THE WEAKNESS OF STRENGTH.
The Bergstrasse was quiet and lonely when Johannes returned from
Hochstetten. The inmates of the houses there were all within-doors,
shielding themselves from the heat of the midday sun, reflected with
oppressive intensity from the white houses. Johannes leaned back
motionless in the carriage, his eyes covered with his hand. He never
looked up when some dogs came barking around the wheels,--indeed, he
did not hear them. The exterior world was dead for him.
"_Halte-la!_" cried a voice from a carriage drawn up before his own
door. "_Parbleu! il dort_."
Johannes raised his head. The Worronska was awaiting him.
His carriage stopped. He got out, and the Worronska beckoned him to
her. Contrary to her custom, she was not holding the reins to-day, and
was not seated upon the box.
"I am glad you are come. I came myself to see you, Professor Moellner,
as I received no answer to my note,--and I was just driving away."
Johannes was confused. He had received the note she had alluded to, but
had not opened it.
"Pray lend me your arm. Have you one moment for me?"
"I am at your service," said Johannes gravely, and he helped her out of
her carriage.
"Will you grant me a short audience in your house,--or am I unworthy to
enter this temple of science?"
Johannes opened the door for her. "My simple dwelling is but poorly
adapted for the reception of such distinguished guests. I can scarcely
hope that you can be comfortable here, even for a few minutes."
"How pleasant this is!" she cried, as he led the way to his office.
"Believe me, I like this much better than my marble halls, where there
is no breath of true feeling."
"I should have thought that one like yourself could always collect
warm-hearted friends about her," said Johannes absently, only for the
sake of saying something.
The countess looked at him for an instant suspiciously. She knew in
what repute she was held, and the compliment was perhaps ambiguous. But
the cloud upon his brow convinced her that his thoughts were busy
elsewhere. She looked in his eyes, but his gaze fell before hers, as we
look away from what offends our delicacy. The countess interpreted it
otherwise,---his embarrassment flattered her.
"Do you call the crowd of coarse flatterers, who once surrounded me,
warm-hearted people?" she asked in a tone of disdain.
"If you found none such amongst them, I must lament that they kept all
such from your side. For no man of sincere and warm heart could
approach you as long as you were surrounded by such a throng."
The countess rose from the sofa, upon which she had thrown herself. "I
sent them from me long ago: there is nothing to prevent the approach of
any man of noble character,--but none such attempt it,--I must go
half-way to seek them."
Johannes was silent. The conversation was an infinite weariness to him:
he had need of all his chivalry to enable him to endure it with
becoming patience.
"You are out of spirits, Dr. Moellner. Am I the cause of it?"
"What a question, countess! Could I say yes, even if you were? I must
have been guilty of great rudeness towards you, if you can suspect me
of such _gaucherie_."
"I certainly cannot boast of any exaggerated courtesy from you."
"I never force upon others what can have no possible value for them,"
said Johannes coldly.
The countess bit her lip. "Is that meant for me?"
"I do not see how. I said nothing that could in any way apply to you."
"Indeed?"
"It surprises me to have to assure you of it," replied Johannes, who
began to divine that he had touched a sensitive spot in the countess's
mind.
"Then I believe you. Now let me force upon you what can indeed have no
value for you, but what people usually prize greatly,--money."
She opened a pocket-book, and counted out a number of bank-notes. "See,
I have come to give you what I can for the little girl who was injured.
Here are ten thousand roubles. I have no more ready money just at
present. Do you think I may offer this to the people now?"
"You are very generous, countess, but it would be a greater kindness to
these simple people not to put the whole sum into their hands at once.
If I may advise you, just settle upon the little girl a small annuity
for life,--that will preserve her from want,--since she must lose her
arm, she will hardly be able to support herself. These people will not
know what to do with so large a sum all at once."
"Do you invest it for them, then, in the way you think best. An annuity
is out of the question: I might die, and then there would be
difficulties thrown in the way of its payment. No. I have written to my
agent in St. Petersburg for forty thousand roubles more. Then the child
will be in possession of fifty thousand roubles, and can live upon this
sum in Germany quite comfortably."
