Eugen’s caresses were few, his words of endearment quiet; but I knew what they stood for; a love rooted in feelings deeper than those of sense, holier than mere earthly love – feelings which had taken root in adversity, had grown in darkness and “made a sunshine in a shady place” – feelings which in him had their full and noble growth and beauty of development, but which it seems to be the aim of the fashionable education of this period as much as possible to do away with – the feeling of chivalry, delicacy, reticence, manliness, modesty.
As we drew nearer the town, he said to me:
“In a few hours we shall have to part, May, for a time. While we are here alone, and you are uninfluenced, let me ask you something. This love of yours for me – what will it carry you through?”
“Anything, now that I am sure of yours for me.”
“In short, you are firmly decided to be my wife some time?”
“When you tell me you are ready for me,” said I, putting my hand in his.
“And if I find it best to leave my Fatherland, and begin life quite anew?”
“Thy God is my God, and thy people are my people, Eugen.”
“One other thing. How do you know that you can marry? Your friends – ”
“I am twenty years old. In a year I can do as I like,” said I, composedly. “Surely we can stand firm and faithful for a year?”
He smiled, and it was a new smile – sweet, hopeful, if not merry.
With this silent expression of determination and trust we settled the matter.
CHAPTER XXXVII
“What’s failure or success to me?
I have subdued my life to the one purpose.”
Eugen sent a telegram from Emmerich to Frau Mittendorf to reassure her as to my safety. At four in the afternoon we left that town, refreshed and rehatted, to reach Elberthal at six.
I told Eugen that we were going away the next day to stay a short time at a place called Lahnburg.
He started and looked at me.
“Lahnburg! – I – when you are there —nein, das ist– You are going to Lahnburg?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“You will know why I ask if you go to Schloss Rothenfels.”
“Why?”
“I say no more, dear May. I will leave you to form your own conclusions. I have seen that this fair head could think wisely and well under trying circumstances enough. I am rather glad that you are going to Lahnburg.”
“The question is – will you still be at Elberthal when I return?”
“I can not say. We had better exchange addresses. I am at Frau Schmidt’s again – my old quarters. I do not know when or how we shall meet again. I must see Friedhelm, and you – when you tell your friends, you will probably be separated at once and completely from me.”
“Well, a year is not much out of our lives. How old are you, Eugen?”
“Thirty-two. And you?”
“Twenty and two months; then you are twelve years older than I. You were a school-boy when I was born. What were you like?”
“A regular little brute, I should suppose, as they all are.”
“When we are married,” said I, “perhaps I may go on with my singing, and earn some more money by it. My voice will be worth something to me then.”
“I thought you had given up art.”
“Perhaps I shall see Adelaide,” I added; “or, rather, I will see her.” I looked at him rather inquiringly. To my relief he said:
“Have you not seen her since her marriage?”
“No; have you?”
“She was my angel nurse when I was lying in hospital at – . Did you not know that she has the Iron Cross? And no one ever won it more nobly.”
“Adelaide – your nurse – the Iron Cross?” I ejaculated. “Then you have seen her?”
“Seen her shadow to bless it.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“With her husband at – . She told me that you were in England, and she gave me this.”
He handed me a yellow, much-worn folded paper, which, on opening, I discovered to be my own letter to Adelaide, written during the war, and which had received so curt an answer.
“I begged very hard for it,” said he, “and only got it with difficulty, but I represented that she might get more of them, whereas I – ”
He stopped, for two reasons. I was weeping as I returned it to him, and the train rolled into the Elberthal station.
On my way to Dr. Mittendorf’s, I made up my mind what to do. I should not speak to Stella, nor to any one else of what had happened, but I should write very soon to my parents and tell them the truth. I hoped they would not refuse their consent, but I feared they would. I should certainly not attempt to disobey them while their authority legally bound me, but as soon as I was my own mistress, I should act upon my own judgment. I felt no fear of anything; the one fear of my life – the loss of Eugen – had been removed, and all others dwindled to nothing. My happiness, I am and was well aware, was quite set upon things below; if I lost Eugen I lost everything, for I, like him, and like all those who have been and are dearest to both of us, was a Child of the World.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
“Oftmals hab’ ich geirrt, und habe mich wiedergefunden,
Aber glücklicher nie.”
