CHAPTER VII.
Our other friends, too, had lost in the autumn mists more and more of that sunny, paradisiacal frame of mind which they enjoyed when we first knew them.
Rosenbusch went daily to his studio; but he did little there except to feed his mice, and to take his flute out of its case, oil and clean it, without making any attempt to call forth a sound. He would stand for an hour before the "Battle of Lützen," which was now completed, and heave sighs that sounded anything but triumphant. He had long since prepared a new canvas, on which he was intending to paint the entry of Gustavus Adolphus into Munich, a theme which he hoped would interest even the "Art Association." But not a stroke of the brush had he done as yet. To tell the truth, the temperature in his studio was well calculated to scare away the muses, and to freeze up the sweet tones of his flute. Even the mice, who were more accustomed to it, squealed uncomfortably in their little wire cage; while their friend and master, wrapping the mediæval horse-blanket about his painter's jacket, strode thoughtfully up and down, casting a look of displeasure at the cold stove every time he passed it, as if he despised it as a friend who only remained faithful as long as it was kept warm itself. The money he had last received, for illustrating a book of soldiers' songs, had long since been spent. It is true, a dealer in antiquities had made him a very considerable offer for an old casket with a skillfully-ornamented silver cover, which was said to have originally belonged to no less a person than General Illo. But he could not make up his mind to barter this valuable old relic for vulgar fire-wood. He was too proud to borrow of Elfinger, who had hard work to live himself; or to reveal the state of his circumstances to the other inmates of the house. If any one chanced to come across him wandering about alone in his strange disguise, he declared, with a beaming face, that he was too full-blooded to bear the heat of a stove. Besides, he was in one of his poetical moods, and was brooding over an epic poem which was to treat of the astonishing and pitiful love-adventure of the Swedish commander with Gustel von Blasewitz. And composing a poem was a very heating occupation, unless the "shade of a laurel-wreath" was there to cool the forehead on which stood the anxious sweat of the muses.
Toward noon he threw aside his horse-blanket and went around to Angelica's room, where it was warm and cozy. The good girl led the same quiet, industrious life now as before; sold one flower-piece after another, cheaply but surely; painted the children of tender parents who had no money to spare for art, but yet liked to see their salon adorned with the red-cheeked curly-heads of their own flesh and blood; and had certainly no good cause for mourning over the pining away of the beautiful summer. And yet, she too was perceptibly depressed in spirits. Whether it was her righteous anger at the flirting and profitless pangs of her red-bearded neighbor, who since the excursion on the water had only been permitted to exchange a few hasty glances and notes with his sweetheart (her father having found out about the Starnberg adventure, and had a scene with Aunt Babette); or whether the clouded happiness of her beautiful friend caused her silent pain, or awakened in her breast a very pardonable longing for a similar fulfillment of her own earthly mission--who shall say?
She herself never suffered a word of complaint to escape her; and exhibited, particularly to her secretly-betrothed friend, the most contented face in the world. But the change in her spirits did not escape Rosenbusch. He had to submit to be lectured by her oftener than ever, and in a far sharper tone, not only because of his inactivity, but also more particularly because of the aimless and unmanly way in which he carried on his love affair. She would say such harsh things to him about it, that any one else would have run out of the room. But he, meanwhile, would water her flowers with the most penitent and humble mien, would wash her brushes, and end by assuring her that he never felt so well as when she was blowing him up; he felt then that he had no better friend in the world than she was. But he would not be such a fool as to improve, for he only interested her because of his faults. She had no appreciation of his praiseworthy qualities, inasmuch as she could not abide poems, adagios, and mice. Whereupon she used first to laugh, and then, with a shrug of the shoulders and a meaning sigh, to subside into silence.
Nor did "Edward the Fat" pass his days any more cheerfully, though he was surrounded once more by his city comforts, and was relieved of the hated task of enjoying Nature. For the first time in his life this spoiled child of fortune had a wish unfulfilled, and, what sharpened the sting of the privation, a wish that by no means aspired to far-off clouds and stars, but lay apparently within reach of his hands. Heretofore he had had no cause to complain of the unkindness and cruelty of women. The singular contrast between his indolent, sluggish, and phlegmatic manner, and the keen intellectual power that flashed from his eyes and played about his lips, to say nothing of the contemptuous way in which he was in the habit of treating the proudest and most exacting women, provoked them to enter the lists with him, and to challenge and abuse him, until, very unexpectedly, they found themselves worsted. But now, for the first time, he had encountered a being to whom he was forced to stoop in every sense of the word; for she was neither beautiful, nor educated, nor particularly prudish, nor even of good birth. And this strange creature treated him with the most persistent coldness, remained as insensible as a stick to his tenderest words and most heart-felt homage, and, finally, slipped out of his hands altogether. For, in spite of all their endeavors, neither he nor old Schoepf succeeded in discovering the girl's hiding-place.
Ever since Schnetz had let him into the secret, Rossel had become more and more intimate with the old grandfather, and had even proposed to him to accept of a room in his house. The old man, who, in the mean while, had moved into somewhat larger quarters, so as to be ready to receive the girl the moment she should knock at his door, declined this offer, but was very glad to pass his lonely hours in the company of his brilliant young friend. They would spend hours--for neither of them had anything to do--deep in discussions about what was really the main thing in art, or what should or should not be painted; and it was only when they heard the door-bell ring at some unusual time that they would both start up and listen eagerly, hoping it might possibly be the lost girl returning penitently to her best friends.
