Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/larrabiataandot00heysgoog
2. Contents: 1. L'Arrabiata, 2. Count Ernest's Home, 3. Blind, 4.
Walter's Little Mother; 5. The Dead Lake and Other Tales: (a) A
Fortnight at the Dead Lake, (b) Doomed, (c) Beatrice, (d) Beginning and
End.
L'ARRABIATA
AND
OTHER TALES
BY
PAUL HEYSE.
FROM THE GERMAN
BY
MARY WILSON.
_Authorized Edition_.
LEIPZIG 1867
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON.
MILTON HOUSE, LUDGATE HILL.
PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.
NEW YORK: LEYPOLDT & HOLT, 451, BROOME STREET.
L'ARRABIATA.
L'ARRABIATA.
The day had scarcely dawned.--Over Vesuvius hung one broad grey stripe
of mist; stretching across as far as Naples, and darkening all the
small towns along the coast. The sea lay calm. But about the marina of
the narrow creek, that lies beneath the Sorrento cliffs, fishermen and
their wives were at work already, with giant cables drawing their boats
to land, and the nets that had been cast the night before. Others were
rigging their craft; trimming the sails, and fetching out oars and
masts from the great grated vaults that have been built deep into the
rocks for shelter to the tackle over night. Nowhere an idle hand; even
the very aged, who had long given up going to sea, fell into the long
chain of those who were hauling in the nets. Here and there, on some
flat housetop, an old woman stood and span; or busied herself about her
grandchildren, whom their mother had left to help her husband.
"Do you see, Rachela? yonder is our Padre Curato;" said one, to a
little thing of ten, who brandished a small spindle by her side;
"Antonio is to row him over to Capri. Madre Santissima! but the
reverend signor's eyes are dull with sleep!" and she waved her hand to
a benevolent looking little priest, who was settling himself in the
boat, and spreading out upon the bench his carefully tucked-up skirts.
The men upon the quay had dropped their work, to see their pastor off,
who bowed and nodded kindly, right and left.
"What for must he go to Capri, granny?" asked the child. "Have the
people there no priest of their own, that they must borrow ours?"
"Silly thing!" returned the granny. "Priests they have, in plenty--and
the most beautiful of churches, and a hermit too, which is more than we
have. But there lives a great Signora, who once lived here; she was so
very ill!--Many's the time our Padre had to go and take the Most Holy
to her, when they thought she could not live the night. But with the
Blessed Virgin's help, she did get strong and well--and was able to
bathe every day in the sea. When she went away, she left a fine heap of
ducats behind her, for our church, and for the poor; and she would not
go, they say, until our Padre promised to go and see her over there,
that she might confess to him as before. It is quite wonderful, the
store she lays by him!--Indeed, and we have cause to bless ourselves
for having a curato who has gifts enough for an archbishop; and is in
such request with all the great folks. The Madonna be with him!" she
cried, and waved her hand again, as the boat was about to put from
shore.
"Are we to have fair weather, my son?" enquired the little priest, with
an anxious look towards Naples.
"The sun is not yet up;" the young man answered: "When he comes, he
will easily do for that small trifle of mist."
"Off with you, then! that we may arrive before the heat."
Antonio was just reaching for his long oar to shove away the boat, when
suddenly he paused, and fixed his eyes upon the summit of the steep
path that leads down from Sorrento to the water.
A tall and slender girlish figure had become visible upon the heights,
and was now hastily stepping down the stones, waving her pocket
handkerchief.
She had a small bundle under her arm, and her dress was mean and poor.
Yet she had a distinguished, if somewhat savage way of throwing back
her head; and the dark tress that wreathed it, on her, was like a
diadem.
"What have we to wait for?" enquired the curato. "There is some one
coming, who wants to go to Capri. With your permission. Padre. We shall
not go a whit the slower. It is a slight young thing, but just
eighteen."
At that moment the young girl appeared from behind the wall that bounds
the winding path.
"Laurella!" cried the priest, "and what has she to do in Capri?"
Antonio shrugged his shoulders. She came up with hasty steps, her eyes
fixed straight before her.
"Ha! l'Arrabiata! good morning!" shouted one or two of the young
boatmen. But for the curato's presence, they might have added more; the
look of mute defiance with which the young girl received their welcome,
appeared to tempt the more mischievous among them.
"Good day, Laurella!" now said the priest; "how are you? Are you coming
with us to Capri?"
"If I may. Padre."
"Ask Antonio there, the boat is his. Every man is master of his own, I
say; as God is master of us all."
"There is half a carlin, if I may go for that?" said Laurella, without
looking at the young boatman.
"You need it more than I;" he muttered, and pushed aside some
orange-baskets to make room: he was to sell the oranges in Capri, which
little isle of rocks, has never been able to grow enough for all its
visitors.
"I do not choose to go for nothing;" said the young girl, with a slight
frown of her dark eyebrows.
"Come, child," said the priest; "he is a good lad, and had rather not
enrich himself with that little morsel of your poverty. Come now, and
step in;" and he stretched out his hand to help her; "and sit you down
by me. See now, he has spread his jacket for you, that you may sit the
softer; young folks are all alike; for one little maiden of eighteen,
they will do more than for ten of us reverend fathers. Nay, no excuse,
Tonino. It is the Lord's own doing, that like and like should hold
together."
Meantime Laurella had stepped in, and seated herself beside the Padre,
first putting away Antonio's jacket, without a word. The young fellow
let it lie, and muttering between his teeth, he gave one vigorous push
against the pier, and the little boat flew out into the open bay.
"What are you carrying there in that little bundle?" enquired the
Padre, as they were floating on over a calm sea, now just beginning to
be lighted up with the earliest rays of the rising sun.
"Silk, thread, and a loaf, Padre. The silk is to be sold at Anacapri,
to a woman who makes ribbons, and the thread to another."
"Self spun?"
"Yes, sir."
"You once learned to weave ribbons yourself, if I remember right?"
"I did, sir, only mother has been much worse, and I cannot stay so long
from home; and a loom to ourselves, we are not rich enough to buy."
"Worse, is she? Ah! dear, dear! when I was with you last, at Easter,
she was up."
"The spring is always her worst time, ever since those last great
storms, and the earthquakes, she has been forced to keep her bed from
pain."
"Pray, my child. Never grow slack of prayers and petitions, that the
blessed Virgin may intercede for you; and be industrious and good, that
your prayers may find a hearing."
After a pause; "When you were coming toward the shore, I heard them
calling after you: 'Good morning, l'Arrabiata!' they said, what made
them call you so? it is not a nice name for a young Christian maiden,
who should be meek and mild."
The young girl's brown face glowed all over, while her eyes flashed
fire.
"They always mock me so, because I do not dance and sing, and stand
about to chatter, as other girls do. I might be left in peace, I think;
I do _them_ no harm."
"Nay, but you might be civil. Let others dance and sing, on whom this
life sits lighter, but a kind word now and then, is seemly even from
the most afflicted."
Her dark eyes fell, and she drew her eyebrows closer over them, as if
she would have hidden them.
They went on a while in silence. The sun now stood resplendent above
the mountain chain; only the tip of mount Vesuvius towered beyond the
group of clouds that had gathered about its base. And on the Sorrento
plains, the houses were gleaming white from the dark green of their
orange-gardens.
"Have you heard no more of that painter, Laurella?" asked the curato;
"that Neapolitan, who wished so much to marry you?" She shook her head.
"He came to make a picture of you. Why would you not let him?"
"What did he want it for? there are handsomer girls than I;--who knows
what he would have done with it?--he might have bewitched me with it,
or hurt my soul, or even killed me, mother says."
"Never believe such sinful things!" said the little curato very
earnestly; "Are not you ever in God's keeping, without Whose will not
one hair of your head can fall; and is one poor mortal with an image in
his hand, to prevail against the Lord? Besides, you might have seen
that he was fond of you; else why should he want to marry you?"
She said nothing.
"And wherefore did you refuse him? he was an honest man they say; and a
comely; and he would have kept you and your mother far better than you
ever can yourself, for all your spinning and silk winding."
"We are so poor!" she said passionately; "and mother has been ill so
long, we should have become a burthen to him;--and then I never should
have done for a Signora. When his friends came to see him, he would
only have been ashamed of me."
"How can you say so? I tell you the man was good and kind;--he would
even have been willing to settle in Sorrento. It will not be so easy to
find another, sent straight from Heaven to be the saving of you, as
this man, indeed, appeared to be."
"I want no husband;--I never shall;" she said, very stubbornly, half to
herself.
"Is this a vow? or do you mean to be a nun?"
She shook her head.
