The First Violin Part 72

By and by the luncheon bell rang. We all met once more. I felt every hour more like one in a dream or in some impossible old romance. That piece of outward death-like reserve, the countess, with the fire within which she was forever spending her energy in attempts to quench; that conglomeration of ice, pride, roughness and chivalry, the Herr Graf himself; the thin, wooden-looking priest, the director of the Grafin; that lovely picture of grace and bloom, with the dash of melancholy, Sigmund; certainly it was the strangest company in which I had ever been present. The countess sent me home in the afternoon, reminding me that I was engaged to dine there with the others to-morrow. I managed to get a word aside with Sigmund--to kiss him and tell him I should come to see him again. Then I left them; interested, inthralled, fascinated with them and their life, and--more in love with Eugen than ever.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

"WHERE IS MY FATHER?"

We had been bidden to dine at the schloss--Frau Mittendorf, Stella, and I. In due time the doctor's new carriage was called out, and seated in it we were driven to the great castle. With a renewed joy and awe I looked at it by twilight, with the dusk of sunset veiling its woods and turning the whole ma.s.s to the color of a deep earth-stain. Eugen's home: there he had been born; as the child of such a race and in its traditions he had been nurtured by that sad lady whom we were going to see. I at least knew that he had acted, and was now acting, up to the very standard of his high calling. The place has lost much of its awfulness for me; it had become even friendly and lovely.

The dinner was necessarily a solemn one. I was looking out for Sigmund, who, however, did not put in an appearance.

After dinner, when we were all a.s.sembled in a vast salon which the numberless wax-lights did but partially and in the center illuminate, I determined to make an effort at release from this seclusion, and asked the countess (who had motioned me to a seat beside her) where Sigmund was.

"He seemed a little languid and not inclined to come down-stairs," said she. "I expect he is in the music-room--he generally finds his way there."

"Oh, I wish you would allow me to go and see him."

"Certainly, my child," said she, ringing; and presently a servant guided me to the door of the music-rooms, and in answer to my knock I was bidden _herein!_

I entered. The room was in shadow; but a deep glowing fire burned in a great cavernous, stone fire-place, and shone upon huge bra.s.s andirons on either side of the hearth. In an easy-chair sat Brunken, the old librarian, and his white hair and beard were also warmed into rosiness by the fire-glow. At his feet lay Sigmund, who had apparently been listening to some story of his old friend. His hands were clasped about the old man's knee, his face upturned, his hair pushed back.

Both turned as I came in, and Sigmund sprung up, but ere he had advanced two paces, paused and stood still, as if overcome with languor or weariness.

"Sigmund, I have come to see you," said I, coming to the fire and greeting the old man, who welcomed me hospitably.

I took Sigmund's hand; it was hot and dry. I kissed him; lips and cheeks were burning and glowing crimson. I swept the hair from his brow, that too was burning, and his temples throbbed. His eyes met mine with a strange, misty look. Saying nothing, I seated myself in a low chair near the fire, and drew him to me. He nestled up to me, and I felt that if Eugen could see us he would be almost satisfied. Sigmund did not say anything. He merely settled his head upon my breast, gave a deep sigh as if of relief, and closing his eyes, said:

"Now, Brunken, go on!"

"As I was saying, _mein Liebling_, I hope to prove all former theorists and writers upon the subject to have been wrong--"

"He's talking about a Magrepha," said Sigmund, still not opening his eyes.

"A Magrepha--what may that be?" I inquired.

"Yes. Some people say it was a real full-blown organ," explained Sigmund, in a thick, hesitating voice, "and some say it was nothing better than a bag-pipe--oh, dear! how my head does ache--and there are people who say it was a kettle-drum--nothing more nor less; and Brunken is going to show that not one of them knew anything about it."

"I hope so, at least," said Brunken, with a modest placidity.

"Oh, indeed!" said I, glancing a little timidly into the far recesses of the deep, ghostly room, where the fire-light kept catching the sheen of metal, the yellow whiteness of ivory keys or pipes, or the polished case of some stringed instrument.

Strange, grotesque shapes loomed out in the uncertain, flickering light; but was it not a strange and haunted chamber? Ever it seemed to me as if breaths of air blew through it, which came from all imaginable kinds of graves, and were the breaths of those departed ones who had handled the strange collection, and who wished to finger, or blow into, or beat the dumb, unvibrating things once more.

Did I say unvibrating? I was wrong then. The strings sometimes quivered to sounds that set them trembling; something like a whispered tone I have heard from the deep, upturned throats of great brazen trumpets--something like a distant moan floating around the gilded organ-pipes. In after-days, when Friedhelm Helfen knew this room, he made a wonderful fantasia about it, in which all the dumb instruments woke up, or tried to wake up to life again, for the whole place impressed him, he told me, as nothing that he had ever known before.

