Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 11

And he does please her well, because she feels with the unerring instinct of true love that he can and will give love for love.

And as though he would force Fate to grant him all, because he was staking his all upon it, he looked on with a happy smile, whilst the fire of his great love burned up with increasing vehemence with every day, with every hour, spreading around and engulfing his entire being.

He was proud that he could no longer feel anything else, think of anything else, but always her, and her alone. If she was away, how empty, how barren did the whole world seem! With what painful impatience did he await the moment when he should behold her again; and when he beheld her again, it seemed as though he had never beheld her before--as though the Creator had but just uttered the command: "Let there be light!" and as though the world lay before him in all the dewy freshness and brightness of the morn of creation.

Then, when the torment of delight became overpowering, he fled from her, to dream, often for hours, in the solitude of the forest, in lone, rocky caves, or on sunny summits--to listen in the deep silence around for the echoing of her sweet voice within his heart, to whisper her loved name to the discreet herbs and trees; to hear that name in the murmur of the brooks, in the rustling of the breezes, in every note of the birds' songs; to see her fair image smiling down upon him from among the dainty white cloudlets that flecked the deep-blue sky, or gazing at him with musing gravity from the dusky shadows of the towering trees, gazing with those great, still, potent, G.o.dlike orbs.

That those orbs were now smiling more rarely, that they were fuller of gravest thought, often gazing with a certain sweet fixity of intensest concentration, he had not failed to observe, and he had not interpreted it as a symptom unfavourable to himself; how should, how could it be otherwise, if there fell into her young soul even the faintest reflex of the bright radiancy that was filling his own to its deepest depths?

But he had not failed to observe either, and this he knew not how to explain, that this musing gravity from which his own love in its hopefulness drew sweetest sustenance--like a bee from the chalice of a budding blossom--was turning to a gloomy indignation, which not only was for ever veiling the beloved eyes, but was not unfrequently enfolding the fair face with its fine, energetic features in darkest night, luridly illumined by wrathful flashes.

This startling change had occurred quite suddenly, coincident, strangely enough, with the day, almost with the hour, of Agatha's arrival.

XII.

On the occasion of former visits at Rinstedt Bertram had repeatedly seen Agatha, and had always been on the best of terms with the ever equally pleasant, amiable child. Now, of course she had, like Erna, developed during the last few years into a maiden, though one could not say that she had gained by the process of metamorphosis. The blonde hair now was almost red, freckles abounded unpleasantly on brow and cheek, and an awkward tendency to one side had become an undoubted lurch; so that, taking all these things together, one might indeed be tempted to take the nickname "Granny," which Erna had bestowed upon her cousin and bosom friend, not in its moral meaning alone. But the bright blue eyes had faithfully preserved the old, dear expression; nay, even more openly than of old, there spoke out of them a heart full of kindliest goodwill to all men, desirous of riving in peace and friends.h.i.+p with all men, and seeming not so much to loathe as simply not to comprehend the evil emotions and pa.s.sions of the human heart.

So gentle a creature, made but for sympathy in joy or in sorrow, could scarcely have found the requisite courage to destroy even the commonplace illusions of a commonplace heart, and would most likely have recoiled from the mere attempt to lay violent hands upon a heart like Erna's, deviating as it did so greatly from the humdrum, everyday pattern. And, again, Bertram had to drop the suspicion which at first had come to him in his perplexity; to wit, that Agatha had, whether in carelessness or intentionally, blabbed about something confided to her by Erna. Such a thing would have been in downright contradiction to the character of the girl, who was as clever as she was good; and, lastly, that he himself should have betrayed his feelings to the rest--that was absolutely impossible. He was only too painfully conscious of having from the very first moment put a most careful guard on his conduct, of having weighed his every word, controlled his every smile and look: of course he had! Why, he recoiled in horror from the very thought that Erna might discover his great secret; it was certain that she had not discovered it, and how could others have done so?

But why should they, again, not have seen, and seen in envy, uncharitableness, and terror, what it was the utmost delight to him to see? Though he, in the full consciousness of his love, in the anxious doubt as to whether that love was not a folly, a crime even, had put the utmost restraint upon himself, yet Erna had a.s.suredly not been equally careful in expressing her feelings, whose real significance she might guess at, though most a.s.suredly she could not measure it. Why, the most harmless and innocent things in the attentions she was spoiling him with, the many kindly little offices which she did for him without any fuss, _en pa.s.sant_, as it were--all these things might have been malevolently criticised and viciously explained, suspicion being once aroused one way or the other!

