A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen
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At times, when while sitting at her writing-table, she had felt some consciousness of power, – she had hoped to be able to maintain herself by literary labour. At other times she doubted. Now, when the question seemed to her more grave than ever before, she seemed to hear her father's words of discouragement, 'as devoid of talent as her mother.' But why, then, was she so irresistibly impelled to give life to the creatures of her fancy? and how had she been able in all her misery to forget herself in so doing, if she were not called to avail herself of the talent which she possessed?
She stood at the window, with throbbing pulses, and gazed out into the twilight. Over in the garden a thrush was singing its evening song in the top of an old pear-tree. Ah, that song! Its ecstasy would always recall to the girl the most wretched hour of her existence. 'Called?' Had she not also thought herself called to be a partaker in the bliss of love? How true the words of Holy Writ, 'Many are called, but few are chosen!'
The evening and a great part of the night were passed by Johanna in a wild turmoil of thought. She began the new day with a weary head and a heavy heart. All the more cheerful was Batti during the morning ride; he shouted and laughed louder than ever. Suddenly he broke off, and, guiding his horse close to her side, he said, "I am tiring you with my nonsense, but you must excuse me to-day. I have just had a letter which puts me quite beside myself. If the devil does not put in his oar, we shall go to St. Petersburg this autumn."
Johanna was startled. How would Lisbeth bear the long journey and the severity of the Russian winter?
"Helena knows nothing about it yet. I shall not tell her until everything is ship-shape," Batti continued; "she makes such a row. But I tell you immediately, because we have no time to lose. Better go to work at once. St. Petersburg is the best place in the world for your débût."
"My débût!" Johanna exclaimed, in surprise.
"Pray let us have no fol-de-rol nonsense!" Batti quickly rejoined. "No need for us to play hide-and-seek with each other! I need you, you need me; let us confess this much at once. Your manners, rather haughty, – coolly distinguished, I might say, – will be a fine nut for the St. Petersburg gentlemen to crack. You will look like a queen beside my two laughing, coquettish blondes. Besides, you have talent, enthusiasm, energy, and look better on horseback than anywhere else. You have no family connection. Even without appearing as an equestrienne you have contrived to be exiled and repudiated. Nothing could be more admirably arranged. So be sensible; do not hesitate any longer. Mount the horse that an honest hand saddles and bridles for you, and then halloo! huzza! for the brilliant future I promise you. Why the deuce should you hesitate? You'll find no better teacher than myself, and no better chance than in my circus. I should like to know what objections you can make?"
"None," Johanna replied. "I know that your intentions are the kindest, and I thank you cordially, but it cannot be!"
Batti laughed. "'Tis odd that no lady is without affectation!" he exclaimed. "Let it alone, however; it does not become you."
"It is not affectation," Johanna replied. "Ask Helena if I am not paralyzed by a mere appearance in public – "
"That can be overcome," Batti interposed.
"Hardly! The mere thought of those myriad eyes upon me – !" And she shuddered. "But I will be honest. Even if I could overcome my timidity, I should reject your proposal out of regard for my grandfather."
"Oho!" cried Batti, and his face flushed with anger. "My art is as honourable as any – "
"I am not disputing that," Johanna interrupted him gently; "but here we have to do with the invincible prejudices of an old man. As you know, he never forgave my mother's marriage."
"And you would have regard for that old ass?" shouted Batti.
"I respect and love my grandfather," said Johanna.
Batti was silent for a while. Then he shook his head, and laughed.
"Ah, by Jove! there comes the Princess again," he said. "Keep that air; it becomes you famously. The regard you talk of is pure folly; but you shall have your way. I should have liked to see your father's name on my playbills; but then, if it must not be, we can find another; and another nationality too if you like. Mademoiselle So-and-so, Miss This-and-that, – we'll arrange all that. Is there any Carlo Batti to be found in the parish register? There I am called Heinrich Rauchspatz, after my father, who kept a grocer's shop in a little town in North Germany. Good old Rauchspatz had his prejudices too. He thought that to have one of his name appear as an equestrian artist might affect the respectability of his firm. Oh, what a row there was! On the other hand, I could not bring myself to measure out molasses and weigh out snuff to customers, so we struck a bargain. He let me off. I changed my name to Carlo Batti, and I think I have done it credit. So now choose a name you like, and it shall be yours."