It was beginning to be dusk when we alighted the next day at Lahnburg, a small way-side station, where the doctor’s brand-new carriage met us, and after we had been bidden welcome, whirled us off to the doctor’s brand-new schloss, full of brand-new furniture. I skip it all, the renewed greetings, the hospitality, the noise. They were very kind. It was all right to me, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was in a state of mind in which I verily believe I should have enjoyed eating a plate of porridge for supper, or a dish of sauerkraut for dinner.
The subject for complacency and contemplation in Frau Mittendorf’s life was her intimacy with the von Rothenfels family, whose great, dark old schloss, or rather, a portion of it, looking grimly over its woods, she pointed out to me from the windows of her salon. I looked somewhat curiously at it, chiefly because Eugen had mentioned it, and also because it was such a stern, imposing old pile. It was built of red stone, and stood upon red-stone foundations. Red were the rocks of this country, and hence its name, “Rothen-fels,” the red rocks. Woods, also dark, but now ablaze with the last fiery autumn tints, billowed beneath it; on the other side, said Frau Mittendorf, was a great plateau covered with large trees, intersected by long, straight avenues. She would take us to look at it; the Gräfin von Rothenfels was a great friend of hers.
She was entertaining us with stories to prove the great regard and respect of the countess for her (Frau Mittendorf) on the morning after our arrival, while I was longing to go out and stroll along some of those pleasant breezy upland roads, or explore the sleepy, quaint old town below.
Upon her narrative came an interruption. A servant threw open the door very wide, announcing the Gräfin von Rothenfels. Frau Mittendorf rose in a tremulous hurry and flutter to greet her noble guest, and then introduced us to her.
A tall, melancholy, meager-looking woman, – far past youth – on the very confines of middle age, with iron-gray hair banded across a stern, much-lined brow. Colorless features of a strong, large, not unhandsome type from which all liveliness and vivacity had long since fled. A stern mouth – steady, lusterless, severe eyes, a dignity – yes, even a majesty of mien which she did not attempt to soften into graciousness; black, trailing draperies; a haughty pride of movement.
Such was the first impression made upon me by Hildegarde, Countess of Rothenfels – a forbidding, if grand figure – aristocrat in every line; utterly alien and apart, I thought, from me and every feeling of mine.
But on looking again the human element was found in the deeply planted sadness which no reserve pride could conceal. Sad the eyes, sad the mouth; she was all sad together – and not without reason, as I afterward learned.
She was a rigid Roman Catholic, and at sixteen had been married for les convenances to her cousin, Count Bruno von Rothenfels, a man a good deal older than herself, though not preposterously so, and whose ample possessions and old name gave social position of the highest kind. But he was a Protestant by education, a thinker by nature, a rationalist by conviction.
That was one bitter grief. Another was her childlessness. She had been married twenty-four years; no child had sprung from the union. This was a continual grief which imbittered her whole existence.
Since then I have seen a portrait of her at twenty – a splendid brunette, with high spirit and resolute will and noble beauty in every line. Ah, me! What wretches we become! Sadness and bitterness, proud aloofness and a yearning wistfulness were subtly mingled in the demeanor of Gräfin von Rothenfels.
She bowed to us, as Frau Mittendorf introduced us. She did not bestow a second glance upon Stella; but bent a long look, a second, a third scrutinizing gaze upon me. I – I am not ashamed to own it – quivered somewhat under her searching glance. She impressed and fascinated me.
She seated herself, and slightly apologizing to us for intruding domestic affairs, began to speak with Frau Mittendorf of some case of village distress in which they were both interested. Then she turned again to us, speaking in excellent English, and asked us whether we were staying there, after which she invited us to dine at her house the following day with Frau Mittendorf. After the invitation had been accepted with sufficient reverence by that lady, the countess rose as if to go, and turning again to me with still that pensive, half-wistful, half-mistrustful gaze, she said:
“I have my carriage here. Would you like to come with me to see our woods and house? They are sometimes interesting to strangers.”
“Oh, very much!” I said, eagerly.
“Then come,” said she. “I will see that you are escorted back when you are tired. It is arranged that you remain until you feel gené, nicht wahr?”
“Oh, thank you!” said I, again, hastening to make myself ready, and parenthetically hoping, as I ran upstairs, that Frau Mittendorf’s eyes might not start quite out of her head with pride at the honor conferred upon her house and visitors.
