A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

Suddenly the old man went up to the middle one of the three tall windows and gazed out into the flurry of snow that veiled the distant landscape. Leo, amazed at this transgression of traditionary custom, stood still and pricked his ears.

"Ten," said the Freiherr, as the clock began to strike. "In half an hour Johanna may be here; at twelve, when I have returned from my ride, I wish to speak with her in my room. She shall receive all the consideration due to my grandchild, but there shall be no interruption of the rules of the house upon her account, nor" – his deep voice grew louder, and there was something in it like the mutter of a coming tempest – "nor shall her father's name be mentioned in my hearing."

With these words the Freiherr turned about and left the room, accompanied by Leo.

So soon as the door closed behind him, Johann Leopold arose. "Allow me, dear Magelone, to postpone the end of our game. I have a headache," he said, passing his hand wearily over his eyes.

"Just as you please, dear Johann Leopold," Magelone replied, with a gentle smile. He kissed her hand and left the room. She lifted her arms towards heaven. "Thank God, he has gone!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Aunt Thekla, Aunt Thekla, this life is intolerable!"

The old lady shook her head so that the gray curls beneath her lace cap trembled.

"My dear child, you ought not to speak so," she said, in a tone of gentle reproof; "you are going to marry him – "

"Because I choose to, or because I must?" Magelone interposed, going across the room to her great-aunt. "But never mind that; when we are married it will be better, – then I will not stay any longer in Dönninghausen."

"You will not leave your old grandfather alone!" said Aunt Thekla.

"I am nothing to grandpapa," Magelone answered, with a shrug of her shoulders; "and as for any entertainment that he gets from Johann Leopold – But don't be troubled about that; who knows what the new cousin may turn out? I am very curious. From all that I hear, she will be far too solemn for me, – all the better adapted, however, for our croaking household and for Dönninghausen."

With these words Magelone hurried to the other end of the room, seated herself at the grand piano, and began to play a polka; then suddenly ceasing, she ran back again to her aunt and sat down opposite her. "Can you possibly understand, Aunt Thekla," she asked, "why grandpapa has sent for this Johanna? Do not misunderstand me. I have no objection to her coming. We can yawn together, even if she is good for nothing else. But why grandpapa, who cannot endure the sound of her family name, did not rather board her somewhere – "

"I asked myself the same question," her aunt replied; "and the only answer I can find to it, knowing him as I do, is that he yearns to see his Agnes's child. Believe me, dear, he is not so hard-hearted as he chooses to appear."

"But he banished his daughter!" Magelone exclaimed.

"He did what he thought was his duty, and no one knew how he suffered in doing so," the old lady rejoined. "Agnes was his darling. How enraptured he was when, after his three boys, – the youngest, your father, was eleven years old, – a daughter was born to him! Although he was thought a strict father, he could deny his Agnes nothing. Everybody in the house did as she pleased, and did it gladly, for she was a gentle, tender-hearted creature. But she grew too dreamy and imaginative in this solitude, and when my sister-in-law at last had her way and sent her for a year to boarding-school, where she had companions of her own age, it was too late. At her very first entrance into society she fell in love with that man, that actor, and there was no help for it."

"How inconceivable it is, this falling so desperately in love!" said Magelone.

Aunt Thekla dropped her knitting and gazed at her niece through her eye-glasses. "Are you in earnest?" she asked. "Can you really not understand it?"

Magelone's eyes sparkled strangely, reminding one of sunshine upon rippling water.

"Oh, Aunt Thekla, you think I mean it!" she exclaimed, and laughed like a child.

"No, not exactly," said the old lady; "but I cannot deny that I am sometimes anxious. 'Tis all the better for you if you are only flirting, but I pity the poor lad."

"The poor lad!" Magelone repeated. "Does that mean Otto? Aunt, you are perfectly heavenly; I must give you a kiss!" And she sprang up and threw her arms around Aunt Thekla's neck. "Let me assure you that it is a question which of us is flirting the most. When men attempt anything in that line their achievements are wonderful – Hark! there comes a carriage. It is Johanna!" she interrupted herself, and, beginning to sing, 'For her I sigh,' in a rather weak but melodious voice, she ran out of the room.

