Читать книгу The Breaking of the Storm: Historical Novel - Spielhagen Friedrich - Страница 18
ОглавлениеCHAPTER I.
"Tickets, please! This is the last station, gentlemen."
Reinhold handed his ticket to the guard, and cast a glance upon his sleeping fellow-traveller. He, however, did not stir.
"Ticket, sir, please!" said the guard, in a louder voice.
The sleeper roused himself. "Ah, yes!" He felt in the side pocket of his grey shooting-coat, gave up the required ticket, leaned back in his corner again, and seemed to be already asleep when the train started.
When first he got into the train, some two or three stations back, two other men in shooting-dress having accompanied him to the carriage, and taken a somewhat noisy farewell, it had struck Reinhold that this was not the first time that he had seen the slight active figure, and heard the clear, imperious voice.
That the traveller was a military man, was evident from his conversation with his friends, but in vain did he ransack his recollections of the campaign to get on the right tack; it was all too confused, incidents crowded too quickly on each other, there was nothing to link these memories together. But as the sleeper changed his position, and the light from the lamp fell more clearly upon him, Reinhold looked with increasing interest upon the face which seemed so strangely familiar. The well-formed forehead, shaded by short, curly, brown hair, the fine straight nose, the delicate lips, with the slight dark moustache, the finely chiselled though rather long chin--now he knew where and when that face, more beautiful, it is true, and more fascinating, had last been seen by him!
He of the grey shooting-coat, who had opened his eyes and was carelessly glancing at his companion, turned his head aside, and then immediately turning back, said:
"I beg your pardon, but it strikes me that we must have met before."
"So I think," replied Reinhold courteously; "but my memory has played me false."
"In the campaign, perhaps?"
"That was my first thought, too."
"Perhaps my name may be some help. Ottomar von Werben, Lieutenant in the ---- Regiment, No. 19."
A joyful thought struck Reinhold.
"My name is Lieutenant Reinhold Schmidt, of the Reserve. I had the pleasure, not long ago, of travelling in the steamer from Stettin to Sundin, with a general officer of your name, and his daughter----"
"My father and sister," said Ottomar. "Strange coincidence that--very!"
He sank back in his corner, from which he had raised himself, with a civil bow.
"The Lieutenant of Reserve affords but slight interest to the Guardsman," thought Reinhold to himself.
Under other circumstances he certainly would not have continued the conversation which the other had cut so short; but now he could not resist making an exception.
"I hope that the General and his daughter are well?" he began afresh.
"Perfectly," said Ottomar; "at least, I believe so. I have hardly spoken to them since they came home the day before yesterday. I have been on leave since yesterday morning shooting. You shoot?"
"I can hardly call myself a sportsman, though I have had opportunities of joining in very unusual sport."
"Unusual?"
"I mean unusual for Europeans. A sailor----"
"Are you a sailor?"
"At your service. What I was going to say was that a sailor comes across strange things sometimes."
"You interest me; tell me something about it. Shooting is a perfect passion with me."
Ottomar had seated himself nearer to Reinhold, and looked at him with his inquiring brown eyes. Those eyes found it easy work to charm an answer out of Reinhold.
So he related his adventures in a buffalo hunt in the Arkansas prairies, and in a tapir hunt in Ceylon, to which Ottomar listened attentively, only now and then correcting some unsportsmanlike expression, or begging for a clearer explanation on some point which either he did not quite understand, or which seemed to be of importance.
"That is capital!" he exclaimed at last. "He must be a good shot that--what's his name?--the Englishman, Mr. Smirkson; and you can't shoot badly either, but then you are a soldier. By the way, do you still not remember where we came across each other? It must have been in Orleans, as, so far as I can remember, that is the only time that my regiment came in contact with yours."
"And it was in Orleans!" cried Reinhold--"of course it was in Orleans, when our two regiments combined to furnish a guard; and a jolly guard it was, too, thanks to your being such good company and having such a cheery temper. How could I have failed to remember it, and even your name, in the last few days? Now it is all coming back to me. Several of your brother officers came in afterwards--a Herr von Walbach."
"Walbach--quite right; he fell afterwards before Paris, poor fellow. I am very intimate with his family. Perhaps he has got the best of it; it is horridly dull work since the campaign was over!"
"One has to get accustomed to everyday life again certainly," said Reinhold; "but you soldiers remain in the same profession, and I do not think that Count Moltke will let you rest long on your laurels."
"Heaven knows! It is hateful work; the campaign was child's play compared to it!"
"But look you, it is a good deal harder upon us civilians, both in time of war--which is certainly not our trade, so that we can hardly meet the claims which are made upon us and which we make upon ourselves--and after the war too, when we are expected to return to our trade as if nothing had happened, and then generally find, to our cost, how hardly men learn, how easily they forget. Luckily, my profession is something like war--at least, in the moral qualities which it requires of a man--and that may be the reason why I, for my part, cannot join in the complaints which I have heard from so many upon this point."
"Just so--exactly," said Ottomar; "no doubt. Shall you stop long in Berlin?"
He was looking out of window, from which many lights were now visible.
"A few weeks--perhaps months; it depends upon circumstances--matters which I cannot foresee."
"I beg your pardon--I do not want to be impertinent--what did you say your name was?"