Brunken went on in a droning tone, giving theories of his own as to the nature of the Magrepha, and I, with my arms around Sigmund, half listened to the sleepy monotone of the good old visionary. But what spoke to me with a more potent voice was the soughing and wuthering of the sorrowful wind without, which verily moaned around the old walls, and sought out the old corners, and wailed, and plained, and sobbed in a way that was enough to break one's heart.

By degrees a silence settled upon us. Brunken, having satisfactorily annihilated his enemies, ceased to speak; the fire burned lower; Sigmund's eyes were closed; his cheeks were not less flushed than before, nor his brow less hot, and a frown contracted it. I know not how long a time had pa.s.sed, but I had no wish to rise.

The door was opened, and some one came into the room. I looked up. It was the Grafin. Brunken rose and stood to one side, bowing.

I could not get up, but some movement of mine, perhaps, disturbed the heavy and feverish slumber of the child. He started wide awake, with a look of wild terror, and gazed down into the darkness, crying out:

"_Mein Vater_, where art thou?"

A strange, startled, frightened look crossed the face of the countess when she heard the words. She did not speak, and I said some soothing words to Sigmund.

But there could be no doubt that he was very ill. It was quite unlike his usual silent courage and reticence to wring his small hands and with ever-increasing terror turn a deaf ear to my soothings, sobbing out in tones of pain and insistence:

"Father! father! where art thou? I want thee!"

Then he began to cry pitifully, and the only word that was heard was "Father!" It was like some recurrent wail in a piece of music, which warns one all through of a coming tragedy.

"Oh, dear! What is to be done? Sigmund! _Was ist denn mit dir, mein Engel?_" said the poor countess, greatly distressed.

"He is ill," said I. "I think he has taken an illness. Does thy head ache, Sigmund?"

"Yes," said he, "it does. Where is my own father? My head never ached when I was with my father."

"_Mein Gott! mein Gott!_" said the countess in a low tone. "I thought he had forgotten his father."

"Forgotten!" echoed I. "Frau Grafin, he is one of yourselves. You do not seem to forget."

"_Herrgott!_" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "What can be the matter with him? What must I say to Bruno? Sigmund darling, what hast thou then! What ails thee?"

"I want my father!" he repeated. Nor would he utter any other word. The one idea, long dormant, had now taken full possession of him; in fever, half delirious, out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spake.

"Sigmund, _Liebchen_," said the countess, "control thyself. Thy uncle must not hear thee say that word."

"I don't want my uncle. I want my father!" said Sigmund, looking restlessly round. "Oh, where is he? I have not seen him--it is so long, and I want him. I love him; I do love my father, and I want him."

It was pitiful, pathetic, somewhat tragic too. The poor countess had not the faintest idea what to do with the boy, whose illness frightened her.

I suggested that he should be put to bed and the doctor sent for, as he had probably taken some complaint which would declare itself in a few days, and might be merely some childish disorder.

The countess seized my suggestion eagerly. Sigmund was taken away. I saw him no more that night. Presently we left the schloss and drove home.

I found a letter waiting for me from Eugen. He was still at Elberthal, and appeared to have been reproaching himself for having accepted my "sacrifice," as he called it. He spoke of Sigmund. There was more, too, in the letter, which made me both glad and sad. I felt life spreading before me, endowed with a gravity, a largeness of aim, and a dignity of purpose such as I had never dreamed of before.

It seemed that for me, too, there was work to do. I also had a love for whose sake to endure. This made me feel grave. Eugen's low spirits, and the increased bitterness with which he spoke of things, made me sad; but something else made me glad. Throughout his whole letter there breathed a pa.s.sion, a warmth--restrained, but glowing through its bond of reticent words--an eagerness which he told me that at last

"As I loved, loved am I."

Even after that sail down the river I had felt a half mistrust, now all doubts were removed. He loved me. He had learned it in all its truth and breadth since we last parted. He talked of renunciation, but it was with an anguish so keen as to make me wince for him who felt it. If he tried to renounce me now, it would not be the cold laying aside of a thing for which he did not care, it would be the wrenching himself away from his heart's desire. I triumphed in the knowledge, and this was what made me glad.

Almost before we had finished breakfast in the morning, there came a thundering of wheels up to the door, and a shriek of excitement from Frau Mittendorf, who, _morgenhaube_ on her head, a shapeless old morning-gown clinging hideously about her ample figure, rushed to the window, looked out, and announced the carriage of the Frau Grafin.

"_Aber!_ What can she want at this early hour?" she speculated, coming into the room again and staring at us both with wide open eyes round with agitation and importance. "But I dare say she wishes to consult me upon some matter. I wish I were dressed more becomingly. I have heard--that is, I know, for I am so intimate with her--that she never wears _neglige_. I wonder if I should have time to--"