A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

"I cannot," Johanna repeated.

For a while both were silent; then Aunt Thekla looked up timidly at her niece and said, "Do not misunderstand me if I continue to plead for Otto. I sympathize with you; I can understand how his folly has offended you."

"Offended, do you call it?" Johanna interrupted her. "He has insulted me, and poisoned my life and my soul!"

"So it seems to you now," said her aunt. "But you will learn to regard it differently; you will feel otherwise and judge otherwise. Believe me, my child, Otto is worthy of your forgiveness, and he loves you so – "

Johanna sprang to her feet. "Aunt, I cannot listen to you!" she cried, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples. "You forget that a few hours ago I saw with my own eyes that Otto – that Magelone – And you talk of forgiveness, of love! Oh, everything is hateful in my sight! – life – myself – "

She sank into a chair, and, with a groan, covered her eyes with her hand.

Aunt Thekla shed tears, and, after a long pause, went on: "If you would let me talk to you, I know I could do you good. I do not want to torment you; I only want to repeat Otto's message to you. 'Tell Johanna' – these are his very words; but to appreciate them you should have seen the entreaty in his eyes and heard the tone of his voice – 'tell Johanna that I love her more than ever; that I have loved her from the moment when I first knew her – '"

"Oh, aunt!" Johanna broke in upon her words, "can you tell me that? Can you suppose that can console me? If he had told me that Magelone's charms were irresistible for him, and had extinguished his love for me, I could have understood him, and without reproaching him I should have submitted as to the inevitable. But since he has deceived Magelone and lied to her as he has to me, where shall I look for truth? What can I believe? Where find a stay?"

The old lady had no fitting reply to this. "I wish you could see matters in another light," she said, after a long pause for reflection; "and I hope you will do so in time. But now what is to be done if you refuse Otto's entreaty for forgiveness? Of course my brother must learn nothing of this – "

Johanna looked at her in amazement. "Learn nothing?" she repeated. "You do not suppose that I can marry Otto? Magelone has taken my place."

"Child, I told you that Otto does not love Magelone," Aunt Thekla replied. "And she does not love him, – not enough at least to endure for his sake her grandfather's anger." And, clasping Johanna's hands in her own, the old lady added, with tearful, imploring eyes, "Think what you are doing. The happiness or misery of the whole family is in your hands. If you cannot forgive, Johann Leopold will lose his betrothed, Otto's and Magelone's lives will be ruined, whether they marry or not, and my brother, who has made the happiness and honour of his house his sole care, will see it in his old age brought to disgrace – "

"If I could but spare him!" exclaimed Johanna. Here at last was a word spoken in kindness. Aunt Thekla took courage again. "You can if you choose," she said, and dried her eyes. "Believe me, child, those who forgive are blessed indeed when they can forgive and forget."

"Forgive and forget!" Johanna repeated. "Yes, it would be a blessing; but forgetfulness cannot be forced, and if I could forgive and overcome in myself all bitterness, the old confidence would not return – "

"Only try it!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "How many women have forgiven some fickleness or unfaithfulness in their lovers and have been happy wives! Remember, 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"

"And 'rejoiceth in the truth,'" Johanna said, her features taking on their former rigidity. "An error might be forgotten, but what separates Otto and myself forever is his falsehood. If you knew how degraded I feel by it; how petty, suspicious, evil-minded it makes me. To shield Magelone and himself from his grandfather's anger he betrothed himself to me; for the same reason he seeks a reconciliation with me now; and perhaps – who knows? – the possession of Tannhagen adds weight to the scale. Tell me yourself, Aunt Thekla, can I regard as my lord and master the man of whom I think thus?"

Johanna arose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains. There it was again, the pitiless sunshine. It reached her very heart through her eyes, and revealed the lovely and yet terrible picture of the pair beneath the forest shades. If she could but be spared that sight! She would rather see nothing, nothing.

A light touch roused her. Aunt Thekla had followed her, and now laid her hand upon her arm. "What answer shall I take to Otto?" she asked. "Be kind, be sensible. Reflect; the banns are to be published for the first time the day after to-morrow – "

"It must not come to that!" Johanna interrupted her. "Tell Otto that I agree to any method by which he, without implicating Magelone or himself, can dissolve our engagement – "

"You are terrible!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Yours is the obstinacy of our race, only turned against the Dönninghausens. But this cannot be your final decision. You will be calmer; you will see that you must overcome your pride, your just indignation. Stay in your room; I will tell my brother that you need rest, and you must promise me not to be overhasty. Pray promise me this."

"Rest assured I will do nothing that can injure Otto," said Johanna. "As I told you, he himself may arrange everything. I will take the blame of the break upon myself. Now let us say no more about it, dear aunt; I really can no more."

