“Yes—my autobiography. God be praised, it is at an end. That was the last chapter.”
“But how can you bring your history to an end? For you are still alive, and will live many years yet—many happy years—amongst us, mother. Surely with the birth of my little Frederick, whom I will bring up to adore his grandmamma, a new chapter must be opening for you.”
“You are a good child, dear Rudolf. I should be unthankful if I did not take pride and joy in you; and just as much joy does my—and his—beautiful Sylvia give me. Oh yes! I am reserved for a blessed old age. A quiet evening! But still, the history of the day is over when the sun has set, is it not?”
He concurred with a silent look of compassion.
“Yes, the word ‘Finis’ at the end of my biography is correct. When I made the resolve to write it, I also determined to break off at February 1, 1871. Only in the case of your being torn from me also by war, which might indeed so easily have happened; but by good luck you were not of age for service at the time of the Bosnian campaign—only in that case would I have been forced to prolong my book. Still, even as it is, it was pain enough to write it.”
“And possibly, too, it may be painful to read it,” remarked Rudolf, turning over the leaves of the MS.
“I hope so. If that pain should only awake in a few hearts an energetic hatred against the source of all the misery here described, I shall not have put myself to the torture in vain.”
“Do you not fear one thing? Its purpose may be seen, and people so be put out of humour with it.”
“That can only happen with a purpose which is perceived, but which the author has tried cunningly to conceal. Mine, however, lies exposed to the light—it is announced in plain words at the first glance on the title page.”
July, 1889. The christening came off yesterday. It was turned into a festival promising twofold happiness: for my daughter Sylvia, the godmother of her little nephew, and his godfather, whom we had long cherished secretly in our hearts—Count Anton Delnitzky—took this opportunity to announce their engagement.
And thus I am surrounded on all hands with happy relations, by means of my children. Rudolf, who has six years since come into possession of the Dotzky estate, and has been for four years married to Beatrix née Griesbach, who had been intended for him since childhood—the most lovely creature that can be imagined—sees now his most ardent wish fulfilled by the birth of an heir. In short, an enviable, brilliant destiny.
The christening guests assembled at a dinner in the summerhouse. The glass doors were left open, and the air of the summer noon streamed in, laden with the scent of the roses.
Next me, in our circle, sat Countess Lori Griesbach, Beatrix’s mother. She was now a widow. Her husband fell in the Bosnian expedition. She did not take her loss very deeply to heart. In no case would she wear continual mourning. On the contrary, this time she had put on garnet-red brocade, with brilliant jewels. She had remained just as superficial as she was in her youth. Questions of toilette, one or two fashionable French or English romances, and society chatter—that was always sufficient to fill her horizon. Even coquetting she had not entirely given up. She no longer had designs on young folks, but older personages endowed with high rank or high position were not safe from her appetite for conquest. At this time, as it seemed to me, Minister To-be-sure was her mark. The latter had, besides, changed his name—and so we called him now Minister T’other-side, from his new catchword.
“I must make a confession to you,” Lori said to me as I clinked my glass with hers to the health of the baby. “On this solemn occasion when we have been christening the grandson of each of us, I must unburden my conscience before you. I was quite seriously in love with your husband.”
“That you have often confessed to me, dear Lori.”
“But he always remained quite indifferent.”
“That, too, I knew.”
“Well, you had a husband true as steel, Martha. I could not say as much for mine. But none the less for that, I was very sorry about Griesbach. Well, he died a glorious death; that is one comfort. A widow’s life is truly a tedious one; especially as one grows older. As long as there are treats, and people to pay court to you, widowhood is not devoid of … but now I assure you, one is quite melancholy all alone. With you the case is rather different. You live with your son; but I am not at all anxious to live with Beatrix. And she, too, is not anxious for it. The mother-in-law in the house does not do well; for after all one likes to be mistress at home. Servants certainly are a plague—that is very true—still one can at least give them their orders. You will hardly believe me, but I should not feel very much averse to marrying again. A marriage of reason, of course, and with some sedate—”
“Minister, or something of that sort,” I interposed smiling.
“Oh, you sly creature! You have seen through me again! But just look there! Do you not notice how Toni Delnitzky is talking to your Sylvia? It is really quite compromising.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Godfather and godmother made it up between them on their way from church. Sylvia has confided it to me. Tomorrow the young man will come to me to ask her hand.”
“What do you say? Well, you are to be congratulated. The handsome Toni may no doubt have been a little gay from time to time; but they are all that—that cannot be otherwise—and when one thinks what a good match—”
“My Sylvia has never thought of that. She loves him.”
“Well, so
