The Undying Past

by Hermann Sudermann

XL

A time of heavy trial followed. Ulrich must have carried the germs of typhoid about with him since he left his stepson's sick-bed, and the excitement of that memorable night had developed them into activity. He lay in Leo's study hovering between life and death.

In the first hours after conveying him there, Leo half feared that Felicitas might dispute his right to nursing the patient. But his anxiety on this account proved quite superfluous. The messenger whom he had despatched to Uhlenfelde brought back word that the "gnädiger Frau" had driven to the station early that morning with luggage, and had left no address behind her.

It was with a feeling of release that he threw himself on his knees by the sick-bed, and swore over his friend's thin burning hand a thousand oaths to which he could not give words, but which all meant the same thing: "See, I am my old self again, and so I shall always be!"

His one plan for the future now was to live with him if he lived, and to die with him if he died.

He never left Ulrich's bed. His rest was taken on the floor at its foot, and with cognac and champagne he kept at bay the sleep that was so necessary to his powerful physique, which he would not allow to feel the strain of watching.

He had been morally so cast down and broken by the events of the last few weeks that even now he could hardly believe in reawakened expectations of happiness or hopes for Ulrich's recovery, except by a miracle.

An extra anxiety was added to his burden, when Johanna appeared one evening at the door of the sick-room, and declared that the time had come for her to see Ulrich; God had directed that she should speak with him before he died.

Leo's assurances that the patient would not be able to recognise or understand her were in vain, and as in desperation he tried to remove her from the corridor by force, she began to rave.

The next morning, at her own express wish, she was taken to an asylum.

In these days of trouble and sorrow, when even grandmamma had lost her old nerve and presence of mind, and ran hither and thither, crying and wringing her hands, Hertha was a never-failing prop to lean upon, and an indefatigable helper. She kept the household going in its customary routine, and carried the master's orders to the steward and bailiffs. Even to desolate Uhlenfelde she stretched out a helping hand.

A silent understanding had come about between her and Leo, which was regarded by every one as perfectly natural, for it was an accepted thing that they belonged to each other.

When he met the glance of her bright eyes, hanging questioningly on his lips, he thought, "She has suffered, so she will be able to forgive."

But first Ulrich's recovery, and the rest would come right of itself.

The recovery came.

In the middle of February Ulrich awoke to new consciousness, though for weeks afterwards he was too weak to follow any consecutive train of thought. He seemed to have lost in a great measure his grasp on the past, and he was as grateful as a child when he was helped out in remembering things.

With the return of his mental powers a certain restlessness was apparent in him, of a purely physical character, but which evidently led his mind back to the contemplation of the gaps in a psychic puzzle. He appeared anxious to ask questions, to probe and search into matters, but, not having the courage, lapsed into prolonged and silent brooding.

Leo watched the process with growing uneasiness. An explanation was out of the question, yet every day it became more and more imperative.

Early in March the doctor, after a private talk with the convalescent, urged the necessity of a change of six or eight weeks to a Southern climate. He also insisted that it was most important that this change should precede the return to Uhlenfelde.

Who should accompany him? Certainly not Herr von Sellenthin. Such a thing was not to be thought of. The poor, overtaxed brain must rest, and that was only possible with strangers. Friends in such cases were poison.

Leo said no more.

The next day, a young doctor without a practice arrived from Königsberg, who was delighted to undertake the case and travel with Ulrich, which, as he freely confessed, would be a lift to him financially.

The parting between the friends was gentle and affectionate, and, on the surface, without significance. In it, there was on one side the dumb appeal, "Forgive me" and on the other the unspoken assurance, "I have forgiven you."

Week after week went by. Leo worked with almost superhuman zeal, for now the supervision of the Uhlenfelde estate, as well as his own, was on his shoulders.

He thought of his former mistress without bitterness or self-reproach, though he was sometimes exercised to know what had become of her. One day, scanty news of her reached him in an unexpected and indirect way.

He called on Pastor Brenckenberg with the object of asking his pardon for his roughness to him at their last interview, and then the old man, who had gradually got over his rancour, told him that his son, "the rascal," had met the Baroness von Kletzingk in Berlin. She had looked the same as usual, had not been in the least embarrassed, and had overwhelmed him with questions.

"And there's something else to tell you," continued the pastor. "You really did my boy a good turn, after all. It is true that he has been expelled from his Corps, but that won't do him much harm. He has been a different creature since that correction you administered to him. He has given up loafing and getting into debt, and he is now earning his bread and working steadily for his exam. So pardon me, Fritzchen, and let me thank you. I behaved like an old ass!"

