The Undying Past Part 62

"Can't I get you anything?"

"Thank you. It will soon be better ... it is better now."

She sat up, and, as if to allay his fears, smiled mechanically into vacancy. Then she began to talk to herself, as if in a dream.

"And I ... I see it all before me still.... When you were gone ... I went to the window ... and listened ... to your footsteps in the garden; the horse neighed from the hedge ... it saw you coming ... and then there was a sound of hoofs, echoing softly ... and then all was quiet."

"And you had no qualms of conscience?"

She shook her head with a blissful smile, setting the waves and curls of her hair in motion so that they whipped her over cheek and throat.

Then, recollecting how serious this question was, she knitted her brows and grasped her temples with both hands.

"In those days," she said dully, "I had no notion of what conscience meant; in those days I let my sinful happiness carry me along joyously to the edge of an abyss without reflecting. That night, in my ecstasy, I tore my clothes from my body...."

Suddenly she paused, shocked at herself. Her fingers, which had been fumbling at her throat, had caught in the cloud of lace. With a thin, long-drawn, tearing sound some thread of the delicate fabric collapsed.

She smiled at him in dismay. Then she quickly turned the situation off with a jest.

"That is a pity," she said. "It is real old Flemish."

Daintily she knotted the ends together again. "Is that all right?" she asked.

He did not answer.

A fresh silence took paralysing possession of the pair. Their glance wandered away, as if they no longer dared meet one another's eyes. She, with flushed cheeks, gazed at the toe of her embroidered Turkish slipper, which with its gold arabesques shone forth from the hem of her blue cashmere gown. He gnawed his moustache, and stared up at the ceiling. The oil in the two lamps hissed and hummed. With a subdued murmur the wind caressed the windowpanes in pa.s.sing. The clock ticked melodiously; it was a sound like a rain-drop falling at regular intervals on the strings of a harp.

Leo felt a speechless fury boiling within him. He wanted to move, but could not stir. At last he made a violent effort to regain his manliness.

"Why do we grope about in the past?" he asked, jumping to his feet. "It can lead to no good."

"It helps us to forget the misery of the present. Isn't that some good?" she replied.

He did not contradict her, and turned to go. But in parting he caught hold of her in a sudden spasm of rage, shook her hither and thither, and, burying his fingers in the elastic flesh of her upper arm, he bent down and muttered in her ear--

"You are right ... We _will_ pray."

XXVII

The beginning of winter found everything the same as usual at the Parsonage. The Candidate had not succeeded in raising the money for the continuation of his studies. He therefore was preparing calmly to spend the winter term under the paternal roof.

He decided to employ the many hours of leisure which stretched before him, in settling on authorship as his calling in life, and to write an epoch-making work, which would raise him with one bound to the highest pinnacle of fame. The work was to be of a scientific character, and to give shape and method to the floating chaotic ideas of modernity.

A public career lay open to him also. All you had to do to be elected to the Reichstag, was to sit down and write a few social pamphlets on prost.i.tution, or the duel question; and if the ministry did not see its way after that to give you an appointment, you must become active in opposition, not that miserable half-hearted opposition of abortive Liberalism, but the firebrand kind of La.s.salles, which bore upon it the imprint of genius, and left plenty of time over for love adventures.

Altogether it had been easier for an Oswald Stein. In those days, as an adherent of the Sturm and Drang party, one knew what to be at. To cut a path for freedom from the barricades, and then get hewn down by the truncheons of tyranny. But since the seventies there had been no tyrants; and people no longer stirred up revolutions. It was considered neither gentlemanly nor "modern."

The only consolation that he found in this whirling chaos of emotions was love. For Kurt loved and was beloved! The blessed knowledge had been conveyed to him in a gilt-edged note sealed by a rosebud, the sort of stationery affected by very young ladies. One day at the end of September it had been delivered to him by the goose-herd at the farm and had run as follows--

"Dear Herr Kandidat,

"The song 'Smiling Stars,' which you dedicated to me, is quite charming. Unfortunately my brother took it away from me before I got hold of it. I must warn you against my brother, for he is very angry with you; and I am rather afraid he may challenge you. That would be so awful, I think it would kill me. I beg of you, therefore, not to send me any more poems; or if you do, please don't address them to Halewitz.

