CHAPTER XXII
The next morning the two took their rather late breakfast together. Innstetten had overcome his ill-humor and something worse, and Effi was so completely taken up with her feeling of liberation that not only had her power of feigning a certain amount of good humor returned, but she had almost regained her former artlessness. She was still in Kessin, and yet she already felt as though it lay far behind her.
"I have been thinking it over, Effi," said Innstetten, "you are not entirely wrong in all you have said against our house here. For Captain Thomsen it was quite good enough, but not for a spoiled young wife. Everything old-fashioned and no room. You shall have a better house in Berlin, with a dining hall, but different from the one here, and in the hall and on the stairway colored-glass windows, Emperor William with sceptre and crown, or some religious picture, a St. Elizabeth or a Virgin Mary. Let us say a Virgin Mary; we owe that to Roswitha."
Effi laughed. "So shall it be. But who will select an apartment for us? I couldn't think of sending Cousin von Briest to look for one, to say nothing of my aunts. They would consider anything good enough."
"When it comes to selecting an apartment, nobody can do that to the satisfaction of any one else. I think you will have to go yourself."
"And when do you think?"
"The middle of March."
"Oh, that is much too late, Geert; everything will be gone then. The good apartments will hardly wait for us."
"All right. But it was only yesterday that I came home and I can't well say: 'go tomorrow.' That would not look right and it would not suit me very well either. I am happy to have you with me once more."
"No," she said, as she gathered together the breakfast dishes rather noisily to hide a rising embarrassment, "no, and it shall not be either, neither today nor tomorrow, but before very long, however. And if I find anything I shall soon be back again. But one thing more, Roswitha and Annie must go with me. It would please me most if you went too. But, I see, that is out of the question. And I think the separation will not last long. I already know, too, where I shall rent."
"Where?"
"That must remain my secret. I want to have a secret myself. I want to surprise you later."
At this point Frederick entered to bring the mail. The most of the pieces were official and newspapers. "Ah, there is also a letter for you," said Innstetten. "And, if I am not mistaken, mama's handwriting."
Effi took the letter. "Yes, from mama. But that is not the Friesack postmark. Just see, why, it is plainly Berlin."
"Certainly," laughed Innstetten. "You act as though it were a miracle. Mama is doubtless in Berlin and has written her darling a letter from her hotel."
"Yes," said Effi, "that is probably it. But I almost have fears, and can find no real consolation in what Hulda Niemeyer always said: that when one has fears it is better than when one has hopes. What do you think about it?"
"For a pastor's daughter not quite up to the standard. But now read the letter. Here is a paper knife."
Effi cut open the envelope and read: "My dear Effi: For the last twenty-four hours I have been here in Berlin—Consultations with Schweigger. As soon as he saw me he congratulated me, and when I asked him, astonished, what occasion there was, I learned that a director of a ministerial department by the name of Wüllersdorf had just been at his office and told him that Innstetten had been called to a position with the ministry. I am a little vexed to have to learn a thing like that from a third person. But in my pride and joy I forgive you. Moreover, I always knew, even when I was at Rathenow, that he would make something of himself. Now you are to profit by it. Of course you must have an apartment and new furniture. If, my dear Effi, you think you can make use of my advice, come as soon as your time will permit. I shall remain here a week for treatment, and if it is not effective, perhaps somewhat longer. Schweigger is rather indefinite on the subject. I have taken a private room on Schadow St. Adjoining my room there are others vacant. What the matter is with my eye I will tell you when I see you. The thing that occupies me at present is your future. Briest will be unspeakably happy. He always pretends to be so indifferent about such things, but in reality he thinks more of them than I do. My regards to Innstetten, and a kiss for Annie, whom you will perhaps bring along. As ever your tenderly loving mother, Louise von B."
Effi laid the letter on the table and said nothing. Her mind was firmly made up as to what she should do, but she did not want to say it herself. She wanted Innstetten to speak the first word and then she would hesitatingly say, "yes."
Innstetten actually fell into the trap. "Well, Effi, you remain so calm."
"Ah, Geert, everything has its two sides. On the one hand I shall be happy to see mother again, and maybe even in a few days. But there are so many reasons for delaying."
"What are they?"
"Mama, as you know, is very determined and recognizes only her own will. With papa she has been able to have her way in everything. But I should like to have an apartment to suit my taste, and new furniture that I like."
