A MAIDEN'S HEART.
Elise had passed the last two days and nights in her room;
nevertheless she had felt no fear; the thunder of the cannon and the
wail of the wounded had inspired her with mournful resignation rather
than with fear. As, at one time, she stood at the window, a shell
burst near the house, and shattered the window-panes of the ground
floor.
"Oh, if this hall had only struck me," cried she, while her cheeks
burned, "then all this suffering would have been at an end, this doubt
would have been cleared up: and if my father ever again gave himself
the trouble to visit his house, and ask after his daughter, my death
would be the proper rebuke to his question." Her father's long absence
and apparent indifference tormented her and converted her grief into
anger.
During these days of danger and mortal peril he had never once entered
his house to visit his daughter. With the unmitigated egotism of her
sex, she could not comprehend the greatness, the noble self-denial,
the manly firmness which dictated his conduct; she could see in it
nothing but indifference and cold-heartedness.
"The most insignificant and unpolished workman is dearer to him than
his own child," said she, proudly, drying her tears. "He is now,
perhaps, watching in the cabins of his laborers, and does not care if
his own house is burned to the ground; but even if he were told that
it was so, if he heard that his daughter had perished in the flames,
he would calmly say, 'My country demands this sacrifice of me, and I
submit.' No tear would dim his eye; his country would not leave him
time to mourn for his daughter. Oh, this country! what is it? My
country is where I am happy, and where I am beloved!" She sighed
deeply, and her thoughts wandered to her lover, her Feodor, the enemy
of her country, in whose heart she thought she would find her real
country, her true home.
The spoiled child of fortune, always accustomed to see every wish
fulfilled, Elise had not learned the power of self-control, nor to
bend her will to any higher power. Fortune seemed anxious to spare yet
awhile this warm, loving heart, and to allow her a little longer the
freedom of happy ignorance, before it initiated her into the painful
and tearful mysteries of actual life. Besides this, Elise had
inherited from her father a strong will and dauntless courage, and
behind her bright, dreamy eyes dwelt a proud and spirited soul. Like
her father, her whole soul yearned for freedom and independence;
but the difference between them was, that while she only understood
freedom as applying to herself personally, Gotzkowsky's more capacious
mind comprehended it in its larger and more general sense. She wished
for freedom only for herself; he desired it for his country, and he
would willingly have allowed his own person to be cast into bonds and
fetters, if he could thereby have secured the liberties of the people.
Out of this similarity, as well as from this difference of character,
arose all the discord which occasionally threatened to disturb the
harmony of these two hearts.
Gotzkowsky could not understand the heart of the young maiden, nor
Elise that of the noble patriot. To these two strong and independent
natures there had been wanting the gentle, soothing influence of a
mother's love, acting conciliatingly on both. Elise's mother had died
while she was young, and the child was left to the care of strangers.
Her father could seldom find time to be with his daughter; but,
though seldom personally present, yet his whole soul was faithfully,
unalterably devoted to her. Elise did not suspect this, and in
consequence of seldom seeing or meeting him, and the want of mutual
intercourse, the heart of his daughter became estranged from him, and
in the soul of this young girl, just budding into life, brought up
without companions, in the midst of wealth and plenty, arose at first
the doubt, and later the conviction, of the indifference of her father
toward his only child. But proud as she was, and full of a feeling
of independence, she never met him with a reproach or complaint, but
withdrew into herself, and as she believed herself repelled, strove
also, on her part, to emancipate herself.
