Problematic Characters Part 52

It was a superb sight which the courtyard of Castle Grenwitz presented when Oswald entered through the dark portal,--a sight well calculated to lull a careworn heart to slumber. The red evening sun was still lying warm on the highest tops of the magnificent linden-trees, which led up to the portal of the chateau, and upon the lofty battlements of the old castle; but deep shadows had fallen already upon the s.p.a.ce beneath the trees, the sides of the walls, and the tall gra.s.s, which everywhere cropped out between the pavement. The crowns of the linden-trees, which were covered with a snow of white blossoms, exhaled a sweet perfume which filled the whole atmosphere. All around reigned such perfect stillness that the busy hum of insects was distinctly heard; on the brim of the basin of the headless Naiad sat a little bird and sang to the setting sun; high up in the rose-colored air a few swallows were still swiftly shooting to and fro, as if they could not leave the glorious bright air for their homes below.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oswald approached the chateau. He felt the charm of this evening hour, and knew that the first word spoken by man would break it. But he met no one. The whole courtyard was deserted. He ascended the winding staircase and went through the long pa.s.sages, in which his footsteps sounded loud, to his room. The windows were open; the arm-chair stood in its right place; on the table, before the sofa, stood a vase filled with fresh flowers, and the head of the Belvedere Apollo had also been crowned with ivy. The room had been righted up by one who knew the owner's peculiarities. Evidently Bruno had been at work here.

Oswald was most pleasantly surprised by this silent and yet eloquent welcome. It was like a warm hand which kindly pressed his own,--like a breath that whispered his name. The storm in his soul, which had been roused by the doctor's words, had pa.s.sed away, and its place was filled by melancholy sadness.

Oswald had been sitting at the window, leaning his head on his hand.

Suddenly he thought he heard voices from the lawn on the other side of the chateau. He recollected that it was time he should seek out the company and speak to them. He dressed, took a carnation from the bouquet, and went down.

As he opened the door of the sitting-room, from which the gla.s.s door led upon the lawn, he heard the voices more distinctly, and when he had entered the empty room, he saw a part of the company busy upon the lawn with the favorite game of the baroness. He softly went up to the door, and remained standing at the very spot from which Melitta on that afternoon had seen him for the first time, when he came from under the trees, arm in arm with Bruno.

The company consisted of the baron and the baroness, Mademoiselle Marguerite and Mr. Timm, Malte and Bruno, and a young lady who was turning her back to Bruno, so that he could only see the slender, lithe figure, whose charming outlines a simple white robe set off to great advantage, and the luxuriant, slightly curling black hair, which, parted in the middle, was taken up behind in countless braids and plaits, following the contour of the marvellously well-shaped head.

Oswald's eyes were attracted, as if by magic spell, by this youthful figure who stood there motionless, without leaving the place for a moment, and who only at regular intervals raised the arms in order to receive the graces sent to her with unerring accuracy by her neighbor Bruno, or to send them on to Malte, who let them as regularly drop, and bitterly complained that Helen was throwing so badly. He added that she only did it to spite him, and that somebody else ought to take his place.

"Then come here, Helen," said the baroness. "You really throw too badly."

Mother and daughter exchanged places, and Oswald could now see Helen's face.

It was one of those faces that are never forgotten again; one of those faces which we remember with melancholy pleasure half a century later, as we remember a warm summer evening on which we little school-boys were playing in a garden and the laughing of the big girls came from the garden-house; one of those faces which smile upon us when we are most sad, like a ray of the sun on a dismal autumnal day, which, when all is sad and sorrowful in our hearts, make us believe once more in poetry, and in all that is good and divine.