The only ones whose spirits remained unaffected were Kohle and Schnetz; the latter, because his Thersites disposition had struck its roots too deeply into his nature for him to be either elated or depressed by anything he experienced; Kohle, on the other hand, because, like the happy genii of his Hölderlin, he "soared in the celestial light above," and was incapable of giving his heart to the fate of mortals, no matter how closely he might be bound to them by ties of friendship, for more than a few hours at a time. During these misanthropical November days, Schnetz, when not engaged in the service of his little highness, sat in his den of silhouettes, cut out bitter satires, smoked, read Rabelais at Rossel's suggestion, and, for whole days at a time, spoke to no one except his pale little wife; while Kohle, in a far more wretched, unheated room, passed his days making new designs which, with fingers stiff with cold, but with a heart all aglow with happiness, he sketched on the back of a large fire-screen instead of on paper, which he had not the money to buy.
Under these circumstances it was not to be wondered at that the two meetings of the Paradise Club, which took place before the end of the year, were not attended by that festal flow of spirits that had characterized most of their predecessors. Old Schoepf stayed away altogether; Rossel did not speak a word; Jansen did not make his appearance until nearly midnight, and sat brooding with a dark look in his bright eyes, while he emptied glass after glass without being warmed by his potations. Elfinger, whose relations to his pious sweetheart grew every day more hopeless, and had begun to seriously tell upon his spirits, was scarcely more talkative, and the jokes with which Rosenbusch favored the company had, in Rossel's opinion, a biting flavor, like preserved fruit that has begun to ferment. The younger and less prominent members felt the weight that rested on the whole circle, but were either too modest or too poorly supplied with brains to succeed in enlivening matters at all; and an uncomfortable feeling began to creep over first one and then the other, that perhaps in the life of their society, as in that of every human alliance, the moment had arrived when a sudden decline succeeds to a period of highest prosperity, and when a swift dissolution appears more dignified and more welcome than a long era of gradual decline and decay.
There was one member who did not make his appearance on these evenings, although he was still in the city and apparently in just the mood for such festivities--namely, Angelos Stephanopulos. This or that one had encountered him, on foot or in a carriage, acting as knight to his lady, the Russian countess, who had been away for a few months, but had now returned to that same private hotel where--though at some distance from the nocturnal musical orgies--Irene and her uncle were awaiting reassuring reports from Italy. Irene had satisfied the demands of etiquette by making a formal call upon her fellow-lodger, but had avoided any more intimate intercourse.
Upon this point her uncle had submitted all the more readily to his young governess because, at bottom, he felt more aversion than liking for all but martial or dancing music. But another promise which his strict little niece exacted from him, that he would never say a word to any one about her former relations to Felix, appeared to him so useless that he did not think it a matter of conscience to keep it any longer than while they were all such near neighbors in the country.
At his first meeting with Schnetz he informed his friend and brother-in-arms of the whole story.
He earnestly besought him to exert all his influence to rouse Felix from his dogged silence. Only a single visit from him--now, in the interesting paleness of convalescence--just to thank them for their sympathy during his illness; and the world must have turned topsy-turvy since he was young, if these two estranged lovers did not make up again.
Schnetz listened to these propositions with his usual morose calmness, abused his imperial terribly, and then remarked--that this commission was not to his taste. He had too great a regard for Felix to help him to a bride who could not love him just as he was, with all his faults and weaknesses. He doubted himself whether he should be doing the young man a favor if he did so. He was keeping house very comfortably out there in the solitary villa, going into the woods every day with Homo and a good double-barreled gun; and even though he did not shoot much, he unquestionably killed time after a much more manly fashion than if he were here striving to regain the favor and forgiveness of a spoiled princess. Besides, he was intending to put his affairs in order soon after Christmas, and then to set sail in the early spring; for he had taken it into his head that the air in America would agree with him better than that of his native land.
This announcement threw the uncle into the liveliest state of alarm. He depicted to his friend in such dark colors the future that threatened him, if Felix should carry out this resolution, the prospect of the life-long guardianship of a Fräulein who would soon be getting passée, who would grow more whimsical and unmanageable from year to year, and who would make him suffer for the wrong which she herself had done to her own happiness by her proud obstinacy; he besought him in such moving terms not to leave him in the lurch, now of all times, that finally Schnetz took pity upon him and promised to at least seize the first opportunity to question Felix concerning the real state of his feelings.
For a moment he felt tempted, now that they were on the subject of confessions, to give this lively bachelor, who only wanted to get rid of his ward in order that he might once more enjoy "life" perfectly unrestrainedly, a hint in respect to certain natural duties toward another orphaned child. But a dark presentiment, that possibly a more suitable hour might come for such a disclosure, restrained him. And, moreover, as Red Zenz appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth, there would be no use, for the present, in awakening paternal feelings of which the visible object was perhaps lost for ever.
CHAPTER VIII.
Thus the year drew toward its end, and Christmas stood before the door.
In former years they had always had a Christmas-tree at the Paradise Club. But this time the friends felt disposed to celebrate a more domestic festival, in a narrower circle. In the course of this year they had been drawn closer to one another, and had withdrawn more and more from the other members of "Paradise." Nor was Angelica any longer the only representative of her sex among them, and the only one thus excluded from the men's festivals. And so it was determined that Christmas Eve should be celebrated in the studio-building; that the tree should be set up in Rosenbusch's room, and the table laid in Angelica's--a plan which the two neighbors laid before the others as a joint idea of their own. Each deposited his contribution toward the preparations, in a money-box of which Angelica was the custodian.