"The people are not so wrong, who call you wilful, although the name
they give you is not kind. Have you ever considered that you stand
alone in the world, and that your perverseness must make your sick
mother's illness worse to bear, her life more bitter? And what sound
reason can you have to give, for rejecting an honest hand, stretched
out to help you and your mother? Answer me, Laurella."
"I have a reason;" she said, reluctantly, and speaking low; "but it is
one I cannot give."
"Not give! not give to me? not to your confessor, whom you surely know
to be your friend,--or is he not?"
Laurella nodded.
"Then, child, unburthen your heart. If your reason be a good one, I
shall be the very first to uphold you in it. Only you are young, and
know so little of the world. A time may come, when you may find cause
to regret a chance of happiness, thrown away for some foolish fancy
now."
Shyly she threw a furtive glance over to the other end of the boat,
where the young boatman sat, rowing fast. His woollen cap was pulled
deep down over his eyes; he was gazing far across the water, with
averted head, sunk, as it appeared, in his own meditations.
The priest observed her look, and bent his ear down closer.
"You did not know my father?"--she whispered, while a dark look
gathered in her eyes.
"Your father, child!--why, your father died when you were ten years
old--what can your father, (Heaven rest his soul in Paradise!) have to
do with this present perversity of yours?"
"You did not know him, Padre; you did not know that mother's illness
was caused by him alone."
"And how?"
"By his ill treatment of her; he beat her, and trampled upon her. I
well remember the nights when he came home in his fits of frenzy--she
never said a word, and did everything he bid her. Yet he would beat her
so, my heart felt like to break. I used to cover up my head, and
pretend to be asleep, but I cried all night. And then when he saw her
lying on the floor, quite suddenly he would change, and lift her up and
kiss her, till she screamed, and said he smothered her. Mother forbade
me ever to say a word of this; but it wore her out. And in all these
long years since father died, she has never been able to get well
again. And if she should soon die, which God forbid! I know who it was
that killed her."
The little curate's head wagged slowly to and fro; he seemed uncertain
how far to acquiesce in the young girl's reasons. At length he said:
"Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven!--And turn your thoughts from
such distressing pictures, Laurella; there may be better days in store
for you, which will make you forget the past."
"Never shall I forget that!"--she said, and shuddered;--"and you must
know, Padre, it is the reason why I have resolved to remain unmarried.
I never will be subject to a man, who may beat and then caress me. Were
a man now to want to beat or kiss me, I could defend myself; but mother
could not:--neither from his blows or kisses, because she loved him.
Now I will never so love a man as to be made ill and wretched by him."
"You are but a child; and you talk like one who knows nothing at all of
life. Are all men like that poor father of yours? do all illtreat their
wives, and give vent to every whim, and gust of passion? Have you never
seen a good man yet? or known good wives, who live in peace and harmony
with their husbands?"
"But nobody ever knew how father was to mother;--she would have died
sooner than complained, or told of him--and all because she loved him.
If this be love;--if love can close our lips when they should cry out
for help; if it is to make us suffer without resistance, worse than
even our worst enemy could make us suffer, then I say, I never will be
fond of mortal man."
"I tell you you are childish; you know not what you are saying. When
your time comes, you are not likely to be consulted whether you choose
to fall in love or not." After a pause; "And that painter: did you
think he could have been cruel?"
"He made those eyes I have seen my father make, when he begged my
mother's pardon, and took her in his arms to make it up--I know those
eyes. A man may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to beat a
wife who never did a thing to vex him! It made my flesh creep to see
those eyes again."
After this, she would not say another word.--Also the curato remained
silent. He bethought himself of more than one wise saying, wherewith
the maiden might have been admonished; but he refrained, in
consideration of the young boatman, who had been growing rather
restless towards the close of this confession.--
When, after two hours' rowing, they reached the little bay of Capri,
Antonio took the padre in his arms, and carried him through the last
few ripples of shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his legs
on dry land. But Laurella did not wait for him to wade back and fetch
her. Gathering up her little petticoat, holding in one hand her wooden
shoes, and in the other her little bundle, with one splashing step or
two, she had reached the shore. "I have some time to stay at Capri,"
said the priest. "You need not wait--I may not perhaps return before
to-morrow. When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your mother;--I
will come and see her within the week.--You mean to go back before it
gets dark?"--
"If I find an opportunity," answered the young girl, turning all her
attention to her skirts.
"I must return, you know;" said Antonio, in a tone which he believed to
be of great indifference--"I shall wait here till the Ave Maria--if you
should not come, it is the same to me."
"You must come;" interposed the little priest:--"you never can leave
your mother all alone at night--Is it far you have to go?"
"To a vineyard by Anacapri."
"And I to Capri, so now God bless you, child--and you, my son."
Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, for the Padre and
Antonio to divide between them. Antonio, however, appropriated no part
of it to himself, he pulled off his cap exclusively to the padre,
without even looking at Laurella. But after they had turned their
backs, he let his eyes travel but a short way with the padre, as he
went toiling over the deep bed of small loose stones; he soon sent them
after the maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to climb the
heights, holding one hand above her eyes to protect them from the
scorching sun. Just before the path disappeared behind high walls, she
stopped, as if to gather breath, and looked behind her. At her feet lay
the marina; the rugged rocks rose high around her; the sea was shining
in the rarest of its deep blue splendour. The scene was surely worth a
moment's pause. But as chance would have it, her eye, in glancing past
Antonio's boat, met with Antonio's own, which had been following her as
she climbed.
Each made a slight movement, as persons do who would excuse themselves
for some mistake; and then, with her darkest look, the maiden went her
way.
* * * * *
Hardly one hour had passed since noon, and yet for the last two,
Antonio had been sitting waiting on the bench before the fisher's
tavern. He must have been very much preoccupied with something, for he
jumped up every moment to step out into the sunshine, and look
carefully up and down the roads, which, parting right and left, lead to
the only two little towns upon the island. He did not altogether trust
the weather, he then said to the hostess of the Osteria; to be sure, it
was clear enough, but he did not quite like that tint of sea and sky.
Just so it had looked, he said, before that last awful storm, when the
English family had been so nearly lost; surely she must remember it?
No, indeed, she said, she didn't.
Well, if the weather should happen to change before the night, she was
to think of him, he said.
"Have you many fine folk over there?" she asked him, after a while.
"They are only just beginning; as yet, the season has been bad enough;
those who came to bathe, came late.
"The spring came late. Have you not been earning more than we at
Capri?"
"Not enough to give me maccaroni twice a week, if I had had nothing but
the boat;--only a letter now and then to take to Naples;--or a
gentleman to row out into the open sea, that he might fish. But you
know I have an uncle who is rich:--he owns more than one fine orange
garden,--and; 'Tonino,' says he to me; 'while I live you shall not
suffer want, and when I am gone you will find that I have taken care of
you;' and so, with God's help, I got through the winter."
"Has he children, this uncle who is so rich?"
"No, he never married; he was long in foreign parts, and many a good
piastre he has laid together. He is going to set up a great fishing
business, and set me over it, to see the rights of it."
"Why, then you are a made man, Tonino!"
The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Every man has his own
burthen;" he said, starting up again to have another look at the
weather, turning his eyes right and left, although he must have known
that there can be no weather side but one.
"Let me fetch you another bottle;" said the Hostess; "your uncle can
well afford to pay for it."
"Not more than one glass, it is a fiery wine you have in Capri, and my
head is hot already."
"It does not heat the blood; you may drink as much of it as you like.
And here is my husband coming, so you must sit awhile, and talk to
him."
And in fact, with his nets over his shoulder, and his red cap upon his
curly head, down came the comely padrone of the Osteria. He had been
taking a dish of fish to that great lady, to set before the little
curato. As soon as he caught sight of the young boatman, he began
waving him a most cordial welcome; and came to sit beside him on the
bench, chattering and asking questions. Just as his wife was bringing
her second bottle of pure unadulterated Capri, they heard the crisp
sand crunch, and Laurella was seen approaching from the left hand road
to Anacapri. She nodded slightly in salutation; then stopped, and
hesitated.
Antonio sprang from his seat;--"I must go," he said; "It is a young
Sorrento girl, who came over with the Signer curato in the morning. She
has to get back to her sick mother before night."
"Well, well, time enough yet before night;" observed the fisherman;
"time enough to take a glass of wine. Wife, I say, another glass!"
"I thank you; I had rather not;"--and Laurella kept her distance.
"Fill the glasses, wife; fill them both, I say; she only wants a little
pressing."
