THE carnival was over. Rosa and Lilly, my sisters, had “amused themselves immensely”. Each had a list of half-a-dozen conquests. Still there was no desirable partie among them, and “the right person” had not shown himself for either. So much the better. They would gladly enjoy a few years more of maidenhood before taking on themselves the married yoke.

And as to me? I noted my impression of the carnival in the red volume as follows: “I am glad that this dancing is over. It has already begun to be monotonous. Always the same rounds, and the same conversation, and the same dancers, for whether it happens to be X——, lieutenant of hussars, or Y——, brevet-captain of dragoons, or Z——, captain of uhlans, there are always the same bows, the same remarks, the same sighs and glances. Not an interesting man amongst them—not one. And the only one who in any case—we will say nothing about him. He belongs, I know, to his princess. She is a beautiful woman truly, I admit it, but I think her very disagreeable.”

Though the carnival with its great balls was over, yet the enjoyment of society had not stopped. Soirees, dinners, concerts—the whirl went on. There was also a great amateur theatrical performance projected, but not till after Easter. During the fasting season a certain moderation in our pleasures was enjoined on us. In Aunt Mary’s opinion we were far from being as moderate as we ought. She could not quite forgive me for not going regularly to the Lenten sermons, and indemnified herself for my lukewarmness by dragging Rosa and Lilly to hear all the preachers at the Chapel Royal. The girls submitted to this easily. Occasionally they found their whole coterie assembled at church. Father KlinkowstrÖm was as much the fashion at the Jesuits’ Church as Mdlle. Murska at the opera, and so they were tolerably gay—in a mild way.

Not only from the sermons, however, but from the soirees too, I held myself a good deal aloof during this season. I had all at once lost my taste for society parties, and delighted in staying at home to play with my son, and when the little fellow was taken to bed, to sit by the fire with a good book and read. Sometimes my father visited me at these times, and chatted away for an hour or two with me. Of course the campaigning reminiscences came to the front then continually. I had communicated to him Tilling’s account of Arno’s death, but he received the story rather coolly. Whether a man’s death was painful or painless seemed to him a secondary consideration. To be “left on the field”—as death in battle is called—appeared to him an end so glorious, bestowed by such an elevated destiny, that the details of the bodily suffering which might possibly have occurred were not worth taking into account. In his mouth to be “left on the field” always sounded like the grudging admission of an especial distinction, and next to “being left” what was most pleasant evidently was to be severely wounded. The style and manner in which he proudly showed his respect for himself or any one else in saying that he had been wounded at a fight named after this or that place made one quite forget that the thing in itself could have given anybody pain. What a difference from Tilling’s short recital! in his sketch of the ten poor creatures who were shattered by the bursting shell, and broke out in loud shrieks! What a different tone of shuddering pity in it! I did not repeat Tilling’s words to my father, because I felt instinctively that they would have seemed to him unsoldierly, and would have diminished his respect for the speaker, which would have hurt me, for it was just the horror—unsoldierly it might be, but certainly nobly humane—with which he saw and told of the terrible end of his comrades that had penetrated into my heart.

How gladly would I have spoken further on this theme with Tilling, but he seemed not to wish to cultivate my acquaintance. Fourteen days had elapsed since his visit, and he had neither repeated the visit, nor had I met him in society. Only two or three times had I seen him in the Ringsstrasse,[4] and once at the Burg Theatre. He bowed respectfully, and I acknowledged his greeting in a friendly manner, but nothing more. Nothing more? Why did my heart beat at these accidental meetings? Why could I not for hours get his gesture as he greeted me out of my mind?

“My dear child, I have something to beg of you.” My father came into my house one morning with these words. He held in his hand a parcel wrapped in paper, and added, “Here is something I am bringing for you,” as he laid the thing on the table.

“What, a request and a present together?” I said laughing. “That is bribery indeed!”

“Then hear my request before you unpack my gift, and are blinded by its magnificence. I have to-day a tedious dinner.”

“Yes, I know. Three old generals and their wives.”

“And two Ministers and their wives—in short, a solemn, stiff, sleepy business.”

“But you do not expect that I——”

“Yes, I expect you there, because, as ladies are pleased to honour me with their company, I must at least have a lady to do the honours.”

“But Aunt Mary has always undertaken that office.”

“She is again attacked to-day by her usual headache, and so I have nothing else left——”

“But to offer up your daughter, as other fathers did in ancient times; for example, King Agamemnon with Iphigenia? Well, I submit.”

“Besides, there are among the guests a pair of younger elements: Dr. Bresser, who treated me in my last illness so excellently that I wished to show him the attention of an invitation; and also Lieutenant-Colonel Tilling. Why, you are getting as red as fire! What is the matter with you?”

“Me? It is curiosity. Now, I really must look at what you have brought me.” And I began to take the parcel out of its paper wrapping.

