Debit and Credit / Translated from the German of Gustav Freytag

by Gustav Freytag

Meanwhile Anton went once more through the rooms, and listened for the crack of the whip that should announce the baron's arrival. His own heart beat: for him, too, a new era was about to begin. After all, his life here had been a pleasant one enough hitherto: he and his trusty ally had felt themselves the masters of the castle, and had got through their anxieties cheerfully together. Now, however, Karl must take up his quarters in the farm-yard, while Anton, according to the wish of the baroness, was to occupy a room in the castle, so that he must come into daily relations with the family, and he now asked himself of what nature these would be. The baron was almost a stranger to him: how would he suit this baron? And he was blind too—yes, blind. Lenore had written him word that the surgeon gave no hope of the injured optic nerve ever recovering. This had been kept back from the sufferer, who comforted himself with the hope that time and skill might yet remove the dark cloud from his eyes. But Anton confided the truth to Karl, and was obliged to tell all the dependents that the baron was at present suffering from his eyes, and obliged to wear a bandage over them; and he read upon the faces of all that they felt this was a misfortune for the property. And his heart beat unquietly, too, when he thought of Lenore, with whom he should now be brought into constant contact. How would she and her mother treat him? He determined carefully to suppress what he now felt to have been idle claims, and so to behave from the first as to afford them no cause for mortifying his self-respect. And yet he could not help wondering whether they would treat him as a friend and an equal, or make him feel that he was a hired dependent. It was in vain that he said to himself that his own feelings made the latter arrangement desirable; he could not check the delightful visions that would arise of life led with Lenore on equal terms.

The crack of the whip was now heard in the village, and soon the family and establishment arrived. The farm-servants, the landlord, and a few of the villagers were grouped around the pitch-pans. The farmers rushed forward to open the carriage-door, and as Lenore jumped out, and her face was seen, the women pressed nearer, and the men broke out into loud acclamations. All looked in eager expectation at the carriage. But the welcome met with no return. The baron was got out with some difficulty, and with sunken head, supported by his wife and daughter, he toiled up the steps. The pale face of the baroness from behind him had only a mute glance for the tenants and servants—only a short nod of recognition for Anton, who proceeded to lead them to their suite of rooms.

"All very nice, Mr. Wohlfart," said she, with quivering lips; and as he remained standing and waiting for his first orders, she dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and the words, "I thank you." When the door had closed upon Anton, the baron stood helpless in the strange room, and the baroness broke out into loud weeping. Lenore leaned against the window, looking out into the snow-covered plain, with its black wall at the horizon, and great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It was with a heavy heart that Anton returned to tell the people assembled that the family were fatigued and overcome, and would not be seen by them till the morning. Karl had the carriage unpacked, and led the old cook, who wept like her mistress, into the underground kitchen. None of the family reappeared that evening, and the light was soon put out in their rooms; but the pitch still glowed and flickered in the wind, and a black cloud rose above the window where the baron sat hiding his face in his hands.

Such was the entrance of this family upon their new estate.

"How beautifully Wohlfart has arranged every thing!" said Lenore to her mother the following day.

"These high rooms are dreadful," replied the baroness, wrapping her shawl around her; "and the monotonous brown of the walls makes them still more desolate!"

"It is surely time to send and ask him to come here and speak to us?" suggested Lenore, timidly.

"Your father is not yet in a mood to speak to him."

"Do not leave my father alone with Wohlfart," implored Lenore. "It would be horrible if he were to treat him rudely."

The baroness sighed. "We must accustom ourselves to pay to a stranger in our house a degree of attention and observance which will be irksome both to your father and to us."