"Don't," interposed the lad. "It is a wilful head of her own she has; a
saint could not persuade her to what she does not choose." And taking a
hasty leave, he ran down to the boat, loosened the rope and stood
waiting for Laurella.--Again she bent her head to the hostess, and
slowly approached the water, with lingering steps--she looked around on
every side, as if in hopes of seeing some other passenger. But the
marina was deserted. The fishermen were asleep, or rowing about the
coast with rods or nets; a few women and children sat before their
doors, spinning or sleeping--such strangers as had come over in the
morning, were waiting for the cool of the evening to return. She had
not time to look about her long; before she could prevent him, Antonio
had seized her in his arms, and carried her to the boat, as if she had
been an infant. He leapt in after her, and with a stroke or two of his
oar, they were in deep water.
She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back to
him, so that he could only see her profile. She wore a sterner look
than ever, the low straight brow was shaded by her hair; the rounded
lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril occasionally gave a
wilful quiver. After they had gone on a while in silence, she began to
feel the scorching of the sun; and unloosening her bundle, she threw
the handkerchief over her head, and began to make her dinner of the
bread; for in Capri she had eaten nothing.
Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the
oranges, with which the baskets had been filled in the morning: "Here
is something to eat to your bread, Laurella;" he said: "don't think I
kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only found
them when I brought the baskets back to the boat."
"Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me."
"They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far."
"They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me."
"As you please;" he said,--and let them drop into the basket
Silence again; the sea was smooth as glass. Not a ripple was heard
against the prow. Even the white seabirds that roost among those caves,
pursued their prey with soundless flight.
"You might take the oranges to your mother;" again commenced Tonino.
"We have oranges at home, and when they are done, I can go and buy some
more."
"Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments."
"She does not know you."
"You could tell her who I am."
"I do not know you either."
It was not for the first time that she denied him thus. One Sunday of
last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio had
chanced to be playing Boccia with some other young fellows, in the
little piazza by the chief street.
There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella,
who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any
notice of him. The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still
and gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in the very midst
of the game, which, with two steps, he might have cleared. A very
ungentle ball came knocking against his shins, as a reminder that this
was not the spot to choose for meditation. He looked round, as if in
expectation of some excuse. But the young boatman who had thrown the
ball, stood silent among his friends, in an attitude of so much
defiance, that the stranger had found it more advisable to go his ways,
and avoid discussion. Still, this little encounter had been spoken of;
particularly at the time when the painter had been pressing his suit to
Laurella. "I do not even know him;" she had said, indignantly, when the
painter asked her whether it was for the sake of that uncourteous lad,
she now refused him? But she had heard that piece of gossip, and known
Antonio well enough, when she had met him since.
And now they sat together in this boat, like two most deadly enemies,
while their hearts were beating fit to kill them. Antonio's usually so
good humoured face was heated scarlet; he struck the oars so sharply
that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat; while his lips moved, as
if muttering angry words. She pretended not to notice; wearing her most
unconscious look, bending over the edge of the boat, and letting the
cool water pass between her fingers. Then she threw off her
handkerchief again, and began to smooth her hair, as though she had
been alone. Only her eyebrows twitched, and she held up her wet hands
in vain attempts to cool her burning cheeks.
Now they were well out into the open sea. The island was far behind,
and the coast before them lay yet distant in the hot haze. Not a sail
was within sight, far or near; not even a passing gull to break the
stillness. Antonio looked all round; evidently ripening some hasty
resolution. The colour faded suddenly from his cheek, and he dropped
his oars. Laurella looked round involuntarily;--fearless,--but yet
attentive.
"I must make an end of this;" the young fellow burst forth. "It has
lasted too long already. I only wonder that it has not killed me!--you
say you do not know me? And all this time, you must have seen me pass
you like a madman, my whole heart full of what I had to tell you, and
then you only made your crossest mouth, and turned your back upon me."
"What had I to say to you?" she curtly said. "I may have seen that you
were inclined to meddle with me, but I do not choose to be on people's
wicked tongues for nothing. I do not mean to have you for a husband.
Neither you, nor any other."
"Nor any other? so will you not always say!--You say so now, because
you would not have that painter. Bah! you were but a child! You will
feel lonely enough yet, some day; and then, wild as you are, you will
take the next best who comes to hand."
"Who knows? which of us can see the future? It may be that I change my
mind. What is that to you?"
"What it is to me?" he flew out, starting to his feet, while the small
boat leapt and danced; "what it is to me, you say? You know well
enough! I tell you, that man shall perish miserably, to whom you shall
prove kinder than you have been to me!"
"And to you, what did I ever promise?--Am I to blame, if you be
mad?--What right have you to me?"
"Ah! I know," he cried, "my right is written nowhere. It has not been
put in Latin by any lawyer, nor stamped with any seal. But this I feel;
I have just the right to you, I have to Heaven, if I die an honest
Christian. Do you think I could look on, and see you go to church with
another man, and see the girls go by, and shrug their shoulders at me?"
"You can do as you please. I am not going to let myself be frightened
by all those threats. I also mean to do as I please."
"You shall not say so long!" and his whole frame shook with passion. "I
am not the man to let my whole life be spoiled by a stubborn wench like
you! You are in my power here, remember, and may be made to do my
bidding."
She could not repress a start, but her eyes flashed bravely on him.
"You may kill me, if you dare," she said slowly.
"I do nothing by halves," he said, and his voice sounded choked and
hoarse. "There is room for us both in the sea; I cannot help thee,
child,"--he spoke the last words dreamily, almost pitifully;--"but we
must both go down together--both at once--and now!" he shouted, and
snatched her in his arms. But at the same moment, he drew back his
right hand; the blood gushed out;--she had bitten him fiercely.
"Ha! can I be made to do your bidding?" she cried, and thrust him from
her, with one sudden movement; "am I here in your power?" and she leapt
into the sea, and sank.
She rose again directly; her scanty skirts, clung close; her long hair,
loosened by the waves, hung heavy about her neck, she struck out
valiantly, and, without uttering a sound, she began to swim steadily
from the boat towards the shore.
With senses maimed by sudden terror, he stood, with outstretched neck,
looking after her; his eyes fixed, as though they had just been witness
to a miracle. Then, giving himself a shake, he pounced upon his oars,
and began rowing after her with all the strength he had, while all the
time, the bottom of the boat was reddening fast, with the blood that
kept streaming from his hand.
Rapidly as she swam, he was at her side in a moment. "For the love of
our most Holy Virgin," he cried; "get into the boat!--I have been a
madman! God alone can tell what so suddenly darkened my brain. It came
upon me like a flash of lightning, and set me all on fire.--I knew not
what I did or said. I do not even ask you to forgive me, Laurella, only
to come into the boat again, and not to risk your life!"
She swam on, as though she had not heard him.
"You can never swim to land.--I tell you, it is two miles off.--Think
upon your mother! If you should come to grief, I should die of horror."
She measured the distance with her eye, and then, without answering him
one word, she swam up to the boat, and laid her hands upon the edge; he
rose to help her in. As the boat tilted over to one side, with the
young girl's weight, his jacket that was lying on the bench, slipped
into the water. Agile as she was, she swung herself on board without
assistance, and gained her former seat; as soon as he saw that she was
safe, he took to his oars again, while she began quietly wringing out
her dripping clothes, and shaking the water from her hair. As her eyes
fell upon the bottom of the boat, and saw the blood, she gave a quick
look at the hand, which held the oar as if it had been unhurt.
"Take this," she said; and held out her pocket-handkerchief. He shook
his head, and went on rowing. After a time, she rose, and stepping up
to him, she bound the handkerchief firmly round the wound, which was
very deep. Then, heedless of his endeavours to prevent her, she took an
oar, and seating herself opposite him, she began to row with steady
strokes, keeping her eyes from looking towards him;--fixed upon the oar
that was scarlet with his blood. Both were pale and silent; as they
drew near land, such fishermen as they met began shouting after
Antonio, and jibing at Laurella, but neither of them moved an eyelid,
or spoke one word.
The sun stood yet high over Procida, when they, landed at the Marina.
Laurella shook out her petticoat, now nearly dry, and jumped on shore.
The old spinning woman, who, in the morning, had seen them start, was
still upon her terrace. She called down: "what is that upon your hand,
Tonino?--Jesus Christ!--the boat is full of blood!"
"It is nothing, Commare;" the young fellow replied. "I tore my
hand against a nail that was sticking out too far, it will be well
to-morrow. It is only this confounded ready blood of mine, that always
makes a thing look worse than needful."
"Let me come and bind it up, Comparello; stop one moment, I will go and
fetch the herbs, and come to you directly."
"Never trouble yourself, Commare. It has been dressed already,
to-morrow morning it will be all over and forgotten. I have a healthy
skin, that heals directly."
"Addio!" said Laurella, turning to the path that goes winding up the
cliffs. "Good night!" he answered, without looking at her; and then
taking his oars and baskets from the boat, and climbing up the small
stone stairs, he went into his own hut.