“Oh, that is nothing for you. Don’t expect a pearl necklace. That belongs to Rudi.”

“Yes, I see, a plaything. Ah! a box of lead soldiers! But, father, a little child of four cannot——”

“I used to play at soldiers when I was only three years old. You can’t begin too early. My very earliest impressions were of drums, sabres, manoeuvres, words of command: that’s the way to awaken the love for the trade, that’s the way.”

“My son Rudolf shall never join the army,” I interrupted.

“Martha! I know at least it was his father’s wish.”

“Poor Arno is no more. Rudolf is all I have, and I do not choose——”

“That he should join the noblest and most honourable of professions?”

“The life of my only child shall not be gambled for in a war.”

“I was an only son also and became a soldier. Arno had no brothers, as far as I know, and your brother Otto is also an only son, yet I have sent him to the Military Academy. The tradition of our family requires that the offspring of a Dotzky and an Althaus should devote his services to his country.”

“His country will not want him as much as I.”

“If all mothers thought so——”

“Then there would be no more parades and reviews, no walls of men to batter down, no ‘food for powder,’ as the common expression for them goes. And that would be far from a misfortune.”

My father made a very wry face; but then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, you women,” he said contemptuously. “Luckily the young one will not ask your permission. The blood of soldiers is running in his veins. Nay, and he will surely not remain your only son. You must marry again, Martha. At your age it is not good to be alone. Tell me, is there none of your suitors that finds grace in your sight? For instance, there is Captain Olensky, who is desperately in love with you; he has been just now pouring out his sighs to me again. He would suit me thoroughly as a son-in-law.”

“But not me as a husband.”

“Then there is Major Millersdorf.”

“No; if you run down the whole military gamut to me, it is in vain. At what time does your dinner take place? when shall I come?” I said to turn the subject.

“At five. But come half-an-hour earlier; and now, adieu—I must go. Kiss Rudi for me—the future commander-in-chief of the Imperial and Royal Army.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A solemn, stiff, sleepy business, that is how my father qualified his proposed dinner, and that is how I should have looked on the ceremony also if it had not been for the one guest whose presence moved me in a singular way.

Baron Tilling came the instant before the meat—so when he saluted me in the drawing-room I had no time for more than the briefest exchange of words; and at table, where I sat between two snow-white generals, the baron was removed so far from me that it was impossible for me to draw him into the conversation carried on at our end of the table. I was pleased at the return into the drawing-room; there I meant to call Tilling to me and question him still further about that battle-scene: I longed to hear again that tone of voice which had at first sounded so sympathetically in my ears.

But no opportunity offered itself to me at first to carry out this intention; the two old generals kept constant to me after dinner too, and sat down at my side when I took my place in the drawing-room to pour out cafÉ noir. To them joined themselves in a semicircle my father, the Minister, Dr. Bresser, and, finally, Tilling, but the conversation which arose was on general topics. The rest of the guests—all the ladies among them—had got together in another corner of the drawing-room where smoking was not going on; whilst in our corner smoking was allowed, and even I myself had lighted a cigarette.

“Suppose it should soon break out again?” suggested one of the old generals.

“Hum,” said the other, “I think the next war we shall have will be with Russia.”

“Must there always be a ‘next war’?” I interposed, but no one took any notice.

“With Italy first,” my father persisted; “we must at all events get back our Lombardy. Just such a march into Milan as we had in ’49 with Father Radetzky at our head. I should like to live to see that. It was on a sunny morning——”

“Oh,” I interrupted, “we all know the story of the entry into Milan.”

“And do you know also that of the brave Hupfauf?”

“I do; and I think it very revolting.”

“What do you understand of such things?”

“Let us hear it, Althaus; we do not know the story.”

My father did not wait to be asked twice.

“Well, this Hupfauf, of the regiment of Tyrolese Jaegers, he was a Tyrolese himself; he did a famous piece of work. He was the best shot that can be imagined; he was always king at all the shooting matches; he hit the mark almost always. What did he do when the Milanese revolted? Why, he begged for permission to go on the roof of the cathedral with four comrades, and fire down from thence on the rebels. He got permission and carried out his plan. The four others, each of whom carried a rifle, did nothing else but load their weapons without intermission and hand them to Hupfauf, so that he might lose no time. And in this way he shot ninety Italians dead, one after the other.”

“Horrible!” I cried out. “Each of these slaughtered Italians on whom that man fired down from his safe position above had a mother and a sweetheart at home, and was himself no doubt reckoning on his opening life.”

“My dear, all of them were enemies, and that alters the whole point of view.”

“Very true,” said Dr. Bresser; “as long as the idea of a state of enmity between men is sanctioned, so long the precepts of humanity cannot be of universal application.”

“What say you, Baron Tilling?” I asked.