Oswald was standing there lost in admiration, as we remain standing in adoration before a sublime painting. It was not the lovely oval of the charming face; it was not the large, dark, dreamy eyes which shone forth from under the long, black lashes with such magic light; it was not the full, rosy lips that laughed so bewitchingly, nor the dark carnation of her velvety complexion--it was all and everything. Who can catch the sunbeams? Who can reduce the song of the nightingale to notes? Who can a.n.a.lyze beauty? Oswald did not attempt it; he only felt that he never had seen, and never would see anything more beautiful in all his life, and he fancied a sweet dream he had so often dreamt was at last fulfilled, and he had found the Blue Flower for which he had been looking everywhere in vain.

Oswald wished to speak to the company, but he felt as if he were chained to the ground. An inexplicable anxiety seized him, a timid fear, as if something fearful must happen next; as if at that moment the secret powers of Fate were deciding on his weal and woe for life.... He would have liked to fly away to the deepest solitude.

He noticed just then that the old baron, who might have found it too cool out of doors, had left the circle, and was coming up to the house.

He made an effort and stepped through the gla.s.s door to meet him. His appearance was of course noticed at once, and a universal: Ah, see there, Doctor Stein! See there, the doctor! greeted him, while Bruno, running and leaping up to him, had embraced him long before the others could come near to greet him.

"Why, this is charming, doctor," said the baroness, with her most gracious smile. "We were inconsolable at the thought that we would miss you for weeks yet, and now you are here in our midst. What do you say to our coming back so soon? Poor Grenwitz! he was very sick. Go in, dear Grenwitz, it is really quite cool out here. We will all go in. And our circle has been added to in the mean time. Where is Helen?--_Helene, viens ici, ma chere!_ Let me present my daughter Helen to you. I have made her hope that you will be kind enough to help her in supplying the many things she ought to have learnt and has not learnt. For you do not know how very imperfect the education of girls in boarding-schools is in point of science! I am sure you will admit the little one among your pupils? _Mademoiselle, n'avez-vous pas mon fichu? Ah, le voila.

Merci bien! et dites-donc qu'on allume la lampe!_ I think we will all go into the salon."

"Certainly," said Mr. Timm, who had been unusually quiet so far. "Hard weeks, pleasant Sundays, work in the day-time, and a merry bowl at night, as the old Privy Councillor says. No allusion, madam, I a.s.sure you!"

"But you would not be sorry, I am sure, if we understood the allusion, eh?" said the baroness, apparently determined to charm everybody to-night.

"I would not be true to myself if I were to deny it," said Mr. Timm, placing his hand on his heart, "and you know, madam, I hate all want of truthfulness."

"_Eh bien_," said the baroness, "and you shall yourself select the ingredients. Will you arrange it with mademoiselle?"

"Famous," said Mr. Timm; "madam, permit me to kiss your hand," and after having obtained and used the permission, he drew the little Frenchwoman aside to teach her the receipt for a famous bowl of punch.

They had been sitting perhaps for an hour in the salon, pleasantly chatting, Mr. Timm had sung several comic songs of his own composition with the accompaniment of the piano, and performed a few burlesque scenes, in which he represented two or three different persons with as many different voices,--in short, he had done all in his power to amuse the somewhat silent company, and yet been compelled to drink his self-brewed punch almost alone,--when the baroness proposed that they should retire. Mr. Timm requested, as his only reward for his efforts, the permission to kiss the ladies' hands, which was granted him very graciously by the baroness. Miss Helen, however, refused, and told him curtly, and slightly contracting her beautifully arched brows, that the artist's reward was in himself. Mr. Timm began to remonstrate, but Oswald cut the matter short by wis.h.i.+ng everybody "Good-night!" and leaving the room with Bruno (Malte had gone to bed before), thus compelling Mr. Timm, who lived in the same part of the building, to follow his example. Altogether Oswald had not treated his old friend exactly well, and it required all the good-nature and the humility of the latter to bear it quietly, and to continue in his usual reckless way of talking till they had reached their rooms.

