



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/wishnovel00suderich

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





                                THE WISH


                               _A NOVEL_




                                   BY
                           HERMANN SUDERMANN


                             TRANSLATED BY
                              LILY HENKEL


                  WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION BY
                             ELIZABETH LEE





                                NEW YORK
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                                  1895






                         _Authorized Edition_.






                             INTRODUCTION.


Since the beginning of time men have been accustomed to regard the end
of a century as a period of decadence. The waning nineteenth century is
no more fortunate than its predecessors. We are continually being
invited to speculate on the signs around us of decay in politics, in
religion, in art, in the whole social fabric. It is not for us to
inquire here concerning the truth or the ethics of that belief. But, as
far as literature is concerned, it is very certain that the last years
of the present century will be remembered for the extraordinary talent
shown by a few young novelists and dramatists in most of the countries
of Europe. In England, we can point to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. J.
M. Barrie; in France, to M. Paul Margueritte and M. Marcel Prevost; in
Belgium, to M. Maurice Maeterlinck; in Germany, to Gerhard Hauptmann,
Ludwig Fulda, and Hermann Sudermann.

The events of Sudermann's life are few; and he has the good sense to
prefer to be known through his works rather than through the medium of
the professional interviewer. The facts here set down, however, we owe
to the courtesy of Sudermann himself a circumstance that lends them an
additional interest.

Hermann Sudermann was born September 30, 1857, in Matzicken, a poor
village in Heydekrug, a district of East Prussia, situated on the
Russian frontier. It is not unlikely that the following passage taken
from one of his novels bears some resemblance to the place:--

"The estate that my father farmed was situated on a high hill close to
the Prussian frontier; an uncultivated, wild park sloping gently
towards the open fields formed one side of the hill, while the other
sank steeply down to a little river. On the farther side of the stream
you could see a dirty little Polish frontier village.

"Standing at the edge of the precipice you looked down on the ruinous
shingle roofs; the smoke came up through the rifts in them. You looked
right into the midst of the miserable life of the dirty streets where
half naked children wallowed in the filthy where the women squatted
idly on the threshold, and where the men in torn smocks, with spade on
shoulder, betook themselves to the alehouses.

"There was nothing attractive about the town, and the rabble of
frontier Cossacks, who galloped here and there on their catlike, drowsy
nags, did not increase the charm."

Sudermann began his education at the school of Elbing. But his parents
were in poor circumstances, and at the age of fourteen he found it
necessary to think about earning a living, and was apprenticed to a
chemist. He continued his studies in his leisure time with such good
results that he returned to school, this time at Tilsit. In 1875 he
went to the university of Koenigsberg, and in 1877 to that of Berlin.
His first intention was to become a teacher, and while still pursuing
his studies undertook for a few months the duties of tutor in the house
of the poet Hans Hopfen. But in 1881, after six years spent in studying
history, philosophy, literature, and modern languages (Sudermann
understands English perfectly), he turned to journalism, and edited the
_Deutsches Reichsblatt_, a political weekly. He soon threw aside
newspaper work for true literature, for what the Germans call
_belletristik_, and he has become famous through his novels, short
stories, and plays. He is good-looking, with a dark melancholy face
that lights up with a most remarkable and expressive smile when he
speaks; nothing could be more unaffected than his manner, nor more
charming than his whole personality. As yet there is no Sudermann
Society for the discussion of the author's works, but in Berlin, where
he has many admiring friends, Sudermann occasionally reads to them his
productions while they are yet unpublished. The little story called
_Iolanthe's Hochzeit_ was first heard in that way.

Although Sudermann's work is in all its aspects essentially modern,
indeed all the conditions and problems of modern life have the highest
interest for him, he belongs to no class, ranges himself with neither
realists nor idealists, and bows to the yoke of no literary fashion. In
common with all great artists, Sudermann paints his own age, but while
portraying men and women as he knows them, in the nineteenth century,
he gives them, at least in his novels and tales, the human nature that
is the same through all time. He has lived in Berlin, and his dramas
give us life in that city both among the proletariat and the rich
middle class. He has lived in East Prussia, and there is laid the scene
of his longer novels. He is familiar with other parts of Germany, with
Italy, and with Paris, and everywhere he has used his gift of keen
observation to good purpose. A certain melancholy, a feeling of the
"inevitableness" of things, if we may be allowed the expression, runs
through all his writings, and may perhaps be traced to the effect on
his sensitive and high-strung nature of the East Prussian landscape,
amid which he spent his boyhood. The meadow-flats and corn-lands, the
meagre pine-woods, and dark, lonely pools of his native district, form
the background of most of his tales. Numerous passages might be quoted
which would serve to show the melancholy and loneliness of the
landscape. As an example we may take:--

"Thick and heavy as if you could grasp them with your hands, the clouds
spread over the flat land. Here and there the trunk of a willow
stretched forth its rugged knots to the air, heavily laden with moisture.
The tree was soaked with damp, and glistened with the drops that had hung
in rows on the bare boughs. The wheels sank deep into the boggy road that
ran between withered reeds and sedge.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"The moon stood high in the heavens and shed her calm, bluish light far
over the sleeping heath. The clumps of alders on the moor bore wreaths
of lights and from the slender silvery trunks of the birches which
bordered the broad straight road in endless rows, came a sparkle and
brightness that made the road seem as if lost far below in the silvery
distance.

"Silence all around. The birds had long ceased singing. A stillness of
the late summer time, the complacent stillness of departing life lay
over the broad plain. You scarcely heard the sound of a cricket in the
ditches, or a field-mouse disturbed in its slumbers, gliding through
the tall grass with its low chipping whistle."

Such pictures constantly meet us in the pages of Sudermann's books;
taken in connection with their setting, they are often of great force
and beauty. Nothing, however, is obtruded; there is no searching after
a dramatic background, or undue word-painting; everything is in keeping
with and subordinate to the main interest of the tale.

With such surroundings, Sudermann cleverly assimilates his characters.
They are mostly the victims of circumstances which they are more or
less unable to overcome. In some cases the fault, as with Leo
Sellenthin in _Es war_, Sudermann's latest novel, lies in the weakness
or sinfulness of the man; in others, in surroundings and events for
which the man is not himself directly responsible. Sometimes the noble
unselfish love and devotion of a woman make a happier state of things
possible; Sudermann is a firm believer in the power and influence of
good women in human life. His women are not so sharply outlined as
Ibsen's, but he recognises in the sex, though much more vaguely, like
possibilities. For example, Leonore in _Die Ehre_ sees the folly and
emptiness of fashionable life and has the courage to give her hand
where she loves, to a man who, by her set, would be considered far
beneath her. Magda, in _Heimat_, refuses to desert her child. And his
young girls are even more charming, more natural than those of Ibsen.
Eager-hearted Dina Dorf, with her desire for a larger life in the
world; hard-working Petra Stockman with her delight in her work and her
unflinching truth and honesty; Bolette Wangel with her desire for
knowledge, "to know something about everything" are, as everybody
knows, among Ibsen's most delightful creations. In _Es War_ Sudermann
gives us as perfect and natural a study of a young girl as we have met
with in fiction or the drama for a very long while. Hertha cherishes a
secret love for a man much older than herself but has reason to fear
that his affections are set on a married woman, the wife of his best
friend. To Hertha's innocent and unworldly mind this is a great puzzle;
to her the sacredness of love between husband and wife seems a matter
of course.

"Certainly the beautiful woman was a thousand times lovelier than poor
Hertha--and she was, moreover, much cleverer.... But could she--and
therein lay the great puzzle, the invincible contradiction that knocked
all suspicion on the head--could she as a married woman possibly be an
object of love to a man other than her husband? Wives were loved by
their husbands--that is why they are married and by no one else in the
world."

But Hertha determines to take such means as are within her power of
discovering if suck things are possible, if such things exist. She
first consults her books--books, of course, suited to a young girl's
library. She goes through her novels, but nothing in them points to the
enormity. Then she turns to the classics, to Schiller!

"Amalie was a young girl--so was Luise--but then there was the queen of
Spain! However, in that case it was clear as noonday how little poets
deserved to be trusted, for that a man should fall in love with his
stepmother could only take place in the world of imagination where
genius, drawn away from the earth, intoxicated with inspiration, soars
aloft. Not in vain had she, a year and a half before, written a school
composition on 'Genius and Reality,' in which she had treated the
question in a most exhaustive manner."

She next tries her friend Elly, a girl of her own age, but much more
experienced in the ways of the world.

"'Listen, dear, I want to ask you a very important question. You're in
love, aren't you?'

"'Yes'; replied Elly.

"'And you're sure the man's in love with you?'

"'Why do you say "man"?' asked Elly. 'Curt is my ideal. A little time
ago it was Bruno--and before that it was Alfred--but now it's Curt, Yet
he's not a man.'

"'What is he, then?'

"'He's a _young_ man.'

"'Oh! that's it, is it? No, he's certainly not a man.' And Hertha's
eyes shone: she knew what a 'man' looked like. 'Well, darling,' she
went on, 'do you think that a "man," or a _young_ man--it's all the
same--could possibly love a married woman?'

"'Of course--naturally he would,' replied Elly, with perfect calmness.

"Hertha smiled indulgently at such want of intelligence.

"'No, no, little one,' she said. 'I don't mean his own wife, but a
woman who is the wife of another?'

"'So do I! replied Elly.

"'And that seems to you quite a matter of course?'

"'My dear child, I didn't think you were so innocent! said Elly;
'everybody knows as much as that. And formerly it was even worse. A
true knight always loved another man's wife: it was a great crime to
love his own wife. He would cut off his right hand for the stranger's
sake, and would die for her, pressing her blue favour to his lips; for
you see at that time they always wore her blue favour. You'll find it
in every history of literature.'

"Hertha became very thoughtful. 'Ah! in those days!' she said, with the
ghost of a smile; 'in those days men went to tournaments and stabbed
each other in sport with their lances.'

"'And to-day,' whispered Elly, 'men shoot each other dead with
pistols.'

"Hertha felt as if she had been stabbed to the heart, and the little
pink and white daughter of Eve continued, 'I think it must be quite
delightful when one is married to know that some one is hopelessly in
love with you. It's quite certain that most unhappy love affairs arise
in that way.'

"The next day Hertha questioned her grandmother.

"'Grandmother, I'm grown up now, aren't I?'

"'Yes--so, so,' answered the old lady.

"'And probably I shall soon be married.'

"'You!' shouted her grandmother, in deadly terror. Doubtless the
wretched child had come to confide in her the addresses of some booby
of a neighbour.

"'Yes.' continued Hertha, inarticulately and with great hesitation;
'with my big fortune I am not likely to be an old maid.'

"'Child!' exclaimed the old lady, 'of whom are you thinking?'

"Hertha blushed to her neck. 'I?' she stammered, trying to preserve an
indifferent tone of voice, 'of nobody.'

"'Oh, then you were merely talking generally?'

"'Of course; I only meant generally'

"'Well, and what do you want to know?'

"'I want to know--how it is with--you understand--with love
when one----'

"'When one----'

"'Well, when one is married?'

"'Then you go on loving just as you did before.' replied her
grandmother, lightly.

"'Yes, I know that. But suppose you love another man to whom you aren't
married?'

"'Wha--t!' In her terror the old lady let her spectacles fall off her
nose. 'What other?'

"Hertha suddenly felt as if she must collapse. She had to summon all
her courage and pull herself together in order to go on.

"'Can't it happen, grandmother dear, that some one to whom you're not
married takes it into his head----'

"'My dear child' replied the grandmother, 'never come to me with such
foolish questions. You cannot understand such things. Now give me a
kiss and get your knitting.'"

So that plan did not answer. There was still one further possibility of
discovery. Hertha had a school friend who had lately got married. She
would ask her. So she began:--

"'Wives love their husbands, that goes without saying. But do you think
it possible that wives can be loved by other men?'

"'How odd you are', replied Meta. 'You can't prevent people loving.'

"'I know that. But a man, don't you see, who would----'

"'Well, that sort of thing does happen.'

"'What! is some one in love with you?'

"Meta blushed, 'I don't bother about it. It's quite enough that Hans
loves me, and of course I should very politely forbid anything of the
sort.'

"'Then people do forbid such things?'

"'Certainly, if they're told of it.'

"'What! you might be told?'

"'Sometimes, if the man who is in love with you is very bold.'

"'Good gracious,' said Hertha, shocked, 'If anyone behaved like that to
me, I should box his ears.' But in great anxiety she continued, 'Do you
think it likely that there are women who have a different opinion?'

"'Oh, yes!' said Meta.

"'Who--in the end--return the bold mans love?'

"'Even so.'"

Then Meta repeats certain gossip that confirms Hertha's worst fears.
The whole chapter should be read in order to appreciate rightly the
charm and pathos and naturalness of the delightful piece of character
drawing.

Like Ibsen and Zola, Sudermann does not hesitate to set the truth
before us even when it is terrible or brutal or revolting. But he
differs from them in having a less gloomy outlook, in firmly believing
that, at the same time as human nature is coarse and brutal, stupid and
violent, it is loving, capable of sacrifice and of deep feeling. He
sees the strange not to say the inexplicable mixture of good and evil
in all things human, and knows man to be neither all gold nor all
alloy. This we take it is the true realism.

To make Sudermann's point of view clear to English readers there is
perhaps no better nor more direct way than to give a brief account of
his works. They are three novels, _Frau Sorge_ (Dame Care), published
in 1886, _Der Katzensteg_ (the name of a small wooden bridge over a
waterfall that plays a prominent part in the story), 1888, _Es war_ (It
Was), 1893; three volumes of short tales, _Geschwister_ (Brothers and
Sisters), first published in the _Berliner Tageblatt_ in 1884 and 1886
respectively (one of the stories, _Der Wunsch_, appears in the present
volume), _Im Zwielicht_ (In the Twilight), novelettes written in
various newspapers, and _Iolanthe's Hochzeit_ (Iolanthe's Wedding),
1892; and three dramas, _Die Ehre_ (Honour), _Sodom's Ende_ (The
Destruction of Sodom), and _Heimat_ (_The Paternal Hearth_).

The most perfectly artistic of his longer novels, and that most deeply
impregnated with the peculiar characteristics of East Prussian
landscape is _Frau Sorge_. Paul, the hero, is born just at the moment
when his father's difficulties make it necessary for him to sell his
house and land: this gloomy circumstance overshadows the whole of
Paul's life. While his brothers and sisters in spite of the family
poverty are, in their careless, unthinking way, happy and even
prosperous, wilfully blind to the fact that they owe all to the
industry and continual self-sacrifice of Paul, his life is one long
toil and struggle, one long fidelity to duty as he conceives it, one
long effacement and suppression of self. For this he receives no
thanks, no acknowledgment. His spirit becomes crushed, almost
extinguished. After long years of toiling, struggling, and suffering,
he is redeemed through the love of a woman, but only when he has
sacrificed to "Dame Care" all he held most precious, and when the
capacity in him for joy and hope has been well-nigh destroyed. The
character portrayed with perfect art is, at the same time, faithful to
nature: such men are rare, perhaps, but it is well that the novelist
should remind us of their existence, and thus help us to recognise the
potency for good that dwells in mankind.

_Der Katzensteg_ is more powerful but less artistic than _Frau Sorge_.
The German critics, however, consider it to be not only the most
important of Sudermann's writings, but the finest novel produced in
Germany during this century. The character of the heroine, Regine, a
veritable child of nature, in whom savagery and lack of intelligence
and education exist side by side with the nobility and power of
sacrifice, of which nature in the rough is often capable, forms the
main interest of the tale, and is a marvellous and original conception.
There is one scene that for realism, intensity, and horror has scarcely
been surpassed in any novel of modern times.

Before turning to the short tales in which we find some of Sudermann's
best and most characteristic work, it would be well to point out one of
his chief titles to genius. He has the gift of being able to describe
terrible and heart-stirring scenes, joyful or pathetic or humorous
scenes, with the utmost simplicity of style. In a few words of the
simplest sort he brings before our eyes living pictures. Each sentence
palpitates with life. As we read, we seem to live with the men and
women of his creation through their agony; we suffer as they do, and
rejoice with them when they are glad: at times we are breathless as
they are with suspense and excitement. And this is done without any of
the analytical introspection with which we have become only too
familiar in recent novels. The characters, at least in the novels and
tales, are not mere nervous organisms, but livings loving, erring,
feeling, human beings. The gift of terse narration joined to great
simplicity of language is found in French writers like Flaubert and
Maupassant, but it is new to Germany. It is, then, perhaps, Sudermann's
highest praise that we can say of him that he possesses the strength
without the unpleasantness of the great French writers of our day, and
combines their artistic feeling, their power and their fine wit with
all that is soundest and best in the Teutonic mind and character.

Many of the short tales are of a less specially German cast, and
possess an interest that is universal. _Der Wunsch_ (The Wish), for
instance, is a powerful psychological study, set forth with wonderful
directness and simplicity. Although the tale deals with the old theme
of a woman who falls in love with her sister's husband, it is instinct
with passion and original in treatment. Olga loved her sister Martha
dearly, and had, indeed, brought about Martha's marriage with Robert
Hellinger almost by her own efforts, but in so doing had herself,
though unconsciously, fallen in love with Robert. Martha, always frail
and delicate, after the birth of her child, falls dangerously ill. Olga
goes to her to nurse her, and love for her sick sister and passion for
Robert struggle for mastery in her soul. Thus, into a character
entirely good, noble, and self-sacrificing, steals the wish, "if only
she were to die!" In the event Martha does die. Then Robert's eyes are
opened; he knows that he loves--has all along loved Olga, and he asks
her to be his wife. At first she refuses, then consents; but the same
night, having felt all the while that the wish for Martha's death,
though never expressed by sign or word, makes her in a sense her
sister's murderer, she puts an end to her life. She herself relates all
the circumstances in a document written to explain her act to her old
friend the physician. A couple of quotations will give a better idea of
Sudermann's style than pages of criticism. In a few marvellous strokes
he paints the effect on Robert of his first sight of Olga's corpse:--

"When the elder Hellinger entered the room he saw a picture that froze
the blood in his veins.

"His son's body lay stretched on the floor. In falling he must have
clung to the posts of the bier on which they had placed the dead
woman, thus bringing down the whole erection with him, for on top of
him--among the broken boards--lay the corpse in its long white shroud,
the stiffened face on his face, the bare arms thrown over his head."

The scenes in Martha's sick room are portrayed with an art that makes
them live in our memory. Here is one of them, Martha lies in bed sick
unto death. Olga and Robert, wearied out with sleepless nights and with
their terrible anxiety, are watching her.

"There was absolute silence in the half-darkened room; only the wind
with gentle rustling, swept past the window, and the mice scratched
among the rafters of the ceiling.

"Robert buried his face in his hands and listened to Martha's dismal
ravings. Gradually he seemed to grow calmer; his breathing became
slower and more regular; now and again his head inclined to one side,
but the next moment he drew it up again.

"Sleep overpowered him, I wanted to persuade him to go to bed but I was
feared at the sound of my own voice and kept silent.

"The upper part of his body leaned over more and more frequently to one
side; at times his hair touched my cheek, and groping he sought a
support.

"And then suddenly his head sank down on my shoulder and remained
there.

"My body trembled as if an incredible happiness had befallen me, I was
seized with an irresistible desire to stroke the bushy hair that fell
over my face. Close to my eyes I saw a few silver threads. 'He is
beginning to get grey,' I thought, 'it is high time that he should know
what happiness means,' and then I actually stroked his hair.

"He sighed in his sleep and tried to place his head more comfortably.

"'He is lying uncomfortably,' I said to myself 'you must get close to
him.' I did so. His shoulder lay against mine, and his head sank down
on my bosom.

"'You must put your arm round him,' something within me cried out,
'otherwise he cannot find rest!

"Twice, thrice, I tried to do so, but as often drew back.

"If Martha should suddenly wake! But her eyes saw nothing, her ears
heard nothing.

"And I did it.

"Then a wild joy took possession of me, and stealthily I pressed him to
me; something within me shouted joyously: 'Oh! how I would cherish and
protect you; how I would kiss away the furrows misery has made in your
brow, and the cares from your soul! How I would toil for you with all
my young strength, and never rest till your eyes were fill of gladness,
and your heart of sunshine. But to do that----'

"I glanced over at Martha. Yes, she lived, still lived. Her bosom rose
and sank in short, quick sobs. She seemed more alive than ever.

"And suddenly there flamed before me, and it was as if I read written
clearly on the wall the words:

"'If only she were to die!'

"'Yes, that was it, that was it. Oh! if only she were to die! Oh! if
only she were to die!'"

We have only to read Jean Ricard's _S[oe]urs_, a novel lately published
in Paris, and dealing with the same theme, to recognise how very far
superior is Sudermann's treatment of it.

The volume of short tales entitled _Im Zwielicht_ is of a somewhat
different character. Though  to some extent by the melancholy
and "inevitableness" of the longer novels, those qualities are less
intense, and we have lively touches of satire and brilliant flashes of
wit that remind us of the sprightliness of French writers. The tales
are told in the twilight by one or other of two friends, a man
and a woman, between whom there exists merely an intellectual
bond of sympathy and union. The stories laugh good-naturedly at
narrow-mindedness and silly prejudice, an evil that Sudermann wisely
recognises as existing everywhere, in the big city as in the small
village. Women's social aspirations, their immense delight in
entertaining celebrities, and their belief that in so doing they are
moving in the stream of the world's history, are satirised with
keenness and truth. He strikes a deeper note in the tale that sets
forth the difficulties of friendship and love between a woman of mature
years and a young man, a subject ably treated by Jean Richepin in his
fine novel, Madame Andre, and it is very interesting to note the
coincidence of view of the French and German writer. Perhaps
Sudermann's views may help towards a satisfactory solution of that
ever-recurring will-o'-the-wisp--platonic affection. His heroine
declares that to turn friendship into love, or love into friendship, is
impossible, because where such a transformation does take place, there
must, in the first instance, have been either not friendship or not
love. "From the day on which we reap love where we sowed friendship,
the magic charm would be broken," she says, "Till then I was all and
everything--then I should be merely one more." And again, "Love begins
in the intoxication of the senses, and ends in the peace of calm
friendship, that is marriage; the contrary is not forbidden, but it
leads--to the desert."

In _Iolanthe's Hochzeit_, Sudermann proves himself the possessor of the
humour that borders on pathos. The little story has no tendency, it
preaches no sermon, Onkel Hanckel, "a good fellow (_ein guter Kerl_) by
profession," relates how he had to live up to the title, and how, at
the mature age of forty-seven, he became, almost against his will,
engaged to a young girl. His feelings at the wedding ceremony, his
horror and shyness at the notion of being left alone with his bride
afterwards, form a most delightful piece of comedy. Puetz, a surly,
grasping, miserly, rich old man; Lothar, a dashing young lieutenant of
dragoons; the maiden sister; and Iolanthe herself--are portrayed with a
quaint humour of which the earlier works gave little indication, while
the vigour, simplicity, and directness of the narrative are as fine as
ever. The East Prussian dialect lends the original a local colour that
would be difficult to reproduce in a translation.

In his dramas Sudermann treats life very much from the same standpoint
as Ibsen does. His characters talk a great deal, and do next to
nothing. He wages war against shams, thinks people should live out
their own lives and develop their individuality at all hazards. He
presents abnormal types, men and women who would be abnormal anywhere,
in civilised society or the reverse, and who must not be taken as
representative of modern life. Each of the three dramas he has as yet
given us presents a moral problem to the consideration of the
spectators.

_Die Ehre_ was first performed at the Lessing Theatre in Berlin, on
November 27, 1889, and had an immense success. The dramatist ruthlessly
and boldly draws aside the curtain from the false ideas of honour held
by high and low alike, not only by the middle class and proletariat of
Berlin, but by civilised men in general: such social conventions,
according to Sudermann, tend to make money-getting the sole aim of the
citizen, and help to undermine the peace and happiness of family life.
The revelation is undoubtedly unpleasing, but all the same a great
truth underlies it, and in the end of the play the virtuous are not
sacrificed to the wicked. In the speeches of Count Trast, the good
angel, the god from the machine of the drama, it is not perhaps
altogether fanciful to see the beliefs and opinions of Sudermann
himself. Trast's conclusion is that we shall do better to substitute
duty for the many and varied sorts of honour recognised by society.

_Sodom's Ende_ is a startling play. Even the Berlin censorship required
alterations before it could permit the production of the drama on the
stage of the Lessing Theatre. It still contains one scene that would
effectually prevent its performance in an English playhouse. The drama
takes its name from the title of a picture painted by Willy Janowski,
who bids fair to become a great artist. But he has fallen under the
influence of Adah Barcinowski, a cold, heartless, pleasure-loving
woman, the wife of a wealthy stockbroker. That connection and his own
weak nature have ruined Willy mentally, morally, and physically. He
ceases to work, leads a life of self-indulgence, heedless of the hurt
he does to others. The character, unpleasing as it is, is consistently
drawn by the dramatist, for even in the pangs of death Willy does not
cease to note the artistic pose taken by the dead body of the girl he
has injured and betrayed. Never, perhaps, has the worst side of that
section of frivolous idle society we are accustomed to call "smart"
been more ably painted: its foolish vapidity, its utter futility, and
its elegant wickedness and sinfulness, are boldly displayed.
Unfortunately men and women without conscience, without comprehension
of duty, have always existed and still exist, but we doubt if their
evil influence is as far-reaching and all-important as latter-day
novelists and dramatists would have us believe.

In his latest play, _Heimat_, produced January 7, 1893, Sudermann takes
for theme the duty owed by the child to the parent, and that due from
parent to child. A high-spirited and talented girl, daughter of
commonplace, conventional parents, to the scandal of all concerned,
leaves her home to carve for herself a career in the world, and by
reason of her fine voice becomes a celebrated singer. After an absence
of many years chance brings her professionally to her native town, and
a very natural desire is awakened in her to revisit her parents and her
home. Her father, whose health had been destroyed through the effects
of her former disobedience, wishes her to come back provided she
renounces for ever the life she has been leading. This she has no
desire to do, but for her father's sake she is not all unwilling to
yield. When, however, she is further required to break with certain
ties very dear to her, she refuses, and the father dies from the shock.
Now when we carefully read the play, or see it acted by competent
artists, it is clear that much might be said on both sides. But as
there is nothing in the world more beautiful and holy than the tie that
binds parent and child, so is the contemplation of conflict between
them always unlovely. We grant that in the storm and stress of modern
life such conflict is at times unavoidable, but it is scarcely the
stuff of which works of art should be formed.

A new play, a comedy, _Schmetterling-Schlacht_ (Butterfly Battle), is
to be produced shortly at the Hofburg Theatre in Vienna. Again a moral
problem is to be presented to the consideration of the public. The
three heroines, honest working girls, paint butterflies on fans for a
living. Two of the girls, tired of being sweated, give up fan painting;
they take to painting their faces instead, and practice other
abominations. The third girl continues her work, and remains virtuous.
The play chiefly consists of a series of discussions between the girls
as to which way of life is preferable.

Like his contemporaries, Ibsen and Bjoernson, Zola and Tolstoi,
Sudermann would transfer the sermon from the pulpit to the stage: he
sets before us certain phases of life that have come under his notice
in all their ugliness and brutality, and would have us forthwith leave
the theatre sworn enemies of the evils he denounces. But his characters
are contented to preach and discuss, they never feel that they are
called upon to act. Thus they lack life and reality, we have little
sympathy with them, and are never profoundly touched.

As a writer of fiction, however, Sudermann's high position is
unassailable. He ranks with the great masters in all countries who have
sought, and are still seeking, to set before us modern life in its
manifold aspects, in its complexity and its difficulties, but who,
unlike the more pronounced school of naturalists, remember Joubert's
maxim that "fiction has no business to exist unless it is more
beautiful than reality."

_August_, 1894.





                               THE WISH.




                                   I.


In the old doctor's bedroom a cheerful fire was flickering. He himself
still lay a-bed, quite penetrated by the delightful sensation of a man
who knows his life's work is completed. When one has been sitting half
a century through, for twelve long hours every day, in the rumbling
conveyance of a country doctor, thumped and bumped along over stones
and lumps of clay, one may now and again lie in bed till daylight,
especially when one knows one's work is safe in younger hands.

He stretched and straightened his stiff old limbs, and once more buried
in the pillows his weather-beaten, yellowish-grey face, covered with
white stubble like granite with Iceland moss. But habit, that austere
mistress, who had for so many years driven him forth from his bed
before dawn, whether it was necessary or not, would not let him rest
even now.

He sighed, he yawned, he abused his laziness, and then reached for the
bell standing on the little table at his bedside.

His housekeeper, an equally grey, tumble-down specimen of humanity,
appeared on the threshold.

"What time is it, Frau Liebetreu?" he called out to her.

Since the day on which the young assistant arrived in Gromowo, the old
Black Forest clock hanging at the doctor's bedside, and whose rattling
alarum had often unpleasantly jarred upon his morning slumbers, was no
longer wound up. "So that I know that my life too henceforth stands
still," as he was wont to say.

"A quarter to eight, doctor," the old woman answered, beginning
meanwhile to busy herself about the stove.

"For shame! for shame!" cried he, raising himself up, "what a lazybones
I am getting to be! I say, have any letters come?"

"Yes, a few by post, and one that young Mr. Hellinger brought himself
two hours ago."

"Two hours ago! Why, it was dark yet at that time!"

"Yes; he said he had to drive out to the manor farm, and could wait no
longer. Yesterday evening, too, when you were at the 'Black Eagle,'
sir, he called, and sat here for about two hours."

"Why didn't you send for me?" cried the doctor, in the blustering tone
of voice of old, good-natured grumblers.

"Well, and hadn't he forbidden us to do so?" cried his housekeeper, in
exactly the same tone of voice, which seemed, however, more an echo of
her master's manner than personal defiance. "He was sitting in the
study till ten o'clock--or rather he was not sitting, he raced about
like a madman, and laughed and talked to himself--I hardly knew the
calm, quiet man again; and then I brought him beer--six bottles--he
drained them all; and I had to drink with him. As I tell you, he was
quite beside himself."

"Ah, indeed, indeed," muttered the old man smiling to himself with
satisfaction. "I should say Olga had something to do with that. Perhaps
after all she----. Well, do you intend bringing me my letters to-day,
or not?" he suddenly shouted, as if he were goodness knows how wild,
but his face laughed the while. And when his housekeeper had
grumblingly done his bidding, he drew out with a sure hand from the
little heap of letters one without a stamp, not deigning to look at the
others at all. His hands trembled with happy excitement as he unfolded
the paper; and he read, while his grey face beamed with pleasure:


"Dear old Uncle,--You shall be the first to know it. If only I had you
with me, that I might press your dear old hands and tell you face to
face what is in my heart! I do not realise it yet--my head whirls when
I think of it! Uncle, you were at my side in the days of darkest
trouble, helping and protecting. You were the only one to take Martha's
part when all--even my parents turned their backs on her with coldness
and suspicion.

"You could not save her for me, uncle--the Lord asked her back of me.
But when, at the bedside of my dead wife, my reason threatened to give
way, you took my poor head between your hands and spoke to me--as a
preacher speaks. And you were right. Of course I do not believe that I
can ever quite revive and become again as I was before the cares of
existence and my longing for Martha made my head dull and heavy; for
even Martha--even my wife--could not accomplish that in the three years
of our quiet happiness. But life seems about to give me whatever it has
left for me yet of joy and peace. You know, uncle, how in the midst of
my sorrow for my dead wife, I learnt to love her sister. Cousin Olga,
more and more. I confessed all to you, and sought comfort with you when
tortured by self-reproach at the thought that I was breaking my troth
to my wife already in the year of mourning. And you said to me at that
time: 'If the dead woman might seek a second mother for her child, whom
else would she choose but the sister whom, next to you, she loved best
in the world?' I was startled to the very depths of my soul, for I
should never have dared to raise my eyes to her. But you never ceased
to encourage me, until, a week ago, I took heart and begged her to
share my fortunes.

"You know she refused me.

"She grew deathly pale--then gave me her hand, and standing up rigidly
said to me: 'Put it from your thoughts, Robert, for I can never be your
wife.' Then I slunk away, and thought to myself, 'It serves you right
for your presumption.' And now, to-day----. Uncle, I cannot put it on
paper!--my hand fails me. This happiness is too great--it came so
unexpectedly, it almost overpowers me! To-morrow, uncle--to-morrow I
will tell you all.

"I have to go out early to the manor farm. At mid-day I shall return,
and then forthwith shall undertake the dreaded visit to my parents. My
mother suspects nothing as yet. Her plans have once again been
frustrated, and Olga will have to suffer heavily enough for it. I fear
she may even turn her out of the house. If only I had her already under
my own roof!

"It is three o'clock in the morning. Enough for to-day. Your grateful
and happy

                                          "Robert Hellinger."


The old doctor wiped a tear from his cheek.