“I should have wished for the man a decoration to adorn his valiant breast, and a bullet to pierce his hard heart. Both would have been well deserved.”

I threw the speaker a warm, thankful glance; but the others, except the doctor, seemed affected unpleasantly by the words they had just heard. A little pause ensued. As the French say: “Cela avait jetÉ un froid”.

“Have you ever heard, excellency, of a book by an English natural philosopher named Darwin?” said the doctor, turning to my father.

“No, never.”

“Oh yes, papa, just recollect. It is now four years ago since our bookseller sent us the book, just after its appearance, and you then said it would soon be forgotten by the whole world.”

“Well, as far as I am concerned, I have quite forgotten it.”

“The world in general, on the contrary, seems in a pretty state of excitement about it,” said the doctor. “There is a fight going on for or against the new theory of origin in every place.”

“Ah, you mean the ape theory?” asked the general on my right. “There was a talk about that yesterday in the casino. These scientific gentlemen hit on strange notions sometimes—that a man should have been an ourang-outang to begin with!”

“To be sure,” said the Minister nodding (and when Minister —— said “to be sure” it was always a sign that he was making himself up for a long talk), “the thing sounds rather funny, and yet it is capable of being taken seriously. It is a scientific theory built up not without talent, and with the apparatus of an industrious collection of facts; and though, to be sure, these have been satisfactorily controverted by the specialists, yet like all adventurous notions, however extravagant they may be, it has produced a certain effect, and finds its defenders. It has become a fashion to discuss Darwin; but this will not last long—though the word Darwinism has been invented—and then, to be sure, the so-called theory will itself cease to be taken seriously. It is a pity that people get so hot fighting over this eccentric Englishman; his theory thus acquires an importance to which it has no claim. It is, of course, the clergy who especially set themselves in array against the imputation, which, to be sure, is a degrading one, that man, created in the image of God, should now all of a sudden be thought to be derived from the race of brutes—an assumption which, to be sure, is very shocking from a religious point of view. Still it is notorious that ecclesiastical condemnation of a theory which introduces itself in the garb of science is not capable of stopping its dissemination. Such a theory does not become harmless till it has been reduced ad absurdum by the representatives of science, and that in respect of Darwinism, to be sure——”

“But what nonsense!” broke in my father, fearful, as it seemed, that another long string of “to be sures” might weary the rest of his guests, “what nonsense! From apes to men! Surely what is called the ordinary healthy common-sense is enough to refute all such mad notions—scientific refutation is hardly wanted.”

“Well, I can scarcely regard these refutations as so perfectly and demonstrably certain,” said the doctor. “They have, it is true, awakened reasonable doubts of it; but, still, the theory has much probability in its favour, and it will take some little time to bring men of learning to unanimity about it.”

“I think these gentry will never be unanimous,” said the general on my left, who spoke with a harsh accent, and generally used the Viennese dialect; “why, they live by disputing. I have also heard something of this ape business. But it was too stupid, to my mind, to suit me. Why, if one bothered oneself about all the chatter that the star-gazers and grass-collectors and frog-dissectors use to make us believe that X is Y, one should lose one’s ears and eyes. Besides, a little while ago, in an illustrated paper, I saw the visage of this Darwin, and that is itself so apish that I can well believe his grandfather was a chimpanzee.”

This joke, which pleased the speaker mightily, was followed by a burst of laughter, in which my father joined with the affability of a host.

“Ridicule is, to be sure, a weapon,” said the Minister seriously, “but it does not prove anything. It is possible, however, to meet Darwinism—I may use this new term—and conquer it, with serious arguments resting on a scientific basis. If one can oppose to an author of no authority such names as LinnÆus, Cuvier, Agassiz, Quatrefages, his system must fall in pieces. On the other hand, to be sure, it cannot be denied that between men and apes there is a great similarity of structure and that——”

“In spite of this similarity, however, the cleft is miles wide,” broke in the quieter general. “Can you imagine an ape capable of inventing the telegraph? Speech alone raises men so far above beasts——”

“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” said Dr. Bresser, “speech and artistic inventions were not originally congenital in mankind. Even to-day a savage could not construct any sort of telegraphic apparatus. All this is the fruit of slow improvement and development.”

“Yes, yes, my dear doctor,” replied the general. “I know ‘development’ is the cant word of the new theory. Still you cannot develop a camel out of a kangaroo, and why does not one at this time see an ape turning into a man?”

I turned to Baron Tilling.

“And what say you? have you heard of Darwin, and do you reckon yourself among his followers or opponents?”

“I have heard a good deal about the matter, countess, but I have formed no judgment on it; for as to the work under discussion, The Origin of Species, I have not read it.”

“I must confess,” said the doctor, “that I have not either.”

“Read it? Well, to be sure, I have not either,” said the Minister.

“Nor I—nor I—nor I,” came from the rest.

