Minna/Book 5, Chapter 6
When I arrived at Dresden, I could not make up my mind to leave the Bohemian station. I had a suspicion that both or one of them would return from Pirna.
The evening train rolled in, and I saw Stephensen's face at a carriage window. He stepped out—alone. I rushed towards him.
"Where is Minna?"
Stephensen regarded me coldly, as if he would beg to be excused from intrusive questions. But he changed his mind.
"You are right, Mr. Fenger, you ought to know it. She is at Sonnenstein."
"Sonnenstein!" I murmured, as if I did not understand. Then I was seized with giddiness, and the commotion of passengers and porters on the half-dark platform made me feel ill. "Sonnenstein! What does it mean?" I caught hold of his overcoat, partly to steady myself, partly to prevent him from getting away. "You don't mean to say that she—that Minna"
"Well, don't take it so pathetically!" Stephensen said with a semblance of kindness. "She is not exactly weak-minded or really insane, only very melancholy and a little hysterical. You have seen for yourself. In short, it was the best thing to put her under the treatment of a doctor. What is there in that? In our nervous times, it is nothing unusual.… She preferred Sonnenstein, because her home-sickness was rather overwhelming, and then, of course, also to avoid talk in Copenhagen. It is now said that she is visiting her people, though, as I have already remarked, it is in our days so usual, all educated people have got over these prejudices"
My dull incredulity had, during this explanation, given place to an absolutely conscious fury.
"It is you who have done it, you—you!"
My voice was stifled. I shook my fist in front of his face; he tore himself loose, a gendarme stepped towards us. Stephensen whispered a few words to him, shrugged his shoulders, and disappeared in the crowd. I leaned against a pillar; late-comers were rushing about, the conductors shouted, there was a sound of whistling and puffing.
As soon as I had recovered control of myself, I asked the porter whether there was a train for Pirna; but I had to wait until the next morning.
By the first train I was in Pirna, reached Sonnenstein breathless, and fortunately at once had an interview with the Professor. I presented myself as a friend of Mrs. Stephensen's and her husband's, the latter of whom I had met last night, and went on to say that I had promised frequently to give information to him about his wife's condition, as I was remaining in Dresden for some time. But as I myself was also very troubled about my friend, and only had been able to speak to Mr. Stephensen for a few minutes, I had at once hurried out, and now wanted earnestly to know the whole truth.
The Professor calmed me for the time being; there was hardly any cause for immediate fear, it was one of the cases for which in former days one would never have thought of applying to a doctor, and where the asylum essentially served to isolate the patient from mental infection. Further information he could only supply after having her under observation for about a week, but he would then be very pleased to give it.
When, therefore, I called upon him eight days later, he stated that Minna assuredly was suffering mentally, but was not liable to go out of her mind, at any rate not if she was rightly treated and lived under the favourable conditions that an asylum would give her until she recovered her mental balance. She was in a very nervous, excited condition. But the real danger was the heart disease, the seed of which must have been sown several years back. She might grow old with the complaint, but also it might suddenly cause her death. Most of all it was necessary to avoid any agitation of mind, which he thought hitherto had constantly given nourishment to the complaint.
"Do tell me," he suddenly said, "you are a friend of her's and her husband's. Did they live happily together?"
I considered a moment whether I had the right to be candid. "No," I answered, "I almost dare say that they did not."
"There we have got it! Or anyhow the principal cause. It will no doubt be best for her not to return to him. That is to say, if it can be done without too much pain on her part, when the time comes. As far as he is concerned, he seemed to me to be reasonable enough. What do you think?"
"I am quite of your opinion."
My emotion was too strong to escape the notice of an experienced man. He smiled, and looked at me firmly with rather contracted eyes:
"But it will be a long business.… I have told her that you have been here, and am to give you her regards. You will remain for the time being in Dresden? That's good. Once a week I should like you to call. I think it has a calming effect on her, but a considerable time will have to pass before I shall dare to allow you to speak to her."
I returned with a good heart, and firmly decided to devote my whole life to Minna, married to her or not, in whatever manner it could best serve her welfare and health. I was satisfied to contribute all that I could to make her as little unhappy as possible, if she could not any longer be happy (though, why should she not still be capable of being so?), without consideration of the harm it might do my career. If it would suit her best to live in her native town, I would try to get a situation in Dresden; if she needed a southern climate, then I would find a means to live in the south. The latter, however, was not very likely; yes, it even was most probable that England, being quite new to her, would be the most suitable place. But all this did not trouble me much. What made me shiver was the consciousness of the sword of Damocles that hung over her head. Had it perhaps at this moment already fallen? And it would remain there constantly, even when the doctor had sanctioned her departure. Yes, even if it was taken away, my fear would still imagine it to be present.… But I promised myself that this terror should only make my love stronger, my tenderness more constant. How could I ever leave her in anger or even in a fit of sulkiness after a matrimonial dispute, when an inner voice whispered to me that perhaps when I returned to seize her hand and read love in her eyes, the hand would be cold and the eyes glassy?
My uncle would have to agree to my absence, at all events for a year. I hired a modest room as in olden days, and threw myself into a detailed study of pottery, which I hoped would be useful to our factory, and for which, both in a practical and literary respect, Dresden afforded ample opportunities.