The Breaking of the Storm Volume Ii Part 13

"Go on, I beg!"

The battle was at an end here; but from the centre of the town was still heard the thunder of cannon and rattle of musketry. I hastened to the spot where there seemed to be still something to do. I had to cross the Konigsstra.s.se if I did not wish to go a long way round; I made the attempt, although I was told that it was in the hands of the troops already almost as far as the Alexanderplatz. My attempt failed; a quarter of an hour later I was a prisoner in the cellars of the King's palace.

"I pa.s.s over the horrors of that night; a man must have experienced it, when the close poisonous air, around the hundreds that were huddled together, seemed to transform itself into grinning devils, which whispered and mocked ceaselessly: 'In vain! in vain! Fool, fool! The cause for which you fought is hopelessly lost--lost! A man must have experienced that!

"About four o'clock we were led away, driven, hunted to Spandau. My strength was not yet broken, but weaker men gave way. Near me was a pale youth, a delicate young student, in spectacles. He had held out bravely as long as he could, but he could bear no more. Though he clenched his teeth, the tears would burst forth when a blow in the back from the b.u.t.t-end of a musket forced him to exertions of which he was no longer capable. Blood flowed from his eyes and mouth; I could no longer bear the sight of his sufferings, I rushed forward, throwing down all before me, towards an officer who rode alongside, and cried to him: 'If you are a man do not suffer such unmanly cruelties to be perpetrated close to you!' I was frantic; I believe I had seized his horse by the bridle. The officer may have thought it was a personal attack; he spurred his horse which reared and threw me down. I started up again immediately: 'If you are a man!' I cried again, once more throwing myself before him. 'Democrat!' and he gnashed his teeth, 'then die if you will have it so!' He raised himself in his stirrups, his sword whistled over me. My broad-brimmed hat and my thick hair lessened the force of the blow, but I sank on my knee, and for a moment lost consciousness. It could only have been a moment. The next I stood there again, determined to sell my life dearly, when another officer hastened up, bringing a message to the first, an order--I do not know what--on which the latter, exclaiming 'Is it possible?' turned his horse. At that moment the moon, which had been hidden behind black clouds, shone out; by its light I recognised distinctly in the officer my opponent at the barricade. He galloped away. 'We shall meet for the third time!' I cried after him, while I was forced back into the ranks with blows; 'perhaps it will be my turn then, and'--I swore a deep oath--'then I will not again spare you.'

"Since that night four and twenty years have pa.s.sed; I have seen the officer often and often; naturally he did not know me; I should have known him among millions. Since that time our hair and beards have grown grey; I swear to G.o.d that I wished and hoped that that third time would be spared me. It was not to be; he and I now stand here for the third time face to face."

Both men had risen in their excitement. Neither dared to look at the other; each shrank from saying the next word. The heavy drops rattled against the windows; the clock on the chimney-piece prepared to strike.

The General knew the word that was to come as well as he knew the hour that was about to strike; still it must be spoken.

"And now," he said, "for the conclusion; I think it is my turn."

Uncle Ernst looked up, like a lion whose victim has stirred again; the General answered his dark and threatening glance by a melancholy smile, and his deep voice sounded almost soft as he continued:

"It seems to me that we have exchanged the parts which are usually taken by the man of the people and the aristocrat. The man of the people remembers minutely a wrong that was done him a generation back, and has forgiven nothing; the aristocrat has not indeed forgotten, but he has learnt to forgive. Or do you think that he has nothing to forgive? You said one must have experienced what you did on that night, in order to understand it. Well! can you, on the other hand, place yourself in the position of a man who saw, on that night, all that he held honourable and holy, all for which he had lived and for which his ancestors had shed their blood, fall to pieces in shameful ruin, and chaos take its place? But he has learnt more than merely to forgive; he has learnt to value the good qualities of his opponents wherever he can find them; he has learnt no longer to shut his eyes to the weaknesses of his own party; he has seen that the struggle must be fought out on different ground, on the ground of right and justice, and that the victory will remain with that party which understands how to seize first on this ground and to take the strongest root. For this reason the excesses committed by his party find no more inflexible judge than himself; for this reason he demands that every one shall be in private life an example and pattern of conduct and morals, and shall act justly, let it cost him what it will. What it has cost me to make this advance to you to-day, you must leave me to decide with myself and with my G.o.d--it is more and less than you can understand. Enough that I am here, and ask you to forgive my son, if on this matter, from a false, culpable, but not unnatural regard to the circ.u.mstances in which he is born, he has allowed himself to deviate from the straight road that led him to the father of the woman he loved. I ask you not to let the children suffer because the fathers have stood face to face with weapons in their hands; I ask you, in the name of my son, for your daughter's hand for my son."

