Kitabı oku: «A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen», sayfa 13

"Our grandfather will not consent at first," she added, "but he will be persuaded in the end. And however long the strife may last, even although it should be for weary weeks and months, we must expect this, my dear Otto, and for my part I will submit gladly for the sake of restoring you to a profession which you like. I confess I had no suspicion of how dear it was to you. I misunderstood you formerly. But, now that I know it, I can understand how irksome must be the calling forced upon you, and how impossible it would be for you to devote your life to it. I am sure you do not think that this could make me doubt your love. What would my love be worth if it could exact such a sacrifice from you? Your happiness, my dearest, is and always must be the aim of all my desires, and how could you be happy if you took no pleasure in your daily occupations? You think we women cannot understand this? Let me confess to you that there was a time when I believed I had a calling, – a calling for art, – and that it gave me intense pain when I was forced to recognize my want of talent. To resign a sphere of activity because it is beyond our powers is very different from giving it up merely on account of the stress of outward circumstances. But any one who has been forced to do the former knows well what pain it must be to do the latter. And, indeed, I think that without drawing from my own experience I should always suffer out of my love for you from whatever pains and torments you."

She wrote on for some time in this strain. The frank outpouring of her very self did her good. In Otto's presence she was always restrained by a certain timidity. Never had she felt so indissolubly bound to her lover.

The next morning she sent him the letter, although seen by the light of day it seemed to her poor and cold. She consoled herself, however, by reflecting that Otto's heart would supply all that she could not express in words, and she waited eagerly for his reply.

It was contained in a few lines. Otto thanked her for her letter, and would answer it more thoroughly by word of mouth.

"Talking is better than writing," he added, "and it is idle to bother with pen, ink, and paper when, as in our case, there exists the blessed certainty of seeing each other almost every day. I shall come at noon to-day, and hope, in spite of the rain, to induce you all to drive to Tannhagen. I am very anxious, my dear little wiseacre, to prove to you that it was quite unnecessary for you to tire your beautiful eyes and snatch so much time from your night's rest. Promise me never to be guilty of such a sin again. I want no letters, – I want only yourself."

CHAPTER XVIII
TANNHAGEN

It was not until after several unsuccessful attempts that Otto had completed this epistle. Johanna's proposal had terrified him. The mere idea of the storm which she would so boldly have called down upon both their heads was intolerable to him. In spite of all he had said, he had not had the remotest intention of offering any opposition to his grandfather's plans. Still, he certainly might be permitted to grumble at them, especially to Johanna. Her taking everything so seriously was awkward, and she must learn to do so no longer; she must certainly give up her unlucky scheme of interference, which would only serve to anger the Freiherr afresh against his grandson. Johanna, indeed, did not know how often he had forgiven him, how often he had afforded him new openings in life; but Otto sometimes remembered this, and never without a certain annoying sense of shame.

He tried to rid himself of this to-day by registering a vow that his grandfather should never again have cause for displeasure with him. If the Freiherr liked Tannhagen, let him buy it. A life in such seclusion was not, indeed, what Otto had desired, but he must not forget that his task in the future would be to make Johanna happy, and she really had a preference for solitude. Moreover, his garrison life had not been all sunshine, and he was uncomfortable enough at present at Klausenburg.

He concluded then that even for himself acquiescence in his grandfather's scheme was best, – at least for the present. If hereafter he should become weary of farming, why, the Freiherr could not live forever; and with regard to Johanna, whose happiness was now to be his chief duty, he was consoled by something which just now occurred to him that Red Jakob had once said.

A few weeks before, Otto had been overtaken by a shower on the mountains, and had taken shelter from it in the Forest Hermitage, where he had asked, in the kind manner which he always adopted towards his inferiors, after the welfare of the newly-married pair. Red Jakob, in his bitter way, had congratulated himself on the accident that had procured him a subsistence, while Christine, who was still tasting to the full the sweetness of her honeymoon, could not sufficiently extol the delights of her forest life. Otto had told her in jest that she would not talk so in the winter when she might be kept in-doors by storms and snow; then she would wish herself back again in the pleasant village streets, with the neighbours' houses near, and the spinning-rooms in the evening. Jakob would have too much to do to comfort her; she might even run away some fine day. The little wife eagerly contradicted him, and Jakob interrupted her with, "Never mind, Christine; Squire Otto does not understand it yet, but he'll learn by and by." And turning to Otto, he said, with his ugly smile, "When the wife is in love with the husband and he understands whistling, he can play the Piper of Hamelin with her. I mean, she must follow him wherever he chooses. However hard it may be for her, she'll always thank him for taking her with him."