Leo shook his hand laughingly. Then he pondered on what he had heard about Felicitas, and hoped that she was not playing the adventuress in Berlin.

A report of Ulrich came every week. At first the young doctor wrote, and then he wrote himself, a few, faint, hurried lines, and on these his friend was obliged to build his hopes.

Slowly Leo's soul was purged of its gnawing suspicions and its anxious presentiments of evil which had been so habitual to it of late. He regained his self-confidence, and at the same time spurts of the quaint cynicism and noisy gaiety which so well become those doughty giants on the east of the Elbe. This showed that his wounds were healing, and his temperament recovering its normal healthiness.

It was on a grey, still morning in the second week of May that Leo came in ravenous from his early ride to join the others at breakfast. The glass doors stood wide open, letting in draughts of the soft rainy air. He fancied that he detected in the three pairs of eyes raised to his an unwonted flash of excitement.

"Why are you all making such mysterious faces?" he asked.

His mother looked away and smiled. Elly glanced down at her lap and smiled too. Hertha kept her eyes fixed on has face with complete frankness.

Then he caught sight of an envelope lying beside his coffee-cup. It was addressed in Ulrich's handwriting, but bore no postmark. His heart leapt as he read--

"Dear Old Boy,

"I came home last night, and I am expecting you. Love to all your people,

"Ulrich."

Because he did not wish to betray his emotion, he stood silently behind his chair, and crumpled the paper in his hand. Each one in turn came up to him quietly and congratulated him.

"Children," he said, "his house is empty and desolate now. He has no one but us. Help me to make him welcome here, so that he may look on it as his home. Will you help me, all three of you?"

"Of course we will, my son," said, his mother, and stroked his arm.

"And do you agree, Hertha?"

She looked at him with wide, calm eyes, and nodded. He took her hand and mutely thanked her; then he ate and drank, and counted the minutes.

Soon he was making his way streamwards over rain-drenched paths. All round him, in hedge and field, buds and shoots were bursting forth into their spring glory, and within him as he went along a voice kept up the jubilant cry, "Now he belongs to me entirely, and no one else."

But when he stood aloft on the dyke, and saw below him the bijou turrets of Uhlenfelde rising in their coquettish smartness against the sky, a fear began to creep into his heart.

They had been built for her, and where was she? Perhaps knocking about the world abandoned and degraded, while he, unpunished, might dare to set his foot in the house which he had helped to desecrate.

"But what of that?" he laughed, and stretched his strong limbs primed like steel. "Health and happiness must be snatched when they come your way, at any cost. What good to cry over spilt milk?"

And he struck out vigorously with the oars. The Isle of Friendship, in its May raiment of pale green and gold, seemed to peep admiringly at its own reflection in the mirror-like water.

"That saved us," he thought, and, in passing, looked out for a glimpse of the temple which the foliage was not yet umbrageous enough to hide.

As the boat crunched on the Uhlenfelde strand, panic seized him again, and he entered the courtyard breathing in short gasps like an asthmatic.

But with an effort he set his teeth and collected himself. Ulrich had seen him coming, and was in the hall to receive him. The subdued light of a cloudy day fell on his serious, rigid face, which the spring sunshine of the south had toned to a yellowish brown.

Leo was conscious that he trembled; he would have liked to fly into his arms only he did not dare. The immovable face held him back. Instead he stretched out both his hands and murmured a conventional "How are you?"

A gleam of melancholy tenderness passed over Ulrich's features. "My boy," he said, biting his lips; "my dear old boy."

And then he led him into the garden salon, where a solitary coffee-cup stood on a side table.

Leo cast a shy glance to the left in the direction of Lizzie's sanctum. The door into the boudoir was closed and the key gone. The whole house seemed void and deadly quiet, as if it contained no living creature except the master.

In a corner of the window was the couch with an armchair drawn up close to it, and a little table with ash-tray and cigarette-box. That was where Felicitas had thrown herself down that autumn afternoon when she had first begun to stir up old memories.

Leo thought of this, and felt a slight repugnance when Ulrich asked him to sit down there.

The room from floor to ceiling seemed haunted with shameful pictures of what had been.

"The winter crops are thriving," began Ulrich.

Leo hesitated before answering. In this very natural remark of a landowner who has returned home after a long absence, he traced an evasion.

"Yes, they are all right," he said, constrained.