In the corridor she walked more deliberately. "Remember your dignity, Magelone," she said to herself, – "no farther than the head of the staircase." But when she reached the head of the staircase, and Johanna's pale face – shrouded in black crape, her large eyes dimmed with weeping – looked up at her, dignity was entirely forgotten. Holding out both hands, she hurried to meet the guest, exclaiming, "Johanna! Cousin Johanna! I am Magelone!" And she clasped her in her arms.

Johanna was mute with amazement. Otto's expressions had led her to imagine Magelone's beauty to be of a dazzling superb kind, instead of which here was a fairy-like creature, with child-like eyes and a winning grace of manner.

"Poor Johanna, how tired you look!" Magelone continued. "And how you shiver! you are chilled through and through – "

"Yes; I have been travelling all night," said Johanna. And her teeth chattered as she spoke.

"Poor child, I suppose I ought to take you directly to Aunt Thekla, but you must first rest and get warm. Here," – and Magelone opened the door of a spacious, well-warmed apartment, – "here is a quiet room; and now tell me what you would like. Shall I send you a maid, or will you have breakfast?"

"Thank you; I should like to sleep," was Johanna's reply.

Magelone helped her take off her hat and wraps. "Then lie down here," – and she led her to a huge lounge, – "and I will see that you are not disturbed until it is time to dress for dinner."

She turned to go. Johanna took both her hands. "Thanks!" she said, with emotion; "your reception of me has done me so much good – "

"But you have not yet called me Magelone!" was the laughing interruption. "But don't force yourself to it, – it will come of itself." With these words she kissed the young girl's forehead and left her alone.

"She is charming," thought Johanna, as her weary head sank back among the cushions. "If every one here is as kind, I have been very silly to have any dread of Dönninghausen." And she fell asleep with a lightened heart, the rumble and rush of the railroad train still buzzing in her ears.

Suddenly she started. "Ten minutes for refreshments!" had just rung through her dream. She awoke to find herself, to her surprise, in the spacious dim room. The door opened, and an old gentleman entered, with a large dog beside him.

"Grandfather!" she cried, and would have risen.

He approached her quickly. "Sit still! sit still!" he said, with a commanding gesture, as he took a seat beside her couch. "My old Christian tells me that you are exhausted with your journey, and therefore I came here to see you, and to release you, if you like, from coming to dinner to-day."

Whilst the Freiherr spoke, his cold blue eyes rested searchingly upon the girl. She bore the look bravely.

"Thank you, that is not necessary; my sleep has greatly refreshed me," she replied.

"So much the better," said the old man. "You still look pale and tired, but that will pass away. You do not look like your mother," he went on, after a pause, in a gentler tone, "but you have her low gentle voice, and there is something in your smile – "

He broke off and turned away his head. At this moment the dog, who had been sniffing about Johanna, reared himself and put his large forepaws upon her shoulders. "Down, Leo, down!" the Freiherr called. The animal obeyed, but Johanna stroked its huge head caressingly, and it fawned at her feet.

"Why, look! Leo, usually so slow to make acquaintance, has accepted you upon the spot," the old man said, with a gratified air. "That, too, you get from your mother, – all animals liked her. Now I will leave you alone. After dinner you shall be presented to your grand-aunt, my sister Thekla. Until then, my child, adieu."

He arose and held out his hand; suddenly he drew her to him and kissed her. "God bless your home-coming!" he murmured; then he walked towards the door, turning round, however, before he reached it, and saying, in his usual imperious way, "From this time, Johanna, you belong entirely to us. We shall all call you by your first name, and you will be one of the family, to the rules of which you must conform. Come to me if any occasion should arise for your wanting advice."

With these words he departed.

"I hope we shall be fond of each other," Johanna thought. "He is kinder than his letter led me to imagine him. And how handsome he is, with his white hair, his proud stern air, his bright eyes beneath their bushy eyebrows, and his erect martial figure! In his coarse shooting-jacket, leather breeches, and riding-boots, he is the most distinguished-looking man I have ever seen."

Grand-aunt Thekla, too, to whom Johanna was presented before dinner by Magelone, received her kindly, although after a prim fashion of her own, and Cousin Johann Leopold, upon his introduction to her in the dining-room, offered the tips of his cold fingers, and expressed a hope that she would be pleased with Dönninghausen.