“But,” the Minister proceeded, “the subject has been so much spoken of, the cant words of the system ‘fight for existence,’ ‘natural selection,’ ‘evolution,’ etc., are in everybody’s mouth, so that one can form a clear conception of the whole matter and select a side decidedly with its supporters or opponents, to which first class, to be sure, belong only some Hotspurs who love violent changes and are always grasping after effect, while the cool, strictly critical people, who demand proof positive, cannot possibly choose any other than the position of opponents—shared by so many specialists of consideration—a position which, to be sure——”

“That can hardly be positively asserted,” said Tilling, reviewing the whole matter, “unless one knows the position of its supporters. In order to know what the strength of the opposing arguments is, which, as soon as a new idea comes up, are heard shouting in chorus all round it, one must oneself have penetrated into the idea. It is generally the worst and weakest reasons which are repeated by the masses with such unanimity; and on such grounds I do not choose to pass a judgment. When the theory of Copernicus came up, only those who had gone through the labour of following the calculations of Copernicus could see that they were correct: the others, who guided their judgment by the anathemas which were thundered against the new system from Rome——”

“In our century,” interrupted the Minister, “as I observed before, scientific hypotheses, if incorrect, are no longer rejected on the grounds of orthodoxy but of science.”

“Not only if incorrect,” answered Tilling, “but even when they are going afterwards to be established, new hypotheses are always at first controverted by the old fogeys of science. This set does not like even in our day to be shaken in their long-accustomed views and dogmas—just as at that time it was not only the fathers of the Church but the astronomers also who were zealous in attacking Copernicus.”

“Do you mean by this,” broke in the rough-speaking general, “that this ape-notion of our eccentric Englishman is as correct as that the earth goes round the sun?”

“I will make no assertion at all about it, because, as I said, I do not know the book. But I will make a point of reading it. Perhaps (but only perhaps, for my knowledge of such matters is only slight) I shall then be able to form a judgment. Up to the present time I must confine myself to supporting my opinion on the fact that this theory meets with widespread and passionate opposition—a fact, ‘to be sure,’ which, to my mind, speaks rather for than against its truth.”

“You brave, straightforward, clear spirit,” said I to myself, apostrophising the speaker.

About eight o’clock the guests in general broke up. My father wanted to detain them all longer, and I also murmured mechanically a few hospitable phrases, e.g., “At least you will stay for a cup of tea”—but in vain. Each produced some excuse: one had an engagement at the casino; another at a party; one of the ladies had her box at the opera and wanted to see the fourth act of the “Huguenots”; another expected some friends at her house; in short, we were obliged to let them go, and not so unwillingly as we pretended. Tilling and Dr. Bresser, who had risen at the same time as the others, were the last to take their leave.

“And what have you two so important to do?” asked my father.

“I myself, nothing,” answered Tilling smiling; “but as the other guests are going, it would be indiscreet——”

“That is my case too,” said the doctor.

“Well, then, I will not let either of you go.”

A few minutes later my father and the doctor had seated themselves at a card table, and were deep in a game of piquet, while Baron Tilling kept close to the fire by my side. “A sleepy business,” this dinner? “No, truly no evening could have passed in a more pleasant and more awakening manner,” was the thought that passed through my mind. Then I said aloud:—

“Really, I have to scold you, Baron Tilling. Why, after your first visit, have you forgotten the way to my house?”

“You did not ask me to come again.”

“But I told you that on Saturdays——”

“Oh, yes; between two and four. But, frankly, you must not expect that from me, countess. Honestly, I know of nothing more horrible than these official reception days. To enter a drawing-room full of strangers, bow to the hostess, take your seat on the outer edge of a semicircle, listen to remarks about the weather—and if one manages to sit next to an acquaintance, venture on a remark of one’s own; to be distinguished by the lady of the house, in spite of every difficulty, with a question which you answer in all possible haste, in the hope that it may originate a conversation with her whom you came to see; but in vain. At that moment comes in another guest, who has to be received, and who then takes the nearest empty place in the semicircle, and, under the impression that the subject has not yet been touched, propounds a new observation about the weather; and then, ten minutes after, perhaps a new reinforcement of visitors comes—say a mamma with four marriageable daughters, for whom there are not chairs enough—and so you have to get up along with some others, take leave of the lady of the house, and go. No, countess, that sort of thing passes my talents for company, which are only weak at the best.”

“You seem, as a general rule, to keep yourself apart from society. One sees you nowhere. Are you a misanthrope? But, no; I withdraw the question. From a good deal you have said I drew the conclusion that you love all men.”

“I love humanity; but as to all men, no. There are too many among them worthless, bornÉs, self-seeking, cold-blooded, cruel. Those I cannot love, though I may pity them, because their education and circumstances have not allowed them to be worthy of love.”

“Circumstances and education? But character depends chiefly on one’s inborn disposition. Do you not think so?”

