lady is an angel, so all the people in the village think her; all that
she can save out of her pocket-money, whatever she can spare of her
clothes, she lays out upon the poor, but the most beautiful thing of
all is the gracious quiet way she has, and how she calms the people,
and comforts the sick, and admonishes the children to be obedient to
their parents, who are often cross;--indeed we are to keep it a secret,
for she gave us strict orders about that, and we have done so for
years, but sooner or later a man will be caught tripping. Beg your
ladyship's pardon."
This discourse passed as the company were rising: the Baroness was in a
tremor. The Baron, with solemn face and air, kissed the mother's hand,
and endeavoured to set matters right; the Count took his leave with few
words, and Alfred accompanied him; the rest of the party went into the
garden-parlour.
"It brings no good," said the mother, "when wicked men cross our
thresholds."
"No blessing of heaven follows them," added the Baron.
"What an afternoon!" cried the Baroness, "it will be long ere I forget
it! Such men are all that is wanting in our neighbourhood, to plunge my
poor rebellious child into total ruin. But you too, my son, took more
interest in that godless man, than I or your pious Kunigunde could
wish."
"I think though," said Kunigunde's husband, "that he said many very
sensible things; I am of opinion myself, that this piety is carried too
far, and that there may be many women who think too much of
themselves."
Upon this the Baron gave him a long reproving look, which the poor man
could not stand; and when Kunigunde now began to weep aloud, and the
mother likewise weeping folded her in her arms to comfort her, he was
so much moved, that he could no longer restrain his repentant tears: he
also threw himself on his wife's bosom, sobbing, and begging
forgiveness. "Be all composed," said the Baron in a solemnly
consolatory tone, as he raised his eyes to heaven: "the Lord will set
every thing right, for this evening, as you have told me, that obdurate
and yet dear heart pledges itself to me; through my weak co-operation
the Spirit will then enlighten her, and we shall all be one heart and
one love."
* * * * *
Dorothea had shut herself up in her chamber in tears. So distracted, so
dissatisfied with herself and the world, so utterly lost and wretched,
she had never yet felt herself before. She was deeply ashamed that the
simple method of relieving the poor, which seemed to her the most
natural, had been suddenly divulged by the simplicity of the servant;
but still she thought it too hard, to be treated as she had been for it
by her own mother, before all the company, and what pained her more
than all was, that it was done in the presence of the man, whom she
could not but respect, who had won her confidence, and whose esteem she
likewise desired to obtain.
It had grown dark without her perceiving it, when a servant tapped at
her door, and requested her to come down to her mother and the company.
"Mother!" said she to herself, "Mother! what a sweet word! Why have I
never known one?"
She went down, the family were assembled in the parlour; the young
officer was also present. As Dorothea entered, it occurred to her for
the first time, why she had been summoned. A shivering fit came over
her. All saluted her as the Baron's betrothed, the mother said kindly,
she would now forgive her that day's behaviour; the sisters wished the
dejected girl joy, and the Baron covered her trembling hand with tender
kisses. "Be calm, be happy," said he in a soft tone; "henceforth, my
love, you will quite belong to us, and this man shall never more enter
our house; you were certainly right, and it was heaven that spoke in
you, that such a wretch ought not to move where we set our steps."
"A wretch?" cried Dorothea, and tore her hand so violently away, that
the Baron staggered back. "You are an audacious man, to dare so to
vilify such a person."
"Heaven!" shrieked the mother, "she has lost her senses! An evil spirit
speaks out of her."
Dorothea bethought herself again; she saw the astonishment of those
around her, and endeavoured to collect herself. "I am so shaken," she
began, "I feel myself so agitated, perhaps indisposition--I will just
cool myself a moment in the open air."
"In this weather?" said the mother, "in this storm and rain, so without
a handkerchief, in your thin dress?"
"I must, I must!" she exclaimed, and without listening to
remonstrances, she had already opened the parlour door, and was
standing in the dark cold garden. As the rain beat against her, she
turned into the walk which was covered by closely interwoven boughs,
and walked hastily up and down. "To him, that loathsome being," said
she to herself, "united for ever? So deeply, so deeply degraded? And
for whom? For those, who will never thank me for it, who will
afterwards make it appear as if it was the greatest of benefits that
had been conferred on myself? Save my soul? That here is lost, utterly
ruined!"