Nor did Rosenbusch fail to contribute his share, although Angelica tried by all sorts of pretexts to prevent him. How he had suddenly come into possession of money again--for he had not sold any of his work--was a mystery to Angelica, until she helped him to clear out his studio in order to make room for the Christmas decorations. Then she missed the silver-mounted box, his most precious treasure. Upon her reproaching him about the matter he replied:
"What would you have, my dear friend? It is my misfortune to be a single man. If I were the father of a family and could not pay my rent I should be relieved of all want. For you must know that the Art Society looks at the distress rather than at the talent of those of whom it buys pictures. Help me to a wife, and I promise you not to dispose of another article from my museum."
And then for several days he was in the brightest of spirits, hammering and working as though he were engaged in arranging the studio for his own wedding, and, in the short intervals of rest, taking his flute from its case again.
Christmas Eve came at last. In the afternoon the hermit of the lake returned to the city, with the faithful Homo, who had now become his inseparable companion. Felix's first visit was to Jansen. They were alone together for some hours--hours that carried them back to the time of their early friendship, so freely did each open his heart, and so keenly did they realize once more what they were and always would be to one another. Yet they both avoided touching upon the details of their past, as though it were taken for granted that each had an accurate knowledge of the other's history.
That Jansen was struggling impatiently to free himself from his bonds, and that Felix had given up all hope of ever finding his old happiness again, was all that they confessed. Then they went, arm-in-arm, to visit Julie, who received her lover's friend with all her sweetness and kindness. It did Felix good to be with these two happy people, and he expressed this feeling with so much warmth that Julie thought him extremely charming, and purposely turned the conversation upon his emigration plans in order to dissuade him from them, if it were still possible. But he remained unshaken; and it seemed as if, in spite of all this kind friendship, he could not wait for the time when he should set foot upon the shore beyond the ocean. What it was that was driving him away was not referred to by a word.
Before the evening's festival, they separated for a few hours. Jansen and Julie had first to light a Christmas-tree for little Frances and her foster brothers and sisters, and it was eight o'clock when they reached the studios.
Yet they were not too late, but, on the contrary, had to wait for some time down-stairs in Jansen's rooms with the other friends, until Rosenbusch, who was always finding some last improvements to make in the decorations, gave the signal by ringing a hoarse, old hand-bell--like his other treasures, an historically authenticated household utensil of the famous Friedlander.
Besides their intimate circle, Felix, Rossel, Elfinger, Schnetz and Kohle, no one had been invited but old Schoepf. It had cost much trouble to persuade the old man to come, for on this day he missed his lost grandchild more bitterly than ever. Once persuaded, he seemed, in his silent way, greatly touched; though he strove not to disturb the merry mood of the others. Then, too, there was so much to be seen and admired and laughed at in the Christmas room--Rosenbusch had so surpassed himself, had arranged such tasteful decorations, had made so many verses and prepared so many mottoes, that it was a full hour before the distribution of presents was over.
Then when the lights on the tree had begun to sputter and go out, one after the other, Schnetz suddenly produced a box, in which, up to this time, he had kept his present concealed. It was a series of the most amusing silhouettes, which he now passed in review on a white screen by means of a magic-lantern. They represented the events and adventures of the past year, none of those present escaping without a full share of ridicule. The exhibitor himself was not spared, and it is scarcely necessary to say that his knightship of the rueful countenance was unmercifully made fun of.
While every one was enthusiastically demanding a repetition of this shadow dance, Angelica slipped away to look after the supper, like a careful hostess. At length she reappeared and invited them to table; whereat Rosenbusch ventured to remark that it was high time they should cut a door through the wall so that they might visit one another in a friendly, neighborly way, without having to go round by the cold corridor. The confusion of the moment permitted Angelica, who was usually very strict in keeping this light-hearted red-beard within bounds, to ignore this somewhat audacious remark.
So they entered the other festal hall, in the centre of which stood a tastefully-laid table covered with shining dishes, plates and glasses, ornamented with flowers and surmounted by a slender miniature Christmas-tree, from which hung candy and sweetmeats for the dessert. But we must unfortunately deny ourselves the pleasure of describing the joys of the table, to which this select company now abandoned itself. It is enough to know that it was one of those singularly happy evenings when everything succeeds, when the serious vein is not too heavy, and the merriment not too light, the sentiment not too gushing, and the jollity not too noisy. No one could resist the charm of the cheery present, or brood with sad thoughts upon the past or future; and even Felix and old Schoepf soon had no further need to force their feelings, in order to join in the merry laughter over Schnetz's biting jests and Rosenbusch's inexhaustible drolleries.
Besides all this, the domestic talents of the two ladies stood the test most gloriously. Angelica's simple entertainment found favor even with Rossel; and a hidden genius was discovered in Julie for brewing an incomparable punch, according to a receipt which she had inherited from her father, the general. It was, therefore, merely an expression of the universal feeling when Rosenbusch rose, and in neat verses, which unfortunately have not been preserved, proposed the health of their two lady-friends, the foster-sisters of this circle, who had so wisely administered the peculiarly feminine office of providing for the earthly wants of poor humanity.
This toast, which was received with the wildest applause, was followed by a number of merry, gallant, and serious harangues; and even the two ladies mustered up sufficient courage to make some pretty little speeches, which, it is true, they did not succeed in finishing without considerable blushing and hesitation.
CHAPTER IX.