“What you call ‘inborn disposition’ is, however, nothing more than circumstances—ancestral circumstances.”

“Then, are you of the opinion that a bad man is not blamable for his badness, and, therefore, not to be abominated?”

“The consequent is not determined by the antecedent; he may be not blamable and still to be abominated. You also are not responsible for your beauty, still you are to be admired——”

“Baron Tilling! we began to talk about serious matters like two reasonable persons. Do I deserve then all of a sudden to be treated like a compliment-hunting society lady?”

“I beg your pardon, I did not so intend it. I only used the nearest argument I could find.”

A short pause followed. Tilling’s look rested with an admiring, almost tender, expression on my eyes, and I did not drop them. I am quite aware that I ought to have looked away; but I did not. I felt my cheeks glow, and knew that, if he had thought me pretty before, I must at that moment be looking still more pretty—it was a pleasant, “mischievous,” confusing sensation, and lasted half-a-minute. It could not continue longer. I put my fan before my face and changed my position; then in an indifferent tone I said:—

“You gave Minister ‘To-be-sure’ a capital answer just now.”

Tilling shook his head as if he were rousing himself out of a dream.

“I? just now? I don’t recollect. On the contrary, I fancy that I gave offence by my remark about Springauf—or Hupsauf was it?—or whatever the name of the brave sharpshooter was.”

“Hupfauf.”

“You were the only one who liked what I said. Their excellencies, on the other hand, I offended, of course, by an expression so unbecoming to an imperial and royal lieutenant-colonel as ‘hard heart,’ applied to one who had given the enemy so grand a sample of his shooting. Blasphemy! Soldiers, as is well known, are the more agreeable company the more coolly they deal out death, while there is no more sentimental character to move the feelings in the melodramatic repertory than the warrior grey in battle, but soft of heart—a wooden-legged veteran who could not hurt a fly.”

“Why did you become a soldier?”

“You put the question in a way which shows you have looked into my heart. It was not I, nor Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who had seen three campaigns, who chose the profession, but little Freddy, ten or twelve years old, who had grown up among wooden war-horses and regiments of leaden soldiers, and to whom his father, the decorated general, and his uncle, the lady-killing lieutenant, would put the question cheeringly: ‘Now, my boy, what are you going to be?’ What else except a real soldier, with a real sabre, and a live horse?”

“I had a box of leaden soldiers given me to-day for my son Rudolf, but I am not going to give them to him. But why, now that Freddy has grown into Frederick, why have you not quitted a condition which has become hateful to you?”

“Hateful? That is saying too much. I hate the position of affairs which lays on us men such cruel duties as making war; but as this position does exist, and exists inevitably, why, I cannot hate the people who take on themselves the duties arising from it, and fulfil them conscientiously with the expenditure of their best powers. Suppose I left the service of the army, would there be any the less warfare? Truly not. It would only be that some one else would hazard his life in my place, and I can do that myself.”

“Could not you render better service to your fellow-men in another condition?”

“I do not know. I have learned nothing thoroughly except soldiering. A man can always do something good and useful in his surroundings. I have plenty of opportunity of lightening the lot of those around me. And as far as concerns myself—for I may regard myself also as a fellow-man—I enjoy the respect which the world pays to my profession. I have passed a tolerably distinguished career, am beloved by my comrades, and am pleased at what I have attained. I have no estate, and, as a private person, I should not have the means to assist any one else, nor even myself. So on what grounds should I abandon my way of life?”

“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”

“If it is a question of defending one’s life against another man attacking it, one’s personal responsibility for causing death ceases. War is often, and justly, styled murder on a large scale; still, no individual feels himself to be a murderer. However, that fighting is repulsive to me, that the sad entry on to a field of battle causes me pain and disgust, that is true enough. I suffer from it, suffer intensely, but so must many a seaman suffer during a storm from sea-sickness; still, if he is anything of a brave man, he holds out on deck, and always, if needs must, ventures to sea again.”

“Yes, if needs must. But must there then be war?”

“That is a different question. But individuals must do their share in it, and that gives them, if not pleasure, at least strength to do their duty.”

And so we went on speaking for a time in a low tone, so as not to disturb the piquet-players, and perhaps, too, in order not to be overheard by them, for the views we exchanged, as Tilling sketched a few more episodes of war and the horror he had experienced from them, and I communicated to him the observations made by Buckle about the diminution of the war-spirit with the advance of civilisation—such conversation would have decidedly not suited the ears of General Althaus. I felt that it was a sign of great confidence on Tilling’s part to display his inward feeling to me on this matter so unreservedly, and assuredly a stream of sympathy passed from one soul to another between us.

“Why, how deep you are plunged in your eager whispers there,” cried my father to us once while the cards were being shuffled; “what are you two plotting about?”

