



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive







Transcriber's Note:
   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031341906

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





                           Q U I S I S A N A


                                   OR


                              REST AT LAST




                    From the German of F. Spielhagen


                                   BY

                           H. E. GOLDSCHMIDT




            ONLY TRANSLATION SANCTIONED BY THE AUTHOR AND BY
                 THE INTERNATIONAL LITERARY ASSOCIATION




                               NEW YORK:
                   JAMES B. MILLAR & CO., PUBLISHERS.
                                 1885.






                                 TROW'S
                   PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
                               NEW YORK.






                               QUISISANA.


                                   I.


"Why have you roused me, Konski?"

"You were lying on your left side again, sir," the servant, who held
his master clasped by the shoulder, replied, as he completed the task
of restoring him to a sitting posture on the sofa; "and you have been
drinking champagne at dinner, more than a bottle, John says, and that
surely is..."

Konski broke off abruptly, and turned again to the travelling boxes,
one of which was already unlocked; he commenced to arrange its contents
in the chest of drawers, and went on, apparently talking to himself
rather than to his master--

"I am merely doing what the doctor has insisted upon. Only last night,
in Berlin, as I was showing him to the door, he said: 'Konski, when
your master is lying on his left side and begins then to moan, rouse
him, rouse him at once, be it day or night. I take the responsibility.
And, Konski, no champagne; not for the next six weeks, anyhow, and best
not at all. And when you have once got into Italy, then plenty of water
to be mixed with the wine, Konski, and...'"

"And now oblige me by holding your tongue."

Bertram had remained sitting on the sofa, his hand pressed to his brow;
he now rose rapidly and strode impatiently about the room, casting
every now and then an angry glance at his valet. Then he stepped to one
of the windows. The sun must be setting now. The high wooded hills
yonder still shone forth in sunny splendour, but the terrace gardens
sloping towards the valley, and the valley itself, with the village
within, lay already in deepest shadow. The picturesque view, the
graceful charm of which he was wont to appreciate so heartily, had no
charm to-day for his dulled brain. Konski was quite right; the
champagne which he had to-day taken for the first time since his
illness, in direct defiance of the doctors injunctions, had not agreed
with him. Well, he had taken champagne because his throat had got
unbearably dry from much talking, and he had talked so much because the
frequent pauses in the dinner conversation were making him nervous. The
whole thing had been a positive bore; the genial host, the fair hostess
had surely fallen off, changed sadly for the worse during the last
three years. Or... could he possibly have changed himself? Did he
really begin to grow old? If you get seriously ill at fifty, you are
apt to go downhill with startling rapidity!

This had been the second emphatic _memento mori_--after an interval of
twenty years! The first--the first had been her work. Aye, and she had
kissed him a thousand times, and had vowed deathless fidelity yonder on
the mountain-<DW72>, where the giant oak still lifted its mighty crown
of foliage above the bronze- leafy roof of the beeches. Why the
deuce did they always give him these rooms? He'd better ask Hildegard
this very evening for other rooms--at once, before that blockhead
Konski had unpacked everything.

"Leave these things alone," he exclaimed, turning round from the
window; "I do not intend to remain in these rooms. I do not intend to
stay here at all, I think. We shall probably be off to-morrow."

Konski, who was already deep in the recesses of box number two,
believed he had not heard aright. He lifted his head out of the box and
looked in amazement at his master.

"To-morrow, sir? I thought we were to stay a week at the least."

"Do what I bid you."

Konski replaced, the shirts which he was holding in the portmanteau and
rose hastily from his knees. His master was evidently in a very bad
temper; "but that kind of thing never lasts long with him," Konski was
saying to himself, "and then the champagne..."

Aloud he said--
"You can be sure, sir, that there won't be much trouble about the
officers who are going to be quartered here. I know all about it from
Mamsell Christine. Only a colonel, a major, a couple of captains, and
some six lieutenants or so, and perhaps a surgeon-major. None of our
princes, and certainly none of theirs. A mere handful for a large place
like this; they'll be lost, like currants in a bun. And you can remain
in these rooms, where we always have been, and you'll see none of them,
for I don't suppose they'll have this blessed man[oe]vre in the garden
below."

