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The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12 by Various

V >> Various >> The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12




"None, mama."

"Truly, none?"

"No, none, truly; perfectly in earnest. But, on second thought, if
there were anything--"

"Well?"

"It would be a Japanese bed screen, black, with gold birds on it, all
with long crane bills. And then perhaps, besides, a hanging lamp for
our bedroom, with a red shade."

Mrs. von Briest remained silent.

"Now you see, mama, you are silent and look as though I had said
something especially improper."

"No, Effi, nothing improper. Certainly not in the presence of your
mother, for I know you so well. You are a fantastic little person,
you like nothing better than to paint fanciful pictures of the future,
and the richer their coloring the more beautiful and desirable they
appear to you. I saw that when we were buying the traveling articles.
And now you fancy it would be altogether adorable to have a bed screen
with a variety of fabulous beasts on it, all in the dim light of a red
hanging lamp. It appeals to you as a fairy tale and you would like to
be a princess."

Effi took her mother's hand and kissed it. "Yes, mama, that is my
nature."

"Yes, that is your nature. I know it only too well. But, my dear Effi,
we must be circumspect in life, and we women especially. Now when you
go to Kessin, a small place, where hardly a streetlamp is lit at
night, the people will laugh at such things. And if they would only
stop with laughing! Those who are ill-disposed toward you--and there
are always some--will speak of your bad bringing-up, and many will
doubtless say even worse things."

"Nothing Japanese, then, and no hanging lamp either. But I confess I
had thought it would be so beautiful and poetical to see everything in
a dim red light."

Mrs. von Briest was moved. She got up and kissed Effi. "You are a
child. Beautiful and poetical. Nothing but fancies. The reality is
different, and often it is well that there should be dark instead of
light and shimmer."

Effi seemed on the point of answering, but at this moment Wilke came
and brought some letters. One was from Kessin, from Innstetten. "Ah,
from Geert," said Effi, and putting the letter in her pocket, she
continued in a calm tone: "But you surely will allow me to set the
grand piano across one corner of the room. I care more for that than
for the open fireplace that Geert has promised me. And then I am going
to put your portrait on an easel. I can't be entirely without you. Oh,
how I shall be homesick to see you, perhaps even on the wedding tour,
and most certainly in Kessin. Why, they say the place has no garrison,
not even a staff surgeon, and how fortunate it is that it is at least
a watering place. Cousin von Briest, upon whom I shall rely as my
chief support, always goes with his mother and sister to Warnemunde.
Now I really do not see why he should not, for a change, some day
direct our dear relatives toward Kessin. Besides, 'direct' seems to
suggest a position on the staff, to which, I believe, he aspires. And
then, of course, he will come along and live at our house. Moreover
Kessin, as somebody just recently told me, has a rather large steamer,
which runs over to Sweden twice a week. And on the ship there is
dancing (of course they have a band on board), and he dances very
well."

"Who?"

"Why, Dagobert."

"I thought you meant Innstetten. In any case the time has now come to
know what he writes. You still have the letter in your pocket, you
know."

"That's right. I had almost forgotten it." She opened the letter and
glanced over it.

"Well, Effi, not a word? You are not beaming and not even smiling. And
yet he always writes such bright and entertaining letters, and not a
word of fatherly wisdom in them."

"That I should not allow. He has his age and I have my youth. I should
shake my finger at him and say: 'Geert, consider which is better.'"

"And then he would answer: 'You have what is better.' For he is not
only a man of most refined manners, he is at the same time just and
sensible and knows very well what youth means. He is always reminding
himself of that and adapting himself to youthful ways, and if he
remains the same after marriage you will lead a model married life."

"Yes, I think so, too, mama. But just imagine--and I am almost ashamed
to say it--I am not so very much in favor of what is called a model
married life."

"That is just like you. And now tell me, pray, what are you really in
favor of?"

"I am--well, I am in favor of like and like and naturally also of
tenderness and love. And if tenderness and love are out of the
question, because, as papa says, love is after all only fiddle-faddle,
which I, however, do not believe, well, then I am in favor of wealth
and an aristocratic house, a really aristocratic one, to which Prince
Frederick Charles will come for an elk or grouse hunt, or where the
old Emperor will call and have a gracious word for every lady, even
for the younger ones. And then when we are in Berlin I am for court
balls and gala performances at the Opera, with seats always close by
the grand central box."