He was alone in his two little rooms, and began to pace them up and
down. Cooler than upon the dead calm sea, the breeze blew fresh through
the small unglazed windows, which were only to be closed with wooden
shutters. The solitude was soothing to him. He stopped before the
little image of the Virgin, devoutly gazing upon the glory round the
head (made of stars cut out in silver paper). But he did not want to
pray. What reason had he to pray, now that he had lost all he had ever
hoped for?
And this day appeared to last for ever. He did so long for night! for
he was weary, and more exhausted by the loss of blood, than he would
have cared to own. His hand was very sore: seating himself upon a
little stool, he untied the handkerchief that bound it, the blood, so
long repressed, gushed out again; all round the wound the hand was
swollen high.
He washed it carefully; cooling it in the water; then he clearly saw
the marks of Laurella's teeth.
"She was right," he said--"I was a brute and deserved no better. I will
send her back the handkerchief by Giuseppe, to-morrow. Never shall she
set eyes on me again."--And he washed the handkerchief with greatest
care, and spread it out in the sun to dry.
And having bound up his hand again, as well as he could manage with his
teeth and his left hand, he threw himself upon his bed, and closed his
eyes.
He was soon waked up from a sort of slumber, by the rays of the bright
moonlight, and also by the pain of his hand; he had just risen for more
cold water to soothe its throbbings, when he heard the sound of some
one at his door; "Who is there?" he cried, and went to open it:
Laurella stood before him.
She came in without a question, took off the handkerchief she had tied
over her head, and placed her little basket upon the table;--then she
drew a deep breath.
"You are come to fetch your handkerchief," he said: "you need not have
taken that trouble. In the morning, I would have asked Giuseppe to take
it to you."
"It is not the handkerchief;" she said, quickly; "I have been up among
the hills to gather herbs to stop the blood; see here." And she lifted
the lid of her little basket.
"Too much trouble," he said not in bitterness;--"far too much trouble;
I am better, much better; but if I were worse, it would be no more
than I deserve. Why did you come at such a time? If anyone should see
you?--You know how they talk! Even when they don't know what they are
saying."
"I care for no one's talk;" she said, passionately: "I came to see your
hand, and put the herbs upon it; you cannot do it with your left."
"It is not worth while, I tell you."
"Let me see it then, if I am to believe you."
She took his hand, that was not able to prevent her, and unbound
the linen. When she saw the swelling, she shuddered, and gave a
cry:--"Jesus Maria!"
"It is a little swollen," he said; "it will be over in four and twenty
hours."
She shook her head. "It will certainly be a week, before you can go to
sea."
"More likely a day or two, and if not, what matters?"
She had fetched a bason, and began carefully washing out the wound,
which he suffered passively, like a child. She then laid on the healing
leaves, which at once relieved the burning pain, and finally bound it
up with the linen she had brought with her.
When it was done; "I thank you," he said; "and now, if you would do me
one more kindness, forgive the madness that came over me; forget all I
said, and did. I cannot tell how it came to pass, certainly it was not
your fault; not yours. And never shall you hear from me again one word
to vex you."
She interrupted him: "It is I who have to beg your pardon. I should
have spoken differently. I might have explained it better, and not
enraged you with my sullen ways. And now that bite!--"
"It was in self-defence--it was high time to bring me to my senses. As
I said before, it is nothing at all to signify. Do not talk of being
forgiven, you only did me good, and I thank you for it; and now,--here
is your handkerchief; take it with you."
He held it to her, but yet she lingered; hesitated, and appeared to
have some inward struggle--at length she said; "You have lost your
jacket, and by my fault; and I know that all the money for the oranges
was in it. I did not think of this till afterwards. I cannot replace
it now, we have not so much at home;--or if we had, it would be
mother's;--but this I have; this silver cross. That painter left it on
the table, the day he came for the last time--I have never looked at it
all this while, and do not care to keep it in my box; if you were to
sell it? It must be worth a few piastres, mother says. It might make up
the money you have lost; and if not quite, I could earn the rest by
spinning at night, when mother is asleep."
"Nothing will make me take it;" he said shortly; pushing away the
bright new cross, which she had taken from her pocket.
"You must," she said; "how can you tell how long your hand may keep you
from your work? There it lies; and nothing can make me so much as look
at it again."
"Drop it in the sea, then."
"It is no present I want to make you, it is no more than is your due,
it is only fair."
"Nothing from you can be due to me, and hereafter when we chance to
meet, if you would do me a kindness, I beg you not to look my way. It
would make me feel you were thinking of what I have done. And now good
night, and let this be the last word said."
She laid the handkerchief in the basket, and also the cross, and closed
the lid. But when he looked into her face, he started;--great heavy
drops were rolling down her cheeks; she let them flow unheeded.
"Maria Santissima!" he cried. "Are you ill?--You are trembling from
head to foot!"
"It is nothing," she said; "I must go home;" and with unsteady steps
she was moving to the door, when suddenly a passion of weeping overcame
her, and leaning her brow against the wall, she fell into a fit of
bitter sobbing. Before he could go to her, she turned upon him
suddenly, and fell upon his neck.
"I cannot bear it," she cried, clinging to him as a dying thing to
life--"I cannot bear it, I cannot let you speak so kindly, and bid me
go, with all this on my conscience. Beat me! trample on me, curse me!
Or if it can be that you love me still, after all I have done to you,
take me and keep me, and do with me as you please; only do not send me
so away!"--She could say no more for sobbing.
Speechless, he held her a while in his arms. "If I can love you still!"
he cried at last. "Holy mother of God! Do you think that all my best
heart's blood has gone from me, through that little wound? Don't you
hear it hammering now, as though it would burst my breast, and go to
you? But if you say this to try me, or because you pity me, I can
forget it--you are not to think you owe me this, because you know what
I have suffered for you."
"No!" she said very resolutely, looking up from his shoulder, into his
face, with her tearful eyes; "it is because I love you;--and let me
tell you, it was because I always feared to love you, that I was so
cross. I will be so different now--I never could bear again to pass you
in the street, without one look! And lest you should ever feel a doubt,
I will kiss you, that you may say, 'she kissed me:' and Laurella kisses
no man but her husband."
She kissed him thrice, and escaping from his arms: "And now good night,
amor mio, cara vita mia!" she said. "Lie down to sleep, and let your
hand get well. Do not come with me; I am afraid of no man, save of you
alone."
And so she slipped out, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the wall.
He remained standing by the window; gazing far out over the calm sea,
while all the stars in Heaven appeared to flit before his eyes.
The next time the little curato sat in his confessional, he sat smiling
to himself: Laurella had just risen from her knees after a very long
confession.
"Who would have thought it?" he said musingly; "that the Lord would so
soon have taken pity upon that wayward little heart? And I had been
reproaching myself, for not having adjured more sternly that ill demon
of perversity. Our eyes are but shortsighted to see the ways of
Heaven!"
"Well, may God bless her I say! and let me live to go to sea with
Laurella's eldest born, rowing me in his father's place! Ah! well,
indeed! L'Arrabiata!"
COUNT ERNEST'S HOME.
COUNT ERNEST'S HOME.
While I was at College, I chanced, one summer, to fall into habits of
frequent and intimate intercourse with a young man, whose intellectual
countenance and refinement of character never failed to exercise a
winning influence, even upon the most cursory of his acquaintance.
I may call our connection intimate; for I was the only one of our
student set, whom he ever asked to go and see him, or himself
occasionally visited. But in our relations, there was nothing of that
wild, exuberant, often obtrusive kind of fraternizing, affected by our
studious youth. From that, we were as far, when we parted in the
autumn, as we had been on our first walk by the Rhine; when the same
road, and the same delight in the marvellous beauty of the spring
scenery before us had first introduced us to each other's notice.
Even of his worldly circumstances, I had learned but little. I had
heard that he came of an ancient and noble house;--that his boyhood had
been passed at his father. Count ----'s castle, under the direction of
a French tutor, with whom he had then been sent to travel; and finally,
at his own express desire, to college. There, he had ascertained, what
he had long suspected; viz.: that in each and every branch of regular
instruction he was totally deficient--Upon which, straightway he shut
himself up with books and private tutors;--suffered the tumult of loose
Burschen-life to sweep by him, without once lifting his eyes from his
task;--and by the time I knew him, he had got so far as to rise every
morning with the Ethica of Aristotle, and to lie down, at night, with a
chorus of Euripides.
Not a shade of pedantry;--not a taint of scholastic rust,--was left to
clog the free play of his mind, at the close of all those years of
sharp-set study.--Numbers of industrious people work, because they do
not know how to live. But his life was in his work;--he took science in
its plenitude, with all his faculties at once. He acknowledged no
intellectual gain, that did not tend to elevate his character, or stood
at variance with his mental instincts.