Uncle Ernst started back like a traveller before whom a piece of rock falls, blocking his path, while the precipice gapes near him, and no return is possible.

Without, the storm raged; the clock struck the hour of ten. Uncle Ernst collected himself; the rock must be removed--it must!

"I have sworn that this hand shall wither sooner than that it shall touch the hand of General von Werben."

"But hardly by the G.o.d of goodness and mercy?"

"I have sworn it."

"Then remember what is written, 'That man is like the gra.s.s, that to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven.' We are neither of us any longer young; who knows how soon the morrow will come for us?"

"May it come soon, is my wis.h.!.+"

"Mine also, perhaps, but till then? Remember that the father's blessing builds the children's house; but that we have no power to loose the bonds of two hearts that have found one another without our help--perhaps against our wish and will. Consider that the responsibility of the curse which must ensue from these unhallowed bonds henceforth rests on your head."

"I have considered it."

"And I have done my duty."

The General bowed in his usual stately and dignified manner, and moved, courteously escorted by Uncle Ernst, towards the door. There he stood still:

"One thing more; the failure of consent on the part of the fathers hinders a marriage at least in this case, in which a portionless officer is the suitor. None the less will my son consider himself bound till your daughter herself releases him. I take it for granted that your daughter will not do this, unless her father exercises compulsion over her."

"I take it for granted also that General von Werben has exercised no compulsion on his son, in obtaining authority from the latter to make the proposal with which he has just honoured me."

The stern eyes flashed, he had his opponent in his grasp; the crisis must come now. A look of pain pa.s.sed over the General's face.

"The supposition would not be quite correct; the sense of duty was stronger in the father than in the son."

He was gone. The wild fire in the eyes of him who remained behind had changed to a joyful gleam.

"I knew it! The brood are always the same, however they may boast of their virtue. Down! down! down with them!"

He stood there, bending forward, moving his powerful arms, as if his enemy in reality lay at his feet. Then he drew himself up. His arms sank, the gleam disappeared from his eyes. The victory was not his yet; another struggle was before him, the hardest, the struggle with his own flesh and blood.

CHAPTER XIII.

For Ferdinanda the night had had no terrors, the morning no darkness.

In her soul was brightest day, for the first time for many months; for the first time, indeed, she thought, since she knew what a pa.s.sionate, proud, ambitious heart beat in her bosom. They had often told her--in former days, her mother; later, her aunt, her friends, all--that it would one day bring her unhappiness, and that pride went before a fall; and she had always answered scornfully, "Then I will be unhappy; I will fall, if happiness is only to be had at the mean price of humility, which always grovels in the dust before fate, and sings hymns of praise if the wheels of envious fate have only grazed and not crushed her. I am not like Justus or Cilli."

And she had been unhappy, even in the hours when the enthusiastic artists--Justus's friends--had done homage in unmeasured terms to the blooming beauty of the young girl; when these men praised her talents, told her she was on the right road to become an artist; finally, that she was an artist--a true artist. She did not believe them; and if she really were an artist, there were so many greater ones--even Justus's hand reached so much higher and further than hers; laughing, and apparently without trouble, he gathered fruits for which she strove with the most intense effort, and which, as she secretly acknowledged to herself, must always be beyond her reach.

She had told her woes to that great French artist, on whom her beauty had made such an overpowering expression. He had for some time only put her off with courteous and smiling words; at last he had said seriously:

"Mademoiselle, there is only one highest happiness for woman, and that is love; and there is only one talent in which no man can equal her--that is again love."

The words had crushed her; her artistic talent was then only a childish dream, and love! Yes, she knew that she could love--unspeakably, boundlessly! But the man was still to be found who could awaken that love to its heavenward soaring flame; and woe to her when she found him! He would not comprehend her love, he would not realise it, and he would certainly be unable to return it; perhaps would shrink back before its fire, and she would be more unhappy than before.

