CHAPTER XII.
As Ottomar's steps died away upon the creaking stairs and across the hall, Ferdinanda sprang up, and wringing her hands, paced two or three times up and down the little room; then she threw herself down again as Ottomar had last seen her--her face in her hands, her head leaning against the back of the sofa. But she had not cried then, neither did she cry now; she had no tears to shed; she had no hope left, no wish save one--to die for him since she could not live for him, since her life could only be a burden and a torment to him. Why had she not believed his brother officer, with the clear brow and keen, pitiful eyes, who had said to her:
"You deceive yourself, my dear young lady! Your flight with Ottomar is no deliverance for him from his difficulties, but another complication, and that the most fatal. The worst point for Ottomar is the terrible wound to his honour as an officer. Appearances at least must be saved here, and this is still possible according to the arrangements I have made. At the best his life can only be half a life, one which I do not know how he will bear. I doubt even if he can bear it; but in such a case as this one may perhaps stifle one's better judgment. There can be no doubt, however, that if you now fly with him, and the circumstance becomes known--as it must be--there will be no longer any possibility for us, his friends, to save even appearances. That an officer should be forced to retire from the service on account of debts, that his betrothal should on this account be broken off, that he should even in his delicate position neglect to call to account the gossips and scandal-bearers--all this may occur, does occur unfortunately only too often. But at the same time, forgive me for saying so, the door is open wide for scandal. A man who at such a moment can think of anything but of saving what still is possible out of the shipwreck of his honour, or, if there is nothing left to save, of giving up with dignity perhaps even life itself--who instead of this drags down with him another person whom he professes to love, a stainless woman, a lady who has always been highly respected--that man has thrown away every claim to sympathy or fellow-feeling. Ottomar himself must see this sooner or later. This journey of his to Warnow is, in my eyes, absolute folly. What does he mean to do there? Call Giraldi to account? The Italian will answer, 'You are no child, you must have known what you were about.' Call out the Count? For what cause, when he travels with you? But let him go if he will, only alone! only not with you! I conjure you, not with you! Believe me, the love in whose power you trust to save Ottomar from all his difficulties will prove itself absolutely impotent, even worse; it will finally break down the remains of the strength which Ottomar might otherwise still possess. For his sake--if you will not think of yourself--do not go with him!"
Strange, when he had drawn her on one side at the last moment, while Ottomar and Bertalda in the next room were arranging a few last things, and spoken to her thus--hastily, yet so clearly--his words had passed by her like an empty sound; she had hardly known what he was speaking of; and now it all came back upon her memory word for word! It was all coming true already, word for word! All-powerful love! Good heavens, what a mockery! What answer had he had for the pictures of the future which she had painted for him in colours whose glow was drawn from her overflowing heart, but a sad, gloomy smile, or monosyllabic absent words, evidently only spoken because he must say something, while his spirit was weighed down with the burden of his thoughts about his angry father, his pitiful or scornful brother officers, and of the possibility of forcing a duel upon Herr von Wallbach or Count Golm. His very caresses when, with a heart full of unutterable fear, she put her arms round him--as a mother round her child whom she is carrying from the flames--his very caresses made her shiver as she thought, "He treats me like a love-sick girl, who must be humoured, like a mistress whom he has taken on his journey, and from whom he wishes to hide that he is weary of her before their first station is passed."
She! she! who had once dreamed that her love was an inexhaustible spring, and had blamed herself that she had been so chary with it, and had turned away her suitor from her door, had left him without in the barren wilderness of life to despair and perish without her! She who had been so proud! so proud, because she knew that she had boundless wealth to give; that her love was like the storm now raging without, throwing down all that was not stronger than itself--like the flood rushing by, destroying, devouring all that did not rise into the clouds!
That had been her fear all this time, that he too, even he, would never quite understand her; there would always remain a gaping breach between the real and the ideal, and she ought not therefore to sacrifice the ideal, however yearningly her heart might throb, however stormily the warm blood might rush through her veins. She had but this one best thing to lose, to be for ever after poorer than the poorest beggar, she for whom inexorable experience had once for all destroyed the fair dream of so many years--that of being an artist by the grace of God!
How she had fought! how she had struggled through so many weary days, so many wakeful nights passed in gloomy brooding, in writhing despair! days and nights whose terrors would long since have brought even her strength low, if his beloved, fascinating image had not flitted through her feverish morning dreams, alluring her on to other weary days, to other tortured nights.
It was no longer his image now, it was himself; no longer fascinating, but still beloved as ever!
And oh, how dearly loved! more than ever! immeasurably more in his helpless misery than in his brighter days.
If she could only help him! For herself she had no wish, no desires; God was her witness! And if to-night she lay in his arms, and he in hers, she could think of it without one more heart-beat, without for a moment losing the despairing thought that weighed down her heart: "He will breathe no new strength, no new life from my kisses! He will rise from his bridal couch a weary, broken-down man!" How could she maintain strength and courage to live--no longer for herself alone--for both of them now?
If not strength and courage to live, then at least to die!
If she could die for him! could say to him with her dying lips: "See, death is bliss and joy to me, if I can hope that from this hour you will despise life, and because you despise it, will live a noble and beautiful life, like one who lives only that he may die nobly and gloriously!"
