The Breaking of the Storm, Vol. I.

by Friedrich Spielhagen

CHAPTER I.

The General was working in his study; Aunt Sidonie was probably writing her "Court Etiquette;" Ottomar had not yet returned from parade; Elsa had fulfilled her household duties, had dressed herself, and had now time, before breakfast, to read Meta's letters.

This morning two had again arrived together. Elsa had put them unread into her pocket when they were given to her, knowing that Meta's letters were not of pressing importance. She had now gone into the garden, and was strolling under the tall trees near the wall of the Schmidts' garden, her favourite walk, and with a smile on her face was deciphering one of the letters, the first she had put her hand upon; it did not generally signify in what order they were read. It was no easy task; Meta wrote a characteristic but not a particularly legible hand. Each letter stood by itself without reference to its neighbours on the right or left, and all had a decided objection to the horizontal, and either ran gaily up to the height above or drooped sadly towards the lower regions which belonged properly to the next line. Interspersed amongst them were strange hieroglyphics resembling swords or lances, which were probably meant for stops, but as they were never to be found where they were expected, and, indeed, in their superabundant zeal frequently appeared in the middle of a word, they rather increased than lessened the confusion.

Elsa at length made out the following:

"Cruel one! I understand all now, I may say for the first time in my life; and you--you yourself, your last letter--oh! that last letter! When men are silent stones will talk; if after five long anxious days the unhoped-for, unexpected meeting with the man she appeared to love, only gives the proud Elsa matter for a humorous description of that very meeting, poor Meta may dare to hope, does hope, and--loves! Yes, she loves--loves him whom you scorn, whom you coldly turn your back upon because the skirts of a princess have touched yours! You will say that this is pity--not love! But are not pity and love twin sisters! Yes, I have suffered with him, I still suffer with him; I see his honest blue eyes swimming with tears, I see those tears falling persistently and slowly down the sunburnt cheeks into the curly beard; but the last tear--the very last--before it vanishes in the clouds of tender melancholy, I will myself wipe away--yes, I! I have made up my mind. To-morrow morning papa shall have the horses put to--to-morrow evening you will see the face of one who pities you but is determined not to spare you the indignant countenance of his avenger and of your too happy

"Meta."

The second letter was as follows:

"You will not see it! Beloved, adored Elsa, forgive me! now in the depth of night, when all is still, so still that I can hear the blood coursing through my temples, and I start if our Castor barks in the courtyard; if an apple, which I had forgotten, or which I could not reach, rustles through the dry leaves of the tree in front of my window and falls to the ground--they still look wonderful, but are all rotten--now, only when I read your letter for the second time, do I understand it, and perceive the earnest, sorrowful tone that pierces through the hollow ring of your mirth. One word has made all clear to me; one single, deep, heartfelt word, so deep and so heartfelt as can come only from the heart and the pen of my Elsa. You write: 'He walked up the gallery, the Princess spoke to me very graciously, as was apparent from her smiles and the kind tone of her soft voice; but I confess, to my shame, that her first words were Hebrew to me.' To your shame?--Elsa--Elsa! to mine, to my deepest, most heart-rending shame! Oh, heavens! what does not lie under that one word 'Hebrew!" Your grief, your sorrow, your penitence, your love! Well, then, love him! I resign him; I must do so! and my visit to you also. Papa cannot, as it happens, let me have the horses to-morrow, because he must send his fat sheep to Prora, and mamma wants to make plum-jam. Let me weep and sob out my sorrow in solitude and plum-jam, and keep a little love for your too unhappy

"Meta."

"What absurd nonsense!" said Elsa.

But she did not laugh, but said it, on the contrary, very gravely; read the scrawl again very carefully, and only dropped the letters into her pocket when Aunt Sidonie appeared through the door of the room which opened into the garden and came down the steps towards her.

"I must rest a little," said Sidonie.

"How far have you got?" asked Elsa.

"To an extremely difficult chapter--to the marriage festivities. Malortie leaves me altogether in the dark upon this point. The examples which he gives on page 181 of the second volume, give an immense amount of information, but only of use for the chamberlains at great courts: 'Marriage of their late Majesties'--à la bonne heure! 'Programme of the marriage by proxy of his Majesty the King Don Pedro of Portugal and Algarve'----"

"Who did he marry?" asked Elsa.

Sidonie, who was walking by her side with her hands behind her back, stood still in astonishment.

