Problematic Characters Part 38

None of the others, however, seemed to share this suspicion, which suggested itself all the more naturally to Oswald, as he himself frequently amused himself thus at the expense of the company, for whom he felt such thorough contempt. Perhaps Bruno might have thought something like it. He was sitting by his side, more sombre and reserved than usual, and never moving a muscle to smile, even when everybody around him--Oswald included--was laughing aloud, especially towards the end of the supper, when Mr. Albert Timm began a conversation with his neighbor, Mademoiselle Marguerite, in which he mingled French and German in the most ludicrous manner. The pretty bashful Genevese girl had taken great pains to follow Mr. Timm in all his odd sayings during the conversation, turning continually with a sudden: _Que veut dire cela?_ to her neighbor on the other side; but Malte answered these questions but rarely, as he himself did not understand more than half of what the inexhaustible talker had said till the latter commenced the amusing jargon with her, breaking off, however, with great tact as soon as he saw that the pretty girl was embarra.s.sed by the laughter of the others.

It had become quite dark, when the baroness rose and invited Mr. and Mrs. Jager, who were thanking her in many words for the delightful evening they had spent, before taking formal leave, to stay and play an old-fas.h.i.+oned game of whist with the baron and herself, "such a staid old game, you know, Mr. Jager, as suits staid old people like ourselves."

Malte had gone to bed. Oswald and Bruno, Albert and Mademoiselle Marguerite were walking in pairs around the lawn and in the nearest garden-walks.

"You never told me yet, Oswald," said Bruno--he now called his friend, when they were alone, always Oswald simply--"whether you saw Aunt Berkow yesterday?"

"Yes, Bruno."

"Did she look pretty?"

"As ever."

"Did she send me her love?"

"Of course."

"Do you know, Oswald, I think Aunt Berkow is quite fond of you?"

"Why, little fool?"

"She was always looking at you so the other evening--so very kindly--and I don't know how--but her eyes looked brighter--and she sometimes looks at me so, when she strokes my hair, and still it was not quite the same way."

"Ah, Bruno, you do not know what you are saying."

"I know it very well, but I cannot express it as well as you big, clever people. I was quite jealous of you that evening, for before that she was almost most kind to me. I should not know how Aunt Berkow looks when she is fond of somebody! I know it perfectly well!" said Bruno, defiantly.

"And I know more than that," he continued, after a pause. "I ought not to tell, because aunt warned me against letting anybody know; but now I think she was not in earnest when she said so."

"What was that?" asked Oswald, with a.s.sumed indifference.

"I will tell you," said Bruno. "Last Sat.u.r.day, in the afternoon, when you were writing letters, I had gone into the forest towards Berkow, because that is my favorite walk. Suddenly aunt comes riding up, quite alone, not even Bonc[oe]ur with her. She rode Brownlock, whom she always takes when she wants to go fast, and she must have been riding fast then, for Brownlock's neck and chest, and even her riding-habit, were all covered with white foam. Why, Bruno! she said, offering me her hand, where are you going to? Nowhere, aunt, as usually, said I, but where are you going to!--Nowhere, like yourself, she answered, laughing; so we can continue on our way together.--If you will walk your horse, I said, not otherwise. And thus we went for half an hour or more through the forest, and the whole time we talked of nothing but of yourself, and aunt asked me if I was fond of you, to which I replied, of course, No! How you looked and if you were cheerful? Whether you studied much? and a hundred other things, which I have forgotten. At last she charged me to give you her regards, and to ask you if you still had the engravings you had been speaking of, and if you would not send them to her--and then she called me back, and said I had better not remind you of them, and not tell you that she had spoken of you--but, as I told you, now I do not think she meant exactly what she said."

"Why not now, Bruno?"

"Because----" the boy was silent; suddenly he said in a low tone, as if he feared the dark bushes would hear it:

"Tell me, Oswald, how is it, when people are in love?"

"How do you mean?" asked Oswald, not a little embarra.s.sed by the boy's question.

"I mean, what kind of love is that of which the books have so much to say? I love you, love you very much, but I think there must be some other kind of love. Thus I never understood why we should not love anybody we choose to love. Now, I love my Aunt Berkow above all things.

I could do anything for her! I sometimes wish she would fall into the water and I could jump after her; or, as it happened the other day, Brownlock would be rearing and I would seize the reins and struggle with him, and not let him go again, although he should trample upon me with his hoofs.--Now, such wishes never occur to me when I am near you, Oswald, or when I think of you at a distance."

"Because I am a man, Bruno, and you know that I could and would help myself, without aid from others. But the love we feel for a woman partakes of the consciousness that we must protect her who cannot defend herself with our superior strength and courage, and that makes our love deeper, and fuller of sympathy. And then there is still another feeling mixed up with it, of which I can only tell you that it is pure as nature itself, but also as chaste, and which therefore must not be awakened before the right time, if it is not to become as fatal to rash man as the boldness of the youth, whom the thirst for knowledge drove to Sas and to the temple where she dwelt, hid in close veils, Isis, the chaste, holy G.o.ddess of nature."

