And indeed there were reasons why it was hard for the privy councillor to drive away the gray shadowy form of care, as it pressed more and more closely upon him the darker the room grew. He who had himself observed so many similar cases, could least of all disguise from himself how precarious his physical condition was. He knew but too well that he was doomed to be henceforth a cripple in body and mind, that he was only a pensioner on life, and that death might come at any moment to collect the debt which was long since due. And yet, much as he was attached to life, this was his least sorrow. The physician did not struggle against omnipotent fate, which had never yet granted him one of its victims; the pupil of Epicure knew that joy and grief, delight and suffering, are inseparably interwoven in our life. But what made his heart particularly heavy, was the thought of his inability to arrange his circumstances, that he should have to leave life a bankrupt, and that after all he should have to rob his creditors of their rights by his death. Had he not always referred them to the future, and now the future refused to accept the draft; now the credulous man was to be denied credit at the very bank on whose credit he had so implicitly relied.
The unfortunate man sighed, hiding his deep-bowed head in his hands.
And his daughter, his darling daughter! Where was now the hope he had cherished to endow her with a fortune which was forever to free the spoilt, tender child from all the vulgar cares of life? which was to afford her the means always to enjoy a comfortable existence such as alone seemed to be suitable for the character of the young girl? Now he could not only leave her no fortune--no! but not even an honest, stainless name!
She had no idea of the painful pecuniary situation of her father. He never had the courage to trouble her childlike mind with cares which he tried to keep from himself as long as he could. She took it for granted that her father was, if not a rich man, at least well-to-do, and that she could enjoy the simple comforts by which she was surrounded with a clear conscience.
And was she the only one who labored under this illusion, and whom he had allowed to remain blind from fear of an explanation? Did not his friends think the same? Above all, the youngest and dearest of his friends, the man who had won his daughter's heart, and whom he himself loved with hearty, paternal love; who deserved such friendship, such love, by his upright, noble bearing, by his ability and his goodness; what would he say, what would he do, if he should learn what sooner or later he would have to learn--nay, what the father of his future wife was under such circumstances bound to tell him without further delay, if he did not mean to renounce all claims to be considered an honest man?
The privy councillor pressed his trembling hands upon his eyes and groaned loud, like one who is suffering cruel torture.
And suddenly he felt soft arms embracing him, and a girl's voice asked anxiously: "Papa, dearest papa, you are surely sick again;" and the kindly, firm voice of a man who had taken his hand to feel the pulse, and who now said: "You have stayed up too long! we must try and get you into bed again."
These voices, these words, fell like a mild, refreshing rain falling upon a sunburnt plant, upon the heart of the poor man, who was so sick in body and soul. He put his arms around the slender waist of his daughter and drew her to his heart in a long, silent embrace. He could have wept, but he was ashamed. Sophie asked again and again if he felt worse. Franz, who had ordered lights to be brought in, begged more and more urgently that he should not risk what had been so painfully gained by sitting up any longer. But the privy councillor would not hear of going to bed; he said he felt very comfortable in his arm-chair, and not in the least fatigued. Besides, he had to talk to Franz, and Sophie might in the meantime attend to the supper.
Franz, whose clear eye had well observed the restlessness, the excitement of his patient, considered it best to humor him in his wishes, and gave a nod to his betrothed to leave him alone with her father. Sophie went out with an anxious, inquiring glance at Franz, which the latter answered by a reassuring smile.
The door had hardly closed after the slender form of the young girl, when the privy councillor seized Franz's hand and said, in a voice which was in vain striving to be firm,
"I have something to tell you, Franz, which I cannot any longer conceal from you under the circumstances, and, since I may have to meet death any moment, without acting dishonorably."
"What is it, my dear sir?" asked Franz, moving a chair close to the privy councillor's seat and taking his hand into his with a gesture of great kindness.
"It is this!" said the privy councillor--and now he told Franz, that partly the want of prudent economy and partly the loaning of countless sums of money to poor and needy people, which were never returned, had gradually brought him seriously into debt; that he had hoped to work himself out by means of increased industry in the coming years, but that now all such hopes were futile, as he felt but too painfully.
The privy councillor paused here, partly because he was too much exhausted for the time, and partly because he expected an answer from Franz. But the young man sat there with cast-down eyes, remaining silent, and the patient continued with a lower and more trembling voice:
"Pardon me, my dear Franz, that my perhaps criminal selfishness, for which I hope you may find some excuse, has made me hesitate so long before making this communication to you. But it is a terrible task to have to afflict a man whom we love; to have to impoverish a man whom we would like to load with all the world can give."
