Part 29 (1/2)
”Ossi avoids Schneeburg, for fear of an encounter with the _Phylloxera vastatrix_ who, as he prophesies, is to be the ruin of us all,” said Pistasch banteringly.
Oswald had risen to light a cigarette at the lamp; his hand trembled a little. ”I will write to Fritz, mamma,” he said, ”I am afraid I have rather neglected him of late.”
CHAPTER III.
”Our poor Count Fritz is going fast,” said old Doctor Swoboda every time that he returned from Schneeburg to Rautschin and stopped at the inn to drink a gla.s.s of beer; this time he remarked it to Herr Alexander Cibulka, who always took a lively interest in Schneeburg.
”Ah, indeed? Well, he has not much to lose in this life,” rejoined Eugene Alexander, ”if I had to depend for my living upon alms, as he does, I'd put a bullet through my brains!” and Herr Cibulka ran his stubby fingers through his bushy hair. He was very proud of such unfeeling expressions, which he considered, Heaven only knows why, as particularly fas.h.i.+onable. ”And how is the Conte Capriani?” he continued, ”and the charming Ad'lin,--a superb creature, eh?” and Eugene Alexander affectedly wafted abroad a kiss from his finger tips.
”Don't know,” growled the old doctor, ”I don't a.s.sociate with them.”
”Ah, true,” said Herr Cibulka compa.s.sionately, ”I quite forgot, you do not a.s.sociate with them.”
Eugene Alexander Cibulka was the only man among the _haute volee_ of the market-town who had enjoyed the honour of an invitation from Capriani. The invitation,--there was but one,--was to a _dejeuner_, and inspired him with not a little pride. He described it as a most memorable, 'brilliant episode,' in his monotonous existence, and he celebrated it in lyric phrases. What had so charmed him it would be hard to tell; Madame Capriani had found it impossible to understand him, although she had good-humouredly tried to do so,--his sentences were so interlarded with compliments,--and consequently she was obliged to confine herself to phrases of conventional courtesy; Adeline had spoken only in French, which of course excluded him from conversation with her, and when he picked up her handkerchief she thanked him as haughtily as if she resented his not presenting it on a salver; the Conte had urged him to partake of the various dishes, ringing the changes upon one invariable theme. ”You had better take some--you don't get such a chance every day.”
Modern culture had certainly treated him ill, but all the more was he convinced of its immense superiority. There was but one adjective that in his opinion, could in any wise fitly characterize the new household at Schneeburg, and that was, 'Sublime!'
Two years previously, in old Malzin times, he had also on some occasion or other dined at Schneeburg. The old Count had received him with distinguished, though formal, courtesy, had insisted upon his preceding him into the dining-hall, and had taken great pains to find subjects for conversation that should not exclude his guest. He had been very much better treated at Schneeburg then,--but no raptures came of it. On the contrary he had declared, with a shrug, that Count Malzin's style of living was very 'middle-cla.s.s,'--that it was a pity too, that the Count spoke so low that it was difficult to understand him, and that really there had not been enough to eat.
In spite of the old Count's courtesy and of the simplicity of the dinner, Cibulka had somehow on that occasion been keenly sensible of the gulf between himself and the master of Schneeburg, and it seemed to him now that Capriani's millions had avenged him of the affront caused by the personal superiority of the former possessor of the Castle; this delighted him. It flattered his self-importance to hear Capriani--no one knew why,--call Castle Schneeburg a little hunting box, nothing but a hunting box, and then to hear him say: ”Oh, Malzin, _apropos_, did you write to the saddler? You must make haste--indeed you are very dilatory!” And then, when Fritz had departed, to have the Cr[oe]sus suddenly turn to him, to Cibulka, and remark confidentially, ”that fellow, Malzin, is really an inc.u.mbrance, but what can one do?--he must be provided for.”
Eugene Alexander, a despicable specimen of a despicable cla.s.s, servilely rubbed his hands, and murmured, ”The Herr Count is most generous, but indeed that is an easy matter for the Herr Count. Poor devil! I really am sorry for Malzin.”
Poor devil indeed! The old doctor was right, Fritz was going fast.