"I do not know at, all what you want with your everlasting
man[oe]vres," Bertram exclaimed angrily.

He had gone back, to the open window, through which there came a strong
current of air. Konski went and closed the door of the adjoining room,
then stepped up to within a certain respectful distance of his master,
and said modestly, lowering his voice--

"I beg your pardon, sir, but what does it matter, after all, if Miss
really comes..."

"What do you mean?" Bertram said without turning round. "What has that
to do with my going or staying? Why should the little one not come?"

Konski rubbed up his stiff black hair with a certain sly smile, and
said--

"Not Miss Erna; the other lady--who is never allowed to come when you
are here."

"Lydia? Fraeulein von Aschhof? Are you mad?"

Bertram turned round with the rapidity of lightning, and now uttered
these words in a rough tone, whilst his eyes, generally so gentle,
shone out in great anger. Konski was frightened; but his curiosity was
greater than his terror. He would gladly have at last learned the real
truth about the young lady who was not allowed to come when his master
came on a visit to Rinstedt, and whom he had therefore never yet seen,
although in the course of years he had accompanied his master half a
dozen times. But he was once more doomed to disappointment; his master
had suddenly become perfectly calm again, or at least preserved the
appearance of perfect calmness, and now asked in his usual voice--

"From whom have you got your information? Of course from Mamsell
Christine?"

"From Mamsell Christine, of course," Konski made answer.

"And she got it from My Lady?"

"From her Ladyship direct."

"And when is the lady expected to arrive?"

"This very evening, along with Miss Erna; and there will also come a
Baron Lutter or Lotter--I could not quite make the name out; they
pronounce things so queerly here in Thuringia."

"Well, well!"

Bertram now remembered that Hildegard, his hostess, had at table
mentioned more than once the name of the Baron von Lotter-Vippach. Of
Lydia, too, although he made it a point never to be drawn into
conversation about her, she had again and again commenced to speak;
clearly, as he perceived now, with the intention of preparing him to
some extent for the intended surprise. But My Lady had reckoned without
her host. This was a downright want of consideration; nay, worse, it
was a breach of good faith. There was no reason why he should put up
with it, and he did not mean to put up with it.

"Where's the master? and where is My Lady?" he asked aloud.

"The master has ridden over to the coal mines; her Ladyship has gone
into the village. They left word that they would be back before you
were awake again; and you had not lain down on your left..."

"That'll do. Into the village, did you say? Give me my hat."

"Please take your overcoat too, sir," said Konski; "there's a nasty
mist rising from the valley, sir; and the doctor, he did say that if
you caught cold now, sir..."

Bertram had put his hat on, and waived the proffered garment back. In
the doorway he turned, and said--

"Do not trouble about the boxes. We leave again in an hour. And one
thing more. If you say one word to Mamsell Christine, or to anybody in
the house, now or later--you understand me--and I hear of it--we
part--for all that."

He had left. Konski was now standing by the open window scratching his
head, and the very next minute he saw him striding swiftly down the
garden.

"Upon my word!" he murmured; "who'd think that six weeks ago he lay at
the point of death?--And off this evening again--an hour hence! Not if
I knows it. First, I must settle my little business with Christine, and
that is not to be done all at once. Christine says that at that time
the Fraeulein would have nothing to say to him. I can't make it out.
Twenty years ago he must have been a very handsome fellow; why, he is
so almost still. Nor was he a poor man even then, though, of course, he
has inherited lots since. I am devilish keen about seeing the old maid.
One thing is sure and certain, she will arrive this very evening."

Then he cast one dubious look at the boxes. Perhaps it was taking
needless pains to unpack them.

"But, but--he'll surely think better of it--he is not the one to run
away from any woman, even if she should number forty years or
thereabout; and--and..."

And so the faithful Konski, after having given a most incredulous shake
of the head, set to work, and continued to unpack his master's
travelling boxes.




                                  II.


