In Paradise: A Novel. Vol. II

by Paul Heyse

CHAPTER II.

"By all the good spirits, but you are a poet!" cried Rossel, and he sprang up with so unusual an alacrity that his red fez slipped off his head.

"A poet!" responded his modest friend, with a sad smile. "There, you see how low we have sunken nowadays. If it ever occurs to one of us to let any idea enter his head that goes beyond a whistling shoemaker's apprentice, or some celebrated historical event, or a bathing nymph, he must immediately hear himself scouted as a poet. Those old fellows like Dürer, Holbein, Mantegna, and the rest, were left unmolested to spin into fables whatever struck them as beautiful or odd. But, nowadays, the doctrine of the division of labor is the panacea for all things; and if a poor fool of a painter or draughtsman works out for himself anything which a poet could by any possibility put into verse, people immediately come running up with Lessing's 'Laokoön'--which, by the way, no one thinks of reading nowadays--and prove that in this case all bounds have been overstepped. If a poor devil of an artist has a fancy for poetry, why doesn't he go to work and illustrate? After all, it is a trade that supports its man, and one who follows it can be a thorough-going realist, and can easily guard himself against all danger of infection from poetry. But an arrogant wight of an idealist, whom the world refuses to keep warm, and who, therefore, must take care not to let the sacred fire go out on the hearth of his art--"

"You are getting warm without cause, my dear Kohle!" interposed the other. "Good heavens! it is indeed a breadless art, that of the poet, but a deadly sin it certainly is not; and I, for my part, could almost envy you for having such ideas as those you have just been telling me. I'll tell you what--finish your plans, and then we will both of us paint this beautiful story of Dame Venus inside there on the wall of our dining-room. The devil must be in it, if we don't succeed in producing something that will throw the Casa Bartoldi deep into the shade."

He knew when he said this what a great proposal he had let fall upon the listening soul of his friend.

Kohle, like all art apostles of his stamp, despised easel and oil painting, as it is usually practised. On the other hand, the great aim of his longing and ambition was to be able, just for once, to wield his fresco brush to his heart's content on a wall a hundred feet long; and his friends were fond of plaguing him about a wish that had once escaped him--"My life for a bare wall!" Heretofore no one had been willing to entrust him with a square yard of his house, or even of his garden, for this purpose. And now, suddenly, he had only to put forth his hand, and see his greatest desire for monumental art-creation fulfilled.

At first he could not believe in such overwhelming good-fortune. But when the look of glad surprise and trembling doubt which he cast upon his host encountered a perfectly serious face, he could no longer hold himself in his chair. He sprang to his feet, threw his shabby black hat high into the air, and, with outstretched arms and glowing face, prepared to throw himself upon his friend, who was slowly strolling back and forth. "Brother!" he cried, in a half-stifled voice, "this-- this--" But Rossel suddenly stood still and made a motion with his hand, which checked the enthusiast in the very height of his wild excitement.

The remembrance of a similar moment, when his heart had overflowed toward his friend, and he had been upon the verge of formally offering him "good-comradeship," came back to him with a rude shock. Then the word had not yet passed his lips, when Rossel, at the very same moment, though apparently without intention, had begun to speak of his aversion to the display of tenderness among men, and had frightened away this outburst of brotherly affection. And could it be that even now the ice was not to be broken between them, and that this fulfillment of the dearest wish of his life was nothing but the favor of a gracious patron, a whim on the part of the rich host toward the poor devil who sat at his hospitable table? His proud, sensitive soul was just on the point of revolting against this, when from afar off a sound struck upon his ear, which, as he instantly perceived, had been heard by Edward sooner than by him, and which had been the cause of his gesture of repulse. The soft notes of a flute came wafted to them over the lake, nearer and nearer to the spot on the bank where Rossel's villa stood.

"It is he!" said Rossel. "Even the peace of night is not so sacred as to guard defenseless beings from the attacks of this romantic amateur. Look here, Kohle, see how the boat is just floating out of the shadow into the silvery path of the moon--Rosebud stands erect in the centre, like Lohengrin; and that tall figure at the tiller is undoubtedly Elfinger's high-mightiness--they are making straight for our balcony--well, let the will of the gods be done!"

The notes of the flute died away in a melting trill, and immediately afterward Rosenbusch sprang ashore. "Salem aleikum!" he cried, waving his hat. "We make our attack from the side of the lake, obeying necessity and not our own desire, for a mouse-hole where two travelers might lay their heads for the night couldn't be had in Starnberg for all the gold of California. Saturday and this beautiful weather have lured half Munich out there. I immediately thought of you, old boy, and told Elfinger, who thought it would be presumptuous for us to force ourselves on you without a special invitation, that, in addition to all sorts of oriental qualities which are hateful to me, you also possessed three most estimable ones--namely, a number of superfluous divans, excellent coffee, and a spirit of hospitality worthy of a Bedouin. Consequently, that, unless your shady roof chanced to be sheltering a few odalisques who had already taken possession of all the couches, you would not turn us away from your threshold. At the worst, it won't be any great misfortune to two jolly juveniles like ourselves to pass a night, just for once, on the floor of a fishing-boat.

