A Sister's Love Part 9

"'Early in the morning,' she replied, in a lifeless tone.

"'Then lie down now, and go to sleep,' I said, pointing to the sofa, and prepared to leave the room.

"'Oh, Mademoiselle!' She sprang up and held me fast. 'Promise me you will be kind to Susanna, you will speak a kind word to her if she cries!'

"'Certainly, as far as I can; but she will receive only kindness from every one here.'

"'Not from the blonde lady,' she said. 'She is a girl without a heart; perhaps she never had one, perhaps it is dead. She does not know what youth, beauty, and love are. She never laughs. I notice that people who cannot laugh are envious of every being that can be happy, that pleases others by its charm; she will never love Susanna!'

"She spoke pathetically and theatrically, yet a tone of deep pain rang through her words.

"'Life is so serious,' I returned.

"'But laughing, cheerfulness, beauty are the air she breathes,' began the strange person again.

"'I promise you to look after the child,' said I, about to go; but in vain. She held me by the dress, and begged me to hear first, for G.o.d's sake, that it was not tyranny or arbitrary choice that bound her to the child, but a sacred promise. And whether I would or not, I had to listen to a story which the old woman delivered as if she were on the stage, and which, in spite of the whispered tone in which it was given, was, by means of gestures and rolling of the eyes, a perfect specimen of high mimic art. I could not now repeat the words as they came from the lips of the old actress, but only know now that she contrived to announce that she was just forty years old and had been very beautiful.

The old song came into my head, which a poet puts into the mouth of his old harpist:

"'I once was young and fair, But my beauty's gone--ah, where?

On my cheeks were roses red, And bright curls upon my head.

When I was young and fair!

When I was young and fair!'

"I did not dispute her pretended forty years, and she now unrolled before my eyes a phase of life so varied and irregular, and yet again so full of the poetry of a vagabond existence, that Father Goethe would surely have been glad to have it to insert in 'Wilhelm Meister.' To make a short story of it, Professor Mattoni had really loved _her_, when, in consequence of a mood, to her inexplicable, he transferred his affection to her fellow-actress. 'I was senseless from pain, Mademoiselle,' she threw in, 'but I governed myself. I became the most indispensable friend of Mattoni's young wife.'

"She now described this person as a dreamy creature, beautiful as a picture but quite uneducated; and the Professor, as an imperious man, who, when he failed to find in his wife the companions.h.i.+p of his soul's creation, treated her worse than a servant-maid. '_En verite_, Mademoiselle, she was stupid; the thickest wall would have--' And she made a gesture, as if to test with _her_ head whether the walls at Butze were a match for it. 'Oh, the men, even the wisest and best of them are blinded when they love, Mademoiselle! He had received his punishment for his breach of faith toward me.'

"Then followed a description of the Mattoni household, in which Isabella Pfannenschmidt, as my informant was called, heartily interested herself.

She became housekeeper for Frau Mattoni, who read novels all day long or played with her cat. The women lived in a little back room, and the Professor occupied two rooms as formerly. They received from him such scanty means of support that often they knew not how to satisfy their hunger. The troupe with which Isabella Pfannenschmidt had an engagement went away from Berlin, but she could not go with them: 'for, Mademoiselle, she and the child would have perished in dirt and misery; she was a person who would go hungry if food were not put right under her nose, rather than get up from her lazy position on the sofa, and the Professor took all his meals at a restaurant. He did not want people to find out that he had a wife and child, anyway. We dared not stir if any one was with him. Susanna's first frock was made from a cast-off red velvet dress, cut over, in which her mother once used to play queens.

The father never looked at the charming child till his wife had closed her dreamy eyes forever. Then, as he went up to her bier, and his child reached out her little hand after the few scanty flowers I had bought with my last penny, he was first shaken out of the stupidity of the last few years. He knelt down with the child and prayed G.o.d to forgive him his wrong-doing! Well, good intentions are cheap, to be sure! He did give somewhat more for our household expenses, and I was enabled to dress Susanna so we could show ourselves publicly without attracting attention; he even let her have lessons, and she learned bravely. He never inquired for me, and yet I have remained true to him all these long years; it was as if my care and work were a matter of course. He had no longer a look for me, the past seemed to be wiped out from his memory; and yet I have pa.s.sed my youth in sorrow for his sake, I have taken care of his wife and child, and now--now she is taken from me!