"Countess," cried Johannes, looking at her with unfeigned admiration,
"do you know what you are doing? It is the gift of a monarch! I cannot,
of course, judge of the proportion that this sum bears to your wealth,
but it is my duty to warn you that it is far beyond what these people
can possibly expect!"
"Heavens, what a talk about a trifle!" cried the countess impatiently.
"I need only a little prudence for a couple of years, and the
expenditure will be entirely covered. Even if I should have to deny
myself now and then, what is it in comparison with the injury that my
heedlessness has inflicted upon the poor child? I would give her more
if I had not so many poor relatives whom I must not defraud."
"Such wealth in such hands, Countess Worronska, is a blessing to the
poor. I see, for the first time, that this hand can do more than hold
the reins and wield the whip, that it can open wide, and scatter with
princely liberality what others would amass and hoard. Let me imprint
upon it a kiss of fervent gratitude,--I have done you injustice."
"Oh, Moellner," cried the beautiful woman, flushed with delight, "I
would give all that I possess, and all that I am, for one such grateful
glance from your eyes! I know what the injustice is of which you speak.
You have hitherto despised me, and now you see that there is something
in me worthy of admiration. Yes, I have lived wildly,--I have not
heeded the restraints imposed upon woman by man, because I did not
respect mankind. Now, now I acknowledge them, because at last I have
found a human being whom I respect from the depths of my soul, and to
whom I would gratefully commit the guidance of my life. I can give what
is better than a few thousand roubles. I am capable of the sacrifice of
myself! If I thought it would win me your esteem, I would throw away
whip and rein. My hand should know only the needle. I would never mount
horse again,--never rush from place to place, sipping the froth of this
world's delights. I would never stir from this spot, but lie here,
clasping your knees, a penitential Magdalene. My wealth I would cast at
your feet, and lay aside all splendour that might charm other eyes than
yours. All that I have to give, so ardently desired by others, should
be yours. I should think it an act of mercy if you deigned to accept my
gift. I know how I transgress all law and custom when I, a woman, thus
offer myself to him whom I love,--but what would be a departure from
womanly delicacy and reserve in others, is for me a return thither. It
is not for me to wait proudly for such a man as you to bring me his
heart. I am sunk so low that in remorseful humiliation I must sue for
esteem and love, try to deserve them by the penitence of a lifetime,
and not murmur if they are withheld from me. I feel the disgrace of
this; but, oh, if I can only through this disgrace recover my lost
honour,--if I can only, by thus transgressing law, cease to be lawless!
Believe me, it is no fleeting emotion that speaks through my lips,--it
is the despairing effort of a stray soul to grasp the redeeming power
of a true love!"
She could scarcely conclude; overcome by passion, she fell upon her
knees, stretched out her arms to him as if drowning, and burst into a
storm of sobs.
Johannes sought in vain to raise her. He was stunned, as it were, by
this volcanic outburst. Suddenly, into the gaping wounds made by
Ernestine's coldness, poured the hot lava-stream of a passion of which,
in the temperate zone of his German intellectual existence, he had
never dreamed. He stood as if before some startling natural phenomenon,
amazed, overwhelmed, unable to collect himself. One thought filled his
mind. Where he longed for love he could not find it, and where he
neither desired nor hoped for it he found it in fullest measure. The
contrast was too vivid; as if dazzled, he covered his eyes with his
hand, and a profound sigh escaped him.
She drew his hand away from his face, and asked, "Moellner, is that sigh
for me?"
"For both of us."
"Moellner!" she said, and her voice was deep and rich, and her soft,
gentle touch sought his hand, while her dark, glowing eyes were fixed
upon him in an agony of suspense. Thus the beautiful majestic woman
knelt there, expiating in the torment of that moment her sin in not
keeping herself pure for this long-delayed love, looking up to him as
to a redeemer, ready to sacrifice for his sake herself and a life of
worldly enjoyment,--for him, the simple student, unadorned by any of
the studied graces that distinguished the men that had hitherto crowded
around her, and unconscious of having ever sought her love. Could this
woman, used only to ask and to have, love him thus, and she, the only
one who could ever be to him what his whole soul thirsted for,--she for
whom he would only too willingly have sacrificed his life, resign him
for an illusion, a chimera, that could never give her one moment's joy?