"Love cannot be forced, nor can it be had for the asking," said she,
as, yielding sometimes to a natural childish feeling, she felt an
irresistible longing to go to her father, whom she had not seen the
livelong day; to hunt him up in the midst of his work, to lay herself
gently on his breast, and say to him: "Love me, father, for without
love we are both so lonely!" Once she had yielded to the impulse of
her heart, and had gone down to his work-room, to take refuge with all
her love and all her desire in her father's heart. It was on the very
day that Gotzkowsky had returned from a most important journey. He had
been absent for weeks from his daughter, and yet his first visit had
not been to her, but to the work-room, which he had not left since his
arrival. But Elise did not know that he had travelled with relays of
horses, and that, in spite of the intensely bitter weather, he had
driven day and night, allowing himself no rest nor refreshment, in
order to reach home as rapidly as possible, solely from desire to see
his daughter, whose fair and lovely countenance was the star which
lighted his dreary, lonesome hours of toil, and inspired him with
courage and cheerfulness. Nor could she know that he had only
undertaken this journey because, by the failure of one of the largest
mercantile firms in the Netherlands, his own house had been put in
danger, and he had been threatened with the loss of his hard-earned
wealth.
With palpitating heart, and tears of love in her eyes, she entered his
room. Her whole bearing was sublime, full of tenderness and warmth,
full of the humble love of a child. But Gotzkowsky scarcely raised his
eyes from his books and papers, did not advance to meet her, did not
leave the circle of his officials and servants, did not even break
off the conversation he was engaged in with the directors of his
silk-factory. And yet Elise drew nearer to him, her heart yearned so
to bid him welcome. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and whispered
an affectionate greeting in his ear. Gotzkowsky only looked at her
hastily, and replied almost impatiently, "I pray you, my child, do not
disturb me; we are busy with very important matters."
It certainly was business of great importance, which monopolized
Gotzkowsky's attention immediately on his return. It was a question of
nearly half a million, which he would probably lose in consequence
of a royal decree just issued. This decree ordained that the new
_Frederick d'ors_ coined by the Jewish farmer of the mint, and which
were much too light, should be received at par all over the whole
kingdom, and even at the treasury offices. It was, therefore, but
natural that all debtors would hasten to pay their creditors in
this coin which had imparted to it so sudden and unexpected a value.
Gotzkowsky had received from his debtors upward of eight hundred
thousand dollars in this light coin, while his foreign creditors
absolutely refused to take them, and demanded the payment of their
debts in good money. Gotzkowsky, who, in consequence of his large and
extensive connections abroad, had about three hundred thousand dollars
in exchange against him, paid his creditors in gold of full weight,
and lost by these transactions three hundred thousand dollars in one
day.
Just at the moment when this heavy loss befell him, Elise appeared, to
welcome him. His heart sank as he beheld her, for as he looked at her
this loss appeared in its full magnitude; it seemed as if not he, but
his child, had lost a portion of her wealth.
Elise knew and suspected nothing. She only felt that she had been
repulsed, and she withdrew, deeply wounded and mortified, with the
vow never to run the risk again of such another rebuff, such another
humiliation.
Gotzkowsky lost in this hour, not only the three hundred thousand
dollars, but, what he valued above all earthly treasures, the
affection of his daughter, and both without any fault of his own.
Elise forced herself to close her heart against her father, or at
least to conquer her grief at the supposed indifference, or quiet,
lukewarm inclination. And yet this ardent heart longed for love, as
the plant longs for the sunshine which is to penetrate it, and ripen
it into wonderful bloom. Had the friend and companion of her youth,
Bertram, been near her, she would have confided all her sorrows to
him, and found consolation on his breast. But he had been absent for
about a year on his long journey; and Elise's heart, which had always
clung to him with a sisterly affection, became more and more alienated
from the friend of her youth.
But fate or perhaps her evil destiny ordained that, about this time,
she should make the acquaintance of a young man who quickly won the
love of her vacant heart, and filled its void.
This young man was Colonel Feodor von Brenda, whom the fortune of war
had thrown into Berlin.
Elise loved him. With joy and delight, with the unbounded confidence
of innocence, she gave her whole heart up to this new sensation.
And, indeed, this young colonel was a very brilliant and imposing
personage. He was one of those Russian aristocrats who, on the
Continent, in their intercourse with the noblest and most exclusive
society of Germany and France, acquire that external adroitness and
social refinement, that brilliant graceful polish, which so well
conceals the innate barbarism and cunning of the natural character of
the Russian.
