The learned gentleman hid a tear of emotion but squinted again at the little pocket-book. This represented the fourth way to peace, for he had old beer debts.
The servants were now ushered in, too. First came Mrs. Poensgen, the housekeeper, who carried in her crooked, scarred hands a little flower-pot with Alpine violets.
"This is for Mamma," she said to Brigitta, who took the pot from her and led her to her own place. There were many good things, among them a brown knitted sweater, such as she had long desired, for in the kitchen an east wind was wont to blow through the cracks.
Mrs. Poensgen saw the sweater as rapidly as Brueggemann had seen the purse. And when Brigitta said: "That is, of course, from Mamma," the old woman was not in the least surprised. For in her fifteen years of service she had discovered that the best things always came from Mamma.
The two boys, in the meantime, were anxious to ease their consciences and recite their poems. They stood around Papa.
He was busy with the inspectors of the estate, and did not notice them for a moment. Then he became aware of his oversight and took the sheets from their hands, laughing and regretting his neglect. Fritz a.s.sumed the proper att.i.tude, and Papa did the same, but when the latter saw the heading of the poem: "To his dear parents at Christmastide," he changed his mind and said: "Let"s leave that till later when we are with Mamma."
And so the boys could go on to their places. And as their joy expressed itself at first in a happy silence, Papa stepped up behind them and shook them and said: "Will you be merry, you little scamps?
What is Mamma to think if you"re not!"
That broke the spell which had held them heretofore. Fritz set his net, and when Arthur discovered a pinnace on his man-of-war, the feeling of immeasurable wealth broke out in jubilation.
But this is the way of the heart. Scarcely had they discovered their own wealth but they turned in desire to that which was not for them.
Arthur had discovered the shiny patent lock that lay between Mamma"s plate and his own. It seemed uncertain whether it was for him or her.
He felt pretty well a.s.sured that it was not for him; on the other hand, he couldn"t imagine what use she could put it to. Furthermore, he was interested in it, since it was made upon a certain model. It is not for nothing that one is an engineer with all one"s heart and mind.
Now, Fritz tried to give an expert opinion, too. He considered it a combination Chubb lock. Of course that was utter nonsense. But then Fritz would sometimes talk at random.
However that may be, this lock was undoubtedly the finest thing of all. And when one turned the key in it, it gave forth a soft, slow, echoing tone, as though a harp-playing spirit sat in its steel body.
But Papa came and put an end to their delight.
"What are you thinking of, you rascals?" he said in jesting reproach.
"Instead of giving poor Mamma something for Christmas, you want to take the little that she has."
At that they were mightily ashamed. And Arthur said that of course they had something for Mamma, only they had left it in the hall, so that they could take it at once when they went to her.
"Get it in," said Papa, "in order that her place may not look so meager." They ran out and came back with their presents.
Fritz had carved a flower-pot holder. It consisted of six parts, which dove-tailed delicately into each other. But that was nothing compared to Arthur"s ventilation window, which was woven of horse hair.
Papa was delighted. "Now we needn"t be ashamed to be seen," he said.
Then, too, he explained to them the mechanism of the lock, and told them that its purpose was to guard dear Mamma"s flowers better. For recently some of her favourite roses had been stolen and the only way to account for it was that some one had a pa.s.s key.
"So, and now we"ll go to her at last," he concluded. "We have kept her waiting long. And we will be happy with her, for happiness is the great thing, as Mamma says.... Get us the key, Brigitta, to the gate and the chapel."
And Brigitta got the key to the gate and the chapel.
THEA
_A Phantasy over the Samovar_
Chapter I.
She is a faery and yet she is none.... But she is my faery surely.
She has appeared to me only in a few moments of life when I least expected her.
And when I desired to hold her, she vanished.
Yet has she often dwelt near me. I felt her in the breath of winter winds sweeping over sunny fields of snow; I breathed her presence in the morning frost that clung, glittering, to my beard; I saw the shadow of her gigantic form glide over the smoky darkness of heaven which hung with the quietude of hopelessness over the dull white fields; I heard the whispering of her voice in the depths of the shining tea urn surrounded by a dancing wreath of spirit flames.
But I must tell the story of those few times when she stood bodily before me--changed of form and yet the same--my fate, my future as it should have been and was not, my fear and my trust, my good and my evil star.
Chapter II.
It was many, many years ago on a late evening near Epiphany.
Without whirled the snow. The flakes came fluttering to the windows like endless swarms of moths. Silently they touched the panes and then glided straight down to earth as though they had broken their wings in the impact.
The lamp, old and bad for the eyes, stood on the table with its polished bra.s.s foot and its raveled green cloth shade. The oil in the tank gurgled dutifully. Black fragments gathered on the wick, which looked like a stake over which a few last flames keep watch.
Yonder in the shabby upholstered chair my mother had fallen into a doze. Her knitting had dropped from her hands and lay on the flower-patterned ap.r.o.n. The wool-thread cut a deep furrow in the skin of her rough forefinger. One of the needles swung behind her ear.
The samovar with its bellied body and its shining chimney stood on a side table. From time to time a small, pale-blue cloud of steam whirled upward, and a gentle odour of burning charcoal tickled my nostrils.
Before me on the table lay open Sall.u.s.t"s "Catilinarian Conspiracy!"
But what did I care for Sall.u.s.t? Yonder on the book shelf, laughing and alluring in its gorgeous cover stood the first novel that I ever read--"The Adventures of Baron Muenchausen!"
Ten pages more to construe. Then I was free. I buried my hands deep into my breeches pockets, for I was cold. Only ten pages more.
Yearningly I stared at my friend.
And behold, the bookbinder"s crude ornamentation--ungraceful arabesques of vine leaves which wreathe about broken columns, a rising sun caught in a spider"s web of rays--all that configuration begins to spread and distend until it fills the room. The vine leaves tremble in a morning wind; a soft blowing shakes the columns, and higher and higher mounts the sun. Like a dance of flickering torches his rays shoot to and fro, his glistening arms are outstretched as though they would grasp the world and pull it to the burning bosom of the sun. And a great roaring arises in the air, m.u.f.fled and deep as distant organ strains. It rises to the blare of trumpets, it quivers with the clash of cymbals.
Then the body of the sun bursts open. A bluish, phosph.o.r.escent flame hisses forth. Upon this flame stands erect in fluttering _chiton_ a woman, fair and golden haired, swan"s wings at her shoulders, a harp held in her hand.
She sees me and her face is full of laughter. Her laughter sounds simple, childlike, arch. And surely, it is a child"s mouth from which it issues. The innocent blue eyes look at me in mad challenge. The firm cheeks glow with the delight of life. Heavens! What is this child"s head doing on that body? She throws the harp upon the clouds, sits down on the strings, scratches her little nose swiftly with her left wing and calls out to me: "Come, slide with me!"
I stare at her open-mouthed. Then I gather all my courage and stammer: "Who are you?"