“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 today 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 someone, 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 everyone; 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 sickbed consolations. Let us bid each other goodbye.’
“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