Altogether, it had the effect upon Johanna of the scene of a fairy-tale: the spacious dining-hall, its wainscoting and ceiling of dark oak; a huge green porcelain stove at one end, at the other a buffet, whence shot mysterious gleams from glass and silver in the light of the chandelier; the assembled family, contrasting so strongly with one another, – Johann Leopold in evening dress; Aunt Thekla in gray satin and black lace; Magelone in a faultless toilette of rose-coloured silk, flounced and furbelowed; Johanna in her deep mourning, and the Freiherr in his riding-dress.

There was no conversation. Sometimes the Freiherr asked a question briefly and in a gruff voice, receiving as brief and satisfactory an answer as possible from whomsoever he addressed, and then for a space of time no sound would be audible save the rattle of knives and forks and the hushed footsteps of the two men-servants. Besides these last, old Christian, Johanna's escort, stood behind his master's chair, his only office, apparently, being to fill the Freiherr's glass and to pick up the napkin which the old gentleman continually let fall.

It was a protracted meal: the Freiherr had a good appetite and ate slowly. He grew more talkative at dessert, discussed affairs of the estate with Johann Leopold, asked Aunt Thekla about some sick people in the village, inquired of Johanna how long she had been in reaching Dönninghausen, and made a contemptuous remark about Magelone's 'ball-dress.'

At last he arose, and every one seemed to breathe more freely. He gave his arm to his sister: Johann Leopold offered his to Magelone.

"You must take us both," she said. "Come, Johanna."

"I should like to go to my room," the girl whispered. Magelone shook her head.

"You must not; we are all on duty now. Come," she said, in a low voice, as she followed the brother and sister into the drawing-room.

Here the lamps were lit, and the coffee-equipage was set out upon a table before a lounge. There was another table near the fireplace, provided with candles and newspapers, and so soon as the Freiherr had taken his arm-chair beside it old Christian made his appearance with a pipe and box of matches, followed by Leo, who pushed his head affectionately into his master's hand and then lay down at his feet. Aunt Thekla sat down opposite her brother with her knitting; Johann Leopold withdrew to a dark corner on the other side of the chimney-piece.

"Are you in pain again?" the Freiherr asked him, in a tone which expressed more irritation than sympathy.

"Yes, sir; I have another of my old headaches," Johann Leopold replied, and the ghastly pallor of his handsome but emaciated face, and the look of suffering in his eyes, were confirmation of his words.

The Freiherr picked up the paper with a growl, and pushed his chair nearer the light.

"Come," said Magelone, taking possession of Johanna, "I will initiate you into the mysteries of my coffee-brewing; you can relieve me sometimes in future." And while she was clattering among her cups and saucers she went on in an undertone, "This goes on every day the same. Now we shall all take coffee; if grandpapa finds anything interesting in the paper he reads it aloud; when Johann Leopold condescends to be well he reads the paper, after which grandpapa and Aunt Thekla play backgammon, and I give you a little music. Are you musical?" she asked in a louder tone.

"Unfortunately, no," Johanna replied.

"Perhaps you draw?" Magelone asked further.

"No, I do not. I have no talent at all," Johanna declared, with some mortification.

"None at all?" the Freiherr said, and his eyes gleamed brightly over his newspaper. "Actually none? So much the better, child, so much the better!"

Johanna understood the meaning of such words from her grandfather. This was the gulf that separated them.

CHAPTER VI

THE FREIHERR'S PRINCIPLES

When the next morning Johanna went to her window, she could not repress an exclamation of delight. Her room looked from a gable of the castle out into the park. In front of it an aged oak stretched its gnarled limbs above a little clearing; around it stood magnificent hemlocks, their boughs drooping to the ground beneath a weight of snow; while on the right the only vista through the trees afforded a view of the snowy roofs and the little church of the village in the valley, of a row of stunted willows, probably marking the course of a stream, and of the wooded mountain-sides crowned by curiously-jagged rocks.

It was a peaceful landscape, such as she loved, and had the added charm of the brilliant sunlight shining upon the glittering snow in the clear wintry atmosphere. It attracted her irresistibly to go out into the open air. The breakfast-hour was nine o'clock: she had half an hour to spare; and she wrapped herself up and hurried out into the park.

