Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 2

"And then I wrote her a letter of renunciation, did I not? And the poor forsaken one, in her despair, engaged herself within four-and-twenty hours to Count Finkenburg, who had long been vainly suing for her hand?

And the old gentleman was so enchanted that scarce a week after he died from rapture and paralysis combined, without even having time to remember his fair bride in his will! Was it not so?"

"Let us change the topic, Uncle Bertram," Erna replied. "I hear from your words and from your tone that you are excited, and I now feel doubly how awkward I was in turning our talk, for auntie's sake, to a subject I ought to know nothing of, and which I certainly should never have mentioned."

"I cannot let you off like that, alas! my child," Bertram said in reply. "I must still ask you from whom your information is derived.

From Fraulein von Aschhof, of course?"

"I cannot find it unnatural," Erna said, "if Aunt Lydia, in the excitement she has laboured under ever since your visit here was announced, and since she determined to see you again, has unburdened her overflowing heart to me, and has told me all which--or the greater part of which--I knew or guessed. And she has urgently entreated me not to repeat a word of this to you, and I am sure she is convinced that I would do nothing of the kind. But I gave her no promise, for I have always been very fond of you, Uncle Bertram, very, very fond; and I was so sorry that you ... that I now could no longer be fond of you. I have always in my heart taken your side, when they were saying that you were cold and selfish, and cared for n.o.body but yourself. I have always thought: he has never found any one worthy of him! And now I know all, I should like to say: perhaps Aunt Lydia was not worthy of him either; she has many qualities which I do not like at all--but she would surely have turned out differently if you had not betr ... had not forsaken her. How can a girl remain good, if she is forsaken by the man she loves! How can she, if her heart is easily touched, become aught but a coquette, and a.s.sume manners that people will laugh and jeer at; or, if she be proud, and ashamed of her misfortune, she must needs grow cold and heartless, and full of contempt for all men, nay, for all mankind!"

The calm, low voice had remained the same to the very last word, but in striking contrast to that calm and that self-control there was the pa.s.sionate gleam of the great dark eyes, which now looked up to Bertram with wondrous firmness, such as the ancients may have imagined the gaze of the G.o.ds--"whose eyelids quiver not, like those of mortals."

The narrow path had widened to a glade; there they stood for a few moments gazing in each other's eyes; and Bertram felt the fascination of that wondrous firmness, felt, too, that no consideration could condemn him to stand before those eyes as a contemptible wretch, and that, at any cost, he must tear to pieces the dark curtain which unscrupulous lies had woven and spread between her and him.

He took her arm, as though to make sure that she would not escape from him, and, striding swiftly along, and almost dragging her with him, he said--

"And now hear me, too, and despise me, if you still can do so after you have heard me! Forsaken, did you say, forsaken and betrayed? Yea, verily! But she it was who practised the treachery--most infamous, most horrible treachery, with never the shadow of an excuse for it, if indeed anything ever can excuse treachery. I loved her--I will not say more than ever man did love--I know not how other men love--I only, know, that I loved her with the best and purest strength, of my heart.

I was no longer a youth when, at your parents' wedding, I made the acquaintance of your mother's friend. I was almost thirty years of age, and was living, as you know, in Leipzig as a mere private scholar--_Privat-Gelehrter_ they call it. I had planned my scheme of study on a very great scale, and, being very much, in earnest about science and art, as indeed about all things I take up, I was wont to devote years to tasks which other men, with less time or more genius, accomplish in as many months. Moreover, I had what I required for the expenses of living, perhaps even a little more--I, am not given to paying attention to that kind of thing. Now everything became changed at once. I loved her, I fancied myself loved in return. We had met here again, and, more than once, and had become engaged, though at first, and at my own special request, in all secrecy. I comprehended that a man engaged to so high-born and gifted, a girl as Lydia von Aschhof, must needs be something better than a mere obscure private scholar, and I readily 'pulled myself together,' determined to reach my goal. Some time, of course, was required before my great work could be completed.