He was a bright companion, sufficiently conversant with arts and
sciences to talk on every subject, without committing himself. He knew
how to converse on all topics fluently enough, without betraying the
superficial character of his knowledge and his studies. Educated at
the court of the Empress Elizabeth, life had appeared to him in all
its voluptuousness and fullness, but at the same time had soon been
stripped of all its fancies and illusions. For him there existed no
ideals and no innocence, no faith, not even a doubt which in itself
implies a glimmer of faith; for him there was nothing but the plain,
naked, undeceivable disenchantment, and pleasure was the only thing in
which he still believed.
This pleasure he pursued with all the energy of his originally noble
and powerful character; and as all his divinities had been destroyed,
all holy ideals had dissolved into myths and hollow phantoms, he
wished to secure one divinity, at least, to whom he could raise an
altar, whom he could worship: this divinity was Pleasure.
Pleasure he sought everywhere, in all countries; and the more ardently
and eagerly he sought it, the less was he able to find it. Pleasure
was the first modest, coy woman who cruelly shunned him, and the more
he pursued her, the more coldly did she seem to fly him.
And now he converted his whole life into an adventure, a kind of
quixotic pursuit of the lost loved one, Pleasure. In the mean time,
his heart was dead to all the better and nobler feelings. But, at one
time, it seemed as if a higher and more serious inclination promised
permanently to enchain this dreaded rival of all husbands and lovers.
Feodor von Brenda, the most _blasé_, witty, insolent cavalier at the
court of his empress, became suddenly serious and silent. On his proud
countenance was seen, for the first time, the light of a soft and
gentle feeling, and when he approached his beautiful bride, the
Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, there beamed from his dark eyes a glow
holier and purer than the fire of sensuality. Could he have fled with
her into some desert, could he have withdrawn into the stillness of
his mountain castle, he would have been saved; but life held him with
its thousand minute, invisible threads, and the experiences of his
past years appeared to mock him for his credulity and confidence.
Besides this woman, whom he adored as an angel, arose the demon of
skepticism and mistrust, and regarded him with mocking smiles and
looks of contempt; but still Feodor von Brenda was a name of honor, a
cavalier to whom his pledged word was sacred, and who was ready to pay
the debt of honor which he had incurred toward his betrothed; and this
love for the Countess Lodoiska, although cankered by doubt and gnawed
by the experiences of his own life, still had sufficient power over
him to cause the future to appear not gloomy but full of promise,
and to allow him to hope, if not for happiness, at least for rest and
enjoyment.
The war-cry roused him from these dreams and doubts of love. Elizabeth
had united with Maria Theresa against Frederick of Prussia, and the
Empress of Russia was about to send an army to the support of her
ally. Feodor awoke from the sweet rest into which his heart had sunk,
and, like Rinaldo, had torn asunder the rosy chains by which his
Armida had sought to fetter him. He followed the Russian colors, and
accompanied General Sievers as his adjutant to Germany.
As to him all life was only an adventure, he wished also to enjoy the
exciting pastime of war. This, at least, was something new, a species
of pleasure and amusement he had not yet tried, and therefore the
young colonel gave himself up to it with his whole soul, and an ardent
desire to achieve deeds of valor.
But it was his fate to be carried early from the theatre of war as
a prisoner, and in this character he arrived with General Sievers at
Berlin. But his durance was light, his prison the large and pleasant
city of Berlin, in which he could wander about perfectly free with the
sole restriction of not going beyond the gates.
General Sievers became accidentally acquainted with Gotzkowsky, and
this acquaintance soon ripened into a more intimate friendship. He
passed the greater part of his days in Gotzkowsky's house. As a lover
of art, he could remain for hours contemplating the splendid pictures
which Gotzkowsky had bought for the king in Italy, and which had not
yet been delivered at Sans Souci; or, by the side of the manufacturer
he traversed the large halls of the factory in which an entirely new
life, a world of which he had no idea, was laid open to him. And then
again Gotzkowsky would impart to him the wide and gigantic plans which
occupied his mind; and this disclosed to him a view into a new era
which arose beyond the present time, an era when industry would
command and raise the now despised workman into the important and
respected citizen.
