Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 48

The Count is ready, and takes leave of the ladies. Shortly afterwards they see him in the cutter with the Prince, who is helping his two sailors to hoist the tiny sail. The gentlemen wave a respectful farewell to the Lenzdorffs; the cutter glides off, at first slowly from among the gondolas, then more and more swiftly, skimming the water like a bird in the direction of the line of foam which marks the boundary of the open sea.

It is a trifle which has made the weight upon Erika's heart heavier in the last minute. She has said to herself that never again after to-morrow will a man accord her the respectful courtesy just shown her by the two gentlemen in the cutter.

Her attack of cowardice is a short one, however. Immediately afterwards she feels the joy of a fanatic who delights in suffering one pang more for his convictions.

"I cannot see why we have not been called to lunch," Countess Lenzdorff remarks, consulting her watch; then, observing Erika, she is startled by the girl's looks. "What is the matter with you?" she asks, and when the girl's only answer is a rapid change of colour, the thought occurs to her for the first time, "Is it possible that she cares for Lozoncyi?--my proud Erika?" She observes her grand-daughter narrowly, and an ugly suspicion invades her heart. "What reply shall I make to Goswyn?" she thinks. "Good heavens! I had no idea! Perhaps it is only fancy. But if---- It would be my fault. And people call me shrewd! Poor child!"

Meanwhile, Fritz announces that lunch is served.

"My child, you are eating nothing," the old Countess says anxiously to her grand-daughter, who is doing her best to swallow a morsel of food.

"I am not very well," Erika replies, in a faint, weary voice. How often those tones will ring through the old Countess's soul! "I have a slight headache," and she puts her hand to her head; "I feel as if a storm were coming; but there is not a cloud in the sky."

"So, there is not a cloud to be seen. The sunshine is so powerful in the dining-hall that the shades have to be drawn down, thus diffusing a gray twilight through the room.

"Let us go to our rooms," says the old Countess, with a sigh of discouragement. They go, and Erika seems to be making ready for the proposed expedition. But when her grandmother, fully arrayed, enters the girl's room half an hour afterwards, she finds her in a long white dressing-gown with loosened hair, leaning back in an easy-chair.

"My child, my child! what is the matter with you?" the old lady exclaims, in terror.

"Nothing," the girl replies, without lifting her downcast eyes. "A headache. You can see I meant to go, but I cannot: you must go without me. Give all kinds of affectionate messages to Constance, and tell her how sorry I am."

"My dear child, I cannot go with those people if you are not well," the old lady says, beginning to take off her gloves. "No human being could expect me to do that."

Erika is trembling violently. "But, grandmother," she replies, "it is only a headache. You can do me no good by staying at home, and you know I cannot bear to make a disturbance."

"Yes, yes," says the grandmother. "But lie down, at least, my darling."

"You could not disappoint Constance Muhlberg: you know she depends upon you, she needs your support," Erika goes on, persuasively.

"Yes, that is true," the Countess admits.

She notices that Erika has hastily brushed away tears from her eyes, and the suspicion which had a.s.sailed her below in the garden is strengthened. Perhaps it would be better to leave the girl in peace for a while, she says to herself.

Meanwhile, Marianne appears, to say that the Countess Muhlberg is awaiting the ladies below in her gondola.

"Go, grandmother dear," Erika says, faintly; "go!"

"Yes, I will go; but first let me see you lie down, my child." She conducts Erika to the bed. "How you tremble! You can hardly stand." She arranges her long dressing-gown, strokes the girl's cheek, and kisses her forehead. She has reached the door, when she hears a low voice behind her say, "Grandmother!"

She turns. Erika is half sitting up in bed, looking after her. "What is it, my child?"

"Nothing, only I was thinking just now that I have not treated you as I ought, sometimes lately. Forgive me, grandmother!"

The old lady clasps the trembling girl in her arms. "Little goose!"

she says. "As if that were of any consequence, my darling! Only go quietly to sleep, that I may find you well when I return. Where is my pocket-handkerchief? Oh, there is Goswyn's letter: when you are a little better you can read it. You need not be afraid that I shall try to persuade you; that time has gone by; but I think the letter ought to please you. At all events, it is something to have inspired so thoroughly excellent a man with so deep and true an affection; and you will see, too, that you have been unjust to him. Good-bye, my darling, good-bye."

For the last time Erika presses the delicate old hand to her lips. The Countess has gone. Erika is alone. She has locked her door, and is sitting on her bed with Goswyn's letter open on her lap. Her tears are falling thick and fast upon it. It reads as follows:

"My very dear old Friend,--

"Shall you be in Venice next week, and may I come to you there? I do not want you to tell me if I have any chance: I shall come at all events, unless Countess Erika is actually betrothed. This is plain speaking, is it not?