Some time; too much for her patience. Perhaps she doubted its ultimate success. Perhaps she cared naught for the success, notwithstanding the enthusiasm which she pretended to feel for my efforts, notwithstanding her being so very kind as to a.s.sure me a thousand times that my genius, my talent, had made her my captive, and would hold her my captive, yea, though a crown were laid at her feet. As it turned out, no princely crown was needed; only a plain coronet--and one surmounting a grey, decrepit head into the bargain. Oh! she wrote me a most touching, most generous letter of renunciation. 'I am but hindering you in your lofty striving; an artist, a scholar must be free, unshackled; your fame is more to me than my love,' and so on, and so on. Two or three pages more, high-sounding phrases in daintiest handwriting, concluding, of course, with the announcement of her new engagement, by which, as by a _fait accompli_, she must needs a.s.sist her wavering heart.

"The letter was written from here, from Rinstedt. I hurried to the railway; at the last station I got hold of a vehicle. When we got to Fischbach, the poor overdriven steeds could not get on any further. By the shortest, steepest path I climbed to the top of the Hirschstein, the hill you have just come by; here, on the top, I fell down like one dead. I gathered myself together again, and staggered on, on, until I reached your father's house. She must have had some foreboding that I would not submit to this in all patience; she had left your father's house an hour before, driving to Fichtenau, taking the road by which it was impossible for me to come. Afterwards I came to be grateful to her for her circ.u.mspection and her precaution, for I think I must have been simply raving mad; and it was well for both of us that my power was broken, that I could not pursue the fair fugitive, but had to remain here, a burden on your parents, sick unto death, given up by the doctors, until some six or eight weeks' after, I surprised them all by recovering, enabled to live on as best one can with a sorely wounded heart--and a heart injured, not in the physical sense alone. What good, do you think, did it do me whilst I was struggling with death here, and afterwards dragged myself on crutches through the terrace-gardens, that my work had appeared, had taken the world by storm, and made me, once for all, what they call a famous man? What good that, just at that time a childless old miser of an uncle took it into his head to die, and that, in default of other heirs, his whole huge fortune fell to me? I had had enough of the lying and cheating of humanity. Fame, love--I cared no longer for these things. I became what I am, what my acquaintances know me to be, what they have called me to you--a cold egotist. What if for all that I do not cross my hands idly in my lap but work on, and now and again utter a word of freedom which others, less independent, might lack the courage to utter; or if I start and encourage works of general utility; or if here and there I help some lame dog over a stile; these things I surely do not for the love of the Lord, nay, solely, so as not to lose that modic.u.m of self-respect which belongs to the indispensable stock-in-trade of a discreet egotist. And talking of self-respect, dear, I begin to perceive with pain that I am lessening the aforesaid modic.u.m considerably in telling you all this.

For, in affairs of the hearts a gentleman should always spare the lady the utterance of the first word and leave her the last, and if she a.s.serts that he is Don Giovanni and she Donna Elvira, why, he has but to bow and thank her for a.s.signing so brilliant a part to him. And now, my dear child, now try to be fond of your garrulous old uncle once more, will you not?"

The girl made no reply. A feeling of shame had gradually stolen over Bertram as he spoke, and he had tried in vain to weaken it by concluding with a semi-humorous turn. Now this feeling grew intensified by Erna's silence. How had, it been possible for him to forget himself so far as to reveal to a young girl, one almost a child still, one without comprehension for such sad, ugly, painful experiences, the deepest secret of his heart--a secret which he had trained himself to pa.s.s by, as it were, with his own face turned away? And he had told of this, to a girl who stood to the object of his vehement denunciation in the peculiarly tender and delicate relation of pupil! How mean, how ign.o.ble of him! He had acted like a raw, immature lad! He wished himself a thousand miles away; he cursed his want of determination, inasmuch as he might have left the place abruptly an hour ago, and thus have escaped all this horrible confusion. Now he must needs depart at once, this very evening, if possible without seeing, without speaking to, a soul; most certainly without entering upon any explanation whatever. He had just tasted the delight of such explanations, and it would be long before he lost the bitter after-taste of them!...