In this sense, his was, perhaps, the most ideal nature I ever knew; if
the term be not abused, as it too often is, to mean a vapid kind of
beauty worship, and a sentimental distaste for rough realities; but
used in its loftier, and certainly far rarer sense: an ideal standard
of human character, resolutely upheld, and steadily pursued; with
undaunted spirit, if with moderate expectations; and at whatever
sacrifice of present brilliance and success, a thorough contempt of
cram, as well as of every other form of professional narrow mindedness.
It is quite conceivable therefore, that the coarser kind of student
pleasures could not prove ensnaring to this young hermit, whose
seclusion came to be interpreted as aristocratic prejudice, from which
no man could be more free. Education may have done something to confirm
his natural aversion to all that was coarse, excessive, or impure. But
as his scrupulous personal cleanliness was innate, so also was his
almost maidenly delicacy in matters of morality. Never have I met such
firmness of resolve, never so much masculine energy of intellect,
united to so girlish a reluctance to talk of love and love affairs.
Consequently, he kept aloof from all those clamorous carouses, where,
amidst the fumes of liquor and tobacco, liberty and patriotism, love
and friendship, God and immortality, are in their turns, discussed on
the same broad basis of easy joviality as the last ball, or the newest
cut of College cap. Even in a tete a tete, where he could so eloquently
hold forth on any scientific problem, he very rarely touched on
questions dealing with the most private and personal interests of man.
History, diplomacy, politics, or the classics, were subjects he would
discuss with passionate eagerness. Then he could wax as warm and fluent
in debate, as though he were addressing a listening nation he would
have won to some great purpose. To things of common life, he rarely
referred. Of his own family, I never heard him speak. His father, he
mentioned only once.
One evening, when I went to ask him whether he would join me in a row
upon the river;--in one of those excursions of which he was so fond,
when we used to take a little boat to a tavern a mile or two below the
town, and, after a frugal meal, to walk home by starlight;--I found him
just as he had thrown aside his pen, and was struggling with the
resolution necessary to dress for an evening party.
"Pity me!" he cried, as I came in; "only look at that magnificent
sunset, and imagine that I am doomed to turn my back upon it, and to go
where I shall see no other midnight splendour but that of the stars on
dress-coats!"
And he mentioned one of the most distinguished houses in the town,
where a party was to be given in honor of some passing diplomate.
"And must you?"--I asked, with sincerest sympathy. For all our
intimacy, we had never come to saying thou.--
"I must," he sighed; "my father, who has set his heart on making a
diplomate of me, whether I will or no, would be indignant if I were to
go home without being able to inform him, whether the suppers at Baron
N.'s are still such as to justify their European reputation. Hitherto,
I have been so culpable as to ignore them, and now, at the last, I have
to fill up these blanks in my course of study."
He saw me smile, and hastily added: "My father, you must know, has, if
possible, a still more uncivil opinion than I have of the liveried
nonentities that stop the way in that kind of society; only what he
finds wanting in them, is not what I do.--He is of the old school; a
diplomate of the Empire. He has seen the world in flames, and cannot
forget the demoniac light by which he then saw all things, good and
bad; fair and foul; high and low. Now the world is quiet, and regular
enough; but sleepy, tame, and colorless. At least he thinks so. Still
it is the world, and he who would rule in his generation, must make
himself acquainted with his subjects. He gave me very few maxims to
take away with me, when I came here; but this one, certainly with fifty
variations, 'Read men more than books.'--'When I was at your age,' he
used to say, 'books played a very subordinate part in the world. I have
known many a clever man, who from the time he entered into society
never read a line save the newest novel, or the latest war-bulletin,
and never wrote a syllable, except in love-letters or dispatches. He
had all the more time to act, or, if necessary, to think;--and when is
it _not_ necessary to think? But learning, book-learning! _we_ never
thought of such a thing, and yet, we knew everything, of course.--It
was in the air; and where, now-a-days, you very soon get to the end of
your Latin, our French took us a good way farther.'
"So I considered that as settled, and more than once I have girded up
my loins, to go and read these men, and study them. But after the first
few pages, I generally found out that their titles were the most
important part about them. Either I am a stupid reader; (a 'kind
reader', I know I am _not_!), or else the great world of the present
day really is a most insipid study."
His carriage came to the door, and I went away, for I had often noticed
that it embarrassed him, when any one was present while he was
dressing.
At a later hour, as I chanced to pass the house where the aristocracy
of ---- was to be assembled, I saw him getting out of the carriage; we
exchanged a short look with a shade of irony; and then he went slowly
up the carpetted steps, and I looked after him, while I felt proud of
his knightly bearing, and of the grace of his stalwart figure.
He could be dangerous to womankind, as I had heard from several
sources. They even told a story of a distinguished Englishwoman, who,
after divers attempts to win him, attempts as fruitless as unequivocal,
had at last gone off in rage and undisguised despair, after having
wrung her parrot's neck, for screaming from the window, day and night,
the name of the coy young count.
I was not able to learn more of this, nor of any other of his
adventures; he carefully avoided any conversation about women; still,
nothing he ever said could have led me to assume that he thought meanly
of them, or that he was suffering from any hidden wound, of which he
could not bear the probing.
Judging by the whole tenor of his conduct, I decided, that, striving as
he did, at aims so serious, he found no time for trifling flirtations,
and never had been touched by a deeper feeling. His mother had died
very soon after the birth of her first-born son, but he would
occasionally receive letters, addressed in a feminine hand, and he told
me they came from an old nurse of his, who had been as a second mother
to him. She was evidently very dear to him; but even of her he spoke
but little; eager discussions upon his own studies, or on mine, were
ever burning on his lips.
He was several years in advance of me, and when we parted in the
autumn, he went to pass his diplomatic examination at Berlin. We bid
each other a very affectionate farewell, without much hope of
continuous intercourse;--we knew that what we had hitherto exchanged,
no correspondence could have replaced. But we were young, and we parted
in the confident hope that life and its chances must, in some way or
other, bring us together again.
For many a long year, I heard nothing of him but his name; the last I
learned was from a newspaper, which stated that Count Ernest ---- had
been appointed secretary of Legation at Stockholm. Again a long time
elapsed, without the smallest tidings of him, and I confess that his
image had considerably faded in my memory, when it chanced, that, on a
pedestrian tour, I suddenly lit upon his name, printed upon a road-post
that pointed to a deep lane, all overgrown with brushwood, cutting at
right angles the road which I had taken. I stopped, and, as if by a
magician's wand, the country round me seemed metamorphosed.
Again the Rhine was rolling at my feet, and again I saw his straight
lithe figure, as he walked along, holding his hat in his hand, and
letting the fresh breeze from the current play among his luxuriant hair
of reddish gold; and those fine eyes of his, so full of thought, gazing
over the river towards the mountains, until my voice would rouse him
from his musings. This visionary play of memory lasted but a moment,
and then an incontrollable desire came over me to look upon that face
once more, and abundantly to make up for what I had lost so long.
It was early in the afternoon; I hoped that I should not mistake the
road, and never doubted but that at this autumn season, I should find
my friend at home; he was an eager sportsman, and had spoken far
oftener of the trees, than of the persons he had known from childhood.
I may have followed this ravine for about an hour, when it suddenly
occurred to me as strange, that the road should be so neglected and
overgrown; it was evident that no sort of carriage could possibly have
passed this way for years. The foliage of past autumns lay mouldering
in deep crevices;--here and there, a fragment of rock, or rotten
branch, had been hurled from the edge by the winter storms; only in the
firmest parts of the ground, were occasional tracks of human passage. I
sent my doubts to sleep, with the supposition, that long before this,
some other and more level road, must have been made between the castle
and the plain. And yet, on entering the ravine, I had certainly
ascertained that no nearer way was possible, from the little
manufacturing town I had left behind. At the summit of the pass, where
half a dozen neglected paths diverged, I stopped, in real perplexity. I
climbed up a wide armed beech-tree, and looked all round me.
A deep circular hollow lay before me, almost like a lake, filled with
lovely bright green waves of densest foliage. It was a vast forest of
old beech-trees. Just in the centre rose the turrets of the castle,
over which the wilderness seemed to close.
It was like a fairy tale, to see the spires and weather-cocks
glittering in the bright autumn sun; as in those stories of sunken
castles, which shew their pinnacles on some clear day, peeping from the
hidden depths of water. There was not a sound of human life; the
woodpecker tapped monotonously against the trees;--a careless deer ran
past me, with more surprise than terror;--while swarms of audacious
squirrels, among the branches, were aiming at the intruder, with the
empty husks of beechnuts.
I was on the point of giving it up, when, with a sharper look at the
enchanted castle, I saw a thin thread of smoke, to inform me that it
could not exclusively be harbouring hobgoblins.
