Part 4

If the intoxication, the confusion which never becomes consciousness is happiness, then Felix was very happy in this time. Passion had numbed everything in him which did not refer to the present or to the 18th of October. He existed only in a feeling of longing and expectation. He had no time to tell himself that Linda's happy coquetries proved a very flippant conception of the serious situation--he himself had forgotten the gravity of the situation. He did not think, he only felt and saw a white, ever-changing face, a face which can smile in at least two hundred ways--felt a perpetual warm excitement, felt something like an electric shock when two soft lips touched his temples and left them quickly like butterflies which will not be caught, when two soft hands played round his neck.

Yes, ft is the 18th of October, Felix Lanzberg's wedding-day.

The wedding was to be solemnized at Castle Rineck, the Harfinks' new possession, and in a white circular chapel, with small windows shaded by ivy, and an altar-piece which was dark as the Catholic religion.

The castle is crowded with guests, mostly honest manufacturers, who are proud of their fortunes acquired by their own ability, and others also less honest, who, after they have retired from business, wish to know nothing more of their money-making past.

Needless to say, the wedding preparations were unpleasant to the infatuated Felix. The bride had joined in his request for a quiet wedding, for the contact with so much industry of which a considerable part had not yet become "finance," little pleased her; but the parents could not let the opportunity pass without displaying their wealth to the astonished throng.

The afternoon is gray and moist. Mrs. von Harfink--for the past week, no longer through the obligingness of her acquaintances, but through the obligingness of a democratic ministry thus titled--Mrs. von Harfink, then, composes a toast for her husband to deliver at the wedding dinner. Raimund stands beside the piano--to sing while sitting might injure his voice--and strives to render the cry of the Valkyrs in Wagner's worthy accents; a sympathetic poodle seconds him in this melodious occupation.

Outside in the park Linda wanders alone through the damp October air. The dead foliage lies thick on the lawn, and between the leaves shines the grass, bright and fresh as hope which lies under all the load of shattered joys of broken life, undisturbed.

The bushes, glowing in autumnal splendor, look like huge moulting birds who shiveringly lose their feathers. Many flower-beds are already empty, only a couple of stiff georginias and chrysanthemums still raise their heads proudly and solitary in the universal desolation.

Linda is quite alone; her friends, none of whom are very dear to her, are too zealously busied with cares of the toilet to disturb her solitude; they are also afraid to expose their complexions to the morning air. Linda feels no anxiety about her complexion, it is too beautiful for that. With her loosened hair which, brown as the dead leaves, falls over her back, and with the red cloak, in which she has wrapped herself, she is a bright spot in the park.

She is not a shy bride, and not at all melancholy. Her eyes shine, her lips quiver with excitement--distinguished acquaintances, foreign entertainments of which she will be queen. In mind, she already sees herself on the arm of one and another prince of the blood royal. She could clap her hands with joy that to-day at six o'clock she will no longer be called Harfink.

She remains standing beside a pond where near the bank four swans, shivering and melancholy, swim round a yellow bath-house. Then a hand is laid lightly on her shoulder. "Felix!" whispers she with the charming smile which she always has in readiness for her betrothed.

"No, not Felix--only Eugene," replies a gay voice, and blond, handsome, with clothes a trifle too modern, and a too pronounced perfume of Ylang-ylang, her cousin and former admirer stands near her.

"Ah, have you really come?" says she, joyously.

"Why naturally," replies he. "You do not think that for the sake of a few forlorn chamois I would stay away from your wedding?" Rhoeden has come from Steinmark, to be the cavalier of his cousin's second bridesmaid.

"We had already begun to fear--that is, Emma was afraid," said Linda, coquettishly. "Naturally it was indifferent to me."

"Wholly indifferent? I do not believe it," said he. His arm has slipped down from her shoulder, he has seated himself upon a low iron garden chair, from which, with elbows on his knees, his face between his hands, with the boldness which she likes so well in him, he can look at her as much as he pleases.

"Wholly indifferent!" she repeats, and throws a pebble between the swans, who dip their black bills greedily in the green water.