In the midst of a pause that followed the reading of some singularly tender and beautiful verses by the hitherto silent Kohle, the happy party heard the clock on a neighboring tower strike the hour of midnight, and it was only when the twelfth stroke had died away that their solemnly exorcised spirits seemed to wake once more from their enchantment.
Rossel rose, went up to Kohle, and embraced him, calling him "du" for the first time. He declared that Father Hölderlin looked down from his blissful heights upon his son, with whom he was well pleased. The others, too, roused themselves, and expressed, each according to his fashion, their thanks to the greatly embarrassed poet, to whose health the only one who could have been jealous of him--the poetical Rosenbusch--proposed, amid the enthusiastic acclamations of all, that they should drink the last glass of punch.
Schnetz propounded the question whether sufficient cause could be shown why this was and must be the last glass. But Angelica, although she protested that she wished to exert no pressure upon any one else, persisted, for her own part, in withdrawing; and as the men, too, felt that the festal mood of the evening had reached its height, it was decided to leave the faithful Fridolin to extinguish the lights, and to start together on their homeward ways.
Jansen escorted his betrothed; Rosenbusch offered his arm to Angelica; behind them came Elfinger with Kohle, of whom he had begged a copy of his poem, promising in return to give him a few hints in the art of delivery. Schnetz and Rossel, one on either side, supported old Schoepf, so as to keep him from falling, for he found it hard to walk on the slippery pavement, which was covered over with a thin layer of ice.
The last was Felix. His voice had not been heard for some time back, and no one noticed when, without saying good-night, he turned into a side-street, and went his way alone.
Pulling his hat far down over his face, he rushed as hastily through the raw night as though he were somewhere impatiently expected. His wounds, which were still scarcely healed, pained him; the fiery drink had heated his blood after his long abstinence; and restless, joyless thoughts throbbed through his brain. Before he was aware of it, he found himself in the square before the hotel where Irene lived. Schnetz had let fall a word, as if by chance, about their having taken other rooms, because of the musical soirées. Where ought he look for her window now? They light no Christmas-trees in inns; besides, it was past midnight, and in only a few of the windows was the light still burning.
His eyes fastened themselves unconsciously upon a bright window in the second story. The dark outline of a woman's figure was visible there for a moment; but he could not make out whether it was she who was peering out through the frosted window into the Christmas night. Then the figure drew back again, but he remained.
He stood leaning against a lamp-post, insensible now to the chilling fog and the pain of his wounds. It seemed to him as if he were already on the shore of the New World, and between him and that bright window the broad ocean stretched. Never had he realized so clearly that he could never be happy without this girl, and yet he had never been so far removed from every hope. He said to himself that he must not return to this spot so long as he remained in the city, unless he would see the courage which he had mustered up with so much pain broken again and his determination shaken anew. He must forget once for all that there was a bright window here; he swore it to himself with the full consciousness of how hard it would be for him to keep his vow.
At this moment the light in the window went out. It made a cold shudder pass over him, as if he had received a confirmation of his fears that all was at an end forever. Then he roused himself, and slowly started on the way to his lodgings.
In spite of the late hour, the streets were full of life. The Christmas mass, which lasted from twelve to one, still kept many pious or curious people on their feet. Felix had not gone far when he overtook two couples, who seemed to be in even less of a hurry than himself. A large, stout woman walked in front, hanging on the arm of a young man who appeared to be telling her some very amusing story, for she laughed incessantly in a deep, coarse voice, every minute turning her head--whose thick, black hair was but loosely wound with a red kerchief--that she might look at the second couple, as if she wondered why they did not laugh too. The latter were not walking arm-in-arm; but the man kept close to the girl and spoke incessantly to her in a low voice, while she walked by his side with drooping head, as though she did not belong to him, and were paying no attention to his talk.
The light of the street-lamp now fell upon the group, brightly illuminating a little hat with a black feather, that sat jauntily upon a gold-red chignon.
"Zenz!" cried Felix in surprise.
The girl suddenly stood still, and looked around her.
"Is it really you?" he cried, hastily stepping to her side. "Where have you been hiding all this time? But I see you are with company. I won't detain you."
She still stood there, without moving or answering a word. But her companion, an insolent, dissipated-looking young fellow--apparently a young salesman--took upon himself to reply for her, and declared that he would not allow any one "to strike up an acquaintance with his girl in the street," in his presence, and without an introduction to him.
With this he offered Zenz his arm to take her to the others, who had only just discovered what was taking place, and were looking round toward the stragglers.
"You have nothing to say here, my good friend," replied Felix, with the greatest coolness. "If Fräulein Zenz has no objection to standing here with me, I have a good deal to say to her, and you can wait until I have done, unless you should prefer to go on. How is it, Zenz? Have you five minutes to spare for an old friend?"
The girl now quickly raised her eyes to his and said, in a timid tone that sounded strangely from her lips:
"Is it true that you haven't forgotten me yet?"--Then, before he could answer, she turned to the others:
"You needn't give yourselves any further trouble about me; I can find my way fast enough. Goodnight!"
"Hullo!" cried the young fellow, "that would be cool--to drop a man in the street in this style when another comes along. Damn it, sir--"
He had just turned in a threatening way upon Felix, and had called up the others to bear witness that he didn't intend to suffer any such treatment, when the big, black-haired woman recognized Felix, and hastily whispered a few words to the excited man that seemed to make a marked impression on him. He gave vent to a few more furious expressions, and then suddenly burst out into a hoarse laugh. Making an ironical bow to Zenz, and calling a coarse epithet after her, he turned upon his heel and followed the two others, who went on their way as if nothing had happened.