Very soon I was seated beside the Gräfin in the dark-green clarence, with the grand coachman and the lady’s own jäger beside him, and we were driving along a white road with a wild kind of country spreading round – moorland stretches, and rich deep woods. Up and down, for the way was uneven, till we entered a kind of park, and to the right, high above, I saw the great red pile with its little pointed towers crowned with things like extinguishers ending in a lightning-rod, and which seemed to spring from all parts of the heavy mass of the main building.
That, then, was Schloss Rothenfels. It looked the very image of an aristocratic, ancient feste burg, grim and grand; it brooded over us like a frown, and dominated the landscape for miles around. I was deeply impressed; such a place had always been like a dream to me.
There was something so imposingly conservative about it; it looked as if it had weathered so many storms; defying such paltry forces as wind and weather, and would through so many more, quite untouched by the roar of life and progress outside – a fit and firm keeping-place for old shields, for weapons honorably hacked and dinted, for tattered loyal flags – for art treasures and for proud beauties.
As we gained the height, I perceived the huge scale on which the schloss was constructed. It was a little town in itself. I saw, too, that plateau on the other side, of which I had heard; later I explored it. It was a natural plain – a kind of table-land, and was laid out in what have always, since I was a child, impressed me more than any other kind of surroundings to a house – mile-long avenues of great trees, stretching perfectly straight, like lines of marching troops in every direction.
Long, melancholy alleys and avenues, with huge, moss-grown stone figures and groups guarding the terraces or keeping fantastic watch over the stone tanks, on whose surfaces floated the lazy water-lilies. Great moss-grown gods and goddesses, and strange hybrid beasts, and fauns and satyrs, and all so silent and forlorn, with the lush grass and heavy fern growing rank and thick under the stately trees. To right they stretched and to left; and straightaway westward was one long, wide, vast, deserted avenue, at the end of which was an opening, and in the opening a huge stone myth or figure of a runner, who in the act of racing receives an arrow in his heart, and, with arms madly tossed in the air, staggers.
Behind this terrible figure the sun used to set, flaming, or mild, or sullen, and the vast arms of it were outlined against the gorgeous sky, or in the half-dark it glimmered like a ghost and seemed to move. It had been there so long that none could remember the legend of it. It was a grim shape.
Scattered here and there were quaint wildernesses and pleasaunces – clipped yews and oddly trained shrubs and flowers trying to make a diversion, but ever dominated by the huge woods, the straight avenues, the mathematical melancholy on an immense scale.
The Frau Gräfin glanced at me once or twice as my head turned this way and that, and my eyes could not take in the strange scene quickly enough; but she said nothing, nor did her severe face relax into any smile.
We stopped under a huge porte-cochère in which more servants were standing about.
“Come with me,” said the lady to me. “First I will take you to my rooms, and then when you have rested a little you can do what you like.”
Pleased at the prospect, I followed her; through a hall which without any joking was baronial; through a corridor into a room, through which she passed, observing to me:
“This is the rittersaal, one of the oldest rooms in the house.”
The rittersaal – a real, hereditary Hall of Knights where a sangerkrieg might have taken place – where Tannhauser and the others might have contended before Elizabeth. A polished parquet – a huge hearth on which burned a large bright wood fire, whose flames sparkled upon suits of mail in dozens – crossed swords and lances, over which hung tattered banners and bannerets. Shields and lances, portraits with each a pair of spurs beneath it – the men were all knights, of that line! dark and grave chiefly were these lords of the line of Sturm. In the center of the hall a great trophy of arms and armor, all of which had been used, and used to purpose; the only drapery, the banners over these lances and portraits. The room delighted me while it made me feel small – very small. The countess turned at a door at the other end and looked back upon me where I stood gasping in the door-way by which we had entered. She was one of the house; this had nothing overpowering for her, if it did give some of the pride to her mien.
I hurried after her, apologizing for my tardiness; she waved the words back, and led me to a smaller room, which appeared to be her private sitting-room. Here she asked me to lay aside my things, adding that she hoped I should spend the day at the schloss.
“If you find it not too intolerably stupid,” she added. “It is a dull place.”
I said that it seemed to me like something out of a fairy tale, and that I longed to see more of it if I might.
