Problematic Characters: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

And all the melodies that had been slumbering within him awoke, and all that he dreamt of as most lovely and beautiful, stood bodily before him. The boy hardly trusted his own eyes; he was dazzled, almost intoxicated; he was like a person who awakes from a beautiful dream to a still more beautiful reality, and dares not speak, or breathe, in order not to lose what he thinks may be merely an illusion of his senses. Thus when the family first returned he went about the house as in a dream, mild and kind towards everybody, contrary to his usual manner. But then the blissful dream vanished, and his delight at the glorious reality became almost painful. He had never been at peace with himself, and his heart had ever been heavy; now he became the victim of unceasing restlessness, which deprived him of sleep, and hunger and thirst, which burnt within him like a fierce fever, and his poor heart felt like a man who carries what is dearest to him on earth on his shoulders, trying to escape from the enemy, and dreading every moment to be overtaken and spoilt. He dared not utter Helen's name for fear of betraying himself; he dared not open his eyes before her, and yet he saw everything that happened, and the plan of the baroness was no secret to him. His hatred of Felix was boundless, and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. He defied the roué on every occasion by scornful or satirical remarks, always hoping Felix would at last take up the gauntlet; but the ex-lieutenant, like most people who despise the world and themselves, submitted to much, and replied to the boy's sarcasm with more or less clever witticisms, so that he always kept the laugh on his side. And then he had, on the other hand, far too good an opinion of himself to enter into a serious contest with an adversary whom he thought so far beneath himself. Matters would not have come to a point, even on the preceding night, if he had not been so very angry with Bruno, or if Bruno had expressed himself a little less violently.

And Felix might have congratulated himself that he had escaped so well from the encounter. He had been nearer to death than he thought. Bruno had been maddened by the events of the last days, and Felix's brutal treatment made the vessel of his indignation and hatred to overflow. And now that the lava stream had once broken through the crater, what could stop it on its destructive course? While Bruno was for a moment contending with Felix, and as he knelt on his breast, there was but one bloody red thought in the darkness of his soul: that Felix must die by his hand; that God had delivered him into his hand so that he might, at any cost, free the woman he worshipped from the monster he abhorred. A few minutes, a few seconds, perhaps, and Felix would never have risen again.

Just then Bruno had been startled in his terrible thoughts by a cry close by him. Looking up, he had caught a glimpse of a female figure, which he had at first taken for Helen. He had released his victim and risen. The person had moved away; he had followed her till she had vanished in the direction of the offices, and he had found out his mistake. To fall once more upon his enemy, after having abandoned him, seemed to be unmanly to him; he saw how Felix rose at last, after several painful efforts. That had contented him; he had stolen away to his chamber and his bed, his soul free from the guilt of murder. And yet he was as much excited as if he had shed blood. His heart was beating, his pulse went quick, and burning heat and cold chills alternated with each other. The confused image of the scene of his conflict ever presented itself to his mind, and the triumph of having conquered his deadly enemy was sadly embittered by the recollection that, after all, Helen was not free yet. This caused him far more suffering than the violent pains he felt in his side as soon as he became quiet again; they would not cease; on the contrary, they grew worse and worse, and seemed to spread from the small point where they had first commenced in all directions.

It was a long, painful night for the unfortunate boy, this short summer night. Towards morning his exhaustion made him fall into a state which only differed from waking by the increased horrors that filled his brain. He started up, aroused by pain; he tried to rise in order to wake Oswald, who slept next door (Malte had been sleeping down stairs for some weeks), but he could not. At last--his pride resisted for a long time--he called Oswald's name. A few moments more and Oswald was by his bedside.

He started as he saw the boy, whose face was sadly disfigured by his sufferings. His black hair hung in dishevelled locks over his pale face; his dark eyes had sunk deep into the head and were burning with fever.

"Give me some water!" said Bruno, as soon as he saw Oswald.

"For heaven's sake, what does this mean, Bruno?" cried Oswald, while the boy was eagerly draining the glass he had handed him. "Why did you not call me before? you never yet have had so bad an attack."

"It is not one of my usual attacks," said Bruno; "but it will soon pass; I am better already. Don't trouble yourself, Oswald; when I am lying on my side I feel it much less, hardly at all. It was only so bad during the night; now that you are here, and the sun shines, it will be better directly."

"Somebody must go for Doctor Braun directly," said Oswald, starting up.

"No, no!" Bruno begged; "don't do that. You know how I dislike that. Nobody is up yet in the house, I am sure; you would only have your trouble for nothing, and then--I want to ask you something. Come, sit down again on the bed. I feel I shall not be able to get up, and this letter must reach Helen at once."