And that such must be the case he could scarcely doubt any longer, when he submitted the demeanour of the others towards him during the last few days to a subsequent examination. Thus, in the light of newly-won knowledge, sundry things stood out in a very marked way, which, under other circ.u.mstances, he would either not have heeded, or anyhow have interpreted differently. His beautiful hostess, who used to avail herself of every tete-a-tete with him to turn their talk to Erna and the Baron, had not resumed her favourite topic of conversation; and, on the other hand, Lydia now manifested infinite interest in Erna, and never wearied of starting contemplative talks in reference to the qualities of her former pupil, wondering how one should represent to oneself the future of such a singular being as likely to develop itself. The Baron had still, on each Occasion when Bertram and he had met, overflowed with civility, but had yet tormented him less often with challenges to billiard-matches and to contests in pistol-shooting, but had on the other hand undertaken more frequent solitary shooting expeditions--neither Bertram nor Otto, their host, cared for shooting, as it happened--and had extended them farther too. Otto himself had certainly and most clearly avoided him. At first he had thought that Otto did it to avoid new and painful discussions in reference to his financial position, but Bertram now a.s.sumed that it was done lest Otto should distinctly show that he was angry with his friend for Erna's sake, or, what--with his natural weak readiness to yield--came virtually to the same thing, that he had been bidden by the ruling spirit to be angry with Bertram.

These were curiously mixed feelings which were roused within him by his recognition of the new position he so suddenly found himself in. He said to himself that the things which caused anxiety and terror to his adversaries were for himself objects of joy and triumph, and const.i.tuted the clearest proof that he had not only dreamed a dream of rapturous delight. And to be sure, his love could not for ever remain in the far-off regions of starry splendour; it was bound some time to approach this earth, to become visible to the dull, mole-like eyes of these men. But then again, putting himself in the place of these others, and examining himself and his love, as these others were undoubtedly doing, he would hear anew, and this time from the lips of unjust accusers, the old evil questions which he thought had long ago been done with, to wit--Is your longing and your desire really and truly free from every vestige of selfishness, from every frivolous admixture? Has the satisfaction of your own vanity, inasmuch as you may prove that you, a man of fifty, are able to win the love of such a youthful, and, in every respect, such a highly-favoured and gifted girl, against the wishes of her own parents, before her who had once spurned your love, in the presence and to the shame and discomfiture of so much more likely a rival--have these considerations nothing, nothing whatever to do with your love?

And supposing he were to allow himself to be urged by pressure on the part of his foes to make a declaration before the right time; or supposing there never had been and never would be such a time at all--supposing he and all of them had blundered;--supposing Erna's heart knew nought of love, and rejected his love, amazed, terrified, insulted--what then? Ye Heavens above! what then? Where was then that line of retreat which Gothe had so wisely secured for his hero?

He realised it to be one of those horribly hideous contradictions of human life that, while before his inner eye the possibilities of his future fate concentrated themselves as in a focus, he was busied before the mirror in exchanging the cravat which Konski had put out for him for the early dinner, for another (the first dressing-bell having just rung), in reference to which Erna had once said that it suited him particularly well.

He stepped, annoyed, from the mirror to the open window. There came floating through the balmy, sunny air a gossamer thread and fixed itself on his shoulder. He sighed wearily, he felt unutterably sad.

There was always one line of retreat open, and that was--Death. Perhaps his life was really hanging on as slight a thread as this bit of gossamer. But then, was not his love for that very reason both madness and sacrilege? Was that love which at bottom thought, after all, of itself only, and thought not first and last of this? Could one, according to human judgment, really undertake the guarantee for the well-being of those whom one ... made believe one loved? Whether, for her, weal would not swiftly change to woe, whence, even though time and that youthful vigour which refuses to be crushed were to heal the grievous wounds, there could never again blossom forth a full, whole happiness? And thus, and for this reason, to have henceforth, like humdrum everyday folks, to dread death, when he had already again and again looked into his hollow eyes!

There was some noise behind him, and he started in terror. It was only Konski who had come back bearing a letter. The post which was due in the morning had arrived now, and there had been lots of letters for the other ladies and gentlemen too, and some of them would seem to be mighty important, for My Lady had given orders to put dinner back half an hour, so the Herr Doctor could anyhow read his letter in peace.