“Assuredly you shall. There may be some few things which you may like to see. I forget that every one is not like myself – tired. Are you musical?”
“Very!” said I, emphatically.
“Then you will be interested in the music-rooms here. How old are you?”
I told her. She bowed gravely. “You are young, and, I suppose, happy?” she remarked.
“Yes, I am – very happy – perfectly,” said I, smiling, because I could not help it.
“When I saw you I was so struck with that look,” said she. “I thought I had never seen any one look so radiantly, transcendently happy. I so seldom see it – and never feel it, and I wished to see more of you. I am very glad you are so happy – very glad. Now I will not keep you talking to me. I will send for Herr Nahrath, who shall be your guide.”
She rang the bell. I was silent, although I longed to say that I could talk to her for a day without thinking of weariness, which indeed was true. She impressed and fascinated me.
“Send Herr Nahrath here,” she said, and presently there came into the room a young man in the garb of what is called in Germany a Kandidat – that is to say an embryo pastor, or parish priest. He bowed very deeply to the countess and did not speak or advance much beyond the door.
Having introduced us, she desired him to act as cicerone to me until I was tired. He bowed, and I did not dispute the mandate, although I would rather have remained with her, and got to know something of the nature that lay behind those gray passionless features, than turn to the society of that smug-looking young gentleman who waited so respectfully, like a machine whose mainspring was awe.
I accompanied him, nevertheless, and he showed me part of the schloss, and endeavored in the intervals of his tolerably arduous task of cicerone to make himself agreeable to me. It was a wonderful place indeed – this schloss. The deeper we penetrated into it, the more absorbed and interested did I become. Such piled-up, profusely scattered treasures of art it had never before fallen to my lot to behold. The abundance was prodigal; the judgment, cultivation, high perception of truth, rarity and beauty, seemed almost faultless. Gems of pictures – treasures of sculpture, bronze, china, carvings, glass, coins, curiosities which it would have taken a life-time properly to learn. Here I saw for the first time a private library on a large scale, collected by generation after generation of highly cultured men and women – a perfect thing of its kind, and one which impressed me mightily; but it was not there that I was destined to find the treasure which lay hidden for me in this enchanted palace. We strayed over an acre or so of passage and corridor till he paused before an arched door across which was hung a curtain, and over which was inscribed Musik-kammern (the music-rooms).
“If you wish to see the music, mein Fräulein, I must leave you in the hands of Herr Brunken, who will tolerate no cicerone but himself.”
“Oh, I wish to see it certainly,” said I, on fire with curiosity.
He knocked and was bidden herein! but not going in, told some one inside that he recommended to his charge a young lady staying with the countess, and who was desirous of seeing the collection.
“Pray, mein Fräulein, come in!” said a voice. Herr Nahrath left me, and I, lifting the curtain and pushing open the half-closed door, found myself in an octagonal room, confronted by the quaintest figure I had ever seen. An old man whose long gray hair, long white beard, and long black robe made him look like a wizard or astrologer of some mediæval romance, was smiling at me and bidding me welcome to his domain. He was the librarian and general custodian of the musical treasures of Schloss Rothenfels, and his name was Brunken. He loved his place and his treasures with a jealous love, and would talk of favorite instruments as if they had been dear children, and of great composers as if they were gods.
All around the room were large shelves filled with music – and over each division stood a name – such mighty names as Scarlatti, Bach, Handel, Beethoven, Schumann, Mozart, Haydn – all the giants, and apparently all the pygmies too, were there. It was a complete library of music, and though I have seen many since, I have never beheld any which in the least approached this in richness or completeness. Rare old manuscript scores; priceless editions of half-forgotten music; the literature of the productions of half-forgotten composers; Eastern music, Western music, and music of all ages; it was an idealized collection – a musician’s paradise, only less so than that to which he now led me, from amid the piled-up scores and the gleaming busts of those mighty men, who here at least were honored with never-failing reverence.