"Nice company I find you in," said Felix, drawing nearer to the trembling girl. "I thought it likely you couldn't feel very happy among them. Come, you must tell me now what sort of people they are, and how you have been living since I saw you last. If I saw rightly, that big woman was the 'Black Therese.' Poor child! things must have gone very badly with you, to make you take refuge with her!"
She hung on his arm, and let him lead her down the street. He saw, with heart-felt pity, how pale and haggard she had grown, and what poor clothes she wore. Nor could she be induced, at first, to speak a word; yet her breast heaved as if it would burst, and every now and then she stood still and drew a deep breath. But his kind words gradually melted the ice. She told him that she had led a wretched life; had sought in vain for work, and had finally seen no other way than to go back once more to her old acquaintance, who had taken her in again. But, because she was no longer as merry as she used to be, she had not suited the Black Therese at all; and she would gladly have gone away from her if she had only known where to turn. The woman had tried to make her acquainted with all sorts of gentlemen, and had scolded her for a silly goose, because she would not consent.
That night the Black Therese's lover had come to take both girls to the Christmas mass. But in the church a friend of his had joined them, and they were just on their way to a public-house to get something more to drink. It had seemed as if heaven had opened to her when she heard Felix's voice. And now, all of a sudden, she felt quite light at heart. How had he happened to come along just at the right time, and how was he getting on, and was he really quite well again?
She began to laugh again as she asked these questions, with her old happy, light-hearted laugh. All her wretchedness seemed of a sudden to have vanished, and to be forgotten.
"Zenz," he said, "you must not go back to this black devil of a woman. She will bring you to ruin sooner or later; you can no longer have any doubt of that. But now, what do you intend to do? Have you ever taken any thought as to what is going to become of you?"
Her laughing face suddenly grew dark again.
"Indeed I have," she answered, with a thoughtful nod of the head. "I have made up my mind to look on and see how things go until summer; then, if I am no better off--I'm not afraid of the water, I will take another trip on the Starnberger lake, and, when I am just in the middle, I will close my eyes and spring in. They say it doesn't hurt at all.
"You see," she continued, when he did not answer, "I shall never be happy in this world; very few are, and it is all ordered beforehand. So why should I look on patiently while my few young years pass miserably away? There is no one to miss me when I am out of the world. And if it is all the same to me whether I live or not, what does it matter to any one else?"
As she said these words, she involuntarily let go his arm, and stood still again for a moment, to recover breath after her quick speech.
He seized her hand.
"Will you do something for my sake, Zenz?" he asked, tenderly--"a very great favor? Will you promise me to do what I ask you?--to go with me wherever I lead you? You know well enough that I mean well by you."
She looked at him inquiringly. Then she laid her other hand in his, too. A blush mounted to her cheeks, as if from a sudden glad hope that was almost like a shock.
"Do with me whatever you like!" she said, in an almost inaudible voice. "I have no one in all the world but you. Kill me or make me happy, it is all the same to me."
"Come then," he answered, taking her arm again. He knew very well what thought it was that had sprung up within her, and that he must disappoint her hope. But he left her in her delusion, so that she would follow wherever he should lead.
They walked for a quarter of an hour, both in silence, through the dark, deserted streets. At length he stood still before a house, in whose upper story the windows were still lighted.
"Here!" he said.
She gave a start. "Have you moved?" she asked, regarding the house with a look of surprise.
"Here lives the man, Zenz, to whom I want to bring you; he will care for you better than I myself could, even if I were willing to take you with me to a new world. You know whom I mean, child. You did not think of him when you said no one would miss you when you were no longer in the world. Do you remember him now? No," he continued, as she made a movement to escape from him, "I won't let you go; you know what you promised me. The old man sitting there up-stairs--if you only knew how he longs to make up to you for the wrong he did to your poor mother; if you only knew him, Zenz, as we all do--and now he sits there in his lonely room this Christmas-night. The lieutenant has told me of all the things he has brought together, so that he might have some presents ready for his grandchild in case she should hit upon the happy idea of presenting him with herself on Christmas-eve. And, Zenz, if you could only find it in your heart to carry out this thought, even at this late hour, would you not be better off up there than in the tavern with those blackguards, where you would be given vile stuff to drink, and forced to listen to worse talk? And even if this were not so, and you could not bear to live with him, wouldn't there still be time for that voyage on the lake of which you spoke?"
This last thought seemed at length to turn the scales.
She suddenly burst out laughing again. "I was caught nicely that time," she said; "I positively never thought of such a thing when I promised you I would do whatever you asked of me. But, then, it was very stupid of me; I ought to have known-- However, it's quite true that I can try it for a while; it won't cost me my head; and if it doesn't work--why, he won't put me under lock and key, so that I can't get away again. Only you must say to him, in the first place, that I don't particularly like him. I can't conceal what I really feel."
Felix pulled the bell. A sleepy old woman, who acted as servant to Father Schoepf, opened the door. "Goodnight, Zenz," said Felix, cordially pressing the girl's hand. "Say for yourself whatever you have to say to your grandfather. And I thank you for having kept your word; you won't regret it. Good-night, and remember me to the old gentleman; and tell him that I heartily congratulate him upon his Christmas joy. Tomorrow I will call and see how you get on together."
CHAPTER X.