While Gotzkowsky and his friend the general were discussing these
extensive plans, and speculating about the future of industry, the
young people, Elise and the adjutant, were dreaming about the future
of their love.
The colonel had only commenced this love-affair with the daughter
of the rich manufacturer as a new adventure. It was so piquant to go
through all the stages of a romantic, dreamy German love, with a pure,
innocent German girl, and to let himself be led by her through
the sacred mazes of innocent romance, holy transports, and chaste
affection--it was so pleasant a diversion of his captivity, why should
he not enjoy it?
This attachment to Elise was for him at first only a temporary
amusement, and he toyed with his vows and wooing, until,
imperceptibly, he found his heart entangled in his own net. The ardent
yet innocent love of the young girl touched his feelings. It was
something new to be the object of so chaste and devoted an affection.
He was ashamed of himself in his inmost soul to perceive with what
childish trust, what sacred security and humble resignation this
young, rich, and beautiful maiden gave herself up to him.
For the first time, he experienced an ardent desire to be worthy of so
noble an affection, and to resemble, at least in some slight degree,
the ideal picture which Elise had formed of him--to be something of
the hero, the knight, the noble being whom Elise worshipped in him.
At the same time it was so surprising and strange to meet a girl, who,
all submission and devoted love, yet remained firm and immovable in
her purity and chastity, so bright and proud that even he felt respect
for this innocence which surrounded the beloved one like a halo, and
his lips refused to utter words at which her pure soul might tremble.
With his fiery and mercurial temperament, he had, with a kind of
passionate curiosity, adopted the _rôle_ of a Platonic lover, and
the libertine in his character had been subdued by the love of the
eccentric. He had converted this love into a kind of adoration. He
placed Elise upon the altar, and worshipped her as a saint to whom
he had turned from the turmoil and wild lust of life, and in the
contemplation and worship of whom he could obtain forgiveness of all
his sins and errors. It affected him to think that Elise was praying
for him while he, perhaps, forgot her in the whirlpool of pleasure;
that she believed in him so devotedly and truly, that she looked up to
him so lovingly and humbly--to him who was so far her inferior. And in
the midst of his wild life of pleasure he felt the need of some saint
to intercede for forgiveness for him. All these new and unaccustomed
feelings only enchained him the more closely, and made him consider
the possession of her as the most desirable and only worthy object of
his life.
She must be his; he was determined to wear this brilliant diamond,
the only one he had ever found genuine and without flaw, as his
most costly possession; to become, in spite of all difficulties and
impossibilities, unmindful of his betrothed bride and his solemn vows,
the husband of this beautiful German maiden, who had given herself to
him heart and soul.
In proportion to the difficulties that opposed such a union, increased
his fierce determination to overcome them. He was betrothed, and the
Empress Elizabeth herself had blessed the betrothal. He could
not, therefore, retract his vows without exciting the anger of his
mistress, and history had more than one example to show how violent
and annihilating this anger could be. In like wise, Elise dared not
hope ever to obtain the consent of her father to her union with a man
who was the enemy of her country. She was obliged to conceal this love
with anxious care from his eyes, if she did not wish to expose herself
to the danger of being separated from her lover forever. She knew that
her father, in every thing else uniformly kind and yielding toward
her, was on this one subject implacable, and that no tears, no
pleading, were capable of moving the firm and energetic will of the
ardent patriot.
Both were obliged, therefore, to preserve their love a secret, and in
this concealment lay for Feodor a new charm which bound him to her,
while it estranged Elise's heart still more from her father, and
chained it in unbounded devotion to her lover.
In the mean while the time arrived for Feodor to leave Berlin with
General Sievers. He swore eternal love and fidelity to Elise, and she
vowed to him cheerfully never to become the wife of another, but in
patience and trust to await his return, and to hope for the end of the
war and the coming of peace, which would solve all difficulties, and
remove the opposition of her father.
That besides her father there could be any obstacle, she did not
suspect; Feodor had so often sworn that she was his first and only
love, and she, young and inexperienced as she was, believed him.
* * * * *