He paused, and tried to draw his hands from those of the young man, as if the revelation he had just made had interrupted and ended their friendship. But Franz moved nearer to the sufferer and said, looking at him with his clear, truthful, bright eyes:
"I have let you finish, my dear sir; and now let me have my say.
Suppose a man were to give the friend he loves best an unspeakably valuable treasure, a treasure which the other values so much that he could not live without it, and he were then to say to this friend, 'My dear, while I was guarding this treasure I had not the time, as you may readily imagine, to attend with proper care to the management and settlement of all my other affairs. There are a few creditors who wish to be paid, and who must be paid. Will you take that upon yourself? You are younger and stronger, and have no objection to business.' Suppose, I say, the giver should speak thus to him who receives, and the latter were to answer: 'The treasure which is to make me immeasurably rich for all time to come I am ready to take, but as to your other affairs you can see how you can manage them yourself. I will have nothing to do with them.' Would you not justly look upon a man who could give such an answer as a monster of heartlessness, as a horrible instance of ingratitude? Exactly such is the relation in which we stand to each other. You are the generous donor; I am the man who receives the costly gift--the immeasurably precious treasure itself is my own Sophie.
Between us there can be no longer any question of mine and thine; what I have is yours, for you are to me all in all--my friend, my teacher, and my father. What I have amounts to about ten or eleven thousand dollars, left me by an aunt whom I have never seen in my life, and they are entirely at your disposal. I know that this sum will not suffice to free you from all responsibilities. But it will be a relief to you, a help; and I beg, I conjure you to make any use of it you may choose.
No, my dear sir, don't shake your head! You can't help it. You owe it to me to Sophie, to yourself, not to refuse me. And then, I am not going to ask you to do this favor without asking one for myself in return. We have never yet agreed upon the day for our wedding. We were afraid to speak of it, because we feared you would refuse, or at least give your consent only with reluctance. Now I have become bold, and ask neither for Flanders nor for liberty to think, Oh, King Philip, but for your permission to make your daughter, Dona Sophie, my wife, this day four weeks. Look! there she is herself! Kneel down, darling, and thank your lord and father for his kindness. He consents to our marriage this day four weeks."
Sophie, who had entered the room during the last words spoken by Franz, hastened to her father.
"Good, dear papa! dearest darling of a papa!" she cried, embracing the privy councillor and kissing him tenderly on brow and lip. The privy councillor was deeply moved. His trembling lips tried in vain to utter a word; his tear-flooded eyes turned now towards his daughter, who was kneeling before him, and now towards the noble man, who stood by his side leaning over him and looking at him with tenderness. His mind, weakened by his sickness, could not at once overcome the chaos of conflicting thoughts, but in his heart he heard a voice assuring him that he could die now in peace.
Franz, who had his reasons for fearing that the violent emotion might change the condition of the patient for the worse, hastened to make an end to the scene. He rang the bell and asked the servant to help him carry his master to his room. The privy councillor suffered them to do as they chose. Franz and the servant rolled the chair to the door of the adjoining room, which had been opened by Sophie, lifted it over the sill, and closed the door behind them, while Sophie remained alone in the sitting-room.
After a few minutes Franz returned. He was moved as Sophie had never yet seen him; but she saw also that his emotion was not painful. His eyes shone brightly, his step was elastic like that of a conqueror, and his voice, generally rather sharp, sounded softer and fuller, as he said, folding his betrothed almost violently in his arms,
"Rejoice, my girl; all goes well, excellently well. I have won your father's consent by gentle means and harsh means. Did I not tell you we should be man and wife four weeks hence? Did I not tell you, 'In our heart are the stars of our fate?' Oh, I feel a whole heaven in my heart! dear, dear Sophie!"
"Dear, dear Franz!"
And the lovers held each other embraced in that bliss for which the ordinary language of earth-born men has no words.
Then, when the torrent of glorious feelings had sobered down to greater quiet, they walked up and down in the room, arm in arm, and their voices grew low like their steps on the carpet, and what they whispered to each other was sweet and cozy, like the dim rosy light of the lamp under its veil, and yet as hot and as glowing as the coals shining through the light covering of ashes in the fire-place.