"O Lin! You naughty Lin! And nothing that concerns you is indifferent to me!" he groans. "The Trauns did not wish to let me go from them--but rather than not see you to-day I would have fought a duel with all the Trauns in the world!"

Linda has slowly approached him; flattered vanity speaks from her shining eyes and glowing lips. He seizes her hand and draws her to him. "Do you know, Lin, that I was once absurdly in love with you?"

She nods. "Yes, I know it."

"And you?"

"And I? Do not ask indiscreet questions, Eugene!"

"But this question interests me so much," he excuses himself.

"Tell me, Lin, if Lanzberg had not come between us--yes, if I only, most unfortunately, had not been born a Grau," he continues sighing, "could I have cherished a little, very little hope?"

"It is quite possible," says she, shrugging her shoulders, and coquetting with him over her shoulder. "But it is better so for us both."

"For you, certainly," says he, "but I shall feel quite peculiarly to-day when I see you with your bridal wreath, Lin! You will drive people mad with your beauty. You are the most beautiful person whom I have ever met in my life. Where the devil did you get your look of high breeding?"

Eugene Rhoeden, with his gay boldness and graceful impudence, his unconscionable aplomb, and his denial from principle of all personal dignity, is what is called in the Vienna slang a _gamin_.

Gamin as he is, no one knows how to bewitch Linda's small nature, how to feed her excessive vanity with such delicate bits as Eugene von Rhoeden. He understands her, she understands him; they are fairly made for each other, and for one moment, one very brief moment, Linda thinks almost with repugnance of the black raven in the red field which greets her from the Lanzberg coat-of-arms. "Eugene!" murmurs she. "Ah!" With that she suddenly turns to an elderly maid, who comes out from among the bushes.

"Are you looking for me, Fanny?"

"Yes, miss."

"I am probably to try my train for the twenty-ninth time. Ah, Eugene! There is something tiresome about a wedding-day!" then she breaks a red chrysanthemum as she passes, throws it to him, and vanishes.

About seven hours later the wedding takes place in the castle chapel, adorned with greenhouse flowers. The blossoms tremble as if they were cold or afraid. Their sweet, exhilarating fragrance mingles with the odor of wax candles, and that of perfumery and cosmetics, which is always noticeable in select assemblies. The wind creeps curiously through the window cracks, creeps up to the altar, makes the flames of the candles flicker, and blows cold upon the bare shoulders of the bride and bridesmaids.

The bride, loaded with the richest jewels, resembles a proud narcissus in the morning dew. Elsa is deathly pale, even her lips are colorless. Erwin displays the inexpressive gravity which the occasion demands of a well-bred man. Mrs. von Harfink looks continually at the decorations, and starts when a white rose falls from the wall. Mr. von Harfink looks as if his collar were too tight for him. Eugene von Rhoeden, his bridesmaid's wrap on his arm, a sceptical smile on his lips, his hand at his mustache, his glance resting now on his uncle, now on the priest, now on the bride, stands there, the image of a little society philosopher of the nineteenth century, who laughs at all vanity and cannot himself give up his own. Raimund looks like a radical who is paying an immense tribute to prejudice, and tries to look more distinguished than his brother-in-law.

And Felix? Felix is as if paralyzed. The moment is here; his feverish longing nears its aim--happiness.

Then the ivy taps on the window, the wind seizes him with ice-cold hands. Felix shudders and glances at his bride. How beautiful she is, and--how proud. Proud? Felix Lanzberg's bride proud? It is impossible--it cannot be. A suspicion which, however he may deny it to his conscience, has occurred to him again and again during their whole engagement, strikes him for the last time and becomes certain that Linda's mother has deceived him; Linda knows nothing!

Then the priest demands his "Yes!" He hesitates; hesitates so long that Linda looks at him in surprise; two large, greenish eyes shine at him through the filmy, white bridal veil. "Yes!" says he firmly and shortly.

A long dinner follows, a long, complicated dinner, which no one enjoys except Papa Harfink, who studies the menu with the tenderest pleasure, and with a small pencil marks the numbers for love of which he thinks to extend considerably his elastic appetite.

