Читать книгу When Thoughts Will Soar - Bertha von Suttner - Страница 5

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Franka Garlett leaned back with closed eyes in one corner of the compartment. In another corner sat Dr. Fixstern, in whose company the young girl was making the trip to her new home. The railway journey had already lasted four hours and they were not far from their destination.

For some time Franka had been sitting there motionless, as if she were asleep. But she was not sleeping; she wanted undisturbed to give herself up to her thoughts. Very mixed feelings stirred in her heart. When she called up the idea of “home,” which had come to her mind at the first revelation of the change impending in her destiny, she felt excitement and a sense of joy; but, immediately, this was succeeded by a certain timidity. “Home!”—that is the cherished spot where all one’s loves, all one’s accustomed habits, all one’s recollections cluster; but she was coming to an unknown place, among absolutely strange people! Even though Count Sielen was her grandfather, she had never seen him, never even thought of him; between him and her there was no common remembrance, except the fact that he had been cruel to her parents. In Count Sielen’s eyes, Frank Garlett had been only the shameless brigand who had robbed him of his daughter: Count Sielen had never known what a splendid man this unwelcome son-in-law had been. She would tell her grandfather that, but would he believe it? And would she be able to love the old man? And would the great-aunt accept her? After the description which Dr. Fixstern gave of her,—a rather proud, rather bigoted, rather narrow-minded old lady,—she had little hope that she would find a mutually sympathetic relationship in that quarter. Ah, she was so alone, so alone in the world, after being accustomed to confidential comradeship with her beloved father!... Two tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Oh, Miss Garlett,” cried the doctor, “I thought you were asleep, and there you are crying!”

Franka straightened herself up: “Oh, I was thinking of my poor dead father.”

“Think rather of your grandfather, and instead of tormenting yourself, rejoice! Just think what an unexpected piece of good fortune has come to you.”

“You are right: it is ungrateful of me.”

“Your grandfather will assuredly see to it that you are suitably married.”

“I don’t intend to be married.”

“You don’t want to marry?”

“Oh, well, perhaps; why not? But to be married off....”

“Oh, yes, I understand the distinction. But now it is time for you to put on your hat and I will get the traveling-bag down; the next station is ours.”

Franka pinned on her hat; it was black, for she still wore mourning, but it was pretty and very becoming. Under the direction of Dr. Fixstern’s wife, she had provided herself with new and elegant clothing, and she was not insensible to the comfortable feeling of being neatly and correctly dressed, although nothing was farther from her nature than vanity and a love of finery.

The train came to a stop, and Franka’s heart began to beat: so now, now was the beginning of a new life.... Would there be any one from the castle to meet her and greet her?... The platform was full of people, but merely passengers of the third class, waiting for the next train—peasants, market-women with baskets or bundles. There was also a servant in livery. He approached the coach from which Franka and her escort were dismounting. On the street in front of the station an automobile was waiting—a great open limousine, the white lacquer of which glittered in the sun. The chauffeur was standing beside it and helped Franka to enter. It was the first time in her life that she had ever been in such a vehicle. Indeed, a new life in every respect!

Along a road between red-blooming clover-fields, through a fir forest, the branches of which were loaded with bright green cones, and then up a long avenue of ancient chestnut trees, the chauffeur took them toward the castle with its towers and pinnacles, its bow-windows and verandas, which now began to be visible against the horizon in the distance. The weather was warm, but the air, fragrant with spring, fanned Franka’s face with refreshing coolness as the machine swiftly sped along. Franka took deep breaths; her cheeks were aglow with color and a smile of joy played around her young mouth. She had only just been shedding tears, and now a keen feeling of delight swept through her whole being. The future must bring her something beautiful... she would not have to be always so alone...! The wide world is, indeed, a savings bank in which rich funds of love are deposited, and youth, in itself, is a kind of checkbook.

