pretty, and a kiss is a kiss after all. Now one day, that was on the
maid's account too, I had forgotten to fetch a new book from town, it
was one of the double-refined pious sort, I believe, and, in my
quandary, I said the book was already lent, and it came out that I had
not gone at all, and so, for that bit of a lie, I was immediately
dismissed the service."
"Have you occasion for him?" the Baron asked the two young people. They
however protested, they would never have to do with a man, who could
not even be endured in the most liberal and indulgent of families.
"Well then, stay in the mean time with me," concluded the Baron, "but
lie as little as possible."
"Certainly, your honour," cried the man, "of set purpose never; there
often comes across one in one's straits a forced lie, which the old
priest in my village yonder himself thought excusable; but their
honours, my mistresses, weigh every thing in scales of gold; and in a
house where there is nothing to be seen but the quintessence of piety,
and virtue in full trim, a poor ordinary servant does not get on at
all. We have too much earth in us, my good sirs, the gentlefolk have
easier work of it, that are always polishing and polishing at heart and
soul, which is what we have no time for, by reason of knife-cleaning
and other jobs. Miss Dorothy wanted to excuse me, and said it did not
matter so much; but she came badly off, they all cried out together
upon her, more than upon me. Her they all despise, and yet she is the
best of the family, because she is not so highflown, for man after all
was formed out of a lump of earth, and the old loam and clay will be
stirring in him from time to time."
"You are well paired, you and Michael," said the officer laughing.
"But stop!" cried the Baron, "I have taken you into my service, and
quite forgot, that tomorrow Miss Erhard is coming for some time to my
house. Yes, my friends, she is a person whom I myself cannot endure;
but as I live with a younger sister who is now grown up, and many men
are going in and out of my house, and I am myself often from home, I am
forced, as I have no mind to marry, to have company and superintendence
for her. Now has the preposterous little woman resolved to make a trial
with me, for she knows well enough that it is good quartering in my
house, not so meagre as in the family yonder; besides I often see
company, perhaps she thinks she may find a bosom companion more easily
with me, than in the solitude there. So we are to make a trial for a
month or so together."
"All construed with a very refinement of vulgarity!" said the
counsellor: "if you can but find petty motives, you comprehend things."
"No help for it," said the Baron. They parted, having just reached the
city gate.
* * * * *
The next morning, at an early hour, there was a great stir in the house
of the Baroness. The whole family was assembled at sunrise in the great
parlour, which led immediately into the garden. The walls were hung
with festoons of flowers, an ornamented table stood at one door,
covered with clothes, books, and various keepsakes, and they were now
only waiting for the eldest daughter Dorothea, who was in the habit of
visiting the garden every day at a very early hour, in order, with
these presents, and this festive show, to give her an agreeable
surprize. It was her birthday, and the mother and daughters had been
able to arrange every thing without her observing it, as she never
concerned herself particularly about the almanack. She now came down
the garden, and saw from a distance her assembled sisters. When she
entered the room in astonishment, and they all kindly surrounded her,
offering their respective presents, and her sisters and mother showed
themselves so unusually loving, she was deeply affected, and her
agitation was the greater, the less she had expected this festival of
love.
"How new is this to me!" she exclaimed. "Alas! how little have I been
able to deserve this of you! Do you then indeed love me so? All these
presents, this brilliant display, this kind attention, how can I
requite it? I am so surprized, that you should all think so of a poor
thing like me, that I cannot even find words to thank you."
"Only love us with sincere affection," said her mother, cordially
embracing her, "do not keep so much apart from us, meet more tenderly
all our advances, do justice to our intentions and strive to enter into
our feelings and views; for we surely seek only what is good, we surely
wish only what is right. These humours of yours, my beloved child, your
froward temper, which estranges you from your friends and sisters, and
carries you into the arms of trifling persons, is a disease and
perversion of your character. You may and will perceive the truth as
soon as it is your serious purpose."
"I will amend," said the weeping daughter. "I promise it you from this
very hour, which so infinitely affects me."