What have I done to deserve this?'

"I was truly sorry for the little weeping woman, though the facts as to her age and former beauty might be somewhat different, and though her statement that he once had loved her might not be strictly true; at any rate, she had loved him as truly as a poor, weak woman's heart can love.

For his sake she had loved his child, and without a murmur suffered want and hunger for her sake. And now he repaid her by taking the child away from her. Poor Isabella Pfannenschmidt, you have lived in vain! The flame which burns in your heart s.h.i.+nes forth triumphantly over all the theatrical trumpery and baubles clinging to you, poor old Isabella! And yet it would be a pity for this child to have to breathe in that dusty, paint-scented atmosphere any longer. No, Isabella, you must go, though the heart of the once gay actress break over it.

"'Susanna will always be fond of you,' I comforted her, 'and never forget what you have done for her.'

"'Oh, that she will--that she will! She has her father's nature,' sobbed the old woman; 'she will forget me, and, what's more, she will be ashamed of me.'

"'You make a sad exposure of the child's heart, my dear,' said I reprovingly.

"She started up. 'Oh, no, no! she really is good.' she murmured, 'very good. And,' she continued, 'I shall not go very far away either, only to the nearest town. What should I do in Berlin? I should die of longing. I will hire a room in S---- and sew for money; I can embroider well, with colored wool and gold thread. And if the longing becomes too great, I can run up the highway, and if need be up here, to look at the house where she lives.'

"And now she began, amid streaming tears, to pick out one after another of the garments lying around, and to lay them in a white cloth, and in so doing caught up the little shoe on the table, and pressed the narrow sole to her cheek.

"'Don't forget the little jar of paint,' I whispered, in spite of my sympathy.

"She shook her head. 'No, no, I shall pack up everything. I will do it at once, for if she wakes I cannot say good-by. I shall go before daybreak.'

"I held out my hand to her, for I was sorry for her. 'Go away easy; the child is well off here--and may the thought console you, that it is for Susanna's best good.' I went out, and as I turned again, in closing the door, I saw in the dim light the little gypsy-like creature sitting on the floor, amid all her rubbish and trumpery, and weeping, her face buried in her hands."

CHAPTER VII.

"My first inquiry the next morning was for the old woman. She was gone, I learned, and the Fraulein was already with the stranger in her room.

'Anna Maria's education is beginning,' I said with a sigh, and ate my rye porridge less cheerfully than usual. Yesterday lay behind me like a confused dream, and Susanna's presence in the house oppressed me with the weight of a mountain. Soon I heard Anna Maria's metallic voice in the corridor; she was speaking French, so speaking to Susanna at all events. I caught only a few disconnected words, before she knocked at my door, and came into the room with the young girl.

"'We wish to say good-morning to you, aunt,' she began pleasantly. I gave a searching glance at Susanna; a pair of great tears still hung on her lashes, but the laugh--which was her element--lay hidden in the dimples of her cheeks and shone from her beautiful eyes, as if only waiting an opportunity to break forth.

"She wore her black travelling-dress of yesterday, but Anna Maria had tied a woollen wrap about her shoulders. In spite of that, the sight of her was like a ray of suns.h.i.+ne.

"'I would like to ask, Aunt Rosamond,' said Anna Maria, 'if you have some little duty for Susanna, and beg you to let her profit, in the future, by your skill in needlework. I have been examining her--she can do nothing!'

"'Certainly, Anna Maria!' I was glad to have, in a certain degree, a slight claim on the girl. 'Do you like knitting, Susanna?' I asked.

"She laughed and shook her head. 'Oh, no, no! I grow dizzy when I see knitting always round and round.'

"Anna Maria did not seem to hear this answer. 'Fraulein von Hegewitz will teach you netting and plain knitting,' she said; 'with me you shall learn to understand the mysteries of housekeeping. And now we will have breakfast, and then begin at once. Klaus has been in the field for a long time already,' she added; 'the first gra.s.s is to be cut to-day.'