“I am telling the countess campaigning tales.”

“Oh, well, she is accustomed to that from her childhood. I tell her some too occasionally. Six cards, doctor, and a quart-major.”

We resumed our whispered talk.

Suddenly, as Tilling spoke—and he had again fastened his gaze on mine, and such intimate sympathy spoke in his voice—I thought of the princess.

It gave me a stab, and I turned my head away. Tilling stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“Why do you change countenance so, countess?” he asked in alarm. “Have I said anything to displease you?”

“Oh no! it was only a painful thought: pray go on.”

“I have forgotten what I was talking about. I would rather you would confide your painful thought to me. I have been the whole time pouring my heart out to you so openly. Now repay it to me.”

“It is quite impossible for me to confide to you what I was thinking about just now.”

“Impossible! May I guess? Was it about yourself?”

“No.”

“Me?”

I nodded.

“Something painful about me, and something you cannot tell me. Is it——?”

“Do not trouble your head about it: I refuse any more information.” Then I rose and looked at the clock. “Why, it is half-past nine! I am going to say good-bye to you now, papa.”

My father looked up from his cards.

“What! are you too going to a party?”

“No; I am going home. I went to bed very late yesterday.”

“And so you are sleepy? Tilling, that is not very complimentary to you!”

“No, no,” I protested laughingly, “it is no fault of the baron; we have been talking very livelily.”

I took leave of my father and the doctor—Tilling begged to be permitted to see me into my carriage. It was he who put my cloak on in the ante-room and gave me his arm down the steps. As we went down he stopped for a moment and asked me seriously:—

“Once more, countess, have I anyhow offended you?”

“No; on my honour.”

“Then I am pacified.”

When he put me into the carriage he pressed my hand hard and put it to his lips.

“When may I wait on you?”

“On Saturday I am——”

“At home—I understand—not at all then.”

He bowed and stepped back.

I wanted to call after him, but the servant shut the carriage door.

I threw myself back in the corner, and should have liked to cry—tears of spite like a naughty child. I was in a rage with myself; how could I ever have been so cold, so impolite, so rough almost to a man with whom I feel such warm sympathy? It was the fault of the princess. How I hated her! What was this? Jealousy? Then the explanation of what was moving me burst on me—I was in love with Tilling. “In love, love, love!” rattled out the wheels on the pavement. “You are in love with him!” was what the street lamps as they flew past darted on to me. “You love him!” was breathed to me out of my glove, which I pressed to my lips on the place that he had kissed.

Next day I wrote the following lines in the red book: “What the carriage wheels and the street lamps were saying to me yesterday is not true—or at least much exaggerated. A sympathetic attraction to a noble and clever man. True; but passion? Ha! I am not going to throw my heart away on any man who belongs to another woman. He also feels sympathy for me. We understand each other in many things. Perhaps he is the only man who shares my views about war; but he is not on that account anywhere near falling in love with me, and I ought to be just as far from falling in love with him. That I did not ask him to visit me on another day than the regular reception day, which he hates so, might indeed have looked a little unkind, after the intimate conversation we had been having. But perhaps it is better so. After the interval or a week or two, after yesterday’s impressions, which have shaken me so, I shall be able to meet Tilling again quite calmly, relying on the idea that he is in love with another lady, and shall be able to refresh myself with his friendly and suggestive conversation. For it is indeed a pleasure to converse with him; it is so different, so totally different, from all others. I am truly glad that I am able to-day to sum up this so calmly. Yesterday I might for an instant have even apprehended that my peace was gone, that I might become the prey of torturing jealousy. This fear has to-day disappeared.”

The same day I paid a visit to my friend Lori Griesbach—the same at whose house I heard of the death of my poor Arno. She was the one among the young ladies of my acquaintance with whom I associated most, and most intimately. Not that we agreed in many of our views, or that we understood each other completely—though this is no doubt the foundation of a real friendship—but we had been playmates as children, we had shared the same position as young married women, had then seen each other almost daily; and so a certain habitual familiarity had sprung up between us, which, in spite of so much difference in the principles of our nature, made our conversation together quite pleasant and comfortable. The province on which we met each other was limited and narrow, but in it we were perfectly happy together. Whole pages of my spiritual life were quite closed to her. Of the views and judgments which I had reached in my quiet hours of study I had never told her a word, nor did I feel any desire to do so. How rarely can one give oneself entirely to any one! I have often experienced this in life, that I could lay open to one person only one side, to another only another, of my spiritual personality; that, as often as I conversed with one or the other, a certain part, so to say, of the register was opened, while all the rest of the notes remained mute.

Between Lori and me there were plenty of circumstances which gave us material for hours of chat—our childish recollections, our children, the events and incidents in the circle of our acquaintance, dress, English novels, and the like.

