CHAPTER VII.
"Are you sick, my dear George?" said Doctor Snellius, entering my room one evening.
I had not seen the doctor since we last parted so unpleasantly, and the visit of the man with the keen spectacles and the keen eyes behind them was doubly disagreeable to one who wished to avoid the gaze of every one. He must have noticed my embarrassment, for the tone of his voice was unusually soft and gentle when he spoke again, after taking his place by the fire.
"I knew it from Klaus Pinnow, who perceived that something was amiss with you, and from Paula, who has perceived nothing because you have not been near her, and who sends me to you for this reason. What is it, my friend? Your hand is hot, you look wretchedly, and you have decided fever. What is amiss?"
"I feel quite well," I answered--drawing my large hand out of the doctor's, which was small and delicate as a woman's, and with it screening my brow and eyes from the sharp spectacles--"perfectly well."
"You must then have some mental trouble, some great distress, which affects natures like yours more powerfully than severe sickness does others. Is it so?"
"You may be right there," I answered.
"And can you not tell me what it is?" asked the doctor, drawing nearer to me, and laying his small hand upon my other hand which rested on my knee.
"It is not worth talking about," I answered. "A curious story--something like one which I have read somewhere or other--about a young man who loved a beautiful woman who was a witch, and one night as he stretched out his hand to take hers she had vanished--out of the chimney--to the Blocksberg--to the devil, I suppose!"
And I sprang up, paced the room for a few minutes in great agitation, and then threw myself again into my chair.
"The story is rather too mystical to build a diagnosis upon," the doctor remarked, in a kind voice, drawing still nearer, and, as he could not take my hand, laying his own familiarly upon my knee.
"Then listen to this: A youth of nineteen loved a beautiful girl of about the same age--loved her passionately, as one loves at those years, especially, when solitude and romantic associations heighten the charm. He was deceived by the girl, and finally shamefully betrayed; and yet he never could forget her, and in the eight or nine years that follows his heart palpitated in his breast whenever he thought of her. And then an accident brought her to him again--just as he had expected to find her--a lost girl, who had been the mistress of I know not how many men. He cannot doubt it--indeed she tells him so herself--and yet while she tells him his heart throbs violently, and in his soul he longs to join the long train of his predecessors. And when she opens her arms he hastened to sink upon her breast in which there beats no heart. He plainly feels that no heart beats there; but a childish, an insane pity seizes him: he will warm this chilled heart again with the glow of his burning kisses, with his own heart's blood. And the phantom drinks his heart's blood--one, two, three nights; and when he wakes in the third, she has vanished as witches vanish, and the next night he sees her at the theatre coquetting with a young dandy, who drives home with her, while outside----"
"Stands the poor man, and beats his head with his fist, and tears out his hair by handfuls; we know all about that!" said Doctor Snellius, and softly patted my knee. "We know all about that," he repeated, touching me still more softly; "it is painful; but when a jaw-tooth with three long roots is pulled out, that is painful too, and so is the setting a broken arm. And I think the poor man whom I have just left is not in a frame of mind to be envied. It is a poor workman in your establishment; you doubtless know him; his name is Jacob Kraft, and he works, if I am not mistaken, in your shop. Well, his wife, a dear good woman, whom the young fellow had courted for many a long day, nine days ago bore a dead child, and now she lies dead herself, and by her bedside kneels poor Jacob and wishes that he had never been born. I do not think the poor fellow's feelings are to be envied. And young Frau Müller is not particularly happy either. Her husband left home this morning, well and cheerful, to go to his work on the new tramway, had his breast crushed in between two wagons, and will die to-night. Besides, my friend, we must all die, and 'after nine it will all be over,' as the manager of the theatre said when the pit hissed."
"Dying is not so much," I said; "I have more than once in my life wished to die, and thought it rather a greater thing that I did not, but kept on living this cursed life."
"And you did right, my friend," said the doctor.
"I am not sure," I replied, "if those Romans of whom I heard at school did not act both nobler and wiselier when they fell upon their swords so soon as the game was lost."
"Every one to his taste," said the doctor. "When a horse breaks his leg we shoot him; but with a man, we set it again; or, if it cannot be saved, cut it off and buckle on a leg of wood or cork, with which he hobbles on the remainder of his earthly pilgrimage. You have no idea, my friend, how little is really necessary to life: hardly more than head and heart. Yes, scarcely even that. You have, no doubt, yourself observed how many a man goes through life without a head; and that one can live with half a heart, or a quarter, I can testify from personal experience."
The doctor said this in a low, dejected tone of voice, as if talking to himself And he went on still, as if talking to himself, softly stroking my knee, and looking into the fire.