"And they went. Susanna tripped along, with hanging head, behind Anna Maria. 'Is she pursuing the right method with this child?' I wondered.

'With her energy she will destroy all at once, all the results of former education; but it surely is not possible. G.o.d help her to the right way!'

"Later, as I was taking my walk through the garden, I saw Susanna coming along by the pond; she did not walk, she actually flew, with outstretched arms, as if she would press to her heart the green tops of the old trees, the golden suns.h.i.+ne, and all the birds singing so jubilantly to-day, and all nature. Her short skirts were flying, the woollen wrap had disappeared, and her white shoulders emerged like wax from the deep black of her dress. Indescribably charming she looked, thus rus.h.i.+ng along; she must have escaped somehow from Anna Maria. Close by my hiding-place she stood still, and looked up at the blue sky; then, singing lightly, she stooped, picked a narcissus and fastened the white flowers in her bosom, and then put her hand into her dress pocket, and drew out something which she put quickly into her mouth, but which did not interfere with her singing, for now as she went on she trilled the words:

'Batti, batti, o bel Masetto la tua povera Zerlina.'

"I followed her slowly, and observed lying in the path a little object wrapped in white paper, which she had evidently lost. 'A bonbon! Well, that is the height of folly!' said I, taking it up in vexation. 'One could not expect anything different from such bringing up.' And as I unwrapped the thing, I found in it a French motto, a more sugary and frivolous one than which could scarcely have been composed in the time of Louis XIV., supposing that bonbon mottoes were known at that time.

'If Anna Maria knew of this, with her pure, maidenly mind!' I thought, shaking my head. 'Oh, Klaus, for my part, I wish your bird of paradise were in the moon, at any rate not here.' I overtook her at the next turn of the path, where there was a red thorn in the splendor of full bloom; it bent its branches almost humbly under this superabundance of rosy adornment, at which Susanna was looking admiringly.

"'Oh, how charming!' she cried, as she saw me. 'Oh, how wonderfully beautiful!' And the purest joy shone from her eyes. How did that accord with the bonbon motto?

"In that moment I resolved not to lose confidence in the girl's character, and at every opportunity to help lift the young spirit into higher regions. I have honestly striven to fulfil this promise. I may testify to it to myself--not so violently, not in so dictatorial and severe a manner as Anna Maria did I proceed; not like Klaus either. Ah, me--Klaus! Those first eight weeks in general! Ah, if I only knew how to describe the time which now followed! There is so little to say, and yet such an immense change was brought about in our house.

"Whether Susanna Mattoni ever missed her old nurse, I did not know. When she awoke on that first morning and found Anna Maria by her bed instead of the little actress, to inform her that the latter had left the house, great tears had streamed from her eyes. Anna Maria had said: 'Be reasonable, Susanna, and do not make a request that I cannot grant.' And Susanna had replied, with an inimitable mingling of childishness and pride: 'Have no fear, Fraulein von Hegewitz, I never ask a second time!'

"Anna Maria told me about it later, years afterward. Indeed, there was no slight amount of pride in that little head.

"Anna Maria began the practical education with the thoroughness peculiar to her in everything. With her iron const.i.tution, her need of bodily activity, she had no suspicion that there were people in the world for whom such activity might be too much. Susanna had to go through kitchen and cellar, Susanna was initiated into the mysteries of the great was.h.i.+ng, and Susanna drove with her, afternoons, in the burning heat into the fields, in order to explore the agricultural botany. Anna Maria's face showed a glimmer of happiness; she now had some one to whom she was indispensable, so she thought.

"And Klaus? Klaus had never in his life sat so constantly in his room as now; he went into the garden-parlor seldom or never, and only at mealtimes came to look into the sitting-room or out on the terrace. And then his eyes would rest on Susanna with a strange expression, anxiously and compa.s.sionately it seemed to me. He said not a word against Anna Maria's management.

"'Aunt Rosamond,' the latter said sadly to me one day, 'I fear Susanna's being here is a burden to Klaus; he is quiet, depressed, and not at all as he used to be.'

"'Why _that_ cause, Anna Maria?' said I. 'Klaus does seem out of humor, that is true, but may it not be something else? Farmers have a new cause for vexation every day, and are never at a loss for one.'