Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  “He must be hunted down, imbecile or not,” said Dellwig.

  “I shall do my duty,” said Axel stiffly.

  “You may rely on my help,” said Dellwig.

  “You are very good,” said Axel.

  Dellwig’s voice had something ominous about it that made Anna shiver. What a detestable man he was, always and at all times. His whole manner to-night struck her as specially offensive. “What will be done to the poor wretch when he is caught?” she asked Axel.

  “He will be imprisoned,” Dellwig answered promptly.

  She turned her back on him. “Even though he is half-witted?” she said to Axel. “Are you obliged to look for him? Can’t you leave him alone? He has done you a service, after all.”

  “I must look for him,” said Axel; “it is my duty as Amtsvorsteher.”

  “And the gracious Miss should consider — —” shouted Dellwig from behind.

  “I’ll consider nothing,” said Anna, turning to him quickly.

  “ — should consider the demands of justice — —”

  “First the demands of humanity,” said Anna, her back to him.

  “Noble,” murmured Manske.

  “The gracious Miss’s sentiments invariably do credit to her heart,” said Dellwig, bowing profoundly.

  “But not to her head, he thinks,” said Anna to Axel in English, faintly smiling.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Axel replied in a low voice; “the man so palpably hates us both. You must go home. Where is your carriage? Princess, take her home.”

  “Ach, Herr Dellwig, seien Sie so freundlich — —” began the princess mellifluously; and despatched him in search of Fritz.

  When they reached Kleinwalde, silent, wornout, and only desiring to creep upstairs and into their beds, they were met by Frau von Treumann and the baroness, who both wore injured and disapproving faces. Letty slipped up to her room at once, afraid of criticisms of her hairlessness.

  “We have waited for you all night, Anna,” said Frau von Treumann in an aggrieved voice.

  “You oughtn’t to have,” said Anna wearily.

  “We could not suppose that you were really looking at the fire all this time,” said the baroness.

  “And we were anxious,” said Frau von Treumann. “My dear, you should not make us anxious.”

  “You might have left word, or taken us with you,” said the baroness.

  “We are quite as much interested in Herr von Lohm as Letty or Princess Ludwig can be,” said Frau von Treumann.

  “Nobody could tell us here for certain whether you had really gone there or not.”

  “Nor could anybody give us any information as to the extent of the disaster.”

  “We presumed the princess was with you, but even that was not certain.”

  “My dear baroness,” murmured the princess, untying her shawl, “only you would have had a doubt of it.”

  “The reflection in the sky faded hours ago,” said Frau vein Treumann.

  “And yet you did not return,” said the baroness. “Where did you go afterwards?”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you everything to-morrow. Good-night,” said Anna, candle in hand.

  “What! Now that we have waited, and in such anxiety, you will tell us nothing?”

  “There really is nothing to tell. And I am so tired — good-night.”

  “We have kept the servants up and the kettle boiling in case you should want coffee.”

  “That was very kind, but I only want bed. Good-night.”

  “We too were weary, but you see we have waited in spite of it.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have. You will be so tired. Good-night.”

  She went upstairs, pulling herself up each step by the baluster. The clock on the landing struck half-past three. Was it not Napoleon, she thought, who said something to the point about three-o’clock-in-the-morning courage? Had no one ever said anything to the point about three-o’clock-in-the-morning love for one’s fellow-creatures? “Good-night,” she said once more, turning her head and nodding wearily to them as they watched her from below with indignant faces.