A dark shadow came up to her, and by the lisping soft voice she
immediately recognized the Baron. "My sweet girl," he began, "your dear
mother, and all of us, are expecting you indoors with anxious
apprehension; my heart is overflowing with tenderness, for I already
consider you as my wife, and the mother of my pious children."
"Heaven!" she exclaimed, "that I never thought of, that my misery may
extend so far, as to see hypocrites and selfish wretches spring out of
my blood. But though I had not that calamity to fear, still I could
never be yours."
"How?" cried the Baron, "and the solemn promise, which you this morning
pronounced to your mother?"
"Though I had made it to an angel of heaven," said Dorothea, "still I
cannot keep it! Nay, even had the wedding taken place, we must have
been parted again!"
"Strange, young lady! Do you reflect on the consequences?"
"What can they be? Any thing may be endured in comparison with that
abyss of misery which awaits me."
"Are you aware too that your mother has a right to require it? Are you
aware, that she is under engagements to me, which till now I bore and
kept secret with the patience of love, in the hope of belonging to your
family? Ask yourself, whether under these circumstances you are not
bound, as a good daughter, to discharge your mother's engagements?"
"No!" cried she in the greatest excitement, "rather pine with her, work
for her, nay, die for her."
"There are still methods," said the Baron half laughing, "to bend such
stubbornness; the rights of parents are great, and you are evidently at
present not quite in possession of your senses; a little of intreaty, a
little of force, will subdue in time this childish wilfulness."
He had seized her arm with violence, and endeavoured to pull her
towards the house; but the strong girl tore herself quickly away, and
flew down the walk, the Baron after her. She however, who was more
nimble and better acquainted with the mazes of the garden, was soon a
great way ahead; she was now at the open verge of the grounds; this she
also stepped over, and ran across the fallow field, like a hunted deer,
while alternately the rain drenched her, and the storm chilled her
delicate limbs.
* * * * *
Madame von Halden was sitting comfortably in her little parlour, while
the storm shook the trees out of doors, and the rain pattered against
the windows. Her heart was perfectly at ease; for she had sold her
estate at an unexpectedly high price, all was concluded, and Count
Brandenstein with counsellor Alfred had that very evening brought every
thing into due form. The two gentlemen were upstairs asleep, for it was
near midnight, and she was herself on the point of retiring to her
chamber, when she was alarmed by a violent loud knocking at the house
door, and a plaintive suppliant voice. She rang the bell, a servant was
sent to open the door, and with her clothes dripping, trembling and
pale as death, Dorothea rushed in, threw herself immediately with
violence upon her bosom, and cried with a hoarse voice, "Save me, save
me!"
"For God's sake!" said her friend in extreme terror, "is it you, my
dear girl? And so, in this state? I cannot trust my eyes."
Notwithstanding her fright however, she immediately with the most
friendly alertness fetched linen and clothes, helped the chilled girl
to change her dress, cheered her laughingly and kindly, and then forced
her to take some mulled wine which she had got ready with the utmost
haste, to guard against the bad effects of the chill. She at the same
time embraced her so cordially, drying the tears from her eyes, and
kissing her cheeks which began now to recover their colour, that
Dorothea felt herself almost as happy as in the arms of a mother. After
many cheering and playful words, Madame von Halden said at last, "Now
tell me briefly, how you came to this mad resolution, and then go to
bed and sleep all off."
"You must protect me," said Dorothea, "you must not refuse me shelter,
otherwise I must run in despair into the wide world, or madness will
drive me into a mill-pool."
"Calm yourself, child," said her friend soothingly; "you must of course
return home. But tell me: what has befallen you all of a sudden?"
"Only do not laugh," cried Dorothea, "keep serious, my good dear
friend, for I am in despair. This morning I let myself be persuaded,
from weakness, from emotion, they had celebrated my birthday so
unexpectedly, to promise to betroth myself this evening to Baron von
Wallen. This was now to take place, and that is why I have run away,
because I abhor him, because I cannot live any longer at home with my
sisters and my mother."
