Minna/Book 2, Chapter 10
The following day, when Mrs. Hertz had spread the table-cloth in the summer-house and her husband was just sitting down with his newspaper, we appeared on the scene arm-in-arm, and in this manner betrayed our secret from afar.
This could not have been received with more hearty joy, even had Minna been their own daughter, and I a millionaire. A bottle of Rhenish wine was sent for from the hotel, and our healths were drunk in the little arbour, where the evening sun stole in between the foliage, and sparkled like gold in the brownish green glasses. Hertz spoke much about the interesting Faust manuscript, the authenticity of which he did not doubt; the discrepancies, however, were fewer and of less importance than he had expected. This led quite naturally to a discussion as to whether it was right to publish such an early and, according to the author's own judgment, unfinished sketch of a famous piece of poetry; and the old man brought forward many good and striking arguments against those who, for the sake of a great feeling of veneration towards perfected works, insist upon suppressing the founts from which they sprang, which are, after all, of deep human interest and of great value for all artistic psychology.
But he spoke more slowly and with more effort than usual, and was often interrupted by a troublesome cough, that evidently distressed his wife. The fog, which near the Elbe had been so unusually thick that it resembled the famous Rhine mist, had also not spared the Moldau Valley; and in the narrow-built town of Prague it had lasted till far on in the day, penetrating everything with its wet cold. In addition to this Hertz had for hours been in a loft, where this dampness had been accompanied by a dreadful draught.
Nobody had shown sufficient forethought to have the contents of this extraordinary chest removed to more habitable rooms, and besides there were also many bookcases and boxes which had not allowed Hertz any peace, and in which he had also succeeded in discovering one thing and another. Notes from Carl August and Archduchess Amalia, original copies of a couple of books by Wieland and Herder with dedications, theatre programmes, etc. A few of these things he had managed to buy, and he showed them to us with great joy when, a little before sunset, we went into the house. But we could not hear this cough, which constantly interrupted his gay remarks, without the fear that he might have bought his treasures too dearly.
When we were going homewards, a little earlier than usual, Minna gave way to her distress—
"Hertz is weak, and he cannot stand much."
"It may be so, but that is no reason to fear the worst."
"Well, I am like that, Harald! Your cheerful disposition will be thoroughly tried by me. I always meet troubles half-way, and it seems to me it does not make the way shorter. Just look at me, I am now in reality as depressed as if the dear old man had gone already."
"Indeed it would be a hard trial, not only for his good wife, but also for my friend Immanuel. I have never seen so charming an intimacy between father and son. It reminds me of the patriarchs."
"Ah well! It might well touch me, as it was so different from what I experienced in my own home."
"Aren't you fond of Immanuel? He really is such a nice fellow."
"Yes, indeed—very nice"
It struck me that she had never much to say about Hertz's son, and it also surprised me that he had never spoken to me about Minna, and that I had never seen her when I had visited him. Very likely in those days she had come less frequently, or at fixed hours of the day. As a matter of fact it was only in the last part of the year, before he left for Leipzig, that our acquaintance had grown so intimate.
I would willingly have continued this subject, but Minna had already put it on one side.
"By the way, when you come to town you will call to see mother—I have written to her. And listen—do not judge her too harshly."
"But, dearest girl, how can you fear"
"Well, well, I have not myself raised your expectations too highly. But there is any amount of good in her; truly she does not of her own free will harm anybody, and she is so fond of me—she really is."
"The last is enough for me."
"Do you know, Harald, there is one thing which pleases me."
"Well?"
"But you must not be so delighted, it is not at all nice of me, but very selfish. Do you know, I am so pleased that you have no parents alive."
"Oh, why? They would have been so fond of you."
"No, no," she exclaimed, in an almost frightened tone. "How could they have been? They would have expected quite a different daughter-in-law, and they would have been right. But as it is, there is no one but you who has any claim on me, if only you will be satisfied with me as I am."
"My own beloved wife! But you are crying?" I exclaimed, as my lips met tears on her cheek.
"Never mind! But it sounded so sweet, do say it again!"
"My wife!"
Already we had more than once walked backwards and forwards through the little village. The night was pitch dark.
The lights of the solitary windows, which were scattered on both sides of the dark valley, added more to the cosiness than to the brightness of the place. Above the obscurity of the heights and rocks sparkled the stars, keen and restless, and now and again a falling star darted over our heads. Besides our own footsteps we only heard the little brook babbling between the stones, and from time to time a passing movement in the willows on its bank, as if an enormous animal was suddenly shaking itself.
As we, for the third time, came near to the lights that beckoned us from the Zedlitz Villa, our steps grew gradually slower.
"You sigh?" said Minna when, against our will, we had at last stopped walking.
"I have something like a presentiment, I cannot help it. It seems to me so sad to part from Rathen, I feel depressed—I fear something, I think."
"We have been so happy here. But it is my own dear town we are going to, I am looking forward also to our walks there."
"It is only this. Our love is just like a plant that has grown up here, and now has to be transplanted."
Minna laughed, a subdued and wise laugh.
"No, it is only going to be removed. For it is a plant which has its root in the heart and not in any especial locality."
After a long, long embrace she glided away from me and disappeared in the darkness, while the tiny twigs still crackled under her steps, which tripped on the gravel path. Suddenly they stopped.
"Good-night, love!" sounded her high, clear voice, surprisingly near.
"Good-night, little soul!"
And again it sounded, but this time far away, as a voice from beyond—
"Good-night!"