STRUGGLES.
As Lato trotted into the court-yard of the castle a window was suddenly
closed, the window above his room,--Olga's. She had been awaiting his
return, then. He began to shiver as in a fever-fit.
"There must be an end to this," he said to himself, as he consigned his
horse to a sleepy groom and entered the castle.
His room was on the ground-floor; when he reached it he threw himself,
still dressed, on the bed, in a state of intolerable agitation; by
degrees he became calmer, his thoughts grew vague; without sleeping
soundly he dreamed. He seemed to be swimming with Olga in his arms
through a warm, fragrant lake, upon the surface of which pale
water-lilies were floating. Suddenly these pale lilies turned to greedy
flames, the lake glowed as with fire, and a stifling smoke filled the
air. Lato started up, his heart beating, his brow damp with moisture.
His fatigue tempted him to try again to rest, but he tossed about
restlessly; thinking himself still awake, he listened to the ticking of
his watch, and looked at Lion, who lay crouched beside his bed, when
suddenly Olga stood there gazing at him, her eyes transfigured with
heavenly compassion, as she murmured, "Will you not share your woe with
me?" She stretched out her arms to him, he drew her towards him, his
lips touched hers--he awoke with a cry. He rose, determined to dream no
more, and, drawing up one of his window-shades, looked down into the
courtyard. It was barely six o'clock. All was quiet, but for one of the
grooms at work washing a carriage. The fountain before the St. John
rippled and murmured; a few brown leaves floated in its basin. The
silvery reflection from the water dazzled Lato's eyes; he turned away,
and began slowly to pace the room. The motion seemed to increase his
restlessness; he threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book.
But he was not in a condition to read a line; before he knew it the
volume fell from his hand, and the noise it made in falling startled
him again. He shook his head in impatience with his nervousness; this
state of affairs could not be longer endured, he must bring about some
change; matters could not go on thus. He thought and thought. What
could be patched up from the ruins of his life? He must try to stand on
a better footing with his wife, to leave Dobrotschau as soon as
possible. What would be his future? could he ever become reconciled to
his existence? Oh! time was such a consoler, could adjust so much,
perhaps it would help him to live down this misery.
Then, like an honourable merchant who sees bankruptcy imminent, he
reckoned up his few possessions. His wife had certainly loved him once
passionately. It was long since he had recalled her former tenderness;
he now did so distinctly. "It is not possible," he thought to himself,
"that so strong a feeling can have utterly died out;" the fault of
their estrangement must be his, but it should all be different. If he
could succeed in withdrawing her from the baleful influences that
surrounded her, and in awakening all that was honest and true in her,
they might help each other to support life like good friends. It was
impossible to make their home in Vienna, where his sensitive nature was
continually outraged and at war with her satisfied vanity. Under such
circumstances irritation was unavoidable. But she had been wont to talk
of buying a country-seat, and had been eloquent about, the delights of
a country life. Yes, somewhere in the country, in a pretty, quiet home,
forgotten by the world, they might begin life anew; here was the
solution of the problem; this was the right thing to do! He thought of
his dead child; perhaps God would bestow upon him another.
What would, meanwhile, become of Olga? Like a stab, the thought came
to him that with her fate he had nothing to do. Olga would miss him,
but in time, yes, in time she would marry some good man. He never for
an instant admitted the idea that she could share his sinful affection.
"I must let the poor girl go," he murmured to himself. "I cannot help
her; all must look out for themselves." He said this over several
times, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands,--hands which, long,
narrow, and white, suggested a certain graceful helplessness which is
apt to distinguish the particularly beautiful hands of a woman. "Yes,
one must learn to control circumstances, to conquer one's self."