What the Swallow Sang: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

CHAPTER XXII.

In the large comfortable room adjoining the office, in the subdued light of a beautiful lamp--the companion to which was burning on a side-table at the end of the room--sat Frau Ottilie Wollnow and Alma Sellien; Ottilie engaged in sewing; while Alma leaned back in the sofa corner, with her slender hands resting idly in her lap. Before the ladies, on a high-backed chair drawn forward in the light, stood Gotthold's picture of Dollan, at which Alma from time to time threw one of her languishing glances. If the gentlemen came back that evening, she wanted to give Gotthold a pleasant surprise by showing him the interest she took in his work, and therefore the picture, which had just been taken down at her request, must remain in its present position.

"I am only afraid it may slip down and get injured," said Ottilie; "and besides, I am not at all sure they will come back this evening."

"I don't know what their return has to do with my enjoyment of art," answered Alma, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking at the picture with an evident increase of interest. "In what bold relief these beeches stand in the foreground! how easily the eye glides over the fields in the centre, and lingers there in refreshing repose, ere it turns with delight to the brown moor on the left, or wanders longingly towards the dim blue horizon bounded by the sea! He is really a great artist."

Ottilie laughed. "And do you mean to say all that to him?"

"Why not?" answered Alma. "I like to give every one his due."

"Especially when the 'every one' is a man so attractive as Gotthold."

"I have only seen and spoken to him five minutes this morning."

"And that has been enough to completely win the heart of such a subtle connoisseur. Confess, Alma, you are fascinated, and now see that our poor Cecilia must not be judged so very harshly, even if she really did have the misfortune to think such a man attractive."

"You know my views in regard to these things are very strict," replied Alma; "yes, very strict, though you do choose to open your eyes in astonishment. But to speak frankly, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me what your poor Cecilia thinks or doesn't think; only I would rather not despair of the good taste and good sense of the men, and that I certainly should do if such a man was so deluded as to think your poor Cecilia charming."

"Why, Alma!"

"Pray, my dear Ottilie, allow me to have and retain my own opinion on this point. Tell me instead--for it interests me, now that I have become personally acquainted with him--what you know of his former circumstances. Hugo declares he is almost a millionaire. Is he really so rich, and how did he get the property? Hugo says it is a very mysterious story--but he always says that when he can give no information about a thing. What is it?"

"Nothing at all," replied Ottilie; "I mean nothing at all mysterious; but the story is a sad one; I could not help crying when Emil related it to me a short time ago--he had never spoken of it before!"

And Ottilie Wollnow wiped away the tears that already hung on her dark lashes.

"You make me terribly curious," said Alma; "how can a story be sad which finally results in half a million?"

"It is probably not so much so now," said Ottilie; "besides, you must not ask me for any particulars, for Emil's story was very--what shall I say--very general--for reasons I hinted to you this morning, and I--from the same cause--did not venture to ask him for any farther details. We must always respect all such old German favors, and seem to think them true and genuine."

"Old German favors?" asked Alma in astonishment.

Ottilie laughed. "That's what I call our husbands' reminiscences of their old love affairs, which they treasure with such ludicrous emotion, and, so to speak, always wear secretly under their coats, in order not to shame us by their brilliancy, for we are really good, excellent wives; but how could we bear any comparison with these heroines? In this case, to be sure--"

"Excuse me for interrupting you, dear Ottilie, but you were going to tell me how Gotthold got his fortune."

"It is all closely connected," replied Ottilie; "the German favor, I mean my good Emil's old flame and Gotthold's mother, is one and the same person; but to be sure Emil declares I always begin my stories at the end, so now by way of exception I'll commence at the beginning. But how am I to do it?"

"Perhaps by stating who the lady you have mentioned really was."

"You always hit the nail on the head! Certainly, who was she? The only child of her parents; her father was Reginald Lenz, a rich merchant in Stettin--I have forgotten her mother's name; but she must have been a dear, sweet creature, and loved her husband passionately, too passionately perhaps. He was probably a very attractive man--he always went by the name of 'handsome Lenz,' and such people are spoiled: the merry bachelor life is continued after marriage; a few unlucky speculations may have happened also; in a word, Herr Lenz failed at the end of a few years, or stood on the verge of bankruptcy, and the books did not balance as they ought; he would not survive the disgrace, and--it is terrible to think of--he took a cheerful farewell of his young wife to go out hunting, and clear his head after reckoning so many figures, as he said, and in the evening they brought him home with his brains dashed out. Was it not terrible?"