Along park drives bordered with shrubbery, past flower-beds and pools, from which rose glittering fountains, flew the machine, and came to a stop under the porte-cochère of the castle. Several servants stood waiting and took her hand-luggage. On the steps above, Franka was received by the count’s sister.

“Welcome, dear child.... How are you, Dr. Fixstern... so you have brought the child with you safely, have you? Come, Franka, we will go directly to my brother—he is waiting for you in great anticipation.”

The lady spoke in a friendly tone, and her face wore a friendly expression; but the doctor, who knew her well, could not help perceiving that both in her voice and in the expression of her face there was a tone and a look of insincerity.

Through a long corridor adorned with potted plants and hung with paintings, Franka was conducted into another wing and ushered into the count’s apartment. It was a room paneled with dark leather and filled with ancient furniture. In a tall armchair near the window sat the count, a pillow behind his head and a covering over his knees. Pale and ill as he looked, he was a handsome old man. Noble, regular features, his white beard trimmed close and to a point, large blue eyes beaming with friendliness, his hair silver-white, but still brushed up in a thick mass above his forehead.

“Here, Eduard, I bring you your granddaughter.... Come, Dr. Fixstern, let us go into the adjoining room; we will leave the two alone for a little.”

A young man, who was sitting in one corner of the room at a table covered with writings, stood up and was about to leave the room.

“Remain, if you please, Mr. Helmer, and continue your writing; you will not disturb me. And you, my girl, come nearer, quite close, so that I may look at you.... My eyes are growing dim....” He held out to her a slim white hand.

Franka went to him with quick steps, knelt on the footstool that was placed near his chair, and kissed the hand he offered her: “Grandfather! How kind of you!”

He laid his hand on her head, and bent her face back.

“So it is! you are the living picture of your poor mother. Remarkable! I hope, however, you will not resemble her in all respects... at least, that you will not also run away out of this with some young rascal....”

Franka sprang up.

“Count... this can be no home for me, where my father is to be insulted.”

“There, there! not so fast! I like it in you, that you spring to the defense of your beloved father. I beg your pardon. Besides, I did not mean anything so very bad. The word ‘rascal’ in my mouth carries no insult—I myself was one when I was young, and I should be very glad if any one would call me an old rascal now—but here I must sit, tied down to this chair.... ‘Count!’ I will not let you scold me that way; just say, as you did so prettily a moment ago,—‘Grandfather.’... And I have still another thing to ask your forgiveness for: that it was so long before I took any notice of you.... That was cruel to you and cruel to the memory of my daughter.... She made a mistake... but of all mistakes is not implacability one of the worst and stupidest?—So, little girl, be forgiving... call me ‘Grandfather’... that is right; a great French poet has written a book entitled ‘L’Art d’être Grandpère.’”

“Yes, Victor Hugo,” assented Franka, nodding.

“You seem to be well read.... Now, you see, I am beginning rather late to learn that art, but I shall be an industrious scholar.—And now, will you be conducted to your room? I feel ill again... a real cross sickness is... go, dear child.”

Franka was about to bend over the old gentleman’s hand to kiss it again, but he lifted her head up and imprinted a kiss on her brow.

An hour later Franka had already finished the unpacking of her possessions; she had disposed her books and photographs, and this communicated a somewhat cozy appearance to the long unoccupied chamber, with its stiff, old-fashioned furniture. It was an enormous room with four windows looking down into the park. Gay-flowered chintz covered the chairs and sofas and the same material served as hangings for the windows and the curtains of the bed. Adjoining was a little toilet-room and bathroom. Next to this was the chamber of a maid whose services were at the disposal of the “gnädiges Fräulein.”

So new, so unwonted was all this magnificence! Ought not all these unexpected, these truly brilliant surroundings to have awakened a measureless joy in Franka, who had spent her young days in the midst of such privations? But why was she so sad?

Ah, yes, if her father had only lived and she might have shared these delights with him, or at least have told him about them....

Joys are like tones—in order to sound, they must have resonance.