He took me into a second room, or rather hall, of great size, height, and dimensions, a museum of musical instruments. It would take far too long to do it justice in description; indeed, on that first brief investigation I could only form a dim general idea of the richness of its treasures. What histories – what centuries of story were there piled up! Musical instruments of every imaginable form and shape, and in every stage of development. Odd-looking pre-historic bone embryo instruments from different parts of France. Strange old things from Nineveh, and India, and Peru, instruments from tombs and pyramids, and ancient ruined temples in tropic groves – things whose very nature and handling is a mystery and a dispute – tuned to strange scales which produce strange melodies, and carry us back into other worlds. On them, perhaps, has the swarthy Ninevan, or slight Hindoo, or some performed as he apostrophized his mistress’s eyebrow. On that queer-looking thing which may be a fiddle or not – which may have had a bow or not – a slightly clad slave made music while his master the rayah played chess with his favorite wife. They are all dead and gone now, and their jewels are worn by others, and the memory of them has vanished from off the earth; and these, their musical instruments, repose in a quiet corner amid the rough hills and oak woods and under the cloudy skies of the land of music – Deutschland.
“Dusky youth with painted plumage gay”
Down through the changing scale, through the whole range of cymbal and spinet, “flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music,” stand literally before me, and a strange revelation it is. Is it the same faculty which produces that grand piano of Bechstein’s, and that clarion organ of Silbermann’s, and that African drum dressed out with skulls, that war-trumpet hung with tiger’s teeth? After this nothing is wonderful! Strange, unearthly looking Chinese frames of sonorous stones or modulated bells; huge drums, painted and carved, and set up on stands six feet from the ground; quaint instruments from the palaces of Aztec Incas, down to pianos by Broadwood, Collard & Collard, and Bechstein.
There were trophies of Streichinstrumente and Blaseinstrumente. I was allowed to gaze upon two real Stradivarius fiddles. I might see the development by evolution, and the survival of the fittest in violin, ’cello, contrabass, alto, beside countless others whose very names have perished with the time that produced them, and the fingers which played them – ingenious guesses, clever misses – the tragedy of harmony as well as its “Io Pæan!”
There were wind instruments, quaint old double flutes from Italy; pipes, single, double, treble, from ages much further back; harps – Assyrian, Greek, and Roman; instruments of percussion, guitars, and zithers in every form and kind; a dulcimer – I took it up and thought of Coleridge’s “damsel with a dulcimer;” and a grand organ, as well as many incipient organs, and the quaint little things of that nature from China, Japan, and Siam.
I stood and gazed in wonder and amazement.
“Surely the present Graf has not collected all these instruments!” said I.
“Oh, no, mein Fräulein; they have been accumulating for centuries. They tell strange tales of what the Sturms will do for music.”
With which he proceeded to tell me certain narratives of certain instruments in the collection, in which he evidently firmly believed, including one relating to a quaint old violin for which he said a certain Graf von Rothenfels called “Max der Tolle,” or the Mad Count Max, had sold his soul.
As he finished this last he was called away, and excusing himself, left me. I was alone in this voiceless temple of so many wonderful sounds. I looked round, and a feeling of awe and weirdness crept over me. My eyes would not leave that shabby old fiddle, concerning whose demoniac origin I had just heard such a cheerful little anecdote. Every one of those countless instruments was capable of harmony and discord – had some time been used; pressed, touched, scraped, beaten or blown into by hands or mouths long since crumbled to dust. What tales had been told! what songs sung, and in what languages; what laughs laughed, tears shed, vows spoken, kisses exchanged, over some of those silent pieces of wood, brass, ivory, and catgut! The feelings of all the histories that surrounded me had something eerie in it.
I stayed until I began to feel nervous, and was thinking of going away when sounds from a third room drew my attention. Some one in there began to play the violin, and to play it with no ordinary delicacy of manipulation. There was something exquisitely finished, refined, and delicate about the performance; it lacked the bold splendor and originality of Eugen’s playing, but it was so lovely as to bring tears to my eyes, and, moreover, the air was my favorite “Traumerei.” Something in those sounds, too, was familiar to me. With a sudden beating of the heart, a sudden eagerness, I stepped hastily forward, pushed back the dividing curtain, and entered the room whence proceeded those sounds.
In the middle of the room, which was bare and empty, but which had large windows looking across the melancholy plateau, and to the terrible figure of the runner at the end of the avenue – stood a boy – a child with a violin. He was dressed richly, in velvet and silk; he was grown – the slender delicacy of his form was set off by the fine clothing that rich men’s children wear; his beautiful waving black hair was somewhat more closely cut, but the melancholy yet richly colored young face that turned toward me – the deep and yearning eyes, the large, solemn gaze, the premature gravity, were all his – it was Sigmund, Courvoisier’s boy.