He sits between Elsa and the wife of his nephew, the Freiherr, the elder Rhoeden, and, as he gulps down his _potage a la reine_, tells both ladies of his new Achenbach, which cost him 4,000 gulden, which does not seem at all dear to him; as, besides a great deal of sunset, there are thirty-four figures in the picture--he has counted them--and in the background something else, he does not know whether it is a buffalo or ruins. "They almost persuaded me to buy a Daubigny, a Frenchman, I think--a green sauce--what a sauce! I said no, thank you. I like spinach and eggs, I said; but spinach and cows--but--and such cows! without tails or horns--regular daubs of colors. These Frenchmen are tricky. Really, people are cheated by them." Thus concludes Papa Harfink, the art critic.

Elsa only half listens to him. Her eyes wander wearily over the table with its stiff floral decorations and its heavy silverware, "real silver, and not plate," assures Papa Harfink.

Of the men, the last generation are broad-shouldered, red-faced; a sparse beard curls around their full cheeks, a sharp glance, on the lookout for profit, shoots from their small eyes. The past generation breathe loudly, pick their teeth continually, wear too tight rings on too fat fingers, and without exception, a thick gold chain with a diamond medallion over their stomachs.

The present generation are sickly, dissipated, and have something of the jockey and something of the valet who copies his master.

The pride of the whole family is centred in Eugene von Rhoeden, the blond good-for-nothing, who has as many debts as a cavalier, who was educated in the Theresanium, and once had a quarrel with a watchman.

Of the women, some are pretty, none are pleasing; they have all good dressmakers; none are well dressed.

The usually pale face of a "certain Baron Lanzberg" begins to flush feverishly; without eating a mouthful he hastily swallows one glass of wine after another.

"Try this delicious salmon; permit me to help you," the charming host turns to Elsa. She makes a desperate attempt to do justice to the salmon. "Strange," remarks Von Harfink, "my mother used to say that when she was young salmon was cheaper than beef, now it is very dear."

Elsa has laid down her fork in despair. "I am behind the times," says she. "I still am frightened by a telegram, and always feel nervous at a wedding." She smiles sadly, and two charming dimples appear in her cheeks.

Papa Harfink continues to urge her to eat. "You must taste this salmi, Baroness," he entreats. "Monsieur Galatin, my cook, would be unhappy if he learned that every one had not eaten some of his salmi. _Pate a la Kotschubey_, he calls it. Only to-day, this Galatin said to me: '_Ah, Monsieur le Chevalier_, when I think how often Prince Kotschubey got his stomach out of order with my salmi. The physicians said he died of gastrosis, ah! he died of my salmi.'"

"You have a dangerous cook," says Elsa.

"But I understand this Kotschubey, do you know," continues Papa Harfink. "Since I have had this cook, I really have to go to Marienbad twice every year. And besides, he is a splendid fellow, talks politics like a deputy. He formerly served only with the highest nobility. I took him with the castle from Count Sylvani. A peculiar fellow--this Galatin; will not stay away from the swans and the park. A poetic creature; do you know, Baroness, he reads Victor Hugo and the Medisations of Lamartine."

"Ah really, the Medisations of Lamartine," says Elsa, smiling. Susanna Harfink rushes to the assistance of her distressed husband. "Ha! ha! ha!" says she, with her shrill laugh. "My husband always calls meditations medisations--very malicious, do you not think so, but a good joke."

Papa Harfink, sadly conscious that it always means a curtain lecture when his wife before people laughs so energetically at one of his "jokes," of which he feels innocent, with much grace and melancholia licks his knife on both sides.

His wife looks as if she were weary of pulling the lion-skin again and again over the long ears.

The moment has arrived when he is to speak his toast. He rises hesitatingly, the glass trembles in his hand. Fear and champagne have made him lose the last recollection of the few words prepared by his wife.