"Do you say that out of pure sauciness and caprice?"

"No, mama, I am fully in earnest. Love comes first, but right after
love come splendor and honor, and then comes amusement--yes,
amusement, always something new, always something to make me laugh or
weep. The thing I cannot endure is _ennui_."

"If that is the case, how in the world have you managed to get along
with us?"

"Why, mama, I am amazed to hear you say such a thing. To be sure, in
the winter time, when our dear relatives come driving up to see us and
stay for six hours, or perhaps even longer, and Aunt Gundel and Aunt
Olga eye me from head to foot and find me impertinent--and Aunt Gundel
once told me that I was--well, then occasionally it is not very
pleasant, that I must admit. But otherwise I have always been happy
here, so happy--"

As she said the last words she fell, sobbing convulsively, at her
mother's feet and kissed her hands.

"Get up, Effi. Such emotions as these overcome one, when one is as
young as you and facing her wedding and the uncertain future. But now
read me the letter, unless it contains something very special, or
perhaps secrets."

"Secrets," laughed Effi and sprang to her feet in a suddenly changed
mood. "Secrets! Yes, yes, he is always coming to the point of telling
me some, but the most of what he writes might with perfect propriety
be posted on the bulletin board at the mayor's office, where the
ordinances of the district council are posted. But then, you know,
Geert is one of the councillors."

"Read, read."

"Dear Effi: The nearer we come to our wedding day, the more scanty
your letters grow. When the mail arrives I always look first of all
for your handwriting, but, as you know, all in vain, as a rule, and
yet I did not ask to have it otherwise. The workmen are now in the
house who are to prepare the rooms, few in number, to be sure, for
your coming. The best part of the work will doubtless not be done till
we are on our journey. Paper-hanger Madelung, who is to furnish
everything, is an odd original. I shall tell you about him the next
time. Now I must tell you first of all how happy I am over you, over
my sweet little Effi. The very ground beneath my feet here is on fire,
and yet our good city is growing more and more quiet and lonesome. The
last summer guest left yesterday. Toward the end he went swimming at
nine degrees above zero (Centigrade), and the attendants were always
rejoiced when he came out alive. For they feared a stroke of apoplexy,
which would give the baths a bad reputation, as though the water were
worse here than elsewhere. I rejoice when I think that in four weeks I
shall row with you from the Piazzetta out to the Lido or to Murano,
where they make glass beads and beautiful jewelry. And the most
beautiful shall be yours. Many greetings to your parents and the
tenderest kiss for yourself from your Geert."

Effi folded the letter and put it back into the envelope.

"That is a very pretty letter," said Mrs. von Briest, "and that it
observes due moderation throughout is a further merit."

"Yes, due moderation it surely does observe."

"My dear Effi, let me ask a question. Do you wish that the letter did
not observe due moderation? Do you wish that it were more
affectionate, perhaps gushingly affectionate?"

"No, no, mama. Honestly and truly no, I do not wish that. So it is
better as it is."

"So it is better as it is. There you go again. You are so queer. And
by the by, a moment ago you were weeping. Is something troubling you?
It is not yet too late. Don't you love Geert?"

"Why shouldn't I love him? I love Hulda, and I love Bertha, and I love
Hertha. And I love old Mr. Niemeyer, too. And that I love you and papa
I don't even need to mention. I love all who mean well by me and are
kind to me and humor me. No doubt Geert will humor me, too. To be
sure, in his own way. You see he is already thinking of giving me
jewelry in Venice. He hasn't the faintest suspicion that I care
nothing for jewelry. I care more for climbing and swinging and am
always happiest when I expect every moment that something will give
way or break and cause me to tumble. It will not cost me my head the
first time, you know."

"And perhaps you also love your Cousin von Briest?"

"Yes, very much. He always cheers me."

"And would you have liked to marry Cousin von Briest?"

"Marry? For heaven's sake no. Why, he is still half a boy. Geert is a
man, a handsome man, a man with whom I can shine and he will make
something of himself in the world. What are you thinking of, mama?"

"Well, that is all right, Effi, I am glad to hear it. But there is
something else troubling you."

"Perhaps."

"Well, speak."

"You see, mama, the fact that he is older than I does no harm. Perhaps
that is a very good thing. After all he is not old and is well and
strong and is so soldierly and so keen. And I might almost say I am
altogether in favor of him, if he only--oh, if he were only a little
bit different."

"How, pray, Effi."