"I cannot; believe me, I cannot," Johanna replied. "Thank you again, but let me beg you to say no more about it. It distresses me, and can lead to no result."
For a while they rode on in silence, and then Batti said, "One word more, Fräulein Johanna. Have you considered that if you accede to my plan you insure yourself a brilliant future and a certain income? You are now vis-à-vis de rien."
Johanna blushed. Twice had she heard this in the last twenty-four hours.
"I am, perhaps, not quite so helpless as you think," she said, in a voice that faltered. "I hope I possess another talent worth cultivating. I have – you are the first to whom I have mentioned it – I have been trying to write."
Carlo Batti gave a long, low whistle. "A curious taste!" he said; "that for riding on a snail when you might have a race-horse! 'But every elf must please himself.' If you should change your mind you know where to find me. I shall always be ready to repeat my offer."
"How kind you are!" said Johanna. "Thank you again; and do not be angry with me." As she spoke she held out her hand to him.
He shook it kindly. "Angry, no!" he said; "but I will not deny that it vexes me. But let us say no more about it. We have not had our gallop yet."
And away they went along the Herrenhausen Avenue.
Batti's disappointment was, however, too great to be dissipated by the ride. The longer he thought of Johanna's refusal the more it irritated him, and when at his daily breakfast at the hotel he met Dr. Stein, the latter instantly asked what ailed his 'dear friend.'
"I have been vexed; but I do not want to talk about it," Batti shouted, as if to take all present into his confidence.
"Then let us have our breakfast," said the other. "A glass of wine will wash away your ill humour."
"Ill humour! Who told you that I was ill-humoured?" Batti shouted again, as he took his seat. And even before the wine was brought Dr. Stein had learned that Batti's boasted scheme with regard to Johanna had come to nothing.
"Perhaps you did not offer her enough," he said.
"It never came to that," Batti replied. "No, the money question does not touch her; it is her fine relatives that stick in her crop. Although the stuck-up crowd will have nothing to do with her, the only reply she has for me is regard for them. 'Tis enough to drive one mad!"
Dr. Stein appeared to reflect. "What will you give me for taming your bird for you?" he asked, at last.
Batti shrugged his shoulders. "I could have done it myself if any one could," he replied. "I have more influence with her than you have."
"I'll lay you a wager!" cried the young man. "A dozen of champagne that I drive the haughty fair into your circus."
Batti eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean to do?" he said.
"That's my secret," said Stein, with a malicious smile. "A dozen of champagne. Yes or no?"
"Done!" cried Batti, shaking the hand offered him. At first the business seemed to him hardly fair; but it was not his nature to torment himself with suspicions. If Dr. Stein won, Johanna would be the gainer; if he lost, all would remain as it was. And Batti's ill humour vanished. When he saw Johanna again he not only conducted himself towards her with great friendliness, he even succeeded in suppressing all reference to his plans for her. His task of self-control was made easier for him by a summer rain, which prevented the morning ride for several days.
Johanna had all the more leisure to ponder her plans for the future. There was much to arouse her anxiety. She had no idea of the value of literary labour; she knew no one who could advise and help her. She could hardly expect that Ludwig Werner, who could have done so, would sympathize with her desire; and, moreover, she was separated from him by many leagues of sea and land.
Through all her care and anxiety she persisted in writing. Her strong healthy nature rebelled against the pressure that had been brought to bear upon it. Grief and pain seemed but to increase her ability to work, and when one day Dr. Wolf was again announced, she had just completed her first story.
The pale little man, with his quiet, melancholy eyes, was so sympathetic to her that involuntarily she held out her hand as to a friend, and suddenly it occurred to her that she could ask of him the advice which she needed. She had learned at Dönninghausen, through Löbel Wolf, the nom de plume of his son, and had discovered that she had read various of his essays and criticisms with much interest and pleasure. If his verdict upon her literary attempt should be favourable, she could proceed with confidence.
She told him how in her changed circumstances she had occupied herself, and she informed him also that she had begun to write some time before leaving Dönninghausen. Suddenly she paused, unable to proceed.