"And you have looked after Uhlenfelde's interests; accept my warmest thanks, old boy."

"Don't mention it," replied Leo, refusing the hand held out to him. "Your work-people are used to managing for themselves."

"Certainly. That's true," said Ulrich. "But, nevertheless, it is well that they should feel the hand of a master over them."

"I wonder what he means," thought Leo, still at a loss and perplexed by the immovable, solemn face opposite him. Their friendship, their old, exuberant, grand friendship; what had become of it?

A dim desire awoke in Leo to play the fool to put an end to this constraint. He felt as if he could stand on his head, dance and whoop, or throw himself at his feet, kiss his hands, and cry, "Forgive, forgive."

Yet all was forgiven.

In this man's calm, composed glance, there was not a shadow of reproach, nothing but an affectionate compassion.

"Tell me about yourself, Uhich," he asked, stuttering. "Are you satisfied with your progress? Do you feel quite well now?"

"Yes," said Ulrich, "I am very well."

There was a pause.

Outside the rain fell in warm, soft torrents, and the soil greedily absorbed the moisture. Strings of grey pearls hung on the young green of the twigs, and the half-unfurled leaves expanded, and glistened in the invigorating shower-bath. Everywhere young life and the promise of a fertile spring. But the two men who loved each other better than anything else in the world, felt as if a breath of autumn and dying things hovered about them.

"You know," Ulrich began, "we have much to talk over, old boy. We must come to a clear understanding about our position with regard to each other. I mean, our old friendship."

A quiet, iron resolve made his face like an inscrutable mask. It was as if this sickly, much-wronged soul had fought its last struggles and come off victor. Something of Ulrich's calm was at this minute communicated to Leo. He felt that, happen what might, it would be in accordance with the requirements of their two inmost natures.

"It is well that we have allowed so much time to elapse, since that night," Ulrich went on. "I have been able to think over things, and I believe that I have chosen the right path for us to pursue. The sad story you related to me on the Isle of Friendship has since been corroborated in every particular by Felicitas herself."

Leo started up. "You have seen her?" he stammered.

Ulrich nodded gravely. "She wrote to me about--about the divorce, as you may suppose. And so I went to look her up. I did not like the idea of leaving the poor thing to her own devices in case she should go altogether to the bad."

Leo could not help feeling a jealous pang. Ulrich spoke of the woman so gently. Would he deal as tenderly with him?

"But when I found her looking fresh and gay, as if relieved of a burden----"

"You really found her like that?" Leo asked eagerly.

Ulrich bowed his head, and an ironical smile played about the corners of his mouth.

"Then I saw plainly how much I had been to blame. I ought never to have offered my hand to a healthy young creature, made in every fibre for love and pleasure; I, a fragile unsound subject, hardly capable of dragging through life alone. I hope that she will be happy now. I do not love her. I ceased to care for her the day I knew---- But we won't speak of the boy. Still, no one shall cast a stone at her."

Leo breathed more freely. Ulrich evidently did not regret her, and this shadow no longer lay between them.

"To pass on to ourselves," said Ulrich, leaning back in his chair with a gesture denoting mental fatigue. His features lost their expression of strained severity, and as his mouth opened two lines of pain shot up into his sunken cheeks.

"Another bad quarter of an hour," Leo thought, whose hopes of a happy issue were now high again, "and then we shall be on quite the old footing."

"Do you remember, my dear boy," Ulrich went on, with his eyes fixed distressfully on vacancy, "the day of your return, when we sat and drank together at the Prussian Crown? You said to me then that my marriage would cost us our friendship. I wouldn't believe you at the time, but now I see that you were a thousand times right."

"How do you mean right?" stammered Leo, feeling a cold shiver of anxiety run through him.

"You mustn't reproach me, dear boy. I am punishing myself more than I punish you. I love you as much as ever I did. I would pour out my heart's blood for you--but I can't associate with you any more."

"Ulrich!" cried Leo; "then you haven't forgiven me after all?"

Ulrich looked pained. "What do you call forgiving?" he said. "The one woman in the world, whom I as your friend had no right to touch, I made my wife. So I think we are quits. If it had come to shooting between us that day, and you had sent me the same way as her first husband, I would have died stroking and blessing your hand, dear boy. And then you talk of forgiving!"

Leo had staggered to his feet. He stretched out his hand as if he would seize and hold his friend fast before his soul slipped out of his grasp for ever.

"What you propose is madness," he exclaimed.