"G.o.d be thanked!" said Oswald, when he saw himself alone in his room with Bruno, "at last we are rid of the eternal talker. And I have not yet been able to ask your pardon, Bruno, for my coldness and indifference at our last parting, nor to thank you for forgetting it all like a good brother.--Was it you who prepared me such a friendly welcome? Who put those flowers there?"

"Yes----"

"And the ivy wreath around the head of Apollo?"

"Yes."

"And you put the arm-chair in its place?"

"Yes----"

"You dear, dear fellow! Come, let us both sit down in it, and now you must tell me all about your wanderings, of the cities you have seen, of the Cyclopes you have blinded, of the sufferings you have endured--all, all in order, you know, as Polyphemus milks his sheep."

Oswald had thrown himself into the chair, and drawn Bruno down on his lap. Thus they sat; the boy came close up to his only friend and began to tell,--first describing ironically the journey; how now the baron and now Malte had been unable to sit with their backs to the horses; how, at last, both had taken a seat on the box, while the postilion came into the carriage--and how much he, Bruno, had enjoyed it to see ever new towns and villages, and at last Hamburg itself.

Then his recital a.s.sumed another tone. He described quite seriously the impression made upon him by the city, the fine, stately houses, the crowd in the streets, the activity in the harbor, the great basin, in which the brilliant gas-lights were reflected, and what a superb effect that produced, and how he had come near falling into the water, if Helen had not held him. And when he had once mentioned Helen's name it turned up continually, like a bright star amid dark clouds; how Helen had wept upon leaving Hamburg; how she had dried her tears at her mother's words: "You seem to be quite sorry to return to your parents,"

and how she had scarcely ever smiled after that during the whole journey. For she is very proud, he added, but also very, very kind towards all she loves, for instance, towards her father and also towards me, although I would not pretend to say that she is fond of me.

Only this, the boy said, he knew, that one evening, when it was very late and he very tired from the long ride, so that he could not keep his eyes open any longer, she had sat very quietly and patiently, with his head resting on her shoulder. He should never forget her for that; and if ever the opportunity offered to render her any service, he only wished it would be a matter of life and death, else it would not be enough for him.

Thus the boy talked on, and the words fell like fiery sparks from a house in full blaze, and his cheeks were all aglow. Oswald noticed that the beautiful girl had made a deep impression upon the wild boy, but he did not suspect how deep, how all-powerful this impression was, and what a revolution this first sudden affection had produced in his precocious and overflowing heart. He laughed at his pet's fiery enthusiasm all the more wittily, as he shared it in no inconsiderable degree, and Bruno, who accepted anything from Oswald, laughed too, and laughing and joking they said "Good-night" to each other. Bruno went to his room; Oswald sat down again in his chair.

The lamp was burning on the table before the sofa, but so dimly that even the faint gleam of the moon, which was just rising above the forest, could be distinctly seen in the room. A single star near the delicate crescent shone from the nightly blue of the sky. The soft balsamic air came in through the open window--it was so still that the noise of the falling dew-drops could be distinctly heard. And now, as Oswald sat and listened, he heard suddenly the sounds of a piano, coming to him like the echo of an aeolian harp. It was evidently a most skilful hand that produced them; first low, quite low, as if she feared to awake night from her slumber, then very gradually louder and louder.

The accords floated slowly into a melody, and soon a soft alto voice began to sing the song to which the melody belonged. Oswald could not hear the words, but they seemed to be soft and sad as the air, which spoke wondrously to the heart with its simple touching complaint.

Such music at such an hour would have charmed Oswald even if he had not suspected who the singer was. But now that he knew there was no one else who could sing here but the beautiful girl, before whom he had that night bowed his soul in adoration as before an apparition from on high, at seeing whom he had felt as if a new revelation was vouchsafed to him--now it touched the innermost chords of his heart, and he felt as if he must seek words to give vent to the overwhelming impression which he could not otherwise master. He rose like a drunken man from his seat at the window, he went to the table and wrote in wild, incoherent words, which gradually arranged themselves and finally a.s.sumed the shape of a sonnet. He locked it up carefully and went back to the window. The moon and the stars were hid behind a dark storm-cloud, which had risen behind them and now overhung that part of the heavens. The song had ceased and the night wind alone sang in the trees.