  She glanced at the clock, and went into her room dejectedly; for she had made a startling discovery: at three o’clock in the morning her feeling towards the Chosen was one of indifference verging on dislike.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Looking up from her breakfast the morning after the fire to see who it was riding down the street, Frau Manske beheld Dellwig coming towards her garden gate. Her husband was in his dressing-gown and slippers, a costume he affected early in the day, and they were taking their coffee this fine weather at a table in their roomy porch. There was, therefore, no possibility of hiding the dressing-gown, nor yet the fact that her cap was not as fresh as a cap on which the great Dellwig’s eyes were to rest, should be. She knew that Dellwig was not a star of the first magnitude like Herr von Lohm, but he was a very magnificent specimen of those of the second order, and she thought him much more imposing than Axel, whose quiet ways she had never understood. Dellwig snubbed her so systematically and so brutally that she could not but respect and admire him: she was one of those women who enjoy kissing the rod. In a great flutter she hurried to the gate to open it for him, receiving in return neither thanks nor greeting. “Good-morning, good-morning,” she said, bowing repeatedly. “A fine morning, Herr Dellwig.”

  “Where’s Klutz?” he asked curtly, neither getting off his horse nor taking off his hat.

  “Oh, the poor young man, Herr Dellwig!” she began with uplifted hands. “He has had a letter from home, and is much upset. His father — —”

  “Where is he?”

  “His father? In bed, and not expected to — —”

  “Where’s Klutz, I say — young Klutz? Herr Manske, just step down here a minute — good-morning. I want to see your vicar.”

  “My vicar has had bad news from home, and is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “This very morning. Poor fellow, his aged father — —”

  “I don’t care a curse for his aged father. What train?”

  “The half-past nine train. He went in the post-cart at seven.”

  Dellwig jerked his horse round, and without a word rode away in the direction of Stralsund. “I’ll catch him yet,” he thought, and rode as hard as he could.

  “What can he want with the vicar?” wondered Frau Manske.

  “A rough manner, but I doubt not a good heart,” said her husband, sighing; and he folded his flapping dressing-gown pensively about his legs.

  Klutz was on the platform waiting for the Berlin train, due in five minutes, when Dellwig came up behind and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “What! Are you going to jump out of your skin?” Dellwig inquired with a burst of laughter.

  Klutz stared at him speechlessly after that first start, waiting for what would follow. His face was ghastly.

  “Father so bad, eh?” said Dellwig heartily. “Nerves all gone, what? Well, it’s enough to make a boy look pale to have his father on his last — —”

  “What do you want?” whispered Klutz with pale lips. Several persons who knew Dellwig were on the platform, and were staring.

  “Why,” said Dellwig, sinking his voice a little, “you have heard of the fire — I did not see you helping, by the way? You were with Herr von Lohm last night — don’t look so frightened, man — if I did not know about your father I’d think there was something on your mind. I only want to ask you — there is a strange rumour going about — —”

  “I am going home — home, do you hear?” said Klutz wildly.

  “Certainly you are. No one wants to stop you. Who do you think they say set fire to the stables?”

  Klutz looked as though he would faint.

  “They say Lohm did it himself,” said Dellwig in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the young man’s face.

  Klutz’s ears burnt suddenly bright red. He looked down, looked up, looked over his shoulder in the direction from whence the train would
come. Small cold beads of agitation stood out on his narrow forehead.

  “The point is,” said Dellwig, who had not missed a movement of that twitching face, “that you must have been with Lohm nearly till the time when — you went straight to him after leaving us?”

  Klutz bowed his head.

  “Then you couldn’t have left him long before it broke out. I met him myself between the stables and his gate five minutes, two minutes, before the fire. He went past without a word, in a great hurry, as though he hoped I had not recognised him. Now tell me what you know about it. Just tell me if you saw anything. It is to both our interests to cut his claws.”

  Klutz pressed his hands together, and looked round again for the train.

  “Do you know what will certainly happen if you try to be generous and shield him? He’ll say you did it, and so get rid of you and hush up the affair with Miss Estcourt. I can see by your face you know who did it. Everyone is saying it is Lohm.”

  “But why? Why should he? Why should he burn his own — —” stammered Klutz, in dreadful agitation.

  “Why? Because they were in ruins, and well insured. Because he had no money for new ones; and because now the insurance company will give him the money. The thing is so plain — I am so convinced that he did it — —”

  They heard the train coming. Klutz stooped down quickly and clutched his bag. “No, no,” said Dellwig, catching his arm and gripping it tight, “I shall not let you go till you say what you know. You or Lohm to be punished — which do you prefer?”