That the owner had not been here for ages, might, with some degree of
certainty, be surmised; but some sort of castellan or game-keeper might
be there, and from him, I hoped to hear some tidings of my friend and
his welfare, and at least to spend a night in a home which he had loved
with all his heart.
I took one of these downward paths at a venture, and soon plunged into
the strangest, darkest night of wood that ever stirred above a
wanderer's head.
And in the night come dreams;--and these soon wove a spell about me,
and I quite forgot whence I had come, and whither I was going, and
blindly left my legs to guide me, as they stepped uniformly on, until
they came to an involuntary halt, at a broad stream, where not a trace
of path could be discerned; the trees stood thick, interlacing their
branches with the brushwood, and forming an impenetrable barrier. I
immediately turned back, and walked steadily upwards, until a path to
the right again seduced me; then I tried another downwards, went astray
again, and so went wandering on for hours, making the whole round of
the valley, without catching a single glimpse of the castle peeping
through the thickets. The moon was already shining upon the tree tops,
and I made up my mind to pass the night in the airiest of lodgings.
Suddenly, when I least expected it, the brushwood opened, and there,
like an island in the midst of a lake of verdure, the old grey building
stood square before me, with countless glassless windows, but without
one trace of human habitation. A broad stone-bridge across the dried-up
moat, reached right into the dark court, from which the three square
wings of the building rose ponderous and unadorned. Not a balcony, nor
jutting window, was there to relieve the stern monotony of the walls;
nothing but a gigantic coat of arms hewn in stone above the gateway, in
which I recognised the bearings of a well-remembered signet ring.
Nearer to the roof, the castle wore a gayer aspect the copper-plates
about the gables shone mildly in the moonbeams, and the numerous
chimney tops with weathercocks and flagstaffs, seemed all spangled over
with silver. Nowhere a light; nor a window opened to the evening air;
even the smoke I had seen upon the roof was gone.
As I stood upon the bridge, and looked upon the rank vegetation, which,
struggling upwards, was choking up the moat; and then at the forest
pressing onwards to the very threshold of the castle, the thought would
force itself upon me, that in fifty years or so, all this vast work of
human hands would be destroyed and overcome by the exuberance of
nature; that these tall beeches would thrust their branches into the
deserted halls; would take possession of the court, and sink their
roots deep into the vaulted cellars; till, stone by stone, the whole
fabric would give way, and again the forest reign alone.
I entered the court-yard; and where the long grass that grew in the
chinks between the paving stones, muffled the echo of my steps, I began
to be sensible of a strange sound, proceeding from a small building
that had been patched on beside the bridge; at first, I took it for the
jarring of a shutter shaken by the wind; and then I thought, that noise
could only be produced by some vigorous deep-bass snoring. I saw a
light at one small window, and stole up to it to peep in. In a low
room, two men were seated at a table, with bottles and half emptied
glasses before them, and a pack of cards. One of them, huddled into a
corner, had fallen asleep. The other sat leaning on his elbows, staring
into the light with sleepy swimming eyes, a short pipe between his
teeth. Now and then, he caught a fly, and burned it at the candle, and
hardly turned his head when he heard me at the window-pane.
"What's the matter now?"--he called, in a voice worn and hollowed out
by drunkenness,--"bid the Mamsell[1] send our supper, the devil take
her!"
Before I could speak, I heard another and a more gentle voice, calling
to me across the court: "Who is there?--is a stranger there?" I turned,
and at the chief entrance I saw a female figure standing, whom, by the
huge bunch of keys she carried at her girdle, I could not err in taking
for the housekeeper. She was dressed all in black; all but a tremendous
cap, of which the broad bright ribbons fluttered oddly about her
delicate faded face.
Taking off my hat to her, I enquired, as politely as I could, while I
drew near, whether this really was the castle of Count Ernest ----, and
despite the deserted look, whether he might not chance to be at home? I
wished to be announced to him as an old friend, although, to be sure,
we had not met for years.
The old lady stood looking at me for awhile, with a melancholy
searching gaze, and then she said: "This certainly is the castle of the
Counts of ----; but my master, whom you seek, you will not find. It is
two years since Count Ernest took leave of this place for ever. Perhaps
you are not aware that he is settled in Sweden? It is true," she added,
after a pause, "the world is very different to these woods; things that
will keep sounding in my ears all my lifetime, may be scarcely heard
out there. But will you not come in? You cannot leave this place
to-night, and you must be so kind as to put up with the little we have
to offer. It used to be very different; in our hospitable days, guests
used to be glad to stay a week. Since the castle has been kept in trust
for the two little counts, all has gone to ruin. You have seen,
yourself, Sir, the sinful way in which the Forester and Monsieur Pierre
kill the time. They clean out nothing but the cellars; and when I say a
word of what is needful to be done, the villains turn upon their heels,
and I might as well have spoken to the walls. I myself am old, and my
eyes get worse and worse, so that I can hardly see to cleanliness and
order as I should do. But pray, come in, Sir, and take a bite of
something, and talk to me of my dear Count Ernest, of whom now I can
only talk to empty rooms and pictures. Your visit will be the greatest
favor you can do me."
I still stood on the steps before the great arched door, and felt
strangely moved. This old woman's thin quavering voice, and the weary
blue eyes with which she looked so sadly on me, increased the
dreariness of the place and sharpened the recollections that came
crowding over me.
"You are Mamsell Flor," I said, at last; "from whom my friend used to
get letters when he was at college; he appeared to be very much
attached to you."
At these words her eyes overflowed at once. "Come," she said, and
stretched out a slim withered hand; "I see you know me--we are old
friends. I have been sadly wanting to see some kind and sympathizing
face, once more before I die. It is a long while to have lived only
among servants, for indeed I have been used to better company."
She led me across the dark entrance-hall, and through a vaulted passage
to a great hall, dimly lighted by a few candles. Two farm-servants and
a maid were seated at a heavy stone table, supping, who stared
astonished, when they heard a strange voice wishing them good evening.
My companion gave a few whispered orders to the maid, and turned to me
again.
"The provisions we have in the house are but poor," she said;
"everything we want has to be carried for miles through the woods; and
I myself require so little. But for one night, Sir, you will not mind
bad cookery. This hall, you see, was once a chapel, in old times, when
the counts were Catholic; it was then left some time to dust and ruin,
until at last Count Henry, our Count Ernest's father, had the altar,
the benches, and the pictures taken away, and an eating room arranged.
You can still see the niche for the choristers over there, where the
floor is raised and boarded. That is the master's table, at which Count
Henry used to sup all his life, with the officials about the place--the
steward, the forester, and the castellan, (not Monsieur Pierre then),
and the bailiff; and at this stone table I supped with the servants; we
had crowds of them then. We never spoke a word, and the count seldom
asked a question. When he had company staying with him, the table was
laid upstairs in the great saloon, as it always was at dinner, when he
dined with the countess. I will just light this candelabrum on the
master's table; who knows whether I shall live to see it lighted
again?"
She placed a heavy five-branched candelabrum of massive silver on the
table, which she had laid with a snow-white damask cloth, and shortly
after, a supper was served up, that might have been far more frugal
still, to appear excellent after my long wanderings. Whilst I ate and
drank, the old lady disappeared, and left me to my meditations. The men
were already gone. I looked up into a twilight depth of desert space,
broken by a few tall pointed windows, through which the moonbeams fell.
The cross-vaults of the ceiling were supported by square pillars,
fretted all over with antlers; and the same ornament was placed at
regular intervals along the walls, with a small tablet under each,
recording the date of the shot, and the name of the shooter. What
changes had the world not seen, from the days when the first high mass
was celebrated here, to the present evening, when a stranger sits alone
at a deserted table, counting these dust-worn trophies! I took the
candelabrum to light myself along while I went reading the names on the
little tablets, reaching about two centuries back.
Counts, and princes, and princely prelates; even a few highborn dames
had been pleased to immortalize their luck. Presently I came to a
well-known name, beneath a stately antler of fourteen:
"On the 20th of September, Count Ernest shot this mighty stag, (who
numbers as many antlers as the young count years,) in the glade by the
deer's drought; Anno Domini 183--."
Heavy steps now came sounding along the passages, and two men made
their boisterous entrance.
I immediately recognised the respectable pair of the watch-tower by the
bridge. The farm-servants may have told them that there was a stranger
in the house, and they had shaken themselves out of their drunken sleep,
and come to assert their rights as guardians and watchmen. The
castellan, Monsieur Pierre, blinking on me with his small yellow much
inflamed eyes, measured me from head to foot, with a very comical
combination of sleepiness and impudence. He stammered out a few words
in a hoarse coarse voice, in very indifferent French, but he was soon
talked down by his companion, who walked straight up to me, and in the
most brutal tone of official zeal, enquired who I was, and what I
wanted?
