Part 6 (1/2)
”I should not like to disturb you, Countess.”
”But you won't disturb me at all; come, let us have a little chat.”
Ludwig Gross laid his hat and overcoat aside, took a chair, and sat down opposite to the lady. Just at that moment a carriage drove up. The strangers who had engaged the rooms refused to the prince had arrived, and the family hastened out to receive and help them. The countess and Ludwig were left alone.
”What were you discussing at so late an hour?” asked the countess.
”Dore sent us this evening two engravings of his two Pa.s.sion pictures; he is interested in our play, so we were obliged to discuss the best way of expressing our grat.i.tude and to decide upon the place where they shall be hung. There is no time for such consultations during the day.”
”Are you familiar with all of Dore's pictures?”
”Certainly, Countess.”
”And do you like him?”
”I admire him. I do not agree with him in every particular, but he is a genius, and genius has a right to forgiveness for faults which mediocrity should never venture to commit, and indeed never will.”
”Very true,” replied the lady.
”I think,” Ludwig Gross continued, ”that he resembles Hamerling. There is kins.h.i.+p between the two men. Hamerling, too, repels us here and there, but with him, as with Dore, every line and every stroke flashes with that electric spark which belongs only to the genuine work of art.”
His companion gazed at him in amazement.
”You have read Hamerling?”
”Certainly. Who is not familiar with his 'Ahasuerus?'”[3]
”I, for instance,” she replied with a faint blush.
”Oh, Countess, you must read it. There is a vigor, an acerbity, the repressed anguish and wrath of a n.o.ble nature against the pitifulness of mankind, which must impress every one upon whose soul the questions of life have ever cast their shadows, though I know not whether this is the case with you.”
”More than is perhaps supposed,” she answered, drawing a long breath.
”We are all pessimists, but Hamerling must be a stronger one than is well for a poet.”
”That is not quite correct,” replied Ludwig. ”He is a pessimist just so far as accords with the poesy of our age. Did not Auerbach once say: 'Pessimism is the grief of the world, which has no more tears!' This applies to Hamerling, also. His poetry has that bitter flavor, which is required by a generation that has pa.s.sed the stage when sweets please the palate and tears relieve the heart.”
”Your words are very true. But how do you explain--it would be interesting to hear from you--how do you explain, in this mood of the times, the attraction which draws such throngs to the Pa.s.sion Play?”
Ludwig Gross leaned back in his chair, and his stern brow relaxed under the bright influence of a beautiful thought.
”One extreme, as is well known, follows another. The human heart will always long for tears, and the world's tearless anguish will therefore yield to a gentler mood. I think that the rush to our simple play is a symptom of this change. People come here to learn to weep once more.”
The countess rested her clasped hands on the table and gazed long and earnestly at Ludwig Gross. Her whole nature was kindled, her eyes lingered admiringly upon the modest little man, who did not seem at all conscious of his own superiority. ”To learn to _weep_!” she repeated, nodding gently. ”Yes, we might all need that. But do you believe we shall learn it here?”
Ludwig Gross gazed at her smiling. ”You will not ask that question at this hour on the evening of the day after tomorrow.”
He seemed to her a physician who possessed a remedy which he knows _cannot_ fail. And she began to trust him like a physician.
”May I be perfectly frank?” she asked in a winning tone.
”I beg that you will be so, Countess.”