Meanwhile Bertram, had already crossed the bridge which spanned the
brook at the bottom of the garden terrace, and was hurrying along to
the village along the line of meadows. His hostess, Hildegard, had said
at dinner that she meant to-day, like every Thursday afternoon, to
visit her newly-founded Kindergarten; so he thought there would be no
difficulty in finding her. He had been a frequent visitor at Rinstedt,
and knew every lane in the village; and the Kindergarten, they said,
was on the main road, not far from the parsonage. Well, and what did he
mean to say to Hildegard when he met her? First, of course, make sure
of the facts. But there was little need for that. Konski was a smart
fellow, who was not likely to have made a mistake; and then he was on
such excellent terms with the omniscient Mamsell Christine! He would
ask her what had induced her to break through the agreement to which
she had now adhered for the last twenty years. And yet--what a needless
question! Why, women are never consistent! And in such things they
always like to assist each other and work into each other's hands, even
if they are by no means specially fond of each other. And now it seemed
as if there were special fondness between these two. His beautiful
hostess had, quite contrary to her wont, sung Lydia's praises in every
possible variety of way! And then, take the fact that she had sent her
own daughter to Lydia's _pension_, and had left the girl there in the
small _Residenz_ for three years. Poor Erna! Fancy her for three years
under the care of that crazy woman! Poor Erna--the beautiful creature
with the great, deep, blue eyes! That should never have happened. It
was a positive insult to him. He had urged every argument against it;
had found out a supremely suitable place in Berlin for her; had offered
to undertake careful personal supervision; had urged them to confide
the child to his care, to give the child an opportunity of seeing
something of life under its larger, nobler aspect. And they had said
yes to everything; had thanked him so very much for his exertions, his
kindness; and at the last moment they had contentedly plumped back into
the beloved mire and stagnant waters of the pettiness of life in the
small _Residenz_. To be sure, My Lady herself had been brought up in
that social quagmire, and still cherished with plaintive delight
recollections of bygone splendour, and mourned in secret over her own
hard fate which had not permitted her, like Lydia, to sun herself all
the days of her life in the immediate rays of princely favour, but had
doomed her to marry a man who was not nobly born--a man rich enough,
forsooth, but bearing the unaristocratic name of Bermer, and having
friends of similarly unaristocratic names, to whom, for all that, one
had to be civil. Yes, a real Baron--a Baron von Lotter-Vippach--would,
of course, be infinitely preferable! And fancy her, fancy My Lady
forcing the Baron's company upon him after he had expressly urged that,
being only half convalescent, he needed perfect repose; and would, if
they were to have company in the house, rather in the meanwhile deny
himself the delight of seeing his old friends, and would come to them
in spring instead on his return from Italy!

Yes, something like this he would say to his beautiful hostess, in
perfect calmness and good temper, of course, only tinged with a touch
of finest irony.... And this new building by his side--why, it must
surely be the Kindergarten!

So it was. But the girl who was in charge of the children who were
playing on the garden-plot in front of the building, said to him, in
answer to his question, that My Lady had left half an hour ago; had
gone to the parsonage, she thought. A couple of boys who were running
about told him My Lady had gone to the village-mayor along with the
parson.