It was a lovely pair, the two lovers; and Zeus of Otricoli, whose lordly face with the god-like brow beneath the ambrosiacal curls that shade Olympus, looked majestically down upon them from a niche in the wall, must have enjoyed the sight as they walked again and again past his bust, although neither the young man nor the girl could lay claim to a beauty exactly classic. Their tall forms were too lithe for that, wanting in the voluptuous fulness of the Grecian ideal; their faces, full of expression, were wanting in that architectural regularity, that indelible antique harmony, which knows no struggle, at least no struggle that excites the soul to its innermost depths.
Sophie Roban had, if you examined her strictly, nothing that could be called beauty, except a graceful, delicate figure, though connoisseurs would have objected to her arms as too thin, and a pair of large, soft, deep-blue eyes, of which connoisseur and ignoramus spoke with equal delight. Her mouth is rather large, and it is fortunate for her that her teeth, which are in consequence seen very frequently, are, if not literally "two rows of pearls," at least beautifully white and regular The cheeks are round and full, the nose belongs to no special category.
The best feature of the whole is, probably, next to the large blue eyes, the abundance of chestnut-brown hair, which forms a frame of soft waves for the somewhat low but smooth and most intelligent brow, and is very artlessly but tastefully arranged. Sophie is so tall that Franz, who is above medium size, scarcely rises a head's length above her--a proof, as Sophie says, that she has some claims to be counted among Jean Paul's "lofty beings," an opinion which Franz is by no means disposed to accept. He says, on the contrary, that she falls short, if not in everything, yet in much of that great honor, especially in that exuberance in thought and sentiment which the author requires for "lofty beings," and of which Sophie has not a trace, unless it be when she plays on the piano, and the genius of Beethoven, her favorite composer, lends her soul the wings which are otherwise wanting. Franz mentions besides, in his diagnosis of his betrothed, a certain cool sobriety of views and judgment, a kind of shyness to go beyond her own self, and a mistrust of all who do not possess this shyness and are too ready to sing their own praises or their own complaints, without inquiring whether the gods have given them a talent for stating what they suffer or not. Sophie, on the contrary, is disposed to be very quiet in moments of great enjoyment or great sorrow, on which account Franz prefers classing her with Jean Paul's "silent children of heaven." Besides, he attributes to Sophie the following qualities and peculiarities, all of which are more or less incompatible with the character of "lofty beings." She is particularly fond, he says, of canary birds, dogs, tree-frogs, rabbits, horses, and even of donkeys, which evidently shows a predilection for Dutch pictures of still life; she betrays a highly improper indifference for literature, unworthy of the daughter of a man of science, and the betrothed of a man who may possibly yet become famous in the world; she will not condescend to use a dictionary, even in cases of necessity, when she reads French or English authors; and as to the productions of her mother tongue, her indifference is so great that she has actually dared to fall fast asleep when Franz has been reading to her aloud the most beautiful chapters from Goethe's Truth and Fiction or his Italian Journey. Then she has a decided fancy for putting on her hat on one side, and to catch her dress when walking out in all the thorn-bushes by the wayside, both of which habits indicate a dreamy, twilight life, utterly incompatible with the manner of "lofty beings." She is even suspected of clairvoyance, for she had actually once told her maid, when she was dressing her for a ball and wanted a pin, that there was one lying way back in the parlor under the fourth chair from the window.
The conversation of the two lovers had gradually approached this topic of the little weaknesses of his betrothed, which Franz was apt to play upon in countless variations. He had a talent to jest gracefully, and to conceal the sober face of a well-meaning preceptor under the smiling mask of a good-natured but ironical critic. Sophie, who was not fond of ample explanations, felt grateful to her lover for this mode of instructing her, and Franz adopted this method all the more readily as it gave him an opportunity to admire the cleverness and the wit with which Sophie knew how to defend herself against his insidious attacks, and to deny her faults, or even to pretend that they were in reality nothing but very lovable virtues.
They were so deeply engrossed in their conversation, now playful, now sober, occasionally interrupted by a half-suppressed laugh or a stolen kiss, that a person who was in the habit of coming every day at this hour to the privy councillor's house, and of entering unannounced, had to knock three times at the door before they answered with an unisonous "Come in!"
CHAPTER XV.
"Good evening, most honored friends and betrothed," said he, as he entered the room; "do I disturb your devotions?"