'Upon the laughing wave below,

The stars are mirrored bright;

The mighty heights that frown around

Drink in the mists of night,'"

he sang, to an air of his own composing, his eyes turned upon the mountains that lay hazy in the distance.

"You are welcome to my poor roof," responded Rossel, with gravity, cordially shaking hands with the actor, whom he greatly esteemed, and whose modesty caused him to hang back a little. "All the divans I possess stand at your service; and of blankets, too, there is no lack. I only hope, for your sake, that you have already satisfied the grosser wants of the body. Our daily supply of provisions is exhausted, and there is no attendant spirit at hand whom I could send to the neighbors in quest of aid. I have only old Katie out here, and she--"

"Does she still live, that venerable virgin with the silver locks, who thinks how she might have had children, and grandchildren, and shakes her head?" cried the battle-painter. "Come, Elfinger, it behooves us to go and offer our homage to the lady and mistress of the house."

"You will have to curb your impatience until morning, my dear Rosebud; the old woman has taken it into her head to relieve the loneliness of the long winter out here on the lake by making Enzian schnapps, and diligently devotes herself the whole summer long to the consumption of her own manufacture, so that she is good for nothing after eight o'clock. The most tender flute-serenade would not wake her from her deathlike Enzian sleep. Were it not that she is reasonably sober during the day, is a good cook, and is as faithful as an old dog, I would have sent her to the hospital long ago."

In the mean time, Rosenbusch had paid off and sent away the boatman, whom he never spoke of except as the "Fergen," and now rushed up the steps to the balcony, where, with a merry jodel he threw himself into a chair, and drank the health of the others from Kohle's half-filled glass.

"'Well for the rich and happy house,

That counts such gift but small!'"

he cried. "Long life to you, dear Westöstlicher. Truly, Rossel, there are moments when I acknowledge and honor the old proverb, 'Wisdom is good, especially with an inheritance.' If I could call a spot of earth like this mine, I myself would try to be as wise as you, and no longer assist at the decline of modern art. But no; after all, I couldn't stand doing nothing but feeding my white-mice and giving myself up to intellectual laziness. However, enough of this. Out here is truce and neutral territory, and I know what I owe to hospitality."

"Since you began it yourself," said Rossel, with a smile, "I have a single favor to ask of you. I have a number of song-birds in my garden, and I am afraid you will drive them from me if you give a loose rein to your baleful passion for music. They will acknowledge your superior genius, and shrink from competition. If you positively must play, row out upon the lake. There is a southwest wind which will waft the strains across to the castle over opposite, where they will do no harm."

"So be it," responded the battle-painter, with great seriousness; "though, in any case, we shan't burden you with our presence very long. For, to-morrow--" He broke off, for Elfinger gave him a warning look. In the meanwhile, Kohle had hastened down into the cellar, and now returned with a few slim bottles and the wine-cooler, which he had filled afresh with ice.

He had not yet spoken a word; but his whole face beamed with an inner content such as he seldom exhibited. The thought of the bare walls inspired him as the happiness of a secret love does others. Meantime, Elfinger had descended again to the bank, from which a little path led to a bathing-house. Soon his friends who had remained behind saw him swim out into the lake, his black, curly bead rising out of the silver path of the moonlight, "like the head of the Baptist on Herodias's charger," said Koble. "Except that he feels himself much better off than that poor devil," remarked Rosenbusch, who was comfortably drinking and smoking. "You must know that we wouldn't have had the absurd idea of making a pilgrimage out here on Saturday evening, in company with the whole population of Munich, had not our sweethearts shown us the way. Papa Glovemaker has permitted them to visit a Frau godmother, who is staying in Starnberg for the summer. We had no sooner gotten wind of this, through a trusty go-between, than we very naturally made up our minds that we could find no better place to spend to-morrow than here. Of course, we have taken care to make arrangements for meeting to-morrow. We are going to take you with us as guard of honor, Philip Emanuel. It is to be hoped you have no objections to the plan?"

"Not the slightest," responded Koble, good-naturedly. "Of course, the Frau godmother will fall to my share."

"And how about Elfinger's sweetheart? Is that little bride of heaven also in the conspiracy?" asked Fat Rossel, who was sitting in his rocking-chair again.

"Nothing certain is known about that; but, at all events, our friend builds great hopes upon this favor of fortune, which will permit him, for the first time, to pass several hours in the company of his darling. Only think; we also succeeded, a short time since, in finding out what it really is that has disgusted the good child with the world, and that is driving her into the convent by main force."

He cast a look upon the lake, as though he were measuring the distance between the balcony where they sat and the swimmer in the water.