"I do not quite understand you, Oswald."

"The world and life are full of riddles, Bruno. Life is a Sphinx and we are [Oe]dipus. And it is the curse of [Oe]dipus that he must solve the enigma, although the solution makes him unhappy."

"You are not angry with me, Oswald?"

"I angry, darling! Why should _I_?"

"Because I trouble you with such absurd questions."

"You ought to ask me, Bruno; ask me about everything which causes you doubt or trouble. Your soul ought to lie open before me like a book, which I may peruse over and over again. Would to G.o.d I could write nothing but what is wise and good on its white pages."

"You are always kind, so very kind towards me, Oswald, and I return only ingrat.i.tude and obstinacy!"

"No, you do not do that--and then, are we not brothers? Brothers must love, and bear, and support each other, and have no right to keep their troubles apart. Bruno, if I could cherish the pious faith of many, that the spirits of the departed hover around the beloved ones whom they have left behind upon earth, I would say: From yonder, in the bright starry sky, our mothers are looking down upon us, and rejoice at our union and our love. Let us stand by each other in this wild strife of life, for defence and offence. It will not be long before you are a man like myself, and would to G.o.d a better man than I am. Then the last difference, the difference of years, which I do not feel even now, will have disappeared. It may be that then I will look up to you, as you now look up to me; then you will repay me a hundred-fold what I may be able to do for you now; then I shall be--oh, so willingly!--your debtor!"

"Ah, that will never be!" said Bruno. "You will always be unattainably far ahead of me. I shall never be what you are even now."

"You little fool!" said Oswald, and affectionately caressed Bruno's hair. "Now you are sitting in the pit before the stage of life, and the pasteboard roll looks to your enthusiastic eye a huge mountain, and all the tinsel genuine gold. When you are on the stage yourself, the sweet rosy veil of illusion will drop from before your eyes, and you will see your mistake. But be it so! After your first painful disappointment, you will soon understand that it cannot be otherwise; you will not despise your brother, because you now see that his proud knightly cloak is of faded silk, and sadly patched, and his spurs nothing but bra.s.s--but hus.h.!.+ here comes Mr. Timm and mademoiselle! It seems Mr.

Timm improves the opportunity to cultivate his French. We will not disturb him in his praiseworthy purposes. Let us turn off here."

Mr. Timm, who had not noticed Oswald and Bruno, now came by, arm in arm with Mademoiselle Marguerite, speaking eagerly, but carefully softening his clear, loud voice. He had indeed known how to improve the "opportunity," though in another sense than that to which Oswald alluded. The young man attached very little importance to his p.r.o.nunciation of French, but very much to the evident advantages he might derive from the good-will of the young lady, who seemed to preside over the interior of the household. As he would probably spend several weeks at the chateau, this was a matter of great interest to him, and he had taken prompt measures to secure the favor of the little Frenchwoman, which might in many ways mitigate the monotony of country life. During the delightful, cosey little _tete-a-tete_, the conversation had been carried on in German, with an occasional use of French, as mademoiselle spoke German quite fluently and Mr. Timm spoke French very badly, and the harmless, innocent, and truth-loving young man hated nothing more than the possibility of being understood imperfectly, or, worse than that, of being misunderstood.

"And you have been here long?" he asked.

"Three years."

"Is it possible? And you did not die of _ennui_! You must have a famous const.i.tution."

"_Plait-il?_

"I mean, it is desperately tiresome to live year after year in this hole, and, moreover, to live here in such very charming society. But I suppose you have much to do?"

"_Enormement!_ I have to work like a _forcat_."

"Like what?"

"_Vous ne savez pas ce que c'est qu'un forcat?_"

"No--never mind. We'll say, like a horse; that will do, I dare say. You say then, they make you work like a _forcat_?"

"_Justement!_ I have to open and to lock all doors----"

"That's not so bad," remarked Timm.

"I must hear all the day: Mademoiselle, do this! Mademoiselle, do that!

And the evening, when I am tired that I cannot keep open the eyes, I must read the stupid old books till madam has the kindness to say: _C'est a.s.sez!--Non, madame, ce n'est pas a.s.sez; c'est trop--mille fois trop!_" said the lively little lady, and stamped with the foot.

"You seem to have a lively temper," said Mr. Timm. "But that is all right; relieve yourself--that makes the heart lighter--but if the baroness has so much confidence in you, I suppose you are in high favor with her?"

"_Au contraire!_ She me uses, because she me needs. She would give me my _conge_ rather to-day than to-morrow. She me likes, because I not need much sleep and I eat little."

"Well, then, I shall never be in favor with her," said Mr. Timm. "But you, poor child, are in a horrible position here. Much work and no thanks; early rising, and, in return, late retiring; all day thres.h.i.+ng corn, like the good-natured beast in the Bible, but no privileges granted, as there recorded--who can stand that? You ought to get married, mademoiselle?"