"Yes! with half a heart. It is not very easy or very pleasant living; one sometimes feels as if the breast would be crushed, or as if we must lie down just where we happen to be, and never rise up again. But we do get up again, and do some good, if not to ourselves to another whose shoe pinches him somewhere, and whom with our experience and our cobbler's skill we may possibly help. For, my friend, there are very few who are able to pull off their shoes, which in truth is not merely the best but the only way to be rid of all pain. So these people must be helped; and my life for many years has been but a pondering and study how this may be done on a large scale; for in a smaller sphere, as far as very limited private means can reach, I very well know what is to be done, and do all I can. Au revoir, my dear George: I still have a pair of old shoes to patch and a corn or two to trim."
Doctor Snellius gave me a friendly slap on the knee, clapped his worn hat on his bald head, turned in the door to give me an amicable nod, and left me alone.
A man not naturally ignoble is perhaps never more disposed or better fitted to sympathize in other's misfortunes than when he himself has a heavy sorrow. Thus the horrible treachery which Constance had practiced upon me opened my eyes and my heart to the doctor's trouble. That the singular man loved Paula I had never doubted; but as he always draped his love in a humorous cloak, I, in my simplicity, had never seen how strong and deep this love was. It seemed to me so evident that this dwarfish figure, with the misshapen bald head and the grotesquely ugly face, could never be loved by a beautiful slender maiden, as one looks upon it as a matter of course that a man who goes on crutches cannot dance upon the tight-rope. Now for the first time I saw what this man must have suffered through all these years--the man who, not without reason, and assuredly not without a reference to himself, said that a man to live scarcely required more than a head and a heart. And then I compared him, the stoical sufferer, with myself, and asked myself if he, the pure, the good, the noble, did not better deserve Paula's love than I, for this good fortune had always seemed to me a kind of miracle, of which I had ever felt myself unworthy, but never so unworthy as now.
Perhaps more than one youth of eighteen, who may read these lines, will smile compassionately, in the consciousness of his maturer experience, at the man of twenty-eight, who took such a trifle so deeply to heart. But he should consider that I had grown up among the simplest associations, had been eight years in prison, and now since I had lived in the city had employed all my time in carrying out my determination to be a good machinist. How could I have accumulated the experience of my wise censor? How could I know that love-troubles of this kind are to a man of the world what scars are to a brigand--not only honorable in his own eyes and those of his companions, but also in the eyes of the fair whose grace and favor he counts upon winning? I was but a great boy with all my twenty-eight years; I confess it with contrition, and beg my wise friend of eighteen to have patience with me.
Perhaps he will find this a difficult task, when he learns that I carried my folly so far as to feel convinced that I had given myself to the fair sinner, body and soul, forever, and that it was my duty henceforth to live for her; to save her if I could, to perish with her if I must; and that I felt myself nowise released from this obligation and free once more, when she wrote me a delicate little perfumed billet, saying that I was still as ever her good George, whom she loved dearly, but that she could not live with me, and had no wish to be saved by me, far less to perish with me.
But in my own eyes I was and remained a condemned criminal, severed from the companionship of the good and pure. Never for me should the flame glow on the domestic hearth, never a pure woman make me happy with her hand, never laughing children play around my knees. The curse with which unkind Nature had smitten the good doctor--the curse of never being loved as his heart yearned to be--I had in my folly invoked upon myself; and thus nothing remained for me but, like him, to renounce individual love, and, like him, to draw comfort and solace from the overflowing fountain of love for suffering humanity.
I was able to see, later, that the doctor, as wise as he was skilful, judged pretty accurately of my condition, and took a far less tragical view of it than I did. But the state of my thoughts and feelings at the moment fitted very well with his purposes. For years he had looked upon me as his pupil, and he might do so in more than one light. He had a great scheme in view in which he counted on his pupil's assistance, and this, in his opinion, was one step necessary to success.
I had always known that the worthy man, although he constantly maintained that while it was true that stupidity was a misfortune, it was none the less true that misfortune was in most cases mere stupidity--cherished a great love for the unfortunate stupids and the stupid unfortunates. How great this love was, I was now to know. He made me theoretically and practically acquainted with those social questions with which the whole world is now occupied, but then were only seen in their full importance by a few enlightened minds. He showed me the state of things in England, in France, and at home, and what might also be done in Germany upon the pattern of what had been done in England and France. Then he spoke of benefit-societies, of co-operative associations, and workmen's unions, of play-schools for children and trade-schools for adults, and all the means that have been devised to fight the universal enemy upon his own ground. At this time there had been next to nothing of this sort done among us: which was all the more unfortunate, as just at this time, with the springing up of the first railroads, manufactures received a quite unlooked-for expansion, the increased demand for labor brought an enormous influx of workmen, and with this an enormous increase of those evils which even under the old patriarchal relations it had not been possible entirely to prevent.