"The dear boy," he murmured. "How his emotions crowd each other in his
over-heated brain; and how simple, how honest everything is to the last
jot! In truth, he deserves you, my brave, proud girl; he is the only
one to whom I do not grudge you. And now I will put you to the test,
and see if you too put confidence in your old uncle. Straightway I will
do it."

Laughing and growling he burrowed with his head in the pillows. And
then he suddenly shouted with a voice resounding through the house like
thunder:

"Confound it, where are my trousers?"

The trousers were brought, and five minutes later the old man stood
quite ready before his glass, all except his greyish-yellow wig.

"My hat, cloak, stick!" he shouted out into the corridor.

"But the breakfast," the old woman shouted back, if possible louder
still, from the kitchen.

"Well, then, hurry up," he blustered. "Before I have read these letters
I must have it here."

With an impatient oath he set to work upon the little heap that had so
far been lying unnoticed on the pedestal. Offers of wine--profitable
investments--a poor, blind father with a new-born infant--and then
suddenly he stopped short, while once more a satisfied smile overspread
his features.

"Upon my word! I should not have expected this," he growled,
contentedly. "She, too, could not rest without confiding her happiness
to her old uncle. That is nice of you, children! You shall have your
reward for this."

With the same happy haste with which he had opened Hellinger's letter,
he tore this envelope asunder.

But hardly had he commenced reading when with a low moaning cry he
staggered back two paces, like one who has been dealt a treacherous
blow. His grey face became ashy pale; his eyes started from their
sockets, and like claws his old withered fingers clutched the
fluttering paper.

When his housekeeper brought in the coffee, she found her master
sitting as stiff as a log in the corner of the sofa, his forehead
covered with great drops of perspiration, and staring with fixed
lustreless eyes at the paper which his hands still held as if in a
cramp.

"Gracious heavens, doctor!" she cried, and let the tray drop clattering
on to the table. Her lamentations brought him back to consciousness. He
asked for water, and drank two long eager draughts, wetted his forehead
and temples with the remainder, and signed to his housekeeper to leave
him.

Hereupon he bolted the door, picked up the letter from the floor, and
read with trembling, choking voice:


"My dear, my Fatherly Friend,--When you read these lines I shall have
ceased to live. The draughts of morphium which you gave me when I had
forgotten how to sleep after Martha's death were carefully collected
and kept by me; I trust they will be powerful enough to give me peace.

"You who have watched over me like a second father, you shall be the
only one to learn why I have decided to take this terrible step. In
long winter nights, when the storm shook my gable-roof and I could not
sleep, I wrote down everything that has been tormenting me for so long,
and will not let me be at rest till I fall asleep for ever. On my
bookshelf, hidden behind some volumes of Heine, you will find a blue
exercise-book. Take it with you, without letting the others notice. And
when you have read all, go out to my grave and there say a prayer for
my soul.

"See that I am laid to rest at Martha's side.

"I loved her dearly. It is she who is calling me to her.

"You will understand all when you have read my story. Perhaps you know
more of my secret than I suspect. I suppose I must have spoken evil
words during the delirium of my illness, else why should you have sent
away my relations from my bedside?

"Did you shudder at the things that my wretched tongue brought to
light?

"Do you pity me? Do you despise me? No, surely you do not despise me;
or how could you have bestowed so much love upon me? And now read.
Everything is set down there. It was not originally intended for you. I
meant to send it after many years--when we young ones too should have
grown old--to the man to whom my whole being belongs, so that he might
know why I once denied myself to him.

"Things have gone differently. To-day, in a moment of forgetfulness, I
threw myself upon his neck. Too late I comprehended that now escape
from him was no longer possible. But, rather than be his, I will seek
death.

"And I have yet another request in my heart. It is the request of one
about to die--if you can, I know you will fulfil it.

"Keep secret from the world, and especially from the man I love, that I
took my own life. Let him believe that my happiness killed me. I shall
destroy everything that might point to suicide; there will only be
indications that I died of syncope or apoplexy.

"From the depths of my heart I implore you to grant me this one last
favour. I die gladly and have no fear. It is so long since I slept
well, that I have need of rest.

                                   "Olga Bremer."


The old man felt himself in a state of utter helplessness.

He staggered, clenched his fists, beat his brow, and then once more he
fell back in his chair.

"This is madness, utter madness," he groaned, wiping the cold
perspiration from his forehead. "Child, what were you thinking of? What
could cloud your reason like this? My poor, poor, darling child?"

Then he once more jumped up and groped with trembling fingers for his
hat and cloak.

"To help! To help!" He must wrest this victim even yet from death's
hand! That was what absorbed his whole mind at present. For a moment
the thought came to him that perhaps after all she had not carried out
her serious intention, but he dismissed it forthwith. He must have had
a different knowledge of her character, to credit her with a feeling of
fear or a failing of energy.

But possibly the dose she had taken was too small, perhaps the
long period of time--for it was more than a year since Martha
died in child-bed, and it was then he had given her the sleeping
draughts--perhaps the long period of time that had elapsed since then
had weakened the efficacy of the poison. Yes, yes, it was so; it must
be so! When badly preserved, morphia decomposes and becomes
ineffectual.

So forward to the rescue! To save what can be saved!

He ran about the room in search of something: he hardly knew what he
was seeking. Then once more he grasped the letter.

"And what do you ask of me? Child, child, do you think it is such a
light matter to perjure one's self? To throw aside like rotten eggs the
duties to which one has been faithful for half a century? Child, you do
not realise what you are asking of an honest man!" He Held the paper up
close to his eyes, and once more read the passage: "It is the request
of one about to die.... From the depths of my heart I implore you to
grant me this one last favour."

Heavy tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks.

"It cannot be, child, it cannot be done, however well you may know how
to plead. And even if I wished to do it, I should betray myself. I am
an old, weak wreck; I no longer have such control over my features.
They would notice it at the first glance. But so that you may not have
asked it--of your old uncle--in vain--I will--at least attempt it--for
your own sake and Robert's sake you must first of all be saved.
Confound it all, old fellow, for once more in your life be a man you
must save her--you must--must--must!"

And as quickly as his stiff old legs would carry him, he rushed
out--past his housekeeper, who stood listening at the keyhole--out into
the wintry morning air which a cold drizzling mist filled with damp,
prickling crystals.




                                  II.


A very picture of perfect serenity and peace of mind the couple
Hellinger senr. made, as they sat at the breakfast-table. Out of the
spout of the brass coffee-machine on the brightly-polished body of
which the fire-flames produced a purple reflection, there rose up thin,
bluish steam which sank down towards the table in little clouds, cast a
film over the silver sugar-basin and wreathed the coffee-cups with
delicate, tiny dewdrops.

Mr. Hellinger, with his snow-white, carefully trimmed beard, and
handsome, rosy, boyish face beaming with good nature and the pleasure
of living, was leaning back comfortably in the blue chintz armchair,
his Turkish dressing-gown pulled over his knees, and apparently
awaiting with calmest resignation whatever fate, in the shape of his
wife, might be about to bestow upon him.

She (his wife) was just throwing a pinch of soda into the little
coffee-pot, whereupon she circumstantially wiped her powdery fingers on
her white damask apron, which was edged in Russian fashion with broad
red and many  stripes. Her white matron's cap, the ribbons of
which were tightly knotted together like a chin strap under her fleshy
chin, had shifted somewhat towards the left ear, and from out its
frilly frame there shone, full of energy and enterprise, her coarse,
comfortable, sergeant-like face, whose features were rather puffed out,
as is often observable in old women who like to share their husband's
glass of brandy.

One could see that she was accustomed to rule and to subdue, and even
the smile of constant injured feeling that played about her broad mouth
went to prove how inconsiderately she was wont to carry through her
plans.

So that she might not sit unoccupied while waiting for the coffee to
draw, she took up her coarse woollen knitting, which, in her capacity
of president of the ladies' society and directress of the charity
organisation, was never allowed to leave her hands, and the needles ran
with remarkable rapidity through her bony, work-used fingers.

"Have you heard nothing from Robert, Adalbert?" she asked, with a hard
metallic voice, which must have penetrated the house to its last
corner.

The question appeared to be unpleasant to the old man. He shook his
head as if he would shake it off; it disturbed his morning
tranquillity.

"An affectionate son, one must say," she continued, and the injured
smile grew in intensity. "Since a week we have neither heard nor seen
anything of him; if he lived in the moon he could not come more
rarely."

Mr. Hellinger muttered something to himself, and busied himself with
his long pipe.

"It looks as if something were brewing again in that quarter," she
began anew; "he has altogether been so peculiar lately; come slinking
round me without a word to say for himself. It seems to me there is
some debt hanging over him again that he can't satisfy."

"Poor fellow," said the old man, and smacked his lips, perhaps to get
rid of the unpleasant idea by this means.

"Poor fellow, indeed!" she mocked him; "I suppose you pity him into the
bargain; perhaps even you have been helping him on the sly?"

He raised up his white, well-kept hands in protest and defence of
himself, but he had not the courage to look her in the face.

"Adalbert," she said, threateningly, "I make it a condition that such a
thing does not happen again. Whatever you give him, you take from us
and from our other children. And if at least he deserved it! but he
that will not hear advice must suffer. If he is ruined, with his
obstinacy and stubbornness----"

"Allow me, Henrietta," he interrupted her timidly.

"I allow nothing, Adalbert, my dear," replied she. "'He that will not
hearken to advice must suffer!' say I; and if through his abominable
ingratitude his poor mother, who is only anxious for his welfare, and
who bothers and worries herself whole nights through, thinking----"

With the many- border of her apron she rubbed her eyes as if
there were tears there to be wiped away.

"But, Henrietta," he began again.

"Adalbert, do not contradict me! You know I close an eye to all your
follies. I allow you to sit as long as ever you like at the 'Black
Eagle'; I let you drink as much as ever you can do with of that bad,
expensive claret. I even put your supper ready for you when you come
home late though it is hardly necessary that you should on such
occasions upset three chairs, as you did yesterday. I consider
altogether that you have very little regard for the feelings of your
old and faithful wife. But--yes, what I was going to say is--that, once
for all, I will not have you meddle with my plans: as it is you
understand nothing of such matters. Have you, altogether, any idea of
all I have done already for that good-for-nothing Robert? I have run
about, and driven about, made calls, and written letters, and Heaven
knows what else. Five or six well-to-do--nay, very wealthy girls I
have, so to say, brought ready to his hand, any of whom he could have
had for the taking. But what did he do? Well, I should think you still
remember how I was seized with convulsions when, four years ago, he
arrived with that miserable, delicate creature, Martha? My whole
illness dates from then."

"But, Henrietta!"

"My dear Adalbert, I beg of you, do not again harp upon the same old
string about her being my own flesh and blood! If she wished to be a
loving and grateful niece to me, why did she not bring the necessary
dowry with her? She had nothing--of course she had nothing! My departed
brother died as poor as a church mouse. Is that fitting for one of
my family? But after all--he had a right to do as he liked with his
own--what business is it of mine? Only he need not have saddled us with
his daughter."

"Well, but she is dead now," remarked Herr Hellinger.

"Yes, she is dead," replied she, and folded her hands. "It were a sin
to say, thank God for that. But as our Lord has so ordained it, I will
at least profit by the circumstance, and endeavour to rectify his folly
of then. While you were sitting in the 'Black Eagle,' drinking your
claret, I was once more toiling and moiling and inquiring round, so
that he has but to pick and choose. There is Gertrude Leuzmann; will
get fifty thousand cash down and as much more when the old man dies.
There is that little von Versen; very young yet certainly--only just
confirmed--but she will get even more! And besides these, at least
three or four others! But what do you imagine he will say to it all?
'Mother,' he will say, 'if you start that theme again, you will never
more set sight on me.' Was ever such a thing heard of? He has only to
marry the second sister now in place of the other one, to bring his
good old mother to her grave! By the by where can the young lady be
to-day? It is nearly nine o'clock, and she has not yet appeared. In my
brother's Bohemian home it may very probably have been the fashion to
lie a-bed till noon; but in my well-ordered household, I beg to say,
most emphatically and politely, I will not have it, Adalbert."

"I cannot conceive, dear Henrietta," he said, "why you heap reproaches
upon me which are meant for your niece!"

"If only for once you would not take her part, Adalbert. But, of
course, there is nothing left for me to say. I am duped and betrayed in
my own house! However, I shall very soon put an end to the matter. I
have kept her here now for a whole year; now she begins to be very much
_de trop_."

"But does she not toll and moil in Robert's household from early morn
till late at night? Does a day pass on which she does not betake
herself to the manor farm? Do not be unjust towards her, Henrietta."

She gave him a pitying look.
"If you had not remained such a child, Adalbert, one might talk reason
to you. Don't you see that that is just where the danger lies? Don't
you imagine that she has her reasons for flaunting about every day at
the manor and for behaving herself as mistress there before him and the
servants? Ah--she--she is a deep one--is my niece Olga. Be sure she has
done her part towards getting him accustomed to the idea that she--and
she alone--has a right to the place of her dead sister. What else
should she be looking for, day after day, at the manor, if it is not
that?"

"I should think Martha's child is sufficient explanation."

"Of course, of course! Any nursery tale is good enough to impose upon
you! She knows exactly why she behaves as she does, and why she is
almost ready to eat up the poor little mite for very love. She knows
exactly how to find the way to its father's heart!"

"But perhaps she does not love him at all," old Hellinger interposed.

She laughed out loud.

"My dear Adalbert, a man who owns an estate just outside the town-gates
is always loved by a poor girl, and if I do not make an end now and
send her about her business, it may very possibly come to pass that our
dear Robert will take her by the hand one fine day and say to us,
'Here, papa and mamma, now be good enough to give us your blessing.'
And rather than live to see that, Adalbert----"

At this moment the sound of lumbering male steps was audible in the
entrance-hall; directly after these came a loud and violent knock at
the door.

"Well!" said Mrs. Hellinger, "some one is making a noise as if the
bailiffs were outside--we have not got as far as that yet." And very
slowly and deliberately she said, "Come in."

The old doctor stepped into the room. His hat sat awry at the back of
his head, his necktie hung loose over his shoulders, and his chest
heaved as with breathless running. He forgot his "Good-morning"
greeting, and only gave a wild, searching glance around.

"Good heavens, doctor!" cried Mr. Hellinger, senr., hastening towards
him, "why, you burst in upon us like a bull into a china-shop."

Mrs. Hellinger once more assumed her injured air, and muttered
something about pot-house manners.

When the old doctor saw the undisturbed breakfast-table and the
astonished, every-day faces of his friends, he let himself drop into
an armchair with a sigh of relief. Then it had not taken place after
all--this terrible thing! But next moment his fears took possession of
him anew.

"Where is Olga?" he faltered, and fixed his gaze on the door as if he
might see her enter there any moment.

"Olga?" said Mrs. Hellinger, shrugging her shoulders. "My goodness, she
probably will be here shortly. Are you in such a hurry?"

"God be praised!" cried he, folding his hands. "Then she has been down
already?"

"No--not so," remarked Mrs. Hellinger, "her ladyship thinks well to
sleep somewhat long this morning."

"For God's sake," he cried, "has no one looked after her? Does no one
know anything of her?"

"Doctor, what ails you?" cried old Hellinger, who was now beginning to
be alarmed.

The physician may at this moment have recollected the request with
which Olga's letter of farewell had closed. He felt that in this way
his desire to comply with her request would, from the very first,
become impossible, and made a last wretched attempt to preserve the
secret.

"What ails me?" he faltered, with a miserable laugh. "Nothing ails
me!--What should ail me? Confound it all!" And then, casting aside all
dissimulation, he cried out: "My God! my God! Thou hast permitted this
terrible thing! Thou hast withdrawn Thy hand from her." And he was
about to sink down weeping, but he once more gathered up all the energy
still remaining in his rickety old body, raised himself bolt upright,
and--"Come to Olga," he said, "and do not be terrified--however--you
may--find her."

Old Hellinger grew pale, and his wife commenced to scream and sob; she
clung to the doctor's arm, and wished to know what had happened; but he
spoke no further word.

So they all three climbed up the stairs leading to Olga's gable-room,
and in the entrance-hall the servants collected and stared after them
with great, inquisitive eyes.

Before Olga's door Mrs. Hellinger was seized with a paroxysm of
despair.

"You knock, doctor," she sobbed, "I cannot."

The old man knocked.

All remained quiet.

He knocked again, and put his ear to the keyhole.

As before.

Then Mrs. Hellinger began to scream:

"Olga, my beloved, my dear child, do open--we are here--your uncle and
aunt and old uncle doctor are here. You may open without fear, my
love."

The physician pressed the latch; the door was locked. He looked through
the key-hole; it was stopped up.

"Have the locksmith fetched, Adalbert," he said.

"No," cried Mrs. Hellinger, suddenly casting all sorrow to the winds,
"that I shall not permit--that will on no account be done. The disgrace
would be too great: I could never survive it--such a disgrace--such a
disgrace!"

The doctor gave her a look of unmistakable loathing and contempt. She
took little notice of it.

"You are strong, Hellinger," she said, "bear up against the door;
perhaps you may succeed in breaking the lock."

Mr. Hellinger was a giant. He set one of his powerful shoulders against
the woodwork, which at the first pressure began to crack in its joints.

"But softly," his wife admonished, "the servants are standing in the
entrance-hall. Be off with you into the kitchen, you lazy beggars!" she
shouted scolding down the stairs.

Down below doors banged. A second push----one of the boards broke right
through the middle. Through the splintry chink a bright ray of daylight
broke through into the semi-dark corridor.

"Let me look through," said the doctor, who now, in anticipation of the
worst, was calm and collected.

Hellinger broke off a few splinters, so that through the aperture the
whole room could be overlooked.

Opposite the door, a few paces removed from the window, stood the bed.
The coverlet was dragged up, and formed a white hillock behind which a
strip of Olga's light brown hair shone forth. A small portion of the
forehead was also visible--white as the bed-clothes it gleamed. The
feet were uncovered; they seemed to have been firmly set against the
foot end of the bed and then to have relaxed.

By the pillow, on a chair, lay her clothes neatly folded. Her skirts,
her stockings, were laid one upon the other in perfect symmetry, and on
the carpet stood her slippers, with their heels turned towards the bed,
so as to be quite ready for slipping into on rising.

On the marble slab of the pedestal, half leaning against the lamp, lay
a book, still open, as if it had been placed there before extinguishing
the light. Over everything there seemed to rest a shimmer of that
serene, unconscious peace which irradiates a pure maiden's soul. She
who dwelt here had fallen asleep yesterday with a prayer on her lips,
to awaken to-day with a smile.

After the physician had held silent survey, he stepped back from the
aperture.

"Put your arm through, Adalbert," he said, "and try to reach the lock.
She has bolted the door from the inside."

But Mrs. Hellinger squeezed herself up against the door, and with loud
cries implored her sweet one to wake up and draw the bolt herself. At
last it was possible to push her on one side, and the door was opened.
The three stepped up to the bedside.

A marble-white countenance, with lustreless, half-open eyes, and an
ecstatic smile on its lips, met their gaze. The beautiful head, with
its classic, refined features, was slightly bowed towards the left
shoulder, and the unbound hair fell down in great shining waves upon
the regal bust, over which the nightdress was torn. A white button with
a shred of linen attached, which hung in the buttonhole, was the only
sign that a state of excitement must have preceded slumber.

"My sweet one, you are sleeping, are you not?" sobbed Mrs. Hellingen
"Say that you are sleeping! You cannot have brought such disgrace upon
your aunt, your dear aunt, who cared for you and watched over you like
her own child." With that she seized the unconscious girl's pale,
pendant, white hand, and endeavoured to drag her up by it.

Her tender-hearted husband had covered his face with his hands, and was
weeping. The physician gave himself no time for emotion. He had pulled
out his instruments, pushed Mrs. Hellinger aside with scant politeness,
and was bending over the bosom, which with one rapid touch he entirely
freed of its covering.

When he rose up, every drop of blood had left his face.

"One last attempt," he said, and made a quick incision straight across
the upper arm, where an artery wound itself in a bluish line through
the white, gleaming flesh. The edges of the wound gaped open without
filling with blood; only after some seconds a few sluggish, dark drops
oozed forth.

Then the old man threw the shining little knife far from him, folded
his hands and--struggling with his tears--uttered a prayer.




                                  III.


On the afternoon of the same day, a light one-horse cabriolet sped over
the common which extends across country for several miles northwards of
Gromowo, and in the direction of the little town.

Dark and lowering, as if within reach of one's hand, the clouds lay
over the level plain. Here and there a willow stump stretched its
gnarled excrescences into the fog-laden air, all saturated with
moisture and glistening with the drops which hung in long rows on its
bare branches. The wheels sank deep into the boggy road, winding along
between withered reed-grass, and often the water splashed up as high as
the box-seat.

The man who held the reins took little heed of the surrounding
landscape; quite lost in thought he sat huddled up, only occasionally
starting up when the reins threatened to slip from his careless
fingers. Then the herculean build of his limbs became apparent, and his
broad, high-arched chest expanded as if it would burst the coarse grey
cloak which stretched across it in scanty folds.

The man's stature was similar to that of old Hellinger, perhaps even
superior, and the face, too, bore an undeniable family resemblance; but
what had there remained pleasing and soft and undefined even in old
age, had here developed into harsh, impressive lines, testifying to
defiance and gloomy brooding. A curly, terribly-neglected beard in dark
disorder encompassed the firm-set jaw, assumed a lighter dye near the
corners of the mouth, and fell upon the breast in two fair points.

This was Robert Hellinger, the owner of Gromowo manor, Olga's
betrothed. Of the happiness that had come to him yesterday there was
little written in his face. His grey, half-veiled eyes stared moodily
into the distance, and the wrinkles between his eyebrows never for one
moment disappeared. He well knew that hard work was in store for him
before he could lead home his bride--hours of bitterest struggle were
imminent, and even victory would bring him nothing but care and
anxiety. His thoughts travelled back over the dark times that lay in
the past, and that had hardly ever been illumined by a ray of light.

It was now six years since his father had solemnly made over to him, as
eldest son, the old family inheritance, the manor, and had himself
retired to a comfortable quiet life in the little town. On this day
his period of suffering had commenced, for he was burdened with a
yoke so heavy that even his herculean shoulders threatened to break
under its weight; everything he gained by the work of his sinewy
hands--everything of which he positively pinched himself--melted away
and was swallowed up by the claims which his family laid upon him. He
had no right to complain. Was it not all according to strict law? The
inheritance had been exactly divided to the very last farthing among
him and his six brothers and sisters, not counting the reserve which
his parents claimed for themselves.

Every brick of his house, every clod of his land, was encumbered--on
every ear of corn ripening in his fields his mother's suspicious gaze
was fixed, for she kept strict watch lest the interests should come in
a minute late. And was she not justified in so doing? Had he a right to
claim more love from her than she gave to her other children? There
were brothers who wanted to make their way in the world; sisters who
had only been married for the sake of their dowry: they all looked
anxiously and eagerly towards him as the promoter and preserver of
their happiness.

The interests! That was the dreadful word that henceforth hour by hour
droned in his ears, that by night startled him from his sleep and
filled his dreams with wild visions. The interests! How often on their
account he had beaten his brow with clenched fists! How often he had
run without sense or feeling through the loamy fields, to escape from
this host of glinting, gleaming devils! How often in a blind fit of
rage he had smashed to pieces some tool, a ploughshare, a waggon-pole,
with his fist, as if he did not mind with what weapon he fought them!
But they did not leave him. All the more tenaciously did they fasten
themselves on to his heels; all the more thirstily did they suck the
marrow from his young bones.

What good was it that he sometimes succeeded in mastering them? This
hydra everlastingly brought forth new heads; from quarter to quarter it
stood there before his terrified gaze, more and more monstrous, more
and more gigantic, growing and swelling, ready to pounce upon him and
crush him with the weight of its body. Thus from one reprieve to the
next his life had dragged along since that day which was so merrily
celebrated at the "Black Eagle" with drinking of claret and champagne.

If only his mother had exercised some leniency! But she did not even
exempt him from the stipulated asparagus in spring, nor even from the
loan of the carriage for drives during harvest-time when the horses
were so badly wanted in the fields.

"He that will not hearken to advice must suffer," she was wont to say,
and he would not hearken; no, indeed not! With one short, simple "yes"
he might have put a stop to all his misery, might have lived in the lap
of luxury to the end of his days; and because he would not do it, out
of sheer, inconceivable stubbornness, because all her wife-hunting had
been to no purpose--that was why his mother could not forgive him.

Thus two years passed away. Then he began to feel that such a life must
sooner or later make a wreck of him. This anxiety and worry was
exhausting him more and more; he decided to put an end to it all and to
demand of fate that modest share of happiness which was pledged and
promised to him by a pair of faithful blue eyes, and a pale, gentle
mouth. Then came a day when he brought home, as wife to his hearth, the
love of his youth, who had shortly become orphaned and homeless.

It was a dreary, sad November day, and dark clouds sped like birds of
ill omen across the sky. Trembling and pale, in her black mourning
dress, the frail, delicate creature hung on his arm and quaked beneath
every half-compassionate, half-contemptuous glance with which the
strange people examined her.

As for his mother, she had received her with reproaches and
maledictions, and a year had elapsed before tolerable relations were
established between the two.

Martha had kept up bravely, and in spite of her delicate health, had
worked from morn to night in order to set to rights what had all gone
topsy-turvy during the master's long bachelorhood.

And when, after three years of quiet, cheering companionship. Heaven
was about to bless their union, she had--even when her condition
already required the greatest care--always been up and doing, working
and ordering in kitchen, attic, and cellar.

It almost seemed as if thus by labour she wanted to give an equivalent
for her missing dowry.

Then--two days after the birth of a child--Olga had suddenly arrived in
Gromowo. He had not seen her since his marriage. At first sight of her
he was almost startled. She came towards him with an expression of such
proud reserve and bitterness; she had blossomed forth to such regal
beauty.

And this woman he was to-day to call his own! Yet what a world of
suffering, how many days of gloomiest brooding and despair, how many
nights full of horrible visions lay between now and then!

He shuddered; he did not like to recall it any more. To-day everything
seemed to have turned out well; Martha's glorified image smiled down in
peace and benediction, and, like a flower sprung from her grave,
happiness was blooming anew for him.

Nearer and nearer came the turrets of the little town; higher and
higher they stretched up behind the alder thickets. And a quarter of an
hour later the carriage drove into the roughly-paved street.

Soon after entering the gates Robert made the discovery that people who
met him to-day behaved towards him in the most peculiar manner. Some
avoided him, others in evident confusion doffed their caps and then as
quickly as possible fled from his presence. On the other hand, the
windows of every house past which the carriage drove, filled with heads
that stared at him gravely and disappeared hurriedly behind the
curtains at his greeting.

He shook his head doubtfully. But as his mind was so full of the
approaching struggle, he took not much notice, and henceforth looked
neither to the right nor to the left. At the corner of the marketplace,
where there used to be the little excise-office, stood his uncle's, the
doctor's, old housekeeper, holding her hands hidden under her blue
apron, and with an expression on her face like that of an undertaker.

As the carriage approached, she signed to him to stop.

"Well, Mrs. Liebetreu," he said, amused, "you at least do not take to
your heels at my approach to-day."

The old woman gazed up at the sky, so that she might not have to look
him in the face.

"Oh! young master," said she--he was always called "young master," to
distinguish him from his father, though he was long past thirty--"the
doctor wishes me to ask if you will kindly just step round there first;
he has something to say to you."

"Is what he has to say to me very pressing?"

The woman was very much terrified, for she thought the unhappy
intelligence would now fall to her lot to tell.

"Oh, gracious me!" she said; "he only put it like that."

"Well, then, give my kindest regards to my uncle the doctor, and the
message, that I only just wanted first to have a little talk with my
parents--he knows what about--and will then come round to him at once."

The old woman muttered something, but the words stuck in her throat.
The carriage rolled on in the direction of old Hellinger's villa,
that lay there under mighty old lime-trees, as if resting beneath a
canopy. The bright plate-glass windows greeted him cheerily, the
shining tiled roof gleamed in the light, the tranquillity of a
well-provisioned old age rested, as usual, over all. He tied his horse
to the garden-railings, and strode with heavy, noisy tread up the
small flight of steps, on the parapet of which, in wide-bellied urns,
half-faded aster plants mournfully drooped their heads.

The hall-bell sounded in shrill tones through the house, but no one put
in an appearance to receive him. He threw down his rain-soaked cloak on
one of the oak chests in which his mother's linen treasures were hidden
away. Then he stepped into the sitting-room--it was empty.

"The old people are probably taking their afternoon nap," he muttered;
"and I think it will be advisable to let them have their sleep out
to-day."

He flung himself into a corner of the sofa, and gazed towards the door;
for he privately hoped that Olga might have noticed his conveyance in
front of the house, and would come down to shake hands with him.

He began to get impatient. "Can she have gone out to the manor?" he
asked himself But, no--she would not do that; for she knew he would
come to speak to his parents.

"I will knock at her door," he decided, and got up.

He smiled anxiously, and stretched his mighty limbs. After having
longed for her incessantly since yesterday evening, now, at the moment
of beholding her again, he was filled with a peculiar fear of facing
her. The feeling of humble reverence, which always took possession of
him in her presence, now again made itself evident. Was it possible
that this woman had yesterday hung upon his neck? And what if she
regretted it to-day--if she went back from her word?

But at this moment all his defiance awoke within him. He opened his
arms wide, and with a smile which reflected the memory of happy hours
recently lived through, he cried:

"Let her but dare such a thing! With these hands of mine I will lift
her up and carry her to my home! If Martha gives her consent, I wonder
who should object."

On tip-toe, so as not to wake his parents, he climbed up the stairs,
which nevertheless creaked and groaned under the weight of his body.

Before Olga's door he started back, for he saw the gleam of light which
fell through the broken panel on to the corridor.

No one answered to his knocking. Nevertheless, he entered.


                           *   *   *   *   *


A moment later the whole house trembled in its foundations, as if the
roof had fallen in.

The two old people, who had retired to their bedroom to recuperate
their strength after those trying hours of the forenoon, started up in
terror. They called the maids. But these had run off, so that the town
should no longer be kept in ignorance of the newest details about the
sad occurrence.

"You go up," said the energetic woman to her husband, and tremblingly
put out her hand for the little bottle of sulphuric ether which she
always kept at hand. It was the first time in her life that she felt
frightened.

When old Hellinger entered the gable-room, he saw a sight which froze
the blood in his veins.

His son's body lay stretched on the ground. As he fell he must have
clutched the supports of the bier on which the dead girl had been
placed, and dragged down the whole erection with him; for on the top of
him, between the broken planks, lay the corpse, in its long white
shroud, its motionless face upon his face, its bared arms thrown over
his head.

At this moment he regained consciousness, and started up. The dead
girl's head sank down from his, and bumped on to the floor.

"Robert, my boy!" cried the old man, and rushed towards him.

With wide-open, glassy eyes, Robert stared about him. He seemed not yet
to have recovered his senses. Then he perceived one of the arms, which,
as the body dropped sidewards, had fallen right across his chest. His
gaze travelled along it up to the shoulder, as far as the neck--as far
as the white rigidly-smiling face.

Supported by the old man's two arms, he raised himself up. He tottered
on his legs like a bull that has received a blow from an axe.

"Good God, boy, do come to your senses!" cried his father, taking him
by his shoulders. "The misfortune has taken place; we are men, we must
keep our composure."

His son looked at him vacantly, helplessly as a child. Then he bent
over the dead body, lifted it up, and laid it across the bed, pushing
the fragments of the bier to one side with his foot.

Then he seated himself close to her on the pillow, and mechanically
wound a coil of her flowing hair round his finger.

The old man began to entertain fears of his son's sanity.

"Robert," he said, coming close up to him again, "pull yourself
together. Come away from here; you cannot bring her back to life
again."

Then he broke into a laugh so shrill and horrible, that it froze the
very marrow in his father's bones.

All of a sudden his stupor left him; he jumped up, his eyes glowed, and
on his temples the veins swelled up.

"Where is mother?" he screamed, advancing towards the old man.

He sought to pacify him.

"Good heavens! do have patience! We will tell you all."

The old lady, who had already been standing for a long time listening
on the stairs, at this moment put in her head at the door.

He rushed past his father and at her as if about to strangle her;
but he had at least so much reason left as to be sensible of the
monstrousness of his proceeding. His arms fell down limp at his
sides--he set his teeth as if to choke down his pent-up rage. "Mother,"
said he, "you shall account to me for this. I demand an explanation of
you. Why did she die?"

The old woman came towards him with tender compassion, and made as if
she would burst into tears upon his neck.

With a rough movement he shook her off.

"Leave that, mother," he said, "I claim her from you!"

"But, Robert," whined the old woman, "is this the way for a son to
treat his mother? Adalbert, just tell him how he ought to treat his
mother!"