"No, dear boy. I should like to explain it all thoroughly to you. I have rehearsed a long speech, but I cannot somehow exactly recall it now. God knows it was my firm intention to let the past lie buried. But I can't alter my nature, and you know how I take things to heart, and when I do, must speak of them. But leaving me out of the question. You take life differently, less seriously. Yet how could you endure to come in and out here, when the very walls speak to you of the past? I noticed just now how you glanced at that door. It seemed to you that she must be coming through it. I have done with her, and so, it is to be hoped, have you--but, all the same, her ghost fills this place, and you feel it as much as I do."

"With time that would wear off," Leo murmured, becoming more and more dispirited.

"I doubt it," replied Ulrich. "It could never wear off with us. We should have had to be brought up differently, born of different parents, and with other blood pumped into our veins. As we are, our sense of honour, our manliness, would constantly be in revolt. Day by day we should become more discomfited, till at last we should end by laying at each other's door our loss of self-respect. No, that shall not be. It would be too great a strain on our old friendship. Think of our two fathers. They were fond of each other, God knows. But if what has happened to us had happened to them, they would have both cut their throats without asking who was to blame and who wasn't. Say, am I not right?"

Leo was silent, and thought to himself, "Thus he casts me off."

It seemed to him that all the new purpose and strength that he had built up within him, all the tenderness and truth were falling in ruins. Nothingness stretched before him.

"The best thing I can do, then," he said sadly, "is to pack my bundle as quickly as may be and go back to America."

Ulrich came and laid his hand on his shoulder. "No, you won't do that, dear boy," he said. "Look over there across the stream. There lie your acres; your fields full of flourishing rye; the turnips waiting to be transplanted; even the wheat springing above the soil. And now God's blessed gift of rain has come to make all green and fruitful. You are responsible for every tiny growth, so don't talk of running away to waste and rot where you can do no good and reap no harvest."

"If you give me up," said Leo, bitterly, "nothing is any good."

"But I am not going to give you up. I shall watch over you and yours from afar, and rejoice in all that gives you joy. I shall count the ears of corn in your fields, and your children I will cherish in my heart as if they were my own."

"My children?" muttered Leo.

Ulrich smiled. "Do you imagine I haven't kept my eyes open?" he asked. "I don't know whether you feel yet that you have come through the furnace of what has been, sufficiently cleansed.... But take my advice and don't keep the dear girl waiting too long. Be happy; you have good cause; for you it is spring, inside and out."

Leo felt tears start to his eyes. He turned away, and put his hands over his face.

"And what about you, Ulrich?" he asked, controlling his emotion.

A gleam of patient hopelessness shot over the tired sallow face, like the presage of a tranquil death.

"Oh, I," he said; "I have not much more to live for. You mustn't worry about me. I have done what I could, and I accept as a special grace what is left to me. Now, give me your hand. My most earnest, heartfelt thanks are yours. Good-bye." For a moment they lay in each other's arms. "Be brave, old fellow," urged Ulrich. "After all, we have only reached the point at which we stood the day you came home."

"Once more, forgive me," Leo half whispered, as if ashamed of the request; and then he rushed to the door.

The soft rain was still falling. A warm wind swept it over the landscape in silvery showers, and from between the banks of cloud a faint golden light shone down on the fragrant earth. Wild ducks quacked as they wallowed in the slime of the pond. In the branches of the blossoming hawthorns, finches and tomtits chased each other, singing and chirruping. The whole of Nature seemed in the humour for jesting.

As if coming from an open grave, Leo faced life again in its changed aspect, and his heart was very sore. There dawned on his mind a sense of the utter uselessness of struggling against the fate which governed so inexorably the human race. His brain was too tired to reason it out clearly, but the bare idea overawed him. Then something began to rise up in revolt within him against the destiny to which he had submitted, without even a show of resistance, and against the prolonging of the paralysing influence of his old sin. The sacrifice to which he had consented with such weak humility would hang that sin round his neck like a millstone for evermore.

There was his boat, receiving for the last time the hospitality of the white sands of Uhlenfelde. For the last time his strong arms pushed it out into the stream. The last time! The pebbles crunched under the grinding keel, and its nose ploughed gaily into the sparkling ripples. Was it really the last time that his foot would touch Uhlenfelde soil? Half hesitating, he jumped into the boat and fixed the oars, with an exclamation of anger. What he had agreed to was absurd--nay, worse, it was a positive crime, a crime against himself and against his friend.

