He threw himself on the sofa and closed his eyes to dream of Melitta. But the more he tried to recall the image of the beloved, the more obstinately the wrinkled face of the baron presented itself instead. Then again it would change into the face of the Brown Countess; then the Reverend Mr. Jager made him a face, and suddenly Bruno was standing before him, clad in long, flowing white garments. Oswald tried to laugh at the mad masquerade, but when he looked at the boy's face his laugh died on his lips, his hair stood on end, he shivered with cold--that waxy-white complexion, contrasting so strangely with the bluish-black hair, the wide open fixed eyes, a nameless something in those lack-lustre, broken, and yet eloquent eyes--that was not Bruno, that was Death, Death in person, under the beloved form of Bruno! Oswald started up with a wild cry. The terrible vision had vanished, but it took several minutes before the young man could convince himself that it had been only a vision. He had seen everything so very distinctly; every piece of furniture in the room, the ray of the sun that came in at the window, and the atoms of dust dancing in the light.
Suddenly he heard the cracking of a whip and the grating of wheels on the gravel before the great portal of the château. The baron was riding off with the boys.
Oswald walked hurriedly up and down in his room.
"Why must I see that fearful vision just to-day? Must Bruno die, die before me, in order that I may love Melitta? Is it impossible to love a boy and a beloved one at the same time, and with equal fervor? Is the heart of man so small that one sentiment must crowd out another to find room there? and is faithlessness a law of nature?"
The young man had calmed down, but the ambrosial beauty of the summer morning had disappeared. The sun was without beauty for him; the song of the bird was no longer sweet to his ears; the overflowing fountain of joy in his heart was dried up.
You are just in the right frame of mind, he said to himself, to do the dry piece of work; and he picked up the papers in the corner where he had thrown them. He sat down at his table and began to write. First the letter to the surveyor--that was easy enough; the letter to the lawyer also came happily to an end, though not without a few secret imprecations; but in order to make a copy of the two contracts he required all his patience. The work was tedious enough, but what annoyed him far more were the notes of the baroness, in which she tried to explain her reasons for the changes she desired to be made. The rent was raised in both cases to double the amount, a fact which excited Oswald's astonishment all the more, as he had heard the steward say repeatedly: Mr. Pathe, the tenant of the two farms, is an exceedingly industrious, able, and economical man, and yet he is so situated that a single bad year must ruin him infallibly. In one note she said: "Mr. P. is a negligent monsieur, and his fine steward W. is not much better. The kinder one is to such people the lazier they grow." In another: "The rent payable in kind, and to be delivered at the château, must in any event be doubled, for we can safely assume that we receive after all only half what is due, while the other half remains in the hands of these people." The following words were marked out, but so that they could still very easily be read: "If anything should be left unused, it can easily be sold every Saturday in the market town." In another place: "Could it not be stipulated that the stewards, headmen, housekeepers, etc., of the tenants must be confirmed by the baron? We would then know what sort of people we have to do with, and we would have some hold on their honesty."
"And these men have a fortune of millions!" said Oswald, and angrily threw down his pen. "Let somebody else copy that stuff! Am I to be the most humble tool of these selfish, haughty, heartless aristocrats?"
And the young man's heart grew heavier and heavier. It was not the first time he was reminded of the awkwardness, the inconsistency of his present position. And what had induced him to accept it, except his friendship for Professor Berger, whose advice he had followed, contrary to his own conviction? He remembered that he had not answered his odd friend's last letter. So he sat down and wrote:--
"'There is nothing wrong in the world except a contradiction'--this is, if I remember right, one of your pet maxims, and the fundamental law by which you judge all men's doings. Well, then! You were altogether wrong to persuade me to accept this position, for it consists, in whatever light you may look at it, of nothing but contradictions. I to instruct others, who need instruction myself! I, the enemy of the aristocracy, who hate all nobles, in the bosom of a noble family--half friend and half servant! And what is still worse is, that I see myself share the enjoyments of this aristocratic life as if it were all harmless, and I had never trembled with awe at the words: 'The son of man hath not where to lay his head.' Were not these words written for me also, who think no cushion too soft, no carpet too yielding, no dish too delicate, and no wine too costly? I, who, far from being disgusted at such luxury, not only disdain gulping it down at once, but savor it slowly, thoughtfully, and accept it as something that is self-understood, as something I was born and bred to enjoy. Can it be that the great baroness was right the other day when she said that all so-called friends of the people, now and in ancient times, had only thought of their own interest? One, she said, sells his principle a little dearer than the other--one takes money for his apostasy, another place, a third something else--but that is all the difference. Then I objected, of course, vehemently--it was in the first days of my stay here--but I do not know whether I would have the courage to do so now. For, my friend, I think of Marie Antoinette, and think if another woman as beautiful and as bright as the unfortunate queen, a woman with the eyes, the sweetness of voice, the charms of--well, of my ideal, of the woman I could love, I would have to love--if she said to me: Abjure your principles and I will love you!--Oh God! She will not say so, she cannot say so, for I must believe that in the fairest body dwells the fairest soul; but, if she should be so imbued with the prejudices of her class--how then? Oh, I feel, I know I should not be able to resist her words, her tears; I know that my proud strength would melt like wax under the fire of her glances and the warmth of her kisses; that I should not be able to tear myself away from her soft words; that my oppressed heart would have no word of anger and of scorn to utter, but only the one word: I love you!
"You smile: oh, my dear friend, why can a mere supposition excite me to such a degree? You think such fantastic hot-house plants cannot thrive in the cool air of reality. Well, the whole thing is but a problem, and would to God it could remain problematical forever."