They were quite cleat of the wood now, and were approaching--walking across some meadow land--a tiny gate in the thick old wall, which led to the courtyard.

Suddenly Erna said, "And you have told n.o.body all this?"

"No," he answered; and it cost him a curious struggle to get the one brief word--out.

They pa.s.sed through the tiny gate; it was almost dark in the yard now.

Before the entrance to the house stood a large open travelling carriage; servants were removing the belongings of the travellers who had already alighted. Through the main gate, on the opposite side, a cart, laden with the heavier articles of luggage, was entering.

"Uncle Bertram," whispered Erna.

Just as they were about to cross the threshold of the tiny gate she had seized his hand with gentle pressure. He had involuntarily stopped.

Again she was gazing up at him, but not now, as before in the wood, with a stern expression. Was it a reflection of the radiance of the young moon, just then rising above the gloom which was enfolding the buildings around--or could it be tears that glistened in the great eyes?

"You want to leave us, Uncle Bertram?"

"Who told you so?"

"It matters not. You want to leave us?"

"Yes."

"Stay! Pray, stay--for my sake!"

She dropped the hand which she had clasped until now, and hurried across the yard to the mansion-house, while he ascended the stairs to the side wing where his own rooms were situated, his whole soul full of the image of this wondrous girl, whose words, whose looks, had so potent a spell over him, that he no longer seemed to have a will of his own as against hers.

IV.

His master's long absence had at length commenced to disquiet faithful Konski considerably. True, he knew from his ten years' experience that he need not pay much attention to any orders that master gave him when in a state of great excitement; and, of course, the later it grew, the more improbable it became that the departure, although announced, would really take place; but then, supposing some accident had happened to him? The doctor in Berlin had most strongly urged him to take every possible precaution lest, during the first few weeks anyhow, his master should over-exert himself in any way--and master had hurried down those terrace steps like one possessed! And all on account of this infernal old maid who was never allowed to visit at this house when they, master and he, were here! Oh, why had he not held his silly tongue, and not brought the great news at once to his master!

He would have liked hurrying after him into the village, but dared not leave his post. And now their host came in and inquired for master, and seemed greatly concerned when Konski, to soothe his own anxiety as it were, hinted that his master had not been over pleased when told that additional guests were expected; and Konski added, as a sort of conjecture of his own, that he had probably gone out for a walk, so as to avoid having to be present at their reception. And meanwhile My Lady had returned and had sent for him, and Konski had to repeat to her Ladyship--for whom he entertained the most confounded respect--what he had already told her Ladyship's husband; and her Ladyship had looked so hard at him with those piercing brown eyes of hers, that he was jolly glad when he was back at his post of observation at the lobby-window, whence he could survey the whole extensive court-yard. And there--an open carriage was just entering it; only two people in it--a lady and a gentleman--thank Heaven, one lady only! In the gathering twilight Konski could not distinguish, the lady's features or figure, but, if there was only one lady, why, who could it be but dear Miss Erna? And from her, master was not likely to run away; and all was well now, if only he himself were safely back.

The door below was opened. Konski heard his master's step upon the stairs and hurried to meet him, joyfully telling him all that he had observed; and did master know already that Miss Erna was the only lady who had arrived?

His master had thrown himself into an arm-chair in the sitting-room, where careful Konski had already lighted a liberal supply of candles, and was staring hard in front of him, pa.s.sing at intervals his hands over brow and eyes. Suddenly he sat bold upright and said:

"What did you say?"

Poor Konski had said nothing at all during the last few minutes, but inquired now whether his master would not dress for supper; he thought it was getting quite late enough.