She soon found a pathway, but walking on the dry snow was hard work, and she had to return long before the limits of the park had been reached.

As she ascended the terrace steps in front of the castle, she saw her grandfather standing at a window of the lower story. She called up a 'good-morning!' to him; he acknowledged her greeting, but his look and air were so gloomy that she feared she had transgressed some rule of the house, and betook herself to the dining-room with a certain timidity.

Her fears were groundless, however. When the customary morning salutations had been exchanged and all had taken their seats at table, the Freiherr said, "I am glad to see, Johanna, that you are not one of these silly, new-fangled girls. Out in the open air before breakfast, – that's right, child! But 'tis hard walking over the soft snow. Can you ride?"

Johanna replied in the negative.

"Should you like to learn?" her grandfather asked, and when she said 'yes,' with sparkling eyes, he added, "Very well; be ready by half-past twelve, and we will make our first trial. Christian will give orders to have Elinor saddled for you; she's the gentlest creature in the world."

"She threw me," Magelone remarked.

"Your own fault!" the Freiherr exclaimed. "A horse is a noble creature; those who would control it must keep a tight rein upon themselves. It rebels against alternations between childish foolhardiness and childish timidity. By the way, Magelone, when do you wish to begin riding again?"

"Not at all, grandpapa," Magelone replied, with gentle decision.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Freiherr. "A Dönninghausen and not ride on horseback! Why, your cousins Hildegard and Hedwig are perfect Amazons."

"You will have to reconcile yourself to leaving me out of the family in this respect as in several others," Magelone replied, as gently as before, but with a flash in her eyes that betrayed her irritation. "Probably you will find Johanna more truly of the race."

Aunt Thekla and Johann Leopold looked up startled; the Freiherr tossed his head, and his eyes darted fire at Magelone, but his glance fell upon Johanna, who, paler than usual, cast down her eyes, and he controlled his displeasure. Magelone went on eating as if nothing had occurred; the Freiherr turned with some question to Johann Leopold. The meal concluded as monosyllabically as usual, and the members of the household continued as silent after it was finished; and while the Freiherr smoked his morning pipe, Johann Leopold and Magelone played chess, and Aunt Thekla and Johanna busied themselves with some needlework.

Johanna was puzzled by Magelone; the more she reflected upon her words the more she was convinced that they could not have been thoughtlessly uttered, and yet was it possible that that careless air, that gentle smile, those clear eyes, could conceal petty spite?

Her ride with her grandfather put an end to her reflections. Martin, the groom, who, before her grandfather appeared, tried to initiate her somewhat into the rudiments of his art, declared with a grin that the "gracious Fräulein was sure to be a good rider." The Freiherr, when he saw her sitting gayly and confidently in her saddle, said, "Now hold yourself upright, and don't be afraid." And away they went in the clear winter morning, with Leo at their heels.

Johanna returned warmed and refreshed. Her grandfather had not talked much, but the little that he had said, the few questions he had put, had brought them nearer together.

Under the influence of this impression she sat down at her writing-table to tell Ludwig, as she had promised, of her arrival; but she had scarcely written two lines when there was a knock at her door, and Magelone entered. "I am disturbing you," she said, with her sunniest smile, "but I cannot help it. I must beg your pardon, – I said such a horrid thing at the breakfast-table."

She approached Johanna and offered her her hand.

"Never mind," Johanna replied, clasping the delicate hand in both her own. "I thought you spoke hastily."

Magelone shook her head. "No, it was not exactly that." And she seated herself at the writing-table. "You have no idea how childish I am. It vexed me to have grandpapa praise you at my expense, and I had to say that, —c'était plus fort que moi."

"'Confessions of a fair soul,'" said Johanna.

"You are laughing. Oh, you are good and kind!" Magelone declared. "I never will be cross to you again. I will love you so dearly. Believe me, Johanna, I have always wanted some one like you."

"You hardly know me," said Johanna.

"But I know that you have everything which I lack. The repose of your manner, – how I envy and admire you for it! You can sit perfectly quiet all the while grandpapa is reading the papers. It drives me about like a will-o'-the-wisp."

"That is your nature," Johanna rejoined. "There is always something about you, not like a will-o'-the-wisp, but like a rippling wave."

Magelone shook her head. "Far more like a will-o'-the-wisp. The wave has its goal, flows in a destined course; I go I know not whither."