And was not this gloomy foreboding already sadly fulfilled? Had she not already felt herself unspeakably unhappy in her love for him who had come to her as if sent from heaven--as if he himself were one of the heavenly ones? Had she not already, countless times, with hot tears, with bitter scorn, with writhing despair, complained, exclaimed, cried out, that he did not understand or realise her love, never would understand or realise it? Had she not clearly seen that he trembled and shrank back, not from the danger which threatened him on the dark path of his love--he was as bold and dexterous as man could be--but before her love, before her all-powerful, but also all-exacting, insatiable love?

She had experienced this again yesterday, at the very instant that followed that happy moment when she had received and returned his first kiss! And to-day; to-day she smiled at her doubts amidst tears of joy; to-day she asked pardon of her beloved, amidst a thousand burning kisses that she pressed in thought on his beautiful brow, his tender eyes, and his dear mouth, for every harsh or bitter word or thought she had ever had against him, and which she never, never would say or think again.

She had tried to work, to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the "Reaping Girl," but her hand had been hopeless, powerless, as in her first attempts, and she had recollected, not without a shudder, that she had vowed not to finish the group. The vow had been--contrary to her antic.i.p.ations--a forerunner of happiness. What was to her this miserable image of jealous revenge? How worthless appeared to her all this extensive apparatus of her work--this lofty room, these pedestals, these mallets, chisels, modelling-tools; these casts of arms, hands, feet; these heads, these busts from the originals of old masters; her own sketches, attempts, completed works--childish strivings with bandaged eyes for a happiness that was not to be found here--that was only to be found in love, the sole, true talent of woman--her talent, of which she felt that it was unique, that it outshone everything that had till then been felt as love and called love!

She could not bear her room this morning; even her studio seemed too small. She stepped into the garden, and wandered along the paths, between the shrubs, under the trees, from whose rustling branches drops of the night's rain fell upon her. How often had she hated the bright suns.h.i.+ne, the blue sky, that had seemed to mock at her anguis.h.!.+ She looked in triumph now up into the grey clouds that pa.s.sed, dark and heavy, above her head. What need had she of sun and light--she in whose heart was nothing but light and brightness? The drizzling rain that now began to fall would only serve to cool the internal fire that threatened to consume her. Driving clouds, drizzling rain, rustling trees, whispering shrubs, even the damp, black earth--all was wonderfully beautiful in the reflection of her love!

She went in again and seated herself in the place where he had kissed her, and dreamed again that happy dream, while near at hand was hammering and knocking, and, between whiles, chattering and whispering, and the rain rattled against the tall window--dreamed that her dream had the power to draw him to her, who now opened the door softly and--it was only a dream--came towards her with the tender smile on his dear lips and the beautiful light in his dark eyes, till suddenly the smile died on his lips, and only the eyes still gleamed, but no longer with tender light, but with the gloomy, melancholy depths of her father's eyes. And now they were not only her father's eyes; it was more and more himself--her father. Good G.o.d!

She had started out of her doze; her limbs trembled; she sank back in the chair, and drew herself up again. She had seen at once in the glance of his eyes, in the letter which he held in his hand--seen with the first half-waking glance why he had come. She said so, in half-awake, wild, pa.s.sionate words.

He had bent his head, but he did not contradict her; he answered nothing but "My poor child!"

"I am your child no longer if you do this to me."

"I fear you have never been so in your heart."

"And if I have not been so, whose fault is it but yours? Have you ever shown me the love that a child is ent.i.tled to ask from its father? Have you ever done anything to make the life you gave me a happy one? Has my industry ever drawn from you a word of praise, or my success a word of acknowledgment? Have you not rather done everything to humble me in my own eyes, to make me smaller than I was in reality, to insult my art, to make me feel that in your eyes I was no artist and never should be one--that you looked on all this as nothing better than a large doll's house, which you had bought for me in order that I might trifle and idle away my worthless time here! And now, now you come to tear my love from me, only because your pride wills it so--only because you consider it an insult that such a poor, useless creature should will, or wish anything that you do not wish and will! But you are mistaken, father; I am, in spite of all, your daughter. You may repudiate me, you may drive me to misery, as you might dash me in pieces with that hammer, because you are the stronger; but you cannot tear my love from me!"

"I both can and will."

"Try!"

"To try and to succeed are one. Would you be the mistress of Lieutenant von Werben?"

"What has that question to do with my love?"