Konski had gone away again, and Bertram held the letter still unopened in his hand. How odd that his physician and friend should write to him just now--that the busiest of men should so swiftly reply to his own letter, in which, on the second day of his visit, he had, as requested, given news of his state of health, a letter which really called for no reply at all. Was his friend now going to tell him that he ... was doomed to speedy death? Well, the letter could not have come at a more opportune moment.

With trembling hand he broke the seal and read this--

"Dearest Friend,--Laugh if you like. On reading your letter a second time--your letters are not, like most others, consigned to the waste-paper basket--I have even more strongly the same impression which the first perusal had given me; namely, that, possibly unknown to yourself, there is to be read between the lines of your letter a question, which can be answered only by omniscient Fate and by 'Yours Truly;' and which, seeing Fate is not altogether to be relied upon in this respect, Yours Truly has the honour and likewise the great pleasure of answering herewith. Reduced to its simplest formula, then, the question comes to this: May I marry? Seeing that you do not laugh, but, on the contrary, look extremely grave, I will not keep you needlessly on the tenter-hooks of expectation, but will reduce my reply, too, to the simplest form, viz.:--Yes, best of friends, you may marry, in spite of your late serious attack; nay, oddly enough, all the more because of it. For although even before your illness I had no doubt that your curiously powerful nature would for years continue to hold its own against the severe damage done (to deny or reason away the existence of which was unfortunately impossible), I now have hardly any misgiving in that respect. For your last illness was simply and solely a remarkably energetic attempt at self-help on the part of nature, and the attempt has all but succeeded. What remains to be done to complete the cure is but little, and that this little be done as swiftly and thoroughly as possible, you can yourself greatly help. How so? Well, by marrying! You, having always been over-conscientious and abnormally scrupulous, having ever lived but for ideal aims and for the benefit of other folk, should now at length begin to live for yourself, should now at length find that quiet happiness which you so richly deserve, and be happy in that happiness; though, to be sure, for the last condition more good sense is required than what the majority of mankind have been ready to employ. You, my good friend, have that amount of sense.

_Ergo_--marry for goodness' sake, marry for your own good, marry for the good of those whom you love, and, lastly, marry with my full consent, without which I know you would not do it at all.

"But now, seeing that you are too accustomed to suffering of some sort to be able to dispense with it altogether, I owe you a fresh supply to make up for what I am depriving you of, and I am going to saddle you with one of the most awful kinds of suffering a free man can be tormented with in these hard and distressing times--you must stand for Parliament. There is no help for it; we must have you in the _Reichstag_. Good old S. can bear the burthen no longer; he is going to retire. I should have insisted upon it on medical grounds if he had not at length come to see himself that there was no help for it. He is done for, and doomed to speedy death. And you, who are vigorously advancing to complete restoration of health, shall and must take his place--by order of the Electoral Committee, who met at a late hour last night and ultimately came to a unanimous conclusion on the subject, all, finally, voting for you! There is no reason why I should keep back the fact that, to begin with, O. and B. were opposed to it, and so were a few others, a.s.serting that you could be of greater use to the common cause as an outsider. They went on arguing that your absolutely independent position within the party had hitherto enabled you, and would continue to enable you, to ventilate certain grievances which really require to be ventilated, and which it is impossible for ourselves, sitting as members of the _Reichstag_, to bring forward, because, sitting there, we must pay a certain regard to ... what not. This great and invaluable activity of yours, they wisely contended, would be rendered absolutely barren by your entering the serried ranks of a definite political phalanx within the House itself. Right they are, I know well enough, none better; for I have, as you know, always maintained the same view.

But, for all that, you must stand. The need is imperative. We have, alas! none but you; and therefore our arguments prevailed: and the requisition I am now forwarding to you in the name of our common party is, as aforesaid, unanimous. Knowing you as well as I do, and knowing therefore with what a struggle you make up your mind, ever determined to adhere unswervingly to a resolution you have once arrived at, I'll give you three days to think it over. Perhaps you'll talk it over with our friend G. in W., whose acquaintance you have probably made ere this; not to get him to appeal to your conscience--small need for that in your case--but because an old veteran like him may be able, from the fulness of his experience, to give you some hint or other which may be of use to you in your candidature. It is very probable that you may have to appear speedily in the arena. The Government would appear to feel very confident of success, and will not delay the election. Four weeks hence everything may be settled. That would leave you another month before the meeting of Parliament to recover from the fatigue of the electioneering campaign. The Italian trip will have to be given up, it is true. But no one can serve two masters; and as for the mistress, if my conjecture be correct, I do not dread her jealousy. If it were permitted to harbour any doubt whether you have chosen wisely, or if there were any need to apply a special test, there could be no surer touchstone than this. The true gold of a genuine woman's love never s.h.i.+nes more brightly than when a sacrifice has to be made for the sake of letting a man's worth stand out clearly. Commend me cordially to the fair unknown, and accept my own affectionate greetings."