He took hold of the old man's hands. "You keep out of the game,
father," he said. "The account which I have to settle to-day with my
mother concerns us two alone. Mother, I ask you once more: why did
she die?" He was leaning against the wall and stared at her with
half-closed, blood-shot eyes.

Mrs. Hellinger had meanwhile commenced to cry.

"Do you suppose I know?" she sobbed; "do you suppose anybody at all
knows? We found her in her bed, that is all. She has brought disgrace
upon our house, the miserable creature, in return for----"

"Do not abuse her, mother," he said, wildly, speaking in an angry
undertone; "you know very well that she was my bride!"

His mother gave vent to a cry of astonishment, and her husband too made
a movement of surprise.

"What! you do not know that? Mother," he cried, and pressed both his
fists to his temples, "did she say nothing to you? Did she not come to
you last night, and tell you what had taken place between her and me
during the day?"

"Heaven forbid!" groaned the old woman. "Scarce a syllable did she
speak to me, but went and locked herself up in her room."

"Mother," he said, and stepped close up to her. "When she had confessed
all to you, did you not work upon her conscience? Did you not impress
it upon her that if she truly loved me she must give me up, that she
would bring misfortune upon me, and Heaven knows what besides! Mother,
did you not do this?"

"My own son does not believe me! My own son gives me the lie,"
whimpered the old woman. "These are the thanks that I get from my
children to-day."

He grasped her right hand. "Mother," he said, "you have done me many a
wrong in all these years. The worst and bitterest I ever experienced
came to me through you."

"Merciful Heavens," shrieked the old woman, "these are the
thanks--these are the thanks!"

"But all the evil you did to me and Martha I will forgive you, mother,"
he continued, "nay, more even! On my bended knees I will ask your
forgiveness for ever having harboured a bitter thought against you; but
one thing you must do for me--here by her dead body you must swear that
you knew of nothing, that in all things you were speaking the truth."
And he dragged her to the corpse that stared up at him with its
ecstatic smile--a bride's smile to her bridegroom.

"That such a thing should be necessary between us," complained the old
woman, and cast a glance of bitter hatred at him out of her swollen
eyes. But she suffered him to lay her right hand on the dead girl's
forehead; she stroked it and sobbed, "I swear it, my sweet one, you
know best that I knew nothing and never required anything wrong of
you." Thereupon she gave a sigh of relief, as if she had suddenly come
to understand what a gain this tragic deed would mean for her and her
family. Sincere gratitude lay in the tender caress with which she
fondled the dead face.

At this moment the old physician came rushing into the room. He had
hoped to overtake Robert and prepare him for the worst, and saw in
terror that he had come too late.

Old Hellinger hurried towards him and whispered in his ear: "Take him
away, he is out of his senses! We can do nothing with him here!"

Robert stood there clutching at the bed-posts, his chest heaving, his
face as if turned to stone with gloomy, tearless misery.

The old doctor rubbed his stubbly grey beard against his shoulder, and
growled in that roughly compassionate way which goes quickest to the
hearts of strong men.

"Come away, my boy; don't do anything foolish; do not disturb her
rest."

Robert started and nodded several times.

Then suddenly--as if overpowered by his misery--he fell down in front
of the bed and cried out, "Wherefore didst thou die?"




                                  IV.


Wherefore had she died?

This question henceforth puzzled the whole town completely. In the
streets--at the tea-table, on the alehouse benches--it was the one
topic for discussion. People indulged in the most out-of-the-way
surmises, the most hazardous conjectures were put forward, and still no
one was one whit the wiser. Some spoke of an unhappy, others of an
over-happy love affair, and others again declared that they had always
predicted that she would not come to a good end.

During her life-time already, her proud, taciturn, reserved nature had
been a riddle to the good homely townfolk; now her death was a still
greater riddle to them.

Meanwhile it had got about that the physician had been the first to
receive news of the suicide, and the only one to whom she herself had
confided her intention. People crowded up to him; they almost stormed
his house; but he persisted in his silence. With all the bluffness of
which he was so particularly capable, he sent the importunate
questioners about their business. Olga's letter he had on the very
same day committed to the flames, for he feared that a court of law
might require it of him. As for the rest, the cause of death was so
evident that even a post-mortem examination could be dispensed with.
As might have been expected, the dead girl had not succeeded in
absolutely removing every trace of her deed. In the glass standing on
her night-table were found, adhering to its sides, drops of a fluid
whose flavour proved, even to a non-expert, that here a solution of
morphia was in question. The chain of evidence became complete when in
the garden, embedded under some hawthorn bushes, were found fragments
of glass bottles, to the necks of which a portion of the poisonous
solution still adhered in white crystallised streaks. They had
evidently been thrown out of the window, and still bore labels giving
the date of the prescription and directions for taking.

As matters stood, it would have been simple madness on the doctor's
part if he had dared to attempt to hush up the suicidal intention; for
even carelessness in taking the sleeping draught was quite out of the
question.

Nevertheless, he was tormented by the idea that he had been unable to
carry out the dying girl's last request, and he faithfully promised
himself that he would all the more truly at least keep the secret which
she had wrapped round her motives for the unhappy deed.

If only he himself could see his way clear at last! The days passed by,
however, and still he could not succeed in taking possession of the
legacy which Olga had left to him.

Mrs. Hellinger, senior, mistrusted him; she told him openly to his face
that he had always had some secret understanding with the dead girl,
and behind his back she added that if he had not prescribed such
unreasonably strong solutions of morphia, Olga would have been alive
and happy for a long time to come. She almost went so far as to ascribe
the blame of her niece's death to their old family friend.

At any rate she did not permit him henceforth to remain for one second
alone in the dead girl's room. She kept the door carefully locked, and
declared she would not suffer the dead girl's belongings, which to her
were sacred relics, to be defiled by the touch of strange hands, or by
strange glances.

Thus from hour to hour there was increasing danger that the book, in
which Olga had written down her confessions, might fall into the old
woman's hands.

She need only take it into her head one day to rummage among the little
collection of volumes which filled the book-shelf, and the mischief was
done.

Added to this anxiety, which drove the old doctor daily to the
Hellingers' house, came his growing uneasiness about Robert who, since
that disastrous hour, had fallen a prey to blank, despairing lethargy.
He seemed absolutely deprived of the power of speech, would endure no
one near him, and even taciturnly shunned and avoided him, his old
friend; by day he roamed about in the fields, by night he sat by his
child's cot, and stared down upon it with burning, reddened eyes.

So said the servants, who three times had found him in the morning in
this position.




                                   V.


The lights round Olga's coffin had burnt down.

The guests, who for so long had surrounded the bier in solemn silence,
began to move to and fro, and to look round for refreshments.

Mrs. Hellinger, who was receiving condolences, and at the same time,
with a great profusion of tears and pocket handkerchiefs, extolling the
virtues of the deceased, suddenly, in the midst of her grief, proved
herself an attentive and liberal hostess. The guests gave a sigh of
relief when the doors of the dining-room were thrown open, and from the
resplendent table a sweet odour of roast meats, _compotes_ and herring
salad greeted them.

Mr. Hellinger, senior, praised the Lord, and with a few privileged
friends, drank the specially fine claret which he set before them in
honour of the occasion. They were not yet agreed whether an innocent
game of cards would be disparaging to the general mourning, and decided
to send delegates to the hostess to obtain her permission.

There was plenty of life and bustle in the Hellingers' house--one might
have imagined one were at a wedding.

The physician, who dropped in late upon this merry company, looked
about anxiously for Robert. He was nowhere to be seen.

Thereupon he took one of the guests aside and inquired after him. Yes,
he had been there, had looked about him with startled eyes, and had
silently moved aside when any one wanted to shake hands with him. But
after a very few minutes his disappearance had been noticed.

The physician went into the entrance-hall, and hunted among the guests'
wraps for Robert's cloak. It was lying there yet.

With the freedom of an old friend of the family, he then commenced his
search through the back rooms of the house, which were quiet and
deserted; for the servants were busy waiting at table.

In a narrow, dark chamber, where disused furniture was piled up, he
found him sitting on an overturned wooden case, brooding with his head
in his hands.

"Robert, my boy, what are you doing here?" he cried out to him.

He raised his head slowly and said, "I suppose there are merry
goings-on in the other part of the house?"

The physician laid his hands on his shoulders:

"I am anxious about you, my boy. Since three days you grudge a word to
any of us; you are on the road to madness, if you go on like this."

"What do you want?" answered Robert, with a sigh that broke from him
like a cry of anguish. "I am calm, quite calm." Then he once more
rested his bushy head upon his two hands, and fell again to brooding.

The old man sat down at his side and began to remonstrate with him. He
forgot no single thing that one is won't to say in such cases, and
added many a comforting, strengthening word of his own making. Robert
sat there motionless, he hardly gave any sign of interest. But when the
old man came to no stop, he interrupted him, and said:

"Leave that, uncle, that is sweet stuff for little children. To the one
question on which for me depends life and death, you, too, can give me
no answer."

"What question?"

"Uncle, see, I am calm now--wonderfully calm--no fever, no frenzy is
upon me as I speak, and so you will believe me when I tell you that I
do not know--how I shall live through this night!"

"For God's sake, what are you about to do?"

Robert shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not know," he said, "whatever suggests itself at the moment will
do for me. I am only sorry for the poor little mite that will have to
go on living without a father--perhaps I shall take it with me on my
journey--I do not know. I only know the one thing, that I cannot go on
like this any longer!"

The old man, trembling with fear in every limb, heaped reproaches upon
him. That would be cowardly, that would be unmanly, and only worthy of
a miserable weakling.

Robert listened to him calmly, then he said:

"You would be right, uncle, if it were her death which made me despair
of myself and of my happiness! But, good heavens!"--he laughed harshly
and bitterly--"I have long since accustomed myself to lay no claim to
happiness. As for me, I would quietly bear my affliction,--(I have
experience in that, as you know, for I have already lowered one loved
being into the grave),--and go on raking and scraping money together,
as I have been doing for so long, and doing in the midst of the deepest
sorrow; for the interests, you know, they take little notice of the
state of one's feelings, and even if one's hand grows numb with pain
and despair--they have to be paid! But that is not what makes my brain
so disorganised--for I am disorganised, you may believe me; before my
eyes sparks are constantly dancing, my body is convulsed, and my blood
rushes like fire through my veins. And yet I am quite calm with it all,
and see everything all around as clearly as if I could look right
through it. Only the one thing I cannot comprehend--it haunts me like a
terrible phantom by day and by night, and when I seek to grasp it, it
escapes me--this one thing: _Wherefore_ did she die?"

The old man started. He thought of the letter and the promise that the
dead girl had therein required of him.

Robert continued: "There is a voice which constantly screams into my
ears, 'It is _your_ fault!' _How_ so I do not know; for however much I
probe the depths of my soul, I find no wrong there that I did her; and
yet the voice will not be silenced. I tell myself,--'This is a fixed
idea.' I tell myself, 'You are tormenting yourself; you are a fool and
wicked--wicked towards yourself and your child;' but it is no good,
uncle!--it will not be silenced. And, after all, there may be something
in it, uncle? Would Olga not be alive yet, if it were not for me? If,
on the preceding evening, things had not happened----"

He stopped, shuddering, and covered his face with his hands. Tearless
sobs shook his mighty frame. Then he said: "Uncle, I cannot--I dare not
think of it; it drives me out of my senses. I feel--as if I must break
and dash to pieces everything with these fists."

"And yet you must pull yourself together, my boy," said the old man,
"and tell me everything successively; for that is the only way to throw
light upon the mystery."

There ensued a silence in the dark room. The old man trembled in every
limb. He saw the outlines of the massive figure that stood out darkly
against the light window of the chamber; he saw the heaving of the
chest which rose and sank and panted and groaned like the crater of a
volcano; he felt on his skin the hot waves of breath from Robert's
mouth.

"Pull yourself together, my boy," he repeated softly.

Robert waged a conflict within himself Then he stretched himself as if
with newly awakening energy and said:

"All right, uncle; you shall know all....

"Since the day on which she so proudly and coldly refused my offer I
had not met her again. It is true she came as before to the manor to
look after the child and the household. I know now that it was for
Martha's and not for my sake; but there was a silent understanding
between us, so that we avoided meeting each other. She chose the hours
when she knew I was busy out in the sheds and stables, and I did not
return to the house until I had seen her disappear through the gate.

"On Tuesday, as it happened, I was obliged to go out to the manor farm;
but half a mile outside the town, on that bad road, my axle broke. As I
had taken no driver with me, and far and wide there was no one in
sight, I myself mounted the harnessed horse and rode back to fetch
help. At the manor the overseer told me that the young lady had gone
home some time before. It was, in fact, already beginning to grow very
dark. 'Well, then there's no danger,' I think to myself, and walk into
the house.

"When I open the door of the sitting-room, I see in the dusk a dark
shadow that flits hurriedly out of the room.

"'Who may that be?' I think, and follow in pursuit.

"In the child's room I find--_her_--just as she is trying hard to
unbolt the door leading to the corridor, which, as you know, is always
kept locked on account of the draught.

"Then, uncle, it comes over me as if I must rush towards her; but just
in time I recollect who she is--and who I am.

"I see how her hands are trembling. 'Do not be angry with me, Olga,' I
said, stammering; 'I did not wish to do you any harm. I am only here by
chance. I will henceforth arrange so that you may never meet me.'

"Then she lets her hands drop, and gives me a look that makes me feel
hot and cold all over. 'Martha never looked at me like that,' I think
to myself. I want to speak, but the words will not come, for I am so
confused and embarrassed. She stands pressing her tall figure close up
to the door, as if to take refuge there from me. I hear her heavy,
feverish breathing. 'Olga,' I say, 'it was presumption on my part that
I ever dared to think of gaining your hand; I know very well that I am
not worthy of you. I beg of you, forget all about it; I will never
remind you of it.'

"And at this moment, uncle--how shall I describe it to you?--leave me
for a second the memory--yet what boots it?--I will be strong, uncle--I
will pull myself together--at this moment she rushes towards me, clasps
me round, covers my face with kisses, and then suddenly she sinks down
with a sigh and lies there at my feet as if felled by a stroke. I gaze
down upon her like one in a dream.

"'It is not true,' I cry to myself; 'it is madness. You were ready to
look up to her as to a goddess, and now she throws herself away on one
who is not worthy of her.'

"I hardly dared to touch her; but I had to raise her up; and when I
held her in my arms she began to sob bitterly, as if she would cry her
very soul out. 'Olga, why are you crying?' say I. 'All is well now.'
But even I, giant of a fellow as I am, start crying like a little
child.

"'Forgive, me, Robert!' I hear her voice at my ear; 'I have grieved you
sorely, but I will never--never do so again.'

"'And will you always love me now?' I ask; for even now I cannot
realise it yet.

"'Oh, you--you,' she says, 'I love you more than anything else in the
world,' and hides her face upon my neck.

"But now, uncle, hear what followed! When I see her dark head of curls
lying so submissively upon my shoulder the question arises within me:
'Is this the same Olga who, a few days ago, turned from you so calmly
and proudly when you modestly and humbly asked her consent?'

"So I said to her: 'Olga,' said I, 'how could you torture me so? Have I
become a different man in this short space of time?' Then I see her
grow as white as the chalk on the walls, and hear her voice in my ear:
'Do not question me; for God's sake do not question me!'

"A feeling of terror awakens within me lest I may perhaps lose her
to-morrow--as I have won her to-day.

"'Olga,' say I, 'if you are so changeable in your decisions, who will
give me surety----?'

"I stop short, for in her face lies something which commands silence.
She tears herself away from me and flings herself into a chair.

"'As you wish to know,' she says, and the while with darkening brows
stares upon the ground--'I was afraid--I doubted your love, and thought
you might let me feel that I came to you without a penny----'

"And with that the lie makes her face all aflame.

"'Olga,' I cry out, 'could you think that of me? Do you remember 'What
I reminded her of was one night on her father's estate when I came
wooing Martha and thought to return sadly with a refusal; for Martha
was ready to sacrifice herself and her happiness, so that I might marry
another. Then she--Olga--had come to me in the middle of the night, and
had opened my eyes for me, blind fool that I was, and spoken words to
me, words full of contempt for mammon, which sounded like Love's song
of triumph in my ears. _Those_ words I spoke to her now; for each one
was indelibly stamped on my memory.

"'At that time, then--you had such brave and generous thoughts--when
you spoke on Martha's behalf,' I cried out to her, 'and now--when they
apply to yourself----' I look into her face, which is trying to smile
and ever smiling; but this smile grew rigid, and in the midst of it she
closed her eyes and fell down fainting, like a log of wood.

"It was trouble enough to bring her back to life; for I did not care to
call in any help. Quite a quarter of an hour she lay there--not much
otherwise than she is lying now--then she opened her eyes, and for a
long time gazed silently into my face--so sorrowfully, so wearily and
hopelessly, that I quite trembled for her. And thereupon she folded her
hands and spoke up to me softly and imploringly:

"'Give me time, Robert; I have overtaxed my strength. I must first grow
accustomed to it----'

"I, however, was so filled with the exuberance of my new happiness that
I believed I could by force compel her too to be happy. 'If we love
each other, Olga,' I cried, 'and the deceased says "Yes" and "Amen" to
our union, I should like to see who could object! Therefore be brave
and cheerful, my child!' But she was anything but brave or cheerful.
And not till now--when she is dead--have I realised how utterly
miserable and broken down she was as she lay there on the cushions--she
who as a rule was so proud and severe in her behaviour to herself and
others. It was as if some intense sorrow had cut the innermost nerve of
her life in twain. That is all clear to me now, but then I did not see
it--I would not see it; and I went on remonstrating with her,
comforting her as I thought. She listened to me, but said nothing; only
now and then she nodded her head, and a smile of unutterable sadness
and weariness played about her lips.

"I put it all down to the excitement of the moment and to the sadness
of the last few years, which must rise up once more all the mightier
within her, now that, for her too, a new happiness was dawning to
supplant it.

"'And the first thing we do,' said I, 'Olga, shall be to visit the
churchyard. When we have stood at Martha's grave, my mother's
resistance and the ill-will of the whole world need no longer affect
us.'

"Then she let her hands drop from her face, looked at me with great
terror-stricken eyes, and asked in a perfectly toneless voice: 'You
want to go to the churchyard with me?'

"'Yes, with you,' I answered; 'and now, at once, if you are willing.'

"'Then a shudder ran through her frame, and in a strangely hoarse tone
she said: 'Have patience till to-morrow; to-morrow I will do what you
wish.'

"'Yes, my dear, good child,' I then said; 'put all foolish fancies out
of your head by tomorrow, and think to yourself that _she_ is not angry
with us. We shall certainly not forget her! And must not our mutual
grief for her bind us all the more closely together for the whole of
our lives? Her memory will always be with us; and do you not also
believe that from her whole heart she would bless our union if she
could look down upon us from heaven? Has she not left us her child as a
legacy, that we might watch over it together, and not surrender it to
any stranger?'

"Then she threw herself down in front of the little cot, in which the
little creature lay blissfully dozing, and pressed her face against its
little head.

"Thus she lay for a long time, and I let her lie.

"When she rose up, the rigid calm once more rested upon her face that
we were wont to see there. She gave me her hand, and said: 'Go, my
friend; leave me alone.' And I went, for I was ready in all things to
do her bidding; I did not even embrace her.

"A quarter of an hour later I saw her cross the courtyard. I waited at
the window; but she did not look back any more.

"Next morning--well, you know, uncle, how I found her then. And at
that moment I was as if struck by lightning. Uncle, I may grow old and
grey--that moment will destroy every pleasure, and every laugh will die
away from my lips as its consequence. But at least I might live. I
might drag on this miserable existence, so that my child should not be
deprived of its modest share of happiness. Only that one thing I must
know--I must be freed from that one horrible idea, else I cannot go
on--I cannot, however hard I try. Else I shall rot away alive.... Some
one must arise, even if it be from the other side of the grave, and
must tell me wherefore she died!"

Once more there was silence in the dark room. Nothing was audible but
the heavy breathing of the two men and the rustling of a rat, which had
accompanied Robert's story with the monotonous, hollow music of its
gnawing.

The old man struggled hard within himself. Should he treacherously
disclose the secret of her life as he had already betrayed the secret
of her death? But was there not, in this case, a good deed to be done?
Did it not mean freeing him whom she had loved above all things, from
the torments to which--either a mistaken idea or a secret consciousness
of guilt--condemned him? It seemed like a miracle, like special
heavenly grace, that the mouth which seemed closed for ever, should
once more be permitted to open, to bring peace to the loved one.

The old man gave a deep sigh. He had taken his resolution. "And
supposing she should have taken thought, Robert," he said, "to give an
account to you from beyond the grave?"

Robert uttered a cry, and clutched his wrists.

"What do you mean by that, uncle?"

"If you had not burrowed in your grief like a mole, and taken flight
before every human face, you would have known long ago what is in every
one's mouth, namely, that on the morning of her death I received a
letter from her----"

"You--uncle--from her----?"

"Goodness, my boy, you are breaking the bones in my body. Do first
listen to me patiently"--and he told him the contents of the letter.

Robert had started to his feet and was nervously running his fingers
through his hair. His eyes, which were staring down upon the old man,
gleamed through the darkness.

"And the book--give it to me--where is it?"

The old man informed him how great was the danger in which Olga's
secret was hovering, and what anxiety he had himself passed through on
its account.

"Wait, I will fetch it," cried Robert, and hurried towards the door.

The old man held him back. "Your mother has the key--take care that her
suspicion is not aroused."

"The door is half broken, I will smash it entirely."

"They will hear you downstairs."

"They are enjoying themselves much too well!" answered Robert, and
laughed grimly. "Come, we will go together."

And through a back door, along the dark corridor, up the creaking
stairs, the two men crept like two thieves who have come to take
advantage of some festive occasion.

Opening the door proved even easier than they had hoped. The loosened
hinge of the lock moved out of its joints almost without pressure.

At the door both stopped, overcome with emotion, as the dark room,
faintly illumined by the starry clearness of the night, lay before
their eyes. All traces of death had been removed: the empty
bedstead--whose supports stood out darkly against the grey wall--alone
indicated that its occupant had sought another resting-place. The odour
of her dresses, the faint scent of her soap, still filled the room with
their fragrance. Even the towels on which she had dried herself were
still hanging, in fantastic whiteness, near the black Dutch stove.

Robert, unable to keep himself upright, dropped down upon a chair, and
in long, eager breaths, which resembled a sobbing, he drank in the
fragrance of the room. It was as if he were trying to absorb into his
being the very last trace of her life.

A short, dazzling gleam of light darted through the room, danced along
the walls, strayed with a yellow flicker across the writing-desk, and
made the white-draped dressing-table stand out from the darkness like
some crouching phantom.

The old man had struck a match and was groping by its aid for the
little green-shaded lamp which had lighted Olga's sleepless nights. It
stood on the pedestal, in the same place where Olga had extinguished it
when about to plunge into eternal night. Its glass bowl was yet nearly
full of petroleum. She had been in a hurry to get to rest.

Carefully he lifted down the globe and lighted the wick. With a
peaceful twilight glow the veiled flame cast its light across the
silent chamber. Then he stepped up to the bookshelf, where the gilded
volumes were ranged in rows and gleamed in the light. His hand for a
little while groped along the wall and then pulled out to the light
some blue, rolled-up object.

"We have it, Robert," he cried, triumphantly; "come away!"

The latter shook his head in silence. The old man urged him again; then
he said: "We will read here, uncle--here--where she wrote it."

"What if any one should surprise us?" cried the old man, fearfully.

Robert shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the floor.

The old man was satisfied; they softly drew up their chairs within
light of the lamp. After this nothing was audible but the rushing of
the winter wind as it swept through the leafless lime-tops, and the
monotonously hoarse voice of the reader, accompanied from time to time
by the chorus of the funeral party--now swelling up loudly, now dying
away to a whisper.




                                  VI.


"Forgive me, sister, for invoking from the grave your transfigured
shade. In remembrance of the deep love you bore me, of the warmth with
which my heart beat for you, suffer it, if I attempt to expiate the
guilt that weighs so heavily upon me, and whose yoke I must drag along
with me to the end of my days! Let me once more live through all the
love and kindness you bestowed upon me, and in the memory thereof
forget the horrors of loneliness that, like the breath of your tomb,
chill my very bones.

"What a fool, what a wicked creature I was, to feel lonely while you
yet dwelt on earth! Your love was the very air that I breathed! Your
smile was the sunshine that animated me, your comforting, exhorting
words were like the voice of God within us, to which we hearken
reverently without understanding. And how did I thank you, sister? I
grew a stranger to you--in sorrow and misery I have to think of you,
and the consciousness of guilt appals me when the soughing wind
whispers your name in my ear. Between us there stands a wild phantom
with flaming eyes--terrible and distorted, its hair encircled by
snakes--stretching out its claw-like hands towards me, and separating
me from you for ever. If it were no phantom, but flesh and blood, if
what I committed were a sin, a crime, I would wrestle with it, I would
overcome it with the last strength of my failing energy, or allow
myself to be strangled in its bloody grip. But it is intangible, it
melts away into empty air--a spectre that mocks me, a mist that clouds
my reason, and by its poison is slowly destroying me. A wish!

"A wish--it is nothing more!

"I wonder if you recognised it? I wonder if it was reflected in your
dying gaze? I wonder if at your bedside, when you, good, noble soul,
gave up the last breath of a life that was all love, you saw this
spectre--a spectre born of envy and ingratitude, which I--miserable
creature--dragged into your pure habitation?

"If I had still my lisping childish beliefs, I would pour out the
wretchedness of my soul before God, the Great and Merciful; but there
is no one on earth or in heaven to take pity on me, none but your
glorified image.

"Woe is me!--that, too, turns away from me. Weeping, it veils itself,
when yonder demon approaches my soul! And yet, was it not human to feel
as I did? Why are we not heavenly bodies, void of desire, pure and
ethereal? Why are we born of dust, why do we cleave to dust, eat dust
and return to dust when we have thrown off this great fraud of life?
The great fraud of my life I will write down here--the fraud towards
myself--towards you, and towards a third as well, who was pure and
good--and who yet was the cause of it all.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"I was a quiet, lonely child.

"He who is always surrounded by love, and who has never known anything
but love, often learns most easily to suffice to himself. And yet in my
heart, too, there lay an inexhaustible store of love. I squandered it
on dumb creatures, petted the dogs, kissed the cats, and hugged the
geese. One of my passions was to play in the stable: there I lolled
about on the soft, warm straw, under the very hoofs of my special pets,
that never did me any harm; or I climbed into the manger, where I could
sit for hours and gaze lovingly into my friends' great brown eyes. But
my favourite place was in the dog-kennel. There they often found me
asleep at midday, and it was no easy matter to get me out again: for
Nero, who was as a rule so quiet and good, showed his teeth to any one,
even to his master, who came within reach of his chain on such
occasions. My tender affection extended also to the vegetable kingdom.
The rose-trees appeared to me like enchanted princesses, whose fate I
bitterly bewailed; the sunflowers were Catholic priests in full
canonicals, and the dahlias Polish maidservants with red head-dresses.
Thus I succeeded in assembling around me in the garden the whole human
world, and found the counterfeit presentment preferable to the
original, for it submitted in silence when I ordained its fate.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"The estate that my father had rented was the old feudal possession of
a Polish magnate, which lay close to the Prussian frontier, on a hill
whose one side sloped down gradually in a weed-grown park towards
barren fields, while the other dropped down precipitately towards a
rivulet, on whose opposite bank lay a dirty little Polish frontier
village.

"When one stood on the brink of the precipice one looked down upon the
tumble-down shingle roofs, through the crevices of which smoke issued
forth, and could see right into the midst of the wretched traffic of
the miry street, where half-naked children wallowed in the gutter,
women crouched idly on the doorsteps, and the men in ragged fustian
coats trooped, with their spades on their shoulders, towards the
alehouse.

"Verily there was little that was attractive about this small town, and
the rabble of frontier Cossacks, that trotted to and fro sleepily on
their cat-like nags, did not enhance its charms. But yet, to my
childish eyes, it was enveloped in inexpressible glamour, the sensation
of which creeps over me even to-day, when I picture to myself how,
bewitched by all these wonderful visions, I sat for hours motionless on
the grass, and stared down upon the throng in which the figures were no
larger than the wooden dolls in my box of toys.

"I had been forbidden to go down, nor had I any desire to do so, since
I had once been almost crushed to death between two wheels in the crowd
of the weekly market to which my father had taken me.

"It was only delightful when from up there, raised high above the dirt
and screaming, one could gaze down upon this world of ants, which
seemed so tiny that, like the Creator Himself, one could command it
with a look, but which grew larger and larger, and assumed weird, giant
proportions the more one attempted to penetrate into it.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"It is remarkable that just of those persons who were most closely
connected with me throughout my life, I have preserved but a vague
recollection as they were at that time. Possibly because later
impressions effaced these earliest ones.

"My father was a small, sturdy man, of thick-set stature, with
close-cut black beard and hair, clad in high, brightly blacked boots,
and a greyish-green shaggy jacket, who laughed at me when he saw me,
gave me a friendly slap on the back, or pinched my arm, and then was
gone again. He was always busy, poor papa; as long as he lived I never
saw him give himself a moment's rest.

"Mama was then already very stout, was constantly eating sweet-stuff,
and loved her afternoon nap; but she, too, was at work from morning
till night, though she only reluctantly betook herself from place to
place, and did not like one to hang on to her, or to bother her with
questions.

"At that time another member of the family was Cousin Robert, who had
been sent over by our Prussian relations to learn farming from papa; a
big fellow, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with fair tufts of
beard, which I was wont to pull when he took me on his knee to instil
the A B C into me by means of bent liquorice sticks. I think we were
always good friends, though he probably was no more to me than the
other articled pupils; for his picture, as he was then, has become
hazy, exactly like all the others.

"Only one scene do I remember distinctly, when on a summer evening he
had caught hold of Martha by her fair plaits and was racing after her,
laughing and screaming, through the yard, and the house, and the
garden.

"'What are you up to with Martha, you rascal?' cried papa to him.

"'She has been vexing me,' he answered, without letting go of her,
while she kept on screaming.

"'When I was your age I knew better how to revenge myself on a girl,'
laughingly said papa, who always liked to have his little joke.

"'Well, how?' he asked.

"'Oh, if you don't know that yourself!' replied papa.

"'One just gives her a kiss. Master Robert,' said an old gardener, who
happened to be passing with a watering-can.

"Then I can see him yet, how he suddenly let the plaits drop from his
hands, stood there suffused with blushes and did not know where to
look. Papa shook with laughter and Martha ran off as fast as she could.
When I tried her door, she had locked herself in. Not till supper-time
did she put in an appearance again. Her hair hung in disorder over her
forehead, and beneath it she looked out dreamily and scared.

"When, to-day, I compare the pale, thin, little suffering face that
fills my whole soul, with yonder rosy, chubby, roguish countenance as
it gleams upon me sometimes from my earliest childhood, I can hardly
realise that both can have belonged to one and the same being.

"How her long fair plaits fluttered in the wind! With what precocious,
housewifely care her eyes scanned the long table where we all sat
together, with apprentices and inspectors, waiting to be filled--a
whole collection of hungry mouths. And how lustily each one helped
himself, when, with her merry smile, she offered the dishes.

"Now only do I begin to understand what a pilgrimage of suffering she
had to make, now that I am myself preparing for the long, sad journey,
at the end of which a lonely grave awaits me, more lonesome even than
hers.

"In those days I was a child and looked up unsuspectingly to her, who
became my teacher when she herself had hardly put off childish ways.

"It was at that time that our affairs began to take a downward course.
Papa had to struggle against debts; failure of crops, and floods--for
three years in succession--destroyed any hope of improvement, and
monetary cares gathered thicker and thicker around our home.

"In the household everything not absolutely necessary was dispensed
with, our intercourse with the neighbouring estate owners was
restricted, and even the old governess who had educated Martha and was
now to have fulfilled her mission upon me, had to leave the estate.

"Martha, who was seven years older than I and just preparing to grow
into her first long dress, stepped into her place. In this way, purely
sisterly relations could not grow into existence between us. She was
the protectress and I was the ward, until after we exchanged our
_roles_.

"I may have been about fourteen years old, when it struck me for the
first time that Martha had strangely altered in manner and appearance.
I ought, indeed, to have noticed it before, for I was accustomed to
look about me with open eyes, but in the slow monotony of everyday life
one easily overlooks the destruction that sorrow and time are working
around us.

"Now I took heed, and saw her face grow thinner and thinner, saw that
the colour faded more and more from her cheeks, and that her eyes sank
deeper and deeper into dark hollows. Nor did she any longer sing, and
her laugh had a peculiar tired, hoarse sound that hurt my ears so, that
I was sometimes on the point of calling out to her 'Do not laugh!'

"At the same time she began to sicken; she complained of headache and
spasms, and only with difficulty dragged herself about the house. Then,
of course, papa and mama were bound to notice her condition too; they
packed her up in warm wraps, and, in spite of her remonstrance, drove
with her to Prussia to consult a doctor. He shrugged his shoulders,
prescribed steel pills and advised a change of air.