Innstetten laughed. "Is that all?"
"Well, that is enough, I should think. But it is not all." Then she summoned up her courage, looked at him, and said: "And then, Geert, I should not like to be separated from you again so soon."
"You rogue, you just say that because you know my weakness. But we are all vain, and I will believe it. I will believe it and yet, at the same time, play the hero who foregoes his own desires. Go as soon as you think it necessary and can justify it before your own heart."
"You must not talk like that, Geert. What do you mean by 'justifying it before my own heart?' By saying that you force me, half tyrannically, to assume a role of affection, and I am compelled to say from sheer coquetry: 'Ah, Geert, then I shall never go.' Or something of the sort."
Innstetten shook his finger at her. "Effi, you are too clever for me. I always thought you were a child, and now I see that you are on a par with all the rest. But enough of that, or, as your papa always said, 'that is too wide a field.' Say, rather, when you are going?"
"Today is Tuesday. Let us say, then, Friday noon by the boat. Then I shall be in Berlin in the evening."
"Settled. And when will you be back?"
"Well, let us gay Monday evening. That will make three days."
"Impossible. That is too soon. You can't accomplish everything in three days. Your mama will not let you go so soon, either."
"Then leave it to my discretion."
"All right," and Innstetten arose from his seat to go over to the district councillor's office.
* * * * *
The days before Effi's departure flew by quickly. Roswitha was very happy. "Ah, your Ladyship, Kessin, oh yes—but it is not Berlin. And the street cars. And then when the gong rings and one does not know whether to turn to the right or the left, and it has sometimes seemed to me as though everything would run right over me. Oh, there is nothing like that here. Many a day I doubt if we see six people, and never anything else but the dunes and the sea outside. And it roars and roars, but that is all."
"Yes, Roswitha, you are right. It roars and roars all the time, but this is not the right kind of life. Besides, one has all sorts of stupid ideas. That you cannot deny, and your conduct with Kruse was not in accord with propriety."
"Ah, your Ladyship—"
"Well, I will not make any further inquiries. You would not admit anything, of course. Only be sure not to take too few things with you. In fact, you may take all your things along, and Annie's too."
"I thought we were coming back."
"Yes, I am. It is his Lordship's desire. But you may perhaps stay there, with my mother. Only see to it that she does not spoil little Annie too badly. She was often strict with me, but a grandchild—"
"And then, too, you know, little Annie is so sweet, one is tempted to take a bite of her. Nobody can help being fond of her."
That was on Thursday, the day before the departure. Innstetten had driven into the country and was not expected home till toward evening. In the afternoon Effi went down town, as far as the market square, and there entered the apothecary's shop and asked for a bottle of sal volatile. "One never knows with whom one is to travel," she said to the old clerk, with whom she was accustomed to chat, and who adored her as much as Gieshübler himself.
"Is the doctor in?" she asked further, when she had put the little bottle in her pocket.
"Certainly, your Ladyship, he is in the adjoining room reading the papers."
"I shall not disturb him, shall I?"
"Oh, never."
Effi stepped in. It was a small room with a high ceiling and shelves around the walls, on which stood alembics and retorts. Along one wall were filing cases arranged alphabetically and provided with iron rings on the front ends. They contained the prescriptions.
Gieshübler was delighted and embarrassed. "What an honor! Here among my retorts! May I invite her Ladyship to be seated for a moment?"
"Certainly, dear Gieshübler. But really only for a moment. I want to bid you farewell."
"But, most gracious Lady, you are coming back, aren't you? I heard it was only for three or four days."
"Yes, dear friend, I am supposed to come back, and it is even arranged that I shall be back in Kessin in a week at the latest. But it is possible that I may not come back. I don't need to tell you all the thousand possibilities—I see you are about to tell me I am still too young to—but young people sometimes die. And then there are so many other things. So I prefer to take leave of you as though it were for ever."
"But, most gracious Lady—"
"As though it were for ever. And I want to thank you, dear Gieshübler. For you were the best thing here; naturally, because you were the best man. If I live to be a hundred years old I shall not forget you. I have felt lonely here at times, and at times my heart was so heavy, heavier than you can ever know. I have not always managed rightly. But whenever I have seen you, from the very first day, I have always felt happier, and better, too."
"Oh, most gracious Lady."