It was not much earlier when the two lovers, who had likewise separated themselves from the rest, arrived before Julie's house. They had taken a roundabout way, for Jansen, who was only too happy to have his beautiful sweetheart on his arm, and to be alone with her at last, would hare liked to wander about for hours. The night-air quickened all his senses, and, in the pale light of the snow and the lamps, the face at his side appeared to him enchantingly beautiful. But he spoke little, just as all the evening he had been the quietest of the party. And she understood him well enough to know that he did not speak to her simply because he never ceased to think of her. Sometimes he would draw her closer to him, and touch his lips to her cool, soft cheek, in the dark shadow of the houses or in the centre of a deserted square. Then he would speak some tender word to her, only to lapse into silence again the next moment.
When at last they arrived at the gate before her house, she stood still and drew the door-key from her pocket.
"We are really here already!" she said. "What a pity! I could walk for hours. It seems to me as if time stood still when I am hanging on your arm. But I must relieve my old Erich, who is sitting up until I come. Good-night, dearest!"
"Here?" he asked, painfully surprised--"here, in the cold street? It is warm in your rooms."
"And for that very reason," she said, softly, "we should find it so much the harder to part."
"Julie!" he cried, passionately clasping her to his breast, "must we part? Can you send me away, when we have not been able to say a confidential word to one another all this evening? If you but knew how I felt--"
She gently withdrew from his embrace. "Dearest," she whispered, "I know only too well. Do you suppose it costs me no struggle to have more sense than you, you wild man? To still make myself out a girl without a hearty while all the while I can feel the poor disobedient thing beating only too wildly? Oh, my darling, if you and I were only alone in the world--"
"Who is there besides ourselves who can separate us from one another?" he cried, hotly.
She laid her soft hand entreatingly upon his mouth. There were some people passing who stopped to listen to his loud voice. "Be quiet, dearest!" she whispered. "Be good, be gentle, be patient for just a little while longer; and think, too, of my own feeling. Have you forgotten that I have determined to be a good mother to our little Frances? I always want to be able to look her in the eyes, and on our marriage-day, too, when I wear the bridal-wreath that I have honorably deserved. The happiness of belonging to you is so great that it may well be worth a time of probation. And now good-night, until to-morrow, and don't be angry with me. Some time you will thank me for having to-day made myself out stronger--than I really am."
With these words she threw her arms tightly round his neck, and gave him a long and loving kiss. Then she hastily escaped, opened the gate, and vanished down the dark garden-walk that led to the house-door. He waited to see the light appear in her window; he could not feel reconciled to parting from her in this way. But she knew that it would only be the harder for him to tear himself away if he should see a light in her window. With throbbing pulse and burning cheeks she entered the dark room, refusing to take the lamp which the old servant had in readiness. So she undressed herself by the faint light that penetrated through the blinds, and hastily sought her bed, to lie a long time sleepless, thinking of all the happiness that was in store for her.
Nor did Rosenbusch make any great haste to take his lady home. They were both in a very merry mood, and he especially made so many brilliant jokes that he kept her laughing continually. It was by sheer oversight that they suddenly found themselves standing at last before her house and Angelica expressed her surprise that the way had been so short. It was so refreshing to be out in the cold winter night, after all the punch and laughter.
A droschky drove slowly past. Rosenbusch proposed that they should take a drive to the Nymphenburg. But she would not hear of such a thing, but advised him to go home like a respectable person, and not to seek companions in some wine-house and spend the night with them in drinking; he had more in his head already than was good for him. But when she did not succeed in getting the house-door unlocked, she had to put up with his remark that her hand did not seem to be a very steady one either. "A man must guide her steps," he sang from the "Zauberflöte," as he took the key from her and opened the door with a smart wrench. "It was very true," she said, "she did not know how to manage latch-keys as well as certain night-birds. But now, many thanks and goodnight!"
With these words she attempted to step into the house; but he, in his merry, audacious mood, could not restrain himself from quickly seizing her round the waist and giving the good girl, who looked positively pretty with her hood and her red cheeks, a sounding kiss upon the lips. But this was carrying the joke too far, in her opinion.
"Herr von Rosebud," she said, in her coldest tone, "you have drunk more than is good for you, and are not entirely responsible for what you do. For that reason I can't be so severe upon your forgetfulness of all propriety as I otherwise should be. I will merely remark to you that my name is not Nanny, and that I wish you a very good-evening."
She made him a formal courtesy, and attempted to slip quickly past him. But he held her fast by her cloak and said, in a droll, pathetic tone:
"You wrong me greatly, Angelica. Truly, I have such a devilish respect for you, I honor you so boundlessly as the model of all womanly virtues, that I would rather eat my head than forget what I owe to you. But will you have the goodness to remember that we have sleighing now? and although we two have merely slid here on foot, still I thought myself entitled, as your true knight, to take this liberty. If this was an error, can you find it in your heart to condemn me for it to the eternal punishment of your direful wrath?"
She could not help laughing at the crushed and penitential mien, which the cunning rascal knew so well how to assume.
"Go!" she said, in her old tone again. "On Christmas night the Saviour came into the world to suffer for all sinners. And, perhaps, you may be forgiven too."
"I thank you," he responded, very quietly. "And in token thereof, dear fellow-Christian, seal your solemn forgiveness, in the sight of this starry heaven, with a voluntary, sisterly kiss. No, you must not refuse me this, unless you want me to pass a sleepless night. You are no Philistine, dearest Angelica."