Otto went to Dönninghausen very gay of mood, and at his request, immediately after the second breakfast, all drove, even Aunt Thekla, to Tannhagen.

The road led at first through Klausenburg, then turned to the left, and continued by an easy ascent up the mountain through a magnificent forest. Far up they crossed the road to the Forest Hermitage, then descended a short distance, and upon reaching the edge of the woodland, descried, through the gray veil of the falling rain, a long valley with a little village, and at the farther end a large farm.

"That is Tannhagen," said the Freiherr.

Johanna was disappointed; from the name she had expected a woodland nook. But her grandfather praised the meadows and fields through which they drove, the sheltered position of the valley, which made it possible and profitable to grow fruit even here among the mountains, and Otto seemed to agree with all he said.

The farm-buildings, too, the barns and stables, the farm-yard, with its well-built walls and green gates, made the best possible impression; but the old two-storied mansion that formed one side of the farm-yard looked, with its gray walls, its projecting tiled roof, and its small windows, like a peasant's habitation. In summer its ugliness might be partly concealed by the two tall chestnuts before the door, but now their bare boughs, dripping with rain, made the melancholy picture still more melancholy.

The carriage stopped, but not a human being appeared. The house-dog, who rattled his chain, barking loudly, a flock of chickens that had taken refuge from the rain beneath the projecting roof of a carriage-house, and the cows, lowing loudly in the stables, were apparently the only inmates of the place.

Otto opened the carriage-door, while the coachman cracked his whip impatiently. The Freiherr and Aunt Thekla slowly alighted, Johanna followed them curiously, – and still no one was to be seen.

Without more ado, the Freiherr ascended the three worn steps of the entrance-hall.

"Come, I know the custom of the country," he said. And, turning to a door on the left of the long dim hall, hung around beneath the ceiling with the faded wreaths of many a harvest-home, he opened it without knocking.

A hot current of air from a stove made itself felt, and a cat ran past them.

"Who's there?" a sharp voice asked, and from the other end of the room there approached the haggard, bent figure of a woman in the dress of a peasant, leaning upon a crutch.

The Freiherr bade her good-day, and then shouted into her ear an inquiry for the farmer.

"My son is away in town at the yearly market," she yelled back. "And he has taken his two daughters and the house-maid with him. No one is at home, and I am too old. I do not know about anything." And as she spoke she turned her deep-set evil little eyes from one to another of the strange faces.

The Freiherr stooped to shout again into her ear: "We want to see the house, but we will not trouble you; send one of the servants with us."

"Servants!" she repeated. "Do you know where to find the lazy things? When my son is away there is nothing done."

"Well, then, we'll go alone," the Freiherr interrupted her, impatiently. "You know who I am, – I was here before."

"Yes, yes; you are the old lord from down there at Dönninghausen, who wants to buy Tannhagen," the old woman replied, and her little brown eyes twinkled more maliciously than before. "You'd better let it alone; you'll have no joy of it."

"Come, why should we stand listening to the old witch?" said the Freiherr. "We will look first at the upper rooms; they are not in as poor repair as these down here."

As he spoke, he went out into the hall; the rest followed him, with the old woman hobbling behind. "Of course you can buy Tannhagen," she went on, eagerly. "My son says that the last lord of Tannhagen is dead, and there must be some one to own it. But why do you not leave it as it has been? To turn out my son, who has always paid his rent punctually in bad years as well as in good ones, is a sin and a shame; yes, it is a sin and a shame!"

The Freiherr looked angrily round, and, without speaking, offered his sister his arm to mount the narrow wooden staircase that creaked at every step.

Otto and Johanna tried to appease the old woman, who, however, did not, or would not, understand what they said.

"Oh, let the strangers come!" she croaked. "They'll have no joy of it. We Brinkmeyers belong to Tannhagen. My husband's father and grandfather, and heaven knows how many before them, have held this farm, and they were all known for sober, industrious folks, who knew what they were about. And my son is just the same, and whoever turns him out from here," – she raised her clinched fist and shook it at the lovers, – "whoever turns him out from here will be punished for it, and will have as little peace, living and dying, as they have left to me, poor old woman that I am."

