CHAPTER XII.
[BERTHA VON MASSENBURG].
After a long ride with Fritzchen, Egon returned to the castle later than usual. As they rode into the courtyard a dusty carriage was standing before the carriage-house, and old Wenzel informed them that the Fräulein from Berlin had arrived a little while before.
During the ride the talk of his lively young pupil had left Egon small time for reflection, and he really felt a desire to be alone for a time. Much as he usually enjoyed the evenings spent with the family, he preferred to pass this one in his own room, and he suspected also that his kind employers would be quite willing to dispense with his society upon this particular occasion. He therefore commissioned Fritzchen to tell his father that he would not intrude upon the family this evening, but would remain in his own apartments. Scarcely had he reached them, however, before Fritz made his appearance to say that his father had sent him to tell Herr Pigglewitch that he could not possibly intrude, and that he should expect him at the tea-table. After giving his message the boy hurried away, declaring that he must go instantly to his 'lovely new cousin.' She seemed to have quite supplanted his adored tutor, for the while, in the child's affections.
Of course Egon could not but comply with Herr von Osternau's expressed desire. Reluctant as he was to confront Bertha von Massenburg, he knew that he must meet her sooner or later, and he resigned himself with the best grace possible to the inevitable. He dressed quickly and repaired to the tea-room.
Before he reached it he heard the notes of a popular Conzertstück played with great execution. He paused in the corridor and listened. He knew the thing well enough, he had played it several times himself, but always with distaste, for he did not like this style of music, but he listened attentively, for he knew how much practice it must have required before it could be rendered thus clearly and brilliantly.
He did not listen long, for there could be, he thought, no better moment in which to enter the room unnoticed than just when every one was occupied in listening to the music; he softly opened the door and entered.
His first glance fell upon the performer, whose back was towards him, his second upon a tall mirror opposite that reflected her face and figure. Involuntarily he stood still.
He had heard that Bertha von Massenburg was beautiful, and Herr von Sastrow's letter had confirmed the report, but the image reflected in the mirror amazed him by its wondrous, transporting beauty,--beauty consisting not only in faultless regularity of feature, but much more in the strange loveliness of expression, in the gentle smile of the delicately-chiselled mouth, in the dark, fiery eyes that sparkled beneath long lashes, in the grace which informed every motion of the full yet slender figure. A piano-player is seldom graceful in the exercise of her art, but with Bertha von Massenburg even the rapid movement of hands and fingers as they flew over the keys seemed natural and beautiful; therein lay one charm of her playing, and yet, masterly as it was, it lacked something,--it lacked depth of feeling. Was it really lacking? or was there no opportunity for its revelation in a brilliant drawing-room piece of music, which was calculated to display merely the execution and skill of the performer?
Egon remained standing near the door, after bowing to Herr and Frau von Osternau, and exchanging glances in the mirror with Lieschen, who stood with her back to him, turning over the leaves for her cousin. At last the piece was concluded; the performer arose, and was greeted with enthusiastic applause from the Lieutenant, who advanced from the recess of a window. Herr von Osternau also expressed his admiration of the performance. "Brilliant indeed," he said. "You are an artist, not a dilettante. You will have all the more pleasure in making the acquaintance of another artist in our Fritz's tutor, Herr Pigglewitch, whom I beg leave to present to you."
The smile which Egon's assumed name when first heard was sure to provoke hovered upon Bertha's lips as she turned to the tutor, looking at him with evident interest and curiosity. Her glance took in his entire figure, his movements, his bow upon being presented, in short, she observed him so closely as almost to embarrass him, as she said, easily, "My kind uncle pays a very high compliment to my indifferent performance in ranking me with you, Herr Pigglewitch,"--the smile deepened on the charming mouth. "I have heard that you are a true artist, and had I known that you were standing behind me I might have hesitated to continue my performance and subject myself to your criticism."
She had seen Egon in the mirror upon his first entrance, and he knew that this was so, for their glances had met. "I hate falsehood!" Lieschen had said. Why was Bertha untrue? Where was her inducement to be so? Had untruth become to her a second nature, as to so many women of the world of society? Egon suddenly felt himself transported to the old life which he knew so well,--Herr von Osternau's pleasant room changed to a brilliant ball-room, and before him stood one of the ball-room puppets whom he so hated and despised, particularly when they tried to make themselves attractive by flattering him.
Involuntarily he stood more erect. The disdainful smile which Lieschen had so disliked, and which she had not seen of late, appeared on his lips as he replied, "Is it possible that you fear criticism, Fräulein? A mastery of technique is the ideal of our modern art. You are certainly aware that the sternest critic would not withhold his recognition of the brilliancy of your execution, but must pronounce you a virtuoso indeed."
"A virtuoso? My kind uncle called me an artist, and I was proud that he did so."
"Who makes such subtile distinctions nowadays? The virtuoso is the only true artist. He alone represents the true modern ideal; he is never led astray by the genius, now so out of fashion, of wearisome classical music."
Her eyes flashed. "You think you can interpret this genius, or you would not pass such a criticism upon modern art," Bertha replied, sharply. "Pray take my place at the piano. He who pronounces such sentences must justify them by his own performance."
Her cheek flushed slightly as she spoke, her dark eyes glowed, she seemed to Egon at the moment enchantingly beautiful. Her tone and her words were not those of a ball-room puppet. Bertha was not of them, then; she could be vexed and angry and could transgress conventional forms, as was proved by her request to him and by its manner.