"Child! child! is it possible? You read me that chapter yourself only yesterday evening. I have been lying awake and racking my brains over it all night, and you have forgotten that his Highness's illustrious bride was the Princess Stephanie of Hohenzollem-Sigmaringen? But the fact is, that you take no interest in my work; you do not, or will not, understand what an immense benefit a really comprehensive complete book on ceremonial, suited to small courts, would be! Well, well, child, I am not angry with you. You have never had much to do with such matters; how should you be expected to understand their importance, though you do now and then suggest very useful ideas on some of the most difficult points! Now imagine this: at the wedding of his late Majesty two Lieutenant-Generals, Herr von Brauchitsch and Herr von Kessel, who stood at the two ends of the table, carved the dishes, gave them to the footmen standing behind them, these to the pages, and from the latter they were received by the lords and gentlemen in waiting. That is all very well, but how are two Lieutenant-Generals to be found at a small court such as ours was?"

"Then take two Lieutenants," said Elsa.

"Capital!" said Sidonie. "That--no, that will not not do! What would become of precedence if I began with Lieutenants? But you are not listening."

"Indeed I am, aunt. I was only thinking that this very evening we shall have two Lieutenant-Generals here, and that I should much prefer a few Lieutenants. We really have too few dancing men."

"Ottomar can bring some of his brother officers; besides, there are not so very few. There is Count Golm, who told me he was passionately fond of dancing; there is Tettritz, there is Schönau--he says he has given up dancing, but that cannot be allowed in a Second Captain. There is----"

Her aunt named half a dozen names, but not the only one which Elsa wished to hear.

Elsa was stooping over the trellis which ran along the wall between the two great elm-trees.

"And Captain Schmidt, has he refused?"

"I did not send him the invitation, my dear child."

"You did not send it!"

Elsa started up quickly; her expressive face showed surprise and annoyance.

"How can you excite yourself so over such a trifle, my dear child? It occurred to me, just as I was giving the letters to August, that we are going to give another party in a few weeks, to which we must invite Major Müller and some of that set; the Captain can be asked with them."

"But why should he be!" exclaimed Elsa; "I remember that evening at Golmberg, when, without intending it, he was almost the only speaker at the table, and gave Count Golm besides a lesson which it is to be hoped he has not forgotten."

"That is exactly what decided me," said Sidonie; "just that warm discussion which you and your papa told me of between the two gentlemen--the two gentlemen, you hear, Elsa, I make no distinction of rank. We are giving a party in honour of the Count, and as a return for the civilities he showed you. Would it be courteous, would it be becoming, to invite at the same time a gentleman--mark that, Elsa--a gentleman with whom he has had at his own table--tranchons le mot!--an altercation!"

"But he deserved the lesson."

"And I suppose is to have a repetition of it here."

"That he certainly will not. Captain Schmidt is courtesy itself."

Sidonie stopped in her walk, her good-natured eyes looked almost sharply into Elsa's face, which was flushed with the warmth of the dispute.

"If I could not see into your heart, Elsa, as clearly as in a looking-glass, I really should not know how to explain the perverseness which leads you to praise the courtesy of a simple merchant-captain at the expense of your aunt's. Child, child, do not you bring sorrow on your dear papa, who already takes such a gloomy view of life; and on your aunt, who lives only for her 'Court Etiquette' and for you."

"I do not understand what you mean, aunt," answered Elsa, blushing up to the roots of her hair.

"Nor I either, thank God," answered Sidonie, wiping her eyes; "only I get so anxious when I see your papa so out of spirits, as he was this morning when he gave me Aunt Valerie's letter; he never answers her letters himself, although this last one is really so touchingly humble, that I shall find it very difficult to be severe with her again."

"How can one be severe with a person who is so unhappy as you say Aunt Valerie is?"

"Child, you cannot understand," answered Sidonie; "you must trust to your papa and me. There are things which can never be forgiven."

"Not even if one is sorry for them, as Aunt Valerie evidently is? Is it only a brother who is to be forgiven until seventy times seven, and not a sister also?"

This was another of Elsa's terrible ideas which Sidonie did not know how to meet. Her kind eyes looked around as if seeking for help, and rested at last on the trellis, where they wandered up and down.

"At last I have got it into order," she exclaimed: "see, Elsa, for the last three days the bed has not been trodden down nor the leaves torn off the trellis. It is only a wild vine, but it was beginning to look so pretty; August swore he did not do it; but how can one believe people? Well, I have gained my object."

"It is wonderfully quiet over there to-day," said Elsa.

"I wish to heaven it were always so," answered the aunt.