He grew giddy,--he drew his hands from the countess's grasp, and sprang
up. She bowed her head upon the lounge that he had just left, and hid
her face in her arms, as if awaiting the death-stroke from the sword of
the executioner. Now, when she knelt thus in the abandonment of her
grief, for the first time he perceived her wonderful loveliness,--but
only for one moment,--the next, he turned from her and threw open a
shutter, admitting the broad day to chase away the bewildering twilight
that filled the room. A cool breeze had arisen,--he inhaled it
thirstily, and, when he turned again to the countess, he was calm.
Reflection, so native to him, had conquered his agitation, and by his
sufferings for Ernestine's sake he knew how to pity this woman who
loved so hopelessly. It was the purest compassion that beamed in his
eyes as he raised her head, but again his glance had upon her the
effect of magic.
"Oh, not that look, Moellner! Do not look thus while you sentence me! it
makes my doom doubly hard to bear. If you cannot tell me that you love
me, turn those eyes away,--their glance would wake the dead!"
"Good heavens! Countess Worronska, how can I find the right words in
which to tell you what I must, if you so increase the labour of the
task? I pray you, dear friend, listen to me calmly, and think what you
impose upon me,--either I must play the hypocrite, or give the worst
offence that can befall a woman."
The countess sprang up, and measured him with a look in which pain and
anger strove for the mastery. He took her hands and gently forced her
to sit down upon the sofa,--she yielded to him mechanically.
"Dear Countess Worronska, for both our sakes let me preserve the
temperate self-possession not easy to so ardent and impulsive a
temperament as yours, but all the more incumbent upon the man to whose
hands you so confidingly entrust your future destiny. It would be of
little avail to tell you that you promise more than you can ever
perform. You would not believe me, for the woman who loves thinks no
sacrifice too great. But even true affection is subject to natural
change. For a time much may be resigned without a murmur, for
unaccustomed joy will compensate for unaccustomed privations, but, dear
countess, one grows used even to the joy of love, and, though it may
not grow cold, it gradually ceases to be an exceptional bliss, and
becomes a natural condition, in which the requirements of our nature,
the habits of our birth and education, reassert themselves. And if we
are unable to meet these, in spite of our affection we become conscious
of a want that may in the end deprive us even of the knowledge of our
happiness. This fate is unavoidable in a marriage where upon either
side a disproportionate sacrifice is made. Formed as you are, you could
never content yourself with the trivial domestic affairs of a German
scholar; you would soon pine in such captivity, and, without losing
your love for me, in the sincerity of which I believe, you would long
for your previous mode of living. Those who have never all their lives
long recognized the restraints of homely duty can scarcely reconcile
themselves to them, however honest their intentions may be. As soon as
you felt that your duties to me imposed a restraint upon you,--and you
would feel this sooner or later,--you would be wretched!"
"It is enough, Professor Moellner," cried the countess. "Give yourself
no further trouble in persuading me to doubt myself. If you loved me,
you could not consider so prudently my advantage in the matter. If you
felt for me as I do for you, you would not ask how long we might be
happy,--you would enjoy the moment and be willing for it to resign an
eternity. Oh, proud and great as you are, you bear the brand of a petty
existence upon your brow, although you know it not. In truth, Moellner,
your cool repulse does not shame me, for I feel that in the past hour I
have been the nobler of the two!"
"You are right, my friend. A woman as beautiful, as high in rank, and
as richly endowed as yourself has no cause to blush for having vainly
offered to one what thousands covet so greedily. Believe me, if one of
us is shamed, it is I, to whom favour has been shown so undeserved, so
unhoped-for,--such favour as only the bountiful gods bestow,--a favour
which I can never deserve or repay!" Deeply moved, he took her hand;
again her eyes sought his.
