CHAPTER XVII
The clock struck two as they reached the house. Crampas bade Effi adieu, rode into the city, and dismounted at his residence on the market square. Effi changed her dress and tried to take a nap, but could not go to sleep, for she was less weary than out of humor. That Innstetten should keep his ghosts, in order to live in an extraordinary house, that she could endure; it harmonized with his inclination to be different from the great mass. But the other thing, that he should use his ghosts for pedagogical purposes, that was annoying, almost insulting. It was clear to her mind that "pedagogical purposes" told less than half the story. What Crampas had meant was far, far worse, was a kind of instrument designed to instill fear. It was wholly lacking in goodness of heart and bordered almost on cruelty. The blood rushed to her head, she clenched her little fist, and was on the point of laying plans, but suddenly she had to laugh. "What a child I am!" she exclaimed. "Who can assure me that Crampas is right? Crampas is entertaining, because he is a gossip, but he is unreliable, a mere braggart, and cannot hold a candle to Innstetten."
At this moment Innstetten drove up, having decided to come home earlier today than usual. Effi sprang from her seat to greet him in the hall and was the more affectionate, the more she felt she had something to make amends for. But she could not entirely ignore what Crampas had said, and in the midst of her caresses, while she was listening with apparent interest, there was the ever recurring echo within: "So the ghost is part of a design, a ghost to keep me in my place."
Finally she forgot it, however, and listened artlessly to what he had to tell her.
* * * * *
About the middle of November the north wind blew up a gale, which for a day and a half swept over the moles so violently that the Kessine, more and more dammed back, finally overflowed the quay and ran into the streets. But after the storm had spent its rage the weather cleared and a few sunny autumn days followed. "Who knows how long they will last," said Effi to Crampas, and they decided to ride out once more on the following morning. Innstetten, who had a free day, was to go too. They planned to ride to the mole and dismount there, then take a little walk along the beach and finally have luncheon at a sheltered spot behind the dunes.
At the appointed hour Crampas rode up before the house. Kruse was holding the horse for her Ladyship, who quickly lifted herself into the saddle, saying that Innstetten had been prevented from going and wished to be excused. There had been another big fire in Morgenitz the night before, the third in three weeks, pointing to incendiarism, and he had been obliged to go there, much to his sorrow, for he had looked forward with real pleasure to this ride, thinking it would probably be the last of the season.
Crampas expressed his regret, perhaps just to say something, but perhaps with sincerity, for inconsiderate as he was in chivalrous love affairs, he was, on the other hand, equally a hale fellow well met. To be sure, only superficially. To help a friend and five minutes later deceive him were things that harmonized very well with his sense of honor. He could do both with incredible bonhomie.
The ride followed the usual route through the "Plantation." Rollo went ahead, then came Crampas and Effi, and Kruse followed. Crampas's lackey was not along.
"Where did you leave Knut?"
"He has the mumps."
"Remarkable," laughed Effi. "To tell the truth, he always looked as though he had something of the sort."
"Quite right. But you ought to see him now. Or rather not, for you can take the mumps from merely seeing a case."
"I don't believe it."
"There is a great deal that young wives don't believe."
"And again they believe many things they would better not believe."
"Do you say that for my benefit?"
"No."
"Sorry."
"How becoming this 'sorry' is to you! I really believe, Major, you would consider it entirely proper, if I were to make a declaration of love to you."
"I will not go quite that far. But I should like to see the fellow who would not desire such a thing. Thoughts and wishes go free of duty."
"There is some question about that. Besides, there is a difference between thoughts and wishes. Thoughts, as a rule, keep in the background, but wishes, for the most part, hover on the lips."
"I wish you wouldn't say that."
"Ah, Crampas, you are—you are—"
"A fool."
"No. That is another exaggeration. But you are something else. In Hohen-Cremmen we always said, I along with the rest, that the most conceited person in the world was a hussar ensign at eighteen."
"And now?"
"Now I say, the most conceited person in the world is a district major of the landwehr at forty-two."
"Incidentally, my other two years that you most graciously ignore make amends for the remark. Kiss the hand" (—My respects to you).
"Yes, 'kiss the hand.' That is just the expression that fits you. It is Viennese. And the Viennese—I made their acquaintance four years ago in Carlsbad, where they courted me, a fourteen-year-old slip of a girl. What a lot of things I had to listen to!"