Lori’s boy Xavier was of the same age as my son Rudolf and his favourite playmate, and Lori’s little daughter Beatrix, who was then ten months old, was playfully destined by us to become one day Countess Rudolf Dotzky.

“So here you are again at last,” was Lori’s greeting to me. “Lately you have become quite a hermit! Even my future son-in-law I have not had the honour of seeing for ever so long! Beatrix will be quite offended. Now tell us, dear, what are you about? and how are Rosa and Lilly? Besides, I have some interesting news for Lilly, which my husband brought me yesterday from the cafÉ. There is some one deeply in love with her, one that I thought was making up to you; but I will tell you all about it later. What a lovely gown that is that you have on! It is from Francine’s I know. I could tell that at once. She has such a peculiar style of her own. And your bonnet is from Gindreau? It suits you completely. He makes dresses too, now, not bonnets only, and with immense taste too. Yesterday evening at the Dietrichsteins (why were you not there?) Nini Chotek was there with an Gindreau dress, and looked almost pretty.”

So she went on for some time, and I answered in the same style. After I had dexterously led the talk to the gossip which was current in society, I put this question in the most unconcerned tone possible:—

“Have you heard that Princess —— has a liaison with a certain Baron Tilling?”

“I have heard something of it, but, anyhow, that is de l’histoire ancienne. To-day it is a perfectly well-known thing that the princess is mad after a low comedian. What, have you any interest in this Baron Tilling? Why, you are blushing! Ah! it is no good shaking your head! Better confess! But for this, it would be an unheard-of thing that you should remain so long cold and unfeeling. It would be a true satisfaction for me to know you were in love at last. It is true that Tilling would be no match for you; for you have more brilliant suitors—and he must have absolutely nothing. To be sure, you are rich enough yourself, but then, besides, he is too old for you. How old would poor Arno have been now? Oh! that moment, it was too sad, when you read my brother’s letter out to me. I shall never forget it. Ah! war is certainly a sad business, for some. For others it is an excellent business. My husband wishes for nothing more ardently than that something should occur, he so longs to distinguish himself. I can understand it. If I were a soldier I should also wish, myself, to do some great exploit; or, at least, to get on in my profession.”

“Or to be crippled or shot dead?”

“I should never think of that. One should not think of that, and besides it only happens to those whose destiny it is. Your destiny, my love, was to be a young widow.”

“And the war with Italy had to break out to bring it about?”

“And suppose it is my destiny to be the wife of a relatively young general.”

“Well then, must there be a general war in order that Griesbach may get quick promotion? You prescribe a very simple course for the government of the world. But what were you going to tell me in reference to Lilly?”

“That your cousin, Conrad, raves about her. I expect he will very soon make an offer for her.”

“I doubt that. Conrad Althaus is too flighty a madcap to think of marrying.”

“Oh! they are all madcaps and flighty—still they do get married when they get foolishly fond of a girl. Do you think Lilly likes him?”

“I have not observed at all.”

“It would be a very good match. On the death of his uncle Drontheim he inherits the Selavetz estate. Talking of Drontheim, do you know that Ferdy Drontheim—the same that broke off his connection with Grilli the danseuse—is now to marry a rich banker’s daughter? However, no one will receive her. Are you going to the English embassy to-night? What, again no? Well, really you are right. In these embassy routs one feels after all not quite at home, there are such a lot of funny people there, of whom one never can be certain whether they are comme il faut. Every English tourist who can get an introduction to the ambassador is invited—if he is only a commercial man turned landowner, or even a mere tradesman. I like Englishmen only in the Tauchnitz editions. Have you yet read Jane Eyre? Is it not really wonderfully pretty? As soon as Beatrix begins to talk I shall hire an English nurse. About Xavier, I am not at all pleased with his French maid. A little while ago I met her in the street, as she was walking out with the boy, and a young man, who looked like a shopman, was walking with her, and seemed in intimate conversation. All at once I stood before them—you should have seen their confusion! One has always some trouble with one’s people. There is my own maid, who has given me warning, because she is going to get married just now when I had got used to her! There is nothing more intolerable than new faces among one’s servants. What! do you want to go?”

“Yes, my love. I must pay some calls now that cannot be put off. Adieu.”

And I would not be moved to stay “only for five minutes more,” though the calls that could not be put off were a fiction. At another time I might no doubt have entertained myself for hours in hearing such meaningless tittle-tattle and tattling back again, but to-day it displeased me. One longing had seized me—for a talk like yesterday evening! Ah, Tilling! Frederick Tilling! The carriage wheels were right then in their refrain! A change had happened in me, I had been raised into another world of feeling; these petty matters in which my friend was so deeply interested—dresses, nursemaids, stories about marriages and estates—all that was too pitiful, too insignificant, too stifling. Away from it—above it—into a different atmosphere of life! And Tilling was really free; the princess “is mad after a low comedian”. He could not surely have ever been in love with her! some transitory, yes, transitory adventure, nothing more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Several days passed without my seeing Tilling again. Every evening I went to the theatre, and from thence to a party, expecting and hoping to meet him, but in vain.

