Problematic Characters Part 54

Part Third.

CHAPTER I.

Unfortunately, the next day was to give him ample occasion for practising that wicked art.

For that very morning, as he returned from his meeting with Baumann, who had been waiting for him in the forest at the appointed place to take his letter, he could not deny himself the pleasure of walking about a little in the garden. He intended only to stay a few minutes, to walk just once around on the great wall, but he had now made the turn twice from the great portal back again to the great portal, and was beginning to make it for the third time, for the morning was really delightful, and, if his eyes did not deceive him, a light dress was s.h.i.+ning through the trees and shrubs on the other side. Probably one of the village girls at work in the garden. How he was surprised, therefore, when he found soon after that it was Miss Helen! He could not think of avoiding her. There were only a few flights of steps leading down into the garden. There was nothing left, therefore, but to cross his hands behind his back and to saunter slowly on, watching the birds as they fluttered about in the branches, and the ducks below in the moat, and to be a little surprised when he met Miss Helen precisely at the same time and the same place as yesterday.

Miss Helen returned his bow with that calm reserve which harmonized so well with the somewhat sombre character of her beauty, although it seemed almost too cold and too haughty for a girl of her youthful age.

Perhaps her greeting would not have been quite so formal if Oswald had not on purpose suppressed every trace of pleasant excitement. Then followed a short conversation, by no means overflowing with cleverness, on the weather, and a few indifferent questions on Oswald's part about the promenade of last night, with short answers by Helen. Then once more a polite and cool exchange of formal phrases. Miss Helen continued her walk; Oswald had finished his promenade, which he "always enjoyed between six and seven on the wall,"--a statement by no means founded on truth,--and went back to his room. "What a pity," he said to himself, "that such splendid beauty should hold, after all, but an ordinary soul! What would Professor Berger say, if he saw his lovely bud unfolded now into a dark-red rose? Would he weave another wreath of sonnets and press it on her rich hair? Good, dear Berger, was it a suggestion of your good or your evil angel, both of whom continually struggle for the mastery in your great soul, to send me here into the camp of our enemies? I was to return laden with trophies, scalps of slain Iroquois which we were to hang up in our wigwams to feast our eyes--what would you say if you heard of the narrow escapes your Uncas has had from being scalped himself? But I will keep one promise: I will not fall in love with this early praised beauty--no, and if she were as clever as she is beautiful."

When Oswald came down to dinner he was most pleasantly surprised to find Doctor Braun, who had come a few minutes before, and had accepted the baroness' invitation to stay to dinner.

The doctor appeared in a larger circle to as much advantage as in private; an easy, sociable, and refined man, who evidently had very unusual powers of conversation and perfect self-possession. And what was still more attractive, and really won Doctor Braun the hearts of all, at least of all men of sense, was his real or apparent unconsciousness of all these advantages. Nothing was evidently farther from him than to make an exhibition of himself; on the contrary, he took pleasure in leading others to a clearer understanding of their views, and thus he was not less a good and patient listener than a skilful speaker--two virtues rarely found united.

Oswald saw with surprise that if the doctor distinguished any one in the company, it could only be Miss Helen, and with still greater surprise, that the young lady, when speaking to him, laid aside a part of her haughty reserve. They had made music together before dinner, playing a sonata for four hands; then Helen had sung a few songs, while the doctor accompanied her. At table they sat by each other, and conversed with animation about the different styles of music; the doctor displaying a thorough knowledge of composition, and Miss Helen at least a lively appreciation of matters of music; and when he took leave, directly after dinner, she regretted his eagerness to go so warmly, and begged him so earnestly to be sure and send the promised music very soon,--no, rather to bring it himself, so that they might play it together,--that the doctor might have boasted of a great success if it had been his intention to make a favorable impression on the young lady.

"You are not fond of music?" he asked Oswald, whom he had accompanied to his room for the few minutes till the horses should be ready.

"No, and the harmony of sweet notes has so few attractions for me that I closed my window last night when Miss Helen sang that barcarolle which seemed to give you such delight."

"That is indeed remarkable. I do not remember ever having heard such a--what shall I say--such a mystic alto voice."

