THE THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE(11)
So ridiculous an expression ought to be changed, yet the thing exists.
I have seen the amiable and noble Wilhelmina, the despair of the
beaux of Berlin, making light of love and laughing at its folly. In
the brilliance of youth, wit, beauty and all kinds of good luck--a
boundless fortune, giving her the opportunity of developing all her
qualities, seemed to conspire with nature to give the world an example,
rarely seen, of perfect happiness bestowed upon an object perfectly
worthy. She was twenty-three years old and, already some time at Court,
had won the homage of the bluest blood. Her virtue, unpretentious but
invulnerable, was quoted as a pattern. Henceforth the most charming
men, despairing of their powers of fascination, aspired only to make
her their friend. One evening she goes to a ball at Prince Ferdinand's:
she dances for ten minutes with a young Captain.
"From that moment," she writes subsequently to a friend,[1] "he was
master of my heart and of me, and this to a degree that would have
filled me with terror, if the happiness of seeing Herman had left me
time to think of the rest of existence. My only thought was to observe
whether he gave me a little notice.
"To-day the only consolation that I might find for my fault is to nurse
the illusion within me, that it is through a superior power that I am
lost to reason and to myself. I have no word to describe, in a way that
comes at all near the reality, the degree of disorder and turmoil
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to which the mere sight of him could bring my whole being. I blush to
think of the rapidity and the violence with which I was drawn towards
him. If his first word, when at last he spoke to me, had been 'Do you
adore me?'--truly I should not have had the power to have answered
anything but 'yes.' I was far from thinking that the effect of a
feeling could be at once so sudden and so unforeseen. In fact, for an
instant, I believed that I had been poisoned.
"Unhappily you and the world, my dear friend, know how well I have
loved Herman. Well, after quarter of an hour he was so dear to me that
he cannot have become dearer since. I saw then all his faults and I
forgave them all, provided only he would love me.
"Soon after I had danced with him, the king left: Herman, who belonged
to the suite, had to follow him. With him, everything in nature
disappeared. It is no good to try to depict the excess of weariness
with which I felt weighed down, as soon as he was out of my sight. It
was equal only to the keenness of my desire to be alone with myself.
"At last I got away. No sooner the door of my room shut and bolted than
I wanted to resist my passion. I thought I should succeed. Ah, dear
friend, believe me I paid dear that evening and the following days for
the pleasure of being able to credit myself with some virtue."
The preceding lines are the exact story of an event which was the topic
of the day; for after a month or two poor Wilhelmina was unfortunate
enough for people to take notice of her feelings. Such was the origin
of that long series of troubles by which she perished so young and so
tragically--poisoned by herself or her lover. All that we could see in
this young Captain was that he was an excellent dancer; he had plenty
of gaiety and still more assurance, a general air of good nature and
spent his time with prostitutes; for the rest, scarcely a nobleman,
quite poor and not seen at Court.
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In these cases it is not enough to have no misgivings--one must be sick
of misgivings--have, so to speak, the impatience of courage to face
life's chances.
The soul of a woman, grown tired, without noticing it, of living
without loving, convinced in spite of herself by the example of other
women--all the fears of life surmounted and the sorry happiness of
pride found wanting--ends in creating unconsciously a model, an ideal.
One day she meets this model: crystallisation recognises its object by
the commotion it inspires and consecrates for ever to the master of its
fortunes the fruit of all its previous dreams.[2]
Women, whose hearts are open to this misfortune, have too much grandeur
of soul to love otherwise than with passion. They would be saved if
they could stoop to gallantry.
As "thunderbolts" come from a secret lassitude in what the catechism
calls Virtue, and from boredom brought on by the uniformity of
perfection, I should be inclined to think that it would generally be
the privilege of what is known in the world as "a bad lot" to bring
them down. I doubt very much whether rigidity _à la_ Cato has ever been
the occasion of a "thunderbolt."
What makes them so rare is that if the heart, thus disposed to love
beforehand, has the slightest inkling of its situation, there is no
thunderbolt.
The soul of a woman, whom troubles have made mistrustful, is not
susceptible of this revolution.
Nothing facilitates "a thunderbolt" like praise, given in advance and
by women, to the person who is to occasion it.
False "thunderbolts" form one of the most comic sources of love
stories. A weary woman, but one without much feeling, thinks for a
whole evening that she is in love for life. She is proud of having
found at last one of those great commotions of the soul, which used to
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allure her imagination. The next day she no longer knows where to hide
her face and, still more, how to avoid the wretched object she was
adoring the night before.
Clever people know how to spot, that is to say, make capital out of
these "thunderbolts."
Physical love also has its "thunderbolts." Yesterday in her carriage
with the prettiest and most easy-going woman in Berlin, we saw her
suddenly blush. She became deeply absorbed and preoccupied. Handsome
Lieutenant Findorff had just passed. In the evening at the play,
according to her own confession to me, she was out of her mind, she
was beside herself, she could think of nothing but Findorff, to whom
she had never spoken. If she had dared, she told me, she would have
sent for him--that pretty face bore all the signs of the most violent
passion. The next day it was still going on. After three days, Findorff
having played the blockhead, she thought no more about it. A month
later she loathed him.
[1] Translated _ad litteram_ from the Memoirs of Bottmer.
[2] Several phrases taken from Crébillon.
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