"I wish I were one," she sighed. But then she kindly and without further resistance offered him her red lips, and said, once more: "Good-night, my dear Rosenbusch!" and the house-door closed between them.
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I.
The new year had come, but it brought little that was new.
One day, about the middle of January, when a light snow was falling in large flakes, the carriage of the old countess had been standing for more than an hour before the hotel in which Irene was stopping with her uncle. The coachman, buried in his high-shouldered bearskin coat, had fallen into a doze, and the horses hung their heads and meekly suffered themselves to be covered with the falling snow. But it seemed as though the silent fall of the flakes would come to an end sooner than the storm of German and French phrases with which the lively old lady overwhelmed the young Fräulein, who sat absently listening to her.
Her uncle had retired into a window-niche, and was looking over an illustrated hunting-book; now and then he threw in a word, a question about this or that acquaintance, which immediately gave the old countess an opportunity to begin a new chapter of her town-gossip.
When, in the midst of this, the servant announced the arrival of the lieutenant, Irene could not suppress a glad "Ah!" This time she found his riding-boots, stiff with snow, and his shabby old winter overcoat, in which he was muffled up to the eyes, by no means so objectionable as usual, but welcomed him as a friend in need, and, smiling gratefully, gave him her hand, which he pressed tightly between his rough buckskin gloves.
But for all that she was disappointed in her hope, for he silently threw himself into a chair, stretched out his legs and beat time with his riding-whip on his high boots, while the old lady, taking up the lost thread of her discourse again, began to spin on as zealously as ever.
Her conversation dealt for the most part with the festival calendar of the great world, with receptions, soirées, routs, and the amateur theatricals that had been given by the French ambassador. Then the question whether there was a prospect of any court balls, and how many there would be, was discussed at length, with great vigor, and with many references to former times, when the good lady was a reigning belle.
All at once it seemed to occur to her that she had the conversation entirely to herself.
"Mais savez-vous, mon cher Schnetz," she said, turning to him, "que vous avez une mine à faire peur? Je ne parle pas de votre toilette--in that respect you have never been very indulgent toward us. But all the time I am trying to initiate our dear Irene into the programme of her winter pleasures--for we can never think of letting her travel off into that land of cholera and brigands, where they are threatening to cut the throat of our religion and of the holy Father--you sit there like Hippocrates--le dieu du silence; et on voit bien, que vous vous moquez intérieurement de tous ces plaisirs innocents. Of course, in regard to dancing, the gentlemen now-a-days are quite blasé. But although you yourself can no longer take any pleasure in the joys of the carnival--"
"You are greatly mistaken, my dear countess," interrupted Schnetz, seriously. "I am so far from being indifferent to the pleasures of dancing that I actually propose to dance all night long, four days from to-day, provided I can find a partner who will dare to trust herself with such a dancing bear."
"Four days from to-day? Vous plaisantez, mon ami. Where is there going to be a ball four days from to-day?"
"Not in the higher spheres, gracious lady, but still a very excellent and respectable hall; moreover, in masks, which fact would in itself make it worth attending. The truth is," he said, addressing himself to Irene, "on Saturday we propose to open the carnival in our 'Paradise,' about which I have already told you. You undoubtedly remember that young baron, who took our boat in tow that day on the lake, and who afterward had the difficulty with that murderous scoundrel? He is going away to America--no one knows exactly why; and, as we all like him, we are anxious to give him a formal farewell fête. For in all the five points of the globe he will never see again such a masquerade as we can make for him!"
A short pause followed these words. Irene had suddenly grown as pale as death; it seemed to her as if she could not breathe; her uncle laid aside his hunter's album, and rose, contriving, as he did so, to secretly step on Schnetz's toe--the latter was apparently occupied in the most innocent manner, with his heavy silver watch-chain, from which were suspended a boar's tooth, a few trinkets, and a large seal ring.
"Comment?" said the old lady. "He is going off to America? C'est drôle--and at this time of year--au cœur de l'hiver! And I have been meaning to ask you, my dear Schnetz, to bring this young man to see me--he certainly looks as if he might be a magnificent dancer, and from his birth and education he could not but prefer the balls in society to any dancing parties that your artist friends might give."
"That is a question, countess," remarked Schnetz, dryly, as he rubbed his disfigured ear; "or, rather, knowing the man as I do, it is not a question at all. My friend's taste is altogether too unprejudiced for him to consult the peerage to find out whether he may amuse himself or not, or to judge by a merry dancer's eyes whether she is worth having for a partner. He has had sufficient experience of what you are pleased to call society to enable him to turn his back upon it without regret. He now seeks society where he can find it; and, if it belongs to the set you consider disreputable, it is good enough for him on carnival eve, if for no other reason than because the so-called 'good society' is only called so because, as a well-known Weimar councilor once remarked, 'it never yet afforded material for even the smallest poem.'"
"Toujours le même frondeur!" laughed the old lady. "Mais on doit pourtant observer les convenances; I mean, even if your friend does sometimes condescend to enter this Bohème, as you yourself do--"
Schnetz immediately cleared his throat loudly. "As to the condescension," he said, with emphasis, "there can be so little talk of that in the present case, that I can assure you that if the most accomplished courtiers in your exclusive society should present themselves for admission to this Paradise, they would be blackballed, with but very few exceptions. This will give you an idea of what the gentleman are like. As for our female guests--though they might not always find favor in the eyes of delicate ladies--I will do them the justice to say that they always behave themselves with propriety while they are with us, and that they have a very good idea of what is expected of them on such occasions. If this were not the case, do you think I would dare to invite our honored Fräulein to this masked ball? to do which, by the way, was the occasion of my present visit."