He came to her aid. "If you think that I can be of any service to you, pray command me," he said.
"I do wish to ask a favour of you," she said. "Will you read over my attempt, and tell me frankly what you think of it?"
"Gladly. You look as if you could bear the truth," the young man replied. And while Johanna was wrapping up her manuscript, he added, "And your answer for the Freiherr? May I say that you accept his proposal?"
With trembling hands she laid the package on the table before him. "I cannot," she said. "Do not misunderstand me. I do not act, as you think, from a want of tenderness. On the contrary, I know that my refusal will gratify my grandfather."
Dr. Wolf looked at her inquiringly.
"If the jewels are mine, I cannot – as they are a family heirloom – sell them. If they are not mine, I do not choose to lend myself to a farce," she said.
"You know what induced the Freiherr to make the proposal."
"Why does he not tell me that he cares for me, and would like to help me?" the girl cried. "If he does not consider me worthy of his sympathy, I cannot accept his aid."
Dr. Wolf arose. "You are right," he said, with a gentle smile. "You are the old Freiherr's genuine grand-daughter." With these words he took his leave, carrying with him her manuscript.
The next evening she received a note from him. He wrote: "I have just finished your story, and I cannot refrain from wishing you 'God-speed.' In spite of the deficiencies manifest in your work, – all technique must be learned, – it shows much decided talent, a strange mixture of grace and force. The form is not always correct, betraying the beginner; but the colours are fine, and in spite of the optimism of your views, which produces upon me the effect of a fairy-tale, the personages and situations of your story are full of undeniable truth and life. As soon as my time permits I will come to discuss details by word of mouth."
Johanna clasped her hands upon the note. "God-speed!" she said to herself, smiling through her tears.
CHAPTER XXVI
DR. STEIN'S SCHEME
Life at Dönninghausen since Johanna's departure, although outwardly unchanged, was no longer the same.
The Freiherr applied himself more diligently than ever to the administration of his extended estates, but the strictest attention to his work did not do away for him with the sensation of emptiness and loneliness. Whether he rode out or busied himself with accounts, at table with the family or shut up in his study, everywhere he missed his grand-daughter's watchful eyes, her comprehension of him, her vivacity, her fresh interest in life. In spite of the habit of more than seventy years, his sister hardly seemed so much his own as this young creature. He had always rather looked down upon the gentle docile Thekla, while in Johanna, in spite of the respect she always manifested towards him, he recognized an equal. And because she was so, and because she had found a home with him, her desertion of him, as he called it, was all the more irritating; and since he could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling upon her continually, he was all the more careful not to betray this weakness in words.
Magelone had long since returned to Dönninghausen, graceful and capricious as ever, and yet Aunt Thekla fancied she was hardly the same; her merriment seemed forced. The monotony of her life weighed upon her more heavily, although she did not bewail it so often and so loudly as formerly. She did not know that Otto had confessed everything to his aunt, and the old lady shrank from telling her, although she sometimes thought that Magelone's mind would be easier if she could unburden it freely. She must be unhappy, for was not all the misfortune that had befallen Dönninghausen of late her fault? And it was because she knew this and repented it that her behaviour towards Otto was so strange: now so frigidly cold, and now so provokingly derisive.
Otto had taken up his abode in Tannhagen, and was managing the small estate. He seldom came to Dönninghausen, and when he did so he avoided being alone with any one member of the family. Aunt Thekla was more troubled about him than about Magelone. The discomfort which evidently weighed upon him at Dönninghausen seemed to her the result of his repentance, and of his longing love for Johanna. She and the Freiherr were both convinced that he had written repeatedly to Johanna; and when she would ask him if he had received an answer, and he would hurriedly reply in the negative and then change the subject, the old lady's heart would be filled with bitterness towards Johanna. She did not reflect that in concealing his fault from his grandfather Otto was constantly sinning afresh. Now and then she really blamed herself for striving, in spite of her brother's express command and of Johanna's heartless treatment of 'poor Otto,' to keep up even indirectly a kind of communication with the girl. Notwithstanding these scruples of conscience, she waited impatiently for news from Löbel Wolf; and when, one day, he made his appearance, and gave her a detailed account of his son's visit to Johanna, her grudge against her was drowned in compassion. Instead of the love she had dreamed of in her pretty woodland nest, to be confined in the close atmosphere of a sick-room! At the old lady's request, Löbel Wolf declared his readiness to treat in person with Johanna, and to tell the Freiherr, whom fortunately he had not yet seen, that he had not yet made his intended trip to Hanover, but would do so in a few days.