"Even the manufactory chimney is not smoking," continued Elsa. "Good heavens! I have only just remarked it. I hope no misfortune has happened! Have you heard anything, August!"

August, who came to call the ladies to breakfast, was astonished that the ladies had not heard of it. Herr Schmidt had dismissed twenty or thirty men last Thursday, because they--with respect be it said--were Socialists and Communists; and the rest, who are not much better, seized the opportunity and demanded from Herr Schmidt enormous wages. Well, Herr Schmidt of course turned off the ringleaders, and they came back with the others in great crowds to murder Herr Schmidt, when the Captain, who was at Golmberg with the General and Fräulein Elsa, stood in the doorway and--did you not see?--pulled out a pair of pistols; and they all took to their heels and went on strike, as they call it, when they do not work, and drink schnaps. Since yesterday evening there has not been so much as a cat in the entire building, and the workmen at the other marbleworks have also struck, to keep them company. And they say it will cost Herr Schmidt several thousand thalers a day, and that he will soon have to give in; but I don't believe that, for Herr Schmidt, as the ladies know, is A 1."

"Shocking!" said Sidonie, shaking her head; "such near neighbours! I warned your papa when he bought the house. It really is not safe. And people like that are to be invited!"

Elsa did not answer. When the servant mentioned Reinhold, her tell-tale heart beat rapidly, and she had involuntarily felt for the compass which, since their last meeting at the Exhibition, she had always carried in her pocket, that she might return it to him at the first opportunity. Her aunt's observation had filled her with speechless indignation. But when, a few minutes later, she sat opposite to her father at the breakfast-table, she asked him, to Sidonie's great dismay, without further preparation, if he had heard what had happened to the Schmidts; and that Herr Schmidt and the Captain had been apparently in danger of their lives; and should not Ottomar go to-day and return the Captain's visit, the rather that her aunt had postponed to the following week the invitation she had already written him?

"Certainly!" answered the General; "Ottomar shall take the invitation himself. I want to speak to the Captain, and quite reckoned upon seeing him this evening."

Elsa cast down her eyes to avoid seeing the flush of embarrassment which she felt sure must cover her aunt's cheeks at that moment.

"Has my son returned?" asked the General of the servant.

"The Lieutenant has just returned from parade, and has gone to his room to dress." The General commissioned the ladies to inform Ottomar of his wishes with regard to the visit and the invitation, and to tell him that there was a letter for him on his writing-table; he had to attend a board, and was already a few minutes late: he begged them not to disturb themselves on his account.

The General rose, made a stately bow to the ladies, and left the room. He had, contrary to his custom, eaten scarcely anything, and appeared absent and gloomy. This had not escaped Elsa; but she did not venture to ask any questions, any more than she ventured now to ask her aunt what she was thinking of, as she silently and with unwonted energy picked the last remnant of meat from an unlucky wing of chicken. She knew too well that it was not "the difficult chapter" in the "Court Etiquette." Fortunately Ottomar soon appeared; but neither did he bring cheerfulness: the Major had again been unbearable--the same evolution over and over again; he had blown up the officers after the parade as if they had been school-boys; it was unbearable, he was sick of the whole business; he had rather throw it all up at once.

Elsa thought the opportunity a bad one for troubling her brother, while he was so put out, with the commission which lay so near her heart, and was glad that her aunt did not start the subject, as she had feared. But the letter which was awaiting him on his father's table could not be delayed.

"Why was not the letter brought to my room?" said Ottomar to the servant, raising his eyebrows.

"I know nothing about it, sir," answered August.

Ottomar had already laid aside his napkin, and was rising, but now said: "I dare say it is not very important; will you hand me that dish, Elsa? I am as hungry as a wolf."

All the same he hardly touched the food, but poured out successively several glasses of wine, which he drank down quickly.

"I am too thirsty to eat," he said; "perhaps I shall have a better appetite an hour hence. Shall we leave the table?"

He pushed back his chair, and went to the door leading to his father's study, but stopped a moment on the way and passed his hand over his forehead and eyes. "That confounded parade," he said; "it would make the strongest man nervous."

He was gone; his behaviour had struck Elsa painfully. She could not believe that the parade was the sole cause of his bad spirits: he had borne the same wearisome duties easily enough before. But for some time past he had seemed changed: his cheerful spirits and good humour had vanished; in the last few days especially she had been struck by his gloomy, disturbed manner. She thought she knew what was the cause, and had determined more than once to speak to him about it. It was wrong not to have done so, and now it was perhaps too late.