Bertram rose and pa.s.sed into the adjoining bedroom where Konski had laid out such a costume as he deemed appropriate for the occasion. He lent him the necessary aid, and marvelled greatly that his master, who was wont to talk to him during the process of dressing more than at any other time, did not say a single word to-night. Another curious thing was this: quite contrary to his custom, the master looked hard at himself in the mirror again and again, and, strangest sight of all, he pulled and twisted his moustache about! However, seeing that master, though looking very grave, did not appear either annoyed or angry, Konski was quite satisfied. To-night then, anyhow, their departure need not be provided for.

There was a knock at the door. Their host entered as hurriedly as was consistent with his being so very stout.

"Thank Heaven that you are here!" he exclaimed, shaking both his friend's hands again and again, as though he had been 'long looked-for, come at last!' "Thank Heaven; we have been quite frightened about you.

Hildegard was very angry that I had left you alone. I said to her, 'Why, he is not a child, requiring to be watched at every step;' that is to say, I did not actually say so in so many words. I ... thought so. My wife is terribly nervous to-day. I had told her at once ..."

Here he noticed the servant's presence, and in some embarra.s.sment broke off abruptly. Bertram having now completed his toilet, the two gentlemen left the room together. As they were walking through the long pa.s.sage which led to the main building, his host put one arm round his friend's slender waist and said confidentially, lowering his voice by way of precaution--

"I had told Hildegard at once that you would be annoyed; at least I did not say so in so many words, but I--hinted it, for, you know, my wife cannot beat contradiction; and I soon found out that the two women, between them, had determined that the meeting should take place. Now Erna tells me--she is a darling, is she not? a little peculiar, a little odd, but always good to me; how nice that you met on the hills--well, Erna tells me that you were not particularly angry that Lydia had accompanied her; that is to say, Erna does not know anything of the old stories, or has only heard some vague rumours that you cannot bear each other, or that you cannot bear Lydia. Never mind, it's all the same now; only tell me that you are not particularly angry."

"I was at first, but I am so no longer."

"That's all I ask for. And after all, old chap, well, misunderstandings and all that sort of thing! But the blame is sure to be yours, or almost entirely yours. Why, it's always the man who is to blame, eh? I should know that much, having been married these twenty years!"

He laughed. Bertram, to change the conversation, asked where the others were.

"The ladies are on the verandah; the Baron was still in his room when I came away."

"By the by," Bertram asked, "who is this Baron? You were talking about him once or twice at table, but I confess I hardly listened."

"Lotter?" his friend said. "Look here; you'll like him immensely.

Stunning fellow, Lotter. Has read every mortal thing; plays the piano; paints--portraits, landscapes, anything you like. Has come home to do some painting; studies at our academy, don't you know?--and is a constant guest at Court, of course."

"Does he belong to these parts?"

"Oh; dear no! hails from Wurtemberg. A very, very old family; Lotter-Vippach. His father was a General, I believe; his uncle a Minister of State; that sort of thing, don't you know? He has been in the army himself; was in the '70 campaign. But he is a bit of a rover.

Has been up and about a good deal; in Algiers, South America; that, sort of thing. I pressed him to come and stay here during the man[oe]vres, to help me to do the honours, as I never was in the army myself. He is awfully anxious to make your acquaintance; has read all your works and--and--but where on earth are our ladies? I'll go and look. You stop where you are; do not come out bareheaded."

The last words had already been spoken in the garden saloon, the great French windows of which, leading to the verandah, stood wide open. His host had hurried off to look for the ladies, and Bertram, left alone, strode up and down in the large, half-darkened room. Had he not, perhaps, yielded all too readily to Erna's command? If obedience was to be easy to him, nay, if it was to be at all possible for him, she ought to have stayed by his side. And now her very image was gone from his inner eye, and its place had been taken by her whom he had once so pa.s.sionately loved, as if twenty years had not gone by since he last saw her, as if she had only pa.s.sed a minute ago with her beautiful friend and hostess into the garden, thence to return immediately under some pretext or other, to rush to his embrace, to shower hot, pa.s.sionate kisses upon him--here, in this very saloon, as she had so often, so often done--here, where the faint fragrance of violets still seemed to float, that she was so fond of, and which in those days he was ever a.s.sociating with her presence!