For a moment we both stood motionless – hardly breathing; then he flung his violin down, sprung forward with a low sound of intense joy, exclaiming:
“Das Fräulein, das Fräulein, from home!” and stood before me trembling from head to foot.
I snatched the child to my heart (he looked so much older and sadder), and covered him with kisses.
He submitted – nay, more, he put his arms about my neck and laid his face upon my shoulder, and presently, as if he had choked down some silent emotion, looked up at me with large, imploring, sad eyes, and asked:
“Have you seen my father?”
“Sigmund, I saw him the day before yesterday.”
“You saw him – you spoke to him, perhaps?”
“Yes. I spoke long with him.”
“What did he look like?”
“As he always does – brave, and true, and noble.”
“Nicht wahr?” said the boy, with flashing eyes. “I know how he looks, just. I am waiting till I am grown up, that I may go to him again.”
“Do you like me, Sigmund?”
“Yes; very much.”
“Do you think you could love me? Would you trust me to love those you love?”
“Do you mean him?” he asked point-blank, and looked at me somewhat startled.
“Yes.”
“I – don’t – know.”
“I mean, to take care of him, and try to make him happy till you come to him again, and then we will all be together.”
He looked doubtful still.
“What I mean, Sigmund, is that your father and I are going to be married; but we shall never be quite happy until you are with us.”
He stood still, taking it in, and I waited in much anxiety. I was certain that if I had time and opportunity I could win him; but I feared the result of this sudden announcement and separation. He might only see that his father – his supreme idol – could turn for comfort to another, while he would not know how I loved him and longed to make his grave young life happy for him. I put my arm round his shoulder, and kneeling down beside him, said:
“You must say you are glad, Sigmund, or you will make me very unhappy. I want you to love me as well as him. Look at me and tell me you will trust me till we are all together, for I am sure we shall be together some day.”
He still hesitated some little time, but at last said, with the sedateness peculiar to him, as of one who overcame a struggle and made a sacrifice:
“If he has decided it so it must be right, you know; but – but – you won’t let him forget me, will you?”
The child’s nature overcame that which had been, as it were, supplanted and grafted upon it. The lip quivered, the dark eyes filled with tears. Poor little lonely child! desolate and sad in the midst of all the grandeur! My heart yearned to him.
“Forget you, Sigmund? Your father never forgets, he can not!”
“I wish I was grown up,” was all he said.
Then it occurred to me to wonder how he got there, and in what relation he stood to these people.
“Do you live here, Sigmund?”
“Yes.”
“What relation are you to the Herr Graf?”
“Graf von Rothenfels is my uncle.”
“And are they kind to you?” I asked, in a hasty whisper, for his intense gravity and sadness oppressed me. I trembled to think of having to tell his father in what state I had found him.
“Oh, yes!” said he. “Yes, very.”
“What do you do all day?”
“I learn lessons from Herr Nahrath, and I ride with Uncle Bruno, and – and – oh! I do whatever I like. Uncle Bruno says that some time I shall go to Bonn, or Heidelberg, or Jena, or England, whichever I like.”
“And have you no friends?”
“I like being with Brunken the best. He talks to me about my father sometimes. He knew him when he was only as old as I am.”
“Did he? Oh, I did not know that.”
“But they won’t tell me why my father never comes here, and why they never speak of him,” he added, wearily, looking with melancholy eyes across the lines of wood, through the wide window.
“Be sure it is for nothing wrong. He does nothing wrong. He does nothing but what is good and right,” said I.
“Oh, of course! But I can’t tell the reason. I think and think about it.” He put his hand wearily to his head. “They never speak of him. Once I said something about him. It was at a great dinner they had. Aunt Hildegarde turned quite pale, and Uncle Bruno called me to him and said – no one heard it but me, you know – ‘Never let me hear that name again!’ and his eyes looked so fierce. I’m tired of this place,” he added, mournfully.“I want to be at Elberthal again – at the Wehrhahn, with my father and Friedhelm and Karl Linders. I think of them every hour. I liked Karl and Friedhelm, and Gretchen, and Frau Schmidt.”