The mayor's farm was situated at the opposite end of the village.
Bertram started off in that direction, but before he had got half way
he bethought himself that the parson would probably walk back with
Hildegard, and that in that case he would of course have no opportunity
of speaking plainly to her. So he turned back, determined to wait for
her near the parsonage, which she was bound to pass on her way home.
And yet, how could he wait? He could not tell whether he would have
time left to carry out his intended flight; nay, every moment brought
Lydia nearer, every moment he must expect to see the carriage whirl her
past him where he stood. What? was he to stand here like this, and be
compelled to bow to her? Never! To the left a narrow lane led direct to
the forest, which, higher up, almost bordered on the mansion-house.
This road back was somewhat longer than the one he had come by, and was
steeper too; but anyhow it was much shorter than the carriage-drive,
for that branched off from the high road in the main valley at the
entrance to the side valley, thus intersecting the whole length of the
village, and ultimately wound its long serpentine road up the high hill
crowned by his friend's stately mansion. This way he would gain an
advance of a good half-hour anyhow. It was to be hoped that his friend
and host, Otto Bermer, had meanwhile returned from the coal mines; they
lay in the opposite direction. He'd make a clean breast of it to Otto,
and make Otto take his farewell compliments to My Lady. Poor Otto! "The
grey mare was the better horse," no doubt; and poor Otto would not
relish the task; but what was to be done? And did not he, Bertram,
anyhow enjoy the doubtful reputation of being selfishness incarnate!
Well, then, this done, they would swiftly get some conveyance or other
ready for him. If required, Konski could stay behind with boxes and
such-like impedimenta; and in two or three hours' driving, first
through the forest, to avoid the danger of meeting her, then along the
high road, he would reach Fichtenau. He was fond of Fichtenau. There he
would rest in that evergreen dale for a few days, and recover from the
fatigue of the journey and from this day's manifold annoyances. Anyhow,
he would have escaped from Lydia, have broken away from the snare which
those women had set for him! He owed this satisfaction to himself, and
perhaps the reflection would smooth the rough forest path he had now
entered upon.

For it was rough, was that path; much more so than he remembered it
being formerly. Much rougher and much steeper too; in fact, most,
most--abominably steep. Never mind; by following the tiny brooklet
which was murmuring in the glen by his side, and which fell into the
big brook in the valley below, he must speedily reach the little bridge
leading to the opposite side; and then a smooth, or at least a fairly
smooth, path would lead him on to the mansion.

What on earth could she have to do, she and the parson, at the mayor's?
Something, probably, about getting appropriate quarters for those who
were coming to the man[oe]vres; to be sure, My Lady, never idle, must
needs take an interest in everything! Or perchance it was some
charitable purpose, something for the sick, for the poor; in the
pursuit of such noble aims My Lady never spared herself now, that is
never since Royalty had set the example, and made it fashionable! And
anyhow, it was hardly polite, in one so uniformly polite as My Lady, to
leave the house and walk right away to the far end of the village with
one guest already in the house, and with other guests expected every
minute. Possibly--possibly My Lady was not unwilling to avoid the one
guest; and the others, to be sure, must needs drive past the mayor's
house. What more natural than, in such a case, to enter the carriage
that brought the new guests; whilst driving with them through the
village, what more simple than to give a confidential hint or two, just
the merest suggestion, as to the treatment of the bird which she had
captured--oh, so cleverly! No, no, My Lady--not captured yet... not
yet!

But where was the little bridge? It ought to have appeared long ere
this. What! Climb down the steep glen, get your feet wet in the brook
below, and climb up again the opposite side? Perish the thought! Why,
everything seemed to go against him to-day!

At last. And a broad new bridge too. And pair fully rustic, with
elaborate rustic ornaments of curiously entwined and intertwisted tree
branches. And, worst of all, such a confounded bit higher up the stream
than where the old bridge had been.

And the path on the opposite side, too; new, new like the bridge, new
and fashionable, a regular promenade path; belonging, no doubt, to the
elaborate system of paths which his noble and beautiful hostess had for
years woven, like a complicated network, through the woods around. Of
course, like Charlotte in the "Elective Affinities," the fair
chatelaine must needs have that passion for beautifying everything;
like Charlotte, but not, oh dear! no, with any tender _penchant_ for
her husband's well-born friends. Well, well! He himself had never
doubted the unapproachable virtue of My Lady: what if she now, tried
her gentle hand ever so little at this, surely it was only the outcome
of the excessive goodness of her chaste, and cool, and philanthropic
heart.... Heart!... And oh the wretched pain, the horrid, horrid
sensation in my own heart. Who the mischief could be philanthropical if
he felt like this? Perhaps this insane running and climbing has brought
on a relapse. The story might then close where it began, and fair Lydia
would come just in the nick of time to see that when people talk of a
broken heart, they are not necessarily talking nonsense.... What
rubbish, though! If my heart breaks, it will be because it has got some
organic fault, and because I took champagne when I should not have done
so.

He had dropped upon a bench by, the wayside, and there he crouched,
almost bent double, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, to prevent
his moans from being heard in the silence of the darkening woods.