"I am well aware," replied her friend, "that you cannot love the Baron,
that injustice was often done you in the family; but this expression of
horror in you, as you seemed so used to every thing, is still
incomprehensible to me."
"I do not yet understand it myself," answered Dorothea; "I do not know
how I am to relate it to you. That I was not happy, you must of course
have seen, though I never said a word to you on the subject. Alas, the
origin of that dates itself from my beloved father's death. You know I was
scarcely thirteen years old when he died. O heaven, what a man! I could
not at that time estimate his value, but the older I grew, the more he
bloomed in my remembrance as the bright object of my love. That benign
gentle spirit, that cheerfulness, humanity, quiet piety, that delight in
nature and art, that active, admirable intellect--alas! and he was not
happy either! I saw, I observed it well, when I came to distinguish a
little, he was not happy in his marriage; he and my mother were too unlike
one another, they were often at variance with each other. He was then at
times deeply dejected, infinite sorrow would speak out of his fine dark
eyes, as he bent them silently to the ground. And now on a sudden he
was gone! He must have learnt and felt on the other side the grave how
my heart's love followed him. O my friend, there are moments of pain,
when nothing but the cold dull stupor into which our whole being sinks,
rescues us from frenzy and madness. So I grew up in pain and regret,
which no one shared, no one understood. And what an alteration took
place in the life of our family! Instead of the cheerful conversations,
instead of the lively parties, a serious solemn parade. My younger
sisters were educated in a spirit quite opposite to that which my
father had wished. Prayers, books of devotion, religious conversation,
filled up the intervals of the day; and my heart grew more and more
vacant; I could not sympathize in their devotion, could not even
believe in its existence. My books, which were my father's presents
too, I no longer ventured to shew; all was worldly and offensive. I was
frightened at the constructions put on passages, which were my greatest
favorites, which I knew by heart. Even Göthe's heavenly nature, his
noble elevation, was seductive sensuality; and a refined prudery, which
to me was in the highest degree disgusting, was to assume the name of
virtue. My sisters, as they came to the age of reflexion, considered me
as a degenerate creature, unsusceptible of any thing good; it was what
they heard every hour, they could not help believing it. Between them
and my mother there sprang a relation, which kept me at an equal
distance from both parties, but for which I could not envy them; an
overstrained love, a delicate tenderness, a soothing and fondling which
often cut me to the heart; nay my mother went so far as to idolize her
younger daughters, to adore them, and to tell them she did so. My
sisters treated my mother nearly in the way that one would hold
intercourse with a departed saint, if she were to return to us; but
this was what I could not carry on for above a day; I was then under
the necessity of seeking a more cheerful intimacy with her, or avoiding
her altogether. I still well remembered how often my father had said,
that in early youth children must learn to obey blindly, in order that,
when grown up, they may be capable of freedom. This freedom of the mind
and heart, which makes man an independent being, which is the
indispensable condition of love, of a free devotion, found however no
room in this close union, nay, whenever it attempted to shew itself, it
was treated as the worst of sins. Not the least weakness, not the
slightest prejudice of my mother was to be touched; even in trifles, on
the subject of an indifferent book, the character of a man, nay even on
the colour of a ribbon, no one was to entertain a different opinion
from her. If but a walk was proposed only to a neighbour's house, nay
in the garden, she forbad it, unless she could or chose to join in it,
not directly, but she would say; 'Go, if you can be without me; I
indeed cannot live without you, but if you can, I will not disturb you;
I am accustomed indeed to make every sacrifice to you.' Of course the
thing was not done, and my sisters gave their vexation the air of
devotion, and I, who did not belong to the compact, was forced to pay
for their humours. My courage failed me. I endured to be taken to task
even by my youngest sister. O my friend! when I observed all this,
which appeared to me unnatural and wrong, I would then go into the most
solitary corner of the garden, and give my hot tears their course; for
I seemed to myself vile and reprobate to confess all this to myself,
and to be unable to stifle my sense of truth, which had been awakened
and formed by my father. I was often so inexpressibly miserable that I
prayed for death. There would come times too, when, as I could not help
seeing how every body that came to our house paid respect and homage to
my sisters, and avoided me, I appeared to myself vile and despicable.