"Irene? Well, I must confess, Schnetz--cést l'idée la plus extravagante que vous ayez jamais eue. Irene, qu'en dites-vous, ma chère enfant? Mais c'est un idée--
"It is our rule," said Schnetz, turning to Irene, without paying the slightest heed to this interruption, "to allow each member to bring a lady with him, no matter whether she is known to the others or not. Her cavalier is held responsible by the society for her behaving herself with propriety. And up to the present time all have shown so much tact in their choice, that nothing like a scandal has ever occurred. Of course these good children are of all degrees of education and origin, respectable burghers' daughters, actresses belonging to the smaller theatres, and very likely you will find a little seamstress or milliner among them, for whose unswerving principles I should hardly like to answer. But all these inequalities disappear in the masquerade, and one sees nothing but round, pretty faces, which their artist friends try to set off as charmingly as possible. To have taken part in such a thing, my dear Fräulein, will be an experience for you which you will not forget as quickly as you do the artificial routs of our aristocratic friends, that pass without mirth or comfort, and of which one is the exact counterpart of all the rest.
"Then, besides," he continued, as Irene gave no sign either of assent or dissent, "you needn't stand on any ceremony at all. If you should not feel at home among us Bohemians, you can regard the matter as you would a play, whose end we do not stop to see if it bores or depresses us. I need only add that the young lady to whom Jansen is secretly engaged is coming, as well as our honest friend Angelica, so that you will not lack a guard of honor. Now, do help me persuade the Fräulein, my dear countess. I am well enough acquainted with her uncle, to know that he will have nothing to say against it."
"I help you, you godless tempter of youth?" cried the old lady, wavering between sincere anger and a desire to laugh. "Mais décidément vous tournez à la folie, mon cher Schnetz! Have you forgotten that I fill the place of a spiritual mother, pour ainsi dire, to our Irene? that I feel myself responsible for all the impressions and experiences she may encounter in our Munich? And you ask me to persuade her to enter a society to which women de la plus basse extraction, shop-girls, grisettes and models belong--a society, in a word, which is of a thoroughly mauvais genre, no matter how much you bad men may prefer it to ours?"
While she was pouring forth this hasty speech, a singular play of anger, pity, and withering scorn came and went upon Schnetz's face. At length the old lady having come to an end, and making as though she would draw Irene to her arms, as if she were a little chicken who sought protection from the claws of a hawk, the lieutenant slowly rose, planted himself before the sofa, folded his arms over his chest and said, bringing out each word with a certain dry satisfaction:
"You are too old, my good countess, and moreover too thoroughly petrified by the atmosphere of courts, for me to venture to hope that you will change, in any way, your ideas about men and things. But I must respectfully request you not to make use of the expression mauvais genre in connection with any society to which I permit myself the honor of inviting Fräulein Irene. It is opposed to my principles to introduce young ladies whom I esteem into any circle where they could be insulted by anything immoral or vulgar. Upon this point, I hold even more exclusive views than you, in spite of your duties as spiritual mother. In the days when I was still a frequenter of 'society,' which is undoubtedly neither better nor worse here than it is in other capitals, I often overheard ballroom-talk which would not have been excused in our Paradise, even by the license allowed to those who wear masks--though we can scarcely be called prudish. It is true the conversation was veiled in smooth French and still smoother double meanings, which undoubtedly accounts for its being considered bon genre. So much for mere words. And when we come to consider the deeds of this haute extraction from a moral point of view--why, you yourself have kept a record long enough to know that one may be very well versed in the manners of a court, and may yet, as far as looseness of principles is concerned, rival many a grisette, or, for that matter, many a model; and that blue blood is quite as apt to run away with the weaker sex as red. Those gentlemen, especially--to whom you would not hesitate to trust Fräulein Irene for an entire cotillion--may I be allowed to remind you of certain stories, in connection with some of your own partners? About Baron X., for instance, who--" and he bent down over the old lady, and whispered for some time in her ear, notwithstanding the comical struggles she made to protect herself from the auricular confession thus forced upon her.
"Mais vous êtes affreux," she cried out at length and struck at him with her handkerchief, very much in the same way that one tries to rid one's self of a swarm of importunate gnats.
"I beg a thousand pardons," growled Schnetz, again addressing himself to Irene. "C'est contre la bienséance, de chuchoter en société--you see I haven't quite forgotten my catechism of good-breeding even yet, though I do sometimes sin against it. I merely wished to convince the countess that the 'Bohème' from which I have chosen my friends, does indeed consist of men, and not of angels, but that it would be impossible for me to introduce the Fräulein to any one there, from whom the history of morals and civilization in this city could learn as much as it could from certain members of the best circles."
The old countess hastily rose. Her face had grown very red, her nostrils quivered. She gave a slight cough, and then said, turning with a motherly smile to Irene, who was helping her on with her furs.
"Ce cher Schnetz, il a toujours le petit mot pour rire. Well, ma mignonne, faites ce que vous voudrez. Je m'en lave les mains. Adieu, Baron! À tantôt! Adieu, Schnetz, you renegade, you horrid wretch! I see it is true what the world says of you, and what I have always disputed, that you have the most malicious tongue in the whole city."
She gave him as she passed a little tap, intended to be light and coquettish, but really delivered so sharply that the recipient could easily see how glad the same hand would have been to give him a more forcible lesson--if it had only been good ton.