In my frame of mind at the time I was soon brought to enter into his views with passionate ardor. An ordinary workman, as I was, in brotherly intercourse with my fellow-workmen, I heard and saw everything that went on among them. Where my knowledge was at fault, Klaus, from his fuller experience, could supply the defect, and further than either reached the keen vision of the doctor, who saw into the darkest recesses which poverty and misery hide from the eyes of all but the physician. So we three interchanged experiences, and many an evening, after the heavy work of the day, sat around the doctor's table in consultation over the projects which the doctor had so long been nursing.
Alas! it was little, very little that we could do. On the one side, we had to contend with the stupidity of those who would rather go to ruin than abandon their old routine; and on the other side, with the dull selfishness of those who could not see why they might not prosper, even if the others were ruined.
"It is the old story of Hammer and Anvil," I said one evening to my two friends. "The workmen have so accustomed themselves to the dull passive part of the anvil that they can set nothing in motion, even when their own interest manifestly requires it. The manufacturers, on the other hand, think that as they are now the gentlemen of the hammer, they have only to pound away upon the anvil which, heaven be thanked, has remained patient so far."
"Have I not always told you that it has been so as long as the world has stood?" replied the doctor. "Now you see it for yourself."
"But there must be some remedy discoverable!" I cried. "I cannot let go the precious faith of our beloved friend."
"Not in the way in which he sought it," returned the doctor, shaking his big head. "He imagined that he could make men free by teaching them the dignity and sanctity of labor. 'They were not willing to work when they should have been; now they must whether they will or not; and my task is to bring them to will that which they must. They were not free when they were at liberty; I would make them truly free while they are in captivity, that from bondage they may come forth as free men'--such speeches as these, how often have we heard from his lips? And he firmly believed it all, noble enthusiast that he was, because he did not know the world, did not know that labor is a commodity in the market of the world, which, like every other, is subject to the great laws of supply and demand; and that these may stand so adjusted that the free diligent workman may find himself in a pass where neither his freedom, his diligence, nor his work is worth a farthing. So the cause of Anvil versus Hammer is appealed to a higher court, where it will be decided according to the great laws of history and political economy, with a verdict--as our friend had correctly discovered--, that both parties were guilty and liable for the costs of the suit."
"That may quiet our anxiety as to the final result," I said; "but if I rightly understood our friend, the better man might in himself compose this difference, as he is conscious that at every moment he at once acts and suffers, gives and receives, bears and is borne--in a word, is both Hammer and Anvil."
"Very fine and honorable for him who so penetrates himself with this truth that it influences all his actions," replied the doctor. "But the common good is less dependent upon this than it seems; and lucky that it is so, for so soon as the individual has power, for instance riches, he is seized with a damnable itching to abuse it. What then is to become of poor humanity?"
"And yet you abused me that I did not clutch with both hands at your offer to intrust all your fortune to me, which I should have cheated you out of forthwith, as a good start on my way to a million."
"That is a very different matter," said the doctor, in some confusion.
"I do not see why," I answered. "What security have you that I can resist temptation better than another? Or do I, with my broad shoulders, look as if I would go through the needle's eye easier than our worthy commerzienrath?"
"Do not compare yourself with that monster," cried the doctor in a rage. "Did I never show you the letter in which he answered my request that he would take an interest in our projects? Here, you can skip that part--a coarse joke about people who count their chickens before they are hatched---but here: 'Co-operative associations? Stuff and nonsense! There is a shop at every corner. Beneficial societies for the sick?--burial societies? I want healthy workmen, and have always had as many as I wanted, and more too. The sick are your affair, not mine, respected Herr Doctor; and as for dying, it is not likely that either of us can hinder that?'"
"He is a fool!" cried the doctor, tearing the letter in fragments and stamping upon it; "a fellow with no bowels; no better than a caterpillar in human form!"
"But so is every one who has a million, doctor."
"Oh, you always have an apology for him," crowed Doctor Snellius.
In this he was not altogether wrong: I could never feel as indignant with the man as I should have felt with another. For, after all, the man in the blue frock-coat with gold buttons, and the yellow nankeen trousers, was a figure that belonged to the days of my childhood, upon whom, be he what he might, there ever lay a light from the sun that had shone upon those days. And what this is, is known to every one who has had a childhood; which, unhappily, is more than many can say of themselves. Let this sun but once shine upon any one, nay, upon any lifeless thing, and they are invested with a charter that at all times we willingly respect. And then there was another reason or two for my looking upon the rich commerzienrath in another light than did my good but bitter friend. To be sure, when I thought of it, I could not comprehend--nor have I comprehended to this day--how this man could be the father of the lovely, blue-eyed Hermine; but so he was, like an uncouth, rough, prickly, and not over-clean shell, in which lay this precious pearl, and which had to be grasped if one wished to enjoy the sight of the pearl's beauty. This was easier for me, as I had always seen shell and pearl together; that is, I had always seen the best side of the shell, the smoothest and most agreeable side, which it turned towards the daughter pearl within. Another reason was, the old cynic seemed to me a kind of original in his way, and I had always had a liking for that class of men.