"Might not the beauty of the performer affect the impartiality of the judgment?"

"No; I a.s.sure you I judge quite impartially, although I must admit that such spiritual beauty seems to belong more to the realm of dreams than to stern reality."

The doctor had taken a seat in Oswald's arm-chair, and blew the smoke of his cigar, which he had just lighted, in blue clouds through the open window.

"Hers is a beauty," he said, "that would drive a painter to despair, because her most delicate bloom cannot be expressed by lines and colors; music alone can translate it. I wish Beethoven had seen her, or Robert Schumann, and then you ought to hear the ghost-like, demoniac composition which she would have inspired!"

"But which of us is now the enthusiast?" asked Oswald, smiling; "you or I?"

"You!" said the doctor, "for the highest grade of ecstasy is silence.

He who still finds words for his enthusiasm has the reins still in his hands. And then I can see a beautiful girl and admire her, without enjoying, as you see, my cigar any the less. But you are capable of forgetting eating and drinking and everything else, of throwing yourself head over heels into the Charybdis of your enthusiasm, without bestowing a thought upon the way out!"

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure; I have studied you of late thoroughly, and I have found that you are one of the finest specimens of a species of our race, which is quite common in our day--descendants of the departed Doctor Faust, _faustuli posthumi_, so to say, who have cut off their long doctors' beards and exchanged the romantic costume of the Middle Ages for the modern dress coat, without, however, losing their relish for all kinds of enjoyment, and, like Faust, starving in the midst of enjoyment."

"Problematic characters, Baron Oldenburg calls them," said Oswald.

"A capital definition," answered the doctor. "To be sure, the baron ought to know, for he belongs to the brotherhood, and I dare say he ranks high among them. At least I judge so from what I hear, for I have never spoken to him, and seen him only once."

"The baron is an enigmatic character, whom it is very difficult to judge fairly."

"How else could he be a problematic character? I am told you are one of the baron's special friends--one of the few he has on earth. And that is why I speak frankly. I cannot approve it, that a man of such eminent talents should waste his life in idleness--in a kind of busy idleness, the greatest reproach, in my opinion, that can be made against a man in our day, when there is so very much to be done."

"How can the poor baron help it, if the bread and b.u.t.ter of every day's life are not to his taste?"

"Do you think I like it?" said Doctor Braun, and he flushed up and his eyes sparkled; "do you think that the great G.o.d Apollo, when he watched the cattle of Admetus, and ate the mean food of a slave in the shade of an oak-tree, did not long for the ambrosia and nectar on the golden tables in the house of Zeus? Nevertheless he bore his fate and endured it, as a greater one did after him. But I have always thought that the true lot of man upon earth is to be subject to all that is human, and yet never to forget the heavenly part within him; to contend until death with the raving wolves of tyranny and falsehood, and to bear the cross of all that is vulgar and mean, for the sake of that which follows after Golgotha."

The doctor had risen; he walked a few times up and down the room with rapid strides; then he stopped before Oswald and said, with heart-winning kindliness: "Pardon me if I have offended you by one or the other word I have spoken; perhaps I have been inconsiderate. But it always excites me to see a superior man remain idle or follow false lights. The former is the sin against the Holy Ghost, the gravest of all our sins; the other is less grave, but almost equal. I absolve you from the former, but I cannot but declare you guilty of the latter. You know what I told you the other day about your position here; now, after having seen you myself in this circle, I consider it still more objectionable. Give it up before it is too late! It may be unwarrantable indiscretion in me to speak to you thus, but you know we physicians have the privilege of being indiscreet. Are you angry?"

"I should be the greatest fool if I were so weak," replied Oswald. "On the contrary, I am very grateful to you for the sympathy you show me, and which I am not deserving, I fear. But I think you look upon things as a little too dark----"

"Only too dark?" said the doctor, laughing; "I do not see them gray nor black; I do not see them at all; I am blind, purblind, in both eyes.

Adieu, _mon cher_, adieu! If after some days you should not feel quite as well as you do at this hour, send for me! You shall see I am not a doctor for the well only, but also for the sick!"