"This is a great day for me--a day of pride and pain--no, that is not it!" thoughtfully raising his hand to his upper lip. "I hope that my brother-in-law, no, my son-in-law--Su--su--sanna!" he murmurs, helplessly. His cheeks seem to inflate, his eyes grow smaller and more shining, he has set down his glass, and twists his napkin like a conscientious washerwoman. Susanna rises, she is fairly Roman. "As my husband, overcome with emotion, cannot speak," she begins. "I will say, this is for----" for a moment she hesitates, then for the first time in her life, she resolutely denies her husband, emancipates herself from the "us" with which for long years she has protected him, and says: "This is for me a day of pain and of joy. I lose a daughter, gain a son; may my children always find the highest happiness in each other, and a safe retreat in their parental home."

"He is getting a dreadful mother-in-law, this Lanzberg," whispers Eugene Rhoeden to his neighbor, a gay, more than audacious brunette. "Something between a Roman matron and a quarrelsome landlady from a bachelor boarding-house."

The tasteful Raimund contributes a toast to the fusion of nobleman and citizen. The older Rhoeden hopes that his beautiful cousin will lend a new charm to the noble name of Lanzberg.

Much similar follows.

Eugene, for whom this rosary of _parvenu_ platitudes becomes too long, murmurs: "Shall we not soon have paid sufficient thanks for the honor of being allied with Baron Lanzberg?"

This mocking remark was only meant for his neighbor, its bitterness was only meant for the fawning of the Harfinks.

But Felix heard it; ashy pale, with glowing eyes, half rising from his chair, he stares at the impertinent young man. The latter says good-naturedly and thoughtlessly: "Yes, Lanzberg, I will jeer at myself. _Parole d'honneur_, I am a little ashamed to be quite so delighted at receiving an honest man into the family!"

Thereupon the "certain Baron Lanzberg" lowers his eyes to the table-cloth, and remains silent.

VIII.

Three years have passed since Linda left her father's house, and was no longer condemned to be called Harfink--three years and seven months.

The trees have only recently lost their snowy blossoms; all are wrapped in soft young green, the whole earth seems bathed in new hope. It is a day in which death and misfortune seem like ghost stories, invented by old women--no one believes them. The birds twitter joyously, and without all is fragrance, sunshine and flowers. Fragrance and sunshine fill the room where Elsa sits, her youngest child in her lap.

Elsa looks youthful and girlish, quite as much so as at the time when we first made her acquaintance. The same heavy brown hair, as if sprinkled with gold, clusters at her temples, and her eyes still shine with the old dreamy light of happiness, but her cheeks are thinner, her figure frail and thin.

The existence of the little creature in her lap has deprived her of so much health. She has not yet recovered since baby's birth, and has not had time to think of her health, for baby was a sickly child, and great skill was required to bind the little soul, which seemed so anxious to fly back to heaven, to this earth. Day and night, in spite of her own delicateness, Elsa has nursed and cared for the child, holding her tender mother-hand protectingly before the little light which every breath of air threatened to extinguish.

Erwin, who usually had such influence with her, this time could not induce her to spare her weakened strength.

Now the little girl is a year old, and laughs and smiles at her mother gayly, and the physician said recently, "You may be proud of the child, Baroness. How you have raised her, God only knows. All doctors can learn from a mother. But now think of yourself a little."

And the physician shook his head as he looked at the young woman.

Yes, the air is full of perfume and sunshine, but, in the midst of the charming spring life, Elsa looks like a frail white flower.

She has bathed baby, put on her little embroidered shirt, and wrapped her in a flannel slumber-robe, and now, with a fine towel, wipes the last drops from the tender pink little feet, and the little neck on which the water drops down from the small golden head. The nurse is meanwhile busy removing the bathing utensils, while Litzi, who is now a big girl, wearing long stockings, stands near her little sister and holding perfectly still, allows her long hair to be pulled.

"Fie, you wild little thing, you will hurt her!" cries Elsa at last, as baby pulls harder and harder, and winds her tiny fist in Litzi's hair.

Then baby throws her head back, shows her four teeth, laughs with all her little body, and finally leans her cheek sleepily against mamma's shoulder.

"Go down-stairs, my Litzi, go to Miss Sidney; baby wishes to go to sleep," whispers Elsa to her big daughter, whereupon Litzi goes away on tip-toes.