I had not seen him since our meeting on board the steamer, although he had been once or twice in the city and had visited the works. The winter he had spent, according to his custom, in Uselin, but with the opening of spring had taken up his residence at Zehrendorf, where his various new arrangements urgently required his presence. Hermine was with him, who for years had spent her summers in the country, having an intense delight in country life and pleasures. As a matter of course, Fräulein Amalie Duff accompanied her young lady.
All this I learned from Paula, who indeed was the only person who kept me informed of what went on in the Streber family, as she kept up a pretty active correspondence with Hermine. Whether or not I was honored with a passing mention in their letters I could never rightly learn. Sometimes I thought so, and again I thought not; and I did not like to ask Paula directly. I had wished indeed to ask her not to mention to Hermine that I was employed in her father's establishment, but I had never done so, because it seemed to me like a bit of childish vanity to request that I should not be spoken of to a girl who, very possibly, never asked about me. But I almost believed that Paula had divined and complied with my unspoken wish, and that they knew nothing of me. Even if I were entirely indifferent to Hermine, I was well assured that I occupied no small place in the kind heart of her duenna, and that she certainly would never cease seeking faithfully for her "Richard" until she found him. But over all these things there hung a mist, which was only to be lifted for me later, perhaps too late. Once or twice, it is true, I was struck by the warmth with which Paula, especially lately, spoke of Hermine. "She is a charming creature," she once said, "with the happiest advantages; and she will develop into a noble woman if she finds the right kind of a husband." And again: "Happy the man who wins this treasure! But he must be a man worthy the name, for I fancy the keeping will be a harder task than the winning."
Did Paula know that after that memorable meeting on the steamer, as the wanderer plodded his lonely way towards the great city, the blue eyes of Hermine were his lodestars? When she thus praised the fair girl to me--and she knew what weight her praises bore--did she wish to show me clearly the folly of certain fancies which might have arisen in my mind? But what ground had I given her for believing me capable of this folly? Just here there was a secret, like a dark cloud, between Paula and myself; and it was not the only one, nor, unfortunately, the darkest. I had dropped no hint--how could I?--of my unhappy meeting with Constance: it was the only wound which her pure hand might not touch; a wound which must secretly bleed until it closed of itself. But such a secret wound, which one carefully hides, pains us thrice as much, and is thrice as long in healing; and the worst is, that with it we have an evil conscience, and shrink from the touch of the hand that is dearest to us, always dreading that at some time, unwares, it will make the cruel discovery.
Thus it was now between Paula and myself. I had never visited her so rarely, never been so cautious in my speech with her--indeed there were times when the unwavering kindness of this lovely and amiable girl was really painful to me. I trembled lest the conversation should turn upon Constance, or lest Paula should learn that Constance and the Bellini were one and the same person. Certainly, if no one else did, the young Prince Prora knew the secret; and so, probably, did Arthur.
But my uneasiness seemed groundless; neither the prince nor Arthur repeated their visit, and I only learned from rumor that the prince, after throwing the whole residence into uproar by his extravagances and caprices, had been sent into the country by his father, and that Arthur had accompanied him. About the same time the newspapers, which then occupied themselves much more with matters of this sort than in our agitated times, reported that the manager of the Theatre Royal had at once engaged the young artist who had excited so much admiration at the Albert Theatre, but that in high circles it was thought unfit that a star, however brilliant, should be transferred from a comparatively humble sphere to the lofty heights of a royal stage without a becoming process of transition, and that on this account they had given Fräulein Bellini leave of absence of several months, to be applied to filling certain deficiencies in her repertoire, and to careful cultivation of her eminent talent, for which purpose she had at once undertaken a journey to Paris. Others added: In the company of the premier amoureux of the Albert Theatre, Herr Lenz, who also had been engaged for the Theatre Royal; or, as others again said, had to be engaged because the Bellini, as self-willed as she was beautiful, made that gentleman's engagement a condition of her own. In this connection the papers gave the interesting information that Herr Lenz's real name was Herr von Sommer, and that he was the son of a high functionary--of the minister, according to some--of a small neighboring state. The origin of the fair Bellini was also surmised to be traceable to high-quarters, but they were not at present able--others phrased it that it was not altogether discreet--to lift the mysterious veil.
When I heard this I drew a long breath, like a man frightened by a ghost, when he hears the clock strike one. The spectre may come again the next night, but for twenty-three hours at least he will be undisturbed. I might be sure of not meeting her for several months; in the evening, when I returned from Paula's house, I could pass through the street in which she lived without seeing her range of windows lighted, or carriages with lighted lamps and footmen in livery standing at the door. Yes, the cold, cruel, ghostly winter night was at an end: once more it was morning, once more it was spring.