He rubbed the window with his handkerchief where his breath had dimmed it. Reinhold could not help smiling at the careless manner of keeping up the conversation. "I can bear more from you than from most men," he thought to himself, and repeated his name.
The face pressed against the window turned sharply towards him with an expression of surprise and curiosity, for which Reinhold could not account.
"I beg your pardon if I ask a very stupid question--have you relations in Berlin?"
"Yes. I have not seen them for years; to visit them was the original object of my journey."
"I--I know several people of your name. General----"
"We Schmidts are middle class, very middle class. My uncle, I believe, has very considerable marble-works."
"In the Canal Strasse?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Only by sight; a very stately old gentleman. We live in the Springbrunnen Strasse, back to back, or rather shoulder to shoulder. The court-yard of your uncle's place of business runs far into the Park Strasse at the back, and the little garden belonging to our house (the grounds were originally part of the same property) on one side joins the large garden belonging to your uncle. We see each other over hedges and walls without being acquainted--I mean formally, for, as I said, I know your uncle by sight very well, and your cousin."
He let down the window; the train ran into the station.
"Are you expected?"
"Yes; it would otherwise be a doubtful experiment when one has not met for ten years."
"Can I be of any use to you?"
Ottomar had risen and taken up his gamebag; he had held his gun between his knees all the time.
"Thanks, very much."
The train stopped. Reinhold took his things out of the net. He could not collect them all at once. When he turned round Herr von Werben had already jumped out, Reinhold saw him once hastily threading the crowd, and then lost sight of him as he let his eyes wander till they caught sight of a man who was standing at some little distance. The stately, broad-shouldered figure, the pose of the head held up so proudly, while turning to right and to left as he looked about him, the thick beard, almost entirely grey--how could he have doubted his recognising that face at the first glance!
It was Uncle Ernst.
"Ah! my dear boy!"
Such a hearty tone was in the deep strong voice, and hearty and strong was the pressure from the large muscular hand which was stretched out to Reinhold.
"The very image of your father!" said Uncle Ernst.
The fine eyes which were fixed on Reinhold's face grew dim. The hand which held his loosened its grasp, and his uncle caught him to his breast and kissed him.
"My dear uncle!"
His own eyes were wet; he had not expected to be received with so much affection by this strong stern man. It was but a passing emotion, and Uncle Ernst said, "Your things came yesterday. Where is Ferdinanda?"
"Is she here?"
"There she comes."
A tall handsome girl came hurriedly up to them. "I had quite lost you, father. How do you do, my dear cousin! Welcome to Berlin!"
A pair of melancholy blue eyes glanced at him with what Reinhold thought a rather uncertain look. There was a sort of hasty indifference, too, in the tone of the full deep voice, while the pressure of the hand she gave him was but slight.
"I certainly should not have known you," said Reinhold.
"Nor I you."
"You were still a child then, and now----"
"And now we will try and get out of the crowd," said Uncle Ernst, "and you can say what you have got to say to each other on the way and at home."
He had already turned and went on a few steps; Reinhold was about to offer his arm to his cousin when suddenly Herr von Werben stood before him.
"I must say good-bye."
"I beg your pardon, Herr von Werben, but you disappeared so suddenly----"
"I had hoped to be of some use, but I see I am too late. Will you introduce me?"
"Lieutenant von Werben--my cousin, Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt."
Ottomar bowed, hat in hand. Ferdinanda returned the bow, very formally it seemed to Reinhold.
"I have often had the pleasure of seeing Fräulein Schmidt at the window when I have been riding by. I will not presume to think that I have been honoured by any such notice in return."
Ferdinanda did not answer. There was a gloomy, almost severe, expression upon her face, which made her look like her father.
"I will not detain you," said Ottomar; "I hope to have the pleasure of meeting my fellow-traveller again. Good-bye, Fräulein Schmidt."
He bowed again and walked quickly away. Some knots of people collected at the entrance came between them.
"Oh, do come!" said Ferdinanda.
She had taken Reinhold's arm and suddenly pressed forward impatiently.
"I beg your pardon, but I could not help introducing that man to you. You did not seem to like him?"
"I? Why should I mind it? My father cannot bear waiting."
"Who was that?" asked Uncle Ernst.
"A Herr von Werben--a soldier. I knew him during the war, and fell in by accident with some of his people on my way here."
"A son of the General's?"
"Yes."
Reinhold felt a touch from the hand which lay on his arm, and a low voice said in his ear, "My father hates the Werbens--at least the General--since '48----"
"Yes, by the way," said Reinhold.
Ferdinanda's shrinking from the introduction, her haste to put an end to it--all was clear to him; and then he felt that sensation which is common to every one who has suddenly seen a vista of pleasure opening out before him, and as suddenly seen it withdrawn.
"There is my carriage," said Uncle Ernst. "Friedrich!"
A large carriage with two strong brown horses drove up. Uncle Ernst stepped in; Reinhold helped in Ferdinanda. As he was following, casually glancing on one side, he saw Ottomar von Werben standing at some distance, with a soldier servant near him holding a dog in a chain. Ottomar waved his hand. Reinhold answered the friendly greeting with equal cordiality.
"I do not hate the Werbens," thought he to himself as he sank back in the carriage.