All embraced and kissed her, and Dorothea, who had been long as it were
a stranger in her family, felt as if a new life had begun for her. She
looked searchingly at all, she caressed every one, she let the presents
be shown and explained to her; it seemed as though she had returned
from a long journey, and were now greeting her family after a painful
separation. "If I could but do anything for you all!" she exclaimed.
"If it is your serious will," answered her mother, "it is in your power
to-day to make all of us, and especially me, indescribably happy."
"Name it," cried Dorothea, "say what I am to do."
"If on this solemn day," proceeded the Baroness, "you would at last
give your long-refused consent, if you would this day bless with your
plighted word our friend Wallen, whom you yesterday mortified in so
improper a manner."
Dorothea turned pale, and shrank back aghast. "Is this what you
require?" said she faultering; "I thought on that subject I had once
for all made my declaration."
"Your passionate mood," said the mother, "cannot pass for a rational
resolution. You love no man, as you have often said, you scarcely know
one whom you could esteem; this generous friend is devoted to you with
a noble ardour, he proposes to you a lot, fairer than will ever again
present itself to you, should you now reject it; you know the situation
of your family, the critical state of our property; it is in your power
to become the benefactress of your mother, the protectress of your
sisters. Have you well reflected, my dear child, how cheerless your own
future prospects will be, if you should persist in your obstinacy?
Forsaken by men and women, in discord and enmity with your family,
lonely and utterly lost in a cold, insulting world, poor and without
succour! Will you not then review your youth with regret, and in bitter
anguish repent, that you so wantonly, so thoughtlessly, rejected all
happiness for yourself and your family? Does this generous man then
require from you love and passion, as they are described in our
perverse books? Does he wish for more than friendship and esteem? And
can you refuse him this? He is ready for all sacrifices, which our
pressing situation requires, and which his great wealth enables him to
make. But if you treat him with such cold scorn, and he withdraws
offended and affronted--who knows where your sisters or your mother,
and you yourself, at some time or other in your old age, may be forced
to beg a pitiful alms, where I may lay my head sick and helpless? and
then will your weeping eye cast back a look of vain regret upon these
days, which will be then for ever past."
"Say no more, my dearest mother!" cried Dorothea in the greatest
distress. "Oh, unhappily, unhappily, the right is all on your side, and
the wrong entirely on mine. No, I never yet loved, and never shall, my
heart is locked against that feeling; the men, with whom I have been
acquainted, inspire me all with a feeling of dislike, many with one of
pity, not to say contempt. I perceive that a marriage founded on
reason, which places us in a state or opulence and independence, must
be a desirable thing; that it is in my power to make you and all of us
happy by a single word, that it is certainly generous to speak it, that
it is perhaps forced from me by necessity, by filial duty, and the
noblest motives--and yet--why do my feelings shudder at it?--Ah, my
dear mother, if it were not for just one thing,--may I say it? Will you
not quite misunderstand me? O certainly! for I really do not understand
myself."
"Speak, my beloved child," said her mother in the kindest tone, "I
shall feel your heart, though I do not quite comprehend your words."
Dorothea hesitated, looked at her beseechingly, and said at last, in
embarrassment, and with a beseeching voice: "Often have I put the
question to myself, in hours of solitude I have earnestly examined
myself, and then it appeared to me, as if I could join hands with the
worthy man, whom you all, whom all the world respects, were he only
not----"
"Well?" cried the mother.
"Were he only not pious," said the daughter hastily.
A long pause of embarrassment ensued. Dorothea's face had turned of a
glowing red, the sisters shrank back in affright, the mother cast a
look downwards, and then turned it with the severer scrutiny on the
poor girl, who seemed to all, and to herself, almost a monster. At last
the mother said: "Well, really, I cannot help feeling surprized at
this, and if I understand what you have expressed, it would be enough
to fill me with horror. So then you make open profession of your
apostasy from God? You are conscious then, that every thing holy is an
offence and an abomination to you? You cannot love what is love itself?
Go then and deny every thing divine, live a reprobate and die forsaken
by heaven."