I drily answered, that I was a friend of Count Ernest's, and had come
to see the castle. Upon which straightway a change came over the spirit
of the pair. The castellan commenced a series of crouching cat-like
obeisances, while the forester contrived to hit on the happiest
transition from the most insolent aggressiveness to the respectful
bluntness of the honest woodman. I perceived that I was taken for a far
more important personage than I was--for an emissary--(no less!)--from
the family, come to hold an impromptu inspection of the castle and its
condition. The forester, officiously relieving me from the candlestick,
forced me into a seat again, and sent a man to the cellar, for a bottle
of the best and oldest; while, with a sly kick, or a smothered
imprecation, he made an occasional attempt to awaken his drowsy
colleague to the full gravity of the situation. However I did not care
to be initiated into the details of the administration of woods and
buildings, and I felt so much disgusted with the voluble servility of
this precious pair of rogues, that I broke off suddenly, as soon as the
old lady returned to the hall, and excusing myself with the natural
fatigue of a pedestrian, I begged her to light me to my room.
She cast a look of meaning on the two, who were hardly to be prevented
from following us upstairs.
"Did you see the face Monsieur Pierre made at me, sir? and how the
forester took up his knife? Of course they are afraid that I should
tell of them. Good Lord! as if one could not see with half an eye the
state the place is in! I did once write about it to Sweden; but Sweden
is a long way off; too long, it would appear, for things to be remedied
in this castle. When one has seen it in better days, one feels the worm
that eats through wood and silk, gnawing at one's very heart, Sir!"
"It is high to climb;" she apologised, as we came to the third steep
flight of stairs, "but I thought I would put you here, as you might
like to sleep in the rooms in which Count Ernest grew up to be the man
he is, and which he always preferred to any others. And they are more
comfortable too, for I look after them myself, and carefully dust out
every corner. And to-morrow morning, when you awake, you can see his
favorite tree by the window; it has grown up so high meanwhile, that by
reaching out your hand you can lay hold of it. Ah, and well a day! when
we live to be so old, we live to see many a young child, and many a
young tree, grow up and reach to Heaven, and leave us wearily to climb
after them!"
With these words, we came to the top, where a long low corridor ran
past a range of garret rooms, hardly above man's height. A covey of
newly fledged bats, scared by the light, were flapping about against
the ceiling. "There must be a hole somewhere in the roof;" said the old
lady looking up, with a shake of her head; "I have told the man to mend
it ten times and more. But he always pretends he can find no hole, and
thus it is with every thing."
She opened a door, and shewed me into a large low room, where a light
was burning on a chiffonier, and where the atmosphere was purer and
more lifelike than without.
"Here we are;" she said. "Here he lived until he went on his travels
with Monsieur Leclerc, and then again before he went to college; and
also the last time he was here. Everything is just as it used to be.
That faded tapestry with the great hunting pieces may have faded a
trifle more; and the writing-table there, with the brass mountings, by
the window--the wood-worm is making sad havoc of it. Every time I come,
I find above an inch of yellow dust to sweep away. That is his own
pretty blue water-bottle; and the gilded glass was a present from his
tutor. I worked that little rug before the bed, to give him when he was
confirmed, and he never would allow it to be removed, long after the
work was quite worn away. The bed is not his; I took his down stairs;"
and, with a faint flush, that brought back a touching tint of youth to
her refined old face, she added: "in that I sleep myself."
"Indeed, my dear Mamsell Flor," I said; "and he was worthy of being
loved by a heart so faithful. He bore the stamp of his most ingenuous
soul so clearly upon his noble brow, that even those who merely saw him
pass, could not choose but believe all good of him. By the time I knew
him he had become reserved; but what must he have been to you, who
reared him from his birth, and were to him as a mother! What happened
to make him give up this place, and leave a home for ever, that used to
be so dear to him?"
She shook her head sadly, and sat down upon the sofa, as if the weight
of all these rushing memories at once, were too heavy to be borne
standing. She remained a while absorbed in thought; and then at last,
taking an agate snuffbox from her pocket, she strengthened herself with
a pinch, before she answered.
"It is a strange story, Sir, which nobody can tell so well as I can;
and I may tell it now, that the grass is growing over many a younger
head than this old foolish one of mine. It will be nine-and-forty years
at Christmas, since I went up these stairs for the first time. I was
the schoolmaster's daughter, a silly green young thing, and I thought I
was being taken straight to Heaven, when our gracious Countess first
took me into her service as a waiting maid. The young Count was not
born then, nor ever likely to be: there was little love between my
master and my mistress. To be sure my lady would always have been
willing to worship him, for all he did to vex her. But they were an
illmatched pair; and when Count Henry, who was almost always travelling
about, came home in Autumn for the shooting-season, he managed to make
his pretty patient wife still more unhappy than when he was away.
"I had not been two days in the castle, before I knew that my lady was
suffering from some sore trouble; I used to find her pillow wet of
mornings, and her eyes all swollen with crying.
"For you see, Sir, the count was a gentleman who had a quick temper and
a wild way of his own, and the countess was meekness itself; she was
too quiet for him, and he soon wearied of her.--I suppose he had only
married her to please his father; some wilful, imperious, dark-eyed
lady would have done better for him; some Frenchwoman, or Spaniard,
such as often came to visit at the castle; who would have kept him at
his wits' end, and made him hate her mortally to-day, and love her
desperately to-morrow. He only loved what gave him trouble; he rode the
wildest horses, and shot the biggest stags.
"Our countess loved him far too well, and that was her misfortune--and
our young count was exactly like her, and that was his. Only she was
small-made and delicate, and had a voice like the clearest bell. When
at last, after many long years of waiting, she had hopes of being a
mother, she looked like some fair angel; her joy was shining so
peacefully in her eyes! And the count seemed kinder, and even stayed
here all the summer, to be present at the baby's birth. When the nurse
brought it to him, so small and weakly looking, with its little yellow
down upon its head, he said nothing, but put it back into its cradle,
and left the room without a word.
"I saw that my lady was deeply hurt, and I felt so angry, that I could
not keep from saying, half to myself; 'Boys don't come into the world
on horseback!' But I repented directly, for my lady heard me, and sent
me out of the room. A week after this, she died.
"It was I who had to go and tell my master. He was sitting at the
piano, which he played, oh, so beautifully! I could have listened to
him for ever. It was early in the morning: he had watched through the
night in my lady's ante-chamber, and as she seemed to be rather better,
he had just gone upstairs; only instead of going to bed, he sat down to
play, and, while he was playing, she died. He shut down the piano,
without changing one feature of his face, and went down stairs to look
at his dead wife with the same proud step he always had; and in the
outer room, where our little master lay asleep in his cradle, he passed
the poor babe as though it were only a dead image, as its poor mother
was. When he came out again, he said to me:
"'A wet-nurse must be found,' he said; 'meantime, Flor, I give
the child in charge to you. I hold you responsible for every proper
care.--'
"And then he ordered his favorite horse, and rode away, and did not
come home till evening.
"Three days after this, they buried our countess in the cemetery of the
town. The count went with the funeral on horseback. And I could not
help thinking--God forgive me!--there he goes, prancing away like any
conqueror, with his poor victim carried after him for his triumph.
"When the ceremony was over, and all the servants were assembled,
eating their funeral feast in silence, and I was alone upstairs,
sitting by the little one's cradle, and crying while I was singing him
to sleep, in comes my master, stares at the babe a while, and says:
"'They had to send the nurse away, I hear;--the child would not take to
her at all?'--'No, Sir, he wouldn't.'
"'It will be hard to find another one to suit, in that little hole of a
place. Do you think you could undertake to bring up the child yourself
by hand, with milk and water, as they do in France? You are a person I
can depend upon--I had rather leave the child to you, than to twenty
wet-nurses.'
"I burst out crying, and took my master's hand and kissed it; for when
he pleased, he had a way with him, and a voice, that could turn the
heart of his bitterest enemies. 'It is well;' he said, and drew away
his hand: 'I shall be some time away; you will write to me twice a year
about the boy, and I shall give orders that no one shall interfere with
you.' That same day he left the castle, and for many a long year we saw
no more of him.
"I will not weary you, Sir, by telling everything--how my little master
grew up to be a great boy;--although I remember it all as if it were
only yesterday;--and many's the lonesome hour I spend thinking over the
past, from the first tooth he cut, to the first bird he shot with his
little gun. And when I watched him playing in the court with the dogs,
or looked after him when he rode out on the bailiff's horse, every
muscle as firm and supple as a steel spring, and then that sweet face
of his, and that dear little voice--I used to wonder at his father, who
could go wandering about in foreign parts, rather than see his child
grow up. To be sure, the boy did not take after him at all, except in
his love for horses, and field sports.--For the rest, he was just his
mother over again, both in face and temper. And so, when his father
came and saw him at ten years old, he frowned, and looked as coldly on
him as on a stranger. At night my darling asked me: 'Is Papa always so
grave-looking, Flor?' And of course, I could not tell him how it was.