My reception day brought me many visitors, but, of course, not him. But I did not expect him. It was not like him after his decisive “That you really must not expect from me, countess,” and his saying at the carriage door in so hurt a manner “I understand—then not at all,” to present himself after all at my house on a day of the kind. I had offended him that evening—that was certain; and he avoided meeting me again—that was clear. Only, what could I do? I was all on fire to see him again, to make amends for my rudeness on the former occasion, and get another hour of a talk such as I had had at my father’s—an hour’s talk the delight of which would now be increased to me an hundredfold by the consciousness, which had now become plain to me, of my love.

In default of Tilling, the following Saturday brought me at least Tilling’s cousin, the lady at whose ball I had made his acquaintance. On her entrance my heart began to beat. Now I could at least learn something about the man who gave me so much to think about. Still I could not bring myself to put a direct question to this effect. I felt that I was not in a condition to speak out his very name without blushing so as to betray myself; and therefore I talked to my visitor about a hundred different things—even the weather amongst the rest—but avoided that very topic which lay at my heart.

“Oh, Martha,” said she, without any preparation, “I have a message to give you. My cousin Frederick begs to be remembered to you. He went away the day before yesterday.”

I felt the blood desert my cheeks. “Went away? Where? Is his regiment moved?”

“No; but he has taken a short leave of absence, to hurry off to Berlin, where his mother is on her deathbed. Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, for I know how he adores his mother.”

Two days afterwards I received a letter in a hand I did not know, with the postmark of Berlin. Even before I saw the signature, I knew that the letter was Tilling’s. It ran thus:—

“8 Friedrich St., Mar. 30, 1863, 1 A.M.

“Dear Countess,—I must tell my grief to some one, but why to you? Have I any right to do so? No; but I have an irresistible impulse. You will feel with me. I know you will.

“If you had known her who is dying you would have loved her. That soft heart, that clear intellect, that joyous temper—all her dignity and worth—all is now destined for the grave. No hope! I have spent the whole day at her bedside, and am going to spend the night also up here—her last night. She has suffered much, poor thing. Now she is quiet. Her powers are failing. Her pulse is already almost stopped. Besides me there are watching in her room her sister and a physician.

“Ah! this terrible separation! Death! One knows, it is true, that it must happen to every one; and yet one can never rightly take in that it may reach those whom we love also. What this mother of mine was to me I cannot tell you. She knows that she is dying. When I arrived this morning she received me with an exclamation of joy. ‘So that is you! I see you once more, my Fritz. I did so fear you would come too late.’ ‘You will get well again, mother,’ I cried. ‘No! No! There is nothing to say about that, my dear boy. Do not profane our last time together with the usual sick-bed consolations. Let us bid each other good-bye.’

“I fell sobbing on my knees at the bedside.

“‘You are crying, Fritz. Look! I am not going to say to you the usual “Do not weep”. I am glad that your parting from your best and oldest friend gives you pain. That assures me that I shall long live in your remembrance. Remember that you have given me much joy. Except the anxiety which the illnesses of your childhood caused, and the torture when you were on campaign, you have given me none but happy feelings, and have helped me to bear every sadness which my lot has laid on me. I bless you for it, my child.’ And now another attack of her pain came on. It was heartrending to see how she cried and groaned, how her features were distorted. Yes! Death is a fearful, a cruel enemy; and the sight of this agony called back to my recollection all the agonies which I had witnessed on battlefields and in the hospitals. When I think that we men sometimes hound each other on to death gratuitously and cheerfully, that we expect youth in the fulness of its strength to offer itself willingly to this enemy, against whom even weary and broken old age yet fights desperately—it is revolting!

“This night is fearfully long. If the poor sufferer could only sleep! but she lies there with her eyes open. I pass constantly the space of half-an-hour motionless by her bedside; and then I slip off to this sheet of paper, and write a few words, and then back again to her. In this way it has come to four o’clock. I have just heard the four strokes pealing from all the clock towers—it strikes one as so cold, so unfeeling, that time is striding on steadily and unerringly through all eternity, while at this very moment for one warmly-loved being time must stop—for all eternity. But by how much the colder, the more unfeeling, the universe seems to our pain, by so much the more longingly do we fly back to another human heart which we believe is beating in unison with our feelings. And therefore it is that this white sheet of paper, which the physician left lying on the table when he wrote his prescription, attracted me, and therefore it is that I send you this letter.

“Seven o’clock. It is over.

“‘Farewell, my dear boy.’ Those were her last words. Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep soundly, my dear mother. In tears I kiss your dear hands.

“Yours in deadly sorrow,

“Friedrich Tilling.”