"Something else, too, he must have advised, which greatly disturbed my
parents, at least papa; for mama, since a long time already, was not to
be roused from her phlegmatic composure. When she dreamily gazed out
into the distance, he often looked at her askance, shook his head,
sighed, and slammed the door after him.

"But however much she might be suffering, she would not give up her
work. As long as I can remember, I have never seen her idle even for a
moment. As a child already she stood with her lesson-book at the
cooking-stove, or had an eye on the wash-kitchen, while she wrote her
German composition. Since she was grown up, she combined the duties of
my instruction with all the cares which a large household imposes upon
its manager. Mama had quite retired in virtue of her age, and allowed
her to do and dispose as she pleased, if only the _compotes_ and other
dainties won her approval.

"I, who was spoilt beyond measure by everyone in the house, was ashamed
of my inactivity, and endeavoured to take a part of the responsibility
off Martha's shoulders; but with gentle remonstrance she dissuaded me.

"'Leave that, child,' she said, stroking my cheeks; 'you happen to be
the princess of the house, you had better remain so.'

"That hurt me. I could bear anything rather than to be repulsed, when I
came with my heart full to overflowing of generous resolves.

"One evening I saw her crying. I slunk out into the garden and fought a
hard battle. I almost choked with my longing to help, but I could not
so far conquer myself as to go up to her and put my arms consolingly
about her neck. When I lay in bed, my desire to comfort her came upon
me with renewed force; I got up, and in my nightdress, just as I was, I
slipped out into the dark corridor.

"For a long time I stood outside her door, trembling with cold and with
fear, and with my hand on the door-knob. At last I took heart and crept
in softly.

"She knelt before her bed with her head pressed into the pillows. She
seemed to be praying.

"I stopped at the door, for I did not venture to disturb her.

"At last she turned round, and at sight of me started up abruptly.

"'What do you want?' she stammered.

"I clung to her, and sobbed fit to soften the heart of a stone.

"'Child--for Heaven's sake--what is the matter with you?' she cried.

"I was incapable of uttering a word. She, in her motherly way, took a
large woollen shawl, wrapped me in it, and drew me down upon her knee,
though I was then already bigger than she.

"'Now confess, my darling, what ails you?' she asked, stroking my face.

"I gathered up all my strength, and hiding my face upon her neck, I
sobbed, 'Martha--I want--to help--you.'

"A long silence ensued, and when I raised up my face I saw an
unutterably bitter, sorrowful smile playing about her lips. And then
she took my head between her hands, kissed my brow and said:

"'Come, I will put you to bed, child; there is nothing the matter with
me--but you--you seem to be in a perfect fever.'

"I jumped up: 'For shame, that is horrid of you, Martha,' I cried; 'I
will not be sent away like this. I am not ill, nor am I so stupid that
I cannot see how you are pining away, and how each day you gulp down
some new sorrow. If you have no confidence in me, I shall conclude that
you do not wish to have anything to do with me, and all will be over
between us.'

"She folded her hands in astonishment, and looked at me.

"'What has possessed you, child?' she said, 'I do not know you thus.'

"I turned away and bit my lips defiantly.

"'Come, come, I will put you to bed,' she urged again.

"'I don't want--I can go alone,' I said. Then she seemed to feel that a
word of explanation must be vouchsafed to the child.

"'See, Olga,' she said, drawing me down to her, 'you are quite right, I
have many a sorrow, and if you were older and could understand, you
would certainly be the first in whom I should confide. But first you
too must learn to know life----.'

"'What more do you know of life than I?' I cried, still defiantly.

"She only smiled. It cut me to the heart, this half-painful,
half-ecstatic smile. A dull dawning presentiment awoke within me,
such as one might experience in face of closed temple gates or distant
palm-wafted islands. And Martha continued:

"'Till then, however--and that will be long!--I must bear what
oppresses me alone. Hearty thanks, sister, for your good intention; I
would love you twice as much for it, if that were possible; and now go,
have your sleep out, we have much to learn to-morrow.'

"With that she pushed me out of the door.

"Like an exile I stood outside on the landing and stared at the door
which had closed behind me so cruelly. Then I leant my head against the
wall and wept silently and bitterly.

"Martha was henceforth doubly kind and affectionate towards me, but I
would not see it. I grew reserved towards her, as she had been towards
me, and deeper and deeper the bitter feeling became graven on my soul
that the world did not require my love. Of course it was not this one
occurrence alone which acted decisively upon my disposition. Such a
young creature as I was, is too easily carried away by the tide of new
impressions to be lastingly influenced by a few such moments; and, as a
matter of fact, it was not long: before I had forgotten that evening.
But what I did not forget was the idea that no one dwelt on earth who
was willing to share his sorrows with me, and that I was thrown back
upon myself and my books until such day as I should be declared ripe to
take part in the life of the living.

"Deeper and deeper I dived down into the treasures of the poets, of
whom none drove me from his holy of holies. I learnt to feel wretched
and exalted with Tasso; I knew what Manfred sought on icy Alpine
snowfields; with Thekla I mourned the loss of the earthly happiness I
had enjoyed, of the life and love that I had out-lived and out-loved.
But, above all, Iphigenia was my heroine and my ideal.

"Through her my young, lonely soul was filled with all the charm of
being unintelligible; it seemed to be the mission of my life to go
forth like her upon earth as a blessed priestess, sublimely void of
earthly desire; and if to this end I might have donned yon white
Grecian robes whose noble draperies would so splendidly have suited my
early-developed figure, my bliss would have been complete.

"Outwardly I was in those years an obstinate, supercilious creature,
who was lavish with rude answers, and fond of getting up from table in
the middle of a meal if anything did not suit her taste.

"In spite of all this--or perhaps just for this reason--I was petted by
all, and my will, in so far as a child's will can be taken into
account, was considered authoritative by the whole house. At fifteen I
was as tall and as big as to-day, and already there was found here and
there some gallant squire's son who would say that I was much, much
better looking than all the others, especially than Martha. That made
me indignant, for my vanity was not yet fully developed.

"'About that time, I dreamt one night that Martha had died. When I
woke, my pillows were wet through with tears. Like a criminal on that
day I crept round my sister. I felt as if I had some heavy offence
against her on my conscience.

"After dinner she had gone to lie down for a little on the sofa, for
she was suffering again from her headache; and when I entered the
room and saw her waxen-pale face with closed eyes, hanging across the
sofa-ledge, I started as if struck.

"I felt as if I really saw her already as a corpse before me.

"I dropped down in front of the sofa and covered her lips and brow with
kisses. Quite radiantly she opened her eyes and stared at me, as if she
saw a vision; only as consciousness returned did her face grow serious
and sad, as before.

"'Well, well, my girl, what is the matter with you?' she said. 'This is
not your usual behaviour!'

"And gently she pushed me away, so that once more I stood alone with my
overflowing heart; but as I was slinking away she came after me, and
whispered---

"'I love you very much, my darling sister!'

"On the evening of the same day I noticed that she constantly kept
smiling to herself. Papa was struck by it too, for as a rule it never
occurred. He took her head between his two hands, and said--

"'What has come over you, Margell? Why you are blooming like a flower
to-day.'

"Then she blushed a deep red, while I secretly clasped her hand under
the table, and thought to myself, 'We know very well what makes us so
happy.'

"Next morning papa came to the breakfast-table with an open letter in
his hand.

"'A strange bird is about to fly into our nest,' he said, laughing;
'now guess what his name is!' And with that he looked quite peculiarly
across at Martha. She appeared to me to have grown even a shade paler,
and the coffee-cup which she held in her hand shook audibly.

"'Has the bird been in our nest before?' she asked slowly and softly,
and did not raise her eyes.

"'I should think so indeed!' laughed papa.

"'Then it is--Robert Hellinger,' she said, and sighed deeply, as if
after a hard effort.

"'Upon my word, girl, you _are_ one to guess.' said papa, and shook his
finger at her.

"But she was silent, and walked from the room with slow, dragging
steps--nor did she appear again that morning. For my part I kept pretty
cool over our cousin's approaching visit. His image of former days, as
it dimly hovered in my memory, was not such as to inspire a romantic
imagination of fifteen years with ardent dreams for its sake.

"But Martha's behaviour had struck me. Next day, in the early morning,
I heard her walking up and down with long strides in the guest-rooms.

"I followed her, for I was anxious to know what she was busying herself
about in these usually closed apartments.

"She had opened all the windows, uncovered the beds, let down the
curtains, and now in her wooden shoes was running amidst all this
confusion from one room to the other. Her hands she held pressed to her
face, and kept laughing to herself; but the laugh sounded more like
crying.

"When I asked her, 'What are you doing here, Martha?' she gave a start,
looked at me quite confused, and seemed as if she must first think
where she was.

"'Don't you see--I am covering the beds.' she stammered after a while.

"'For whom, pray?' I asked.

"'Don't you know we are going to have a visitor?' she answered.

"'I suppose you are awfully pleased at the prospect?' I said, and
slightly shrugged my shoulders.

"'Why should I not be pleased?' she replied, 'It is our cousin.'

"'And nothing more?' I asked, shaking my finger at her as I had seen
papa do the day before.

"Then she suddenly grew very grave, and looked at me with her big, sad
eyes so strangely and reproachfully that I felt how all the blood
rushed to my face. I turned away, and as I could no longer keep up my
superiority, I slunk out of the door.

"From this moment Cousin Robert caused me many a thought. It seemed
clear to me that the two loved each other, and seized by the mysterious
awe with which the idea of the great Unknown fills half-grown children
of my age, I began to picture to myself how such a love might have
taken shape. I ran through the wild-growing shrubs of the park, and
said to myself, 'Here they enjoyed their secret walks.' I slipped
inside the dusky arbours, and said to myself, 'Here in the moonlight
was their trysting-place.' I sank down upon the mossy turf-bank, and
said to myself, 'Here they held sweet converse together.' The whole
garden, the house, the yard, everything that I had known since the
beginning of my life suddenly appeared resplendent in a new light. A
purple sheen was spread over all. Wondrous life seemed to have awakened
therein. I had so completely absorbed myself in these phantasies, that
finally I believed that I myself had lived through this love. When I
saw Martha again I did not dare to raise my eyes to her, as if I
cherished the secret in my bosom and she were the one who must not
guess it.

"But next morning when I reflected that Martha had positively
experienced everything that I after all had only dreamt about, I felt
quite awed by the thought, and from out of a dark corner I contemplated
her fixedly with shy, inquiring looks, as if she were a being from some
strange world.

"I was well aware that every five minutes she found something to busy
herself about on the verandah, from whence one could look across
towards the courtyard-gate; but to-day I took good care not to put any
pert questions to her. Now I felt like a confidante--like an
accomplice. It was a beautiful clear September day. Over woodland and
meadow was spread a rosy veil, silver threads floated softly through
the air, the river carried a cover of vapour, and far and wide it was
as silent as in a church. I went into the wood, for I could never have
excess of solitude to satiate myself with dreams. In the birch-trees
faded leaves already rustled; the bracken drooped like a wounded human
being that can barely keep upright.

"I grew very sad. 'Now there will be a great dying,' I said: 'ah, that
one might die too!'

"And then I remembered what I had heard and read in derision of
sentimental autumn thoughts. 'For shame, how wicked!' I thought. 'They
shall not deride me, for I shall know how to conceal myself and my
feelings. It is no one's business what I do feel. And for all I care
they may think me cold and heartless, if only I have the consciousness
that my heart beats warmly and full of love for mankind.'

"Yes, that was a delightful, foolish day, and blissfully would I
sacrifice what yet remains to me of life, if it might once more be
granted to me. In the evening--I can see it all as if it were to-day
the windows stood open, the tendrils of the wild vine swayed in the
breeze, and from the distance a stamping of hoofs, a clashing of lances
and swords greeted my ears. I could see nothing, for the darkness
devoured it all, but I knew that it was a band of Cossacks patrolling
along the frontier ditch. And then I closed my eyes and dreamt that a
troop of knights were coming riding along at full speed--led by a fair,
handsome prince, mounted on a milk-white charger. But I was the
chatelaine sitting in the turret-room of the old castle, and the fame
of my beauty had penetrated to every land, so that the prince had set
forth surrounded by a company of picked horsemen, to seek me out and
ask my hand in marriage of the old nobleman my father.

"And then I remembered Martha; and whether, as the elder, she would not
be preferred. But she loves her Robert, I comforted myself, she wants
no prince. And then I pictured to myself what I would give to each
member of my family when I had mounted the throne: to Martha wonderful
jewellery, to papa an iron chest full of gold, and to mama a box of
pine-apple sweets.

"The clashing of lances died away in the distance--and my dream was at
an end.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Next day he came.

"When the carriage that brought him rolled in at the courtyard gate,
Martha was busy in the kitchen. I ran to her, and beaming with pleasure
I whispered into her ear, 'Martha, I believe he is here.' But she
forthwith apprised me that I was not her confidante. She looked at me
vaguely for a time, then asked absently, 'Whom do you mean?'

"'Whom else but our cousin?'

"'Why do you tell me that in a whisper?' she asked. And when, in
answer, I shrugged my shoulders, she once more took up the kitchen
spoon she had put down, and went on stirring.

"'Is that the extent of your pleasure, Martha?' I asked, while I
contemptuously pursed my lips.

"But she pushed me aside with her left hand and said, more passionately
than was her wont, 'Child, I beg of you, go!'

"And thus it came about that I received Cousin Robert in her stead.

"As I stepped out on to the verandah, he was just alighting from his
carriage.

"'He does not look much better than papa,' that was my first thought. A
great strong man like a giant, with broad chest and shoulders, his face
sun-burnt, with little blue eyes in it, and framed by a shaggy beard,
such a beard as the 'lancequenets' used to wear.

"'Only the chin-strap is wanting,' I thought to myself.

"He came jumping up the steps laughing towards me.

"'Well, good morning, Martha!' he cried.

"And then suddenly he stopped short, measured me from head to foot and
stood there, half-way up the stairs, as if petrified.

"'My name is not Martha, but Olga!' I remarked, somewhat dejectedly.

"'Ah, that accounts for it!' he cried, shaking with laughter, stepped
up to me and offered me a red, horny hand, quite covered with cracks
and weals.

"'What an uncouth fellow!' I thought in my own mind. And when we had
entered the room he looked me up and down again and said, 'You were
quite a little thing yet, Olga, when I went away from here; now it
seems like a wonder to me that you should be so like Martha!'

"'I like Martha,' thought I, 'when was I ever in the least like
Martha?'

"'But no,' he continued, 'she was not so tall, and her hair was fairer,
and she did not stand there so haughtily--and--and--did not make such
serious eyes.'

"'Ah, good Heavens,' thought I, 'you first look into Martha's eyes!'

"At this moment the kitchen door opened quite, quite slowly, and
through a narrow aperture she squeezed herself in. She had not taken
off her white apron. Her face was as white as this apron, and her lips
trembled.

"'Welcome, Robert!' she said softly behind his back, for he had turned
towards me.

"At the first sound of her voice he veered round like lightning, and
then for about a minute they stood facing each other without moving,
without uttering a word.

"I trembled. For two days I had lain in wait for this moment, and now
it fell so wretchedly short of my expectations. Then they slowly
approached each other, and kissed. This kiss too did not satisfy me. He
could not have kissed _me_ differently; 'only that he did not attempt
that at all,' I added mentally. And then they both were silent again.
My heart beat so wildly that I had to press both hands to my bosom.

"At last Martha said, 'Won't you take a seat, Robert?'

"He nodded and threw himself into the sofa-corner so that all its
joints creaked. He looked at her again and again, then after a long
time he remarked, 'You are very much changed, Martha!'

"I felt as if he had given me a slap in the face.

"An unutterably sad smile played about Martha's lips.

"'Yes, I suppose I am changed,' she then said.

"Renewed silence. It seemed as if a long time were necessary for him to
put a thought into words.

"'Why did I never hear that you were ailing?' he began again at length.

"'That I do not know.' she replied, with bitter affability.

"'Could you not write to me about it?'

"'Are we in the habit of writing to each other?' she asked in return.

"He gave the table an angry shove.

"'But if one is not well--then--then--'; he did not know how to
proceed.

"I pressed my fists together. I should so have liked to finish his
sentence for him.

"'Never mind.' said Martha, 'one often knows least one's self when one
is not well.'

"'I should think one ought to know that best one's self,' he replied.

"'What if one does not think it worth while to take any notice of it?'
This time she spoke without bitterness, modestly and quietly as she
always spoke, and yet every word cut me to the quick.

"('Oh, Martha, why did you repulse me?' a voice within me cried.)

"And thereupon she broke into a short laugh, and asked how things were
at home, and whether uncle and aunt were well.

"'First I should like to know how my uncle and my aunt are,' he said,
and looked into the four corners of the room.

"I was so glad to see the strained mood giving way, that I burst into a
loud laugh at his comical search.

"Both looked at me in astonishment as if they only just remembered my
presence.

"'And what do you say to our child?' asked Martha, taking my hand in
motherly fashion, 'does she please you?'

"'Better now already,' he said, scrutinising me, 'before, she was too
stiff for me.'

"'I could hardly put my arms round your neck at once?' I replied.

"'Why not?' he asked, smiling complacently, 'do you think there is no
room for you there?'

"'No,' said I, to let him know at once how to take me, 'that room is
not the place for me.'

"He looked at me quite taken aback, and then remarked, nodding his
head--

"'By Jingo, the little woman is pretty sharp.'

"I was going to reply something, but at that moment papa entered the
room.

"At table I constantly kept my eye on the two, without however being
able to notice anything suspicious.

"Their eyes hardly met.

"'Afterwards when the old people are taking their nap,' I thought to
myself, 'they are sure to try and make their escape.' But I was
mistaken. They quietly remained in the sitting-room, and did not even
seem anxious to get me out of the way. He sat in the sofa-corner
smoking, she, five paces away at the window, with some needlework.

"'Perhaps they are too shy,' I thought, 'and are waiting till an
opportunity presents itself.' I marked a few signs and slipped out.
Then for half an hour I crouched in my room with a beating heart and
counted the minutes till I might go back again.

"'Now he will go up to her,' I said to myself, 'will take her hands and
look long into her eyes. "Do you still love me?" he will ask; and she,
blushing rosy red, will sink with tear-dimmed gaze upon his breast.'

"I closed my eyes and sighed. My temples were throbbing; I felt more
and more how my fancies intoxicated me, and then I went on picturing to
myself how he would drop on his knees before her and, with ardent
looks, stammer forth glowing declarations of love and faithfulness.

"I knew by heart everything that he was saying to her at this moment,
no less than what she was answering. I could have acted as prompter to
them both. When the half-hour was over, I held counsel with myself
whether I should grant them a few moments longer. I was at present
their fate and as such I smilingly showered my favours upon them.

"'Let them drain their cup of bliss to the last drop!' said I, and
resolved to take a walk through the garden yet. But curiosity
overpowered me so that I turned back half-way.

"Softly I crept up to the door, but hardly did I find courage to turn
the handle. The thought of what I was about to see almost took my
breath away.

"And what did I see now, after all?

"There he still sat in his sofa-corner as before, and had smoked his
cigar down to a tiny stump; but in her embroidery there was a flower
which had not been there before.

"'Why do you shrug your shoulders so contemptuously?' asked Martha, and
Robert added, 'It seems I do not meet with her ladyship's gracious
approval.'

"'So,' thought I, 'for all my kindness I get sneers into the bargain,'
and went out slamming the door after me. That same night, I, foolish
young creature that I was, lay awake till nearly morning, and pictured
to myself how I, Olga Bremer, would have behaved had I been in the
place of those two. First I was Robert, then Martha; I felt, I spoke, I
acted for them, and through the silence of my bedroom there sounded the
passionate whisperings of ardent, world-despising love.

"As things were much too straightforward to please me, I invented a
number of additional obstacles--our parents' refusal, nocturnal
meetings at the frontier trench, surprise by the Cossacks,
imprisonment, paternal, maledictions, flight, and finally death
together in the waves; for only hereby, so it seemed to me, could true
love be worthily sealed and confirmed.

"When I got up in the morning my head whirled, and yellow and green
lights danced before my eyes.

"Martha clasped her hands in horror at my appearance, and Robert, who
was sitting again for a change in a sofa-corner, and once again sending
forth clouds of smoke all around, remarked--

"'Have you been crying or dancing all night?'

"'Dancing,' I replied, 'on the Brocken, with other witches.'

"'One positively cannot get a sensible word out of the girl,' he said,
shaking his head.

"'As you cry into the wood,' replied I.

"'Oh! I am as still as a mouse already,' he remarked, laughing, 'else I
shall get such a dish of aspersion to begin the day with, as I have
never swallowed in all my life.'

"Martha looked at me reproachfully, and I ran out into the park where
it was darkest and hid my burning face in the cool mass of leaves.

"I was near crying.

"'So this is my fate,' I moaned, 'to be misunderstood by the whole
world, to stand there alone and despised though my heart is full of
passionate love, to wither unheeded in some corner, while every other
being finds its companion and stills its longings in an ardent
embrace.'

"Yes, I had so vividly pictured to myself Martha's love that I had
finally come to think myself the heroine of it.

"Thus, of course, disenchantment could not fail to come.

"And if only the two had made some further effort to keep pace with the
flights of my imagination! But the longer Robert remained in our house,
the more I watched Martha's intercourse with him, the more did I become
convinced that all interest was unnecessarily wasted upon them.

"She--the type of a timid, insipid, housewife, subject to any fatality
of every-day life.

"He--a clumsy, dull, work-a-day fellow, incapable of any degree of
emotion.

"In this strain I philosophised as long as the bitter feeling that I
was unnoticed and superfluous wholly filled my soul. Then there came an
event which not only disposed me to be more lenient, but also gave a
new direction to my ideas about this stranger cousin.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"It was on the fourth day of his visit when he unexpectedly stepped up
to me and said:

"'Little one, I have a request to make to you. Will you come out for a
ride with me?'

"'What an honour,' replied I.

"'No, you must not begin again like that,' said he, laughing, though
annoyed. 'We will try for once to be good comrades just for half an
hour. Agreed?'

"His cordiality pleased me. I gave him my hand upon it.

"As we rode out of the courtyard gate Martha stood at the kitchen
window and waved to us with her white apron.

"'See here, Martha,' I thought in my mind, 'this is how I would ride
out into the wide world with him if I were his paramour.'

"For my ideas as to what a 'paramour' is were as yet very vague, and I
did not hesitate to ascribe this dignity to Martha.

"'He rides well.' I went on thinking; 'my prince could not do better.'

"And then I caught myself throwing myself back proudly and joyously in
my saddle, swayed by an undefined sense of well-being that made all my
nerves tingle.

"He said nothing, only now and again turned towards me and nodded at me
smilingly, as if he thought well to secure our compact anew every five
minutes. It was needless trouble, for nothing was further from my
thoughts than to break it.

"When we had ridden for half an hour at a sharp trot he pulled up his
chestnut and said:

"'Well, little one?'

"'What is your pleasure, big one?'

"'Shall we turn back?'

"'Oh, no.'

"I was absolutely not willed to give up so quickly what filled me with
such intense satisfaction.

"'Well, then, to the Illowo woods,' said he, pointing to the bluish
wall which bordered the distant horizon.

"I nodded and gave my horse the whip, so that it reared up high and
plunged along in wild bounds.

"'Very creditable for a young lady of fifteen.' I heard his voice
behind me.

"'Sixteen, if you please!' cried I, half turning round towards him. 'By
the bye, if you again reproach me with my youth, there's an end to our
good fellowship.'

"'Heaven forbid!' he laughed, and then we rode on in silence.

"The wood of Illowo is intersected by a small rivulet, whose steep
banks are so close together that the alder branches from either side
intertwine and form a high-vaulted, green dome over the surface of the
water, terminating at each bend in a dense wall of foliage, behind
which it builds itself up anew. Down there, close to the water's edge,
I had known, since my childhood, many a secluded nook, where I had
often sat for hours, reading or dreaming to myself, while my horse
peacefully grazed up in the wood.

"As we now rode slowly along between the trees, a desire seized me to
show him one of my sanctuaries.

"'I want to dismount,' I called out to him; 'help me out of my saddle.'

"He jumped off his horse and did as I had bid.

"'What do you intend to do?' he then asked.

"'You will see shortly.' said I. 'First of all, let the horses go.'

"'I should think so, indeed,' he laughed. 'You seem to be one of those
who catch their hares by putting salt on their tails.'

"And he set about tying the bridles to a tree.

"'Let loose,' I commanded; and as he did not obey, I gave the horses a
lash of the whip, so that before he thought of catching hold of the
reins tighter, they were already galloping about at liberty in the
wood.

"'What now?' said he, and put his hands in his pockets. 'Do you think
they will let themselves be caught?'

"'Not by you!' laughed I, for I was sure of my favourites.

"And when at a low whistle from my lips they both came racing along
from the distance and snuffled about affectionately at my neck with
their nostrils, my heart swelled with pride that there were creatures
on earth, though only dumb animals, who bowed to my might and were
subject to me through love; and triumphantly I looked up at him as if
now he must know me as I really was, and what I required of the world.

"But I could see that even now I had not impressed him. 'Well done,
little one!' he said, nothing more, patted me on the shoulder in
fatherly manner, and then threw himself down carelessly upon the grass.
The sun's rays, which broke through the foliage, glittered in his
beard. Like a hero in repose he appeared to me, like those described in
northern saga.

"But just as I was about to grow absorbed in my romancing, he began to
yawn most fearfully, so that I was very quickly and rudely transferred
to prose.

"'But we are not going to stay here. Sir Cousin.'

"'Don't be foolish, little one,' said he, closing his eyes; 'do like
me, let us sleep.'

"Then a frolicsome mood possessed me, and I stepped up to him and shook
him soundly by the collar.

"He snatched at my dress, but I evaded him, so that he jumped to his
feet and attempted to lay hold of me. Then I walked quietly to meet him
and said, 'That's right, now come along.' And then I led him right
through a dense thicket of thorns, down the steep <DW72>, at the foot of
which the deep water lay like a dark mirror. Down there broadleaved
convolvuli and creepers had formed a natural bower above a projecting
block of stone, in which even at high noon one could sit almost in the
dark.

"Thither I led him.

"'Upon my word, it is delightful here, little one,' he said, and
comfortably stretched himself upon the stone, so that his feet hung
down to the water. 'Come, sit down at my side; ... there is room for us
both.'

"I did as he wished, but seated myself so that I could look down upon
him.

"He pretended to be sleeping, and now and again blinked up at me
through half-closed lids.

"Then the thought suddenly came to me, 'Now, if you were Martha, what
should you do?' and I was so startled by it that my blood gushed up
hotly into my face.

"'Are you easily frightened, little one?' he asked.

"I shook my head.

"'Then come here!'

"'I am here at your side.'

"'Place yourself in front of me.'

"I did so. My feet almost touched the flat edge of the stone.

"Suddenly he raised himself, clasped me as quick as lightning about the
waist, and at the same moment I felt myself suspended in mid-air above
the water. I looked at him and laughed.

"'Let me tell you.' said he, 'that it is not by any means a laughing
matter. If I let you drop----'

"'I shall be drowned--so let me drop.'

"'No, first you must make a confession to me.'

"'What confession?'

"'Why you do not like me.'

"I drew a deep breath. At the same time I felt that the soles of my
feet were already being wetted by the surface of the water. He must not
let me sink any lower. A delicious feeling of powerlessness came over
me.

"'I do like you.' I said.

"'Then why do you give me such disagreeable answers?

"'Because I am a disagreeable creature.'

"'That is certainly plausible,' laughed he, and with rapid swing lifted
me up like a feather so that I came to stand once more upon the stone.
'There, now sit down, we will talk sensibly.' Then he took my hand and
continued: 'See, I am a simple fellow, have worked hard and given
little thought to sharpening my wit. You with your quick little brain
always kill me at the very first thrust, so that I have grown
positively afraid of talking to you. I know you mean no harm, for it is
not in our blood to be ill-natured; but all the same, it is not the
proper thing. I am nearly twelve years older than you, and you almost a
child yet. Am I right?'

"'You are right.' said I, dejectedly, wondering privately where my
defiance had departed to.

"'Then why did you do it?'

"'Because I wanted to gain your approval.' said I, and drew a deep
breath.

"He looked into my eyes amazed.

"'Because I wanted to show you that I was not a silly thing, that my
head was in its right place, that I----,' I stopped short and grew
ashamed of myself.

"He chewed his beard and looked meditatively before him.

"'Indeed, now,' he said, 'I was in a fair way to get quite a wrong idea
of your character. What a good thing that I followed Martha's advice!'

"'Martha's?' I exclaimed. 'What did she advise you?'

"'Take her aside alone some time,' she said, 'and have it out with her.
Whomever she does not love she hates, and it would pain me if she did
not grow to love you.'

"'Did she say that?' asked I, and tears came into my eyes. 'Oh, you
good sister, you noble soul!'

"'Yes, she said that and much more besides, in order to explain and
vindicate your disposition. And as I love Martha----'

"'Do you?' I interrupted him, eager to learn more.

"'Yes, very dearly,' he replied reflectively, and looked down into the
water beneath him.

"My heart beat so violently that I could hardly draw my breath. So he,
he took me into his confidence, he made a confederate of me. I could
have embraced him there and then, so grateful did I feel towards him.

"'And does she know it?' I inquired.

"'I daresay she knows it,' he remarked; 'a thing of that sort cannot be
concealed----'

"What--then--you have not--told her?' I stammered.

"He shook his head sadly.

"I was awakened from all my illusions. So the arbours of our garden had
never afforded shelter to two lovers, the moon as it shone through the
branches had never been the witness of clandestine kisses? And all my
romancing had proved itself nothing but idle imagination? But in the
midst of my disillusion a deep compassion seized me for this giant,
crouching beside me as helpless as a child. Surely, I vowed to myself,
he shall not in vain have put his trust in me!

"'Why did you remain silent?' I inquired further.

"He looked somewhat suspiciously at my immature youth, and then began,
heaving a deep breath:--

"'You see, at that time I was a silly young fellow, and could not pluck
up courage to speak; in the years of one's youth one is already so
supremely happy if one can only now and again secure a secret pressure
of the hand, that one thinks marriage can have no further bliss to
offer. But----you really cannot understand all these things.'

"'Who knows?' replied I, in my innocence; 'I have read a great deal on
the subject already.'

"'The short and the long of it is.' he continued, 'that I was then
nearly as foolish as you are at present. And now, you see, if I speak
to her now, every word binds me with iron fetters to all eternity.'

"'And don't you wish to bind yourself?' I asked in astonishment.

"'I _may_ not,' he cried; 'I dare not, for I do not know if I can make
her happy.'

"'Well, of course, if you do not know that,' said I, drawing up my lips
contemptuously, and in my heart I inferred further: 'Then he cannot
love her either.'

"But he started up with sparkling eyes: 'Understand me aright, little
one.' he cried; 'if it only depended on me, I would ask nothing better
all my life, than to carry her in my arms, lest her foot might dash
against a stone. But--oh, this misery--this misery!' And he tore his
hair, so that I grew quite frightened of him. Never should I have
thought it possible for this quiet, reflective man to behave so
passionately.

"'Confide in me, Robert,' said I, placing my hand on his shoulder; 'I
am only a foolish girl, but it will unburden your heart.'

"'I cannot,' he groaned, 'I cannot!'

"'Why not?'

"'Because it would be humiliating--for you too. Only this much I will
tell you: Martha is a delicate, tender, sensitive creature; she would
never be able to hold her own against the flood of cares and misfortune
which must pour down upon her there. She would be broken like a weak
blade of corn at the first onset of the storm. And what good would it
be, if a few years after our wedding I had to carry her to her grave?'

"A cold shudder runs through me, when I think how that word of presage
came to be so terribly realised; but at that moment there was nothing
to warn me. I only felt the ardent desire to give as romantic a turn as
possible to this, to my mind, much too prosaic love affair.
Unfortunately there was not much to be done at present. So at least I
assumed a knowing air, and sought in my memory for some of the phrases
with which worthy sibyls and father confessors are wont to feed the
soul of unhappy lovers.

"And he, this big child, drank in the foolish words of comfort like one
dying of thirst.

"'But will she have patience?' he asked, and showed signs of becoming
disheartened again.

"'She will! Depend upon it,' I cried, eagerly; 'as she has waited so
long, she will wait for another year or two. You will see how gladly
she will submit.'

"'And what if even later nothing should come of it?' he objected, 'if I
should have disappointed her hopes, have played the fool with her
heart? No, I will not speak; they may drag my tongue out of my mouth,
but I will not speak!'

"'If you did not intend to speak, why then did you come?' asked I.
Heaven knows how this two-edged idea got into my foolish young girl's
head. I felt darkly that I was committing a cruelty when I put it into
words, but now it was too late. I saw how his face grew pale, I felt
how his breath swelled up hot and heavy and poured itself forth upon me
in a sigh.