But to his weak soul even this would be no spur, no check, only one more dark shadow amongst all the dark shadows that had fallen upon his path; and upon that gloomy path he would wander feebly on, inactive, inglorious, to an early and an inglorious grave! Thus she lay, sunk in the depth of her grief, heedless of the howling of the storm, which perpetually shook the house from roof to cellar; deaf to the noisy uproar of the drunken guests just under her room, hardly raising her head as her landlady now came in. The landlady came to ask her ladyship--as the gentlefolks must mean to spend the night here now--how she would like to have the beds arranged in the next room; but at the strange expression of the beautiful pale face, which raised itself from the sofa and looked at her so oddly, the question died away on the tip of her tongue, and she only succeeded in bringing out her second question: whether she should make a cup of tea for her ladyship? Her ladyship did not seem to understand the question; at any rate she did not answer, and the landlady thought to herself, "She will ring if she wants anything," and went into the bedroom with the candle which she had in her hand, half closing the door--which always took several efforts to shut it--so as not to disturb her ladyship, and then took the candle to the windows, to see if they were properly fastened. One of them was not, the upper bolt had stuck fast, and as she pulled up the lower one, the wind blowing through the narrow opening put the candle out, which she had set upon the window-sill. "I can find my way, however," thought the landlady, and turned in the dim light towards the beds, but stopped as she came near the door, and heard the lady give a faint cry. "Good gracious!" thought the landlady, "it is almost worse with these fine people than it is with us." For the gentleman, who had come in again, had begun to speak at once, not loudly but evidently warmly. "What could be the matter between the two young people?" thought the landlady, and glided on tiptoe to the door. But she could understand nothing, whether of the many words spoken by the gentleman, or the few interposed by the lady; and then it struck the landlady that it was not the gentleman's clear voice, and that they were neither of them speaking German; and she put her eye to the keyhole, and to her astonishment and terror saw an absolutely strange man standing by the lady in the next room, who as she looked let his brown cloak fall from his shoulders without noticing it, while he violently gesticulated with both arms, and talked faster, and louder and louder, in his incomprehensible jargon--like a madman, thought the terrified landlady.
"I will not turn back," cried Antonio, "after I have run almost all the way like a dog after his owner who has been carried away by robbers, and the rest of the way have been lying crouched in the straw in a cart like a beast led to slaughter. I will no longer be a dog, I will no longer suffer worse than a beast. I know all now--all--all! how he was faithless to you, the dishonourable coward, that he might go to another, and again from her to you, and lay at your door whimpering for mercy while they settled it for him--his mistress and that accursed Giraldi, whose neck I will wring when and wherever I meet him again, so surely as my name is Antonio Michele! I know all--all--all! And that you will give your fair self to him, as you have given him your soul already!"
The miserable man could not understand the half-scornful, half-melancholy smile which curled the beautiful girl's proud lips.
"Do not laugh!" he shrieked, "or I will kill you!" And then, as she half rose, not from fear, but to repel the maniac: "Forgive me! oh, forgive me! I kill you!--you who are my all, the light and joy of my life; for whom I would let myself be torn in pieces, limb from limb! for whom I would give every drop of my heart's blood, if you would only allow me to kiss the hem of your garment, to kiss the ground upon which you have trod! How often--how often have I done it without your knowledge--in your studio, the spot where your fair foot has stood, the tool which your dear hand has touched! I ask for so little; I will wait for years--as I have waited for years--and will never weary of serving you, of worshipping you, like the blessed Madonna, till the day comes when you will listen to my prayers!"
He had fallen on his knees in the place where he stood, his wild eyes, his quivering hands raised to her.
"Rise!" said she. "You do not know what you say, nor to whom you say it. I can give you nothing; I have nothing to give. I am so poor, so poor--far poorer than you!"
She was wandering about the little room and wringing her hands, passing by the kneeling man, who, as her dress touched his glowing face, sprang to his feet as though moved by an electric shock.
"I am not poor," he cried; "I am the son of a prince; and more than a prince--I am Michael Angelo; and a greater than Michael Angelo! I see them coming in moving crowds, singing hymns in praise of the immortal Antonio; bearing flowers, twining garlands, to adorn and encircle the wonderful creations of the divine Antonio! Do you hear? do you hear! There! there!"
From the broad village street there rose up the confused, tumultuous cry of the people, who had been alarmed at the news of the advancing flood, and were hastening to the scene of the catastrophe; from the tower of the neighbouring church there rang out, broken by the storm, the clang of the bells, now threateningly near, and again in trembling distance.
"Do you hear!" cried the maniac. "Do you hear?"
He stood with outstretched arm, smiling; his eyes, lighted with joy and triumph, fixed upon Ferdinanda, who gazed in terror at him.
Suddenly the smile changed to a fearful grimace, his eyes glared with deadly hatred, his outstretched arm was withdrawn with a shudder, his hand convulsively clutched at his breast, as immediately under the window a voice rose, clear and commanding, above the raging of the storm and the shouts of the crowd:
"A rope, a strong rope--the longest that you have got! And thinner cord--as much as possible. There are some people there already! I shall be there before you!"
A hasty step, taking three or four stairs at once, came up the creaking staircase. The maniac laughed wildly.
The landlady, too, had heard the clear voice below, and the hasty step on the stairs. There would be an accident, for sure, if the gentleman came in now, when that strange, disagreeable man was with the lady! She burst into the room at the moment when the gentleman opened the door on the other side.
Uttering a howl of rage, and brandishing high his stiletto, Antonio rushed upon him. But Ferdinanda had thrown herself between them before Ottomar could cross the threshold, shielding her lover with outspread arms, offering her own bosom to the fatal thrust, and falling without a groan into Ottomar's arms, as the murderer fled past them in cowardly, mad flight at sight of the crime that he had never intended, and that had broken through the night of his insanity as if by a flash of lightning--fled down the stairs, through the crowd below, who had been summoned by the clang of the alarm-bell and the cries of terror of the hasty passers-by from the tap-room and all parts of the house, and who now drew back in terror from the stranger with the wild black hair, brandishing a knife in his hand--out into the village street, overthrowing all that came in his way in the confused, shrieking, shouting crowd without--out into the howling darkness! And "Murder, murder!" "Stop him!" "Stop the murderer!" rang through the house.