Dreamily humming a lullaby, Elsa cradles the child in her arms, and then lays it down in its pretty white bed. But when she thinks it asleep, it opens its blue eyes, and stretching out its arms, murmurs something which, with a vivid imagination, one can declare to be "Papa."

"Did you hear him come sooner than I, baby?" says Elsa, while Garzin, sitting on the edge of the bed, strokes the child's head until she closes her eyes. There she lies, her hair full of golden lights, the unusually long, black lashes resting on the round cheeks, lengthened by their own shadow, the full little mouth half open, like the calyx of a red flower, one fat little arm thrown up over its head.

"She is pretty, my little one, is she not?" says Elsa proudly, as she sees the quiet smile with which her husband watches the child. "And the doctor thinks I need have no more anxiety about her."

"Yes, the little rogue is healthy enough," says Erwin, sighing, as he softly leaves the nursery with Elsa. "I wish I could say the same of her mamma. Poor Elsa, how thin you are."

"Do I not please you any longer?" she replies, half laughing.

"You are not very sensible!"

"Probably not," replies she seriously. "With such old married people as we are, there can be no more talk of 'pleasing.'"

"Do you think so?"

"And if I should have small-pox, would it make any difference to you?" she asks him, looking at him curiously; the noblest woman is not ashamed to be loved a little because of her beauty.

"Certainly," he replies, "I should love you just as much as before, but I would be bitterly sorry for your pretty face." Jestingly he passes his finger over her cheeks.

They go into the garden; all is gay as if for a feast, the whole earth with her blooming mixture of white, blue and violet elder, golden rain and red acacias--a gay, shimmering picture under an endless blue sky. Everything lives and breathes. The birds twitter, the insects hum, every blade of grass seems to have a voice, and join in the great triumphal chorus of the newly-risen nature.

There is a rustling, a murmuring, a whispering, a nodding, a quiver of life and pleasure, and in the enchanting music suddenly mingles a soft crackling, the crackling of dead leaves, which play at the foot of the trees.

Garzin has led his wife to a bench, over which an elder tree bends its branches of bushy white blossoms. Elsa gazes before her at the lovely nature, the mixture of luxuriant green and gay blossoms, of short black shadows amid dazzling light.

"How young the earth looks," says she dreamily.

Erwin draws her to him. I do not know whether he loves her even more now when she is pale and ill; at any rate he is more conscious of his feeling for her, and treats her more tenderly, is more thoughtful of her, and she leans on him like a sick child. Her whole being has become softer, less independent.

"I received a letter from Felix to-day," says Garzin after a pause.

"Ah!" murmurs Elsa somewhat bitterly. "Does he write for money again?"

"Yes, I am to raise some money for him," says Erwin looking troubled.

"Ah!"

"He has a fine property, but that cannot last," he remarks thoughtfully.

"If it makes him happy," Elsa shrugs her shoulders, and her voice sounds harsh.

"Hm! To ruin one's self is at the time a very pleasant occupation, but to be ruined--a very unpleasant condition, especially with a wife like Linda. I do not believe that Felix will be willing to live on the income of his wealthy wife."

During this remark Elsa continues silent.

"Do you believe that Felix is happy?" Erwin continues; "his letters give a desperately depressed impression. Did you ever hear a really happy man assure one in every letter: 'I am very happy'--'Everything goes well with us'--'I am very contented.' Happy people are silent about their happiness."

Elsa lowers her head, and remembers that in the first years of her marriage she had never written anything to her brother but: "I cannot express how I feel!"

"As I know him," continues Erwin, "his present frequent contact with the world must be a continual torment."'

Elsa frowns and grows very pale. "I do not understand Linda!" she cries. "How can she under--under the circumstances rush into society? I no longer try to understand Felix. Hm!--he is weak--could never refuse a woman anything; if one had asked him for his hand, he would have let it be cut off for her. As far as I am concerned he can give her his hand--but--but----"

A strange fire glows in Elsa's eyes, her face takes on a rigid expression and she grows stiff and clutches both elbows convulsively.

"Poor devil!" murmurs Erwin.