The attack passed away. Gradually the agonising pains grew less. With
the physical anguish much of the fierce passion into which he had
worked himself passed away too. In its stead he felt a terrible
heaviness, a dull languor in all his limbs, and there was a sort of
stupor about his brain.

Supposing it had given way, he mused. Fancy, sitting alone here in the
wood, a dead man, for goodness knows how long, and then terrifying a
poor wretch who chanced to pass this way first! This was not a pleasing
thought. But this anyhow would have been the worst. Death in itself he
did not dread. Why should he? Death was but the end of life. And life?
His life? If he could say that his living harmed no one, except perhaps
poor Konski whom he sometimes tormented by his wayward moods--yet, on
the other hand, it gladdened no one, least of all himself. The few poor
students or struggling artists would have their allowances paid out to
them for the time fixed, whether he lived on or not, and a few public
institutions were welcome to divide the residue between them. All that
would be settled in the shortest and most business-like manner. Never a
tear would be shed by any human being, unless perchance by old Konski.
But no; it was impossible to think of the good, easy-going fellow in
tears.

He was sitting at the foot of a spreading beech tree. A crow, perched
on the top, uttered a shriek.

Bertram looked up with a grim smile. "Patience!" he said.

But it was not on his account that the crow had uttered that cry, but
probably because somebody was approaching. He saw a lady coming down
the side-path which led from the forest direct to his bench. Again,
this convulsive pain at the heart! But he forced himself to look again;
and no, it was not Lydia. Lydia was taller, and her blonde hair was of
ashen hue; this lady's hair was dark, very dark. And the style of
walking, too, was different, very different: an easy, even, step,
making it appear as if she were floating down the somewhat steep path,
although he could see the movement of the feet beneath the light summer
dress. And now she had come quite close to him. She gave a little
start, for, gazing up to the shrieking crow, she had not noticed him,
and he had sprung up somewhat abruptly from the bench. But in a moment
she was collected again, and the flush faded as quickly from her cheek
as it had spread.

"Is, it possible?--Erna!"

"Uncle Bertram!"

There was something wondrously melodious in the voice, but not the
slightest trace of the glad emotion which he himself had experienced
which he himself had experienced on seeing his darling. His heart
contracted; he would fain have said: "You were wont to give me a
different reception;" but he blushed to face the young beauty as a
beggar, and letting, go her hands, he only said--

"You did not expect to find me here?"

"How could I?" was her reply.

"To be sure!" thought Bertram. "How could she? What a silly question of
mine!"

He knew not what next to say, and, in some embarrassment, he stood
silent. The crow above had been silent during the last half-minute or
so, and now commenced to croak, abominably. Both had involuntarily
gazed up; now they were, walking silently side by side along the path.




                                  III.


The evening was closing in around them. Through the thick undergrowth
of wood which bordered the path on both sides but little light could
penetrate; overhead the leafy crowns of the beeches interlaced and
formed an almost continuous roof. At a certain abrupt declivity a few
rough steps had been placed.

"Will you take my arm. Uncle Bertram?" said Erna. It was the first word
spoken between them since, several minutes ago, minutes which had
weighed like lead upon Bertram, they had left the bench under the beech
tree.

"I was just going to put the same question to you," he replied.

"Thanks," said Erna. "I know every step here; but you--and then, you
have been ill."

This might, of course, have been meant in all friendliness; but there
was a coldness about the tone, something like giving alms, Bertram
thought.

"Have been," he made answer; "but quite well again--quite well."

"I understand you are going to Italy for the winter--for the sake of
your health."

"I am going to Italy because I hope I shall be rather less bored in
Rome than in Berlin--that is all."

"And suppose you are bored in Rome too?"

"You mean, bores are bored everywhere?"

"No, I do not mean that; indeed, it would have been most disagreeable
on my part had I meant anything of the kind. I only wanted to know
where people go to from Rome, if they desire still to travel on. To
Naples, I should say?"

"To be sure. To Naples, to Capri! In Capri there stands amidst orange
groves, with subl