With these words the doctor hastily left the room, and a moment afterwards Oswald heard the grating of the wheels on the gravel before the portal of the chateau.

CHAPTER II.

We all know that it is the fate of good advice invariably to come too late, or only at the moment when it ought to be followed at once, but for one or the other reason cannot well be followed. The doctor's advice was excellent; even Oswald saw that, especially as he had always thought in the same way about his false position in this high and n.o.ble family. But he could not find the way out of this labyrinth; at least not for the moment. It was so natural that of late his love for Melitta should have made him forget everything else, and lead him to consider a measure which might remove him from her as the greatest misfortune. And even now, when Melitta's journey and Baron Berkow's impending death surrounded the present and the future alike with dark mystery, he could not possibly decide on a step which was as important for Melitta as for himself. And then, leaving Melitta out of the question, he had no plausible reason for abandoning a position which he had bound himself to retain for several years, unless he should resort to a violent rupture. Such a _coup d'etat_, however, would always have been painful and repulsive to a Hamlet-like nature, such as Oswald's was; and now, when the baroness evidently made efforts to live in peace and harmony with all the world, he could not even find an adversary to pick up the gauntlet that he might choose to throw down for the purpose.

Besides, he had quite recently shown a most lively interest in the plans of the baroness for the education of the boys, up to the time when they should be ready for the proposed tour through Germany, France, England, and perhaps also Italy. This interest would now appear absurd or worse, if it should turn out that he never meant to carry out these plans. He had also readily acquiesced in the desire of the baroness to resume with Miss Helen several branches of study which she had pursued at the boarding-school, and these lessons, which the baroness proposed to attend for her own improvement, were to begin on the very next day.

And, setting all this aside, he should have had to leave Bruno if he went away from Grenwitz;--Bruno, whom he really loved like a brother, whose brilliant talents he hoped to develop, and whom he desired most ardently to introduce into the realm of science, and afterwards into life itself.

The little trip seemed to have had a most happy effect upon Bruno, as upon all the others. He had lost much of his sombre reserve; he sought out company which he had formerly avoided, in common with Oswald, and persuaded his teacher even to take part in promenades and other joint excursions of pleasure. He did not suspect that Oswald was by no means making a sacrifice when he yielded to his entreaties, but only pretended to be reluctant in order to excuse himself in his own heart for his inconsistency. When Oswald teased Bruno about this new interest in persons and things which had formerly been indifferent to him, the latter replied that he did not know what had happened to him; but that he felt like a bird who, after being kept in a cage, had recovered his freedom; like a flower when the sun was coming out, after storm and rain. And really Bruno was merry like a bird, and, in his joyousness, beautiful like a flower which is just opening to the light of day. One could not help admiring the glorious boy; his kind ways were as irresistibly charming as his defiance was repelling and at times offensive. All agreed on this one point, that a great change had taken place in Bruno, but how it had been brought about no one knew and no one suspected.

And yet the cause would hardly have escaped an acute observer, nor Oswald himself, if he had not been fully occupied with his own affairs.

The very first conversation with Bruno on the evening of his arrival might have furnished him the key. As then Helen's name was continually reappearing in his recitals, so now all he said and did had some reference to Helen, although he was instinctively careful to place others in the foreground, and to appear least interested in Helen herself--just as a bird tries to lure the pursuer away from his nest by his anxious fluttering to and fro. For not only shame is born in secret; love springs forth in the same way, especially when the heart that bears it is still young and innocent, so innocent that it hardly knows what is going on, and only feels the one thing, that a G.o.d has touched it. "What is the matter with the boy?" they asked, when they saw how his eyes shone, how bold and proud his carriage was, how elastic his step; when they heard his voice, which was now as soft as the evening breeze, and then, in the excitement of a game, or whenever his energy was roused, as clear and powerful as the sound of a trumpet.