"Go on," said Alma.

"Ah! the rest is almost as bad. The young wife, who had had no suspicion of her husband's situation--or she would not have let him leave her--saw the body without the slightest preparation. An hour after--the unhappy woman was daily expecting the birth of another child--she was attacked by a violent fever, and in a few days was a corpse."

"How imprudent," said Alma.

"The little five-year-old Marie--"

"An ugly name," observed Alma.

"I don't think so; at any rate its bearer was anything but ugly, Emil says; and to speak frankly, I am sure that in this respect he does not exaggerate, and the little lady, who naturally in the course of years grew up to maturity, really possessed all the admirable qualities which turned the head of the poor young fellow, who was then only twenty. And he was not alone; all the other young men employed in the business fared just the same. I forgot to say, or was just going to tell you, that the poor little orphan had been received in her uncle's house, the brother of her unhappy father, but a man who was exactly his opposite in every respect; plain, stern, pedantic, an excellent business-man of the old school, as Emil says, who had entered his counting-room and at that time risen to be head clerk. His wife was wonderfully well suited to him, that is, she was not one whit less plain, or less strict and pedantic, so the poor little girl could not have found the house exactly a bed of roses."

"In spite of all her admirers?"

"In spite of all her admirers. She inherited it from her father, who always aimed too high."

"Perhaps she did not know what she wanted."

"That is possible; at any rate, none of the young men found favor in her eyes, though Emil was slightly preferred; but only, he says, because he was the only Jew in the Christian establishment, and therefore in some degree rebuffed by the others--the position of the Jews thirty years ago, you must know, was even more precarious and uncomfortable than it is now, although even now everything is perhaps not quite what it should be. At any fate, she treated the man worst whose outward circumstances entitled him to the most consideration--namely, her cousin Eduard, the only son of the house, a quiet, shy young man, who loved her passionately. Emil says that even now it makes the tears come into his eyes when he thinks of the time that Eduard, who was his most intimate friend, spoke of what he suffered, not in pompous, high-sounding words, which would not have been at all like him, but so gently, so resignedly--"

"I can't bear these gentle, resigned men," said Alma.

"They seldom succeed, as poor Eduard's example shows. But to be sure, she refused very different people, who were by no means gentle and resigned--officers, barons, and counts: she was the wonder of the city, and the idol of all the young men, and she noticed them no more than the sun heeds the mist."

"You are really getting poetical," said Alma.

"It is one of Emil's comparisons, he always grows poetical when he speaks of her--till at last the right one came."

"The country Pastor. Gracious Heavens! Tant de bruit pour une omelette," said Alma.

"Excuse me, it was nothing of that sort; on the contrary, he was a very remarkable man, who had turned the heads of as many women as she had men. And it was not confined to women; many men, and those by no means the least important, were also very enthusiastic about him, among others, my Emil, who since he was baptized on our wedding-day, has not set foot inside of a church, but then, Jew as he was, attended regularly every Sunday the service held by the young Substitute--I believe that's what they call them. The whole city went, he says; people stood at the doors, and even outside, just to see him come in. In a word, this young preacher was the right man. How they became acquainted with each other I don't know, and it is of no consequence. To see and love each other was the same thing. Her foster-parents, who on Eduard's account were glad to get her out of the house, of course gave their consent at once, although the little parish here in Rammin on which they married was a place to starve rather than live in. So they left Stettin, and came here, and--"

"The story ends," said Alma, "as all stories which begin in such a remarkable manner usually do--in commonplace poverty. But I don't see yet from all this how Gotthold got his half million."

"It is not a half million," replied Ottilie; "about a hundred thousand, Emil thinks, and from whom should he get it but the good Eduard, who would never marry, though the rich heir, of course, could have made the most brilliant matches, but remained faithful to his early love as long as he lived, and on his death-bed left a portion of his property to benevolent institutions, and the remainder to his cousin's son as his nearest heir."

"It must have been a very pleasant surprise," said Alma.

