Hammer and Anvil: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

"Oh, you always have an apology for him," crowed Doctor Snellius.

In this he was not altogether wrong: I could never feel as indignant with the man as I should have felt with another. For, after all, the man in the blue frock-coat with gold buttons, and the yellow nankeen trousers, was a figure that belonged to the days of my childhood, upon whom, be he what he might, there ever lay a light from the sun that had shone upon those days. And what this is, is known to every one who has had a childhood; which, unhappily, is more than many can say of themselves. Let this sun but once shine upon any one, nay, upon any lifeless thing, and they are invested with a charter that at all times we willingly respect. And then there was another reason or two for my looking upon the rich commerzienrath in another light than did my good but bitter friend. To be sure, when I thought of it, I could not comprehend--nor have I comprehended to this day--how this man could be the father of the lovely, blue-eyed Hermine; but so he was, like an uncouth, rough, prickly, and not over-clean shell, in which lay this precious pearl, and which had to be grasped if one wished to enjoy the sight of the pearl's beauty. This was easier for me, as I had always seen shell and pearl together; that is, I had always seen the best side of the shell, the smoothest and most agreeable side, which it turned towards the daughter pearl within. Another reason was, the old cynic seemed to me a kind of original in his way, and I had always had a liking for that class of men.

I had not seen him since our meeting on board the steamer, although he had been once or twice in the city and had visited the works. The winter he had spent, according to his custom, in Uselin, but with the opening of spring had taken up his residence at Zehrendorf, where his various new arrangements urgently required his presence. Hermine was with him, who for years had spent her summers in the country, having an intense delight in country life and pleasures. As a matter of course, Fräulein Amalie Duff accompanied her young lady.

All this I learned from Paula, who indeed was the only person who kept me informed of what went on in the Streber family, as she kept up a pretty active correspondence with Hermine. Whether or not I was honored with a passing mention in their letters I could never rightly learn. Sometimes I thought so, and again I thought not; and I did not like to ask Paula directly. I had wished indeed to ask her not to mention to Hermine that I was employed in her father's establishment, but I had never done so, because it seemed to me like a bit of childish vanity to request that I should not be spoken of to a girl who, very possibly, never asked about me. But I almost believed that Paula had divined and complied with my unspoken wish, and that they knew nothing of me. Even if I were entirely indifferent to Hermine, I was well assured that I occupied no small place in the kind heart of her duenna, and that she certainly would never cease seeking faithfully for her "Richard" until she found him. But over all these things there hung a mist, which was only to be lifted for me later, perhaps too late. Once or twice, it is true, I was struck by the warmth with which Paula, especially lately, spoke of Hermine. "She is a charming creature," she once said, "with the happiest advantages; and she will develop into a noble woman if she finds the right kind of a husband." And again: "Happy the man who wins this treasure! But he must be a man worthy the name, for I fancy the keeping will be a harder task than the winning."

Did Paula know that after that memorable meeting on the steamer, as the wanderer plodded his lonely way towards the great city, the blue eyes of Hermine were his lodestars? When she thus praised the fair girl to me--and she knew what weight her praises bore--did she wish to show me clearly the folly of certain fancies which might have arisen in my mind? But what ground had I given her for believing me capable of this folly? Just here there was a secret, like a dark cloud, between Paula and myself; and it was not the only one, nor, unfortunately, the darkest. I had dropped no hint--how could I?--of my unhappy meeting with Constance: it was the only wound which her pure hand might not touch; a wound which must secretly bleed until it closed of itself. But such a secret wound, which one carefully hides, pains us thrice as much, and is thrice as long in healing; and the worst is, that with it we have an evil conscience, and shrink from the touch of the hand that is dearest to us, always dreading that at some time, unwares, it will make the cruel discovery.

Thus it was now between Paula and myself. I had never visited her so rarely, never been so cautious in my speech with her--indeed there were times when the unwavering kindness of this lovely and amiable girl was really painful to me. I trembled lest the conversation should turn upon Constance, or lest Paula should learn that Constance and the Bellini were one and the same person. Certainly, if no one else did, the young Prince Prora knew the secret; and so, probably, did Arthur.

But my uneasiness seemed groundless; neither the prince nor Arthur repeated their visit, and I only learned from rumor that the prince, after throwing the whole residence into uproar by his extravagances and caprices, had been sent into the country by his father, and that Arthur had accompanied him. About the same time the newspapers, which then occupied themselves much more with matters of this sort than in our agitated times, reported that the manager of the Theatre Royal had at once engaged the young artist who had excited so much admiration at the Albert Theatre, but that in high circles it was thought unfit that a star, however brilliant, should be transferred from a comparatively humble sphere to the lofty heights of a royal stage without a becoming process of transition, and that on this account they had given Fräulein Bellini leave of absence of several months, to be applied to filling certain deficiencies in her repertoire, and to careful cultivation of her eminent talent, for which purpose she had at once undertaken a journey to Paris. Others added: In the company of the premier amoureux of the Albert Theatre, Herr Lenz, who also had been engaged for the Theatre Royal; or, as others again said, had to be engaged because the Bellini, as self-willed as she was beautiful, made that gentleman's engagement a condition of her own. In this connection the papers gave the interesting information that Herr Lenz's real name was Herr von Sommer, and that he was the son of a high functionary--of the minister, according to some--of a small neighboring state. The origin of the fair Bellini was also surmised to be traceable to high-quarters, but they were not at present able--others phrased it that it was not altogether discreet--to lift the mysterious veil.

When I heard this I drew a long breath, like a man frightened by a ghost, when he hears the clock strike one. The spectre may come again the next night, but for twenty-three hours at least he will be undisturbed. I might be sure of not meeting her for several months; in the evening, when I returned from Paula's house, I could pass through the street in which she lived without seeing her range of windows lighted, or carriages with lighted lamps and footmen in livery standing at the door. Yes, the cold, cruel, ghostly winter night was at an end: once more it was morning, once more it was spring.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was spring once more; the first spring for nine years that I had greeted as a free man. True that fair season had not debarred me the sight of her loveliness in the prison: I recalled with pleasure the bright mornings which I had spent in the superintendent's large garden, and how I had stood at the Belvedere and looked over the high bastion to the reach of sea which flashed a greeting to me under the bright sky. But this pleasure was never without a dash of sadness, like the greeting of a dear friend, who from the deck of an outward bound steamer waves a farewell to us who are standing on the shore--"God be with you!"--"And with you!" A parting word, a regret that we cannot go with him, and then silent and earnest we return to our silent, earnest work.