But when I struggled to be like the others, all my strength failed me,
and my arms dropped unnerved by my side.--But did you not hear a noise
in the next room?"
"No, my sweet girl," said Madame von Halden: "every body is asleep, it
cannot be any thing more than a cat."
"Kunigunde married," proceeded Dorothea; "the men who paid their
addresses to me, only teazed me by their coxcombry, or shocked me by
their ill breeding. I could not conceive that any one could love me,
without my most fervently loving him, and on that account their
affected hyperbolical phrases appeared to me so insipid, and I could
not possibly believe in their passion. All however was still tolerable,
till Baron Wallen came to our house; he soon gained possession of my
mother's affections, and the slavery now grew quite insupportable. Now
began a parade to be made on a great scale with the love which my
sisters bore each other and my mother; it was the talk of the whole
province; when strangers came, it was like a drama in which all the
virtues were displayed. O forgive me! you and the lonely night will not
carry my words farther; you have yourself indeed seen their way, and
heaven must alter my feelings, or pardon them. But what was truly
alarming was, that in this smooth Baron there moves a very satyr under
the priestly robe. He took a liking to Clara, to Clementine too; but
the girls, great as was the reverence which they could not help feeling
for him, were still terrified at the thought of being forced to adore
him as a husband. They were however soon released; for the lot, for
which they felt themselves too good, was imperceptibly and artfully
shifted upon me. I now heard perpetually how noble, nay how necessary
it was, to sacrifice one's self, how wretched a thing the mere passion
of love appeared, how much a prudent marriage surpassed all other
happiness on earth. Believe me, I should have given way, my life had
lost all its bloom, I should have fallen a victim, and become utterly
wretched, if----"
Dorothea hesitated. "Well, my child?" asked her friend on the stretch.
"If it had not been, that to-day," she proceeded in her melodious tone,
"on this very day, the day on which I was born, and on which I have
returned to life again, a man appeared, who was an abomination to our
family, with whom, from the descriptions I had heard, I was myself
violently angry, a man, who has made a total revolution in my heart,
indeed has regenerated it, and whose mere presence, even if he had not
spoken, would have rendered it impossible for me to marry the Baron, or
indeed any man whatever."
"Wonderful!" cried Madame von Halden.
"Call it so," said the maiden: "indeed it is so, O, and yet again so
natural, so necessary! In him, in his mild look, which inspires
confidence (believe me I had really quite forgotten there were such
things as eyes) in his intelligent discourse, in every one of his
gestures, there appeared to me once more that truth which had now
become a fable to me, my youthful days, the blessed time of my father.
I never could conceive that which men call love; in the Poets indeed I
may have caught a glimpse of it, but I always believed that this
heavenly feeling was not made for a poor outcast like me; but now I
know, it must be that which I experience towards this excellent man,
for I could not imagine that such a being really moved upon the earth."
"Poor girl!" said her friend; "he is a ruined man, without property,
and besides who knows whether he may feel the same sentiments for you,
for he is no longer young. Now go to bed, to-morrow morning early we
will consult rationally on the means of soothing the Baroness, and
making the Baron leave you in peace."
"I never will return!" cried Dorothea with renewed vehemence. "I would
rather be a servant-maid in a distant land."
A noise was now heard more distinctly in the adjoining room, the ladies
started, the door opened, a ray of light gleamed through and Count
Brandenstein presented himself to them.
"O my God!" cried Dorothea, "the Count himself!"
"I had not gone to bed," answered he; "but was still busy, when this
unexpected visit----"
"O you sly creature!" cried Madame von Halden; "and so you have heard
of course every thing that my friend has been telling?"
"I cannot deny it," said the Count; "the wainscot and door are so thin,
that not a word escaped me. (Dorothea trembled violently.) And so, my
lovely, generous, and inexpressibly dear young lady, you would not
disdain me, if I could lay a fortune at your feet?"
"O how you confound me!" said she; "am I to say still more?"
"Take this letter," proceeded the Count; "these few lines will ensure
you perfect security at home."
He cast a thrilling glance at Dorothea and lingeringly withdrew. She
was so agitated and shattered, that her slumbers were broken and
afforded her but little refreshment.