"Yes, how? Well, you must not laugh at me. It is something that I
only very recently overheard, over at the parsonage. We were talking
about Innstetten and all of a sudden old Mr. Niemeyer wrinkled his
forehead, in wrinkles of respect and admiration, of course, and said:
'Oh yes, the Baron. He is a man of character, a man of principles."

"And that he is, Effi."

"Certainly. And later, I believe, Niemeyer said he is even a man of
convictions. Now that, it seems to me, is something more. Alas, and
I--I have none. You see, mama, there is something about this that
worries me and makes me uneasy. He is so dear and good to me and so
considerate, but I am afraid of him."




CHAPTER V


The days of festivity at Hohen-Cremmen were past; all the guests had
departed, likewise the newly married couple, who left the evening of
the wedding day.

The nuptial-eve performance had pleased everybody, especially the
players, and Hulda had been the delight of all the young officers, not
only the Rathenow Hussars, but also their more critically inclined
comrades of the Alexander regiment. Indeed everything had gone well
and smoothly, almost better than expected. The only thing to be
regretted was that Bertha and Hertha had sobbed so violently that
Jahnke's Low German verses had been virtually lost. But even that had
made but little difference. A few fine connoisseurs had even expressed
the opinion that, "to tell the truth, forgetting what to say, sobbing,
and unintelligibility, together form the standard under which the most
decided victories are won, particularly in the case of pretty, curly
red heads." Cousin von Briest had won a signal triumph in his
self-composed role. He had appeared as one of Demuth's clerks, who had
found out that the young bride was planning to go to Italy immediately
after the wedding, for which reason he wished to deliver to her a
traveling trunk. This trunk proved, of course, to be a giant box of
bonbons from Hoevel's. The dancing had continued till three o'clock,
with the effect that Briest, who had been gradually talking himself
into the highest pitch of champagne excitement, had made various
remarks about the torch dance, still in vogue at many courts, and the
remarkable custom of the garter dance. Since these remarks showed no
signs of coming to an end, and kept getting worse and worse, they
finally reached the point where they simply had to be choked off.
"Pull yourself together, Briest," his wife had whispered to him in a
rather earnest tone; "you are not here for the purpose of making
indecent remarks, but of doing the honors of the house. We are having
at present a wedding and not a hunting party." Whereupon von Briest
answered: "I see no difference between the two; besides, I am happy."

The wedding itself had also gone well, Niemeyer had conducted the
service in an exquisite fashion, and on the way home from the church
one of the old men from Berlin, who half-way belonged to the court
circle, made a remark to the effect that it was truly wonderful how
thickly talents are distributed in a state like ours. "I see therein a
triumph of our schools, and perhaps even more of our philosophy. When
I consider how this Niemeyer, an old village preacher, who at first
looked like a hospitaler--why, friend, what do you say? Didn't he
speak like a court preacher? Such tact, and such skill in antithesis,
quite the equal of Koegel, and in feeling even better. Koegel is too
cold. To be sure, a man in his position has to be cold. Generally
speaking, what is it that makes wrecks of the lives of men? Always
warmth, and nothing else." It goes without saying that these remarks
were assented to by the dignitary to whom they were addressed, a
gentleman as yet unmarried, who doubtless for this very reason was, at
the time being, involved in his fourth "relation." "Only too true,
dear friend," said he. "Too much warmth--most excellent--Besides, I
must tell you a story, later."

The day after the wedding was a clear October day. The morning sun
shone bright, yet there was a feeling of autumn chilliness in the air,
and von Briest, who had just taken breakfast in company with his wife,
arose from his seat and stood, with his hands behind his back, before
the slowly dying open fire. Mrs. von Briest, with her fancy work in
her hands, moved likewise closer to the fireplace and said to Wilke,
who entered just at this point to clear away the breakfast table: "And
now, Wilke, when you have everything in order in the dining hall--but
that comes first--then see to it that the cakes are taken over to the
neighbors, the nutcake to the pastor's and the dish of small cakes to
the Jahnkes'. And be careful with the goblets. I mean the thin cut
glasses."

Briest had already lighted his third cigarette, and, looking in the
best of health, declared that "nothing agrees with one so well as a
wedding, excepting one's own, of course."

"I don't know why you should make that remark, Briest. It is
absolutely news to me that you suffered at your wedding. I can't
imagine why you should have, either."

