Quisisana; or, Rest at Last

by Friedrich Spielhagen

Otto was very far from really feeling the energy which he was displaying. On the contrary, he was cherishing the hope that the round-about way would ultimately prove too long; and that, even if they were to arrive in time, this insane duel should not come off. Thus the one care which had still been weighing somewhat upon his elastic temperament was gone. As for the rest, why all had come about as nicely as possible. Could he have anticipated anything of the kind when, an hour ago, he was driving to town in his despair, with the remembrance of that awful scene with his wife upon him like a nightmare? What would she say now? How would she take it? Not well, of course. She would call it a terrible humiliation--disgraceful. Nonsense! It was the simplest and most loyal arrangement in the world. Why should not Bertram make Erna his heiress, for he had neither kith nor kin, and had always been so fond of her? Hildegard had never liked Erna to call Bertram uncle. In future, perhaps, she would not object to it. And what about the big loan? Well, the bigness was its chief merit. A few thousand thalers here, a few thousand thalers there, how ignoble, how mean! But a hundred thousand thalers, that was decent; there was nothing derogatory about that. Hildegard would herself see that; and moreover, if Erna was to inherit the money anyhow, it remained, as it were, in the family. Then he wondered how his wife would get on with the young lieutenant, whom yesterday they had both seen for the first time. Only yesterday! But a man must see his son-in-law once for the first time. And he seemed to be such a charming fellow! What a pity that he was not of noble birth, for that had, after all, been Lotter's chief merit in Hildegard's eyes. Poor beggar! he really was sorry for him. That is what a man may come to when he is seriously embarrassed! Awful! And all for a mere trifle--those dirty three thousand thalers! If he had given him the money yesterday, or if Lotter had won them at play, the whole business might have been hushed up, and the beggar would not have run a-muck at everybody. The fellow was not a bad sort, hang it, quite a jolly fellow to get on with! Now, what fiend had possessed Bertram on this occasion; Bertram, who, on principle, made a point of avoiding all social conflicts, or, if the worst came to the worst, always knew how to make a courteous and clever diversion; Bertram who, even as a student, had never fought a duel, and had never concealed his aversion on the subject? And where on earth was, in this case, the necessity for fighting the man? Bertram must have known that Lotter's farce at Rinstedt was played out, that Hildegard had given him up for good and all. The foe who is running away should have golden bridges built him, not be impeded in his retreat. Well, well, it was to be hoped that Lotter at least had meanwhile come to his senses and gone away. To be sure, this was the most likely thing to have happened. Lotter, cunning fellow, had set all this duel business a-going, by way of putting them on the wrong scent, knowing that his pursuers would presently be on the alert, and now, whilst he was being looked for in the wood, he had most probably decamped altogether.

If Otto, good easy-going fellow, on arriving at this comforting conclusion, did not actually rub his hands in sheer glee, he refrained solely out of regard for his companion, who was sitting by his side in silent gloom, as though he were most terribly grieved at the prospect of the duel not taking place after all.

And so it was. Bertram felt like a man wearied to death, drawing his blankets around him and preparing for the greatly-desired rest, and abruptly startled by the alarm of fire. He had, indeed, been longing for death, but, of course, could not accept it from a dishonoured hand, neither for his own sake nor for that of the others who had agreed to act in what they thought an honourable cause, but which now was irrevocably stained with dishonour. Thus he would have to live on, on, nor might he let any one see what a torment this life was and would be to him; no one, and least of all Erna. She was even never to guess that he had been willing to sacrifice himself. But how was she to be kept from this conjecture, when gradually it would appear that there had been a connection between the Baron's insult to Kurt and his own intervention, which occurred in the same place and the very next minute? The remark of the Herr Oberförster at the breakfast table proved that the right scent had been discovered. Had he not thought of it at all? Or had he done so, and then quieted his scruples by assuming that his death would spread an impenetrable veil over the real circumstances of the case? And if that veil were really ever lifted in Erna's sight, and if she had to say to herself that he had died for her, it would be but as one note of melancholy, dissolving anon in the pure and full harmony of her own firm happiness. Was this certain? Or had he been playing a comedy after all, and assumed the easiest and most grateful part himself? Had he but draped himself as a dying hero, in order to hurt his rival, who might thereafter see how best to get on with an uncomfortable part? And now the piece was not to end, and he would have to remain upon the stage in the attitude of a hero, and Erna would have ample time to make comparisons; and they must needs all tell against Kurt! And would proud Erna forgive her lover this? And was this to be the result of his own unselfish devotion for Erna's sake?

Thus tormenting himself, he groaned aloud under the weight of the reproach which he was heaping upon his conscience.

"Yes," remarked Otto prosaically, "that comes from driving so fast. However, we shall again be delayed, and no mistake!"

After a short quick drive they reached the first village, and came upon the rearguard of corps number two retreating towards the shelter of the woods. In the narrow village lane a very compact mass of men and horses had accumulated, and a forward movement was quite impossible, because those marching on in front had not yet cleared the line. The men had stacked their rifles; by the roadside, on the road itself, weary men were crouching; others were crowding round the different house-doors, whence compassionate hands were holding out water in every possible and impossible sort of vessel. In front of the little inn had gathered an absolutely impenetrable knot of human beings. The driver was compelled to branch off again, this time into a very narrow little lane, thence he had to work his way with the greatest difficulty into the open, then drive across stubble-fields, and so back to the road, frequently alongside of columns of soldiers on the march, who made way with the greatest reluctance; and thus they made but slow progress.

Slow, far too slow for Bertram, whose feverish impatience was increasing every minute, although he knew not what to reply to Otto when he argued that it really did not matter much, even if they arrived a quarter of an hour or so too late. And what did too late mean in a case like this? They would arrive in ample time for the awkward explanation to the Baron.

"Well, and I might as well admit," said Otto, "that personally I hope we shall not find him at all."

"I think we shall, though," replied Bertram; "for in spite of his having morally gone so much astray, he is no coward. A man with weaker nerves would not have so long borne the danger of being discovered. And he must assume that he will be left alone until the day after to-morrow."

"In any case," said Otto, shrugging those broad shoulders of his, "we cannot advance any faster."