Involuntarily Johanna recoiled. At the last words she grasped Otto's arm, and while the old woman struck her crutch upon the hall floor and sent shrill menaces after them, she hurried him up the stairs and into the first room that opened upon the corridor, closing the door after them. They heard their grandfather and Aunt Thekla talking in the next apartment; but instead of following them Johanna stood still. "What a terrible reception!" she said, and she repeated in an undertone the old woman's words, "Let the strangers come. They'll have no joy of it!"

"Johanna, surely you are not superstitious?" Otto exclaimed.

She had gone to the window, and was looking gloomily out into the dripping rain.

"No, it is not superstition," she replied; "but it impresses me painfully to hear that old woman give utterance to what I have been thinking all through our drive. I know, Otto, that you will have no joy here. Why this haste? Why not discuss other plans?"

"Because there is nothing else to be discussed, dear heart," he replied. "You really must not take my passing moods so seriously."

"But when you spoke of being forced to relinquish your calling you were not in a passing mood," Johanna persisted; "you were really unhappy."

"You are mistaken," he made reply; "remember, I spoke only of my career. I cannot aver that I have a particular fancy, or calling, as you phrase it, for parade and drill, and you cannot think that I have. I am really rather of grandpapa's opinion, that there is nothing better for a nobleman to do in times of peace than to live upon his own soil and cultivate cabbages."

Johanna's eyes grew brighter. "Are you sure? Did I misunderstand you yesterday?" she asked, when Otto had finished. "And you have no distaste for farming, but can be content to live in the country year out, year in – "

"If I always have you with me. But you I must have; I cannot live any longer without you!" he cried, clasping her in his arms and kissing her.

At this moment a faint ray of sunshine broke through the clouds which a sudden east wind was driving away from the mountains. "Oh, look; the skies bid us welcome!" exclaimed Johanna; and, looking across the large fruit-garden extending below the gable-window to the mountains, she went on: "And it is very pretty on this side, with the forest so near; and how fragrant those meadows must be in summer! And that old building down there among the willows and alders seems to be a mill. See the shady attractive nook whence the mill-stream rushes. Dear Otto, if you like it, I should not object to build our cottage here."

"Johanna!" he exclaimed, rapturously, taking her hands and pressing them to his lips. But the next moment he dropped them, and said, looking round him reflectively, "If the house were only not so miserable. How can I condemn you to such discomfort?"

Johanna cast a rapid glance around the low-ceiled room, with its whitewashed walls, small windows, gaudy carpet, and spindle-legged furniture standing stiffly in the corners. "It is certainly not all that could be desired," she said, "but it need not always look like this. Picture to yourself the outer walls wreathed with wild grape, clematis, and climbing roses, the interior of the house clean and airy, this balcony the natural colour of the wood, hangings on the walls, the windows turned into casements with round leaded panes, a tall green porcelain stove in that corner, a clock against the wall, and high-backed chairs, old carved cabinets and tables, and corner-cupboards – "

"Stop, stop, child, or you'll have it a perfect museum!" laughingly broke in the Freiherr, who had been listening for a few moments. "But I really think you have shown that you could choose the best furniture for this owl's-nest. If we buy Tannhagen, we will do our best to have it arranged according to your fancy. Now let us go seriously to work to find what the house is and what it lacks."

They did so. Her conversation with Otto had made Johanna so happy that she saw everything from garret to cellar in the rosiest light. She found a remedy for every defect which Aunt Thekla discovered; and even Otto, carried away by her cheerful gayety, was well pleased with everything.

At last they had explored every nook and corner, had bidden adieu to the old woman, who now contented herself with eying them malevolently, and were walking through the wide, dark hall to the closed front door.

"It really is uncanny here," Aunt Thekla whispered. "It seems to be raining in all these dark corners. And listen how the wind howls!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Freiherr. "Do you think it sings a special song to this old barracks? As for the corners, they will be light and commonplace enough as soon as Otto succeeds in opening the door for us."

Otto had been shaking at the old latch for a while. The door now sprang open. A blast of wind drove it back against the wall with a crash. It was answered by another crash, probably produced by the blowing to of some window. There was a rustling in the air, and a dark something fell from above and lay between Aunt Thekla and Johanna, who recoiled with a slight scream.

Otto sprang to pick it up. "It is the homage paid by the old barracks to its future mistress," he said, laughing, holding out to Johanna one of the withered harvest-wreaths.

"Or an evil omen," Aunt Thekla whispered, and then hoped that no one had heard her. The lovers looked laughing into each other's eyes, and the Freiherr, standing at the carriage-door, bade them make haste and get in.