The second dinner-bell had rung, and Bertram still sat staring at the letter. Could this be true? It looked like witchcraft. By what wonderful ingenuity had his friend rightly interpreted the state of his heart, judging from hints which were not intended to be hints at all?

Well, if it was a miracle, it was a very auspicious one--one that could only have had its origin in the great strength of truest friends.h.i.+p.

Impossible for the tempter to have a.s.sumed the guise of the best and n.o.blest of men!

He pressed the letter to his lips, and gazed upward to the blue sky.

And, lo! as he moved, the gossamer thread floated away from his shoulder, away into the sunny afar.

With glowing eye he followed its flight.

"Right, right! Fly and float with it, ye cowardly thoughts of retreat!

Who fears not death has already half won the battle!"

XIII.

Below, in the garden saloon, Bertram found only Otto and the Baron, who abruptly stopped an eager conversation as Bertram entered. Otto looked greatly embarra.s.sed; the Baron gave him one angry look, then turned away to the young ladies, who were walking on the verandah.

"I seem to have disturbed you," said Bertram.

"Don't be annoyed," replied Otto. "The Baron had, last night already, disagreeable news from home, which is confirmed to-day, and will compel him to travel back; and just now, in this time of tension, he wishes of course--it is extremely awkward ..."

"In one word, he has officially asked you for your daughter's hand?"

"Not exactly officially; we really do not know about Erna. You had undertaken to put us _au courant_, to advise and help us, and now you are not helping us at all, and--and my wife is rather annoyed with you on this ground."

"So I have observed; and therefore, to make up for previous omissions, I'll give you my advice now: get rid of him as quickly as possible, and spare Erna the humiliation of having to refuse the fellow."

"Humiliation? The fellow? How oddly you talk!"

"I talk how I feel. He is unworthy of Erna, absolutely."

"So you say; but why?"

Bertram made no answer. What good could it do now to have a dispute with Otto about the worthiness or unworthiness of the Baron?

"You see," said Otto triumphantly, "you have no real reason to give!"

Then, seeing his friend look extremely grave, he went on--"I know of course that you mean well by Erna, by me, by all of us. Perhaps you are right, too, at least in this--that Erna may say: No. If she does, well, then there is an end of it, and Hildegard and he may see how they can best put up with it. If only it had not happened just now. I have my head quite full enough as it is--all these officers coming to be quartered here to-morrow, then the final debate on the railway question, and then I just remember that I have also to redeem to-morrow a certain mortgage, not much, only five thousand thalers, but it happens most inopportunely, I wanted to talk to you about it before, but I did not like to disturb you in your rooms; perhaps after dinner, or to-night sometime--there is my wife coming, for G.o.d's sake no fuss, I entreat you!"

Hildegard entered, Lydia followed soon after, the young ladies and the Baron came in from the verandah, and they all went to dinner.

Conversation somehow flagged; every one was busy with his own thoughts, and, if one were to judge by looks, these thoughts did not seem to be pleasant ones, except in Hildegard's case. She kept smiling mysteriously to herself, and at last, when there had been a pause of some little duration, she held up a couple of letters which she had laid by the side of her plate, and said--

"It is really too bad; here, I am sitting with quite a treasury of most interesting surprises, and none of you take the trouble to show the slightest symptom of curiosity. It would really serve you right if I were not to say a word to you; but I will be gracious, as usual, and let you partic.i.p.ate in my joy. First, then, your mother, Agatha, has after all yielded to my entreaties. It is most kind of her. She has a big party to-morrow, too; some twenty officers, she says, and can ill spare any of the girls. Still, she understands that I have even greater need of them in our solitude, if the crowd of uniforms is not to become intolerably monotonous--_enfin_, she'll send Louise and Augusta. They will arrive to-day; so we shall really be able to have a dance to morrow evening, if we invite the girls from the parsonage and a few others. Well, what do you say?"

Erna made no reply; she seemed hardly to have listened. Agatha said--

"You are very kind, aunt," but it did not sound hearty.