"You do not understand me," cried Dorothea with deep indignation: "it
is the very misfortune of my life, that every thing is misunderstood in
me, however well I mean it. Perhaps M. von Wallen would be quite to my
mind, if only I did not know that he is so pious, perhaps even I might
then think him pious."
"Excellent!" said the mother in a painful state of irritation: "when we
are ourselves depraved, it is certainly most convenient to doubt the
virtue of persons of worth. Herein at the same time you express, what
you think of me, and what I have to expect from your filial affection!"
"You must, you shall find your error!" cried Dorothea, almost angry: "I
will do more for love of you, than I can justify to myself. I will this
evening, I give you my word, betroth myself to Baron von Wallen."
A general burst of joy, tears, embraces and sobbings, interrupted and
filled up the place of conversation. The dispute changed into the
loudest and most joyous hubbub; all had lost their composure, and
expressed love and rapture in vehement and exaggerated terms. Only
Dorothea, after her last words, had suddenly grown quite cool again,
and gave herself up quietly without any return to their caresses.
"Oh, my beloved child!" said the mother when she had at last recovered
her composure, "yes, I misunderstood you, and you will excuse me; this
unexpected voluntary declaration sets all right again. And now I may
add to those gifts of love the most beautiful and costly present, these
ornaments, which the Baron sends you. I kept it back, because I really
doubted of your noble feelings."
The daughter stared at her mother, then cast a cold glance at the
precious stones, and laid them calmly down by the flowers on the table.
Breakfast was served, and after the loud scene followed the deeper
calm; no conversation could be brought to bear. The bell rang for
church, and the servants brought the cloaks and books. Dorothea laid
her prayer-book down, and said: "You will excuse me, dear mother, if I
do not to-day accompany you to church, I am too much excited; I will
endeavour, in the meanwhile, to collect myself here, and prepare for
our dinner-party, and still more for the evening."
"As you will, my sweet child," answered the Baroness. "It is true that
the church, and the discourse of our pious pastor, would certainly be
the most natural place and occasion for collecting your thoughts;
nevertheless you have a way and fashion of your own, keep it then
wholly uncriticized. It is evidently Heaven itself, which leads you, my
love, who are most in need of it, to our dear friend Wallen; by his
side you will learn to think differently, and perhaps I may still live
to see you shame us all, and shine before us in a superior lustre."
When Dorothea saw herself alone, she examined, almost unconsciously,
the presents. The glittering richly bound books were of that modern
religious class in which she had never been able to take an interest.
"What matters it?" said she to herself: "is the earth itself then, is
the sum of life so much worth the talking of? Why do I persist in
playing the part assigned to me with so much reluctance? What in
earlier days I thought and planned, is to be sure only a dream and
empty fancy! I see indeed how all men, all, do but act and counterfeit
an elevation of soul, from which they afterwards willingly and placidly
sink into common-place. If it is the universal destiny, why do I
persist in struggling so vehemently against it? Horrible it is! But at
last, sooner or later, death is sure to unravel this tangled net of
life, and on the other side the grave there surely will be freedom."
With her mood the heavens too grew more gloomy. Dark massy clouds
rolled along, and seemed to be bringing a storm with them. A tall man
came up the garden and approached the parlour. As he was on the point
of stepping in, she advanced to meet the stranger, who seemed to be a
person of condition. They exchanged compliments, and the stranger
begged leave to stay; "he had given his horse to a servant in the
avenue, and had then stepped into the garden which he found open;" he
regretted not finding the rest of the family; whereupon Dorothea
invited him to wait in the parlour till the storm had past, and to stay
till her mother and sisters returned from church.
"You seem not to be alarmed at the storm;" observed the stranger.
"Yes indeed," replied Dorothea, "when it comes too near, and the flash
and the stroke are one. I believe too that all men then are more or
less afraid; for where there is no possibility of resistance, where a
sudden unforeseen moment might snatch me away, I am uneasy precisely
because I cannot be on my guard. In these moments nothing gives
tranquillity but the belief in an inevitable fate, and the reflexion
that I am no better than the thousands of my fellow-men who are exposed
to the same danger."