* * * * *
A few friends were assembled at Baron Wilden's house for a little ball.
Alfred and the officer were likewise present, and the Baron's young
sister, an amiable girl, seemed extremely entertained. Miss Erhard too
was in high spirits, and Michael, who was a spectator, could hardly
conceive how she could move so nimbly in the Scotch reel. The dance was
now over, and the corpulent host tumbled down exhausted upon a sopha.
"If it does not fairly make one young again," he cried; "though it is
hard work too. The deuce, my dear Miss Erhard, what bounds you can
take! I should never have expected along with your piety so much
elasticity. This is as I like it, when a way can be found to reconcile
the heavenly with the earthly, for really the heart is cramped to death
with that humility and meekness, unless it can now and then make a good
start in mirth and pleasure. You seem to me quite a new creature, Miss
Erhard, here in my house, I should not at all have known you again if I
had not been sure that it was you."
The lively virgin seated herself by him and both looked on at the
dancers. Alfred was paying great attention to Sophia, the Baron's
sister, a circumstance which the Baron remarked not without
satisfaction. The sideboards were abundantly supplied with
refreshments, which were handed round by servants in rich liveries on
silver plate. "Is it not true?" said the Baron, who perceived the
complacent looks of his neighbour, with a leer: "We do not lead here
such a life as in the chateau yonder, where they sit for the most part
all together, like Adam and Eve before the fall? High-flown phrases,
apocalyptic sighs, and a marvellous tincture of ambrosial melancholy.
Virtue and devotion the stuff, pious sentiment for a lining, and the
whole turned up with contrition and penitence. No, a man must sin a
bit, to be able to become a convert; is it not so, my highly esteemed
young lady? Your legs do not ache sure? You make such a twitching with
your mouth."
"No," said she, "I was only trying to check a laugh at your strange
expressions, for in fact you are an abominable sinner. I hope however
that you will still repent."
"Time brings counsel," said the Baron: "do you see, I have managed my
matters prudently, I have committed a multitude of sins before hand in
my youth, in order that, in my old age, I might have a pretty stock to
repent of, and not be obliged, like many a devotee, to suck
transgressions out of my fingers' ends, and make scruples of conscience
for nothing and against nothing. O of that I have things to tell you
some of these afternoons, that shall make you open both your eyes."
"But this sort of talk is sin again," answered the virgin.
"Come," cried the Baron, "you must not examine my virtue through the
microscope, else we shall never have done with each other; for with me
every thing tends rather to the gross; my merits are as little refined
as my vices. But see, how among all my guests Mr. von Böhmer is
standing so solitary by the stove, and musing in the midst of the
music! Lieutenant, pray come and take a dance with one of these
ladies."
"I never dance," said the young officer, coming up to them: "nor should
I have come, had I not been invited by Miss Erhard; and it could never
have occurred to me, that she had in view a dinning ball."
"Is it not said, that to the pure all things are pure?" asked the lady
with great unction.
Alfred, who had come up, answered; "Certainly, that is the right view
of the matter, and it would be droll enough, if M. von Wilden were to
be converted by the lady, and she by our lively Baron. But you
Ferdinand (addressing himself to the officer,) wear not a single
holiday look on your dusky countenance."
"I am going away," he answered, "to the Baroness, will you accompany
me?"
"No, my friend," answered the other, "nor do I purpose ever troubling
that circle again; for that ostentatious hypocrisy has of late become
sufficiently clear to me. How thankful am I to the worthy man, who
shook the bandage from my eyes!"
"You mean Count Brandenstein?" said his friend: "You take then the part
of the wicked against the pious, of sin against virtue?"
"Let us drop this language now," replied Alfred, "I feel myself, since
I became acquainted with that person, more my own man."
"Do you know then," interrupted the Baron, "any thing of the story?
They say the savage, the American, is come, a spotted, copper-coloured
man, with hair like scales or prickles. People say too, this wild
animal would marry that froward girl Dorothea.
"Nothing is known for certain," said Alfred. "The American will at all
events be a man like all others, and consequently she will be more
happy with him, than with Baron Wallen."
"Whom you are incapable of appreciating," cried the officer, as with a
slight bow he withdrew.