"Good evening, Bemperlein," replied Sophie, loosening Franz's hold and cordially offering her hand to the little man, who came with careful steps to her side; "you are just in time to protect me against this arch-scorner."
"Good evening, Bemperlein," said Franz; "you are just in time to help me in my efforts to convince this obstinate sinner."
"Before I can do the one, and not the other," replied Mr. Bemperlein, drawing off his gloves and folding them up carefully, "I beg leave to inquire, as in duty bound, after the privy councillor's health."
"He is much better," replied Franz.
"I hoped so from your joyous disposition," said Bemperlein; "well, I am delighted. Then we can at least take our supper to-night without feeling as if every morsel would stick in our throats from sheer melancholy and mourning, as has been the case for the last fortnight.
_Ad vocem_ supper; is it ready. Miss Sophie? I--who am not lucky enough to be able to satisfy my hunger with the ambrosia of confidential talk, and to quench my thirst with the nectar of love--I feel an unmistakable longing after earthly food and drink."
"I believe supper has been on the table for half an hour," said Sophie; "I had forgotten all about it."
"Then let us lose no more time," said Bemperlein, offering Sophie his arm, and leading her the familiar way into the adjoining room, where supper was regularly laid out.
Miss Sophie and Mr. Bemperlein were great friends. The excellent man had at every epoch of his life found somebody to whom he could offer his devotion and his love. When he had come over to settle in Grunwald, he had felt for a few days unspeakably lonely and wretched. Unable to live in solitude, and full of childlike trust, he had no sooner been introduced into the house of Privy Councillor Roban than he had poured out his complaints into the willing ear of Miss Sophie; whose large blue eyes encouraged him wonderfully. Sophie had not only listened to the little, lively man, who opened his whole heart to her with Homeric _navete_, as if he could not help doing so; but after following him with great attention to his last words; "that is all over now! over, and forever!" she had given him her hand with most cordial kindness, saying: "You must come and see us very often, Mr. Bemperlein. Papa is very fond of you and so am I. We'll try if we cannot make some amends to you for the loss of Berkow."
It was a strange friendship that bound the two to each other. Sophie, although twelve years younger than Bemperlein, was the admonishing, reproving, directing Mentor, and he the obedient, attentive, and docile Telemachus. She had aided him in arranging the modest lodgings which he had rented at some little distance from the privy councillor's house, and she made with him, and sometimes without him, the necessary purchases. Her attention went even beyond that. She trained him, after a fashion, for his entrance into society, for there was much to be done. She made him aware that it was not exactly the thing to hold gentlemen with whom he conversed continually by a coat-button, or to turn his back persistently upon ladies by whose side he had found his seat at table, however tedious they might appear in his eyes. "You must not do this, Bemperlein! You must stop doing that, Bemperlein!" the young lady continually said to him, and the good-natured man obeyed her implicitly, and was but too happy and proud if she said another time, "Bemperlein, that was well done! You played quite the cavalier to-night, Bemperlein!"
Bemperlein was soon even fonder of Miss Roban than he had been of Frau von Berkow. The latter remained, with all her kindness and goodness, after all, the great lady, the benefactress, the mistress; and the impression she had made upon him when he, a poor, bashful, awkward candidate for the ministry, had arrived one summer afternoon at Berkow, and been presented by old Baumann to the great lady, had never been wholly effaced in the seven long years which he had spent at her house.
But Sophie was not grand; she laughed as heartily as any one of them; she looked at him so trustingly with her big, blue eyes; she made no pretensions; you could speak to her as to an equal, you could love her like a brother, without being all the time filled with awe and reverence.
And such paternal love Bemperlein felt for the hearty girl. Even if she had not been already engaged, it would never have occurred to him to fall in love with her. But to sympathize with all that interested her; to declare that her betrothed, whose acquaintance he made soon afterwards, was the most amiable and excellent of men; to render her any service which he could read in her eyes, and, when the privy councillor was ill, to watch with her till Franz should come back, day and night, with womanly patience and tenderness, by the bedside of the sufferer; and now, when he heard that the latter was better, to rejoice like a child to whom a father is restored, and to conceal this joy under a hundred innocent tricks and teasings--that was in the power of the ex-candidate of divinity and actual student of philosophy, Mr.
Anastasius Bemperlein.
"I fear the potatoes are cold," said Sophie, raising the cover off the dish.
"Then they have exactly the temperature of this fish," said Franz, presenting her his dish.