"This is a frame of mind," said the stranger, "which I cannot but call
courageous, contrasting it with that weak one which is not uncommon
among ladies, when they almost faint for fear, lose all composure, and
weep and wail, if but the most distant flash of lightning does but
gleam across."
"Yes," said Dorothea, "and indeed I am apprehensive about my mother and
sisters, who are but too susceptible of alarm. I would not blame it,
because like may other nervous fears, it may be a disorder of the
body."
"That is a point not so easily decided," observed the stranger,
"because it would be first necessary to make a serious trial, what
strength of will is able to effect, and whether, when the soul puts a
constraint upon itself, the body does not also take some steps with it,
and health does not arise of itself where nothing but a wilful mood has
engendered the disease."
"That leads to the question," said Dorothea, "how far we are free, and
what we are able to effect by resolution in mind and body."
"Certainly," replied the other, "and not only this, but all serious
reflexions lead to the great question. Without having answered this to
ourselves, we can take an interest in nothing, and can believe neither
in ourselves nor in others."
"Freedom!" sighed Dorothea, as if in a reverie, "You believe in it
then? I did so too formerly, when I was younger."--
"Younger, my young lady? That sounds strange from your lovely lips. I
doubted as a youth, and have only learnt to form this conviction in
later years."
"Excuse me," cried Dorothea confused, "for losing myself with you on
such topics, as I"----
The stranger interrupted her: "Do not treat me as a young man, of whom
you know nothing, and who is only at liberty to take notice of your
presence, in order to say some obliging things to you. You met me with
a noble and serious confidence, and I know that I am not undeserving of
it."
And really it seemed as if Dorothea was speaking with an old
acquaintance or a brother, so little was this man--whose name even she
forgot to inquire--strange to her. It was long since she had
experienced this feeling, of venturing to express her thoughts without
fear of being misunderstood; it gave her so much satisfaction that she
paid but little regard to the storm, and even forgot the evening, which
just before she could only think of with horror. In the course of the
conversation the stranger gave an account of his travels and several of
his vicissitudes; he recalled the remembrance of his youth, and at last
acknowledged, that he had often seen the house in which they were, and
particularly the young lady's father, who had been many years dead.
"You are wonderfully like your father," he concluded, "and from the
very first I could not contemplate those mild lineaments without
emotion."
Dorothea was taken by surprize, when she saw the family already
returned from church. On saluting the stranger, the mother stepped back
almost in terror, and Dorothea turned pale when she heard him called
Count Brandenstein. He was politely invited to dinner, and old Baron
Wallen likewise made his appearance, as well as Alfred and the young
officer; both had ridden over from town. The family went to dress, and
Dorothea alone in her chamber was lost in deep thought. The world lay
in a more singular shape than ever before her mind; she could scarcely
recover herself sufficiently to arrange her simple attire, and when she
afterwards returned as in a dream to the company, all their faces
seemed to her in a manner hard and strained, nay even strange, but
especially the soft, sanctimonious countenance of the Baron looked like
a hideous caricature, and a sensation, as if she were on the point of
laughing, took possession of her whole frame like a shivering fit, when
she remembered that this was the man to whom that same evening she was
to plight her troth. As the young officer and the counsellor were
revolting to her, just so familiar, open and benign, was the expression
which beamed upon her in the looks of the Count, whom but the day
before she had heard described as a bad and dangerous man.
He seemed the only person at table who was unconcerned. He spoke with
satisfaction of the affairs he was transacting on behalf of his
American friend; he mentioned the estates he had already purchased, or
for which he was in treaty; and much surprize was excited by the wealth
of the stranger, who was able to consolidate the finest estates in the
country in one large domain. By the Count's address the conversation
soon became more free, and the Baron, who seemed to be resisting with
violence the feeling which pressed upon him, endeavoured to engross and
command it, principally no doubt that the young people and the lady of
the house might not slacken in their wonted homage.