"'I am an honest man, Olga,' he muttered between his teeth; 'you must
not torture me. But as you have asked, you shall have an answer. I came
because I could bear life without her no longer, because by a sight of
her I wanted to gather up strength and comfort for sad days to come,
and because--because in my heart of hearts I still cherished the faint
hope that things might be different here, that it might be possible for
her to come with me.'

"'And is it not possible?'

"'No! Do not ask why; let it suffice you that I say no.'

"Then suddenly he bent down towards me, took hold of both my hands, and
said, from the very depths of his soul: 'See, Olga, more has come of
our good fellowship than we both could suspect an hour ago. Will you
now stand by me faithfully, and help me as much as lies in your power?'

"'I will,' said I, and felt very solemn the while.

"'I know you are no longer a child,' he went on; 'you are a sensible
and brave girl and do not swerve from anything you undertake. Will you
keep watch over her, so that she does not lose heart, even if I now go
away again in silence. Will you?'

"'I will!' I repeated.

"'And will you sometimes write to me, to tell me how she is? Whether
she is well, and of good courage? Will you?'

"'I will!' I said, for the third time.

"'Then come, give me a kiss, and let us be good friends, now and
always.' And he kissed me on my mouth....

"Five minutes later we were on our horses and riding hurriedly towards
the home farm; for it already was beginning to grow dark.

"'You stayed away a long time,' said Martha, who was standing in her
white apron on the verandah, and smiled at us from afar. When I saw
her, I felt as if I could never find enough tenderness to pour out upon
my sister. I hastened towards her and kissed her passionately, but at
the same moment I regretted it, for it appeared to me as if I were
thereby wiping his kiss from my lips.

"Embarrassed, I desisted, and slunk away. At supper I constantly hung
upon his eyes, for I thought he must make known our secret
understanding by some sign. But he did not think of any such thing.
Only when we shook hands after the meal he pressed mine in quite a
peculiar way, as he had never done before. I was as pleased as if I had
received some valuable present.

"On that evening I could hardly await the time when I might go to bed
and put out the light; then I was often wont to stare for an hour at a
time into the darkness, dreaming to myself. It was in my power to keep
awake as long as I wished, and to go to sleep as soon as I thought it
time. I had only to bury my head in the pillows and I was off. To-day I
stretched myself in my bed with a sense of well-being such as I had
never before in my life experienced. I felt as if every wish of my life
had been fulfilled. My cheeks burnt, and on my lips there still
distinctly remained the slight tingling sensation of that kiss--the
first kiss with which a man,--papa of course did not count--had kissed
me.

"And if, strictly speaking, it had been meant for some one else, what
did that matter to me? I was still so young I could not yet lay claim
to anything of the kind for my own self.

"Thereupon I once more fell into my favourite reverie as to what I
should do if I were in Martha's place. Thus I had no need to destroy
the fancies which to-day had been proved only idle chimera, but could
go on spinning them out to my heart's content, and I did spin them out,
waking and sleeping, till early morning.

"Two days later he drove off. A few hours before he took his leave, he
had a long conference with Martha in the garden. Without any feeling of
jealousy I saw them disappear together, and it afforded me unspeakable
pleasure to keep watch at the gate so that no one should surprise them.

"When they appeared again they were both silent, and looked sad and
serious.

"No, he had not declared himself; that I saw at the first glance, but
he had spoken of the future, and probably interspersed many a little
word of modest hope.

"Before he stepped into the carriage, it so happened that he was for a
few moments alone with me. Then he took my hand and whispered:

"'You will not betray one single word, will you? I can depend upon it?'

"I nodded eagerly.

"'And you will write to me soon?'

"'Certainly.'

"'Where shall I send the answer?'

"I started. I had not in the remotest degree thought of that. But as
the moment pressed, I mentioned at haphazard the name of an old
inspector who had always been specially attached to me.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Time passed. One day followed another in the old way, and yet now how
differently, how peculiarly the world had shaped itself for me.

"I no longer had any need to study love from books, and search for it
afar off; it had stepped bodily into my existence, its sweet mysteries
played around me, and I--oh, joy!---I was joining in the game. I was
entangled head over ears in the intrigue that was to lay the basis of
my sister's happiness.

"It was like a miracle to see how after each of Robert's visits she
revived and gained fresh strength and colour and health. Like an
invigorating bath those few days of their intercourse had acted upon
her, and more even than they, probably, that miraculous fountain of
hope from which she had drunk a long and furtive draught.

"Certainly the sunny cheerfulness of other days did not return to her
again, that seemed irretrievably lost in those seven years of weary
waiting; no song, no laughter ever issued from her lips, but over her
features there lay spread a soft warm glow, as if a light from within
her soul irradiated them. Nor did she any longer drag herself about the
house with lagging, weary steps, and whoever approached her was sure of
a friendly smile.

"And as her happiness must needs find vent in love, she also attached
herself more closely to me, and tried to gain an insight into my hidden
and lonely thoughts. I loved her the more dearly for it, I all the more
often invoked God's blessing upon her, but I did not give her my
confidence.

"Before she, of her own accord, opened out her whole heart to me, I
could not and would not confess how far I had already gazed into its
depths.

"Sometimes I caught myself looking across at her with a motherly
feeling--if I may call it so for since I carried on an active
correspondence with Robert, I imagined that it was I who held her
happiness in my hands.

"My vanity made of me a good genius, clad in white raiment, whose hand
bore a palm-branch, and whose smile dispensed blessings. And meanwhile
I counted the days till a letter from Robert came, and ran about with
glowing cheeks when at length I carried it near my heart.

"These letters had become such a necessity to me that I could hardy
imagine how I should ever be able to exist without them. Under pretext
of telling him all about Martha, I most cunningly understood how to
prattle away the cares that filled his heart--childishly and foolishly
(as men like to hear it from us, so that they may feel themselves our
superiors), and again at other times seriously and knowingly beyond
my years--just as I felt in the mood. He willingly submitted to my
chatter in all its different keys, as one submits to the piping of a
singing-bird, and more I did not ask. For I was already so grateful
that he allowed me--a silly young girl who had still to leave the room
when grown-up people had serious questions to discuss--to participate
in his great, grave love. All my dignity and self-consciousness were
based upon this _role_ of guardian. And thus I grew up with and by this
love, of which never a crumb might fall for me beneath the table.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"When the following autumn approached, I noticed that Martha manifested
a peculiar restlessness. She ran about her room with excited steps,
remained for half the nights at the open window, gesticulated and spoke
loudly when she thought herself alone, and was violently startled
whenever she found herself caught in the act.

"I faithfully informed Robert of what I saw, and added the question
whether he had perhaps held out any hope of his coming at this
particular time; for Martha's whole condition seemed to me to be
produced through painfully overwrought expectation.

"I had every reason to be satisfied with the shrewdness of my seventeen
years, for my observations proved correct.

"Deeply contrite, he wrote to me that he had indeed at parting
expressed a hope of being able to return with a cheerful face in the
following autumn, but that he had deceived himself, that he was more
encumbered by cares and debts than ever before, that he was working
like a common labourer, and did not see a ray of hope anywhere.

"'Then at least release her from the torture of waiting,' I wrote back
to him, 'and cautiously inform our parents how you are placed.'

"He did so; two days later already, papa, in a bad humour, brought the
letter along, which I--on account of my childish want of judgment--was
not allowed to read.

"On Martha it operated in a way which terrified and deeply moved me.
The excitement of the last weeks there and then disappeared. In its
place there showed itself again that despairing listlessness which once
before, in the days preceding Robert's coming, had worn her to a
shadow; once more she fell away; once more deep blue rings appeared
round her eyes; once more an odour of valerian proceeded from her mouth
while she often writhed in pain. Added to this was the constant desire
to weep, which at the smallest provocation, found vent in a torrent of
tears.

"This time papa did not send for a doctor. He could make the diagnosis
himself. Even mama suffered with the poor girl, as far as her
phlegmatic nature permitted, and it did not permit her to stir from her
chimney-corner to tender help to her sickening daughter. As for me, I
now for the first time found an opportunity of proving to my family
that I was no longer a child, and that even in serious matters, my will
claimed consideration. I took the burden of housekeeping upon my
shoulders, and though they all smiled and remonstrated, and though
Martha declared time after time that she would never suffer me, the
younger one, to usurp her place, I had still in a fortnight, so far
gained my point that the entire household danced to my pipe.

"That was the only time when Martha and I ever came to hard words; but
gradually she necessarily perceived that what I did was only done for
her sake, and finally she was the first to feel grateful to me. In
several other things too, she learnt to submit to me; but she sought to
deceive herself as to my influence by remarking that one must give way
to children.

"Through my intercourse with Robert, I now learnt for the first that
one may tell lies for love's sake. I concealed from him the sad effects
of his letter, yes, I even unblushingly wrote to him that everything
was as well as could be. I acted thus, because I reflected that the
truth would plunge him into a thousand new cares and anxieties, which
must absolutely crush him, as he was powerless to help. But it was very
hard for me to keep up my light chatty tone, and often some joke seemed
to freeze in my pen.

"And things grew more and more troubled. Papa was despondent because
failure of crops had destroyed his best prospects, mama grumbled
because no one came to amuse her, and Martha faded away more and more.

"Christmas drew near--such a gloomy one as our happy home had never
before witnessed.

"Round the burning Christmas tree which I had this time trimmed and
lighted in Martha's stead, we stood and did not know what to say to
each other for very heaviness of heart. And because no one else did so,
I had to assume a forced smile and attempt to scare the wrinkles from
their brows. But I got very little response indeed, and finally we
shook hands and said 'good-night,' so that each might retire to his
room, for we felt that anyhow we could not get on together.

"When I came to Martha, who sat silently in a corner, gazing vacantly
at the dying candles, a painful feeling darted through my breast, as if
I were committing some wrong towards her, which I ought to redress. But
I did not know what this wrong could be.

"She kissed me on my forehead and said: 'May God ever let you keep your
brave heart, my child; I thank you for every joke to which you forced
yourself to-day.' I, however, knew not what to reply, for that
consciousness of guilt, which I could not grasp, was gnawing at my
soul. When I was alone in my room, I thought to myself, 'There, now you
will celebrate Christmas.' I took Robert's letters out of the drawer
where I kept them carefully hidden, and determined to read at them far
into the night.

"The storm rattled my shutters, snow-flakes drifted with a soft rustle
against the window-panes, and above, there peacefully gleamed the
green-shaded hanging lamp.

"Then, as I comfortably spread out the little heap of letters in front
of me, I heard next door, in Martha's room, a dull thud and thereupon
an indistinct noise that sounded to me like praying and sobbing.

"'That is how _she_ celebrates Christmas,' I said, involuntarily
folding my hands, and again I felt that pang at my heart, as if I were
acting deceitfully and heartlessly towards my sister.

"And I brooded over it again till it became clear to me that the
letters were to blame.

"'Do I not write and keep silence all for her good?' I asked myself;
but my conscience would not be bribed; it answered: 'No.' Like flames
of fire my blood shot up into my face, for I recognised with what
pleasure my own heart hung upon those letters. 'What would she not give
for one of these papers?' I went on thinking, 'She who perhaps no
longer believes in his love, who is wrestling with the fear that he
only did not come because he meant to tear asunder the ties that bind
him to her heart.' 'And you hear her sobbing?' the voice within me
continued, 'you leave her in her anguish, and meanwhile comfort
yourself with the knowledge that you share a secret with him, with him
who belongs to her alone?'

"I clasped my hands before my face; shame so powerfully possessed me,
that I was afraid of the light which shone down upon me.

"'Give her the letters!' the voice cried suddenly, and cried so loudly
and distinctly that I thought the storm must have shouted the words in
my ears.

"Then I fought a hard battle; but each time my good intention wavered,
hard pressed by the fear of breaking my word to him, and by the wish to
remain still longer in secret correspondence with him, her sobbing and
praying reached me more distinctly and confused my senses so, that I
felt like fleeing to the ends of the earth in order to hear no more.

"And at length I had made up my mind. I carefully packed the letters
together in a neat little heap, tied them round with a silk ribbon, and
set about carrying them across to her.

"'That shall be your Christmas present,' said I, for I remembered that
this year I had not been able to embroider or crochet anything for her,
as had usually been the custom between us. And as he who gives likes to
clothe his doings in theatrical garb in order to hide his overflowing
heart, I determined first to act a little comedy with her.

"I crept, half-dressed as I was, down into the sitting-room, where our
presents were spread under the Christmas tree, groped in the dark for
her plate, gathered up what lay beside it, and on the top of all placed
the little packet of letters. Thus laden, I came to her door and
knocked.

"I heard a sound like some one dragging himself up from the floor, and
after a long while--she was probably drying her eyes first--her voice
was heard at the door, asking who was there and what was wanted of her.

"'It is I, Martha.' I said, 'I come to bring you--your plate--you left
it downstairs.'

"'Take it with you into your room, I will fetch it to-morrow,' she
replied, trying hard to suppress the sobs in her voice.

"'But something else has been added,' said I, and my words too were
almost choked with tears.

"'Then give it me to-morrow.' she replied, 'I am already undressed.'

"'But it is from me,' said I.

"And because, despite her misery, in the kindness of her heart she did
not want to hurt my feelings, she opened the door. I rushed up to her
and wept upon her neck, while I kept tight hold of the plate with my
left hand.

"'Whatever is the matter with you, child?' she asked, and patted me. 'A
little while ago you seemed the only cheerful one, and now----'

"I pulled myself together, led her under the light, and pointed to the
plate. At the first glance she recognised the handwriting, grew as
white as a sheet, and stared at me like one possessed, out of eyes that
were red with weeping.

"'Take them, take them!' said I.

"She stretched out her hand, but it shrank back as at the touch of
red-hot iron.

"'See, Martha!' said I, with the desire to revenge myself for her
silence, and at the same time to brag a little, 'you had no confidence
in me; you considered me too childish, but I saw through everything,
and while you were fretting, I was up and doing.' Still she continued
to stare at me, without power of comprehension. 'You imagine that he no
longer cares about you,' I went on, 'while all the time I have had to
give him regular account of your doings and of the state of your
health. Every week----'

"She staggered back, seized her head with both her hands, and then
suddenly a shudder seemed to pass through her frame. She stepped close
up to me, grasped my two hands, and with a peculiarly hoarse voice she
said, 'Look me in the face, Olga! Which of you two wrote the first
letter?'

"'I,' said I, astonished, for I did not yet know what she was driving
at.

"'And you--you betrayed to him the state of my feelings--you--_offered_
me, Olga?'

"'What puts such an idea into your head?' said I. 'He himself confessed
everything to me when he was here. Oh, he knew me better than you.' I
added, for I could not let this small trump slip by. 'He was not
ashamed to confide in me.'

"'Thank God!' she murmured with a deep sigh, and folded her hands.

"'But now come, Martha,' said I, leading her to the table, 'now we will
celebrate Christmas.'

"And then we read the letters together, one after the other, and from
one and all his heart, faithful and true as gold, shone forth through
the simple, awkward words, and spread a warm glow, so that our heavily
oppressed souls grew lighter and more cheerful, that we laughed and
cried with cheek pressed to cheek, and almost squeezed our hands off in
the mutual attempt to make each other feel the pressure which his warm
red fist was wont to give.

"And then suddenly--it was at one place where he specially impressed
upon me to be sure and take great care of her and watch over her and
protect her for his sake--her happiness overwhelmed her, and--I blush
to write it down--she fell on her knees before me and pressed her lips
to my hand.

"But, though I was much startled, I no longer felt anything of that
pricking and gnawing which a little while before, under the Christmas
tree, had so sorely beset my bosom. I knew that my guilt was blotted
out, and with a free light heart I vowed to myself now indeed to watch
like a guardian angel over my sister, who was so much more feeble and
in want of direction than I, the foolish and immature child. And she
felt this herself, for unresistingly she, who had hitherto treated me
as a child, submitted to my guidance.

"At last I had attained the desire of my heart. I had a human being
whom I could pet and spoil as much as I pleased; and, now that every
barrier between us had fallen, I lavished upon my sister all the
tenderness which had for so long been stored up unused within me.

"Father and mother were not a little surprised at the newly-awakened
cordiality of our relations to each other, that just latterly had left
much to be desired, and Martha herself could hardly grow accustomed to
the change. She contemplated me every day in new astonishment, and
often said, 'How could I suspect that there was so much love within
you?'

"If she could only have known what a sacrifice it cost me to divulge my
secret, she would have put a still higher value upon my love.

"Yes, I had rightly guessed how it would be: from the moment when
Martha had held the letters in her hand, the happiness of my secret
understanding with Robert was at an end for me. Like a stranger he now
appeared to me, and when I sat down to write to him I felt like a mere
machine that has to copy other people's thoughts. Often I even passed
on a letter unread to Martha as soon as I received it from the
inspector's hands. Sometimes it worried me that I had abused his
confidence to such an extent, for he suspected nothing of her
knowledge; but when I looked at her, saw her newly-awakening smile and
the quiet, dreamy happiness that shone forth from her eyes, I consoled
my conscience with the thought that I could not possibly have committed
any wrong. So far I had only become his betrayer; soon I was to betray
Martha too.

"Winter and spring passed by swiftly, and the time came for storing the
sheaves in the barns.

"As soon as the harvest was over he intended to come; but before then,
he wrote, there was many a hardship to be surmounted.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"One day papa appeared in the kitchen, where we were, with an
apparently indifferent air, snuffled about for a while among the pots
and pans, and meanwhile kept on slashing at the long leggings of his
water-boots with his riding-whip.

"'Why you have become a Paul Pry to-day, papa?' said I.

"He gave a short laugh and remarked, 'Yes, I have become a Paul Pry.'
And when he had for some time longer been running backwards and
forwards without speaking, he suddenly stopped in front of Martha and
said--

"'If you should just have time, my child, you might come into the room
for a moment. Mama and I have something to say to you.'

"'Ah, I see,' said I, 'that is the reason for this long preliminary.
May I come too?'

"'No.' he replied. 'You remain in the kitchen.'

"Martha gave me a long look, took off her apron, and went with him to
the sitting-room.

"For a while all remained quiet in there. Round about me the steam was
hissing, the pots were broiling, and one of the maids was making a
great clatter cleaning knives; but all this noise was suddenly
penetrated by a short, piercing cry which could only proceed from
Martha's lips.

"Trembling I listened, and at the same moment papa came rushing into
the kitchen, calling for 'Water!' I hurried past him, and found my
sister lying fainting on the ground with her head in mama's lap.

"'What have you been doing to Martha?' I cried, throwing myself on my
knees beside her.

"No one answered me. Mama, as helpless as a child, was wringing her
hands, and papa was chewing his moustache, to suppress his tears,
as it seemed. Then, as I bent down over the poor creature, I saw a
blue-speckled sheet of paper lying beside her on the floor, which I
immediately, and unobserved by any one, appropriated.

"Thereupon I quickly did what was most pressing: I recalled my sister
to consciousness, and led her, while she gazed about with vacant eyes,
up to her room.

"There I laid her upon her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, and from
time to time wanted to drink. Her spirit did not yet seem to have
awakened again at all.

"I meanwhile secretly drew the letter from my pocket, and read what I
here record verbally; for I have carefully preserved this monument of
motherly and sisterly affection:--


"'My beloved Brother! Dearest Sister-in-Law!--A circumstance of a very
painful nature compels me to write to you to-day. You are, I am sure,
fully convinced how much I love you, and how much my heart longs to be
in the closest possible relation to you and your children. All through
my life I have only shown you kindness and affection, and received the
same from you. Relying on this affection I to-day address a request to
you, which is prompted by the anxiety of a mother's heart. To-day my
son Robert came to us and declared that he intended asking you for your
daughter Martha's hand; begging us at the same time to give our
consent, with which, as a good son and also as a prudent man he cannot
dispense, as unfortunately he still depends, to a great extent, on our
assistance.

"'If I might have followed the bent of my heart, I would have fallen
upon his neck with tears of joy; but, unhappily, I had to keep a clear
head for my son and my husband--who are both children--and was forced
to tell him that on no account could anything come of this.

"'My dear brother, I do not wish to reproach you in any way for
not having been able to keep your affairs straight in the course of
years--far be it from me to mix myself up in matters that do not
concern me; but as these matters now stand, your estate is encumbered
with debts, and, with the exception of--as I would fain believe--an
ample 'trousseau,' your daughters would not have a farthing of dowry to
expect. On the other hand, my son Robert's estate is also heavily
embarrassed through the payments which he had to make to us and his
sisters and brothers--as well as by the mortgages which we still hold
upon it, and by the interests of which we and my other children have to
live--so that marriage with a poor girl would simply mean ruin to him.

"'I do not take into account that your daughter Martha must--according
to your letters--be a weakly and delicate creature, and therefore
appears to me utterly unfit to take cheerfully upon herself the cares
of this large household and to render my son Robert happy; the idea
that she would come into his house with empty hands is in itself
decisive for me, and suffices to convince me that she herself must
become unhappy and make him so.

"'If your daughter Martha truly loves my son Robert, it will not prove
hard for her to renounce all thoughts of a marriage with him in the
interests of his welfare, provided, of course, he should still have the
courage to propose to her in spite of his parents' opposition--although
I do not expect such filial disobedience from him, and absolutely
cannot imagine such a thing. I am convinced, my dear relations, that
your brotherly and sisterly affection will prompt you to join with me
in refusing your consent, now and for ever, to such a pernicious and
unnatural union,

                      "'Yours, with sincere love,

                                  "'Johanna Hellinger.

"'P.S.--How have your crops turned out? Winter rye with us is good, but
the potatoes show much disease.'


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Rage at this mean and hypocritical piece of writing so possessed me,
that loudly laughing, I crumpled the sheet of paper beneath my feet.

"My laughter probably hurt Martha, for it was her moaning which at
length brought me back to my senses. There she lay now, helplessly
smitten down, as if shattered by the blow which should have steeled her
strength for enhanced resistance. And as I gazed down upon her,
tortured by the consciousness of being condemned to look on idly, there
once again broke forth from my soul that sigh of former times: 'Oh,
that you were--she!' But what new meaning it concealed! What then had
been folly and childishness, had now developed into seriousness of
purpose, ready self-sacrifice, and consciousness of strength.

"I determined to act as long as ever there was time yet. First of all,
I would go to my parents, tell them what I had done, and that for a
long time already I had been initiated into everything--and finally
demand of them to assign to me at length that position in the family
council which, in spite of my youth, was due to me.

"But I rejected this idea again. As soon as I participated in the
deliberations of my family, it became my duty not to act contrary to
whatever they thought good, and only if I apparently took no heed of
anything, could I be working for the salvation of my poor sister
according to my own plans and my own judgment.

"I very soon saw how matters lay. Each one had read in the letter what
most appealed to his nature.

"Papa, quite possessed by a poor man's pride, would, after this, have
thought it a disgrace to let his child enter a family where she would
be looked at disparagingly. Mama, for her part, had been touched
by the interspersed professions of affection, and thought that her
sister-in-law's confidence ought not to be abused.

"And my sister?

"That same night, as I kept watch at her bedside, I felt her place her
hot hand upon mine and draw me gently towards her with her feeble arm.

"'I have something to say to you, Olga,' she whispered, still looking
up at the ceiling with her sad eyes.

"'Had we not better leave it till to-morrow?' I suggested.

"'No,' she said, 'else meanwhile that will happen which must not
happen. Henceforth all is over between him and me.'

"'You little know him,' said I.

"'But I know myself,' said she. 'I break it off.'

"'Martha!' I cried, horrified.

"'I know very well,' she said, 'that I shall die of it, but what does
that matter? I am of very little account. It is better so, than that I
should make him unhappy.'

"'You are talking in a fever, Martha,' I cried, 'for I do not think you
silly enough to let yourself be baited by the trash of that old hag.'

"'I feel only too well that she speaks the truth,' said she. A cold
shudder passed through me when I heard her pronounce these despairing
and hopeless words as calmly and composedly as if they were a formula
of the multiplication table. 'Do not gainsay me.' she continued; 'not
only since to-day do I know this--I have always felt something of the
kind, and ought by rights not to have been startled to-day; but it
certainly does upset one, when one so unexpectedly sees in writing
before one's eyes the death sentence which hitherto one has scarcely
dared to suggest to one's own conscience.'

"As eloquently as I possibly could, I remonstrated with her. I
consigned our aunt to the blackest depths of hell, and proved to a
nicety that she (Martha) alone was born to become the good angel in
Robert's house. But it was no good, her faith in herself would not be
revived; the blow had fallen upon her too heavily. And finally she
expected it of me to write no further letter to him, and to break off
our intercourse once and for all. I was alarmed to the depths of my
soul, no less for my own than for her sake. I refused, too, with all
the energy of which I was capable; but she persisted in her
determination, and as she even threatened to betray our correspondence
to our parents, I was at length forced to comply, whether I would or
no.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Troubled days were in store. Martha slunk about the house like
a ghost. Papa rode like wild through the woods, stayed away at
meal-times, and had not a good word for any of us. Mama, our good, fat
mama, sat knitting in her corner, and from time to time wiped the tears
out of her eyes, while she looked round anxiously, lest any one should
notice it. Yes, it was a sad time!

"Two urgent letters from Robert had arrived. He wrote that he was in
great trouble, and I was to send him tidings forthwith. I told Martha
nothing of them, but I kept my promise.

"A week had passed by, when I noticed that our parents were discussing
what answer they would send to aunt. In order to exclude any suspicion
of sneaking into a marriage, papa had the intention of binding himself
by a final promise, and mama said 'yes,' as she said yes to everything
that did not concern jellies and sweets.

"The same day Martha declared that she felt unfit to leave her
bed--that she had no pain, but that her limbs would not carry her.

"Thus I saw misfortune gathering more and more darkly. I dared not
hesitate any longer.

"'Come! Redeem your promise before it is too late.' These words I wrote
to him. And to be quite sure, I myself ran down into the town, and
handed the letter to the postillion who was just preparing to start for
Prussia.

"At the moment when the envelope left my hands, I felt a pang at my
heart as if I had thereby surrendered by soul to strange powers.

"Three times I was on the point of returning to ask my letter back, but
when I did so in good earnest the postillion was already far away.

"When I climbed up the <DW72> leading to the manor house I hid myself in
the bushes and wept bitterly.

"From that hour an agitation possessed me, such as I had never before
in my life experienced. I felt as if fever were burning in my limbs--at
nights I ran about my room restlessly, all day long I was on the
look-out, and every approaching carriage drove all the blood to my
heart.

"I gave wrong answers to every question, and the very maids in the
kitchen began to shake their heads doubtfully. A bride who is expecting
her bridegroom could not behave more crazily.

"This state of things lasted for four days, and it was lucky for me
that each member of the family was so engrossed with himself, else
suspicion and cross-examination could not have been spared me.

"This time I did not receive him. When I recognised his figure in the
strange, four-horse carriage which, all besplashed with mud, tore
through the courtyard gate, I ran up to the attic and hid in the most
remote corner.

"My face was aglow, my limbs trembled, and before my eyes fiery-red
mists were dancing.

"Downstairs I heard doors banging, heard hurried steps lumber up and
down the stairs, heard the servants' voices calling my name--I did not
stir.

"And when all had become quiet, I stole cautiously down the back
staircase, out into the park, in the wildest wilderness of which I
crouched down. A peculiar feeling of bitterness and shame agitated me.
I felt as if I must take to flight, only never again to have to face
that pair of eyes for whose coming I yet had so longingly waited. And
then I pictured to myself what, during these moments, was most probably
taking place in the house. Papa was sure to have been somewhat helpless
at sight of him, for he certainly still felt the effects of that wicked
letter; he was sure also to have resisted a little when he heard him
utter his proposal; but then Martha had appeared--how quickly she has
found her strength again, poor ailing creature, who but a few moments
ago lay tired to death on the sofa, how quickly she will have forgotten
everything that the years have brought of sorrow and sadness--and now
they will lie in each other's embrace and not remember me.

"And then suddenly a dark feeling of defiance awoke within me. 'Why do
you hide away?' cried a voice. 'Have you not done your duty? Is not all
this your work?'

"With a sudden jerk I raised myself up, smoothed back my tumbled hair
from my forehead, and with firm tread and set lips I walked towards the
house. No sound of rejoicing greeted my ears. All was quiet--quiet as
the grave. In the dining-room I found mama alone. She had folded her
hands and was heaving deep sighs, while great tears rolled down as far
as her white double chin.

"'That is the result of her emotion.' thought I to myself, and sat down
facing her.

"'Wherever have you been hiding, Olga?' she said, this time drying her
eyes quite leisurely. 'You must have a few young fowls killed for
supper, and set the good Moselle in a cold place. Cousin Robert has
come.'

"'Ah, indeed,' said I, very calmly, 'where may he be?'

"'He is speaking to papa in his study.'

"'And where is Martha?' I asked, smiling.

"She gave me a disapproving look for my precociousness, and then said,
'She is in there, too.'

"'Then I suppose I can go at once and offer my congratulations; I
remarked.

"'Saucy girl,' said she.

"But before I could carry out my purpose the door of the adjoining room
opened and in walked slowly, as slowly as if he came from a sepulchre,
Robert--Cousin Robert, with ashy pale face and great drops of
perspiration on his brow. I felt how, at sight of him, all my blood,
too, left my face. A presentiment of evil awoke within me.

"'Where is Martha?' I cried, hastening towards him.

"'I do not know.' He spoke as if every word choked him. He did not even
shake hands.

"And then papa came too, after him.

"Mama had got up and all three stood there and silently shook hands
like at a funeral.

"'Where is Martha?' I cried once more.

"'Go and look after her,' said papa, 'she will want you.'

"I rushed out, up the stairs to her room. It was locked.

"'Martha, open the door! It is I.'

"Nothing stirred.

"I begged, I implored, I promised to make everything right again. I
lavished endearing epithets upon her--that, too, was in vain. Nothing
was audible except from time to time a deep breath which sounded like a
gasp from a half-throttled throat.

"Then rage seized me, that I should be everywhere repulsed.

"'I suppose I am just good enough to prepare the mourning repast.' I
said, laughing out loud, ran to the maids and had six young chickens
killed and even stood by calmly while the poor little creatures' blood
squirted out of their necks.

"One of them, a young cockerel, quite desperately beat its wings and
crowed for very terror of death, while it thrust its spurs at the
maid's fingers.

"'Even a poor, weak animal like this resists when one tries to kill
it,' I thought to myself, 'but my lady sister humbly kisses the hand
that wields the knife against her.'

"The death of these innocent beings might almost be called gay in
comparison with the meal for which they served. No condemned criminal's
last meal could pass more dismally. Every five minutes some one
suddenly began to talk, and then talked as if paid for it. The others
nodded knowingly, but I could very well see: whoever heard did not know
what he heard, whoever talked did not know what he was talking about.

"Martha had not put in an appearance. When we were about to separate,
each one to go to his room, Robert seized both my hands and drew me
into a corner.

"'My thanks to you, Olga,' he said, while his lips twitched, 'for
having so faithfully taken my part. Now we will mark a long pause at
the end of our letters.'

"'For heaven's sake, Robert,' I stammered, 'however did this come
about?'

"He shrugged his shoulders. 'I suppose I kept her waiting too long,' he
then said; 'she has grown tired of me.'

"I was about to cry out: 'That is not true--that is not true! 'but
behind us stood my father and informed him that, according to his wish,
the conveyance would be ready at daybreak.

"'Then I am not to see you any more?' I cried, alarmed.

"He shook his head. 'We had better bid each other good-bye now,' he
said, and squeezed my hand.

"Within me a voice cried that he must not depart thus, that I must
speak to him at any price. But I bravely suppressed the words that were
nearly choking me. And so we once more shook hands and separated.

"I had several things to do yet in the house, and while I put out some
coffee and weighed out flour and bacon for next morning's meal, the
words were constantly in my ears: 'You must speak to him.'

"Then, as I went, with my candle in my hand, up to my room, I made a
detour past his door, for I hoped I might perhaps meet him on the
landing; but that was empty, and his door was closed. Only the sound of
his heavy footsteps inside the room was audible throughout the house.

"In Martha's room it was as silent as death. I put my ear to the
keyhole; nothing was audible. She might as well have been dead or
flown.

"Terror seized me. I knelt down in front of the keyhole, begged and
implored, and finally threatened to fetch our parents if she still
persisted in giving no sign of life.

"Then at length she vouchsafed me an answer. I heard a voice: 'Spare
me, child, just for to-day spare me!' And this voice sounded so strange
that I hardly recognised it.

"I went on my way now, but my fear increased lest he might set forth
with anger and disappointment in his heart, without a word of
explanation, without ever having suspected the greatness of Martha's
love.

"A very fever burnt within my brain, and every pulsation of my veins
cried out to me: 'You must speak to him--you must speak to him!'