"If you will keep close about it, I will tell you the secret," he continued, in a low voice. "After all, it only does honor to the poor girl that she wants to take the sins of others on her own shoulders, and do penance for them all her life long. Papa Glove-maker, you must know, appears to have been by no means such a very long-faced character in his youth, but, on the contrary, to have led a pretty wild life, and to have been mixed up in scrapes that were not always of a particularly edifying nature. However, he married young, and soon after this event there came a mission of Jesuits to the city, or to some place in the neighborhood--on this subject the records are silent--and the young sinner, who had already had ample opportunity for repentance in his marriage relations, allowed his conscience to be shaken to such an extent by the priests that he suddenly took a fancy to retire almost entirely from the world, neglected his business so that he almost reduced himself to beggary, and practically separated himself from his young wife. He had long lost her love, for which he did not seem to care; but this was not the worst. Devoted to his vigils and penances, he is said to have known of and condoned an intimacy which she soon after formed with a young landscape-painter, who lived for a long time in the house. The birth of a little girl, who was named Fanny, ended this relation; but, even then, the friendship shown for the artist did not at once cease. He stood as the child's godfather; and every year afterward he continued, although he had removed from Munich, to make a visit to the house on little Fanny's birthday. It was soon obvious, however, that Herr Glove-maker's views had changed; that he viewed him with less and less favor each time that he appeared; and that a crisis was approaching. And so, on one of these birthdays, when the girl had already begun to think for herself a little, there must have been a scene between her three elders, which was overheard by the unfortunate young creature. A sudden revelation came upon her, that terribly darkened and shattered her innocent spirit, so that she grew introspective and melancholy--and perhaps she had some spiritual adviser who was always giving her new fancies, and painting the terrors of the hereafter in stronger colors. Nanny, our informant says, knows nothing of the whole horrible business; and Fanny used to be just such another merry creature. If this melancholy idea did not so weigh upon her--that she must do penance for the sins of her parents--she would be as healthy, bright, and warm-blooded as her younger sister. Since Elfinger has learned this family secret, he has gained new hopes of turning this little bride of heaven back from the cloister. But it will hardly succeed; and if he doesn't use heroic remedies--"

He didn't finish his sentence; for just then his friend, refreshed by his bath, came running up the steps; and now, with an obvious sense of comfort, but with the rather quiet manners habitual to him, gave himself up to the enjoyment of the wine. Kohle, too, spoke only in monosyllables, so that Rosenbusch and Rossel had to bear the burden of the conversation. Moreover, as the day had been hot, and as they all really needed rest, the bottles were soon emptied, and the airy spot on the bank of the lake deserted.

Upon entering the house, Kohle's first care was to light the candles. Then he dragged out two woolen blankets from a wardrobe, where all sorts of things were stored. While occupied with this work he allowed his eyes to wander stealthily and tenderly over the long wall of the little room, as if he were measuring off and taking possession of the site of his future deeds. Two low, well-stuffed divans stood against these walls, an old table occupied the centre, and over it hung a chandelier with polished brass branches. The broad glass door of the hall opened upon the lake, and no sound penetrated into this airy room but the gentle murmur of the splashing waves, and a soft snoring from the chamber near the kitchen where old Katie had her bed. After all the doors had been shut and locked, even this nocturnal music was heard no longer.

The two new guests had just stretched themselves out on their couches, by way of experiment, and had wished their host good-night with a great deal of laughter and joking, when they were roused again by a distant ring at the park gate. Kohle hastily seized a light and ran out. Five minutes after they heard him return; he was talking with some one whose voice they none of them seemed to recognize. But, the moment they entered, the three shouted as with one voice:

"Our baron! And so late at night!"

They had recognized Felix more from his figure and bearing than from his features, though the light of the candle fell full upon his face; for it looked wan and transformed as if by some severe illness. His eyes, roaming restlessly about the room, had a piercing, feverish glitter, so that his friends stormed him with questions as to whether he was sick or had seen a ghost on his way through the wood.

He gave a forced laugh, passed his hand across his cold forehead, on which great beads of perspiration were standing, and declared that he had never felt better in his life, and that he was as proof against ghosts as the babe unborn. In spite of all this, there was something constrained in all his movements, and his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, as it often does when a person is laboring under great excitement.

He told how he too had been unable to find quarters in Starnberg, and had left the horse on which he had ridden out at the tavern, in order to make the remaining half-hour's journey to Rossel's country-seat on foot; and that, in trying to follow the rather confused directions which had been given him, he had gone a good deal out of his way. It was this that had reduced him to his present demoralized condition. But he would not disturb them on any account, and only asked for a drop of water and a corner where he could stretch himself out, for he was as tired as a dog, and would be content even with a dog's kennel.

He drained off a large glass of wine at a single swallow, then, with averted face, shook hands with his friends and made a few forced jokes--something he never thought of doing when he was quite himself. He flatly refused to accept of Kohle's offer to give up his bed to him, but gladly consented to be led into the studio, where, by the aid of a few blankets, a deer-skin, and a shawl, they succeeded in transforming an old garden-bench into a very respectable bed. Then, without even waiting for the others who had escorted him up-stairs to leave the room, he threw himself down upon the couch--"already half in the other world," he tried to say, jestingly, as he nodded good-night to the others.

Shaking their heads, his friends left him. It was evident that this late visit could be explained by no such innocent circumstances as had occasioned that of the two who had preceded him. But, while they were still standing outside the door exchanging remarks about Felix's singular condition, they learned from the deep breathing within that the object of their anxiety had fallen fast asleep.