"Luise, you are a wet blanket, so to speak. But I take nothing amiss,
not even a thing like that. Moreover, why should we be talking about
ourselves, we who have never even taken a wedding tour? Your father
was opposed to it. But Effi is taking a wedding tour now. To be
envied. Started on the ten o'clock train. By this time they must be
near Ratisbon, and I presume he is enumerating to her the chief art
treasures of the Walhalla, without getting off the train--that goes
without saying. Innstetten is a splendid fellow, but he is pretty much
of an art crank, and Effi, heaven knows, our poor Effi is a child of
nature. I am afraid he will annoy her somewhat with his enthusiasm for
art."

"Every man annoys his wife, and enthusiasm for art is not the worst
thing by a good deal."

"No, certainly not. At all events we will not quarrel about that; it
is a wide field. Then, too, people are so different. Now you, you
know, would have been the right person for that. Generally speaking,
you would have been better suited to Innstetten than Effi. What a
pity! But it is too late now."

"Extremely gallant remark, except for the fact that it is not apropos.
However, in any case, what has been has been. Now he is my son-in-law,
and it can accomplish nothing to be referring back all the while to
the affairs of youth."

"I wished merely to rouse you to an animated humor."

"Very kind of you, but it was not necessary. I am in an animated
humor."

"Likewise a good one?"

"I might almost say so. But you must not spoil it.--Well, what else is
troubling you? I see there is something on your mind."

"Were you pleased with Effi? Were you satisfied with the whole affair?
She was so peculiar, half naive, and then again very self-conscious
and by no means as demure as she ought to be toward such a husband.
That surely must be due solely to the fact that she does not yet fully
know what she has in him. Or is it simply that she does not love him
very much? That would be bad. For with all his virtues he is not the
man to win her love with an easy grace."

Mrs. von Briest kept silent and counted the stitches of her fancy
work. Finally she said: "What you just said, Briest, is the most
sensible thing I have heard from you for the last three days,
including your speech at dinner. I, too, have had my misgivings. But I
believe we have reason to feel satisfied."

"Has she poured out her heart to you?"

"I should hardly call it that. True, she cannot help talking, but she
is not disposed to tell everything she has in her heart, and she
settles a good many things for herself. She is at once communicative
and reticent, almost secretive; in general, a very peculiar mixture."

"I am entirely of your opinion. But how do you know about this if she
didn't tell you?"

"I only said she did not pour out her heart to me. Such a general
confession, such a complete unburdening of the soul, it is not in her
to make. It all came out of her by sudden jerks, so to speak, and then
it was all over. But just because it came from her soul so
unintentionally and accidentally, as it were, it seemed to me for that
very reason so significant."

"When was this, pray, and what was the occasion?"

"Unless I am mistaken, it was just three weeks ago, and we were
sitting in the garden, busied with all sorts of things belonging to
her trousseau, when Wilke brought a letter from Innstetten. She put it
in her pocket and a quarter of an hour later had wholly forgotten
about it, till I reminded her that she had a letter. Then she read it,
but the expression of her face hardly changed. I confess to you that
an anxious feeling came over me, so intense that I felt a strong
desire to have all the light on the matter that it is possible to have
under the circumstances."

"Very true, very true."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I mean only--But that is wholly immaterial. Go on with your
story; I am all ears."

"So I asked her straight out how matters stood, and as I wished to
avoid anything bordering on solemnity, in view of her peculiar
character, and sought to take the whole matter as lightly as possible,
almost as a joke, in fact, I threw out the question, whether she would
perhaps prefer to marry Cousin von Briest, who had showered his
attentions upon her in Berlin."

"And?"

"You ought to have seen her then. Her first answer was a saucy laugh.
Why, she said, her cousin was really only a big cadet in lieutenant's
uniform. And she could not even love a cadet, to saying nothing of
marrying one. Then she spoke of Innstetten, who suddenly became for
her a paragon of manly virtues."

"How do you explain that?"

"It's quite simple. Lively, emotional, I might almost say, passionate
as she is, or perhaps just because she is so constituted, she is not
one of those who are so particularly dependent upon love, at least not
upon what truly deserves the name. To be sure, she speaks of love,
even with emphasis and a certain tone of conviction, but only because
she has somewhere read that love is indisputably the most exalted,
most beautiful, most glorious thing in the world. And it may be,
perhaps, that she has merely heard it from that sentimental person,
Hulda, and repeats it after her. But she does not feel it very deeply.
It is barely possible that it will come later. God forbid. But it is
not yet at hand."