And if it really looked at times as if Bruno had abandoned his secluded habits only for his cousin's sake, this could surprise the others all the less, as everybody seemed to have undergone some change, and was ready to wors.h.i.+p the newly risen star. Why else was the baroness now all mildness and goodness? Why did she now always appear with a smiling face at table, and endeavor not to let the conversation die out during the meal? Why did the baron annoy the silent coachman by ordering the fat bays whenever anybody but uttered a wish to visit this or that remote place--an order which before the trip would have been looked upon as an event? Why had Mr. Timm, for the first time, drawn forth his dress coat from its corner in his trunk, and a.s.sumed, as it looked, with the coat a less careless and easy manner? Why did Miss Marguerite's voice sound less sharp now than formerly? And why had she just now remembered that there were in her wardrobe a few pretty bows, which had lain there unused for years? Why did even Malte pay attention to the game when they played at graces, and try to catch the hoops occasionally?

Did Miss Helen know that she was the cause of all these great and small changes? It was hard to tell whether Miss Helen observed anything at all; whether she was in good or in bad humor; even whether certain members of the company existed or not, as far as she was concerned. Her calm proud air rarely varied, and the smile she occasionally deigned to show was so fleeting in its very beauty that it never betrayed the share which the heart had in it. To her parents she was in all respects the attentive and obedient daughter; to her brother the older sister, who, if she knew how to respect his foibles, would also insist upon being respected by him; to Mademoiselle Marguerite she was the kind mistress, who is always fully conscious of the difference in their relative positions; to Oswald and Albert quite the young lady, who has been fully instructed how low the bow of a person in a humbler position of life ought to be--and only to Bruno she was more cordial; in her intercourse with him alone she gave up something of her haughty reserve, which at other times seemed to be as much a part of herself as the dark color of her magnificent hair, and the deep brilliancy of her large gray eyes.

But even if the baroness complained to her husband of the very great reserve in Helen's manner, and often remarked that her long absence from home seemed, after all, to have alienated her in some degree from her family, the fault lay less with the young lady than with the baroness herself. It had been her own wish to keep Helen so many years from the paternal house; it was she who had explained to her weak husband, when he longed for his dear child, how very advantageous it would be to Helen to be trained early in the strict discipline of a school, and to remain there as long as possible. Long ago, already when the little girl had affectionately leaned against her, she had only replied with a cold air and a few cool French phrases, until the child, growing older, had seen how hopeless the effort was to reach her mother's heart, and abandoned the hope to soften it by her caresses.

The poor girl had to pay dear for the misfortune of not being a boy, and of being unable to contribute anything towards securing the entail to the family, and she would probably have been allowed to live a long time yet in exile if her mother had not suddenly conceived the plan of making her, after all, useful for that purpose by marrying her to Felix, the heir-presumptive of the estate. The energetic woman doubted not a moment that she would be able to carry out her project. Felix had not only approved of it highly, but taken already all the steps which the clever baroness had suggested to him as necessary for success. He had thrown up his commission; he had left the city, the theatre of his deeds, and gone to his estates, perhaps in order to look at the place where the beautiful forests once stood which he had mercilessly cut down to pay his most pressing creditors. Baron Felix was in the habit of promising anything and everything to those who lent him money--why should he not promise the baroness to marry her daughter if she engaged to pay his debts and to help him to make his exhausted and ill-managed estates once more productive? On that side, therefore, there were no difficulties to encounter. On Helen's side she expected as little trouble, or rather, up to this time, she had never thought of the possibility of resistance. She had forgotten that she had not seen her daughter for three years; that three years can make great changes, and, among others, can make a proud young lady of seventeen of a timid and submissive child of thirteen. She had forgotten that Helen had learnt not to tremble any more before her mother, and had become far too independent, thanks to her training by a strict but high-toned governess, to submit her will thus _sans facon_ to that of another, whoever he might be.