Elsa thought over all this while again walking in her favourite haunt in the garden; she was too much excited to undertake any of her usual occupations. Perhaps Ottomar would come into the garden too; or she might call him when he left his father's room, the door of which she could see through the open door of the dining-room.

He stayed long, as it seemed to her impatience. Perhaps he was answering the letter at his father's table; but at last he emerged, buttoning his uniform, and came into the garden; he had no doubt seen her in the walk under the trees.

He had not observed her. With head bare and eyes cast down, still fingering the buttons of his coat, he came slowly towards her. His handsome face was dark as night, in spite of the bright sunlight which shone upon it; Elsa saw how his lips trembled and quivered.

"In heaven's name! what is the matter, Ottomar?"

"How you startled me!"

"And you me still more! What has happened, Ottomar? I implore you to tell me! Is it the letter?--a challenge?"

"Or a sentence of death, perhaps? Nothing of importance--a registered letter which my father received for me."

"An unimportant letter--registered! But if it is not the letter, it is what has for so long worried and absorbed you. How do matters stand between you and Carla, Ottomar!"

"Between me and Carla? What an extraordinary question! How should matters stand between oneself and a lady to whom one will shortly be betrothed?"

"Ottomar, look me in the face. You do not love Carla!"

Ottomar tried to meet her glance, but was not quite successful. "You are silly," he said, with an embarrassed smile; "those are girlish fancies."

"And is not Carla a girl? And do you not think that she has fancies too?--that she has pictured to herself the happiness that she hopes for at your side?--that for her, as for every other girl, this happiness can only exist with love, and that she, that you both will be unhappy if this love is absent on one side or the other, or on both? Do you not believe this?"

"I do not believe a word of it," said Ottomar.

He looked at his sister now and smiled; but his eyes were fixed and hard, and his sad yet ironical smile cut Elsa to the heart.

"And yet?" she said sadly.

"And yet! Look here, my dear child; the matter is very simple. I require for my own expenses, and to pay off the debts that I was obliged to incur before I came into the enjoyment of my fortune this spring, ten thousand thalers a year. My income is, as you know, in consequence of the absurdly small rents on the property, five thousand. Carla has five thousand a year; the two together make ten thousand. Therefore I mean to marry her, and the sooner the better."

"In order to pay your debts?"

"Simply in order to live; for this--this everlasting dependence, this everlasting concealment about nothing at all--because everything is known, after all--this--this----"

The words would not come; he trembled all over. Elsa had never seen him so. Her limbs trembled also; but she was determined to do what she thought her duty--what she had never so clearly recognised as her duty till that moment.

"Dear Ottomar," said she, "I do not ask if you really require such a frightful amount of money. Papa has often told us----"

"That when he was a lieutenant, he managed upon eighteen thalers a month. For heaven's sake, no more of that! Times were different then. My father was in the Line; I am in the Guards; and he and I--are like the Antipodes."

"Very well. I take it for granted that you require as much as you say. In three years I shall also be of age, and shall then have five thousand thalers; I will gladly give them to you, if----"

"'I am not married by that time.' Is that what you meant to say?"

"I will not marry then. I--I will never marry."

She could not any longer keep back her tears, which now streamed from her eyes. Ottomar put his arm round her.

"You dear, good Elsa," said he. "I really do believe that you are capable of it; but do you not see that it would be a thousand times more hateful to save oneself at the cost of a sister whom one dearly loves, than at the cost of a woman whom one does not love certainly, but who very probably does not wish to be loved?"

"But, Ottomar, that--that is just it," exclaimed Elsa, drying her tears. "Why marry Carla, of whom I cannot say that she is incapable of loving; who, indeed, I am persuaded, does love you at this moment, in her way? But her way is not your way; and that you would soon find out, even if you yourself loved her, which you avowedly do not. You are not suited to one another. With the one exception that, in spite of her short sight, she rides well and is passionately fond of it, I do not know a single interest that you have in common. Her music--that is to say, her Wagner music--about which she is so enthusiastic, is hateful to you; her books, which I am convinced she very often does not understand herself, you will never look at; and it is the same on every subject. And the worst of all is, that what she understands by love is not what you understand by it. You have--say what you will, and brilliant man of society as you are, and I hope always will be--a tender, kind heart, which longs to beat against a heart of the same nature. Carla's love is, I fear, too much mixed with vanity, lies too much on the glittering, sparkling surface of life; and if you longed some day to hear a deeper note, and struck that note yourself, you would find no echo in her heart."

"Why, Elsa, you are wonderfully learned in matters of the heart!" said Ottomar. "Whom did you learn it all from--from Count Golm?"