"Undoubtedly, although I must say that no real blessing attends the money. To be sure, he is now a rich man, or at least well to-do; but what personal benefit does he get? Scarcely any. Ten thousand thalers or so were invested in Emil's business before our marriage; since then, thank God, he has needed no stranger's money, and he has never troubled himself about them; the rest he has left in the business in Stettin, which is carried on by one of the partners of the old firm, and where it is by no means safe; but he doesn't even touch the interest, except to aid needy artists, or encourage struggling young men by enabling them to go to the Academy, take a journey to Italy, or something of that sort. Well, he doesn't need it; he easily earns as much as he wants, and moreover is such a thoroughly good man that he likes to befriend others, but I think he has already made up his mind what to do."

"What?" asked Alma.

"Why doesn't he marry? He has certainly had the best opportunities, and he is twenty-eight years old! I fear, I fear he will remain a bachelor like his foster-uncle in Stettin, and--for the same reason. And as for the money, I think I know what will become of that too. After what we heard this morning about Brandow's circumstances, it would be very well invested; for poor Gretchen probably will not inherit much from her father and mother."

"He won't be such a fool!" exclaimed Alma.

"People said just the same about good Eduard Lenz. And I think, I think--but you must not betray me when your husband returns--I think a part of his property went into Brandow's hands to-day."

"Did your husband tell you so?"

"In that case I should be sure of it; the idea of Emil's chattering--but you don't know him. It's all my own idea, but we shall ascertain when the gentlemen come home to-morrow."

"I told them when they went away that I should expect them without fail this evening," replied Alma, looking at the picture through her hand, and mentally repeating the words with which she intended to receive Gotthold.

"Why, there they are already!" cried Ottilie as the door-bell rang.

"It must be your husband back from his club."

"He does not ring," answered Ottilie; "besides, it is not his step."

Ottilie, with a "come in," went towards the door, at which they now heard a knock. Alma leaned back in the sofa corner with her head a little bent, in the act of displaying her white hands to the best possible advantage, when she was startled from her pose by a low exclamation from Ottilie.

"Herr Brandow!"

"Pardon me, Madam, pardon me, ladies, for presenting myself unannounced in the absence of a servant. I hope you will bear with me a few minutes, and help me to carry out a little joke I want to play upon our friends."

He bowed; Ottilie gazed at him in astonishment, even terror. Herr Brandow did not look like a person who is trying to carry out a jest; his face was pale and haggard, his long fair moustache disordered, his dress a strange mixture of evening and riding costume, and splashed with mud to his shoulders. And to come in this plight, at this late hour, to a house where he was a stranger, nay, which had actually been closed against him for years--Ottilie had only one explanation of all this.

"Has any misfortune happened?" she exclaimed.

"Misfortune," said Brandow; "none that I am aware of; or yes, the misfortune that I have treated my friends a little uncivilly. The rudeness was very slight, but as I, although a sorely tried man, am not accustomed to this kind of misfortune, I could not rest until I had made the attempt to rehabilitate myself in my own eyes, to say nothing of my friends, who have doubtless already forgiven me."

"Then they are coming to-night, are they not? I told you so," exclaimed Alma.

"Certainly, and they will be here immediately, in--we will say twenty minutes--yes, twenty minutes. They left Dollan at exactly ten minutes of ten; it is now just half-past; with my powerful horses and so good a driver as Hinrich they will not need more than an hour, in spite of the horrible weather; so in twenty minutes, ladies, we shall hear the carriage drive up."

Brandow had taken out his watch, and did not turn his eyes from it as he made his calculation.

"And you?" asked Alma.

"I myself, dear madam, after parting from the gentlemen, with a want of cordiality I sincerely regret, rode away from Dollan precisely at ten, and just twenty-five minutes after had my horse put into the stable of the Fürstenhof, that is, I was just five times as long in going over the mile and a half from Dollan to the Fürstenhof, as in walking the five hundred steps from the Fürstenhof here."

"You were twenty-five minutes in coming the same distance that will occupy the others an hour!" cried Alma.

"Pardon me; I couldn't go by the same road our friends took across the Dollan moor, or it would have spoiled my surprise. I rode over another that leads through Neuenhof, Lankenitz, Faschwitz, etc. Frau Wollnow doubtless knows the direction--a way quite as long, and certainly as bad, as I unfortunately perceive too late, by the condition of my clothes."

"Oh! how I admire these bold feats of horsemanship!" exclaimed Alma, opening her eyes very wide to express her enthusiasm. "Sit down here beside me, dear Herr Brandow."