"But you are gay and happy; what more would you have?" exclaimed Johanna.

Magelone replied, "Not always. Latterly I have been rather gloomy than gay. What do you think of Johann Leopold?" she added, after a pause.

"I cannot judge yet," Johanna replied. "I have hardly talked with him."

"He does not talk," Magelone interrupted her. "He is just what you have seen him day out and day in. It is the same with every one. Grandpapa is always dictatorial, Aunt Thekla always good and tiresome, Johann Leopold always odd. Doesn't he look like the marble guest?"

"He looks melancholy and ill."

"And yet he has no positive complaint that I know of," said Magelone. "His hobby is chemistry. Whenever he is not on duty with grandpapa he is shut up in his laboratory in the garden, with all sorts of sounds and smells. It is a perfect witch's kitchen there. Can you imagine an odder match than he and myself?"

"Magelone!" cried Johanna. "You do not mean to say – "

"Yes, yes; we wish – or rather we ought to marry," Magelone interposed. "Grandpapa devised the match, and of course it must be. I am a widow; Johann Leopold's betrothed died; I have lost my property; he is the heir. We are equals in rank; he is thirty years old, I am twenty-one. In short, the match is the most suitable that can be imagined."

"But you will not consent?"

"What am I to do?" Magelone asked, shrugging her shoulders. "I am spoiled. Poor Willfried ran through all my money to the last farthing. I have no chance of making conquests in this wilderness; and, besides, who would marry a widow with no money?"

"Whoever loved her."

"Do you believe in love?" asked Magelone. "I don't. All I have seen of what is called love was mere play. People flirt, and try to befool one another, to outdo a rival, but love, which might induce one to contract a disadvantageous marriage, never. Marriage is a business transaction."

"Yours does not seem to have been such," Johanna said.

"Do you suppose I was enamoured of my stout captain?" asked Magelone. "Not in the least! It suited me to marry before I was quite eighteen an officer of the Garde du Corps; it suited me to go to Berlin, and to court; but I never imagined for a moment that Willfried would forego his ballet-girls and his cards for longer than the honeymoon. My folly lay in never reflecting upon how quickly a fortune may be gambled away. My good father ought to have thought of that; but he was ill, and wanted to see me established, as they say, before his death, and so it all happened."

"Poor child!" said Johanna, taking her hand. "It was the fault of circumstances. You will learn to look upon life differently. Only have courage, and hope."

"If I could!" Magelone said, her melancholy smile contrasting oddly with her sparkling eyes. "Do you know I sometimes fancy that I have no heart? It has something to do with my name. The water-witch Magelone, after whom I am called, bequeathed to me her own uncanny nature."

"No, no; you will learn to love," Johanna interrupted. She thought of Otto, and of the way in which he had spoken of Magelone. "You are not actually betrothed yet?" she added.

"Not yet," Magelone replied. "Thus far grandpapa has only informed us both, Johann Leopold and myself, of his desire. He called us into his study and addressed us very solemnly."

"And you?" Johanna asked.

"Johann Leopold bowed, as he always does, like an automaton, —cela n'engage à rien, – and I suppose I smiled. But what does it matter what we say? You may be sure that if we employed all the eloquence in the world to combat grandpapa's arrangements it would avail nothing. At Christmas, when all the noble family are assembled here, the betrothal will take place, and at the hour that grandpapa shall appoint we shall stand before the altar and exchange rings whether we will or not."

"That I cannot understand," said Johanna.

"You will understand it when you have once seen how terrible grandpapa's anger is," Magelone rejoined, – "when he frowns, and his eyes flash from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, and his voice thunders and roars. It occurs but rarely, but the terror of it is in our very blood, or has been taught us from childhood, I cannot tell which."

"Did you ever see grandpapa so?" asked Johanna.

"Only once, when Otto, who is very hasty, had boxed the forester's ears. Grandpapa roared out that so to treat an honest man, who could not demand satisfaction for the insult, was the act of a blackguard; Otto was not worthy to bear the name of Dönninghausen. As I tell it it seems nothing, but when grandpapa flew out at the poor boy I really thought he would have felled him to the earth, and every one present – it happened during the charmingly social hour after breakfast – was petrified with horror."