"I half undressed and threw myself on the sofa. The clock struck
eleven--it struck half-past eleven. Still his footsteps resounded
through the house. But the later it was, the more did it grow
impossible for me to carry out my resolve.

"What if a servant should spy upon me--should see me stealing into our
guest's room! My heart stood still at the thought.

"The clock struck twelve. I opened the window and looked out upon the
world. Everything seemed asleep, even from Robert's and Martha's rooms
no light shone forth. Both were burying their sorrow and anguish in the
lap of darkness.

"With the night wind that beat against the casement, the words droned
in my ears: 'You must--you must!' And like a soft sweet melody it
coaxed and cajoled at intervals: 'Thus you will see him again--will
feel his hand in yours--will hear his voice--perhaps even his laugh; do
you not want to bring him happiness--the happiness of his life?'

"With a sudden impulse I shut the casement, wrapped myself in my
dressing-gown, took my slippers in my hand and stole out into the dark
corridor.

"Ah, how my heart beat, how my blood coursed through my temples! I
staggered--I was obliged to support myself by the walls.

"Now I stood outside his door. Even yet his footsteps shook the boards.
But the noise of his heavy tread had ceased. He had evidently divested
himself of his boots.

"'You must not knock!' it struck me suddenly, 'that would not escape
Martha.'

"My hand grasped the door-handle. I shuddered. I do not know how I
opened the door. I felt as if some one else had done it for me.

"Before me the outline of his mighty figure----.

"A low cry from his lips--a bound towards me. Then I felt both my hands
clutched--felt a hot wave of breath near my forehead.

"At the first moment the mad idea may have darted through his brain,
that Martha had in such impetuous manner bethought herself of her old
love--in the next he had already recognised me.

"'For Heaven's sake, child,' he cried, 'whatever has possessed you?
What brings you to me? Has no one possibly seen you, say--has no one
seen you?'

"I shook my head. He still evidently thinks you very stupid, I thought
to myself, and drew a deep breath, for I felt the terrors of my venture
were disappearing from my soul.

"He set me free and hastened to make a light. I groped my way to the
sofa, and dropped down in a corner.

"The light of the candle flared up--it dazzled me. I turned towards the
wall and covered my face. A feeling of weakness, a longing to cling to
something, had come over me. I was so glad to be with him, that I
forgot all else.

"'Olga, my dear, good child,' he urged, 'speak out, tell me what you
want of me?'

"I looked up at him. I saw his swarthy, serious face, in which the
day's trouble had graven deep furrows, and became lost in its
contemplation.

"'What do you want? Do you bring me news of Martha?'

"'Yes, of course, Martha!' I pulled myself together. Away with this
sentimental self-abandon! In my limbs I once more felt the firm
strength of which I was so proud. 'Listen, Robert,' said I, 'you will
not set out at daybreak already.'

'Why should I not do so?' said he, setting his lips.

"'Because I do not wish it!'

"'All due respect to your wishes, my dear child!' replied he, with a
bitter laugh, 'but they alter nothing in my resolve.'

"'So you want to lose Martha for ever?'

"Now I felt myself once more so strong and joyous in my _role_ of
guardian, that I would have taken up fight with the whole world to
bring these two together. Foolish, unsuspecting creature that I was!

"'Have I not already lost her?' he replied, and stared into vacancy.

"'What did she say to you to-day?'

"'Why should I repeat it? She spoke very wisely and very staidly, as
one can only speak if one has ceased to love a person.'

"'And you really believe that?' I asked.

"'Must I not believe it? And after all, what does it signify? Even if
she had retained a remnant of her affection for me, she did well to get
rid of it thoroughly on this occasion; it is better thus, for her as
well as for me. I have nothing to offer her; no happiness, no joy,
not even some little paltry pleasure, nothing but work, and trouble,
and anxiety--from year's end to year's end. And added to that, a
mother-in-law who is hostile to her, who would make her feel it keenly,
that she had come with empty hands.'

"I felt how my blood rushed to my face. I was ashamed, but not for
Martha or myself--for I was of course just as poor as she; no, for him,
that he should have to speak thus of his own mother.

"'And now say yourself, my girl,' he went on, 'is she not wiser, with
such prospects before her, to remain in the shelter of her warm nest,
and to send me about my business, as I could never give her anything
but unhappiness?'

"He dishevelled his hair and ran about the room the while like a hunted
animal.

"'Robert,' said I, 'you are deceiving yourself.'

"He stopped, looked at me and laughed out loud: 'What is it you want of
me? Am I perhaps to demand a written confirmation of her refusal,
before I betake myself off?'

"'Robert,' I continued, without allowing myself to be put out, 'tell me
candidly whether you love her?'

"'Child,' he replied, 'should I be here if I did not love her?'

"With his huge arms outspread he stood before me. I felt as if I must
be crushed between them if they closed around me--everything danced
before my eyes--I squeezed myself further into my corner. And then
there came into my thoughts what I had pictured to myself now and for
years before; how I would love him if I were Martha, and how I should
want him to love me in return.

"'See, Robert.' I said, 'taking me altogether, I am a foolish creature.
But as regards love, I do know about that, not only through the poets;
I have felt it in myself for a long time.'

"'Do you love some one then?' he asked.

"I blushed and shook my head.

"'How else can you feel it within you?' he went on.

"'It came as an inspiration from Heaven,' I replied, lowering my gaze to
the ground, 'but I know I would not love like you two. I would not be
downcast, I would not steal away as you are doing and say: "It is
better so!" I would compel her with the ardour of my soul; I would
conquer her with the strength of my arms; I would clasp her to my
breast and carry her away with me, no matter whither! Out into the
night, into the desert, if no sun would shine upon us, no house give us
shelter. I would starve with her at the roadside, rather than give fair
words to the world--the world that sought to separate me from her.
Thus, Robert, I would act if I were you; and if I were she, I would
laughingly throw myself upon your breast, and would say to you: "Come,
I will go a-begging for you if you have no bread, my lap shall be your
resting-place if you have no bed, your wounds I will heal with my
tears--I will suffer a thousand deaths for your sake, and thank God
that it is vouchsafed to me to do so." You see, Robert, that is how I
imagine love, and not pasted together out of fear of mothers-in-law and
unpaid interests.'

"I had talked myself into a passion. I felt how my cheeks were a-glow,
and then suddenly shame overwhelmed me at the thought that I had thus
laid bare to him my innermost being. I pressed my hands to my face, and
struggled with my tears.

"When I dared to look up again, he was standing before me with
glistening eyes and staring at me.

"'Child,' he said, 'where in all the world did you get that from? Why
it sounded like the Song of Songs.'

"I set my teeth and was silent. I did not know myself how it had come
to me.

"He then seated himself at my side and seized both my hands.

"'Olga.' he went on, 'what you just said was not exactly practical, but
it was beautiful and true, and has stirred up the very depths of my
soul. It seemed to me as if I were listening to a voice from some other
world, and I am almost ashamed of having been faint-hearted and
cowardly. But even if I braced myself up and thought as you do: what
good would it all be, seeing that she no longer cares for me?'

"'She not care for you?' I cried, 'she will die of it, if you leave
her, Robert!'

"'Olga!'

"I saw how a joyful doubt illumined his countenance, and I felt as if a
strange hand were gripping at my throat; but I would not let myself be
deterred from my purpose, and gathering together all my defiance, I
continued: 'I know, Robert, that you will despise me when you have
heard what I am about to tell you; but I must do it, so that you may
understand that you _cannot_ depart. I have played a false game towards
you, Robert, I have betrayed your confidence.'

"And with bated breath, gasping forth the words, I told him what I had
done with his letters.

"I had not nearly finished when I suddenly felt myself seized in his
arms and clasped to his breast.

"'Olga, and this is true?' he cried, quite beside himself with joy,
'can you swear to me that it is the truth?'

"I nodded affirmatively, for the tremor that ran deliciously through my
veins had robbed me of speech.

"'God bless you for this, you wise, brave girl,' he cried, and pressed
me so firmly to his breast that I could hardly draw my breath. I let my
head drop upon his shoulder and closed my eyes. And then I started as I
felt his lips upon mine. It seemed to me as if a flame had touched me.
And again and again he kissed me, quite senseless with gratitude and
happiness.

"I kept thinking: 'Oh, that this moment might never end!' And tremor
upon tremor shook my frame; quite limp I hung in his arms. Only once
the idea darted through my mind: 'May you return his kisses?' But I did
not dare to do so.

"How long he held me thus I do not know, I only felt my head suddenly
fall heavily against the sofa-ledge. Then the pain awakened me as from
a deep, deep dream.

"I lay there motionless and gasped for breath. He noticed it and cried
in alarm, 'You are growing quite pale, child; have you hurt yourself?'

"I nodded, and remarked that it was nothing, and would soon pass over.
Ah! I knew too well that it would not pass over, that it would be
graven in flaming letters upon my heart and upon my senses, that on
many a long, cold, winter's night I should I find warmth in the glow of
this moment, in this glow which was only the reflection of love for
another.

"I knew all that, and felt as if I must succumb beneath the weight of
this consciousness, but I braced myself up, for I had sufficiently
learnt to keep myself under control.

"'Robert,' said I, 'I want to give you a piece of advice, and then let
me go, for I am tired!'

"'Speak, speak!' he cried, 'I will blindly do whatever you wish.'

"Then, as I looked at him, it made me sigh with mingled pain and bliss,
for the thought kept coming to me: 'He has held you in his arms.' I
should have liked best of all to sink back once more with closed eyes
into the sofa-corner, and simulate fainting a little longer, but I
pulled myself together and said: 'I am pretty certain that Martha will
not close her eyes to-night, but be on the watch to see you go. She
will want to look after you; and as her room lies towards the garden
she will either go into yours or the one adjoining. When you get
downstairs wait a little while, and then do as if you had forgotten
something, and then--and then----' I could not go on, for all too
mighty within me was the sobbing and rejoicing: 'He has held you in his
arms.'

"I feared that I should no longer be able to master my
excitement--without a word of farewell I turned to take to flight
precipitately. When I opened the door--Martha stood before me. She
stood there, barefooted, half-dressed, as pale as death, and trembling.
She was unable to stir; her strength probably failed her.

"And at the same moment I heard behind me a glad cry, saw him rush past
me and clasp her tottering form in his arms.

"'Thank God, now I have you!' That was the last I heard; then I fled to
my room as if pursued by furies, locked and bolted everything, and
wept, wept bitterly.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Over the days that now followed, with their crushing blows of fate,
with their lingering sorrow, I will pass with rapid stride. In them I
became matured: I became a woman.

"Eight months after that night papa was carried home on a waggon-rack.
He had fallen from his horse and sustained grave internal injuries.
Three days later he died. In the misery that now beset the household, I
was the only one who kept a clear head. Martha broke down feebly, and
mama--oh, our poor dear mama! She had been sitting for so many years
comfortably and placidly in the chimney-corner, knitting stockings and
chewing fruit-jujubes the while, that she would not and could not
realise that it must be different now. She spoke not a single word, she
hardly shed a tear, but internally the sore spread, and even had the
brain fever, which attacked her four weeks later, spared her, her
sorrow would still have broken her heart.

"There, now, those two lay in the churchyard, and we two orphans were
left helpless in our desolate home, and waited for the time when we
should be driven forth. I, for my part, knew which way my path lay, and
knew that the future would have nothing to offer me but the hard bread
of service; I did not despair and did not quarrel with my fate. I knew
that I possessed sufficient strength and pride to hold my own even
among strangers, but it was for Martha--who now less than ever could
dispense with love and consolation--that I trembled.

"Her marriage still lay in the far distance; Robert must not let her
wait much longer or she might easily waste away in her misery and one
morning silently die out like a little lamp in which the oil is
consumed.

"I was not deceived in him. To the funerals he had not been able to
come; but his words of consolation had been there at all times, and had
helped Martha over the most trying hours. For me, too, there was
sometimes a crumb of comfort, and I eagerly seized upon it like one
starving.

"One day he himself arrived. 'Now I have come to fetch you home,' he
cried out to Martha. She sank upon his breast and there wept her fill.
The happy creature! I meanwhile crept away into the darkest arbour, and
wondered whether my heart would ever find a home prepared for it, where
it might take refuge in hours of trouble or hours of happiness! I
very well felt that these were idle dreams, for the only place in the
world--in short, a feeling of defiance awoke within me, of bitterness
so great, so galling to my whole nature, that I harshly and gloomily
fled my dear ones' embrace, and grew cold and reserved in solitary
sadness.

"I was to go with them, was to share the remnant of happiness that
still remained for them, and to make a permanent home for myself at my
brother-in-law's hearth; but coldly and obstinately I repudiated his
offer.

"In vain both of them strove to solve the riddle of my behaviour, and
Martha, who fretted because none of her happiness was to fall to my
share, often came at nights to my bedside and wept upon my neck. Then I
felt ashamed of my hard disposition, spoke to her caressingly as to a
child, and did not allow her to leave me till a smile of hope broke
through her trouble.

"For a week Robert worked hard in every direction to dispose of our
belongings and find purchasers for them. Very little remained over for
us; but then we did not require anything.

"Then, quite quietly, the wedding took place. I and the old
head-inspector were the witnesses, and instead of a wedding breakfast
we went out to the churchyard and bade farewell to the newly-made
graves, whose yellow sand the ivy was beginning to cover scantily with
thin trails.

"During the last weeks I had been looking out for a suitable situation.
I had received several offers; I had only to choose. And when Robert,
with grave and solemn looks, placed himself in front of me and
solicitously asked, 'What is to become of you now, child?' with a calm
smile I disclosed to him my plans for the future, so that he clapped
his hands in admiration and cried 'Upon my word I envy you; you
understand how to make your way.'

"And Martha too envied me, that I could see by the sad looks which she
fastened on me and Robert. She herself wished that she might once more
have all my unbroken, youthful strength to lay it upon his altar of
sacrifice. I kissed her and told her to keep up her spirits, and her
eyes with which she looked imploringly up at Robert said: 'I give you
all that I am; forgive me that it is not more.'

"Next morning we set forth; the young couple to their new home--I to go
among strangers.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Of the next three years I will say nothing at all. What I suffered
during that time in the way of mortification and humiliation is graven
with indelible lines upon my soul; it has finally achieved the
hardening of my disposition, and made me cold and suspicious towards
every living human being. I have learnt to despise their hatred and
still more their love. I have learnt to smile when anguish was tearing
with iron grip at my soul. I have learnt to carry my head erect, when I
could have hidden it in the dust for very shame.

"The leaden heaviness of dreary, loveless days, the terrible weight of
darkness in sleepless nights, the loathsome dissonance of lascivious
flattery, the endless, oppressive silence of strangers' jealousy--with
all these I became familiar.

"It was indeed a hard crust of bread that I ate among strangers, and
often enough I moistened it with my tears.

"The only comfort, the only pleasure that remained to me, were Martha's
letters. She wrote often, at times even daily, and generally there was
a postscript in Robert's scrawling, awkward handwriting. Oh, how I
pounced upon it! How I devoured the words! Thus I lived through their
whole life with them. It was not cheerful--no, indeed not! But still it
was life! Often the waves of trouble closed over them; then both of
them, strong Robert and weak Martha, were defenceless and helpless like
two children, and I had to intervene and tender advice and
encouragement.

"Finally, I had become so well acquainted with their household that I
could have recognised the voice and face of each of their servants, of
every one of their friends and acquaintances.

"Aunt Hellinger I hated with my most ardent hatred, the old physician I
loved with my most ardent love, the insipid set of Philistines who had
such a spiteful way of looking at everything, and so exactly reckoned
out on their fingers the progress of decay on Robert's estate, I held
in iciest contempt. 'Oh that I were in her place!' I often muttered
between my set teeth, when Martha plaintively described the little
trials of their social intercourse, 'how I would send them about their
business, these cold, haughty shopkeepers! how they should crawl in the
dust before me, subdued by my scorn and mockery!'

"But her little joys I also shared with her. I saw her ordering and
disposing as mistress in and out of the house, saw the little band of
willing servants around her, and wished I could have been still gentler
and more helpful than she--this angel in human shape. I saw her seated
on the sunny balcony, bending over her needlework. I saw her taking her
afternoon rest under the great branches of the limes in the garden. I
saw her, as she sat waiting for his appearance, dreamily gazing out
upon the whirling snow-flakes, when, outside, his deep voice resounded
across the courtyard, and inside, the coffee-machine was cosily
humming.

"Thus I lived their life with them, while for me one lonely and joyless
day joined on to the next like the iron links of an endless chain.

"It was in the third year that Martha confessed to me that Robert's
ardent wish and her own silent prayer was to be fulfilled--that she was
to become a mother. But at the same time her terror grew, lest her
weak, frail body should not be equal to the trial which was in store
for her. I hoped and feared with her, and perhaps more than she, for
loneliness and distance distorted the visions of my imagination. Many a
night I woke up bathed in tears; for in my dreams I had already seen
her as a corpse before me. A memory of my earliest girlhood returned to
me, when I had found her one day, rigid and pale, like one dead, upon
the sofa.

"This vision did not leave me. The nearer the decisive term approached,
the more was I consumed with anxiety. I began to suffer bodily from the
misgivings of my brain, and the strangers among whom I dwelt--I will
not mention them by name, for they are not worth naming in these
pages--grew to be mere phantoms for me.

"Martha's last letters sounded proud and full of joyful hope. Her fear
seemed to have disappeared; she already revelled in the delights of
approaching maternity.

"Then followed three days in which I remained without news, three days
of feverish anxiety, and then at length came a telegram from my
brother-in-law--'Martha safely delivered of a boy, wants you. Come
quickly.'

"With the telegram in my hand, I hastened to my mistress and asked for
the necessary leave of absence. It was refused me. I, in wildly aroused
fury, flung my notice to quit in her face, and demanded my freedom
instantly.

"They tried to find excuses, said I could not be spared just then, that
I must at least make up my accounts, and formally hand over my
management; the long and the short of it was, that by means of
despicable pretexts they delayed me for two days, as if to make the
dependant, who had always behaved so proudly, feel once more to the
full the degradation of her humble position.

"Then came a night full of dull stupefaction in the midst of the
sense-confusing noise of a railway carriage, a morning of shivering
expectation spent amidst trunks and hat-boxes in a dreary waiting-room,
where the smell of beer turned one faint. Then a further six hours,
jammed in between a commercial traveller and a Polish Jew, in the
stuffy cushions of a postchaise, and at last--at last in the red glow
of the clear autumn evening, the towers of the little town appeared in
view, near the walls of which those dearest to me--the only dear ones I
possessed in the world--had built their nest.

"The sun was setting when I alighted from the postchaise, between the
wheels of which dead leaves were whirling about in little circles.

"With fast beating heart I looked about me. I thought I saw Robert's
giant figure coming towards me; but only a few stray idlers were
loafing around, and gaped at my strange apparition. I asked the
conductor the way, and, relying for the rest upon Martha's description,
I set forth alone on my search.

"In front of the low shop doors, groups were standing gossiping, and
people out for a walk sauntered leisurely towards me. At my approach
they stopped short, staring at me like at some wonderful bird; and when
I had passed, low whispers and giggles sounded behind me. A horror
seized me at this miserable Philistinism.

"Not until I saw the town gate with its towerlike walls rise up before
me, did my mind grow easier. I knew it quite well. Martha in her
letters was wont to call it the 'Gate of Hell,' for through it she had
to pass when an invitation from her I mother-in-law summoned her into
the town.

"As I walked through the dark vaulting, I suddenly saw on the other
side of the archway, framed as it were in a black frame, the 'Manor'
before my eyes.

"It lay hardly a thousand paces away from me. The white walls of the
manor house gleamed across waving bushes, flooded by the purple rays of
the setting sun. The zinc-covered roof glistened as if a cascade of
foaming water were gliding down over it. From the windows flames seemed
to be bursting, and a storm-cloud hung like a canopy of black curdling
smoke over the coping.

"I pressed my hands to my heart; its beating almost took my breath, so
deeply did the sight affect me. For a moment I had a feeling as if I
must turn back there and then, and hasten away precipitately from this
place, never stopping or staying till the distance gave me shelter.
All my anxiety for Martha was swallowed up in this mysterious fear,
which almost strangled me. I rebuked myself for being foolish and
cowardly, and, gathering together all my strength, I proceeded along
the country road in which half-dried-up puddles gleamed like mirrors in
the cart-ruts. Through the crests of the poplars above me there passed
a hoarse rustling, which accompanied me till I reached the courtyard
gate. Just as I entered it, the last sunbeam disappeared behind the
walls of the manor and the darkness of the mighty lime trees, which
spread from the park across the path, so suddenly enveloped me that I
thought night had come on.

"To the right and left tumble-down brickwork, overgrown with
half-withered celandine, jutted out above ragged thorn-bushes--the
remains of the old castle, upon the ruins of which the manor house had
been erected. An atmosphere of death and decay seemed to lie over it
all.

"I spied fearfully across the vast courtyard, which the dusk of evening
was beginning to cloak in blue mists. At every sound I started; I felt
as if Robert's mighty voice must shout a welcome to me. The courtyard
was empty, the silence of the vesper hour rested upon it. Only from one
of the stable-doors there came the peculiar hissing sound which the
sharpening of a scythe produces. A scent of new-mown hay filled the air
with its peculiarly sweet, pungent aroma.

"Slowly and timidly, like an intruder, I crept along the garden
railings towards the manor house, that seemed to look down upon
me grimly and forbiddingly, with its granite pillars and its
weather-beaten turrets and gables. Here and there the stucco had
crumbled away, and the blackish bricks of the wall appeared beneath it.
It looked as if time, like a long illness, had covered this venerable
body with scars. The front door stood ajar. A large dark hall opened
before me, from which a peculiar odour of fresh chalk and damp fungi
streamed towards me--through small  glass windows, placed like
glowing nests close under the ceiling and all covered with cobwebs, a
dim twilight penetrated this space, hardly sufficient to bring into
light the immense cupboards ranged along the walls. A brighter gleam
fell upon a broad flight of stairs worn hollow, the steps of which
rested upon stone pilasters. High vaulted oaken doors led to the inner
apartments, but I did not venture to approach one of them. They seemed
to me like prison gates. I was still standing there, timidly trying to
find my way, when the front door was torn open and through the wide
aperture two great yellow-spotted hounds rushed upon me.

"I uttered a cry. The monsters jumped up at me, snuffed at my clothes,
and then raced back to the door, barking and yelling.

"'Who is there?' cried a voice, whose deep-sounding modulations I had
so often fancied I heard in waking and dreaming. The aperture was
darkened. There he stood.

"Red mists seemed to roll before my eyes. I felt as if my feet were
rooted to the ground. Breathing heavily, I leant against the stair
column.

"'Who the deuce is there?' he cried once more, while he vainly tried to
pierce the darkness with his eyes.

"I gathered up all my defiance. Calmly and proudly, as I had bid him
farewell years before, would I meet him again to-day. What need for him
to know how much I had suffered since then!

"'Olga--really--Olga--is it you?' The suppressed delight that
penetrated through his words gave me a warm thrill of pleasure. I felt
for a moment as if I must throw myself upon his breast and weep out my
heart there, but I kept my composure.

"'Were you not expecting me?' I asked, mechanically stretching out my
hand to him.

"Oh, yes--of course--we have been expecting you every hour for the last
two days--that is, we began to think----"

"He had clasped my hand in both his, and was trying to look into my
face. A peculiar mixture of cordiality and awkwardness lay in his
manner. It seemed as if he were vainly trying to discover traces of his
former good friend in me.

"'How is Martha?' I asked.

"'You will see for yourself.' he replied. 'I do not understand these
things. To me she appears so weak and so fragile that I tell myself it
will be a miracle if she survives it. But the doctor says she is
getting on well, and I suppose he must know best.'

"'And the child?' I asked further.

"A low, suppressed laugh sounded down to me through the semi-obscurity.

"'The child--h'm--the child----' and instead of completing his
sentence, he gave the dogs a kick, which sent them tearing out of the
house forthwith.

"'Come,' he then said, 'I will show you the way.'

"We went upstairs, silently, without looking at each other.

"'You have grown a stranger to him!' I thought to myself, and terror
arose within me, as if I had lost some long-cherished happiness.

"'Wait a moment,' he said, pointing to one of the nearest doors. 'I
should like to say a word to her to prepare her; the excitement, else,
might hurt her.'

"Next moment I stood alone in a dark, high-vaulted corridor, at the
further end of which the rays of the departing day shone in dark
glowing flames, and cast a long streak of light upon the shining flags
of the flooring. Undefined sounds, like the singing of a child's voice,
floated past my ears, when the draught caught in the arches.

"A low cry of joy, which penetrated to me through the door, made me
start up. My blood welled hotly to my heart: I felt as if its rushing
must choke me. Then the door opened, Robert's hand groped for me in the
darkness. Quite dazed, I allowed myself to be pulled forward, and only
recovered myself when I had dropped on my knees at a bedside, burying
my face in the pillows, while a moist, hot hand lovingly stroked my
head. A feeling of homeliness, soft and soothing, such as I had not
known for years, cajoled my senses. I feared to raise my eyes, for I
thought it must all be lost to me again if I did.

"Like a blessing from above the hand rested upon my head. Supreme
gratitude filled my breast. I seized the hand which trembled in mine
and pressed my lips upon it long and passionately.

"'What are you doing there, sister--what are you doing?' I heard her
tired, slightly veiled voice.

"I raised myself up. There she lay before me, pale and thin-faced, with
dark hollows round her eyes, in which tears were glistening. Like a
flake of snow she lay there, so delicate and so white; blue, swollen
veins were traceable on her wan neck, and on her forehead, which seemed
to shine as with a light from within, there stood beads of
perspiration. She was aged and worn since I had last seen her, and it
did not seem as if the crisis of the birth alone had acted
destructively upon her. But her smile remained the same as of old, that
loving, comforting, blessing-dispensing smile, with which she helped
every one, even though she herself might be utterly helpless.

"'And now you will not go away again,' she said, looking at me as if
she could never gaze her fill; 'you will stay with us--for always.
Promise it me--promise it me now at once!'

"I was silent. Happiness had come upon me, burning like a fire from
heaven. It tortured me, it hurt me.

"'Do help me to entreat her, Robert.' she began anew.

"I started. I had entirely forgotten him, and now his presence acted
upon me like a reproach.

"'Give me time to consider it--till to-morrow.' I said, raising
myself up. A dark presentiment awoke within me that here would be no
abiding-place for me for long. Such happiness would have been too great
for me, unhappy being, whom fate mercilessly drove among strangers.

"I saw that Martha was anxious to spare my feelings.

"'Till to-morrow, then.' she said softly, and squeezed my hand; 'and
to-morrow you will have found out how necessary you are to us, and that
we should be crazy if we let you go away again; isn't it so, Robert?'

"'Of course--why, of course!' he said, and with that burst into a laugh
which sounded to me strangely forced. He evidently did not feel
comfortable in the presence of us two. And soon after he took up his
cap and showed signs of going off quietly.

"'Won't you show her our child?' whispered Martha, and a smile of
unutterable bliss spread over her wasted features.

"'Come.' he said, 'it sleeps in the next room.'

"He preceded me. With difficulty he pushed his huge figure through the
half-open door.

"There stood the cradle, lit up by the red rays of the setting sun.
From among the pillows there peeped a little copper-<DW52> head,
hardly larger than an apple. The wrinkled eyelids were closed, and in
the little mouth was stuck one of the tiny fists, its fingers
contracted, as if in a cramp.

"My glance travelled stealthily up from the child to its father. He had
folded his hands. Devoutly he looked down upon this little human being.
An uncertain smile, half-pleased, half-embarrassed, played about his
lips.

"Now, for the first time, I was able to contemplate him calmly. The
purple evening rays lay bright upon his face, and brought to light,
plainly and distinctly, the furrows and wrinkles which the three last
years had graven upon it. Shades of gloomy care rested upon his brow,
his eyes had lost their lustre, and round about his mouth a twitching
seemed to speak to me of dull submission and impotent defiance.

"Unutterable pity welled up within me. I felt as if I must grasp his
hands and say to him, 'Confide in me--I am strong; let me share your
trouble.' Then, when he raised his eyes, I was terrified lest he should
have noticed my glance, and hastily kneeling down in front of the
cradle, I pressed my lips upon the little face, which started as if in
pain at my touch.

"When I got up I saw that he had left the room.

"Martha's eyes shone in anxious expectation when she saw me. She wanted
to hear her child admired.

"'Isn't it pretty?' she whispered, and stretched out her weak arms
towards me.

"And when her mother's heart was satiated with pride, she bade me sit
down beside her on the pillows and nestled with her head up to my knee,
so that it almost came to lie in my lap.

"'Oh, how cool that is!' she murmured, closed her eyes, and breathed
deeply and quietly as if asleep. With my handkerchief I wiped the
perspiration from her forehead.

"She nodded gratefully, and said: 'I am just a little exhausted yet,
and my limbs feel as if they were broken; but I hope to be able to get
up again to-morrow, and look after the household.'

"'For heaven's sake, what are you dreaming of?' I cried, horrified.

"She sighed. 'I must--I must. It does not let me rest.'

"'What does not let you rest?'

"She did not answer, and then suddenly she began to weep bitterly.

"I calmed her, I kissed the tears from her lashes and cheeks, and
implored her to pour out her heart to me. 'Are you not happy? Isn't he
good to you?'

"'He is as good to me as God's mercy; but I am not happy--I am
wretched, sister; so wretched that I cannot describe it to you.'

"'And why, in all the world?'

"'I am afraid!'

"'Of what?'

"'That I--make him unhappy; that I am not the right one for him.'

"A sudden icy coldness ran through me. It seemed to emanate from her
body upon mine.

"'You see, you feel it too!' she whispered, and looked up at me with
great frightened eyes.

"'You are foolish.' I said, and forced myself to laugh; but the
chillness did not leave my limbs. A dark suspicion told me that perhaps
she might be right. But now it was for me to comfort her!

"'However could you give way to such silly self-torture?' I cried.
'Does not his behaviour at all times prove to you how wrong you are?'

"'I know, what I know,' she answered, softly; with that obstinacy of
endurance which is given as a weapon to the weak. 'And what I am now
telling you, does not date from to-day--the fear is years old; I had it
in my heart already before I was engaged to him, and I quite well knew
at that time why I refused him--for very love!'

"'Martha, Martha!' I cried, reproachfully; 'it seems to me that you
concealed a great deal from me.'

"'At that time I did tell you everything,' she replied. 'You only would
not believe me; you wanted to make me happy by force, and later why
should I say anything? On paper everything sounds so different from
what one means; you might even have thought you discovered a reproach
against him or even against yourself, and naturally I could not risk
such a misunderstanding growing up. My misery already began on the
first day when we arrived here. I saw how he and his mother fell out,
and a voice within me cried: "You are the cause of it." I saw how he
grew sadder and gloomier from day to day, and again and again I said in
my heart: "You are the cause of it." At nights I lay awake at his side,
and tortured myself with the thought: why are you so dull and so
depressing, and why can you do nothing but cling to him weeping, and
suffer doubly when you see him suffering? Why have you not learnt to
greet him with a song as soon as he comes in, and with a laugh to kiss
away the wrinkles from his brow? And more than this. Why are you not
proud, and strong, and wise, and why can you not say to him: Take
refuge with me, when you are fainthearted--from me you shall derive new
strength, and I will take care that you do not stumble. This is how you
would have done, sister--no--do not contradict me; often enough I have
imagined how you would have stood there with your tall figure, and
would have opened out your arms to him so that he might seek shelter
within them, like in a harbour where storms do not dare to enter....
But look at _me_'--and she cast a pitiable glance at her poor, delicate
frame, the haggard outlines of which were traceable beneath the
coverlet--'would it not sound ridiculous if I were to say anything of
the sort? I, who am almost submerged in his arms, so small and weak am
I,--I am only here to seek shelter; to give shelter is not in my
power.... Do you see; all this I have thought out in the long, dark
nights, and have grown more and more despondent. And in the mornings I
forced myself to laugh, and tried to pass for a sort of cheerful, happy
little bird, for this _role_, I thought to myself, is the most suitable
one for you, and is most likely to please him; but song and laughter
stuck in my throat, and I daresay he could see it too, for he smiled
pitifully to it all, so that I felt doubly ashamed.'

"She stopped exhausted, and hid her face in my dress, then she
continued:

"'And as that would not do, I tried at least to compensate him in other
ways. You know that all my life I have toiled and moiled, but never
have I worked so hard as in these three years. And when I felt myself
growing faint and my knees threatened to give way under me, the thought
spurred me on again: "Show that at least you are of _some_ good to him;
do not ever let him become conscious of how little he possesses in
you.... But of what avail is it all! My efforts are not the least good.
Everything goes topsy-turvy all the same, as soon as ever I turn my
back. I am constantly in terror lest one day my management should no
longer suffice him."'

"Thus the poor creature lamented, and I felt positively frightened at
so much misery.