On the road between Halewitz and Wengern there are some milestones with figures on them. The stone that I mean has the figures 24 on it. Will you please bury your poems in the earth behind the stone, and as a sign that you have buried them make a little cross out of twigs, and stick it up in front of the stone. Then I should know directly when I come by. And I entreat you to keep this a secret till your dying day, for I am strictly watched. Even Hertha keeps a look-out on me--ah, it is dreadful.

"With kind regards,

"Yours sincerely,

"E. V. S.

"P.S.--Please do it soon."

This was the beginning of a lively correspondence between Elly and the Candidate, which was conducted partly in verse and partly in prose, and left nothing to be desired in fire and ardour.

Kurt's opinion of himself rose tremendously under its influence. Oswald Stein now had the advantage of him in nothing. In case Melitta--that was to say, Felicitas--persisted in scorning him, at least the little fair girl, who was so madly in love with him, still remained. He had forgotten her name in the book, but he would call her "Elly" for the nonce.

Elly's sentimental scrawls provided him with enough amus.e.m.e.nt to kill time. They alternated between poetic gush, such as one finds in novels, and comical outbursts of alarm. "Myrtle wreaths," "the song of the nightingale," and "starlit spheres," were phrases as numerous as "stabs of conscience," "suicide and desperation." Twice already she had implored him to end the correspondence, and to set her free; but there was always a fresh communication behind the milestone.

Kurt was amply employed in consoling and encouraging her, and forecasting the golden time when they would be united for ever.

Seriously he had no hopes of anything of the kind happening. It was not likely the proud clod of a squire would be so good-natured and accommodating as to lay his still half-baby youngest sister in Kurt's arms; and it would be derogatory for a man of his talent and prospects to take her without leave, and hamper himself with an unprofitable bride. He had difficulties enough to contend with without that.

His old father (set up to it, probably) was beginning to cast a disapproving eye on his son's manner of life, and veiled allusions concerning "the lilies of the field," and "loaves and fishes," made him feel very uncomfortable. One day in the middle of October the bomb burst.

Kurt, who had reposed till eleven in bed, feeling the necessity of a little light refreshment before the midday meal, went on a foraging expedition to the cupboard, the place where one would naturally expect to find a miscellaneous a.s.sortment of ham, pickled eels, cold roast veal, cold fried potatoes, and mashed turnips. He was interrupted in the business of choosing between these dainties by the old pastor, who laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, and asked whether he intended to make it his vocation for the rest of his life to eat up all the remains of the family meals.

Kurt a.s.sumed the air of an offended prince. "A man must live," he replied loftily, "or do you wish to imply----"

"Come to my study," broke in the old man.

"Very well," said Kurt, wiping his mouth. "You are my father, so I must obey you." And he made a sign to show that he bowed to the paternal authority.

"Come, now, we will speak in plain language, my boy," the old fellow began, sinking into his shabby, cushioned chair. "In all my days I have never come across such a cursed jackanapes as you are. You drink like a fish, swagger and bully like a sergeant-major--all very well, and most pleasing to me. But do you think that you can go on loafing _infinitum_?"

Kurt controlled his resentment with difficulty.

"I don't understand, father," he said, "how you can call it loafing.

Periods of inactive development are as necessary to the mind as the winter-time of hibernating is to Nature. While I am to all appearances idle, I work incessantly at my individuality. I cultivate my manhood; my personality is maturing. That is worth more than any book learning."

"Very well, my son," the old man replied. "Don't be discouraged. Keep up your calm impudence, and the rest will take care of itself. But, I tell you, for all that the world is a big place. Go and mature your personality somewhere else, and find another hunting-ground for your fads."

"Certainly I would, with pleasure, papa," Kurt replied, "if I had the necessary funds."

"The two months' salary the Baron von Kletzingk gave you would have been enough to live on for a whole term if you had not squandered it.

You know that you needn't expect a farthing from me. Get the money as best you can, but remember, in eight days you clear out of this!"

"All right," Kurt replied with dignity, getting up. "I will go to ruin on the king's highway. But it seems a pity, just as my nature has taken a start, and I begin to be conscious of unsuspected springs of energy within me. But we won't speak about it further. The door of my father's house is to be shut on me--and with justice. Your long-suffering has been boundless, father. I thank you, and I will at once try and raise a little money. Farewell!" And he left the room.