"Oh, Moellner, your heart relents,--I see it does. You do not know what
love is. Who was there here to teach you? The poor vapid sentiment that
they call by its name, suffices, it is true, for domestic use,--little
is given, little required,--how were you to differ from the rest? A
genuine passion would have caused infinite commotion in your
commonplace, every-day circles. Only intense feeling can beget intense
feeling, and whoever has known none such has never lived. Such a man as
you must not close his ears like a coward when passion calls. Do not
withdraw your hand. This moment must decide whether I remain here or
return to Russia. My estates are going to ruin. I must either sell them
or return to them myself. Give me the smallest hope of winning your
affection, and I will sell all my Russian possessions and live here
beneath your dear eyes, in conventual retirement and repose, year after
year, until at last you take me to your heart and say, 'I believe in
you!' Then--then I will surround you with such a heaven as these cold,
timid natures about you do not dream of. One word, Moellner,--no
promise, only a hope,--and I am your creature!"
Johannes regarded the passionate woman in her demonic beauty with a
strange mixture of admiration and horror, sympathy and aversion. At
last he adopted a resolution, for he felt that an end must be put to
this interview. "Madame," he said,--not without effort, for it was hard
for his magnanimous nature to give offence to a woman,--"madame, I see
that I must tell you all the truth. Hope nothing. It would certainly
inflict a deeper wound were I to tell you I _cannot_ love you,--it
would be casting doubt upon your personal charms. What man of flesh and
blood could swear that he _could_ not love you--a woman all perfection
from head to foot? Such an oath I could not presume to take, for my
senses are as keen as other men's. But, countess, I _will_ not love
you, and I can swear to what I will, and what I will not do!"
He arose, and the countess arose also, and stood opposite to him, a
picture of despair. "And must I content myself with this declaration?
Am I not worth the being told why?"
"Let it suffice you to know that I consider myself bound."
"Aha! to the Hartwich!"
Johannes stretched out his hand with a deprecatory gesture. "Do not
utter her name, madame. I will not hear it from your lips."
"It is true, then! That proud, frigid wraith--that phantom, in whose
veins there flows not one drop of warm blood--has robbed me of you!
Curse her!"
"Hush! curse her not, madame; it destroys my new-born pity for you!"
cried Johannes. "It is not she that comes between you and me. I could
never, never have given you my heart or hand, even had I been entirely
free. Do not force me to say to you what no man should say to any
woman."
"What is it? Let me drain the last drop in the cup. I will not leave
you until I know all."
"Well, since you will have it, listen, and may it prove your cure in a
twofold sense. You could bestow upon me, madame, all that the world
holds precious, but there is one thing that is no longer yours to
give,--your honour! And were a goddess to descend from the skies for my
sake, wanting this jewel, she could be nothing to me. I should send her
back to her glories, and choose rather to abide here below, a poor
solitary man."
A low cry followed these words, and then silence ensued. The Worronska
stood like a statue, with eyes, for the first time in her life perhaps,
seeking the ground. Johannes approached her and said quietly, "You can
never forgive what I have said. I do not ask you to do it; it is best
thus. You will hate me for awhile, and then forget me. I shall, all my
life, have a melancholy remembrance of you, for you wished to be kind
to me and I was obliged to wound you in return. Pour out your hatred
upon me; I deserve it at your hands."
"Moellner," said the beautiful woman, drawing her breath with effort,
"at this moment I am expiating all the sins I have ever committed.
Farewell, and if you hear that I have fallen back into my old manner of
life, sign the cross above my memory, and tell her whom you love, 'I
might have saved that soul, but I would not.'"
Johannes looked at her sadly. "Madame, if the agony of this moment does
not make the thought of your former life hateful to you, my love never
could have saved you. I disclaim the terrible responsibility you would
thrust upon me. I have done what I could. I have told you the truth,
and I cannot believe it will be without effect."
"I thank you," said the despairing woman with bitter irony. Then, with
one last tender look at Johannes, which he, standing calmly before her,
did not return, she turned to go, with the bearing of a queen. He
offered to conduct her to her carriage, but she refused his aid. Her
face was ashy pale, and not another word passed her compressed lips.
He looked after her as she entered her carriage and buried her face in
her hands. He saw how her whole frame was shaken with emotion. The
carriage whirled away, the dust rose in clouds. Johannes re-entered his
lonely room. "Ernestine!" he exclaimed, as if she could hear him,
"Ernestine!"