He obeyed, dominated by her glance. He took her place at the piano, but for a few moments his hands rested idly upon the keys and his eyes were downcast. The glow in those large black eyes recalled to him the memory of old days which he had thought half forgotten, when suddenly the eyes into which he gazed turned, in his vision, from black to dark, melting blue, and were filled with sympathy for the mental struggles through which he was constantly passing. The spell of the moment that had summoned up the past was dissolved; he belonged again to the peaceful present. Involuntarily the hands upon the keys began to give expression to the gladness that arose within him. He played he knew not what, the various melodies awoke and resolved themselves to harmony beneath his touch, he played as if in a dream, uttering in tones all that he would have said to the lovely child to whom he owed a new and delicious content of soul,--exulting words of joy, gentle words of gratitude, tender words of love.
"Bravo! bravo!" The Lieutenant, desirous of showing his impartial love of art by applauding the detested tutor, clapped his hands loudly. His 'bravo!' roused Egon from his dream as the last notes died away.
He arose. His first glance sought Lieschen, who had been standing behind him, and, who involuntarily held out her hand to him, while tears stood in her frank eyes.
Bertha seemed no less affected. "Thank you," she said, and her voice faltered. "I promise you that you never shall hear a drawing-room performance from me again."
"Splendid! wonderful!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Herr Pigglewitch, you have surpassed yourself, you never played so delightfully before. It is your work, Fräulein von Massenburg. Of course, Herr Pigglewitch did his best not to disgrace himself before such an artist. You must play us something else, Herr Pigglewitch."
But this Egon was not to be induced to do, and to cut short the Lieutenant's persistence he closed the piano, and just in time, for Frau von Osternau at that moment called them to the tea-table.
Herr von Sastrow had declared that Bertha von Massenburg could be charming if she chose to be, and she certainly chose to be this evening; she captivated every member of the Osternau family, even, at last, Lieschen and Frau von Osternau, in spite of their prejudices. She did not appear to notice that at first Frau von Osternau's manner was but coolly courteous, and that Lieschen scarcely spoke at all, and never addressed her. She talked on innocently and gaily, and was so cordial and amiable that Frau von Osternau could not but abandon her reserve, and Lieschen became herself once more. As for the head of the house, Bertha had charmed him from the very first, while the Lieutenant was quite enraptured by her, although she paid him less attention than she bestowed upon any other of the little circle. She was more gracious even to the tutor than to Cousin Albrecht.
Indeed, the manner in which she included Egon in the conversation was especially pleasing to Herr von Osternau. In every word which she addressed to the young man she showed the estimation in which she held so accomplished a musician. She said not one flattering word to him with regard to the pleasure he had given her, but there was a respectful acknowledgment of his superiority in the way in which she listened to everything that he said when the conversation turned upon modern music.
With infinite tact she avoided dwelling upon her late stay in Berlin when the Lieutenant clumsily alluded to it. She spoke of her uncle von Sastrow with the greatest affection, but speedily contrived to change the subject.
The evening passed delightfully. The head of the house was late in giving the sign for retiring, and did so at last only in view of his wife's admonition that it was time to bid good-night, since he generally paid for so pleasant an evening by some hours of sleeplessness.
"Well, Emma," he said when he and his wife were again alone together, "do you now think that Bertha will be a disturbing element in our little circle? I fancy you are cured of your prejudice against her."
Frau von Osternau did not immediately reply, perhaps she would gladly have been relieved from the necessity of doing so, but when her husband repeated his question she said, "I have not yet made up my mind about Bertha. I confess that so long as I was with her, and listened to her gay, innocent talk, and looked into her dark, sparkling eyes, I was charmed with her; she captivated me as she did you and Albrecht and Herr Pigglewitch, and even Lieschen, who finally treated her as affectionately as she used to do when Bertha visited us years ago. But now that she is no longer present, and that I am not subject to the magic of her eye, I am doubtful about her. Was her amiability from the heart? She seems unaffected, but is she so in reality? I must defer giving you my opinion of Bertha until we have known her longer."
The same doubt that troubled the gentle mistress of the castle tormented Egon, as he paced his room to and fro, pondering upon the evening he had just passed. Frau von Osternau was right in saying that Bertha had captivated him; she seemed to him so wondrously beautiful that even Lieschen's lovely image paled beside her.
"If you had seen her a while ago you would not have fled from Berlin, and she would have been your wife," he said to himself, and his imagination ran riot in picturing what might then have been his future. To call that exquisite creature his own, to love her and be loved in return, to spend his life beside her,--the thought quickened his pulses and his temples throbbed.
He opened the window. The cool night air refreshed him. As he looked out into the black night of the garden, two strips of light were marked distinctly upon the dark lawn. The one was thrown there by the light in his room. Whence came the other? Involuntarily he wondered, whence? Ah, from Lieschen's window. Was she too gazing out into the dark night? Her image suddenly arose in his soul as clear and distinct as Bertha's, it looked at him reproachfully, the lips parted to say, "I detest nothing so much as falsehood!" He almost heard the words.
Clearer and more brilliant grew Lieschen's fair and lovely image, while Bertha's faded into night and darkness. He turned from the window calmed and cheered.