"Certainly nothing more than was right."
"If that were true, the intended compliment would be rather rude—But see the buoys yonder, how they swim and dance. The little red flags are hauled in. Every time I have seen the red flags this summer, the few times that I have ventured to go down to the beach, I have said to myself: there lies Vineta, it must lie there, those are the tops of the towers."
"That is because you know Heine's poem."
"Which one?"
"Why, the one about Vineta."
"No, I don't know that one; indeed I know very few, to my sorrow."
"And yet you have Gieshübler and the Journal Club. However, Heine gave the poem a different name, 'Sea Ghosts,' I believe, or something of the sort. But he meant Vineta. As he himself—pardon me, if I proceed to tell you here the contents of the poem—as the poet, I was about to say, is passing the place, he is lying on the ship's deck and looking down into the water, and there he sees narrow, medieval streets, and women tripping along in hoodlike hats. All have songbooks in their hands and are going to church, and all the bells are ringing. When he hears the bells he is seized with a longing to go to church himself, even though only for the sake of the hoodlike hats, and in the heat of desire he screams aloud and is about to plunge in. But at that moment the captain seizes him by the leg and exclaims: 'Doctor, are you crazy?'"
"Why, that is delicious! I'd like to read it. Is it long?"
"No, it is really short, somewhat longer than 'Thou hast diamonds and pearls,' or 'Thy soft lily fingers,'" and he gently touched her hand. "But long or short, what descriptive power, what objectivity! He is my favorite poet and I know him by heart, little as I care in general for this poetry business, in spite of the jingles I occasionally perpetrate myself. But with Heine's poetry it is different. It is all life, and above everything else he is a connoisseur of love, which, you know, is the highest good. Moreover, he is not one-sided."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he is not all for love."
"Well, even if he had this one-sidedness it would not be the worst thing in the world. What else does he favor?"
"He is also very much in favor of romance, which, to be sure, follows closely after love and, in the opinion of some people, coincides with it. But I don't believe it does. In his later poems, which have been called 'romantic'—as a matter of fact, he called them that himself—in these romantic poems there is no end of killing. Often on account of love, to be sure, but usually for other, more vulgar reasons, among which I include politics, which is almost always vulgar. Charles Stuart, for example, carries his head under his arm in one of these romances, and still more gruesome is the story of Vitzliputzli."
"Of whom?"
"Vitzliputzli. He is a Mexican god, and when the Mexicans had taken twenty or thirty Spaniards prisoners, these twenty or thirty had to be sacrificed to Vitzliputzli. There was no help for it, it was a national custom, a cult, and it all took place in the turn of a hand—belly open, heart out—"
"Stop, Crampas, no more of that. It is indecent, and disgusting besides. And all this when we are just about on the point of eating lunch!"
"I for my part am not affected by it, as I make it my rule to let my appetite depend only upon the menu."
During this conversation they had come from the beach, according to program, to a bench built in the lee of the dunes, with an extremely primitive table in front of it, simply a board on top of two posts. Kruse, who had ridden ahead, had the lunch already served—tea rolls, slices of cold roast meat, and red wine, and beside the bottle stood two pretty little gold-rimmed glasses, such as one buys in watering places or takes home as souvenirs from glass works.
They dismounted. Kruse, who had tied the reins of his own horse around a stunted pine, walked up and down with the other two horses, while Crampas and Effi sat down at the table and enjoyed the clear view of beach and mole afforded by a narrow cut through the dunes.
The half-wintery November sun shed its fallow light upon the still agitated sea and the high-running surf. Now and then a puff of wind came and carried the spray clear up to the table. There was lyme grass all around, and the bright yellow of the immortelles stood out sharply against the yellow sand they were growing in, despite the kinship of colors. Effi played the hostess. "I am sorry, Major, to have to pass you the rolls in a basket lid."
"I don't mind the platter, so long as it holds a favor."
"But this is Kruse's arrangement—Why, there you are too, Rollo. But our lunch does not take you into account. What shall we do with Rollo?"
"I say, give him everything—I for my part out of gratitude. For, you see, dearest Effi—"
Effi looked at him.
"For, you see, most gracious Lady, Rollo reminds me of what I was about to tell you as a continuation or counterpart of the Vitzliputzli story, only much more racy, because a love story. Have you ever heard of a certain Pedro the Cruel?"
"I have a faint recollection."