He closed the window and went to his couch. A heavy sleep fell upon him, disturbed by anxious dreams. Now he was in a terrible fire, and now he was to be torn by wild beasts; then again he felt that indescribable anguish which seems to be a horror coming down to us from another world, but always at the moment of greatest need an angel appeared at his side and stretched a protecting hand over him, and this angel bore the features of--Melitta.

CHAPTER XV.

As Oswald was looking for something among the papers on his writing-table, on the following morning, he came upon a note, which he had overlooked the night before. He recognized at once the handwriting, which was as problematic as the writer, with its now bold and grand, now scribbled and confused characters. Oldenburg wrote:--

"I have just received information which compels me to start immediately on a distant journey, which may be extended I know not how long.

Certainly not less than a week. I write these lines to drop them at Grenwitz, if I should not see you, which I would regret very much, as I have much to tell you. I take our Czika with me, as the solitude does not seem to me a safe place for her during my absence. I shall certainly be back for the day appointed by the gypsy woman. Until then, farewell.

"In great haste, and with still greater friends.h.i.+p,

"A. O."

Oswald was strangely impressed by this letter, for that divining power which plays so prominent a part in matters of the heart, made him at once suspect some connection between this sudden departure of Oldenburg and Melitta's departure. Whether much that he heard about the relations existing between the two appeared to him now in a new light since Melitta's recital, or whether it was merely the vagueness of Oldenburg's statement--enough, Oswald resented it as a kind of insult, that he was continually encountering riddles in that direction. He determined to go across to Berkow this very day, and to see if old Baumann had a letter for him from Melitta.

Then his thoughts turned into another channel when his eye fell upon the verses he had written the night before. He smiled now as he read them over. "There your wretched imagination has played you another trick," he said to himself. "You have only to hear of a pretty girl who is to marry somebody else and not your highness, and you have a paroxysm of pity with the girl and a paroxysm of hate against the man.

And then you have only to see the girl, and to find that she has large bright eyes, and looks more attractive than half-grown girls generally do, and a boy has only to tell you stories about this half-grown girl, and you are forced to write miserable verses like these, which I would put instantly in the fire if we were not unfortunately in the dog-days."

But Oswald held no _auto da fe_, although the light of a candle would have done him the same service, but put the paper away again in his desk.

The morning greeted him so kindly from the dew-refreshed garden, that Oswald could not resist the temptation to saunter about a little among the flower-beds and in the shady avenues. Besides, it was early yet, almost two hour's time, and the boys were still asleep.

Oswald hastened down and went to his favorite place, the immense wall which encircled the chateau, the garden, and the courtyard, and on which he loved to walk under the beeches and the walnut-trees, especially in the morning, when the red rays of the sun were peeping through the waving branches, and the half-wild ducks were enjoying themselves heartily on the moss-grown moat.

Oswald sauntered leisurely along, enjoying all the charming details of the delicious morning, and giving himself up to the enjoyment all the more heartily to-day, as the loveliness, the soft beauty that surrounded him here on all sides contrasted very strangely with the sombre monotony of the seacoast, which he had of late continually had before his eyes. Now he could hardly understand how he had been so completely overcome by his bad humor. The doctor was right: solitude is a sweet intoxicating poison which finally kills. I must consult the doctor frequently. A clear head, which sees men and things always in the right light. But still he is mistaken about the proposed match between Miss Helen and her cousin. In the first place, she is much too young; secondly, she is too beautiful; and thirdly, I won't have it. Do you hear, _madame la baroness_? I won't have it! You will not carry out your nice plan, however much you may stare at me with your big and presumptuous eyes, and draw yourself up to your full height.