And then, when in mid-current he turned to take a farewell look at Uhlenfelde, he saw at one of the turret windows Ulrich's face. It was unmistakable, framed in its light, scanty goat's beard, and with its great, hollow eyes. His heart leapt. It would seem as if Ulrich had mounted to the tower with the purpose of beaconing him back.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he cried jubilantly, and with a frantic pull began to turn the boat round.

But no, Ulrich made no sign; on the contrary, he drew back quickly, as if he did not wish to be seen.

Disappointed, Leo rowed on, yet he felt distinctly happier. At the sight of his friend, in his great, shy, compassionate love, watching him, half hidden by the curtains, there came back to Leo, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, all his new-born strength and energy, which he had felt recently thrilling through body and soul; the old glorious, mighty, unquenchable confidence in conquest, which had been his inheritance and had ruled his life from the beginning, till a woman had shamefully filched it from him.

He jerked the oars out of his hands, drew himself erect, and stretching his clenched fists towards Ulrich, he called out laughingly across the water--

"I'll win you back yet--see if I don't!"

The glimmer of a face vanished from the window opposite. But Leo sat down in the boat again, and guided it swiftly to the Halewitz shore--high festival in his heart.

THE END

THIRD EDITION REGINA; OR, THE SINS OF THE FATHERS. By Hermann Sudermann. Translated by Beatrice Marshall. Crown 8vo. Price 6s. THE TIMES.--"Sudermann is one of the most masterly of contemporary novelists, and it was high time that he should be presented to the English public. 'Der Katzensteg,' though far from the latest, is perhaps the most powerful of his novels, and the publisher has been well advised in selecting it. As for the translation, it is so admirably done that as we read we forget we are reading a translation." DAILY NEWS.--"To Beatrice Marshall we owe a skilful and spirited translation of Hermann Sudermann's great novel.... The story palpitates with the passion of patriotism, of revenge, of love and hate.... The book is a strong book, and not written for babes. It gives us an insight into the patriotic passion that drives men to commit actions as savage and ignoble as it inspires them to the highest heroism. The appeal of the book lies in the development of that wonderful love-story between the two unhappy outcasts weighted with the sins of the father. To those who cannot read the story in German, we recommend this translation of a masterpiece." DAILY GRAPHIC.--"Regina belongs to that category in which great novels rank." ACADEMY.--"A powerful and very deliberate tragedy.... Miss Beatrice Marshall is the translator, and, on the whole, Herr Sudermann may consider himself fortunate." LITERARY WORLD.--"After a perusal of Regina, we are constrained to wonder why in the name of fortune a book so powerful has had to wait such a long time for a translator.... Regina is not a book belonging to any school. It is the product of a mind strong enough to reject all neighbourly props; and it could only have been written by a realist who has not been unwise enough to depart altogether from the poetry of romance." SPECTATOR.--"The author has handled his terrible theme with wonderful force and simplicity, and a complete avoidance of offence.... Regina is a strangely pathetic and even heroic figure, while there is an elemental force in the passions--hate, love, avarice, and cruelty--of the various dramatis personæ which lend them an impressiveness rarely encountered in a novel of English life." OUTLOOK.--"It is little to the credit of our publishers that this masterpiece, which in Germany has reached a twenty-second edition, should have waited nine years for an English translator.... This translation will reveal ... what artistic realism may become. Miss Marshall is particularly happy in the rural and domestic scenes." ST. JAMES' GAZETTE.--"A striking bit of work, full of excitements and strongly drawn characters.... Miss Beatrice Marshall, the translator, is to be congratulated on an excellent piece of work." GLOBE.--"The story is told with remarkable skill, the interest being sustained throughout.... The novel is a striking one, and deserves careful and critical attention." PALL MALL GAZETTE.--"A great German novel.... The tale is at a tense pitch of excitement and agitation, and it abounds with wonderful, strongly drawn characters.... There is nothing gladdening at all. But power beats in every stroke, and the Æschylean gloom and force of the story is nothing short of grand." BOOKMAN.--"To Miss Marshall they [the readers] owe gratitude for introduction to a book of exceptional force through a very creditable translation." SUNDAY TIMES.--"It is quite impossible to do justice to the literary and artistic merits of this great and original achievement in modern fiction." LADY'S PICTORIAL.--"A powerful sad tragic story, ... for it is full of the passions of love and hate in their most primitive and terrible forms."

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FOOTNOTE:

[1]. The final word was obliterated. The German version provides the familiar word "for you" (dir).--Transcriber.