  Klutz gave Dellwig a despairing, hunted look. “He — he — —” he began, struggling to get the words over his dry lips.

  “He did it? You know it? You saw it?”

  “Yes, yes, I saw it — I saw him — —”

  Klutz burst into a wild fit of sobbing.

  “Armer Junge,” cried Dellwig very loud, patting his back very hard. “It is indeed terrible — one’s father so ill — on his death-bed — and such a long journey of suspense before you — —”

  And sympathising at the top of his voice he looked for an empty compartment, hustled him into it, pushing him up the high steps and throwing his bag in after him, and then stood talking loudly of sick fathers till the last moment. “I trust you will find the Herr Papa better than you expect,” he shouted after the moving train. “Don’t give way — don’t give way. That is our vicar,” he exclaimed to an acquaintance who was standing near; “an only son, and he has just heard that his father is dying. He is overwhelmed, poor devil, with grief.”

  To his wife on his arrival home he said, “My dear Theresa,” — a mode of address only used on the rare occasions of supremest satisfaction— “my dear Theresa, you may set your mind at rest about our friend Lohm. The Miss will never marry him, and he himself will not trouble us much longer.” And they had a short conversation in private, and later on at dinner they opened a bottle of champagne, and explaining to the servant that it was an aunt’s birthday, drank the aunt’s health over and over again, and were merrier than they had been for years.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  It was an odd and a nearly invariable consequence of Anna’s cold morning bath that she made resolutions in great numbers. The morning after the fire there were more of them than ever. In a glow she assured herself that she was not going to allow dejection and discouragement to take possession of her so easily, that she would not, in future, be so much the slave of her bodily condition, growing selfish, indifferent, unkind, in proportion as she grew tired. What, she asked, tying her waist-ribbon with great vigour, was the use of having a soul and its longings after perfection if it was so absolutely the slave of its encasing body, if it only received permission from the body to flutter its wings a little in those rare moments when its master was completely comfortable and completely satisfied? She was ashamed of herself for being so easily affected by the heat and stress of the days with the Chosen. How was it that her ideals were crushed out of sight continually by the mere weight of the details of everyday existence? She would keep them more carefully in view, pursue them with a more unfaltering patience — in a word, she was going to be wise. Life was such a little thing, she reflected, so very quickly done; how foolish, then, to forget so constantly that everything that vexed her and made her sorry was flying past and away even while it grieved her, dwindling in the distance with every hour, and never coming back. What she had done and suffered last year, how indifferent, of what infinitely little importance it was, now; and yet she had been very strenuous about it at the time, inclined to resist and struggle, taking it over-much to heart, acting as though it were always going to be there. Oh, she would be wise in future, enjoying all there was to enjoy, loving all there was to love, and shutting her eyes to the rest. She would not, for instance, expect more from her Chosen than they, being as they were, could give. Obviously they could not give her more than they possessed, either of love, or comprehension, or charitableness, or anything else that was precious; and it was because she looked for more that she was for ever feeling disappointed. She would take them as they were, being happy in what they did give her, and ignoring what was less excellent. She herself was irritating, she was sure, and often she saw did produce an irritating effect on the Chosen. Of sundry minor failings, so minor that she was ashamed of having noticed them, but which had yet done much towards making the days difficult, she tried not to think. Indeed, they could hardly be made the subject of resolutions at all, they were so very trivial. They included a habit Frau von Treumann had of shutting every window and door that stood open, whatever the weather was, and however pointedly the others gasped for air; the exceedingly odd behaviour, forced upon her notice four times a day, of Fräulein Kuhräuber at table; and an insatiable curiosity displayed by the baroness in regard to other people’s correspondence and servants — every postcard she read, every envelope she examined, every telegram, for some always plausible reason, she thought it her duty to open: and her interest in the doings of the maids was unquenchable. “These are little ways,” thought Anna, “that don’t matter.” And she thought it impatiently, for the little ways persisted in obtruding themselves on her remembrance in the middle of her fine plans of future wisdom. “If we could all get outside our bodies, even for one day, and simply go about in our souls, how nice it would be!” she sighed; but meanwhile the souls of the Chosen were still enveloped in aggressive bodies that continued to shut windows, open telegrams, and convey food into their mouths on knives.

