“If you knew me better,” said Ferdinanda, “you would know that I always keep my word to myself and to others.”
These last words she had, as if accidentally, addressed to Ottomar, and accompanied it with a glance which Ottomar understood and returned. Whatever became of the Reaper, she would come that evening.
The door had closed behind the gentlemen; Ferdinanda bolted it and then turned slowly round. Her fixed glance rested first on the spot where she had kissed Ottomar for the first time, and then passed on to the Reaper. Was it an effect of light, or was it that others’ words had first made it plain to her what she had produced? A shudder passed through her.
“I keep my word when I have given it—but I wish I had not given it!”
IV
Ferdinanda had long ago emancipated herself from all control on the part of her aunt. She was accustomed to go and come as she pleased; the only point on which it was necessary to be attentive was punctuality at meals. Her father was very particular about this, only Aunt Rikchen declared, in order that he might worry her out of her five senses if she ever happened to be delayed by her household duties or other matters, as could hardly be avoided by such a poor creature. Ferdinanda was aware also that her father avoided every opportunity of being alone with his sister, and that it was therefore an especial annoyance to him if she herself stayed away from meals on any pretence. Under such circumstances her father always took his meals by himself in his own room. But this had very rarely happened, even in former days, and scarcely ever happened now. Ferdinanda had almost entirely withdrawn herself from all her friends; she said often that she had no friends, only acquaintances, and that she did not care much about them.
Today she must pretend to visit some friend, and leave word at home that she should not probably be back to supper, which was always served at punctually. Her pride revolted at the necessity of the lie, and such an improbable one, but she had given her word; whether good or evil came of it, her fate was decided—the deed must be done.
She went therefore at , with her bonnet and cloak on, down to her aunt, who was invariably to be found at that hour in the sitting-room behind the dining-room, where, in her seat near the window, she could count her stitches by the fading light, watch the passersby without trouble, and, as Uncle Ernst said, indulge her fancies quite undisturbed. The latter employment was the most successful today; the stitches were very difficult to count, in consequence of the gloomy weather, and the same cause had diminished the number of passersby, “as if they were all on strike, like those abominable workpeople;” besides the butcher had brought for the next day a miserable leg of veal, which, that silly Trine, the cook, ought never to have taken in, and for her punishment must take back again, although Heaven only knew how she was to get the supper ready all alone, for as for Trine being back in less than an hour, she knew the idle thing better than that. And now Ferdinanda was going out—was going to spend the evening out! Aunt Rikchen in despair snatched her spectacles from her nose, and let her stocking, with the stitches she had only just picked up, fall into her lap.
“Good gracious! has everything combined against poor me today?” she exclaimed. “Reinhold has just been in to say that he will not be at home either.”
“Where is Reinhold?”
“Oh! did not he tell you? Quite a large soirée—that is what you call it? He supposed he must put on his uniform.”
“At whose house?”
“At the Werbens’! Young Herr von Werben came here himself this morning. You saw him in your studio, by the by! I know nothing about it!—of course I know nothing about it. At . It must be already.”
Ferdinanda’s countenance fell. “At the Werben’s! At ! How could that be!”
“And where are you going, if I may venture to ask?”
Ferdinanda told the lie she had prepared. She had spoken to Fräulein Marfolk the artist at the Exhibition; Fräulein Marfolk had given her such a pressing invitation to go and see her again; she had some curiosities and photographs to show her, which she had brought from Rome; this evening she happened to be disengaged. Professor Seefeld from Karlsruhe would be there also, who was most anxious to make Ferdinanda’s acquaintance. She had accepted, and could not draw back now.
“And poor I must eat my supper alone again!” said Aunt Rikchen; “for he had rather eat a live crocodile with its skin and bones, in company with seven Hottentots, than a comfortable mutton-cutlet with his poor old sister. Well, I must bear it. I must bear everything. If the whole business stands still, my poor intellect can stand still too, and my poor old heart with it.” Her misery was too great; Aunt Rikchen burst into tears.
“What is the good of exciting yourself so unnecessarily?” asked Ferdinanda impatiently.
“Exciting myself so unnecessarily!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. “Of course you think everything unnecessary. But I see it coming. I noticed the people as they went away this morning, how they stood there in the street and stared up at the house, and shook their fists threateningly, and abused the police who were dragging away those two wretches, Schwarz and Brandt, and that silly boy Carl Peters; and they abused your father, too. It was shocking to hear them! It makes me shudder when I think of it, and of what may