Elsa blushed up to the roots of her hair; she drew her arm out of her brother's. "I have not deserved that," she said.

Ottomar seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me," he said. "I feel myself that my jokes are always unlucky now. I don't know why. But Golm himself is the cause of this one. He is mad about you, as you probably know already, and he talked of nothing but you when we met in the park just now as we were riding home. He was riding one of his own horses, which he has had sent after him; so it looks as if he meant to stay here. However, I may tell you for your comfort that I am not so very fond of Golm. I do not think we should ever be very great friends, unless he happened to present himself in the capacity of--but I will not make my little Elsa angry again. How many have accepted for to-night? Does Clemda come? He was not on parade to-day."

It was evident that Ottomar wished to change the subject, and Elsa knew that she had spoken in vain. Her heart was heavy; misfortune was approaching her, invisible but unavoidable, just as it did when he had told her that the vessel would run aground in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. And then he had been at her side, had remained by her; she had looked in the brave blue eyes and felt no fear, for she had known that this man was inured to dangers. And as she walked silently at her brother's side--who, silent and gloomy also, had evidently fallen back into his melancholy musings--her faithful sister's heart told her that the amiable, careless, light-hearted young man would and must succumb to a serious danger, unless some stronger hand than hers interfered to save him. Perhaps--no, certainly--his hand could do it; only that there was scarcely a possibility of bringing the two young men into such close relations. But, after all, what was not possible if one only had true courage?

"Before I forget it, Ottomar, papa wishes you to go over and invite Captain Schmidt for this evening. Aunt----"

And she told him what had passed.

"August or my servant can do that quite as well," said Ottomar.

"Not quite so well," said Elsa. "The Captain paid us a visit--or, at least, left his card, as nobody was at home, which comes to the same thing. It is only civil, therefore, that you should return his visit, and take the opportunity to give him the invitation."

"I am so tired and knocked up; I must go and have a nap."

"Then go later; there will be plenty of time."

"It seems to me, Elsa, that you have rather a weakness for the Captain," said Ottomar, standing still and looking his sister in the face.

"Yes, I have; and he deserves it," said Elsa, bravely meeting his glance. "He is a good, noble man; I know few like him, and should be very glad if you knew him better. I am sure you would like him; and perhaps--there are so few people, Ottomar, that one can trust, that one can count upon in every difficulty and danger."

"As I can on you!" said Ottomar.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on his sister's brave honest face, and then turned as if accidentally from her towards two windows of Herr Schmidt's house, which could be seen from the place where they were standing. The blue silk curtains of one of the two windows were drawn; they had been for the last three days; it meant, "I do not expect you this evening." Should he confide to the prudent, brave, faithful girl, the secret that weighed on his heart? Should he unburden his heavy heart by an open honest confession, here where he was sure to find, if not approval, at least comprehension, interest, and pity?

Pity? and if only scorn awaited him from behind those curtains, if he were finally dismissed, and must say to-morrow, "Do not trouble yourself further, Elsa; it is all over and at an end: she has dismissed me--me!" he should have humbled himself to no purpose, exposed himself uselessly. No, no! there would be time enough for that. He would hear first from her own lips.

"I will go over, Elsa," he said, "and I will go at once; I can sleep later."

"You dear, good Ottomar!" exclaimed Elsa, throwing her arms round her brother and kissing him; "I knew you would."

"Elsa, come here a minute, please!" called Sidonie from the dining-room door.

"I am coming, aunt."

Elsa hurried away; Ottomar looked gloomily after her, as the two ladies disappeared into the house.

He walked a few paces farther till he was quite shut in by the thick shrubs and concealed from all eyes. He still looked cautiously round him, tore open his coat, and pulled out the letter which he had found on his father's table.

In the envelope were several papers, he took out a small sheet in his father's handwriting. On the sheet was written:

"Received this morning the two enclosed bills, which I have settled and receipted for you--1200 thalers; the last debts that I pay for you, for the reason that my own property, as you will see by the accompanying accounts, has been spent, with the exception of a small portion, in the same manner, and I cannot pay another penny without depriving my family of the means of living as our position demands, or running into debt myself, and must beg you to act accordingly.

"V. Werben."

A beautiful gay butterfly fluttered across the blue sky. A sparrow darted down from a tree, seized the butterfly, flew with it to the top of the garden wall, and there devoured his prize.

A bitter smile played on Ottomar's lips.

"You have soon frittered your life away, poor butterfly! Everything must have an end, one way or another!"