  The one belonging to Frau von Treumann was at that moment engaged in writing with feverish haste to Karlchen, bidding him lose no time in coming, for mischief was afoot, and Anna was showing an alarming interest in the affairs of that specious hypocrite Lohm. “Come unexpectedly,” she wrote; “it will be better to take her by surprise; and above all things come at once.”

  She gave the letter herself to the postman, and then, having nothing to do but needlework that need not be done, and feeling out of sorts after the long night’s watch, and uneasy about Axel Lohm’s evident attraction for Anna, she went into the drawing-room and spent the morning elaborately differing from the baroness.

  They differed often; it could hardly be called quarrelling, but there was a continual fire kept up between them of remarks that did not make for peace. Over their needlework they addressed those observations to each other that were most calculated to annoy. Frau von Treumann would boast of her ancestral home at Kadenstein, its magnificence, and the style in which, with a superb disregard for expense, her brother kept it up, well knowing that the baroness had had no home more ancestral than a flat in a provincial town; and the baroness would retort by relating, as an instance of the grievous slanderousness of so-called friends, a palpably malicious story she had heard of manure heaps before the ancestral door, and of unprevented poultry in the Schloss itself. Once, stirred beyond the bounds of prudence enjoined by Karlchen, Frau von Treumann had begun to sympathise with the Elmreich family’s misfortune in including a member like Lolli; but
had been so much frightened by her victim’s immediate and dreadful pallor that she had turned it off, deciding to leave the revelation of her full knowledge of Lolli to Karlchen.

  The only occasions on which they agreed were when together they attacked Fräulein Kuhräuber; and more than once already that hapless young woman had gone away to cry. Anna’s thoughts had been filled lately by other things, and she had not paid much attention to what was being talked about; but yet it seemed to her that Frau von Treumann and the baroness had discovered a subject on which Fräulein Kuhräuber was abnormally sensitive and secretive, and that again and again when they were tired of sparring together they returned to this subject, always in amiable tones and with pleasant looks, and always reducing the poor Fräulein to a pitiable state of confusion; which state being reached, and she gone out to hide her misery in her bedroom, they would look at each other and smile.

  In all that concerned Fräulein Kuhräuber they were in perfect accord, and absolutely pitiless. It troubled Anna, for the Fräulein was the one member of the trio who was really happy — so long, that is, as the others left her alone. Invigorated by her cold tub into a belief in the possibility of peace-making, she made one more resolution: to establish without delay concord between the three. It was so clearly to their own advantage to live together in harmony; surely a calm talking-to would make them see that, and desire it. They were not children, neither were they, presumably, more unreasonable than other people; nor could they, she thought, having suffered so much themselves, be intentionally unkind. That very day she would make things straight.

  She could not of course dream that the periodical putting to confusion of Fräulein Kuhräuber was the one thing that kept the other two alive. They found life at Kleinwalde terribly dull. There were no neighbours, and they did not like forests. The princess hardly showed herself; Anna was English, besides being more or less of a lunatic — the combination, when you came to think of it, was alarming, — and they soon wearied of pouring into each other’s highly sceptical ears descriptions of the splendours of their prosperous days. The visits of the parson had at first been a welcome change, for they were both religious women who loved to impress a new listener with the amount of their faith and resignation; but when they knew him a little better, and had said the same things several times, and found that as soon as they paused he began to expatiate on the advantages and joys of their present mode of life with Miss Estcourt, of which no one had been talking, they were bored, and left off being pleased to see him, and fell back for amusement on their own bickerings, and the probing of Fräulein Kuhräuber’s tender places.