"And I wished to thank you for it. I have just bought a small bottle of sal volatile. There are often such remarkable people in the compartment, who will not even permit a window to be opened. If I shed any tears—for, you know, it goes right up into one's head, the salts, I mean—then I will think of you. Adieu, dear friend, and give my regards to your friend, Miss Trippelli. During these last weeks I have often thought of her and of Prince Kotschukoff. After all is said and done it remains a peculiar relation. But I can understand it—and let me hear from you some day. Or I shall write."
With these words Effi went out. Gieshübler accompanied her out upon the square. He was dumbfounded, so completely that he entirely overlooked many enigmatical things she said.
Effi went back home. "Bring me the lamp, Johanna," she said, "but into my bedroom. And then a cup of tea. I am so cold and cannot wait till his Lordship returns."
The lamp and the tea came. Effi was already sitting at her little writing desk, with a sheet of letter paper before her and the pen in her hand. "Please, Johanna, put the tea on the table there."
When Johanna had left the room Effi locked her door, looked into the mirror for a moment and then sat down again, and wrote: "I leave tomorrow by the boat, and these are farewell lines. Innstetten expects me back in a few days, but I am not coming back—why I am not coming back, you know—it would have been better if I had never seen this corner of the earth. I implore you not to take this as a reproach. All the fault is mine. If I look at your house—your conduct may be excusable, not mine. My fault is very grievous, but perhaps I can overcome it. The fact that we were called away from here is to me, so to speak, a sign that I may yet be restored to favor. Forget the past, forget me. Your Effi."
She ran hastily over the lines once more. The strangest thing to her was the avoidance of the familiar "Du," but that had to be. It was meant to convey the idea that there was no bridge left. Then she put the letter into an envelope and walked toward a house between the churchyard and the corner of the forest. A thin column of smoke arose from the half tumbled down chimney. There she delivered the letter.
When she reached home Innstetten was already there and she sat down by him and told him about Gieshübler and the sal volatile. Innstetten laughed. "Where did you get your Latin, Effi?"
The boat, a light sailing vessel (the steamers ran only in the summer) left at twelve. A quarter of an hour before, Effi and Innstetten were on board; likewise Roswitha and Annie.
The baggage was bulkier than seemed necessary for a journey of so few days. Innstetten talked with the captain. Effi, in a raincoat and light gray traveling hat, stood on the after deck, near the tiller, and looked out upon the quay and the pretty row of houses that followed the line of the quay. Just opposite the landing stood the Hoppensack Hotel, a three-story building, from whose gable a yellow flag, with a cross and a crown on it, hung down limp in the quiet foggy air. Effi looked up at the flag for a while, then let her eyes sink slowly until they finally rested on a number of people who stood about inquisitively on the quay. At this moment the bell rang. Effi had a very peculiar sensation. The boat slowly began to move, and as she once more looked closely at the landing bridge she saw that Crampas was standing in the front row. She was startled to see him, but at the same time was glad. He, on the other hand, with his whole bearing changed, was obviously agitated, and waved an earnest adieu to her. She returned his greeting in like spirit, but also with great friendliness, and there was pleading in her eyes. Then she walked quickly to the cabin, where Roswitha had already made herself at home with Annie. She remained here in the rather close rooms till they reached the point where the river spreads out into a sheet of water called the "Broad." Then Innstetten came and called to her to come up on deck and enjoy the glorious landscape. She went up. Over the surface of the water hung gray clouds and only now and then could one catch a half-veiled glimpse of the sun through a rift in the dense mass. Effi thought of the day, just a year and a quarter ago, when she had driven in an open carriage along the shore of this same "Broad." A brief span, and life often so quiet and lonely. Yet how much had happened since then!
Thus they sailed up the fairway and at two o'clock were at the station or very near it. As they, a moment later, passed the Prince Bismarck Hotel, Golchowski, who was again standing at the door, joined them and accompanied them to the steps leading up the embankment. At the station they found the train was not yet signaled, so they walked up and down on the platform. Their conversation turned about the question of an apartment. They agreed on the quarter of the city, that it must be between the Tiergarten and the Zoological Garden. "I want to hear the finches sing and the parrots scream," said Innstetten, and Effi was willing.
Then they heard the signal and the train ran into the station. The station master was full of attentions and Effi received a compartment to herself.
Another handshake, a wave of her handkerchief, and the train began again to move.