Johanna fortunately attached no importance to the trifle. The Freiherr was so interested in the prospect of founding a new nest of Dönninghausens in the neighbourhood of the cradle of the race that all through the homeward drive he discussed the pros and cons of the purchase, and the pros came to be more and more in the ascendant. At Dönninghausen he laid before the lovers all the documents that he had been able to procure with regard to the estate, and met with an unqualified assent to his plans and wishes. Otto was even more zealous than the Freiherr; the fourteen days for consideration which his grandfather proposed seemed to him too long, and as he left he whispered to Johanna, "Darling, do what you can to have us established soon at Tannhagen."

It was late, and the Freiherr was about to retire. When Johanna bade him 'good-night,' he took both her hands in his. "My child," he said, drawing her towards him, "you must reflect seriously upon the purchase of Tannhagen. Do not forget that the comfort of your future life is at stake, and leave out of the question my wishes and Otto's impatience. Will you do this, and tell me frankly the conclusion at which you arrive? We might look farther and find something better."

"Not for me, dear grandpapa. I have fallen in love with the old house," she said. And, kissing his hand, she added, "If I could only tell you how your kindness touches me!"

As she spoke, there was something in the sound of her voice that reminded the old man more than ever of her mother. To ward off his own emotion, he exclaimed, "Kindness, dear child! It is obstinacy. I can hardly wait to have you bear the name of Dönninghausen." And, as if to himself, he added, "Dönninghausen-Tannhagen. God grant that name a fair fame!"

"Dönninghausen-Tannhagen!" Johanna, too, whispered to herself soon afterwards, as in her own room she stood at the window and looked out into the dark rainy night. Dönninghausen-Tannhagen! What was there in the name to move her so strangely? Was it the thought of the old house that was to be the home of her young happiness? She saw it distinctly in imagination, not only as it was, but as it should be, and as it surely one day would be. And not only the rooms did she see, but the stir of human life within them. Forms came and went, grouped themselves, vanished, and were replaced by others. They spoke, and Johanna understood them without actually hearing their words. It was all dream-like, shadowy, and Johanna felt it to be so.

"I must be dreaming already; the day has over-fatigued me," she said to herself. But, whereas she usually fell asleep with her mind dwelling upon Otto, to-night, when she extinguished her candle, she was surrounded anew by these images from Tannhagen. From room to room, up and down the stairs, through court-yard and garden, she passed, always surrounded by changing forms and faces, among them was the angry old woman upon her crutch. She was transformed, she looked young, gay, and happy, and Johanna knew that she had secretly stolen forth from her father's mill among the alders to spend a few minutes with the handsome son of the Tannhagen farmer, whom she loved and could not yet marry. Suddenly she was old again, and, striking her crutch on the floor, repeated that no one who bought Tannhagen should have any joy of it, and the faded harvest-wreaths beneath the ceiling rustled and whispered, as if to say, 'Ah, we have seen much, and could tell much!'

This swarm of creatures of her fancy was not new to Johanna, only she had grown unaccustomed to them. As a child, and even as a young girl at Lindenbad, they had continually crowded about her; but then they came in the day-time, often in the midst of tedious lessons and tasks. Sometimes they were mere fleeting, misty phantoms; sometimes they were distinct, brightly-colored figures, playing their parts in the wildest dramas, which the girl would go on weaving for days and weeks. Not until she took occasion to tell these tales did they leave her, – sometimes before she wished them to do so. Then the fantastic swarm would vanish as at the word of a magician. Therefore she could not be depended upon by an audience. Only among the small children at her pension she now and then found a story-loving creature who would listen eagerly to her fragments. The 'big girls' ridiculed her, and Johanna, ashamed, put a check upon her fancy, till at last the 'stupid images' troubled her no more. Why should they now suddenly appear again? Was it to lure her to Tannhagen, or to scare her from it?

For a while Johanna let them come and go, then she tried to rid herself of them, but she could not. At last she arose, lit a candle, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and sat down at her writing-table. Perhaps writing would be as effective as narrating by word of mouth.

"Dear Otto," she began, and then passed her pen through the words. He would not understand her; he would laugh at her as the 'big girls' had done at the pension. Moreover, he did not want letters from her, and did not like to have her tire her eyes and snatch any time from her night's rest. Formerly she had gone to Ludwig with her narratives; but to tell him what she withheld from Otto would be simply impossible.

For a while she sat undecided, then she dipped her pen in the ink again. "I will try it," she whispered to herself, and began to write. To whom? Out into space. And what? She herself did not know.