"Have you known, or have you not known, that through all these years since my rejection by the Countess Erika not a day has pa.s.sed for me that has not been filled with thoughts of her? In any case my conduct must have seemed inexplicable to you: probably you have thought me ridiculously sensitive. It is true, ridiculous sensitiveness, as I now see, has been the true cause of my foolish, unjustifiable behaviour, but it has not been the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor. G.o.d forbid!

"I should never have been provoked by the Countess Erika's rejection of me,--no, never,--even if it had not been conveyed in so bewitching a way that one ought to have kneeled down and adored her for it. There was another reason for my sensitiveness. A certain person, whose name there is no need to mention, hinted that I was in pursuit of Countess Erika's money. From that moment my peace of mind was at an end. I could not go near her again, because, to speak plainly, I was conscious that I was not a suitable match for her.

"You think this petty. I think it is petty myself,--so petty that I despise myself, and simply ask, am I any more worthy of so glorious a creature, now that I have a few more marks a year to spend?

"I dread being punished for my obstinate stupidity. Perhaps there was no possibility of my winning her heart, but it was worth a trial, and she has a right to reproach me for never in all these years making that trial. Inconceivable as my long delay must appear to you, I am sure you can understand why I have not thus appealed to you lately, so soon after the terrible misfortune that has befallen me.

"It was too horrible!

"In addition to my sincere sorrow for my brother's death, I am tormented by the sensation that I never sufficiently prized the n.o.bility of character which his last moments revealed. To turn so terrible a catastrophe to my advantage would have been to me impossible. I could not have done it, even although I had not been so crushed by the manner of his death that all desire, all love of life, has for some weeks seemed dead within me.

"Yesterday I met Frau von Norbin, who has lately returned from her Italian tour. She informed me that Prince Nimbsch is paying devoted attention to Countess Erika, although at present with small encouragement.

"Jealousy has roused me from my lethargy. And now I ask you once more, may I come to Venice? Unless something unforeseen should occur, I could obtain a leave without much trouble. Again I repeat, I do not ask you what chance I have,--I know that I have none at present,--but I only ask you, may I come?

"Impatiently awaiting your answer, I am faithfully yours,

"G. v. Sydow."

She read the letter to the last word, her tears flowing faster and faster. Then she threw herself on the bed, and buried her face among the pillows. A yearning desire a.s.sailed her heart, and thrilled through her every nerve, calling aloud, "Turn back! turn back!" But it was too late; she would not turn back. She was entirely possessed by the illusion that she was about to do something grand and elevating.

A low knock at the door recalled her to herself. It was Marianne, who, instructed by the old Countess, came to see if she would not have a cup of tea.

"By and by, Marianne," she called, without opening the door. "I want nothing at present. I am better."

Marianne left, and Erika looked at her watch. Four o'clock! It was time to begin her final preparations.

She gathered together all her trinkets,--an unusually large and valuable collection for a girl. She had been fond of jewelry, and her grandmother had denied her nothing. Without one longing thought of them, she selected all that were of special value, running through her fingers five strings of beautiful pearls, and calculating as she did so their probable worth. These she added to the heap, and then wrapped all together in a package, upon which she wrote "For the Poor." Then she sat down at her writing-table and explained her last wishes, arranging everything as one would who contemplated suicide. Not one of her numerous _protegees_ did she forget, commending them all to her grandmother's care.

After everything in this respect that was necessary, or at least that she considered necessary, was arranged, she reflected that she must write a farewell to her grandmother.

It was a terribly hard task, but after she had begun her letter there seemed to be no end to it. She covered three sheets, and there were yet many loving things to say. Now first she comprehended all that her grandmother had been to her of late years. She forgot how often the old Countess's philosophy had grated upon her, how often she had rebelled against it. How hard it was to leave her! But retreat was not to be thought of.

And she wrote on.

At last she concluded with, "Every one else will point the finger of scorn at me; you will bewail my course, but you will not call it evil, only foolish. Poor, dear grandmother! And you will mourn over the misery which I have voluntarily brought upon myself. It is terrible that I cannot fulfil the mission in life which lies so clearly before me without giving you pain. But I cannot help it! One thing consoles me. I know how large-minded you are: you will have to choose between the world and me, and you will be strong enough to resign the world and to turn to me, and then nothing will be wanting to me in my new life, let people slander me as they will!"

Three times did Erika fold up the letter, and three times did she open it again to add something to it.

At last it was finished. She put with it into the envelope the draft of her wishes as to the disposal of the effects she left behind her, and then asked herself where she should put the letter so that her grandmother might find it instantly upon her return. At first she took it to the Countess's room, but then, reflecting that the old lady would come at once to her bedside to see how she was, she laid it, with eyes streaming with tears, upon the table beside her bed. "Poor grandmother!" She kissed the letter tenderly as she left it.

Now everything was finished: she had only to dress herself. But she was not content. Once more she sat down at her writing-table and wrote.

This time the words came slowly and with difficulty from her pen, as if each one were torn singly from her bleeding heart.