"A kind of Bluebeard king."
"That is fine. That is the kind girls like best to hear about, and I still remember we always said of my friend Hulda Niemeyer, whose name you have heard, I believe, that she knew no history, except the six wives of Henry the Eighth, that English Bluebeard, if the word is strong enough for him. And, really, she knew these six by heart. You ought to have heard her when she pronounced the names, especially that of the mother of queen Elizabeth,—so terribly embarrassed, as though it were her turn next—But now, please, the story of Don Pedro."
"Very well. At Don Pedro's court there was a handsome black Spanish knight, who wore on his breast the cross of Calatrava, which is about the equivalent of the Black Eagle and the Pour le Mérite together. This cross was essential, they always had to wear it, and this Calatrava knight, whom the queen secretly loved, of course—"
"Why of course?"
"Because we are in Spain."
"So we are."
"And this Calatrava knight, I say, had a very beautiful dog, a Newfoundland dog, although there were none as yet, for it was just a hundred years before the discovery of America. A very beautiful dog, let us call him Rollo."
When Rollo heard his name he barked and wagged his tail.
"It went on thus for many a day. But the secret love, which probably did not remain entirely secret, soon became too much for the king, who cared very little for the Calatrava knight anyhow; for he was not only a cruel king, but also a jealous old wether—or, if that word is not just suited for a king, and still less for my amiable listener, Mrs. Effi, call him at least a jealous creature. Well, he resolved to have the Calatrava knight secretly beheaded for his secret love."
"I can't blame him."
"I don't know, most gracious Lady. You must hear further. In part it was all right, but it was too much. The king, in my judgment, went altogether too far. He pretended he was going to arrange a feast for the knight in honor of his deeds as a warrior and hero, and there was a long table and all the grandees of the realm sat at this table, and in the middle sat the king, and opposite him was the place of honor for the Calatrava knight. But the knight failed to appear, and when they had waited a long while for him, they finally had to begin the feast without him, and his place remained vacant. A vacant place just opposite the king!"
"And then?"
"And then, fancy, most gracious Lady, as the king, this Pedro, is about to rise in order dissemblingly to express his regret that his 'dear guest' has not yet appeared, the horrified servants are heard screaming on the stairway, and before anybody knows what has happened, something flies along the table, springs upon the chair, and places a severed head upon the empty plate. Over this very head Rollo stares at the one sitting face to face with him, viz., the king. Rollo had accompanied his master on his last journey, and the moment the ax fell the faithful animal snatched the falling head, and here he was now, our friend Rollo, at the long festal board, accusing the royal murderer."
Effi was rapt with attention. After a few moments she said: "Crampas, that is in its way very beautiful, and because it is very beautiful I will forgive you. But you might do better, and please me more, if you would tell stories of another kind, even from Heine. Certainly Heine has not written exclusively of Vitzliputzli and Don Pedro and your Rollo. I say your, for mine would not have done such a thing. Come, Rollo. Poor creature, I can't look at you any more without thinking of the Calatrava knight, whom the queen secretly loved—Call Kruse, please, that he may put these things back in the saddle bag, and, as we ride home, you must tell me something different, something entirely different."
Kruse came. As he was about to take the glasses Crampas said: "Kruse, leave the one glass, this one here. I'll take it myself."
"Your servant, Major."
Effi, who had overheard this, shook her head. Then she laughed. "Crampas, what in the world are you thinking of? Kruse is stupid enough not to think a second time about anything, and even if he did he fortunately would arrive at no conclusion. But that does not justify you in keeping this thirty-pfennig glass from the Joseph Glass Works."
"Your scornful reference to its price makes me feel its value all the more deeply."
"Always the same story. You are such a humorist, but a very queer one.
If I understand you rightly you are going to—it is ridiculous and I
almost hesitate to say it—you are going to perform now the act of the
King of Thule."
He nodded with a touch of roguishness.
"Very well, for all I care. Everybody wears his right cap; you know which one. But I must be permitted to say that the rôle you are assigning to me in this connection is far from flattering. I don't care to figure as a rhyme to your King of Thule. Keep the glass, but please draw no conclusions that would compromise me. I shall tell Innstetten about it."
"That you will not do, most gracious Lady."
"Why not?"
"Innstetten is not the man to see such things in their proper light."
She eyed him sharply for a moment, then lowered her eyes confused and almost embarrassed.