She had forgotten the arrangement she had made for Gotthold's reception, and as she pushed the back of the chair with her outstretched hand, the picture slipped down and fell on the floor. Ottilie, who saw it, uttered a loud exclamation. Brandow sprang forward to raise it, but had scarcely cast a glance at it, when he dropped it from his hands with a low cry.

"My poor picture!" exclaimed Ottilie.

"I beg ten thousand pardons," said Brandow. "I see that when a man has ridden a mile and a half in twenty-five minutes, he is not quite master of his limbs."

In fact, he trembled violently as he again took the picture in his hands; nay, he seemed to find it difficult to stand. Ottilie, who noticed it, at last invited him to sit down.

"Shall I not put the picture away first?" asked Brandow.

"On no account!" exclaimed Alma. "I can't part with it, and to you, my dear friend, it must have a double interest. Just see in what bold relief these beeches stand in the foreground. How easily the eye glides over the fields in the centre and lingers in refreshing repose, ere it wanders longingly towards the dim blue horizon of the sea on the right, or turns with delight to the brown moor on the left."

"Oh! certainly, certainly," said Brandow, without looking at the picture; "it is intended for Dollan, isn't it?"

"Intended for Dollan!" exclaimed Ottilie, "why, Herr Brandow, you wanted to buy it yourself. Don't you remember the time when your wife and I were standing before the picture and you came up?"

"Oh! certainly, certainly," said Brandow.

"I would like to bet that the gentlemen are on that brown moor now," said Alma.

"Certainly; to be sure," replied Brandow.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Ottilie, "unless some accident has happened to the carriage, which we do not want to fear."

"Certainly, oh! certainly not," said Brandow, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief.

"You are faint, Herr Brandow; let me offer you some refreshments," said Ottilie, ringing the bell, and rising to give her orders to the maid-servant, who instantly entered.

At the same moment Alma leaned forward, and holding out her hand to Brandow, whispered, "My dear friend, how glad I am to see you! What have you done to Hugo? I should think it would be for the interest of us all that you should remain good friends."

Brandow took the little white hand, and hastily raised it to his lips.

"Oh! certainly, certainly, my beautiful friend," he replied, "that is the very reason I am here; it is really nothing at all. I was a little excited by--I--oh! my dear madam, why do you trouble yourself? A glass of wine, if you insist upon it, but nothing else, I beg of you, nothing else."

He had turned towards Ottilie. Alma--threw herself back into the sofa corner, pouting. Brandow's manner was certainly very strange to-day, so cold, not in the least like his usual one. Alma determined to punish him for it when Gotthold came, and to render the pain more severe, resolved to be particularly charming during the few minutes that would intervene.

But the minutes passed, the clock struck eleven, half-past eleven--an hour had elapsed since Brandow's arrival, and still no sound of carriage wheels was heard, nothing but the rustling of the tall poplars in the little square before the house, and the plashing of the rain against the window-panes whenever a pause in the conversation occurred. And it seemed as if the later it grew, the more frequent such pauses became; for Ottilie, contrary to her custom, spoke very little. Alma, as usual, thought it enough to give people, by a gracious smile, permission to amuse her, and Brandow, this evening, was by no means the entertaining companion he was generally considered. The restlessness with which he darted from one subject to another had a feverish haste, his laugh sounded forced, at times he did not seem to notice that not a word had been uttered for some minutes, but sat staring at the picture, until he suddenly started and began to talk again in an extremely loud voice, whose harsh tones jarred upon Ottilie's nerves. Her anxiety increased every moment. She had already risen several times, gone to the window, and pushing aside the curtain, gazed out in the night, which was made, if possible, darker still by the feeble gleam of the tiny flames in the street-lamps.

"I am very anxious," she exclaimed at last, turning from the window.

"It is certainly strange," said Brandow, "it is now ten minutes of twelve; they ought to have been here an hour ago."

"And my husband does not come either," said Ottilie.

"Be glad that he is having a good time," replied Alma. "Are you going already, my dear friend?"

"I will try to obtain some news of them," answered Brandow, who had hastily risen and taken his hat.

"You won't venture out into this darkness again?" cried Alma.

"Why, Alma!" exclaimed Ottilie.

Brandow was in the act of taking leave, when the doorbell rang, a heavy step passed through the counting-room, and Herr Wollnow entered. Ottilie hurried towards him, and in a few words told him how matters stood. Herr Wollnow greeted the late guest with cold politeness. He saw no special reason for being anxious as yet, if Herr Brandow was not.

"But he is," cried Ottilie.

