Part 35 (1/2)

”Oh! and to think,” Thoma went on, ”that this lady who has such a beautiful home goes to the huts of the poor--goes to Cus.h.i.+on-Kate!”

”Sit down and make yourself comfortable with me. How is your mother?”

”Better, but not quite well yet.”

”Do you bring me good news from your father?”

”My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went with you to see Cus.h.i.+on-Kate. His going there shows that you can do more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?”

”Certainly.”

”Did my father ask Cus.h.i.+on-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?”

”Confess? Your father is acquitted.”

”Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have said be as if unheard.”

”Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg you disburden your soul.”

”Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady, I--I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What have I said?”

”Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?”

”Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill him, I did it in anger,'--that is honest and brings one to honor again.

How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for money--for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year on Whitsunday I was with my father at St. Blasius. There was a woman there who had painted her cheeks red, and put flour on her neck and forehead. There she sat, in broad daylight, and looked boldly at people, to see if they saw her beautiful red cheeks and white neck, while she herself knew that she was not young, but on the contrary, old and wrinkled.”

”I understand. You think it is unworthy of your father.”

”Unworthy?” repeated Thoma, for this expression, from a higher sphere of thought, affected her strangely; and the judge's wife continued: ”Child, your thoughts at first were not so hard, but by degrees they have grown sharper, have become bitterer and more poignant; and that which should have softened you only made you more harsh. When your father was humble it revolted you, and when he was proud, likewise.”

Thoma's eyes grew larger and larger. She was like a patient whom the physician tells exactly how he feels; and this amazement at another's knowledge becomes a preparation for, and the commencement of a cure.

The judge's wife laid a hand on her shoulder.

”Dear Thoma, in imprisonment a man can only do no evil; but at liberty he can do good. My child, your love of truth is good, beautiful, and excellent, but--how shall I say it?--it is not in place now----”

The good lady was sensible of a deep embarra.s.sment, and her face reddened as though with shame. She, who was always urging straightforwardness, should she now shake this girl's strict truth?

But she recovered herself, and continued: ”If your father did deny the truth, he is suffering a heavy punishment, because you also deny it.”

”I?”

”Yes. You disown your child's heart. Don't tremble. You need not promise me anything, except that you will once again examine yourself earnestly and conscientiously. And your doing so will show itself in the matter for which in reality I sent for you. My brother may soon come, and I must arrange this with you quickly.”

The judge's wife then told her about Anton; how much every one esteemed and loved him; and how honorably and beautifully he had expressed himself after his return from Holland. She showed Thoma her mistake--how she, from upright and honorable feeling--and this commendation did good--was acting wrongly, both toward her parents and her lover.

”You think,” she added, ”you think you cannot call your lover yours again, because you cannot bring him the same honor that he brings you.”