Every afternoon at the same hour he had a high fever,--he looked like a ghost. In speaking he had a habit of contracting his underlip, which gave to his face the hard, pain-begotten lines with which the pre-Raphalites portrayed the dying Christ. Ready at any minute to drop from fatigue, he was yet driven forth by constant restlessness to go dragging over forest and field, obliged at ever-lessening intervals to rest upon a stile, or upon the steps of some way-side cross. There he would sit gazing abroad and repeating to himself, with the exaggerated appreciation that men always cherish for that of which they are deprived, that Schneeburg was the finest estate in Bohemia. When he strode through the golden stubble fields, the reapers would gather about him and with many a merry, kindly word encircle his limbs, in accordance with an ancient Bohemian custom, with wreaths of straw. He would respond with some friendly jest, and purchase his release by a gratuity more in accordance with his former means than with his present circ.u.mstances.
The people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers he was always ”_Our_ Herr Count.” Whenever he appeared among them they ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him.
There had been a time when he protested impatiently against these rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. He knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them, when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but they none the less complained of him just to please their Herr Count.
But though the peasants and labourers were thus loyal to him, the new servants and superintendants showed no such respect. The Conte had not retained in Schneeburg a single one of the former servants; he had dismissed them all without pensions. The knowledge of this had added bitterness to the old Count's last moments. He had interceded for his people, and when he could obtain nothing save vague promises, he had intended to use his influence elsewhere for their protection, but death had intervened and put an end to his good intentions. Probably none of the dismissed were worth much--the housekeeping at the Castle had been slipshod and easy-going,--all things had been allowed to take their own course. No provision for the old servants had been included in the original contract when they were first hired, and the income from Schneeburg had not been large enough to warrant the reservation of a pension fund, but no one had ever been dismissed on account of increasing age, or of physical infirmity. Almost all of them had been born upon the estate, and had expected to die there. And now, suddenly, Schneeburg was 'swept clean' of them, as the Conte expressed it. Some of them were plunged into hopeless poverty; Fritz discovered this, and the misery of not being able to provide for _his_ people was an added pang.
Meanwhile there was a horde of new servants at Schneeburg, all young people, with modern ideas, fresh from industrial schools, stocked with correct views of their multifarious duties, and with independent opinions in politics.
At first, whenever Fritz met them, he greeted them with the kindly affability with which he was wont to treat inferiors, but this condescension from one in his circ.u.mstances seemed to them ridiculous; they laughed among themselves at his courtesy. He did not observe this for some time, and when he did so he simply took no notice of the menials. They however continued to ridicule him, and to clear away, pull down, and alter ruthlessly.
Whilst Fritz sat wearied and worn in his gloomy room, among his shabby relics, teaching his little daughter French, or his boy the alphabet, he could hear the thud of the falling stones, as the time-honoured out-buildings were being demolished, and every sound struck a direct blow at his poor, sore, foolish heart.
The Conte's behaviour towards him daily grew more intolerable, especially ever since his return from the election. Every petty disappointment was wreaked upon Fritz. Of course! Fritz was the only member 'of the caste' upon whom the Conte could vent his anger. His brutalities Fritz could endure, but what outraged him beyond measure was to have the Conte a.s.sume an air of frankness, and behind the mask of friendly interest presume to ask all sorts of personal questions,--the bitterest of pills for Malzin!
”Oh Heavens, how long am I to be in gaining the summit of Calvary?” the poor fellow sometimes asked himself.
To-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the cordial, affectionate note, in which Oswald invited him to the family-dinner at Tornow. ”Forgive me for not having seen you for so long,” Oswald concluded, ”only remember all that I have to do. The castle is turned upside down in antic.i.p.ation of a certain coming event, but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a couple of days. But we will discuss this to-morrow.”
Of course Fritz accepted the invitation. He knew that it would bring on a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? He could not but antic.i.p.ate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had dispatched his reply by the Tornow messenger, he walked out into the park.
It was early in August, and the floods of rain which had fallen in June and July had been followed by stifling sultriness. Fritz was both stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being conscious of any special degree of heat. His disease had made such progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the thermometer stood very high. As usual, he sought out the most retired paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams.