Felix Lanzberg's Expiation

Page 72, 3rd para., end of last sentence: wird ZUR GEWI?HEIT. Linda's Mutter hat ihn betrogen? Linda WEI? nichts!

BECOMES CERTAIN that Linda's mother has deceived him; Linda KNOWS nothing!

Page 72, 4th para, first sentence: Da fordert der PRIESTER sein "Ja!"

Then the PRIEST demands his "Yes!"

Page 73, para. 1: --reine FARBENPATZEN.--Sind von einer Schlamperei diese Franzosen!--Da? sich wirklich NOCH JEMAND von ihnen prellen l??t!" So schlie?t Papa HARFINK, der Kunstkritiker.

--regular DAUBS OF COLORS. These Frenchmen are tricky. REALLY, PEOPLE are cheated by them. Thus concludes Papa HARFINK, the art critic.

Page 244, para. 2: Sie a? ohne Ziererei und ohne Gier, nippte nur an dem Champagner, l?chelte gutwillig über DIE frechsten Scherze, ob SIE SELBE VERSTAND ODER auch nicht verstand, mit der Resignation eines Gesch?pfes, DAS ES GEWOHNT IST, sich auf diese Weise sein Brot zu verdienen.

She ate without affectation and without greediness--only sipped the champagne, smiled good-naturedly at THE boldest jokes, whether she understood THEM OR not, with the resignation of a being WHO WAS ACCUSTOMED to earn her bread in this manner.

Page 244, para. 3: DIE ALTE MANUELA schnarchte l?ngst. Einige der OFFIZIERE waren melancholisch geworden, ...

THE OLD MANUELA had long been snoring. Some the OFFICERS had grown melancholy, ...

Page 245, para. 4: Er pflegte sie, wie ein Br?utigam die ROSENKNOSPE, die ihm seine liebe Braut geschenkt hat--ja, so PFLEGTE FELIX die welke gelbe Blume, die DER COULISSENSTAUB beschmutzt--auf die EIN AKROBAT GETRETEN HABEN MOCHTE!

He cherished it like a lover the ROSE-BUD which his dear one had given him; yes, thus WOULD FELIX cherish the faded yellow flower which THE DUST [IN THE WINGS] OF the stage had soiled--upon which AN ACROBAT MIGHT HAVE trodden.

Elsa springs up--she listens breathlessly.

FELIX LANZBERG'S

EXPIATION

BY

OSSIP SCHUBIN

TRANSLATED BY

éLISE L. LATHROP

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

WORTHINGTON COMPANY

747 BROADWAY

"My dear Falk, do not tear past me so unheedingly, I beg you! Do you, then, not recognize me?"

Thus a stout old lady cries in a deep rough voice to a gentleman whose arm she has energetically grasped with both hands.

The gentleman--his carriage betokens a retired officer; his wrinkles betray him to be a contemporary of the lady--starts back.

"Oh! it is you, Baroness!" cries he, and half recalls that forty years or so ago he was an admirer of hers, and remembers very distinctly that last winter he had quarrelled with her at whist on account of a revoke.

"I am indescribably pleased," he adds, with well-bred resignation, and at the same time glances after a passing blonde chignon whose coquettish curls float to and fro as if they said "catch me!"

"Ah, ah! age does not protect you from folly!" laughs the old woman. "She interests you, the person with the yellow hair, eh? Dyed, my dear man, dyed, I assure you. It is not worth the trouble to run after her. Her back is pretty, mais pour le reste! Hm! Sit down and talk to me for a little!"

The yellow chignon has vanished round a corner and the energetic old woman has drawn her ex-adorer down on a bench in the meagre shade of a watering-place promenade, upon a grass-green bench under gray-brown trees.

It is in Franzensbad in July; afternoon; around them the sleepy stillness of a place where there is nothing to do and one cannot amuse one's self.

Some ladies, pale, sickly, dressed with the grotesque elegance which is permissible in a watering-place, pass, some with arms bare to the elbow, others with pearls round their necks, still others with floating hair.

"How glad I am, my dear Colonel!" cries the old Baroness to her captive, for at least the tenth time. "But how are you, pray tell me? No! Where do you get your elixir of life? You remain so fabulously young!"

In fact the Colonel, closely shaven and dressed in the latest fashion, slender and active as he is, at a hundred paces looks like a young dandy; at twenty paces, at least like the mummy of one. Still he parries the old lady's compliments, while he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders disparagingly.

"Positively--positively!" croaks the old woman. "And now tell me what is the news with you people in Marienbad? It is not in vain that they call you 'Le Figaro de Marienbad.'"

Marienbad, a few hours distant from Franzensbad, is the present stopping place of the Colonel.

"News? News?" grumbles the Colonel. "A mill burned down yesterday, three head of cattle and two men with it."

"Oh, cease such ordinary, horrible stories. What does society?"

"Rejoices that it has opportunity of diversion through a fair for charity."

"So? Ah!--and what else?"

"Last night Princess Barenburg's groom hung himself. Perhaps that interests you?"

"Ah, very agreeable that! Poor Clémence is unfortunate!" says the Baroness, compassionately.

"Yes, the Pancini also!" remarks the Colonel, and looks down indifferently at the flower in his buttonhole.

"Why she?"

"What? you do not know!" cries the Colonel in astonishment. "Her last admirer, the Polish prince with the unpronounceable name, has turned out to be a circus rider."

"The handsome blond with the mysterious political past."

"It seems to have been merely a politic silence," jokes the Colonel.

"Tiens, tiens!--how delightful--how delightful! But do you know it positively?" she asks with anxious excitement.

"Positively! Nicki Arenhain, two years ago in Madrid, saw him dressed in a green satin jacket and white tights springing through hoops--she identified him at once. Famous story, quite famous." The Colonel rubs his hands with satisfaction--the old Baroness knocks enthusiastically on the ground with her umbrella, like an animated amateur who applauds her favorite virtuoso.

"Excellent!" croaks she. "It serves her right, that Pancini, who permits herself to be as arrogant as a born lady. It serves her right, the soap-boiler's daughter."

"Pardon! her father was a pawn-broker--or was in some banking business--I really do not remember----"

"It is all the same--she will have to step down now. Bravo! Bravo!"

"I know something else, Baroness," says the Colonel proudly, and smiling slyly. "A decided bit of news, pour la bonne bouche!"

"Well?"

"Felix Lanzberg is to be married."

The Baroness is speechless; she opens her mouth, stares at the Colonel, clutches his arm, and only after several seconds she stammers softly: "The--the--certain--Lanzberg?"

"Yes--it is considered certain."

"Whom?"

"Look around."

The Baroness looks around. In the back seat of a carriage just rolling past them sit two ladies, one of whom, a woman in the fifties, tastelessly dressed, loaded with cameos and Florentine mosaics, has the piercing eyes, the excessive thinness as well as the aimless, twitching movements of a very uneasy temperament, while her neighbor at the left, beautiful and young, lazily crumpling her striking toilet, leans back among the cushions, the embodiment of dissatisfied indolence. A student with a bright red cap occupies the small seat opposite. On the box, usurping the coachman's raised seat, is a short individual with a crimson cravat between a blue shirt and purple face, a short, bright yellow foulard coat and large Panama hat. He smacks his lips incessantly at the horses, in driving holds his elbows far out from his sides so that one could easily place a travelling bag under each arm, and groans and puffs from exertion and attention. Near him, faultlessly erect, arms solemnly crossed on his chest, sits a majestic coachman, every feature expressing the despair of a distinguished servant who, in a weak hour, had let himself be persuaded to enter the service of an ordinary millionnaire.

"Who is this elegant gentleman?" asked the Baroness, raising her lorgnon, still wholly absorbed in contemplating the interesting foulard back.

"Felix Lanzberg's future father-in-law, Mr. Harfink."

"He?" sighs the Baroness, emphatically. "Poor Felix! He does not deserve such punishment."

The Colonel shrugs his shoulders. "What punishment? He is not marrying the father, and the daughter is charming--a refined beauty, a truly aristocratic girl, and I do not believe that she will ever worry Lanzberg by especial clinging to her parental house. Now I must part from you, nolens volens, Baroness--regret it deeply--I have a letter to deliver to the Countess Dey."

"I will go with you, I will go with you," cries the old lady, animatedly. "Give me your arm and imagine it was forty years ago."

And he, in his quality of man of the world condemned to perpetual politeness, gives her his arm and walks on laughing and chatting, at the side of the colossally stout woman with the servile, nodding little head--a martyr of bon ton.

The Colonel and his friend were both fond of gossip--with the difference that the Colonel, an independent man, related scandal for his own pleasure, while the Baroness very often did so to please others. Her name was Baroness Klettenstein, but usually she was simply called Klette (burr) because she could never be shaken off. She also had a second equally pretty nickname. In consequence of her indestructible life at the cost of others--she was remarkably robust for her sixty-six years--she had been christened the "immortal Cantharide." Hungrily she crept from one house to another, gained admission by a budget of malicious news, which, as we have seen, she collected indefatigably, at times even invented. She always rendered homage to the rising, never remembered even to have known the setting sun. And when, weary of her tiring parasitism, she rested in her tiny room at Prague, which was the only home she possessed, she swore that she would have been just as unselfish, just as truth-loving and discreet as others, if only her income had sufficed for her needs.

Out of breath and panting, she entered the park on the arm of the Colonel. The bandmaster, a Pole with an interesting, revolutionist face, swings the baton with graceful languor. The ladies, leaning back in their white chairs on either side of the broad gravel walk, look weary, limp, and melancholy in their gay gowns, like flowers which a too hot sunbeam has withered and faded. They are worn, thin, and colorless, but for their toilets; but the transparent paleness of their faces, the excessive thinness of their forms lends them a certain charm, something fairylike and distinguished, refinedly aristocratic and Undine-like. Invalidism is less becoming to the men at the cure; many of them resemble corpses which an enterprising physiologist has exhumed to experiment upon.

The first row of tables are already occupied, but an attendant, understanding the Klette's glance, brings forward another from the rear and places it where she is told. Hereupon the Baroness calls for coffee for two, and invites the Colonel in the most polite manner to sit beside her, and as he cannot deny that from this spot, purposely chosen by the Klette for a fine view of all present, he can soonest espy Countess Dey whom he has sought in vain, he resolves to await her here.

Slowly the guests stroll along the promenade: most noticeable of all, admired or at least stared at by all, Linda Harfink. Her large, dark hat with its scarlet feather throws a mysterious shadow on her pale face; a black lace scarf is twisted round her throat and tied in a careless knot behind. Her pale green dress clings tightly, and yet in folds around her figure. Near her walks a young man, blond and handsome; in spite of his handsome figure and Nero-profile, too foppish and dandified, too strikingly dressed in the latest fashion, to be taken for any one but an elegant parvenu.

"Who is he?" asks Klette, her mouth full of bread, a coffee cup in her hand.

"A young Baron Rh?den, born Grau. The family was ennobled five years ago, and since then only call themselves by the predicate," replies the Colonel. "A cousin of Linda--very nice fellow--gar?on coiffeur, but very nice for his sphere--seems to be uncommonly smitten with his cousin."

Through the evening air floats a sentimental potpourri from the "Flying Dutchman." The Harfinks, who wish to return the same evening to Marienbad, where they are staying, have left the park. Gazing down in coquettish silence at a rose in her hand, Linda has vanished through the gateway of the park, on the arm of her cousin, in the golden light of the setting sun.

"Colonel!" now cries a gay voice.

"Ah, Countess!" Intently gazing after Linda's seductive apparition, the Colonel had not noticed the approach of the so-long-awaited Countess Dey. Now he springs up, "falls at her feet, kisses her hands," naturally only with words, and searches all his pockets for the letter for her.

The Countess meanwhile, with lorgnon at her eyes, indifferently gazes at her surroundings.

"I just met a little person who is considered a great beauty--Hopfing or Harpfink is her name, I believe. They say that Lanzberg is engaged to her--that cannot be true?"

"I have heard so too," says the Colonel. "Curious match--what do you say to it, Countess?"

"Felix Lanzberg is as unfortunate as ever," murmurs the Countess.

But Klette shrugs her fat shoulders and hisses: "What does it matter if a certain Lanzberg makes a mésalliance?"

A tall form, slender, perhaps too narrow-shouldered, with too long arms, a small head with bushy, light brown hair fastened in a thick knot low on her neck, a golden furze at neck and temples, a pale, almost sallow, little face with large blue eyes, which love to look up and away from the earth like those of a devout cherub, a short, small nose, a little mouth which, with the corners slightly curving up, seems destined by nature for continual laughter, but later evidently disturbed by fate in this gay calling, in every movement the dreamy grace of a woman who, when scarcely grown, had experien

ced a great misfortune or a severe illness, all this pervaded by a breath of fanciful earnestness, melancholy tenderness, and united into an harmonious whole--Elsa--the sister of the "certain Felix Lanzberg," and since five years the wife of the Freiherr von Garzin.

She is like a flower, but not like one of those proud, luxuriant roses which pass their life amid sunbeams and butterflies, but rather one of those delicate, white blossoms which have grown in deep shadow during a cold spring, and which close their petals from the sun.

"Mamma, the letters dance again to-day," complains a little voice, the voice of Felicie, Elsa's four-year-old daughter, who with bare legs, her little form encased in a red embroidered gray linen frock, her towzled yellow curls fastened with a red ribbon, stands before her mamma.

Elsa sits in a deep arm-chair, an alphabet on her knees. "Look very hard at the naughty letters and they will be quiet," says she with a smile. She finds that Felicie makes that excuse of dancing letters too often.

The child tries to look hard at the letters.

"M--a," spells she. "Mamma," she cries in great triumph at having spelled out a word which she knows so well.

"Bravo, Litzi!"

Litzi leans closely, closely against her mother's knees. "Mamma, the letters are tired," whispers she, "they want to go to sleep." And Elsa this time thinks that one cannot expect too much industry from such a tiny little bit of humanity, so she kisses the child and says, "Well, put them to bed, then." Whereupon, Litzi, with much pretext of business, puts the alphabet away in the drawer, while Elsa, leaning back comfortably in her arm-chair, her feet crossed, her arms clasped around her knees, gives herself up to that lazy thinking which with happy people is called reverie, with unhappy ones brooding. The room in which she sits, half boudoir, half library, furnished with tall book-cases, étagères, old faience and Japanese lacquer work, and filled with the perfume of the sweetest flowers, is an ideal nest for a young woman of good taste and serious habits.

"Mamma, why must I learn to read?" asks Litzi after a while.

"So as to be a wise girl," replies Elsa, absently.

"Mamma, can the dear God read too?"

"The dear God can do everything that He wishes," says Elsa, with difficulty restraining her laughter.

"Everything?" asks the little one, with great, surprised eyes. "Could He make Fido into a cow?"

Fido, a white bull-dog with pointed black ears and a black spot on his shoulder, raises his upper lip and shows his teeth pleasantly as a sign that he, clever dog that he is, notices when he is spoken of.

"The dear God does not wish to do foolish things," says Elsa, very seriously.

"But if He wanted to?"

The door opens. Fido rises from the streak of sunlight in which he has been lying. "Papa!" cries Litzi, and a young man, blond, with unusually attractive dark eyes, seizes her under the shoulders, and raising her to him he says: "Litzi, Litzi, you are a dear little mouse, but a great big goose. Accustom yourself to the conditional."

"What is conditional?"

"A form of expression which leads one to much useless conjecture."

"But, Erwin!" laughingly admonishes Elsa.

"Perhaps you did not wholly understand me, Litzi?" he asks, drolly staring at the child.

She shakes her head, and says somewhat vexedly, "You are laughing at me, papa."

"Only a very little bit, so that you may get used to it, you pretty little scamp, you," says he, tenderly pinching her cheeks, "and now you may go to Mlle. Angelique, and ask her to put a clean dress and a pretty sash on you, for Uncle Felix is coming to dinner. Can you find the way?"

He has placed her on the ground, and led her to the door, then looks after her until, calling "Angelique! Angelique!" she is met by a pretty French bonne.

"And how is your Highness?" he now turns to his wife, who holds out both hands to him.

"How long it is since one has seen you to-day," says she.

"Has 'one' missed me a little?"

"Do not ask such foolish questions!"

"Thanks! I was very busy or else I should have burdened you with my presence sooner," says he, gayly. "And now give me your keys, so that I can put away your money."

"Oh, my quarterly allowance. How much is it?"

He hands her a little bundle of bank-notes.

"Count!"

"I do not understand, it is different every time. You always give me more than is due me," replies she, shaking her head.

"Leave me this innocent pleasure. You are always in debt," says he, while he locks the notes in a drawer of her writing-desk.

Erwin never would acknowledge the equal rights of woman with regard to the cares of life. He was pleased that Elsa, who read the most abstract treatises on political economy, did not understand an iota of business. He had purposely left her in this darkness, and she did not fight against it. He paid her the interest of her property, insisted that she should spend it exclusively upon her poor and her own fancies, and she never asked what he did with the capital.

"May I write here?" he asks over his shoulder, sitting down at her writing-desk then, without waiting for an answer. "A lady's writing-desk without invitations and charitable circulars. The inspector has become confused about that farm business of your little protégé in Johannesthal." He writes quickly.

"The inspector is good for nothing," grumbles Elsa. "That is to say, he is newly married."

Erwin defends his bailiff.

"There, that is done. You can tell your little friend that it is all arranged. Hm! Elsa! Do you think that I would have been much more practical during our honeymoon than my inspector?"

"Ah, you," says Elsa, who evidently does not understand how her husband can compare himself to his overseer, Cibulka. He has laid aside his pen and now pushes his chair lazily up to hers.

"You will make marks in my carpet, you careless man," says she.

"Do not cry," he says, consolingly. "I will buy you a new one, as the banker said to his daughter when her husband died."

"I congratulate you on your fine comparison," says she, kissing his hair lightly. "Now I must dress for dinner."

"Already? Am I to be sentenced to read the paper?"

It was a little more than five years ago that Erwin Garzin had come to his estate of Steinbach adjoining the beautiful Lanzberg Traunberg in order to arrange his business after the death of his father. Elsa, with whom he had as boy played many a trick, he had found a grown girl. At that time nineteen years old, her mind, matured by pain, was far in advance of her years, her body far behind. She had the slender, undeveloped form of a child too quickly grown, and carried her head always bent forward, like a young tree over which a cold storm has passed, and was always sad and depressed. At times, to be sure, she smiled suddenly like a true child, but only for a moment, and her eyes were almost always moist. She spoke little and had a hollow, almost too deep voice. And yet the first time that Erwin heard this hollow voice his heart beat strangely, and that night he lay awake and was angry at the sweet song of a nightingale which disturbed him in his efforts to remember that hollow voice.

It was spring-time then, a mixture of showers and rainbows, flowers heavy with dew, bright foliage and mild air. Erwin fell hopelessly in love with the pale daughter of old Mr. Lanzberg. She, however, avoided him, not with that pretty maidenly reserve behind which the coquetry of the future woman usually lurks, but with the shy despondency of a sick owl dreading the light. When he had at length accustomed her to his society he was still miles from his aim. She did not think of what most young girls do. She was wholly absorbed in consoling her bowed father, in pitying her unfortunate brother, at that time dwelling in a far distant land. Her heart was full, longed for no other feeling, suspected none, and yet slowly her whole being warmed; something like a cure was effected in her, and the day came when she laid her small hand firmly and confidingly in Erwin's and for the first time he whisperingly called her his betrothed.

But he had not yet won. Soon she expressed her scruples at dragging the shadow which made her so sad under his roof, then at leaving her father. When they proved to her that nothing could so help the bowed man as the consolation of seeing at least one of his children happy, the wedding day was at length appointed. A strange turn suddenly seized her when Erwin one day asked her in what part of Vienna she would prefer to live.

"In Vienna?" cried she. "We are to live in the city?" Whereupon he replied: "My treasure, you know that I am not a rich man, and the rents of Steinbach only just suffice for the support of a very economical couple. Therefore I, and you with me are dependent upon my career. But I like to work. I have fine connections, and the times are favorable to ambitious people. You will yet be the wife of an Excellency, Elsa!"

From her pale face it could be read that she did not see the slightest pleasure in being the wife of a governor, ambassador, or minister. Her hand grew limp and cold in his, she evaded his caresses, and every time that evening that his glance met hers, her eyes were filled with tears. Her exaggerated aversion to the world disquieted him, without seeming to him other than a symptom of diseased nerves; he thought that his loving patience must vanquish it, and when the next morning his servant brought him a letter from Elsa, he admired the strange, energetic, large letters of the address, and played with it, firmly convinced that it could not contain anything important. It contained the following:

"Above all things, many, many thanks for the sympathizing friendship which you have always showed to us, my father and me. Never should I have allowed myself to be persuaded into an engagement with you. I should be a lamentable wife for you. I will not hinder you in your career, and I cannot live in the world even for your sake. Therefore I give you back your word. I wish you all joy and happiness in the world, and as to me, when you have become a great man, keep a little friendly remembrance of the spring of '70. Elsa."

What could he do but rush over to Traunberg, overwhelm her with tender reproaches, represent to her subtly and incontrovertibly that her shyness was morbid, her yielding to this mood fairly wrong.

"Am I then nothing to you?" he finally cried, vexedly.

Then she raised her large eyes, eyes such as Raphael has painted in the sweet face of the little John, as he kneels near the sleeping child Jesus, his God and his King.

"I believe you love a quite different person from me--you do not know me!" she whispered, shaking her head.

And Erwin flushed crimson and was ashamed of his brutal egoism. He kissed her hands, he would torment her no longer--but he could not give her up.

He gave her eight days to consider it--all that remained of his vacation.

But he did not gain a step during these eight days.

With a heavy heart and hoarse voice he took leave. She smiled.

And yet he never felt more plainly that she loved him. Her love was that emotion which is above earthly considerations, which is capable of the most painful sacrifices, the most complete renunciation, although, or perhaps because she scarcely thought of marriage; in a word, it was the love of a very young girl.

It did not resemble his in the slightest. How shallow his life in Vienna and his career now seemed to him; how unattractive, how far away and vague his aim, and even if he did attain all for which he strove.

The justifications of a true, warm, longing love are always quite incontrovertible for him whom it guides.

Elsa stood before the park, under one of the black lindens. It was summer, the lindens bloomed, and a dreamy hum of bees pervaded their gnarled branches. Elsa looked through the clear summer air in the direction in which Castle Steinbach shone white above the wooded valley. Then she heard a step--she looked around. It was Erwin, thin, in spite of the flush of heat, looking very badly, but with sparkling eyes.

"Where do you come from?" cried she, trembling with surprise, with happiness.

"From the castle, where I sought you in vain. Your father did not know where you were."

"He was asleep--did you wake him?"

"Very possibly, but I had no time to reproach myself! Oh, Elsa, are you not in the least glad to see me? I have resigned--I cannot live without you!"

She stood there with loudly beating heart, and embarrassed smile, like a surprised child before a Christmas tree.

"You pay a high price for a miserable little thing," murmured she, and fairly wept.

"Happiness desires to be paid dearly for--it seems to me a small one!" whispered he.

Thereupon she was silent for a moment, looked at him anxiously, solemnly; was it possible that he clung to her, such a weak, insignificant creature? Then suddenly, with her lovely look of embarrassment, she threw both arms around him. "Oh you----" she cried, and paused because she found no word that in her opinion was great and splendid enough for him. "How I will love you!"

It was a risky experiment, to tear himself away from his customary occupation and society, and wish to pass the rest of his life at the side of a nervous misanthropical wife.

How did it succeed?

He had feared having too little to do, had provided himself with books, quite like a diplomat sent to Japan. To his astonished delight, he soon found not only how much there was to occupy him but how much he could accomplish with the income from Steinbach, which he had been accustomed to estimate at two or three per cent., and which now daily increased; for the many lives around him whose weal and woe he held in his hands, from the overseer and farmers to the day-laborers, and then Elsa!

How beautiful she grew after he had slowly kissed away the deep sadness from her face--and how lovely! The frivolous love of pleasure and gayety which is considered normal in young women never developed in her; she always remained quiet, but a dreamy happiness shone continually in her eyes, she was so blissfully happy.

What a charming companion! She rode with the endurance and indifferent courage of a man, read everything, was interested in everything, noticed everything, spoke of the most forgotten historical characters as if she had met them yesterday. She rather spurred him on than dragged him down.

Instead of, as he had feared, growing rusty in the country, he had time for making good much that he had neglected. She went on long journeys with him, but at home associated as little as possible with her neighbors. In these years Elsa was apparently one of the happiest women in the world.

She was only sad when she thought of Felix.

Her father, shortly after her marriage, blessing her a thousandfold, had died in her arms. Felix had returned to his home.