"'Listen, I have a favour to ask of you,' she begged at last, and
clutched my hands; 'do try and sound him as to whether he is--is
satisfied with me, and then come and tell me.'

"I drew her to me; I lavished loving epithets upon her, and endeavoured
to soothe away her fear and trouble. Eagerly she drank in every one of
my words; her feverishly glowing eyes hung spellbound upon my lips, and
from time to time a feeble sigh escaped her.

"'Oh, if I had always had you near me!' she cried, stroking my hands.
But then a fresh idea seemed to make her despondent again. I urged her,
but she would not put it into words, until at length it came out with
stuttering and stammering.

"'You will do everything a thousand times better than I; you will show
him what he _might_ have had, and what he _has_. Through you he will
finally realise what a miserable creature I am.'

"I was alarmed; then I felt plainly: my dream of possessing a home was
already dreamed out. How could I remain in this place, when my own
sister was consuming herself with jealous anxiety on my account?

"She felt herself that she had pained me; stretching up her thin arms
to my neck, she said: 'You must not misunderstand me, Olga. What I feel
is not jealousy; I am so little jealous, that I have no more ardent
wish than that you two should become united after my death, and----'

"'After your death!' I cried, in horror. 'Martha, you are sinning
against yourself!'

"She smiled in mournful resignation.

"'I know that better than you.' she said. 'My vital strength has been
broken for a long time. The long waiting in those days already undid
me. Now, of course, I thought that with this birth all would be nicely
at an end, and that is why I longed so for you, because I wanted first
to arrange everything clearly between you two. But, however things may
turn out, it won't be long before I have to give in and die, and before
then I want to feel sure that I am leaving him and the child in good
keeping.'

"I shuddered, and then a sudden lassitude came over me. I felt as if I
must throw myself down at the bedside and weep, and weep--weep my very
heart out. Then from the next room came the crying of the child, which
had woke up and wanted its nurse. I drew a deep breath, and bethought
myself of the duty which was imposed upon me.

"'Do you hear, Martha? 'I cried. 'You are ready to despair when Heaven
has bestowed on you the greatest blessing that a woman can know?
Through your child you will raise yourself up anew; its young life will
also bring new strength to yours.'

"Her eyes shone for an instant, then she sank back and smilingly closed
her lids. The feeling of motherhood was the only one capable of winging
her hope.

"Once more she opened her lips, and murmured something. I bent down to
her, and asked: 'What is it, sister?'

"'I should like to be of some use in the world,' she said with a sigh,
and with this thought she fell asleep.

"It had grown pitch dark when Robert entered the room. In sudden fright
I started up. A feeling seized me as if I must hide away, and flee from
him to the ends of the earth: 'He must not find you; he shall not find
you!' a voice within me cried. My cheeks were flaming, and a vague fear
arose in me lest their tell-tale glow might gleam through the darkness.

"He approached the bed, listened for a while to Martha's quiet
breathing, and then said softly: 'Come, Olga! You are tired; eat
something, and go to rest, too.'

"I should have liked to remonstrate, for I was afraid of being alone
with him; but in order not to wake my sleeping sister, I obeyed
silently.

"The dining-room was a vast, whitewashed apartment, packed full of
old-fashioned furniture, which kept guard along the walls like
crouching giants. Under the hanging-lamp stood a table with two covers
laid.

"'I let the household finish their meal first,' said Robert, turning
towards me, 'for I did not want to bother you with strange faces.' With
that he threw himself heavily into an arm-chair, rested his chin on his
hand, and stared into the salt-cellar.

"Why, you are not eating anything!' he said, after a while. I shook my
head. I could not for the life of me have swallowed a morsel, though
hunger was gnawing at my entrails. The sight of him positively
paralysed me.

"Renewed silence.

"'How do you find her?' he asked at length.

"'I do not know,' said I, speaking by main force, 'whether I ought to
be pleased or anxious!'

"'Why anxious?' he asked, quickly, and in his eyes there gleamed an
indefinite fear.

"'She tortures herself----'

"A look of rapid understanding flew across to me, a look which said:
'Do you also know that already? Then he raised his fist, stretched
himself and sighed. His bushy hair had fallen over his forehead. The
bitter lines about his mouth grew deeper.

"I was alarmed--alarmed at myself. Did not what I had just said sound
like an accusation against Martha; did it not provoke an accusation
against her?

"'She loves you much too much.' I replied, biting my lips. I knew I
should pain him, and I meant to do so.

"He started and looked at me for a while in open astonishment; then he
nodded several times to himself and said, 'You are right with your
reproach, she does love me much too much.'

"Then I should already have liked to ask his forgiveness again. Surely
he did not deserve my malice! His soul was pure and clear as the
sunlight, and it was only within me that there was darkness. I felt as
if I must choke with suppressed tears. I saw that I could not contain
myself any longer, and rose quickly.

"'Good-night, Robert.' I said, without giving him my hand; 'I am
overtired--must go to bed--leave me--one of the servants will show me
my way. Leave me--I tell you!'

"I screamed out the last words as if in anger, so that he stopped
perturbed. In the cool, semi-obscure corridor I began to feel calmer.
For a time I walked up and down breathing heavily, then I fetched one
of the maids to show me the way.

"'Mistress arranged everything in the room herself yet, and gave orders
that no one was to touch it. There is a letter, too, for you, miss.'

"When I was alone, I held survey. My good, dear sister! She had
faithfully remembered my slightest wishes, every one of my little
habits of formerly, and had thought out everything that could make my
room as cosy and homely as possible. Nothing was wanting of the things
which I prized in those days. Over the bed hung a red-flowered curtain
exactly like the one beneath the hangings of which I had dreamed my
first girlish dreams; on the window-sill stood geraniums and cyclamen,
such as I had always tended, on the walls hung the same pictures upon
which my glance had been wont to rest at waking, on the shelves stood
the same books from which my soul had derived its first food of love.

"'Iphigenia,' which in those bright calm days had been my favourite
poem, lay open on the table. Ah, good heavens! how long it already was
since I had read in it, for how long already had I passed it by,
because the calm dignity of the holy priestess pained my soul.

"Between the leaves was placed the letter of which the girl had told
me. A gentle presentiment, a presentiment of new, undeserved love came
over me as I tore open the envelope and read:--


"'My Darling Sister,--When you enter this room I shall not be able to
bid you welcome. I shall then be lying ill, and perhaps even my lips
will be closed for ever. You will find everything as you used to have
it at home. It has been prepared for you a long time already everything
was awaiting you. Whether sorrow or joy may attend you here, lie down
to rest in peace and fall asleep with the consciousness that you have
entered your home. Try and learn to love Robert as he will learn to
love you. Then all must turn out well yet, whether God leaves me with
you or takes me to Himself.

                                  "'Your sister

                                              "'Martha.'


"It was nothing new that she said to me here, and yet this touchingly
simple proof of her love took such powerful hold of me, that at the
first moment I only had the one feeling, that I must rush to her
bedside and confess to her how unworthy was the being to whom she
offered the shelter of her heart and home.

"For I was no longer in doubt: the ill-fated passion which I believed I
had uprooted from my soul, had once more profusely sprung into growth;
the wounds, healed up long ago, had opened anew at the first sight of
him; I felt as if my warm blood were gushing out from them in streams.
Hushing-up and concealment were no longer possible; the vague charm of
dawning impressions, the sweet abandon to the intoxication of youth,
were things of the past; the bare, glaring light of matured knowledge,
the rigid barriers of strict self-restraint had taken their place. Yes,
I loved him, loved him with such ardour, such pain, as only a heart can
love which has been steeled by the glow of hatred and suffering. And
not since to-day, not since yesterday! I had grown up with this love, I
had clung to it in secret heart's desire, my whole being had derived
its strength from it, with it I stood and fell, in it lay my life and
my death.

"What did I care whether he deserved it, whether he understood me! He
was not intended to understand it. And not he, it was I who must gain a
right to this love. I knew too well at this hour that I should never be
able to banish it from my heart. The question was to submit to it, as
one submits to eternal fate; but it must not become a sin. It should
live on purely, in a pure heart.

"And surely I had not been called in vain to this house! A mission, a
great holy mission awaited me. Martha should perceive forthwith that a
beneficent genius was watching over her home. Through me she should
learn actively to utilise the love by which she was consumed, for the
good of her loved one; through me her courage should be revived and her
soul receive new strength. How I would support and comfort her in dark
despondent hours! How I would force myself to laugh when a tearful mood
troubled the atmosphere! How I would banish the clouds from their
gloomy brows with daring jests, and anxiously take care that there
should always remain a last little remnant of sunshine within these
walls!

"My life should pass away void of desire, happy only in the happiness
of my loved ones, discreet, resigned and faithful. I need no longer
seek to avoid Iphigenia's image, for the holy and dignified office of
priestess was awaiting me also.

"With this pious thought the revolt in my soul disappeared; with it I
fell asleep.

"When I awoke on the first morning, I felt contented, almost happy, A
holy calm had come over me, such as I had not known since time
immemorial. I knew that henceforth I should not have to fear even
meeting _him_.

"Martha was still asleep. When I looked through the chink of the door
into her room, I saw her lying with her head thrown far back on the
pillow, and heard her short heavy breathing.

"I crept away, quite easy in my mind, to take up my office as
housekeeper forthwith.

"'She shall no longer work herself to death,' I said to myself, and
rejoiced in my heart. I spent fully an hour going the round of the
premises, during which I formally took the management into my hands.
The old housekeeper showed herself willing, and the servants treated me
with respect. I should anyhow soon have enforced it for myself.

"At the breakfast-table I met Robert. A slight palpitation, which
overcame me on entering, ceased forthwith when I bethought myself of my
yesterday's vow. Calmly, firmly looking into his eyes, I stepped up to
him and gave him my hand.

"'Is Martha still asleep?' I asked.

"He shook his head. 'I have sent for the doctor.' he said, 'she has
passed a bad night--the excitement of seeing you again seems not to
have done her good.'

"I felt somewhat alarmed; but my great resolve had so filled me with
peace and happiness, that I would not give way to fear.

"'Will you help yourself?' I asked, 'I should meanwhile like to look
after her.'

"When I entered her room, I found her still lying in the same position
in which I had left her early in the morning, and as I approached the
bed, I saw that she was staring up at the ceiling with wide-opened
eyes.

"I called out her name in terror; then a feeble smile came over her
face, and feebly she turned towards me and looked into my eyes.

"'Are you not feeling well, Martha?'

"She shook her head wearily, and drew up her fingers slightly. That
meant to say: 'Come and sit by me!'

"And when I had taken her head in my arm a shudder suddenly ran through
her whole body. Her teeth chattered audibly: 'Give me a warm cover.'
she whispered, 'I am shivering so.' I did as she bade me, and once more
sat down at her side. She clutched my hands, as if to warm herself by
them.

"'Have you slept well?' she asked, in the same hoarse falsetto voice
which was quite strange to me in her. I nodded, and felt a hot sense of
shame burn within me. What was my grand unselfish resolve, compared
with this sort of noble self-forgetfulness, which was evident in every
act, however great or small, and was inspired by the same love for
everything? And I even prided myself on my lofty sentiments, conceited
egotist that I was.

"'How did you like the arrangement of your room?' she asked once more,
while a gleam of slight playfulness broke from her mild, sad eyes.

"In lieu of answer, I imprinted a grateful, humble kiss upon her lips.

"'Yes, kiss me! Kiss me once more!' she said. 'Your mouth is so nice
and hot, it warms one's body and soul through.' And again she shivered
with cold.

"A little later Robert came in.

"'Get yourself ready, my child.' he said, stroking Martha's cheeks,
'our uncle, the doctor, is here.'

"Then he beckoned to me and I followed him out of the room. By the
cradle of the new-born babe I found an old man, with a grey stubbly
beard, a red snub nose, and a pair of clever, sharp eyes, with which he
examined me smilingly through his shining spectacles.

"'So this is she?' he said, and gave me his hand. My blood rushed to my
heart; at the first glance I saw that here was some one who felt as a
friend towards me, in whom I might place implicit confidence.

"'God grant that you have come at a good moment,' he continued, 'and we
shall see at once if such is the case. Take me to her, Robert; I don't
suppose it is so bad.'

"I was left alone with the nurse and the child, which restlessly moved
its little fists about.

"'To your happiness also I will earn a claim.' I thought to myself, and
stroked the round bare little head, on which a few hardly visible silky
hairs trembled. Yesterday I had hardly had a glance for the little
being, to-day, as I gazed at it, my heart swelled with unutterable
tenderness. 'Thus much purer and better have you grown since
yesterday.' I said to myself.

"A long time, an alarmingly long time elapsed before the door of the
adjoining room opened again. It was the doctor who came out from it--he
alone. He looked stern and forbidding, and his jaws were working as if
he had something to grind between them.

"'I have sent him away,' he said, 'must speak to you alone.' Then
he took me by the hand and led me to the dining-room, where the
coffee-machine was still steaming.

"'I have great respect for you, my young lady,' he began, and wiped the
drops of perspiration from his forehead; 'according to everything I
have heard about you, you must be a capital fellow, and capable of
bearing the pain, if a certain cloven hoof gives you a treacherous
kick.'

"'Leave the preface, if you please, doctor.' said I, feeling how I grew
pale.

"'Very well! Prefaces are not to my taste either. Your sister'----and
now, after all, he hesitated.

"'My sister--is--in--danger--doctor!' I had wished to prove myself
strong, but my knees trembled under me. I clutched at the edge of the
table to keep myself from falling.

"'That's right--courage--courage!' he muttered, laying his hand on my
shoulder. 'It has come--this unwelcome guest--the fever; there is no
getting away from it any more.'

"I bit my lips. He should not see me tremble. I had often enough heard
of the danger of childbed fever, even if I could not form for myself
any idea of its terrors.

"'Does Robert know?' that was the first thing that entered my mind.

"He shrugged his shoulders and scratched his head. 'I was afraid he
would lose his head--I hardly told him half the truth.'

"'And what is the _whole_ truth?' Standing up fully erect I looked into
his eyes.

"He was silent.

"'Will she die?'

"When he found that from the first I was prepared to face the worst, he
gave a sigh of relief. But I did not hear his reply, for after I had,
apparently calmly, uttered the gruesome words, I suddenly saw once more
before my eyes, with terrible vividness, that vision of my girlish
days, when I had found Martha lying like a corpse on the sofa. I
felt as if the nails of a dead hand were digging themselves into my
breast--before my eyes I saw bloody streaks--I uttered a cry--then I
felt as if a voice called out to me:--'Help, save, give your own life
to preserve hers!' With a sudden jerk I pulled myself together; I had
once more found my strength.

"'Doctor,' I said, 'if she dies, I lose the only thing I possess in the
world, and lose myself with her. But as long as you can make use of me
I will never flinch. Therefore conceal nothing from me. I must have
certainty.'

"'Certainty, my dear child.' he replied, grasping my hands, 'certainty
there will not be till her convalescence or her last moments. Even at
the worst point there may always be a change for the better yet, how
much more then now, when the illness is still in its first stage! Of
course she has not much vital strength left to stake--that is the
saddest part of it. But perhaps we shall succeed in mastering the evil
at its commencement, and then everything would be won.'

"'What can I do to help?' I cried, and stretched out my clasped hands
towards him. 'Ask of me what you will! Even if I could only save her
with my own life, I should still have much to make amends for towards
her.'

"He looked at me in astonishment. How should he have been able to
understand me!


                           *   *   *   *   *


"And now I have come to the hardest part of my task. Since a week I
keep sneaking round these pages, without venturing to take up my pen.
Horror seizes me, when I consider _what_ is awaiting me. And yet it
will be salutary for me once more to recall to my memory those fearful
three days and nights, especially now, when something of a softer,
tenderer feeling seems to be taking root in my heart. Away with it!
Away with every cajoling thought which speaks to me of happiness and
peace. I am destined for solitude and resignation, and if I should ever
forget this, the history of those three days shall once more remind me
of it.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"When I pulled my chair up to my sister's bedside to take up my post as
nurse, I found she had dropped off to sleep. But this was not the sleep
which invigorates and prepares the way for convalescence; like a
nightmare it seemed to lie upon her and to press down her eyelids by
force. Her bosom rose and fell as if impelled from within and repelled
from without. The little waxen-pale, blue-lined face lay half buried in
the pillows, across which her scanty fair plaits crept like small
snakes. I covered my face with my hands. I could not bear the sight.

"The hours of the day passed by ... She slept and slept and did not
think of waking up.

"From time to time I heard the servants' footsteps as they softly crept
past outside--everything else was quiet and lonely. Of Robert no trace.

"At mid-day I felt I must ask after him. They had seen him go out in
the morning into the fields, with his dogs following him. So for hours
he had been wandering about in the rain.

"As the clock struck three he entered, streaming wet, with lustreless
eyes, and his damp unkempt hair matted on his forehead. He must have
been suffering horribly. I was about to approach him, to say a word of
comfort to him, but I did not dare to do so. The scared, gloomy look
which he cast towards me, said distinctly enough: 'What do you want of
me? Leave me alone with my sorrow.'

"Clutching at one of the bed-posts he stood there, and stared down upon
her while he gnawed his lips. Then he went out--silently, as he had
come.

"Again two hours passed in silence and waiting. The carbolic vapours
which rose from the bowl before me began to make my head ache. I cooled
my brow at the window-panes, and unconsciously watched the play of the
dead leaves as they were whirled up in little circles towards the
window.

"It already began to grow dark, when suddenly, outside in the corridor,
was heard the lamenting and screaming of a female voice--so loud, that
even the sleeper started up painfully for a moment. An angry flush flew
to my face. I was on the point of hurrying out in order to turn away
this disturber of peace, but already at the opened door I came into
collision with her.

"At the first glance I recognised this red, bloated face, these little
malicious eyes. Who else could it have been but she, the best of all
aunts and mothers?

"'At length,' a voice within me cried--'at length I shall stand face to
face with you!'

"'So you are Olga,' she cried, always in the same shrill, whining
tones, which seemed to yell through the whole house. 'How do you do, my
little dear? Ah, what a misfortune! Is it really true? I am quite
beside myself!'

"'I beg of you, dear aunt,' said I, folding my arms, 'to be beside
yourself somewhere else, but to modify your voice in the sick room.'

"She stopped short. In all my life I shall never forget the venomous
look which she gave me.

"But now she knew with whom she had to deal. She took up the gauntlet
at once too. 'It is very good of you, my child,' she said, and her
voice suddenly sounded as metallic as a war-trumpet, 'that you are so
anxious about my poor, ailing daughter; but now you can go--you have
become superfluous; I shall stay here myself.'

"'Wait; you shall soon know that you have found your match.' I inwardly
cried; and, drawing myself up to my full height, I replied, with my
most freezing smile: 'You are mistaken, dear aunt; every _stranger_ has
been strictly prohibited from visiting my sister. So I must beg of you
to withdraw to the next room.'

"Her face grew ashy pale, her fingers twitched convulsively, I think
she could have strangled me on the spot; but she went, and good,
lackadaisical uncle, who was always dangling three paces behind her,
went with her.

"In sheer triumph I laughed out loud: 'What should you want, you
mercenary souls, in this temple of pain? Out with you!'


                           *   *   *   *   *


"It grew night. Like a streak of fire the last red rays of the setting
sun lay over the town, the towers of which stood out black and pointed
in the glow. For a long time I watched the fiery clouds, till darkness
had buried them also in its lap.

"The clock struck nine. Then the old doctor came. He sat for a long
time in silence on my chair, stroked my hand at parting, and said:
'Continue--carbolic--all night!' In answer to my anxiously questioning
look, he had nothing but a doubtful shrug of the shoulders.

"From somewhere, two or three rooms away, I heard Robert's voice
talking at the old man. This was the first sign that he too was in the
proximity of the sick-bed. 'Why ever does he stay outside?' I asked
myself; 'it really almost seems as if admission were prohibited.'

"The clock struck ten. Silence all around. The household seemed gone to
rest.

"The wind rattled at the garden railings. It sounded as if some late
guest wished to enter. Was death already creeping round the house? Was
he already counting the grains of sand in his hour-glass?

"Desperate defiance seized me. Without knowing what I did, I rushed
towards the door, as if to throw myself in the path of the threatening
demon.

"Ill-fated creature, I, that I did not suspect what other demon sat
lurking in front of that one, on the threshold!

"A few minutes later Robert entered. Not a word, not a greeting--again
only that swift, scared look which once already had cut me to the
quick. With his heavy, swaying gait he walked up to the bedside,
grasped her hand--that hot, wasted hand, with its bluish nails--and
stared down upon it. And then he sat down in the darkest corner, behind
the stove, and crouched there for two long, long hours.

"With beating heart I waited for him to address me, but he was as
silent as before.

"Soon after midnight he left the room. For a long time yet I heard him
walking up and down outside in the corridor, and, at the muffled sound
of his tramping footsteps, another night came into my mind, when I had
listened, no less trembling in fear and hope, to the same sound. Worlds
lay between then and now, and the young, foolish creature who had then
hearkened out into the darkness, burning with the desire to help and to
sacrifice herself, now appeared to me like a strange, radiant being
from some distant, shining planet.

"The footsteps grew less distinct. He had gone back to his room.

"'Will he return again?' I asked myself, putting my ear to the keyhole.
'In any case he cannot sleep.' And I started joyfully when the sound
once more increased.

"And then the thought came to me, 'What concern is it of yours whether
he returns or not? Are you here in this place for his sake? Is not your
happiness, your life, your all, lying here before you?'

"I fell down by the bedside, and, covering Martha's hands with kisses,
I implored her to have mercy--that I wanted to speak to her--that it
was bursting my heart-strings--that it was stifling me--that I should
suffocate.

"But she did not wake. Doubled up with pain she lay there, a miserable
little heap of bones. On her cheek-bones were little flaming spots. Her
breath panted. Once she moved her lips as if to speak, but the words
died away in a toneless gurgling.

"What a terrible silence all around! The clock ticked, along the wall
by the casement the wind passed softly moaning, and from the other room
sounded the muffled tramp of the wanderer--all else still.

"And suddenly it seemed to me as if in this stillness I heard the blood
in my own body seething and boiling. I listened. Evidently that was my
blood rushing wildly through my veins.

"'Why is its flow not quiet and well-behaved,' I asked myself, 'in
accordance with my great resolve? Is not this sin torn out with all its
roots--burnt out by a thousand purifying fires? Do I not stand here as
the priestess, void of desire, pure and blessed?'

"And again I listened! These are hallucinations, I told myself, and yet
I grew afraid at the gushing and rushing, which seemed to increase with
every minute. I saw a stream which carried me away in its torrents--a
stream of blood! A rock with sheer points jutted out from it. Thereon a
word stood written with flaming letters, the word 'Bloodguiltiness.'

"The footsteps grew louder. I jumped up.... He came, seated himself on
the pillow, wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the flat of
his hand, and passed his fingers through her hair.

"Stealthily I watched him. I hardly dared to breathe any more. His eyes
gleamed bloodshot in their sockets. His lips were pressed together in
bitter reproach. He sat there as if petrified with unuttered pain. The
desire to approach him shook me like a fit of ague. But when I was on
the point of rising, it was as if two iron fists laid themselves upon
my shoulders and forced me back on to my chair.

"At length I spoke his name, and was startled, so strange, so weird did
the sound of my own voice appear to me. He turned round and stared at
me.

"'Robert,' I said, 'why do you not speak to me? You will feel easier if
you let some one else share what is oppressing you.'

"Then he jumped up and grasped both my hands. His touch made me feel
hot and cold all over. But I forced myself to keep my ground, and
firmly looked into his face.

"'That is the first good word that you have vouchsafed me, Olga.' he
said.

"'What do you mean by that, Robert?' I stammered. 'Have I been unkind
towards you?'

"'Only unkind?' he replied. 'Like a stranger, like an intruder you have
treated me, and have driven me from the bedside of my wife.'

"'Heaven forbid!' I cry, and free myself from him, for I feel I am
about to sink upon his breast.

"And he continues, 'Olga, if ever I did you any wrong--I know not what,
but it must be so, else your look and manner would not be so stern and
forbidding towards me--if I did you any wrong, Olga, it was not my
fault. I always meant well towards you. I have--you might always have
been here like at home; you need never have gone among strangers; and
in the presence of that one whom we both love----'

"Why must he mention her name to me? A wild joy had flamed up within
me; I felt as if I had wings; then her name struck me like the cut of a
whip. I bit my lips till they bled. Indeed I would be calm, would act
the guardian angel.

"'Robert,' said I, 'you have been gravely mistaken about me. I never
bore you any ill-will. Only I have grown reserved and defiant among
strangers. You must have patience with me--must trust me. Will you?'

"Then it broke from his eyes like sunshine. 'I have so much to thank
you for already, Olga,' he said; 'how could I do otherwise than
continue to trust you? You know, since that day when we rode together
into the wood, do you remember?'--ah, did I remember indeed!--'since
that day I have loved you like a sister, yes, more than all my sisters.
And at the same time I looked up to you and revered you like my
guardian spirit. That is indeed what you have been to me. You will be
so in future, too, won't you?'

"I nodded silently, and pressed both my hands to my bosom; then, when
he noticed it, I let them drop, but I staggered back three paces; it
was a miracle that I kept myself upright.

"He stepped up to me in alarm. 'I am tired,' I said, and forced myself
to smile. 'Come, we will sit down; the night is long yet.'

"So we both sat opposite each other at the foot of the bed, with the
narrow bedstead between us, rested our arms on the ledge, and looked
across at Martha's face, which moved with cramp-like twitchings. Her
eyelids seemed closed, deep shadows from her lashes fell across her
cheeks; but, on bending down, one could see the whites of the eyes
gleaming with a faint sheen, like mother-of-pearl, in their dark
sockets. He observed it too.

"'As if she had already died,' he murmured, and buried his head in his
hands. 'And if she dies,' he continued, 'she will not die through the
child, not through this wretched fever; through my fault alone, Olga,
she will perish!'

"'For God's sake, what are you saying?' I cried, stretching out my arms
towards him.

"He nodded and smiled bitterly.

"'I have seen it very well, Olga, all through these three years; over
and over again it is my fault. First, I left her longing and fearing
between hope and despair for seven long years, till the strength was
drained in this way from her body and soul--heaven knows she never had
much to spare; and then I dragged her with her sickly body and broken
spirit here into this misery, where all were hostile to her, and those
most hostile who should have held her most dear. And I myself!--yes, if
I myself had been brave and of good cheer, if I could have guarded her
that her foot might not dash against any stone, if I had spread
sunshine across her path, then perhaps she might have flourished at my
side. But I was often rough and surly, stormed and raged in the house
and the farm, never thinking how every loud word made her start, so
that she already grew pale if I only frowned. Look at this little
handful of life, how it lies here; and then look at me, the great,
uncouth, coarse-grained giant! Sometimes in the night when I woke, I
was afraid lest I might possibly crush her in my arms. And, after all,
I have crushed her! What I required was a wife, strong and----'

"He stopped short, terrified, and cast a glance, which eloquently
pleaded for forgiveness, towards Martha's face, but I completed his
sentence for myself.

"When he had left the room a wild feeling of joy seized me. It rushed
through my head like a whirlwind; it confused my senses; my pride, my
defiance, my self-respect, everything seemed to be swallowed up in it.

"The atmosphere of the sick room lay heavily upon me, like a
suffocating cloth. My brain was burning with the carbolic vapours which
rose up from the bowl in front of me. My breath began to fail me.

"I fled to the window, and pressing my forehead against the sash, I
drank in the cold night air which found its way into the room through
the chinks. Morning dawned through the curtains--cold-grey--enveloped
in fog.... Faintly gleaming clouds slowly heaved upwards on the horizon
and threw a fallow sheen over the dripping trees, which seemed to have
grown still more bare overnight.

"What a night!

"And how many, worse than this one, are about to follow? What phantoms,
begotten of darkness, born in horror, will rise up before my fevered
senses as the nights come on?

"Shivering, I crept into a corner. I was afraid of myself.

"The hours of the morning passed away, and by degrees I grew calmer.
The memory of this night, with its feverish turmoil and pangs of
conscience, waxed dim. What I had experienced and felt became a dream,
A leaden weariness took possession of me; I closed my eyes and thought
about nothing.

"And then came a blissful hour. It was towards ten o'clock when Martha
suddenly opened her faithful blue eyes and looked up at me consciously
and brightly.

"I felt as if God's eye had turned, full of pity and forgiveness,
towards me, the sinner. A pure, holy joy streamed through me. I fell
across my sister's body, and hid my face at her neck.

"In the midst of her pain she began to smile, with an effort placed her
hand upon my head, and murmured, with hardly audible voice, 'I suppose
I have been giving you all a great fright?'

"The breath of her words enveloped me like a peace-bringing chant, and
for a moment I felt as if the burden at my heart must give way--but I
was unable to weep.

"'How do you feel?' I asked.

"'Well, quite well!' she replied, 'only the sheet weighs so heavily
upon me!'

"It was the lightest I had been able to find. I told her so; then she
sighed and said she knew she was a fidget, and I was to have patience
with her.

"And then she lay again quite still, and constantly looked at me as if
in a dream. At length she nodded several times and remarked: 'It is
well thus--quite well!'

"'What is well?" I asked.

"Then she smiled again and was silent. And then the pains returned. She
shook all over and clenched her teeth, but she did not utter a
complaint.

"'Shall I call for Robert?' I asked, for terror overwhelmed me anew.

"She nodded. 'And bring the child too,' she murmured.

"I did as she had bid. She had the little creature laid on the bed
beside her, and looked down at it for a long time. She also made an
attempt to kiss it, but she was too weak to do so.

"Even before Robert came she had relapsed into her sleep.

"He gave me a reproachful look, and remarked, 'Why did you not send for
me sooner?'

"'Believe me, it is better thus,' I answered, 'it would have excited
her too much to see you.'

"'You always seem to know what is best,' said he, and went out,
fortunately without noticing the glow which suffused my face at his
praise.

"Now she lay there again unconscious--her cheeks red, and her forehead
wet with perspiration. And added to that, the gruesome play of her
lips! They kept on twitching and smacking.

"Towards one o'clock the doctor came, took her temperature, and
certified a diminution of fever.

"'That will go up and down many a time yet,' he said; nor did he enter
into our joy over her awakening. 'Do not speak to her when she regains
consciousness,' he urged, 'and above all, do not allow her to speak
herself. She needs every atom of her strength.'

"Before he left, he fixed his eyes on me for a long time, and shook his
head doubtfully. I felt how the consciousness of guilt drove the blood
to my cheeks. It was as if he could look me through and through.

"... In the afternoon I had fetched myself a book from my room, the
first I happened to lay my hands upon and tried to read in it; but the
letters danced before my eyes, and my head buzzed as if it were full of
bats.

"It was a long time before I could even make out the title. I read
'Iphigenia.' Then, seized by sudden terror, I flung the book far away
from me into a corner, as if I had held a burning coal in my hand.
Towards evening Martha's pains seemed to grow more intense. Several
times she cried out loud and writhed as if in a cramp.

"While I was busying myself about her, during an attack of this sort,
the old woman suddenly stood at my side. And as I looked at her with
her venomous glance, with her studied wringing of hands, and the
hypocritical droop of her mouth, the thought suddenly came to me--

"'Here is one--who is waiting for Martha's death--who is wishing for
it.'

"My eyesight seemed dimmed by a red veil, I clenched my fists--I all
but flung the accusation in her face. And as I stood in front of her,
still quite petrified by the thought, she took hold of my arm, and
tried, without much ado, to push me aside, so that she might plant
herself at Martha's pillow. Perhaps she hoped to intimidate me by this
unceremonious proceeding.

"'Dear aunt.' said I, removing her hand from my arm, 'I have pointed
out to you before already that this is my place, and that no one in the
world shall dispute it with me. I urgently beg of you to restrict your
visit to the other rooms.'

"'Indeed? We will just wait and see, my little one,' she screeched, 'we
will just ask the master of the house, who has more to say here, his
good old mother, or you, vagabond Polish crew?'

"And still screeching, she departed.

"In a very fever of rage I paced the room. Even I should not have
imagined that this sorrowing mother could so quickly and thoroughly
change back again into a fury. It only remained for her to give
expression to her innermost wishes.

"'Oh, if it should be true.' I cried, and horror possessed me. 'To wish
for Martha's death! Martha, do you hear, to wish for your death! Whom
have you ever hurt? In whose way have you ever stood? Who lives in the
world who has ever received aught but love and forgiveness from you? If
it were true, if any human being should really be so depraved, and
still wander upon earth with impunity--verily, it would make one
despair of God and of everything good.'

"Thus I spoke and could not heap enough shame and contumely upon the
old woman's head.

"And then it struck me that I had been talking myself into a most
unworthy passion.

"But I felt easier through it, I dared to breathe more freely, and when
I saw poor, ill-treated 'Iphigenia' lying in the dust, I went and
picked it up.

"'What crime have I, after all, committed?' I said to myself, 'that I
should need to hide away from my ideal? Have I done anything but bring
comfort to one in despair? Has a single look, a single word been
exchanged, which my sister might not have seen and heard? If it seethes
and burns in my breast, what concern is that of any one, as long as I
keep it carefully to myself?'

"Thus I spoke to myself, and considered myself almost justified, even
before my own conscience. Blind creature that I was!


                           *   *   *   *   *


"And once more the gloaming came, once more the setting sun cast its
red light through the windows.

"Martha's face was bathed in a purple glow, in her hair little lights
sparkled, and the hand that lay on the coverlet looked as though
illumined from within.

"I drew the bed-screen closer around her, so that the flimmering rays
should not trouble her.

"Then I saw hanging on the wall a withered ivy wreath, which I had not
noticed before, a wreath such as I was wont to send on special
occasions for our parents' graves. Perhaps that was where this one,
too, came from. At the present moment it appeared as if woven of
flames, everything about it lived phantastically. And when I looked
more closely, it even seemed to me as if it began to revolve, and to
emit a cascade of sparks, like a real wheel of fire.

"'Dear me, now you are already beginning to see visions,' I said to
myself, and tried to gain new strength by pacing up and down. But I
felt so dizzy, that I was obliged to hold on to the chairs--I gasped
for breath.

"Oh, this smell of carbolic--this sickly-sweet odour! It enveloped my
senses, it dimmed my thoughts, it spread a presentiment of death and
terror all around.

"Then the old doctor came, looked keenly into my face, and ordered me
in his fatherly, gruff manner to go forthwith into the open and get
some fresh air. He himself would watch till I returned. And in spite of
my remonstrance he pushed me out of the door.

"If I could have guessed what was awaiting me, no power on earth would
have moved me to cross the threshold!

"Now I drew a deep breath as I stepped out into the courtyard. The
evening air refreshed me like a cooling bath. The last gleam of
daylight was vanishing, and veiled in bluish vapours the autumn night
sank down upon the earth.

"The two hunting dogs sprang towards me, and then raced off towards the
old castle ruins.

"Unconsciously I followed in their track, walking half in my sleep, for
the atmosphere of the sick room was still acting upon my senses.

"A mouldering scent of fading weeds and weather-beaten stones wafted
towards me from the brickwork. An old porch spread its arch over me. I
stepped into the interior. The walls towered up black all round me, the
dark sky looked down upon them with its bluish lights.

"Then not far from me I saw a dark figure, the outlines of which I
recognised at once, crouching among the loose stones.

"'Robert!' I call out, astonished.

"He jumped up. 'Olga?' he cried in answer. 'Do you bring bad news?'

"'Not so.' say I, 'your uncle, the doctor, sent me out, and----' then
suddenly I feel as if the ground were giving way beneath my feet.

"'Take care!' I hear his warning voice, but already I am sinking,
together with the crumbling stones, about a man's length down into the
darkness.

"'For Heaven's sake, do not stir!' he shouts after me, 'else you will
fall still further down.'

"Half-dazed, I lean against the side of the pit. At my feet gleams a
narrow strip of earth, on which I am standing; beyond that it goes down
into black, unfathomable depths.

"I see him near me, climbing down after me slowly and carefully on the
steps of a flight of stairs as it seems.

"'Where are you?' he shouts, and at the same I feel his hand groping
for me.

"Then I throw myself towards him, and cling to his neck. At the same
moment I feel myself lifted high up and resting upon his breast. It
appeared to me as if my veins had been opened, as if in delightful
lassitude I felt my warm life's blood flowing away over me.

"His breath wafted hotly into my face. For a moment it seemed to me as
if he had softly kissed my forehead.... Then we returned to the manor
house without speaking. I moved away from his side as far as I could,
but in my heart was the jubilant thought, 'He has held me in his arms.'

"On the threshold of the sick room the old physician came towards us,
gave us both his hands and said, 'She is keeping up better, children,
than I had expected.'

"Within my heart was rejoicing, 'He has held me in his arms.'


                           *   *   *   *   *


"And now that night! Even now every minute stands up like a fury before
me, and glares at me with fiery eyes! That night will I conjure up as
one calls up spirits from the grave, that their witness may animate
anew long forgotten bloodguiltiness! What crime did I commit? _None_.
My hands are clean. And on that great morning, when our works shall be
tried in the balance, I might fearlessly step up to the Throne of the
Most High and say, 'Clothe me in the whitest raiment, fasten upon my
shoulders the most delicate pair of swan's wings, and let me sit in the
front row, for I have a good voice, which only requires a certain
amount of practice to do honour to Paradise!' But there are crimes,
unaccomplished, unuttered, which penetrate the soul like the breath of
infection, and poison it in its very essence, till the body too
perishes under its influence.

"It was a night almost like the present one. The moist autumn wind
swept past the house in short gusts, and caught itself in the half
leafless crests of the poplars, which bowed towards each other and
entwined amid creaking and rustling. Not a star was in the sky; but an
undefinable gleaming brought into notice dark masses of torn clouds,
which sped along as if in rags. The nightlight would not burn; its
flickering flame struggled with the shadows which danced incessantly
over the bed and the walls. The ivy wreath hung opposite me, looking
black and jagged like a crown of thorns.

"It was about ten o'clock when Martha commenced to be delirious.

"She raised herself up in bed and said in a clear, audible voice, 'I
must really get up now--it is too bad!'

"At first joy suffused my face, for I thought she had regained
consciousness. 'Martha!' I jumped up and grasped her hand.

"'I have put everything out in readiness--shirts and stockings and
shoes, so that a blind man could find them in his sleep. And you need
not take any measurements either--make no compliments--make no
compliments.' And all the time she stared at me with glassy eyes, as if
she saw a ghost; then suddenly she uttered a piercing shriek and cried,
'Roll the stones away from my body they are crushing me. Why have you
buried me under stones?'

"I took the thinnest sheet I could find and spread it over her in place
of the coverlet; but even that brought her no relief. She screamed and
talked incessantly, and between whiles she muttered eagerly to herself,
like one who is learning something off by heart.

"Like this an hour must have passed. I sat in front of my table and
stared at her; for I was in a ferment of terror lest any moment might
bring some new, still more horrible development. From time to time,
when she calmed down a little, I felt my limbs relax; then I closed my
eyes and let myself sink back, and each time I had the sensation as if
I were sinking into Robert's arms. But there hardly remained even a
dull feeling, as if I were thereby committing any wrong; my weariness
was too intense. I also had a sensation as if bubbles were bursting in
my head, and roses opening out and always putting forth new wreaths of
blossoms; then again there was a hissing sound from one ear to the
other, as if some one had run a fuse right through my head and lighted
it.

"In this condition of nervous over-excitement, tossed hither and
thither between terrified starting up and relaxation, Robert found me,
when, towards midnight, he entered the room. He had intended to lie
down on his bed for a short time, and then to watch for the rest of the
night together with me; but Martha's screams had scared him too.

"When I saw him, all my exhaustion was as if wiped away; I felt how a
new stream of blood shot through my body, and I jumped up to go towards
him.

"'Try to rest a little.' he said, looking down at me with tired,
swollen eyes; 'you will require all your strength.'

"I shook my head and pointed to my sister, who was just flinging her
hands about, as if in her delirium she were trying to tear me from his
side.

"'You are right,' he continued. 'Who could be calm enough to rest with
this picture before his eyes.' And then he planted himself with clasped
hands in front of the bed, bent down towards her and imprinted a soft
kiss upon her wax-like forehead.

"'That is how he kissed me too!' a voice within me cried.

"Thereupon he sat down at the foot of the bed, so close to my chair
that the arm which he rested upon the slab of the table almost touched
my shoulder.

"With the gloomy brooding of despair he stared across at her.

"'Come to yourself, Robert!' I whispered to him, 'all may be well yet.'

"He laughed grimly. 'What do you mean by "well"?' he cried; 'that she
should remain alive and drag herself about with her sickly frame and
crushed spirit, as a burden to herself and to others? Do you not know
that these are the alternatives between which we have to choose?'

"A cold shudder ran through my very marrow. But at the same time I felt
as if the walls were giving way and an unbounded, shining vista opening
out before me.

"'Were you not going to be a priestess in this house?' a warning voice
within me remonstrated, but its sounds were deadened by the surging of
my blood.

"'What is the use of struggling against fate?' he continued; 'I have
long since learnt to submit quietly when blow after blow falls down
upon me from above. I have become a miserable, weak-minded fellow. I
have allowed fate to bind me hand and foot, and now, even if I struggle
till the blood spurts from my joints, it is no good! I am powerless and
shall remain so, and there's an end of it! But I do not care to talk
myself into a passion. Such helpless rage is more contemptible than
hypocritical submission.'

"A desire darted through me to throw myself down in front of him, and
to cry out to him, 'Do with me what you will: sacrifice me, tread me
under-foot, let me die for you; but be brave and have new faith in your
happiness----' then suddenly a moan from Martha's lips struck upon my
ears, so plaintive, so pitiable that I started as if struck by the lash
of a whip.

"I felt ready to scream, but fear of him choked my utterance--only a
groan escaped my breast, which I forcibly suppressed, when I noticed
how anxiously he was looking into my eyes.

"'Take no heed of me!' I said, forcing myself to smile; 'the chief
thing is for her to get better.'

"He crossed his arms over his knee and nodded a few times bitterly to
himself. And then again the moaning ceased.

"She had bowed her head upon her breast, and half closed her eyes. One
might almost have thought her asleep; but the muttering and chattering
continued. There was utter silence in the half-darkened room. Only the
wind sped past the window with low soughing, and between the planks of
the ceiling the mice scampered about.

"Robert had buried his head in his hands, and was listening to Martha's
weird talking. Gradually he seemed to grow quieter, his breath came
more regularly and slowly, now and again his head dropped to one side,
and next moment jerked up again.

"His sleepiness had overpowered him. I wanted to urge him to go to
rest; but I was afraid of the sound of my own voice, and therefore was
silent.

"More and more often did the upper part of his body sway to one side,
now and again his hair touched my cheek--and he groped about seeking to
find some support.

"And then, suddenly, his head fell upon my shoulder, where it remained
lying. My whole body trembled as if I had experienced some great
happiness.

"'An invincible desire possessed me to stroke the bushy hair that fell
across my face. Close to my eyes I saw a few silver threads gleaming.

"'It is already beginning to get grey,' I thought to myself, 'it is
high time that he should taste what happiness is like.' And then I
really stroked him.

"He sighed in his sleep and sought to nestle closer with his head.

"'He is lying uncomfortably.' I said to myself; 'you must move up
nearer to him.'

"I did so. His shoulder leant against mine, and his head fell upon my
breast.

"'You must put your arm round him,' a voice within me cried, 'otherwise
he will still not find rest.'

"Twice or three times I attempted, and as often I drew back.

"What if Martha should suddenly wake! But even then her eyes saw
nothing--her ears heard nothing.

"And I did it.

"Then a wild joy seized me: secretly I pressed him to me--and within me
there arose the jubilant thought: 'Ah, how I would care for you and
watch over you; how I would kiss those wicked furrows away from your
brow, and the troubles from your soul! How I would fight for you with
my virgin strength and never rest till your eyes were once more glad,
and your heart once more full of sunshine! But for that----I looked
across at Martha. Yes, she lived, she still lived. Her bosom rose and
fell in short, rapid gasps. She seemed more alive than ever.

"And suddenly it flamed up before me, and the words seemed as if I saw
them distinctly written over there on the wall--

                      "'_Oh, that she might die!_'

"Yes, that was it, that was it.

"Oh, that she might die! Oh, that she might die!"




                                  VII.


Drawing a deep breath, the physician stopped short, and wiped the
perspiration from his forehead.

Robert had jumped up, stared for a moment at the flaming orb of the
lamp, as if dazzled by the light, and then rushed towards the old man
as if to tear the paper out of his hands.

"That does indeed stand there?" he stammered.

"Read for yourself!" said the other.

A long silence ensued.

The lamp burnt with its quiet, cheery light as if it were illumining a
deed of brightest gladsomeness, and softly, as if with velvety paws,
the wind touched the windows. Downstairs everything seemed to be
growing quieter. The intervals between the bursts of laughter grew
longer and longer--the babel of voices changed to a steady, dull buzz.
The people were getting tired--they were digesting.

The physician looked round for Robert. He had dropped down once more
upon the ledge of the empty bedstead, had buried his face in his hands,
and was absolutely motionless.

Only his heaving breath, which escaped his breast in short, irregular
gasps, testified to the turmoil that was raging within him.

"Come to yourself, my boy," said the physician, laying his hand on
Robert's shoulder.

"Uncle, of course it goes without saying--she was not in her right mind
when she wrote this?"

"She was never more in her right mind than at that moment!"

"How dare you affirm such a thing? Do not insult the dead!"

"Nothing is further from my thoughts, dear boy. Who shall presume to
cast the first stone at her? But if you have been listening
attentively, you will certainly understand that her whole life was
nothing more than the maturing of this moment. Already in her girlish
dreams the seeds of this criminal wish lay buried; they put forth
sudden shoots on yonder stone in the wood, and came into blossom at the
very hour when she crept into your room to unite you with Martha."

"Why did she do that, if she herself wished to step into Martha's
place?"

"She was not conscious of what she wished. All her efforts to make you
and Martha happy were nothing further than the secret struggle which
her pure honest nature was waging with the wish growing up within her,
since that day of her girlhood when she had seen you again. But she did
not know it. Even her love for you did not become clear to her till she
entered your house. How much less then could she suspect what was
slumbering, as the fruit of this love, within her soul."

"And yet you say she fought against it and tried to exterminate it?"

"Not spiritually, not consciously. Her thought remained pure till that
terrible midnight hour. It was only her instinct which struggled
against the poison. That drew new resources daily from the healthy
depths of her strong nature, by which to secrete the putrid matter or
at least to enclose it so that it became innocuous. For this reason she
condemned herself to exile, for this reason even in face of your house
she contemplated a hasty retreat. How little she was, even later,
conscious of the processes which for years had been developing within
her, you may see by the whole tone of her reminiscences. She absolutely
unconsciously dwells upon many unimportant incidents, which have
nothing to do with the progress of the story and yet are valuable as
showing the gradual development of her wish. She knows not why she does
so: her feeling alone tells her: this has some connection with my
guilt."

"I believe in no guilt!" exclaimed Robert, in greatest excitement. "If
that wish was not a mere hallucination, not the result of a momentarily
morbid, over-strung frame of mind, but had lain for a long while
dormant in her nature, how came it that, only six hours before uttering
it, she expressed herself with such indignation about my mother because
she suspected her of harbouring it?"

"For my part," replied the old man, "nothing is more convincing for my
view of the matter, than this very indignation. To free her own
conscience from the burden which she felt resting upon it, she cast
every stone which she could take hold of, at your mother. It was terror
at her own sin which drove her to it."

"And the noble, self-sacrificing resolve which she formed only a few
days before?"

Over the old man's weather-beaten features there flitted a smile full
of understanding and forgiveness.

Then he said, "The old proverb about the good intentions with which the
path to Hell is paved, may hold good here too; but it only touches the
surface of the matter. This resolve was a last abortive attempt to
unite sisterly love with her longing for you, to make a pact between
her powerful, burning desire for happiness and the impulse to keep
faith towards her sister. It was the most unnatural thing she could hit
upon, for silent resignation was not in her line. It was a particularly
cruel fate which doomed her, with her noble disposition and powerful
will, to be forced into a sin which is the most common and most
cowardly on earth, a sin which I have found lurking on countless faces,
when I stood at the bedside of people seriously ill. This, my boy, is
one of the darkest spots in human nature, a remnant of bestiality which
has managed to find its way into our tamed world; even such sensitive
natures as Olga may fall a prey to it, though of course they perish
through it, while coarser souls simply conceal and suppress what is
struggling to appear from the darkest depths of their beings. Wait, I
will speak more plainly. I once came to the bedside of a rich old man,
a landowner, whose last breath was not far off. At the head of his bed
stood his eldest son, a man of about forty, who for long years had held
the post of inspector on strange estates, and whose intended bride was
beginning to grow old and faded with waiting. The son was a good,
honest fellow who would not have hurt a fly, who loved his father with
all his heart, and would certainly have been ashamed to wish his
deadliest enemy any ill; but in the stealthy, terrified glance with
which he watched me, while I bent down my ear towards the old man's
breast, I distinctly read the wish! 'Oh, that he might die!' Another
time I was called in to a woman who was very happy in second marriage.
Only one cloud troubled her new happiness. Her husband could not
befriend himself with the child of her first marriage. He knitted his
brows at the mere mention of the little creature, and as she loved him
passionately, she feared he might come to hate her on the child's
account, and hid it away from him as much as ever she could. The child
got scarlet fever. I found the mother kneeling at its bedside and
weeping bitterly. She trembled in fear for the feeble little life.
Had she not herself brought it forth! Then her husband entered the
room--she started--and in the restless, wavering glance which she cast
towards the cradle, there stood clearly and legibly written: 'It would
be for my happiness, if you died.' I could give you innumerable
examples where jealousy, covetousness, desire for independence,
restlessness, impulse for liberty, amorous longing, have matured this
terrible, criminal wish, which suddenly rises up dark and gigantic
within the human breast, in which hitherto only love and light have
found a place. Happily nowadays it does not do much harm. In olden,
more barbarous times, when the passions were permitted to rage
unfettered, the deed aided the thought. And if perchance in the family
circle any one happened to be in the other's way, poison and the dagger
simply claimed their victims. History and literature abound with
murders of this kind, and that great student of mankind, Shakspeare,
for example, knows hardly any other tragic motive besides murder of
kin. To-day people have grown calmer, and if a struggle for existence
happens nowadays to creep into the holy family circle, one is content
to wish the obnoxious one, in a dark hour, six feet under the earth.
This wish is the ancient murder restrained by modern civilisation.
There, my boy, now I have given you a long discourse, and if,
meanwhile, your blood has cooled down, my object is fulfilled."

"So you absolutely condemn her?" Robert anxiously stammered forth.

"My dear boy, I condemn no one," replied the old man, with a serious
smile, "least of all such an honest nature as Olga was. The fact alone
that she had the courage to confess to herself and to him whom she
loved most, what she was guilty of, raises her above the others. For
this wish, of which we are speaking, as it is the most hideous
spiritual sin of which the human soul can become guilty, so it is also
the most secret. No friend confides it to a friend, no husband whispers
it in the darkness of the nocturnal couch to his wife, no penitent
dares to confess it to his spiritual adviser, even the prayer that
struggles upwards to heaven out of the depths of contrition, passes it
over in hypocritical silence. God may have knowledge of everything,
only not of this baseness. Let this perish in shame and silence, as it
was brought forth in night and horror. And more than this! This wish is
the only crime for which there is commonly no expiation, no punishment
either before the tribunal of the outer world, or one's own conscience.
This is a case in which even that merciless judge which a man carries
about within him proves amenable to bribery. Thousands of people who
have once been guilty of this baseness go on living happily, put on
flesh in perfect peace of soul, and rejoice in the fulfilment of their
wish, which they themselves forget as speedily as possible, as soon as
ever it is fulfilled. It becomes absorbed into the soul, just as a germ
of disease becomes absorbed as soon as the stimulant of disease has
disappeared. It is lost without any trace, it is absolutely blotted out
by an abundance of social and personal virtues. I on no account say
that I condemn these people. What would become of the world if every
one who on looking into the glass discovered a wart on his face, were
to cut his throat in despair at the fact? The people I have described
to you are the healthy every-day people, whose so-called good
constitution can stand a blow, and who care not a rap if now and again
something objectionable sticks to them. Olga was moulded of finer clay,
her nervous system was sensible to lesser shocks, and what only caused
others a slight irritation, was to her already a lash of the whip. Such
natures are often somewhat morbid, they incline towards melancholy and
hysteria, and their soul-life is governed by imaginations, which, in
the eyes of others, are apt to assume the character of fixed ideas. And
yet everything about them is strictly normal, indeed their organism
works even more accurately than that of the ordinary, average human
being, and if one were to place them, like delicate chemical scales
under a glass case, one might see them work wonders. As a rule a
certain weakness of purpose cleaves to this class of sensitive people,
which makes them shyly retreat into themselves at the slightest
extraneous touch--and this is lucky for them; for thus they are saved
all violent collision with the outer world, to which they would not,
after all, prove equal. But woe to those among them who are driven by
some impetuous desire, some mighty passion, straight among rocks and
thorns! Then it is very possible that an adhering thorn, which others
would hardly have noticed, may become to them a poisoned arrow, and
corrode their body and soul till they perish in consequence. There,
now, I have talked enough. Here lie two or three more sheets. Listen!
Here we shall learn how one may be ruined by a wish."




                                 VIII.


"Of that which now followed, I have only retained a vague recollection.
I remember that I suddenly uttered a shriek, which made even Martha
start up, that I flung myself down at her bedside, clutched her burning
hands, and continued to cry out, 'Save me! save me! wake up!'

"And then again I find myself in a different room, into which Robert
has taken me. I remember how, there, in the looking-glass, I recognised
my distorted face, bathed in the perspiration of terror, how I burst
into a laugh, and, shuddering at my own laughter, sank all in a heap,
and how all the while, chuckling and hissing with a thousand covetous
voices, there came sounding in my ears the wish: 'Oh, that she might
die!' How shall I describe it all, without being hunted to death by the
spectres of that night?

"The only clear remembrance that I still retain is that suddenly the
doctor's dear old face was bending over me, that I had to drink
something that tasted bitter, and--then I know nothing more.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"When I awoke the pale light of dawn gleamed through the windows. My
head ached, I looked around dazed, and then it seemed as if I saw
written on the whitewashed wall opposite, the words: 'Oh, that she
might die!'

"I shuddered, and then the thought rose within me: 'Now, if she dies,
it will be your wish which has murdered her.'

"I pulled myself together, and walked up to the looking-glass.

"'So this is what a woman looks like who wishes her sister might die!'
said I, while my ashen-pale face stared back at me; and, seized with a
sudden loathing, I hit at the glass with my fist. My knuckles bled, but
it did not break. Fool that I was, not to know that henceforth all the
world would only be there to hold up a mirror to my crime!

"'But perhaps she may not die!' it suddenly darted through my brain.
Such radiance seemed to burst forth from this thought, that I closed my
eyes as if dazzled.

"And then again it cried aloud within me: 'She will die; your wish has
murdered her!' I ground my teeth, and groping along by the walls, I
crept into the sick room.

"When I stood at the door, and no longer heard any sound from within,
the idea took possession of me:

"'You will find her as a corpse.'

"No, she still lived, but death had already set his mark upon her face.

"The bridge of the nose had become more prominent, her lips no longer
closed over her irregular teeth, her eyes seemed to have sunk right
down into their dark sockets.

"At her feet stood Robert and the old doctor. Robert had pressed his
hands to his face. Sobs shook his frame. The old man scrutinised me
with a penetrating glance. Again, for a moment, I felt as if he were
looking me through and through, as if my guilt were openly exposed
before him. But then, as he hastened towards me, who was tottering, and
held me upright in his arms, I recognised that it was only the
physician's glance with which he had examined me.

"'How long will she live yet?' I asked, closing my eyes.

"'She is dying!'

"At that moment something within me grew rigid, turned to stone. At
that moment hope died within me, and with it my faith in myself, in
happiness, in goodness. A great calm came over me. Death, which hovered
over this bed, had spread its dark pinions around my body too. With the
clear vision of a prophetess, I saw what yet remained to me of life,
spread out unveiled before my eyes. Like one dead I should henceforth
have to wander upon earth, like one dead I should have to cling to
life, like one dead see that happiness approach me, which was for ever
lost to me. Robert stepped up to me and embraced me. I calmly suffered
it, I felt nothing more.

"Then I sat down close to my sister's bedside, and looked at her,
waiting for her death.

"Attentively I followed every symptom of her slow expiring. I felt as
if my consciousness had separated itself from me, as if I could see
myself sitting there like a stone figure, staring into the dying
woman's face.

"No feverish illusion, no morbid self-incrimination any longer
disturbed the course of my ideas. It was by this time clear to me that
my wish could not in reality bring death upon her, and yet--for me and
my conscience it remained the wish alone which had killed her.

"Thus I sat, as her murderess, at her bedside, and waited for her death
which was also mine.

"It was a long time coming. The hours of the day passed and she still
lived. Her pulse had long ceased to beat, her heart seemed to stand
still, and yet her breath continued to come and go in short feeble
gasps. While I was lying in a morphia sleep, they had given her as a
last resource an injection of musk to revive her strength once more.
This was what she was existing on now. But the odour of musk, mingling
with the carbolic vapours, filled the room like some heavy, tangible
body, weighed on my brow and seemed to crush my temples. I felt as if
with every breath I were drinking in increasing burdens.

"In the afternoon Robert's parents came. I, who had yesterday shown my
aunt only pride and contempt, to-day kissed her hand in humiliation.
This was the beginning of the penance which I had inflicted upon myself
at Martha's death-bed, and which shall endure as long as I live.

"Evening came on. Marta still continued to breathe. With wide-open
mouth, her dead eyes covered with a film, she stared at me. Her body
seemed to get smaller and smaller, quite shrunk together she lay there.
It almost looked as if in death she did not venture to take up even the
small space which she had occupied during her lifetime.

"Aunt filled the house with her loathsome sobbing, and the others, too,
were weeping; I alone remained without tears.

"When towards eleven o'clock she had drawn her last breath, I fell into
a delirium.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"Just now I have returned from the manor.

"He was good and kind towards me, and in his eyes there gleamed a
half-hidden, bashful tenderness, which my soul drank in eagerly. I feel
as if a new spring-time must be coming, my heart is full of smiles and
laughter, and when I close my eyes golden sunlight rays seem to be
dancing round about me. But now away with this enervating dream of
happiness!

"If he should learn to love me, all the worse for him! I gave him no
occasion--no, indeed not! I should feel I must despise myself like a
very prostitute if I had done so. Since my convalescence I have managed
his household for him truly and faithfully, for more than a year,
without claiming his approval, without wishing to grow indispensable to
him. Even my dear aunt has had to recognise that, who almost forces her
hospitality upon me, in spite of my being personally so hateful to her.
She is much too good a housekeeper herself not to know that, but for
me, the household would have gone to rack and ruin in those days, when
Robert forgot everything in gloomy mourning for his dead--not even
taking any interest in the child, which she had left him as a pledge.
But for me, the poor little thing would be lying under the ground long
ago. I will not enumerate all I did and worked during this time. It is
surely not meet for me to play the Pharisee.

"Nor will I speak of expiation. How pompous the word sounds, and what
miserable self-deception generally hides behind it! How shall I wash
away what defiles me? One may expiate some tragic guilt, one can even
expiate some great crime, but a piece of baseness such as I committed,
cleaves to the soul for ever! Ah, if I did not know what secret desire
lurks in the depths of my heart!

"Why else should I require to stand there absolved before my own
conscience, if not in order that I might one day become his? As if
everlasting fate itself had not reared up a wall between us, reaching
up from the depths of _her_ grave as high as the stars.

"And if some demon should ever whisper into his ear, advising him to
stretch out his hand for me, what else could I do but repulse him, as
if for his audacity? But he will never do such a thing. I have
succeeded in keeping him at a distance. Let him believe that I have a
poor opinion of him, let him believe that I am haughty and unfeeling
through self-love. I shall know how to guard my heart's secret.

"If only one thing were not so!

"Sometimes, especially at night, when I am staring into the darkness, a
wild, mad longing comes over me with such power, that I feel as if I
must succumb to it. It seizes me like a feverish delirium; it dims my
senses, and makes my blood boil in my veins; it is the longing to lie
just for once upon his breast, and there to weep my heart out. For in
those nights my tears were dried up. I have never been able to weep
since the day when I found Martha lying on her sick-bed.


                           *   *   *   *   *


                                        "_A fortnight later_.

"It has come to pass. He loves me. He came to woo me. Now I know that
there is an expiation! These tortures must indeed purify! Jesus,
I have lost my childish faith in Thee, but Thou wast a man. Thou hast
suffered like me. Thee I implore--no, this is madness! Come to your
senses, woman; pull yourself together. Is there not an everlasting
resting-place, whither you may flee by your own free will, if your
strength is no longer equal to the misery of this life? Who is to
prevent you?

"He loves me. I have attained it. But in order that he might love me,
Martha had first to perish, I myself had to sink down into an abyss of
guilt and shame from which no power in heaven or on earth can save me.

"I am dead. Dead shall be my desires and my hopes, and my rebellious
blood, which wells up seething at thought of him. I will soon compel it
to be calm; and if not----.

"Oh, how he stood before me, timidly stammering forth word by word. How
shyly and imploringly his eye sought mine, and yet how he hardly dared
to raise his glance from the ground. How, in his awkwardness, he
twisted the ends of his beard round his fingers, and stamped his foot
when he could not find the right word! Oh, my poor dear, big child, did
you not see how my every limb was trembling with the desire to rush
towards you and hold you tight for all eternity, did you not see how my
lips were twitching with the temptation to press themselves upon yours,
and to hang there till their last breath?

"Did you not see all this?

"Did you really believe the words, which half unconsciously I spoke to
you? My heart knows nothing of them, that I swear to you. I have loved
you ever since I can remember. I know that my last breath will utter
your name.

"And shame on you, if you really had faith in my pretexts! I leave you
for a rich girl! You, for whom I would gladly beg in the streets, for
whom I would work till my eyes grew dim and my fingers sore, if you
needed it!

"Do you remember that night in our parents' house, when you were wooing
Martha? Do you remember it and dare to insult me by putting faith in my
miserable excuses?

"And when at parting I gave you my hand, why did you look into my eyes
so sadly and humbly? Did you not know that now that look will haunt me
day and night like the reproach of some heavy crime I have committed
towards you?

"No, my friend, you are the only one on earth who have nothing to
reproach me with. Towards you I have acted honestly--and most honestly
to-day, even though you were never so unutterably deceived as to-day!
If only I might tell you how much I love you! How gladly would I die in
that self-same hour. Only once to lie upon your breast--only once to
hide my head upon your shoulder and weep, weep--weep blood and tears!

"You must never again look at me like that, my giant, as if I had had a
right to despise you, as if you were too simple and not good enough for
me. I do not know what I might not do in that case! Heaven protect you
from me and my love!


                           *   *   *   *   *


                                        "_A week later_.

"And now I have done it _after all_! I have thrown myself upon his
neck; I have satiated myself with his kisses; I have wept my fill in
his arms!

"I am calm--quite calm. I have tasted whatever of happiness life had
left to offer me, the sinner.

"But what now?

"Since hours I have been face to face with the last great question:
'Shall I flee or die?'

"One or the other I must do this very night; for to-morrow he will come
to lead me to Martha's grave.

"Rather than follow him thither, I will die!

"But I will even assume that I could be enough of a hypocrite not to
drop down beside the grave and confess all to him, I will assume that I
should not be choked with loathing of myself, that I should really have
enough wretched courage to become his wife; what sort of a life should
I lead at his side?

"What is the good of clinging to happiness when one has long since
forfeited it? Should I not slink about like some poor criminal in her
last hours, everlastingly tortured by the fear of betraying myself to
him, and yet filled with the desire to proclaim my guilt to the whole
world? How could I sleep in the bed out of which I wished her into her
grave! How could I wake between the walls on which there still stands
written in flaming letters: 'Oh, that she might die!'

"I will converse quite calmly and sensibly with myself, as is meet for
one who is making up the account of her life. That I cannot become his
wife I know very well.

"Shall I flee?--What should I do among strangers? I know them. I know
these people and despise them. They have wrought evil towards me; they
would torment me again in the future.

"All the faith, all the love, all the hope still remaining to me, have
their foundation in him alone.

"So I must die! The bottles of morphia stand, well preserved, in the
corner of my cupboard. I had some suspicion that I might want them,
when, in defiance of the old doctor, I secretly saved up their
contents. The few hours of sleep which I thereby lost, will now be
amply compensated for.

"Only a letter yet to my uncle the doctor; he shall be my heir and my
confidant. Perhaps he can help me to wipe away all traces of my deed,
so that Robert may suspect nothing. Not a greeting to him. That is the
hardest of all, but it must be so.


                           *   *   *   *   *


"I have run out secretly and posted the letter. The watchman was
signalling midnight. How empty, how dark is the whole world! In the
lime-trees the wind is soughing. Here and there a light is sadly
gleaming as if to illumine hidden sorrows. A drunken fellow came
shouting along the road and made as if to attack me. Darkness, poverty,
and brutality out there--in here guilt and unappeasable longing--that
would be my future. Verily this life has nothing more to offer me.

"People talk and write so much about the terror of death. I feel
nothing of it. I am content, for I have wept my fill. Those suppressed
tears weighed heavily upon me; and weeping makes one weary, they say.
Good-night!"




                                The End.







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wish, by Hermann Sudermann

*** 