"Then what is at hand? What ails her?"

"In my judgment, and according to her own testimony, she has two
things: mania for amusement and ambition."

"Well, those things can pass away. They do not disturb me."

"They do me. Innstetten is the kind of a man who makes his own career.
I will not call him pushing, for he is not, he has too much of the
real gentleman in him for that. Let us say, then, he is a man who will
make his own career. That will satisfy Effi's ambition."

"Very well. I call that good."

"Yes, it is good. But that is only the half. Her ambition will be
satisfied, but how about her inclination for amusement and adventure?
I have my doubts. For the little entertainment and awakening of
interest, demanded every hour, for the thousand things that overcome
ennui, the mortal enemy of a spiritual little person, for these
Innstetten will make poor provision. He will not leave her in the
midst of an intellectual desert; he is too wise and has had too much
experience in the world for that, but he will not specially amuse her
either. And, most of all, he will not even bother to ask himself
seriously how to go about it. Things can go on thus for a while
without doing much harm, but she will finally become aware of the
situation and be offended. And then I don't know what will happen. For
gentle and yielding as she is, she has, along with these qualities, a
certain inclination to fly into a fury, and at such times she hazards
everything."

At this point Wilke came in from the dining hall and reported that he
had counted everything and found everything there, except that one of
the fine wine glasses was broken, but that had occurred yesterday when
the toast was drunk. Miss Hulda had clinked her glass too hard against
Lieutenant Nienkerk's.

"Of course, half asleep and always has been, and lying under the elder
tree has obviously not improved matters. A silly person, and I don't
understand Nienkerk."

"I understand him perfectly."

"But he can't marry her."

"No."

"His purpose, then?"

"A wide field, Luise."

This was the day after the wedding. Three days later came a scribbled
little card from Munich, with all the names on it indicated by two
letters only. "Dear mama: This morning we visited the Pinakothek.
Geert wanted to go over to the other museum, too, the name of which I
will not mention here, because I am in doubt about the right way to
spell it, and I dislike to ask him. I must say, he is angelic to me
and explains everything. Generally speaking, everything is very
beautiful, but it's a strain. In Italy it will probably slacken
somewhat and get better. We are lodging at the 'Four Seasons,' which
fact gave Geert occasion to remark to me, that 'outside it was autumn,
but in me he was having spring.' I consider that a very graceful
compliment. He is really very attentive. To be sure, I have to be
attentive, too, especially when he says something or is giving me an
explanation. Besides, he knows everything so well that he doesn't even
need to consult a guide book. He delights to talk of you two,
especially mama. He considers Hulda somewhat affected, but old Mr.
Niemeyer has completely captivated him. A thousand greetings from your
thoroughly entranced, but somewhat weary Effi."

Similar cards now arrived daily, from Innsbruck, from Vicenza, from
Padua. Every one began: "We visited the famous gallery here this
morning," or, if it was not the gallery, it was an arena or some
church of "St. Mary" with a surname. From Padua came, along with the
card, a real letter. "Yesterday we were in Vicenza. One must see
Vicenza on account of Palladio. Geert told me that everything modern
had its roots in him. Of course, with reference only to architecture.
Here in Padua, where we arrived this morning, he said to himself
several times in the hotel omnibus, 'He lies in Padua interred,' and
was surprised when he discovered that I had never heard these words.
But finally he said it was really very well and in my favor that I
knew nothing about them. He is very just, I must say. And above all he
is angelic to me and not a bit overbearing and not at all old, either.
I still have pains in my feet, and the consulting of guide books and
standing so long before pictures wears me out. But it can't be helped,
you know. I am looking forward to Venice with much pleasure. We shall
stay there five days, perhaps even a whole week. Geert has already
begun to rave about the pigeons in St. Mark's Square, and the fact
that one can buy there little bags of peas and feed them to the pretty
birds. There are said to be paintings representing this scene, with
beautiful blonde maidens, 'a type like Hulda,' as he said. And that
reminds me of the Jahnke girls. I would give a good deal if I could be
sitting with them on a wagon tongue in our yard and feeding _our_
pigeons. Now, you must not kill the fan tail pigeon with the big
breast; I want to see it again. Oh, it is so beautiful here. This is
even said to be the most beautiful of all. Your happy, but somewhat
weary Effi."

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