Scarcely had Löbel Wolf driven out of the court-yard when the Freiherr came into his sister's room and called out to her, "Good news! Johann Leopold is coming home!"
"When?" Aunt Thekla asked, half startled, half pleased.
The Freiherr shrugged his shoulders.
"The letter says shortly; whether that means in a few weeks or a few months who can say? You know the lad's ways. He never is precise."
"How is he?" she inquired.
"He says nothing about his health in his letter," said the Freiherr. "He does not, however, appear to be perfectly well. He complains generally, talks about disappointment in what he had hoped travel would do for him, and so on; but how much of it may be hypochondria it is impossible to say. Moreover, he seems to have been suddenly attacked by home-sickness. He is not even going to await Dr. Werner's return. Perhaps Werner sends him home. I was always afraid that that climate would not do for Johann Leopold. The lad begs me to answer his letter immediately; poste restante, Marseilles; and I want you, my dear Thekla, to do this for me. Tell him all that has taken place here, and let him know that I do not want to speak of it; and send him a cordial welcome home from me. I shall be glad to have the fellow here once more."
The old lady promised to write before night, and the Freiherr left the room. She remained behind, lost in anxious revery; she feared fresh disappointments and struggles for those whom she loved. Magelone, indeed, seemed more awake to her responsibilities than she had been; but, sensitive as Johann Leopold was, he would surely perceive that she was estranged from him; and since, according to Aunt Thekla's belief, he was not really attached to Magelone, he would be only too glad to sever the tie between them. And would not this, perhaps, be best? If Magelone were free to love Otto without conscientious scruples, might she not succeed in steadying him and consoling him for Johanna's loss? It would be difficult to persuade the Freiherr to agree to their marriage; but if he should see that Otto could be thus consoled, and Magelone thus made happy, he would finally consent, particularly if Johann Leopold lent his aid to the pair by making up his mind to declare frankly that he wished to remain true to the memory of his dead love. Aunt Thekla, whose entire life had been devoted to a dead love and to grief for his loss, never doubted that Johann Leopold had buried in the coffin of the betrothed of his youth every hope and wish of his life. He had, indeed, consented to a marriage with Magelone, in obedience to the arrangements of the head of the family, but his increasing melancholy had shown that this obedience was almost beyond his strength. So long as he was the only one to be sacrificed, Aunt Thekla had shrunk from putting forward any objection to the match; but now that she knew that Magelone's happiness, and perhaps more than that, would be imperilled by this marriage, – for she had shown how weak she was to resist temptation, – now Aunt Thekla was resolved to do all that she could to avert this fresh calamity from the children of her heart and home.
Still occupied with these thoughts, she went at the usual hour to the drawing-room. While yet in the corridor, she heard Magelone singing and playing, and as she entered there rang exultantly in her ears, —
"I could weep for very gladness;I can hardly think it true – "Magelone looked up, broke off, and hurried to meet her aunt. "Have you heard?" she cried, her face beaming with delight. "Johann Leopold is coming home at last!"
Aunt Thekla let her work-basket fall in her surprise. "Child," she said, as Magelone was picking up its contents, "are you then so glad of Johann Leopold's return? I thought – "
"What, aunt?" Magelone asked, as she handed the old lady the basket; and, although her voice was calm, there was a certain uneasiness in her eyes.
"All that has occurred lately," Aunt Thekla stammered, as she took her seat on the sofa, – "your relations with Otto – "
"Ah, indeed!" Magelone cried, and her face flashed crimson. "Johanna accused me, then? It was just like the sly creature – "
"Magelone, how dare you utter one word against Johanna!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "She never gave the slightest intimation – Had she done so, she would be here now, while you and Otto – "
"Then it was Otto!" Magelone exclaimed. "How mean – "
"Child, child! it does not become you to lay the blame on others," her aunt admonished her again. "If you would atone for your fault you must humbly repent – "
"Repent – yes – that I ever wasted a thought upon the vainest and meanest of men!" cried Magelone, bursting into tears, and throwing herself down beside her aunt. "Otto loves no one save himself. He is faithless, false, cowardly. Within the space of an hour he was treacherous to me for Johanna's sake, and to Johanna for my sake. Oh, I hate him! I despise him! Since he has told you all, I will tell grandpapa – "
She sprang up. Aunt Thekla laid her hand upon her arm. "You will do no such thing. My brother must not know of your treachery, your frivolity," she said, with unwonted decision. "You have done enough mischief already."
Magelone sat down again, and continued to weep silently.
"What do you intend shall be the end of all this?" her aunt asked, after a long pause.
Magelone's only reply was a fresh burst of tears.
"Now, because you are angry with Otto, are you going to make Johann Leopold unhappy?" Aunt Thekla continued. "Remember how you talked about your marriage before he went away."
Magelone jumped up and threw her arms about her aunt's neck. "No, I will not make him unhappy!" she cried. "I know now all that he is to me. I shall be so happy if he will only love me and help me; and when one is happy one's self it is easy to make others happy. And you are right, dear aunt; grandpapa must not be told anything. He shall see how happy we are, and how I will try to be a credit to you all."
Kind old Aunt Thekla was conquered. If Magelone was conscious of the wrong she had done, and was longing to live a new life, how could any one place any obstacle in the way of her marriage with Johann Leopold? But there was still one objection in her mind. "Dear Magelone," she said, "you are right to think that only when we are happy ourselves can we make others so; but shall you be happy? Johann Leopold will be to you the most faithful and judicious of friends, but the love for which you long is not his to give. You know the touching fidelity with which he clings to the memory of his Albertine."
Magelone smiled triumphantly. "Oh, Aunt Thekla," she exclaimed, "I have nothing to fear from that dead Albertine! Before his departure, Johann Leopold wrote me a veritable, genuine love-letter. To call me his is his most fervent desire. He hopes to win my heart when he returns. And even although I give him up, he must always be devoted to me. So you see – "
Aunt Thekla saw that she had again been entirely mistaken. She saw that man's fidelity, Schiller's assertion notwithstanding, is a mere illusion; saw that there was no fitting place for her in this age of steam, when everything is whirled into the past with such lightning rapidity. And while she resigned herself to melancholy reflection, Magelone shook care and repentance, anger and love's pain, from her wings, and soared singing into her world like the lark.
When Löbel Wolf, true to his promise, went, a few days after this, to Hanover, and called upon Johanna, she had just driven out with her little convalescent. A great part of the time which he had reserved for her was thus wasted, but the short interview which he was able to obtain with her was long enough to convince him of the uselessness of further persuasion. She repeated to the father what she had already told the son, – that she either had no claim to the possession of the jewels, or that she ought not to sell them, and added, "Entreat my grandfather to have no anxiety upon my account. Heaven has endowed me with a talent by which I hope to earn my daily bread."
Löbel Wolf shook his head. He was sorry to find her so stubborn and unpractical. He had no desire to report personally the failure of this second attempt. He wrote to the Freiherr, and repeated to him faithfully Johanna's words.
The following evening Johanna and Lisbeth were alone together in Helena's little drawing-room. The weather was oppressively warm; all the windows were open, but they seemed to admit only the dust and noise of the street.
The child was sitting on the window-seat, with her sister's arm around her. She was impatiently watching the passing equipages, and wondering why her mamma never, never stayed at home. Then, bursting into tears, she added, "I do not want to be always waiting, waiting here. You must go away with me, Johanna."
Before Johanna could reply, there was a knock at the door, and in answer to her "Come in!" Dr. Wolf entered the room.
"It is my Dr. Wolf!" Lisbeth cried, in glee; for she had soon made friends with him, and now regarded him quite as her own property. Scrambling down from the window-seat, she took possession of him; but whilst he listened to her childish talk, and answered her as kindly as ever, he glanced from time to time, with an anxious expression, at Johanna. Did she really look paler and more weary than usual, or did fancy show him what he had expected to see? At last, when the child, sitting in his lap, was busy with a book of pictures which he had brought her, he handed Johanna a newspaper. It contained the first chapters of her novel.