CHAPTER II.
"I do wish, Eugen, you would make up your mind. What is the good of all this doubting and fluctuating?"
The young man to whom these words were addressed, lifted his head slowly and said in a tone of unconcealed bitterness--
"I wish you knew what such a conflict was, then you would understand how difficult decision is!"
"I don't think I should. If my whole future lay on one side, and a youthful love affair, already half cooled down, on the other, there would be no conflict at all in my case, but simply necessity, which I should bow to, at any price."
"And if it cost the breaking of a heart?"
"Mein Gott! don't look at the matter in such a terribly tragical way. Broken hearts, dying in sacrifice to unhappy love, may be very effective and touching in novels, but don't exist in actual life, and such a simple girl as your fiancée, is not likely to fall a victim to this romantic martyrdom. Of course the loss of her bräutigam[[1]] will cost her some tears, but she will get over it, and a year and a day after will marry some respectable Bürger and Councillor of B., who will suit her much better, and make her much happier than you would ever be able to do."
"I wish you would be quiet, Hermann!" cried Eugen violently. "You don't know Gertrud, and for that reason you are always unjust to her."
"That may be. I have, as you know, a decided antipathy to everything narrow and bürgerlich,[[2]] and when it stands in the way of a man's career, and drags him down into the lowest sphere of life, I simply hate it!"
Eugen had no reply ready for these decided words. He sprang up, went to the window, and pressing his brow against the glass, looked out on the park, which lay before him in the dewy freshness of a June morning. The sun shone warmly into the ancient pavilion, with its half obliterated frescoes on walls and roof, on the gilded, richly carved furniture, with its faded figured damask of the last century; and lighted up brightly the figures of the two young men seated there. The one who leaned against the window had a tall, slender figure, and a face, which, without being regularly beautiful, was yet singularly attractive at first sight. There was a mighty charm in these features, a world of passion and dreaminess in the dark eyes, and cloudy brows, and the inward conflict which was now shown plainly enough in his countenance, gave a still deeper interest to this artistic head, with its wealth of dark hair.
His companion possessed little or none of these fascinating attractions. He was smaller, but more powerfully built, with irregular features, which would have made him decidedly plain, but for the high, finely moulded brow, which gave a remarkable and peculiar character to the whole countenance. His keen grey eyes, almost too keen for a man of four-and-twenty, looked out calmly and clearly from beneath it, and seemed in keeping with the sharply defined lines round the mouth, a feature full of energy and decision, but cold and bitter in expression, robbing the countenance of all youthfulness, and making it at some moments almost repulsive. The young man spoke calmly, leaning back at his ease in the arm chair, and contemplating his agitated friend with almost indifference, but in spite of his calmness and indifferent mien, there was an air of unconscious nobility in his bearing, a decided superiority, which was wanting in Eugen, who, leaning gracefully against the window, dreamily contemplating the clouds, was certainly interesting, but perhaps a little theatrical in appearance.
A momentary pause in the conversation had occurred, suddenly broken by Hermann with the question--
"What is your feeling with regard to Antonie?"
A deep sigh, and a movement of impatience was the only answer.
"You love her?"
"I worship her!"
"And this worship gives her only too much satisfaction. But now, do you imagine that my proud cousin would be the one to suffer a rival in the shape of an unknown, insignificant little Bürgermädchen? Take care, if she should find it out sooner or later; I assure you, it would dash all your hopes to the ground at once."
Eugen looked moodily into space.
"Hopes! How could I dare to have any? Am not I bürgerlich, with no great name, no fortune--do you really imagine that she would be ready to sacrifice her name and rank for me, that Countess Arnau could ever become the wife of an unknown painter?"
A sarcastic smile quivered round Hermann's lips--
"Well, if you cannot tell, I am not the one to give you any certainty about the matter. But," added he, mockingly, "it seems to me you are pretty sure of your ground, and that there is not much danger of having 'No' for an answer. Just on that account you must decide for yourself. How shall it be? What have you decided?"
Eugen threw himself back into his chair with a despairing exclamation.
"Do not torment me with such questions, Hermann! You see my difficulties! It would be kinder to show me some way out of this labyrinth."
"The way is plain enough before you! Be a man, and rouse yourself to action energetically. Break quickly and decidedly the chain which has held you down so far, you owe it to Antonie, to your own future, if you do not intend your love for her to be an insult. And then, when you are free, come with me to Italy. The tour is really necessary for the completion of your art studies; if your finances don't admit of it, mine are at your disposal. Come, make haste and decide."
The decided, almost commanding manner of the friend, did not seem to admit of any contradiction, and did not fail to impress the young painter, who wrung his hands in deep inward conflict with himself.
"I know you are right, only too right. I feel it in every word you say, but, Gertrud! Gertrud! Call me weak, call me what you will, but I cannot bear to know that she is unhappy, unhappy through me."
With a movement of the greatest impatience, Hermann pushed back his chair and sprang up.
"Well, then, if you cannot, I shall act for you. Ah, here comes Antonie, just at the right time."
"What are you going to do?" cried Eugen, alarmed.
"Cut the knot which ties you to despair! Good morning, liebe Toni."
Eugen longed to protest and entreat against his friend's intentions, which he dimly portended, but it was already too late. A dress rustled before the door of the pavilion, and a young lady crossed the threshold.
Countess Antonie Arnau was certainly a being whose appearance could well justify the passion of a young artist. A slender refined figure, and a face of truly poetic beauty. A pair of dark eyes, full of dreamy fire, looked out from a somewhat pale face, surrounded by dark hair, artistically arranged, and falling thickly on her white embroidered morning dress. Her movements and bearing were full of grace, but nevertheless, there was a something in her air which betrayed that the young Countess was quite as well aware of her beauty as of her position in the world.
