blow on the shoulder so deep that the blood flowed through the sleeve. The seconds shouted to us to stop. I instantly lowered my rapier, but in his frenzy of rage at his mischance he heard the shout and saw my gesture no more than I saw and heard anything of what happened to me during the next four weeks."
"He is said to have struck twice," observed Frau Wollnow; "the last time when you were lying on the ground."
"I do not believe it and never shall," replied Gotthold; "our seconds had certainly lost their heads and could not afterwards say positively how the affair had happened. But now, my clear Madam and Herr Wollnow, I fear I must have, exhausted your patience and will take my leave. Good Heavens! Twelve o'clock already! It is unpardonable!"
"I could have listened all night," said Frau Wollnow, with a deep sigh, as she also, but very slowly, rose from her chair. "Ah! youth, youth! people are never young but once."
"Thank God," said Gotthold gayly; "otherwise people would be compelled to play their foolish pranks twice."
"Who is so old as to be safe from folly," said Herr Wollnow, with a grave smile.
"You!" exclaimed his wife, embracing him. "You are much too old and far too wicked. People must not only be young, but also good, like our friend here, in order to be so badly rewarded for all his goodness. I can imagine how it went to your heart when Cecilia, married this Brandow. That sweet innocent girl of seventeen wedded to him! Ah! when we see such things it is enough to make us lose faith in mankind forever."
"This faith is not so frequently to be found either in Israel or elsewhere," said Herr Wollnow.
"Will you go?"
"I am going already, my dear Madam."
"Oh, dear! now you are beginning too. I meant to say, will you really go to Dollan?"
"I must do so now, even if I were not obliged to go on account of the picture."
"Why?"
"To restore my faith in mankind, at least the part most important to me, myself," replied Gotthold, with a smile, whose derision did not escape Herr Wollnow.
"I am very much displeased with you," said the latter, as he re-entered the dining-room, after accompanying Gotthold to the door.
"With me?"
"What must the man think of me? What a meddlesome awkward fellow he must consider me. It is a real piece of good fortune that I went no farther."
"But what have I done?"
"Why did you never tell me this famous narrative of your youth, from which it is very evident that he loved and probably still loves your friend Cecilia, as you call her, although I have never seen anything of the friendship."
"Do you really think so?" exclaimed Fran Wollnow, starting up and throwing her arms around her husband; "do you really think so? Did he tell you so?"
In spite of his vexation, Herr Wollnow could not help laughing.
"I should probably be the last person whom he would choose for his confidant, especially now, after I, stupid oaf, have been hammering away upon this subject for the last hour."
"On this subject? I really don't understand you, Emil."
"Don't understand me! Gracious, you clever soul! How difficult it is for women to see their way in matters they proudly condescend to consider their own. Don't understand me? Well, I can assure you that yonder enthusiast understood you perfectly, and will be on his way to Dollan early to-morrow morning."
"Well, I can't see any particular harm in that," said Frau Wollnow. "Why should not those two meet again, after so many years, even if they really do still love each other? I will give poor Cecilia the pleasure with all my heart--she needs consolation so much."
"As much as her worthy husband needs money. Day after to-morrow is the last day of grace for his note of five thousand thalers which is deposited with me. Perhaps he will help both: he has the means to do so."
"Oh! Emil, your everlasting prose is unbearable."
"I never promised you that you would find me a poet."
"Heaven knows that."
"It would be better for me if you knew it."
"Emil!"
"I beg your pardon. I am really so much annoyed that I can't help being spiteful. But that conies of meddling with other people's affairs. Let the fools do as they please, and come to bed."