But as it often happens, that conversation, if it is not conducted with
easy unconcern and delicate tact, is led, by arrogance and vehemence,
to assume a polemical character, such was the case here; for the
speeches and expressions of the Baron were all disguised attacks on the
Count and his opinions, such as he conceived them from the description
he had heard of him. The Count took little notice at first of these
intimations; he conversed principally with Dorothea, who sat by his
side, spoke of his affairs, and at last said as if in jest, that he had
at the same time received a commission from his American friend to look
out for a wife for him.
"That you cannot surely either of you mean in earnest," said the
Baroness.
"And why not?" answered the Count in a sprightly humour; "My friend in
this only imitates the custom of sovereign princes, to treat by
ambassadors, and according to political considerations. He is now no
longer young, and cannot expect to excite passion; he has had in his
youth a great deal of melancholy experience, and his own misfortune, as
well as the fate of many of his friends, has convinced him, that what
men call love, is but an unmanly craving, often vanity, sometimes even
infatuation, and that most marriages which are contracted in seeming
passion, bring on but a joyless, most fretful life, often wretchedness.
I am his most intimate friend, and he calculates on my knowledge of
mankind for drawing him a lot which will suit him."
The Baron replied, that he still thought such an undertaking a critical
one, and that the stranger was certainly placing the happiness of his
life at stake.
"Happiness?" the Count repeated the word: "certainly, if he had
conceived that idea of something unqualified, infinite, and
inexpressible, which young people usually associate with the word.
Where do you find this? Whoever does not know how to confine himself
will attain nothing, least of all what lies beyond all bounds.
Resignation may seem bitter at first, but without it no state of life
is endurable; for, if we would but deal ingenuously with ourselves, all
raptures must, in the first instance, make way for melancholy, nay they
are identical with it; and Beauty, Art, Enthusiasm, every thing, exists
for us earthly perishable men, only so far as it is perishable, though
the root of every thing that is divine rests in eternity."
"Singular!" said the Baron: "according to this even devotion and piety,
the perception of heavenly things, would be subject to this change?"
"I believe," said the Count, "whoever will not stoop to earth, cannot
soar to heaven; night and day, sleep and waking, elevation and
indifference, must take their turns. We complain with reason that it is
and must be so; it cannot however be helped; but one who should make
the influxes of devotion, the raptures of celestial love, a standing
article in his heart, is probably in one of the most dangerous
positions on which a man can venture."
"You are notorious as a freethinker," answered the mother, "and you
will not succeed in clouding our clear conviction."
Kunigunde said with a melting accent, "You think then that it is
dangerous to love the Lord?"
Brandenstein could not help smiling: "Dangerous like all love, fair
lady," replied he playfully, "especially if one does not know the
object one undertakes to love, or conceives an incorrect notion of it;
still worse, if we form out of it a phantom, that is to strengthen all
our prejudices, justify us in our weaknesses and sanction our faults
and errors. In that case we might perhaps be giving away our foolish
hearts to a spectre, such as some of the old legends tell of, and be
struck with horror, when, in a moment of illumination, the real form of
divinity appeared to us."
Dorothea listened with attention, and the Baron said with some ill
humour: "Love cannot err; where else should we seek a guide for our
path?"
"If it is the true love, it cannot," replied the Count; "but in this we
too easily deceive ourselves; for if our passions were not sophists,
they would in fact not be passions."
"So then doubt," said the Baron angrily, "is the only thing we can
gain."
"Let it be considered as our servant," answered the Count, "who
explores our road; our fool, to warn us with his dry jest against
excess and precipitation. Children and fools, the popular proverb says,
speak the truth; sometimes at least, if not often and always."
"A mother," said the Baroness, "knows what love is; a man retains
perhaps always but a dim dubious conception of its power. The act too
is always more than the word, and so have I brought up my children and
lived with them, wholly in love, requiring from them no blind
obedience, never anything unreasonable; I have ever sacrificed myself
to them; but even in their lispings they have recognized and returned
my love; they have only needed to follow their hearts, and rigour,
fear, and every thing of that sort, has been always wholly unknown to
them."