She shook hands with her cousin confidentially, while she answered Eugen's greeting with a smile, and then said playfully--,
"I thought I was the first in the park today, but I see the gentlemen are already before me, and are holding a most important conference here."
Hermann shrugged his shoulders.
"Important, yes, but entirely without result! I have been trying in vain for an hour to convince Eugen of the necessity of his companionship on my tour to Italy."
"What, Herr Reinert," and the beautiful woman glanced surprised and reproachfully at the young artist. "You hesitate? I thought it was a settled matter, and fully expected to see you again in Rome with Hermann."
Eugen was silent, and sent across a half pleading, half threatening glance to Hermann, who appeared not to see it, for he replied calmly--
"You were mistaken, Antonie; Eugen has altered his plans. He declines to go, and prefers returning to his native town, to lead his fiancée--"
"Hermann!" cried Eugen, who had hitherto vainly endeavoured to put in a word.
"To lead his fiancée, a Bürgermädchen there, to the hymeneal altar," concluded Hermann, not the least disturbed.
But these words had a formidable effect upon Antonie. For the first moment she was deadly pale, and her hand unconsciously grasped the arm of the chair to support herself, then a sudden flush suffused her countenance, and a flash shot from her dark eyes--a glance which disfigured the beautiful face, a glance which seemed ready to annihilate Eugen, who stood resistless before her. Then, gathering together all her strength, she turned away from both to the window, thus shielding at least her countenance from Hermann's sharply observant eyes.
The latter evidently felt that a third was superfluous in the explanation, which must inevitably follow, Antonie already knew enough. He took up his hat from the table--
"Excuse me a few moments. I have forgotten to give an order in the Castle. I will be back directly."
The excuse was hardly necessary; neither Antonie nor Eugen appeared to hear it, and the young Count Arnau, who detested "scenes," and saw a most stormy one impending, hurried away from the pavilion, closing the door behind him.
The two occupants of the room stood at first silently before one another. Antonie was still striving for self-command, and Eugen could find no words with which to defend himself.
He fought between anger against Hermann, and shame at the painfully humiliating situation in which he found himself, in which, indeed, his friend had placed him. The Countess was the first to speak.
"I regret, Herr Reinert, that I have only this moment become aware of your engagement through my cousin, or I should have congratulated you long since."
The icy glance and freezing tone roused Eugen from his insensibility, and he made an attempt to hurry towards her, "Um Gotteswillen, Antonie, not that tone!"
With a look of the proudest contempt she drew back.
"Sir, you seem to forget that you are addressing Countess Arnau."
Neither words nor expression could have been chosen, which could convey more scorn, Eugen turned pale, his self confidence returned and gave him back new courage, deeply offended, he retired a step--"Pardon, gnädigste Gräfin![[3]] I believe it is the first time that you have found it necessary to remind me of the gulf between us, and I give you my word that it shall be the last."
He bowed and strode towards the door, Antonie looked after him waveringly. She felt she had gone too far, and that she at least ought not to have spoken thus, and quick in repentance as in anger, she called him back.
"Reinert!"
He half turned.
"What are your commands, gnädigste Gräfin?"
But the passionate woman's pride and self command had come to an end alike, she had never possessed more than a small share of either. Accustomed to give way to every outbreak of feeling, she sank down on the sofa and burst into a violent fit of weeping.
Eugen heard this, and stopped; he looked back, saw the beautiful tear-wet countenance turned towards him, and the next minute he was by her side.
"You are crying, Gräfin? May I speak to you? Antonie, will you condemn me unheard?"
This time no hard refusal followed his confidential tone. She looked up at him, fighting between love and anger, but Eugen saw that he might now dare to justify himself, and did not hesitate to do so.
"Yes, it is true I am bound, and this bond has become the curse of my life. When I returned to my native town some years ago, I saw once more a young girl, who had been a playfellow of mine. She was an orphan, scarcely beyond childhood, I thought I loved her, and her guardian urged me to declaration--so she became my fiancée. It was a step too hastily taken, but I wore the chain, and would have worn it patiently to the end. Then I came here and saw you, Antonie, and from that moment began the long fearful conflict between duty and passion. I must tear myself away from you, indeed, from every remembrance of you, if I would not succumb to this. Let my talent, let my whole future perish in that narrow confined sphere, let me know despair in an empty, joyless marriage--what is art to me, what, indeed, life itself, if I must renounce you!"
He had spoken with ever rising agitation, and Antonie had ceased weeping, anger had given place to compassion, and, as he concluded, every reproach had perished in the fear of losing the beloved one.
Countess Arnau was not the woman to recognise the claims of an outsider, where she alone would possess all.
"Renounce?" asked she softly, with dropped eyelids. But a world of encouragement lay in the tone, "and why?"
"You ask me? May I dare, then, to woo you? I am poor, you know it. I have nothing but my art. You stand so high, your position in life is so brilliant--"
His glance, resting with burning passion upon the beautiful woman's face, contradicted these words of renunciation. She looked up and smiled.
"And I am free, Eugen, quite free! You had forgotten that!
"Antonie!"
He rushed passionately to her feet.
"Give me the hope, give me the certainty, that I may one day win you, and I will break my chain, cost what it may. Tell me, that you will be mine, in spite of your name, in spite of your family, and I will burst all bonds asunder, and win happiness, if need be, by force!"
Antonie bent down to her kneeling lover, love plainly to be seen in her eyes--she was, indeed, wonderfully beautiful at this moment.
"I fear no bonds. I know by experience how empty splendour and riches can make life, in a marriage where there is no love. Free yourself, cultivate your genius, and then, when your first work has won you an artist's fame,--then come and fetch the prize of victory!"