With his stately head bent low, but a step as firm as ever, he left the studio.
V
An hour later—at a few minutes before —a carriage drove up to the departure-platform of the Berlin and Sundin railway station, and August jumped quickly from the box to assist the General. The General mounted the steps, while August looked round in vain for a porter.
“I told you so,” called the driver, handing the small portmanteau to August. “We ought to know!”
“Perhaps it is all the better so,” thought August, hastening after his master, who was standing in the empty hall at the booking-office, before the closed windows of which the green curtains had been let down.
“So the man was right after all,” said the General.
“Yes, sir,” said August.
A porter, who was passing by, confirmed the driver’s information. The day-train went at since the . The next through train was at , as before. A superior official now joined them, who had served in the regiment which the General had last commanded as colonel.
“If the General were in a hurry, as he seemed to be, there was another gentleman who had come too late a few minutes ago, and who had asked for a special. There would be some difficulty about it, as all the trains had been sent off today with two engines, on account of the storm which was said to be raging fearfully towards Sundin. And they were obliged to keep a few engines in reserve, in case of any accident happening, particularly as the telegraphic communication with Sundin was already broken off, and they could only get news in a roundabout way. Still something might be managed perhaps. The gentleman had just gone to speak to the stationmaster, who was out there by the goods sheds, but he would be back again directly. Would the General be good enough to wait till then?”
With these words the man opened the door of the first-class waiting-room for the General, who followed him mechanically. The other then said that he would himself go and see after the matter, and would bring him back word, and so left the room. August, who had followed with the portmanteau, asked if the General had any more orders.
The General told him to wait; he did not know yet what he should do, and August went away greatly disturbed in mind; it was the first time since he had been in the General’s service that he did not know what he was going to do.
The unhappy man was in fact in a state of mind bordering on madness. After the terrible reckoning with his son, all his remaining strength had been concentrated upon one idea—revenge, immediate, implacable revenge upon the wily villain, the hypocritical scoundrel who—he felt sure of it at heart, although his disturbed reason could not penetrate the details of the plot—had now robbed him of his son, as formerly of his sister, and heaped shame and disgrace upon the proud name of Werben. At the moment when, with this one thought in his mind, he entered the carriage which was to take him to the railway, two letters arrived, one by the post in Elsa’s handwriting, and a note brought by Schönau’s servant. He had opened Elsa’s letter at once, and hastily glanced at the few lines, but without really understanding the contents. How could he? How could he have sense, feeling, or understanding for anything in the world, before he knew what Schönau’s note contained? But he knew it already! It could be but one thing! Schönau had not ventured to come himself to say, “He is dead!”
He sat thus a long time, with the fatal note in his trembling hand, and at last, when they were close to the station, by a mechanical impulse he tore it open and read it, only to crush the paper in his hand afterwards, and thrust it into his pocket, while he leaned back in a corner of the carriage with a ghastly smile upon his pale worn face.
He was walking up and down now in the great empty room, from the looking-glass between the glass doors which led on to the platform, to the door into the entrance hall, and then back again, stopping only sometimes at the centre table in front of the little box which stood there, once even stretching out his hand to it, and then with a shake of the head pursuing his walk.
Was there any sense in it now? Might he not just as well have left at home his pistol, the caps for which were in his pocket! Or better still have remained at home himself, let things take their course, and people have their own way? At any rate confess to himself his helplessness in regard to things or men, and that he was a broken-down old man, good for nothing but to look on idly at the battle of life as others fought it out, however melancholy, perverse, and miserable the spectacle might be!
Melancholy for him whose heart was crushed and broken, even where formerly he would have looked with satisfaction—his Elsa’s happiness. It was not indeed the happiness of which he had dreamed for her, but to that he was resigned; it was not a brilliant lot which she had chosen for herself, but she loved the man, and, other considerations apart, he was worthy of her love. And it could not be helped either when a stranger knew her secret, that the whole world should know it at the same moment that it was confided to her father.
And yet! and yet! Why should it have happened just now, just today? She was not to blame, neither was he whom she would own as hers before all the world; but upon her name and his their nearest relations had heaped such shameful guilt, had so dragged both the humble and the noble name through
