Problematic Characters Part 80

Before that house a carriage was waiting. Lights shone from the open house-door and the open windows of the lower story.

"Is the doctor at home?"

"Here!" said Doctor Braun, from a window. "Where from?"

"From Grenwitz. It is I. Make haste--Bruno is dying."

"Was just coming," called Doctor Braun, already at the door. "Take a seat with me. I will drive myself. Charles can ride your horse back slowly. Are you in? Good. Now let us be off."

The carriage thundered through the dark streets, through the narrow gate, out into the silent moonlit night, which lay dreamily on fields and gardens, on meadows and forests, full of sweet fragrance. They went back the same way Oswald had come. The doctor's powerful horses trotted fast; in a few minutes they were on the heath.

Neither of them had said much. Oswald had told Doctor Braun of Bruno's complaint, like most laymen, dwelling on trifles and leaving out what was most important. Doctor Braun had asked a few brief questions. Then both had been silent for some time.

"You must be prepared for the worst," began Doctor Braun. "From what you tell me, I should not wonder if we found Bruno no longer alive."

Oswald made no reply. He uttered a groan, like a man under torture when the screws have had another turn.

The doctor whipped the horses, who now went off at full speed.

A few minutes later the carriage was at the great portal of the chateau. Every window was bright with light. From the supper-room loud music was heard. The servants were busily running to and fro.

When they entered Bruno's room. Baron Oldenburg rose from the bed, over which he had been bending.

"G.o.d be thanked that you are coming," he said; "I have watched by many a sick-bed, but I have never felt a longer hour than this."

He wiped his brow; his sad face was pale; he seemed to be deeply moved.

Dr. Braun examined the patient; then he remained standing by the bedside, without looking at the others.

"Is there no hope?"

"None."

Then Bruno raised himself slightly.

"Is that you, mamma? Do you come to sing me to sleep? How was the old song?"

And in a wondrously sweet voice, low, very low, like the notes of an aeolian harp, he began to sing a Swedish song, as his mother might have sung it to him years ago.

He was leaning back again on his pillow. Through the deep stillness of the room Oswald's sobs alone were heard; the eyes of the other two men were filled with tears.

"Is that you, Oswald?" asked Bruno; "why do you cry? Good evening, doctor; where do you come from? I suppose I am at the end of my life.

Where is Baron Oldenburg? Give me your hand. You have been very kind to me. Doctor, must I die? Yes?--tell me, I am no coward; I knew it yesterday already; must I die? Then, Oswald, one more request; bend over me, I will whisper it in your ear."

Oswald did as he was asked.

He rose and went to the door. Oldenburg had followed him.

"I know what Bruno wants. He has asked for her a hundred times. I will call her. It is the last prayer of a dying man."

He went out; Oswald approached the bed again.

"Is she coming?"

"Yes."

"Put my pillow a little higher, Oswald, and put the lamp there, so that the light falls right upon her. Thank you; that is right."

"She is not coming--yes, was not that her voice? Screw the lamp down, Oswald, it is too bright in the room.--Helen!"

A blissful smile pa.s.sed over his features.

"Helen! How pale you are; and yet how beautiful! Give me that rose on your bosom. Oh, do not cry! Let me kiss your hand, Helen!"

Helen bent over him and kissed him on his lips.

Bruno put his arms around her neck.

"I love you, Helen."

His arms sank back on the coverlet Dr. Braun gently raised Helen. He bent over the bed and listened for a moment. As he rose again he softly pa.s.sed his hand over the eyes of the departed.

CHAPTER XXII.

It was three days after the events of that night.

Early in the morning it had been raining. Now in the later forenoon the sun was peeping at times through the heavy clouds, which rolled slowly toward the east, driven by a damp west wind.

In the graveyard at Fashwitz, in the avenue of linden-trees which leads from one end to the other, dividing the graves of the n.o.bles from the graves of the common people, two persons were walking up and down in earnest conversation. At one of the gates of the graveyard which opened immediately upon the high-road, an elegant carriage and two was standing. Near by, a groom was leading two beautiful saddled horses by the bridle. Coachman and groom conversed in subdued tones, as if they did not wish to disturb the meditations of the old man with the long snow-white moustache, who sat on one of the curbstones of the gate, and looking from time to time, from under his heavy, overhanging brows, at the two persons inside.

They were Melitta and Oldenburg. Melitta was not in mourning, but her sweet, fair face had an expression of melancholy which it had never worn before. Even the smile with which she replied to many a remark of her companion was not the old joyous smile; it resembled the glimpses of the sun through the dismal, melancholy clouds.

"And you mean really to go?" she asked, breaking a pause which had occurred in their conversation.

"I rode over to Berkow to pay my farewell visit and to ask if you had any commands for me. You see that it was not an idle ceremony, or I would not have followed you here to the graveyard, although graves and graveyards, you know, are not the places I love particularly to frequent."

"And where are you going now?"

"I do not know yet. What can I do here? As I cannot live for her for whom alone I care to live, and as our miserable age has no great purpose to which a man may devote his life, I mean to go, like another Peter Schlemihl, in search of my own shadow. I only fear I shall never find it, or, if I do find it, it will leave me again at once, like the last time."

"Have you never tried to find the Brown Countess?"

"No. It would have been of no avail. Wandering gypsies leave no traces behind them; they are like s.h.i.+ps sailing through the water. If I should not return, Melitta, you must send for your bust, which I ordered from young Goldoni in Rome. It is in my study at Cona; or would you like to have it at once?"