The baroness saw this almost at the first glance, when she met her daughter in the reception-room of the Inst.i.tute at Hamburg. There was nothing to be said against the carriage of the young lady, who advanced towards her mother neither too hastily nor too slowly, who kissed her hand, and then, as if awaiting further orders, remained there calmly and composedly. But the big eyes looked so firm and so proud, and the words fell so well measured from her lips, that the mother felt she could no longer count upon childlike submission or loving obedience from this daughter, who looked to her almost a stranger. The great project which she bore in her head quite ready, suddenly appeared to her in a very uncertain light, and the first words she said to her husband were: "I think, dear Grenwitz, we shall have to be very cautious with our plan about that match. You would oblige me by leaving the matter entirely in my hands. An awkward beginning, nay, even a hint at the wrong time, might spoil it all,"--a suggestion which the old gentleman was very willing to obey, as even his strong faith in Anna Maria's infallibility had not been able to quiet all his scruples about the proposed match.

The baroness saw that if Felix should not find favor in Helen's eyes--and such a case was at least possible--nothing could be done by intimidation or violence, and that gentle measures were not merely the safest but the only way. This is what made her so kind, after her fas.h.i.+on, so exceedingly kind to her daughter; and in order that the others might not find out her purpose, or in order to keep in practice, she was kind to them also. It was strange, however, that this suns.h.i.+ne of favor seemed to warm her least for whom it was specially intended; Helen did not change her calm, measured manner, her coldly polite formality, in the least; the boarding school, which the baroness had always praised to the skies, had evidently produced in Helen a model young lady.

And yet this heart, apparently so cold and inaccessible, was well able to feel warmly. When she took leave of her friends and her beloved governess she had wept burning tears, though she dried them instantly when her mother remarked on them,--she showed her father many little attentions not easily suggested by mere politeness, and she could give money to a poor child and then take him by the hand and speak kindly to him. Her friends, of whom, however, she had only few, never found cause to complain of heartlessness in her, and the letters she wrote from Grenwitz proved that she was neither cold nor reserved with those she loved. Thus she wrote, among others, to Mary Burton, a pretty young English girl, whom she loved best of all her friends, and who had had a great influence over her:

"But those are _tempi pa.s.sati_, my dear Mary! I have now to learn to enjoy my music alone, and to submit patiently to the company of people among whom you are not. I miss you everywhere; I miss some of the others also, and I do not yet see how it will be possible for me to be happy without you. Do not think, however, that they are unkind to me here! On the contrary, I must acknowledge that my good people here have all met me most kindly. I did not expect anything else from papa, you know--but, you have read my mother's letters! You thought they resembled each other like so many flakes of snow. But she also is much less severe than she used to be, and I may do and not do what I like, a thing we always thought would be perfect bliss when we were at school.

My rooms are in the first story of the old castle, just above the garden, and a door opens from my salon right upon it. Thus I can live quite undisturbed, although I can reach the sitting-rooms through a pa.s.sage by a few steps. You know I was always afraid I would not be able to indulge here in my favorite amus.e.m.e.nt of playing at night, when everything is quiet. I have no such fear now, and I have enjoyed my music every night since I have come here. I disturb n.o.body, unless it be a couple of gentlemen who live somewhere above me in the same part of the castle, but who fortunately belong to the cla.s.s of men whom we candidly call n.o.bodies. They are the tutor, a certain Mr. Stein, and a surveyor, whom papa employs, and who enjoys the aristocratic name of Timm. Both might pa.s.s for handsome, or, to tell the truth, I almost suspect you would call Mr. Stein 'handsome and very gentlemanly indeed,' but you need not think for all that that either of them has made an impression upon me. I have an antipathy against people in such subordinate positions, as I dislike calico dresses and false jewelry.

They may do for governesses and such people, but not for us. I see them at dinner and in the evening--otherwise I ignore their existence. I sometimes meet Mr. Stein in the morning, when he takes his early walk in the garden. For the birds are singing here so close to my windows that I must get up, whether I choose or not. I would rather not meet him, but what can I do? The poor man has to give six or seven lessons in the forenoon, and so I cannot well forbid him to enjoy the only morning hour he has free; and if I were to go later I should lose the cream of the morning. I have to submit, you see, and can only say, _Non sono rose senza spine!_ However, this Mr. Stein, although only an imitation diamond, is so well polished that a less practised eye might well take him for genuine. He has more self-control and better manners than we generally find with people of low birth. He has a way of telling you a compliment or an impertinence with the calmest air in the world, as if he did not care in the least who you might be, which amuses me at times.