How sad and weary was the face which had been wont to look so fresh and glad! Aunt Thekla's eyes filled with tears. "If I could only do something for you!" she said. "It is dreadful to leave you so alone; but Otto is waiting for an answer – "

"Otto, always Otto!" Johanna thought, bitterly; but the next moment she banished the thought, and replied in a gentler tone than she had used hitherto, "Do not mind me; it is best for me to be alone!"

The old lady still lingered. "I hope you have not misunderstood me. You know I have your happiness at heart."

Johanna fell upon her neck. "You are kind. You will bear with me," she whispered.

Aunt Thekla left her easier in her mind. She would have patience if only the two might be brought together again in the end. And they surely would be if Otto could only plead his own cause. He would do better, perhaps, to-day to leave Johanna to her reflections; to-morrow she would be calmer, more accessible; he could come again then.

But whilst Aunt Thekla was resigning herself to the hope of a reconciliation, and even Otto's doubts were partially overcome, Johanna's condition of mind was the same. She had been thrust forth from her paradise, and even although she should force herself to forgive, it would not affect the dissolution of her engagement.

Yes, all must be changed. To go on in the old way was impossible. What was she to do? Where should she go? To Lindenbad? And it occurred to her that upon her return from her ride a letter from Ludwig had been handed her, or had she dreamed it? No; there it lay upon her writing-table: a thick, soiled envelope, covered with stamps and addresses.

She opened it. It was an old letter, – the one written in answer to the announcement of her betrothal.

Ludwig wrote:

"Dear Johanna, – I know that it is the fashion to reply to the announcement of a betrothal by congratulations, but I should be false to myself and to the love I bear you were I to conceal beneath any set, formal phrases my feelings and opinions upon the present occasion. I trust you have sufficient confidence in me to believe in the honesty of my intentions, even although you differ from me in sentiment.

"Then let these lines warn you, and admonish you to ask yourself more seriously than you have done hitherto whether it is really possible for this man to satisfy your demands upon life, to fill your heart, to understand and keep pace with you? I, who know you better than any one else knows you, I declare that this is not possible, and I pray you to open your eyes before you are irrevocably bound. By marriage with this man you condemn yourself to a life of loneliness and renunciation.

"You know this yourself. Does not your letter, written in the first joy of your betrothal, speak of a 'want' in your happiness? Your recalling of this word afterwards cannot weaken its significance. In your inmost soul you feel that you are about to take a wrong step, and the instinct of your heart, which is 'beyond all reason,' warns you to pause.

"I shall never forgive myself for not being beside you to aid this instinct. I could not but foresee what has happened. I knew how it would be, and I left you in anger, with my self-love grievously wounded, while it was my duty, as well as my right, to say to you, 'You belong to me, and I will not leave you.'

"I say this now, and my life will prove to you how seriously I say it. If you persist in the wretched course which threatens to separate us utterly, I vow solemnly to you, and to myself, that you never again shall hear these words from me, but you will find me whenever and however you may need me.

"It is my own fault that I have lost you. When I went to you at your father's, and found that you had outgrown the atmosphere of my father's house, I thrust you from me in wayward, boyish folly, when I ought to have taken you in my arms and sought to win you from all that estranged you from me.

"Why do I say this to you now? Because I would have you know me thoroughly, and would set you an example of absolute confidence. We human beings should lighten our trials greatly if we shrank less from confessing to ourselves and to others our errors, our defeats, our miscalculations. Let me hope that you are free from the vanity and cowardice that would lead you so to shrink. Do not close your eyes; and if you see that you have been overhasty, redeem the error before it be too late. Above all, do not fancy that you must hold to your plighted troth for your betrothed's sake. As I know him, not all your love can make him happy.

"Will you accuse me of harshness in saying this? Be it so. I cannot look on with a feigned smile, or even in silence, when I see you going to your destruction.

"But can I be mistaken? The fact that this man, amid the puppets by which he has been surrounded, has known how to find the way to you, makes me waver in my estimate of him. Certainly I will not close my mind to a better opinion of him; and should you continue to find him worthy of your love, and should he prove himself capable of appreciating you and of making you happy, I will acknowledge his right to possess you as unhesitatingly as I now challenge it.

"November 10, 1874.

"Since writing the above I have spent days and nights partly in the hospitals, partly in the poorest quarter of Bombay. I have been at home now for several hours, and, refreshed by a bath, sleep, and food, I shall return to my patients as soon as I have despatched this letter. The occupation of these last few weeks – the old, ruinous portion of the city has been attacked by an epidemic – explains the tone of my letter. All shams seem more intolerable to me than ever before. Health of body and mind seems to me a supreme good, and I am consequently forced as well to warn the thoughtless who may be exposing themselves uselessly to the peril of deadly miasma as to undertake the treatment of organizations already diseased. It is in this sense that I send you my note of warning. Harsh as it may sound in your ears, take it as from a physician, without any false sensitiveness. I expect an answer to it only in case my words have made some impression upon you. If you say nothing of this letter, I shall take it for granted that I have been mistaken, or that the truth wearies you, and shall never, unless you yourself desire it, allude to the subject again.

