When they had had their say, Franka cried: “May I now offer my defense?”
The count raised his hand. “No, what is the use? I see clearly how the whole matter stands and can render my judgment. A crime, at least a very detestable misdemeanor, has been committed—or, rather, a whole series of misdemeanors:—looting of others’ property; inquisitiveness and espionage; tale-bearing and making charges; injury and insult; attempted moral constraint and tyranny!”
“But, Eduard,” exclaimed the old countess reproachfully, “do you blame us instead of this erring child?”
“Most certainly, I blame you. Franka is neither in the path of error, nor is she a child. She has not been brought up as you would have brought up your daughters, and she has different ideas. Has she attempted to force these ideas on you? Has she ever tactlessly and offensively expressed her ideas in order to bring yours into unfavorable contrast?”
“No, she has done nothing of that kind. On the contrary, she has hypocritically kept her terrible ideas, imbibed from these terrible books, quite to herself.”
“Why do you say ‘hypocritically’? I call it tactful. If one lives with people who belong to another world of ideas, it is right to avoid bringing up the discussion of questions whereon they would differ; and so people, even though they think so differently, can get along together very congenially. Moreover, there is nothing so very terrible about the two books—I happen to know them. Bölsche is a scientist; Kropotkin an idealist. I do not exactly share their point of view; I am an old country squire, and have taken little interest in the natural sciences and social problems; but I know that we live at a time when much that is new is crowding out the old. We can’t make all shoes on one last, and we cannot expect our grandchildren to be educated exactly as our fathers were educated. And as far as education goes, certainly nothing more needs be said about Franka’s. She will be of age in a few months: I had her come here to a home, not to a young ladies’ boarding-school. I will not put up with her life being spoiled by the others in this house.”
“Oh! how good and kind you are!” stammered Franka, who had once more knelt down on the footstool near Sielen’s reclining-chair.
“Never mind, my girl; don’t bother your head about it. The aunts meant well.... But now I will ask you to leave me for a while. The affair has agitated me.”
That ended the incident. To be sure, a little bitterness remained, but the two old ladies from that time forth avoided any nursery-governess tone toward the young girl. The sick master’s will was law on the Sielenburg.
Still another incident, somewhat later, produced a still deeper impression. It was a letter. Almost never did the postman bring Franka any mail. In all the more excitement she tore open the envelope which she found one fine morning lying on her breakfast-tray. It was in an unknown hand and unsigned. After she read it, she easily guessed who its writer was.