"In that case Herr Brandow would have gone in search of information long ago," replied Wollnow.

"I am anxious, and I am not," said Brandow. "It is certainly a very dark night, and the road is not particularly good in one or two places, but Hinrich Scheel is a remarkably good driver, and--yes, it has just occurred to me--Gustav von Plüggen drove over the same road only a few minutes before our friends."

"Which does not prove that some mischance may not have befallen one or the other party, or perhaps both," answered Wollnow. "I say mischance, ladies, not misfortune, but even a trifling mischance--the breaking of a wheel, or anything of that sort--is no joke on such a night as this; and I am most decidedly in favor of going to meet our friends. I will accompany you, Herr Brandow, if agreeable to you."

"Certainly, of course, but I came on horseback," replied Brandow.

"Then we will take a carriage at the Fürstenhof; if anything has happened, a carriage may be useful to them."

Alma thought it very uncivil in the gentlemen to leave the ladies alone at such a moment, while Ottilie gave her husband a shawl, and whispered with a most affectionate kiss, "That's my own good Emil!"

Wollnow had requested the ladies to stay in the room. When the door was closed, he said, "I am sure some misfortune has happened to them; and so are you, are you not?"

His black eyes flashed so strangely, and looked so keen and piercing in the light of the lamp he carried in his hand, that Brandow shrank as if a question on which the result of the whole matter depended had been put to him in a court-room.

"Oh! certainly not, by no means," he faltered; "that is, I really don't know what to think."

"Nor I either," replied Wollnow curtly, putting the lamp on a table near the hall-door, and drawing back the bolt.

The light fell brightly upon the door, and as Wollnow opened it darkness yawned outside. Suddenly against the black background appeared a figure at the sight of which even the calm Wollnow trembled, while Brandow, who was directly behind him, staggered back with a low cry--the figure of a man, whose clothing was drenched with water and besmeared with sand and clay as if he had just risen from the earth, and whose pale face, framed in its dark beard and shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, was terribly disfigured by a narrow stream of blood which ran from his temple across his cheek.

"In Heaven's name, Gotthold, what has happened?" exclaimed Wollnow, holding out both hands to his friend, and drawing him into the house.

"Where are the ladies?" asked Gotthold in a low tone.

Wollnow motioned towards the sitting-room.

"Then keep them away. Sellien is in the Fürstenhof, we have just bandaged his wounds, he is still unconscious; Lauterbach despairs of his recovery. I thought it would be better for me to bring the news. You here, Brandow?"

Brandow had recovered his composure; it was absurd that he should have been so unnecessarily anxious. The scoundrel had as many lives as a cat, and what did he care for the other?

"I have been waiting here for you almost two hours," said he. "But how could such an accident have happened? Poor Gotthold, and that good fellow Sellien! I must see how he is. You will probably remain here now, and you also, Herr Wollnow."

Without waiting for a reply, he rushed out and disappeared in the darkness.

Wollnow's eyes flashed as he looked after him, but he repressed the words that seemed trembling on his lips.

"And you, my dear Gotthold?"

"I have got off so," said Gotthold. "But what is to be done now? How shall we tell his wife?"

"I should like to see him myself first. They know I was going to meet you, and will not miss me."

"Then come."

The two friends went out. Wollnow gave Gotthold his arm. "Lean on me," said he; "lean firmly, and don't speak."

"Only one thing. The ten thousand thalers Sellien had with him are lost. We did not notice it until we were cutting off his coat here."

"How can they be lost if you were obliged to cut off his coat?"

Gotthold made no reply; the faintness which he had already several times scarcely been able to conquer, once more stole over him, and he was obliged to lean very heavily on Wollnow's arm.

Thus, not without considerable difficulty, they reached the Fürstenhof, where everything was in the greatest confusion, but did not see Brandow again. The host said that he had ordered his horse to be saddled as soon as he heard of the news of the loss of the money, and then rode away without seeing the Assessor. He could do no good here, he said; but the money would scarcely be found without him.

"Nor with him perhaps," muttered Wollnow.

There had been no change in the Assessor's condition.

"If he does not recover his senses soon, we have no hope of saving the patient," said Doctor Lauterbach.

The physician soon had two patients. Gotthold fell fainting upon Sellien's bed.

"I said so," observed the Doctor; "it's a miracle that he has held out so long. It is really a bad accident."

"If it is an accident," muttered Wollnow.