"I am still in doubt as to the time of my return. It was fixed at first for next March or April. If I can be of use to you I will come earlier, – come instantly if you write that you wish me to do so. Otherwise I shall probably remain longer away. And even should I return to Europe, I shall not see my home or yourself until the wound from which I am now suffering is scarred over, or until you need the counsel or aid of your brother Ludwig."

"No, no aid from him!" Johanna said to herself, as she folded the letter again. The thought of letting him know how she suffered was intolerable to her – why she did not know, and did not ask. Not for one moment did she doubt Ludwig's affection, magnanimity, and efficiency, and yet she felt doubly humiliated since reading his verdict with regard to Otto.

"No, no aid from him!" she repeated. But this being so, she could not go to Lindenbad, and where else should she seek an asylum? Ah, how hard it was, besides, to tear herself away from this place, where, in spite of everything, she had found a home! True, it needed but a word from her to insure her this home still, but at what a price! Aunt Thekla was right: her grandfather's last days must not be poisoned. And how could Johanna continue to dwell in the home whose peace she had destroyed, and whose children she had driven forth and made unhappy? She knew, too, that it would pain her grandfather to part from her, but he would find her leaving him 'thanklessly' easier to bear than the discovery that Otto and Magelone were unworthy of his name and his affection. She pondered and reflected, always with the same result. She must go, and upon her must rest the blame of the separation. How she should contrive this, and whither she should turn, she did not know, – but she would discover.

The day passed. Aunt Thekla sent up to inquire after her repeatedly; had food and refreshments taken to her; wanted to know whether she should come herself; but Johanna begged her to let her be alone for the day; and at last, as if crushed in body and mind, she had thrown herself upon her bed.

And then the night drew on, a night without sleep, in which the hours dragged slowly, each throb of her heart seeming to increase the dull pain beneath which her very soul writhed as if in mortal agony. And then the moonlight came, and quivered on the walls and ceiling, as in those lovely nights when each waking moment was delight and each falling asleep again brought sweet dreams. Then the cocks crowed, and the cold, gray light of dawn made all things look more than ever dreary; and then began the shrill, discordant twittering of the sparrows.

Four o'clock struck in the tower of the castle, and immediately afterward a low, shuffling step was heard on the stair, and there was a cautious knock at Johanna's door.

"Who is there?" the young girl asked.

"A telegram for Fräulein Johanna," the housekeeper's voice made reply.

Johanna threw a shawl about her shoulders, received the blue envelope, took it to the window, and read:

"Lisbeth is dangerously ill, and is constantly calling for you. Pray come. Helena."

For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she collected herself. She at once took her resolution. The early train for Hanover left Thalrode at six; she had time to catch it.

She dressed herself, hastily packed up the necessary clothing, and ordered the carriage. Then she wrote a hurried note to Otto: "I have just received a telegram summoning me to Hanover to the bedside of my little sister. I leave by the next train, and thus afford you a plausible excuse for the dissolution of our betrothal. You can scarcely marry a wife from beneath the roof of an 'equestrian artist.' The reconciliation which you proposed to me through Aunt Thekla is impossible. I have lost all confidence in you, and you would never forgive me for the scene in the forest. I must leave you to make the necessary explanations to my grandfather, and I bid you farewell in the fullest sense of the word."

With this letter she went to Aunt Thekla. The old lady was still in bed, but wide awake. She, too, had been unable to sleep from anxiety.

"My child, what does this mean?" she asked, when she saw Johanna appear in her travelling-dress.

Johanna handed her the telegram, told her that she was going instantly to Hanover, and begged her to take charge of the letter for Otto.

"Drive off! without my brother's consent!" Aunt Thekla said, possessed by a foreboding of evil. "How can you? You will come back again soon?"

Johanna turned away. "Do not make my heart heavier than it is," she begged.

Aunt Thekla burst into tears. "You must not go!" she cried, clasping Johanna's hands tightly. "I will not let you go!"

The young girl gently extricated herself. "I must, dear aunt; I must go to Lisbeth," she said.

"But Otto will follow you; will bring you back again."

Johanna shook her head. "He will see that we must part," she whispered. "But do not let me be exiled and quite forgotten; write to me – "

The maid appeared: "Fräulein Johanna, the carriage is waiting."

Once more aunt and niece embraced. "Bid grandpapa a thousand, thousand farewells for me. Try to persuade him to forgive me. Think kindly of me," Johanna sobbed.

Then she hurried out into the corridor, past her grandfather's door, where Leo arose in surprise, and seemed to ask if he might accompany her.

Johanna signed to him to lie down, and, with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, hurried down the stairs, and threw herself into a corner of the carriage; the door was closed, the horses started. Her dream of love and happiness was at an end.