"However, by-and-by, things began to mend. The Count came every autumn
for the shooting season, and grew quite paternal with our boy;--kind or
affectionate he never was. I cannot call to mind that he ever kissed
him, or even so much as stroked his cheek.
"But he gave him, on his thirteenth birthday, a small dun pony, with a
bushy mane like a thick clothes-brush, and a pretty saddle; and then
Count Ernest was taken to ride out with his papa, away through the
forests, for whole days, and often to pay visits in the neighbourhood,
where the great folks were always pleased to see the boy. Nobody ever
dared to say how like his mother he was, for that always vexed the
count; in general the countess was never spoken of, and the full length
picture of her was hung in a room that was never used. Only her son
would go into it now and then; and loved it well!--He often made me
talk about his mother. But do you know, Sir, even then he had the sense
to see that it was wisest not to mention her to his father. He had
found out that even Death had failed to make her dearer to him. And
then, he may have seen that it was just the proudest and wildest among
the beauties of the neighbourhood, (and there were several then) who
attracted his father most. The count amused himself with them all, and
was a very different man to what he was at home. And the boy could not
make these doings suit with what he had heard of his mother.
"'Poor child!' I thought; 'Pray Heaven you may not get a stepmother who
may suit your father better!'
"However, that did not seem to be so likely, and by-and-by, it came to
be rumoured, that the count never intended to marry again at all. He
had his loves in Paris, where he always spent the winter, and would not
give them up. Of course, Count Ernest never heard a word of this; he
was as innocent as any girl could be; and not even that horrid
creature, Monsieur Pierre,--who was then the count's own man, and used
to think it a good joke to make an honest woman blush by his loose
talk,--even he would affect propriety before the boy.
"A sly fox he was, and knew how to accommodate himself to every one.
For the rest, he was a country lad from these parts, and his name was
Peter; but after he had been to Paris we never ventured to hint at
that. He went every where with the count, and was indispensable to
him--He was terribly afraid of him, and worshipped him as a god;--but
he robbed him always.
"And now just fancy, Sir!--when our young master was about twelve years
old, the count had almost determined on giving him this wretch as a
sort of tutor, and asked me what I thought of it? The boy must first
learn French, he said, before he began his other studies. I felt as
shocked as though he had thought of poisoning the child; and so I took
heart and spoke up, and told my master plainly what I thought of
Monsieur Pierre, and I said I had rather lose my place than stay to see
such disgraceful doings.
"The count let me have my say, and was not a bit angry. He only
motioned me to go, and never said another word about the matter. But
when he came home in the following September, he brought a stranger
with him, whom he presented to us as our young master's tutor. We
called him Mr. Leclerc, though that was not his real name; he was a
nobleman in needy circumstances, who had been glad to find a decent
living--otherwise a harmless gentleman enough, who, to the very last
day of his life, never could learn one word of German, so that we, all
of us, soon picked up enough French to speak it fairly.--
"He had some little talents, which he used to teach the young count;
such as, dancing, fencing, and playing the flute; and then they read
some books together; but Master Ernest once told me with a laugh, that
before they had read three pages, Monsieur Leclerc would fall asleep,
and leave him to read, on to himself till the great clock struck, when
he would wake up with a start, and shake the powder from his sleeve,
which he had sprinkled over with it while he was nodding, and say; 'Eh!
bien, c'est ca!' and then he would fall asleep again. One thing he used
to be very busy with; and that was a knack he had, of modelling little
figures in pink wax; and he would paint them and varnish them so
prettily that they really looked like life--little marquises and
viscounts. He had a whole court of them, and would make them dance
menuets, while a sweet little queen was sitting on a throne, looking
on. Afterwards I heard from Count Ernest that he had taken into his
head that Marie Antoinette had been in love with him; he was as old as
that, although he used to go tripping about like any dancing master.
"But here I am, running on, sir, telling you all this nonsense, and you
wanting to go to sleep!--Yes, when once I begin, I can find no end; and
indeed there is not a chair in the castle but could tell ever so long a
story of its own.
"Just there, where you are sitting now, sir, I stood one morning, and
Master Ernest was sitting here on this very sofa; he had been at a ball
for the first time. It had been given at X by the small officials and
chief burghers. He was just sixteen--and quite grown up, although he
was slighter than when you knew him. 'Well Count Ernest,' I said; 'and
how did you like it? Were there any pretty girls? And whom did you
dance with? And who got your posy at the cotillion?'
"'Flor;' he said; he always called me Flor, and I was also the only
person, until he married, to whom he ever used the 'thou'--'Flor, it
was all very pleasant; and one there was most pleasant--'
"His eyes were sparkling, and he looked at me in a kind of shy pretty
way I had never seen in him before--he even blushed a little.
"'Come come;' I said, 'Master Ernest, you make me curious--was it one
of the young ladies who had been invited, or one of the townspeople's
daughters?'
"'I am not going to betray myself any farther, Flor;' he said; 'but she
was very pretty and very wise, and talked so pleasantly, I only wish we
were going to have another ball to-night!'
"'Why, that sounds quite alarming, Master Ernest,' I said, and
laughed--'to stay up all night dancing and go riding all the morning,
and then to want more dancing! Our gracious count will be quite
pleased! And is this really to be your last word, and all your faithful
Flor is to be allowed to hear?'
"'My very last word, Flor; it is my own secret, and I mean to keep it.'
"'I must get hold of Mr. Leclerc, then;' I said, he will be able to
tell me who you danced with oftenest.'
"'Try him, Flor:' cried the naughty boy; and laughed; 'all my
partners were the same to him; only--"jeunes Allemandes, jolies
bourgeoises!"--he looked after my pas, and never minded where my eyes
went; besides, he played ecarte all the evening with the director of
the saltworks. Ah! Flor, I never thought there could be such sweet eyes
in the world; I used to think that your two were the sweetest!'
"You see, sir, this was what I got for all my pains and my anxiety!
"But this merry mood of his did not last. Next day he grew quiet and
thoughtful, avoided all my questions, and shut himself up in his room
at an unusually early hour; and then I heard him playing the flute for
ever so long after. He could not get this girl out of his head--I saw
that. At first he had felt no more than a pleasant smart, as it were,
and could joke about it; but the fever followed. He could not hold out
four-and-twenty hours, but he ordered his horse and rode out alone,
returning at night quite cast down. It was plain that he had not seen
his flame, and had been too shy to find her out and pay her a visit.
And so he rode to X several times over, with more or less good luck.
One night, when his heart was full, he could not refrain from telling
me his adventure, as I was lighting him upstairs to bed. His face was
radiant; but Good Lord! to any other man, it would not have been worth
the telling; Count Henry would only have said, 'Pshaw!'--but to him it
was a rare delight. Just at the gates he had met her, out walking with
two of her young companions, and all three of them had roses in their
hands. Just as he rode by, and bowed, his horse had given a jump, and
the young lady had been so startled that she dropped a rose: 'I saw
it,' said Master Ernest, 'and in a moment I was out of my saddle, and
had picked it up and given it her; and she thanked me very kindly, and
walked away towards the woods.'"
"'And you rode on, and the lady did not even give you a rose for your
reward? Any other man would have picked up the flower, and stuck it in
his buttonhole, and galloped off in triumph.'
"He looked at me, and seemed quite struck; 'Flor,' says he; 'I do
believe you know more of these things than I, although you are a
woman.'
"'More likely, _because_ I am a woman. Master Ernest,' I said. 'Well,
well, I see, the young lady is badly off for mother-wit, or else she
can't abide you.'
"Of course I was only joking; for how could I think the girl existed
who would not like him? But for all that, it made him silent, and I saw
that he really thought she did dislike him.
"Only once again did he ride over to X, and after that he stayed at
home, and was quite downhearted; he spoke to nobody, but sat in his
room writing--verses, as I believe,--and played the flute, and pined
away so, that when Count Henry came back, he was quite angry about his
looks, and scolded him, and told him he did not take exercise enough,
and he asked me if Count Ernest had been ailing? That he had a
heartache I did not like to say--he never would have forgiven me, and
Count Henry would have laughed. At last it was decided that our young
count was to travel for a time with Mr. Leclerc, and both of them
seemed to like the plan. 'Flor,' said my boy, 'it is well that I leave
this place. Life is become wearisome to me.'
"'God bless you, my dearest boy,' I said; 'the world is so beautiful,
they say, that I suppose one can't long be sad in travelling.'
"He looked at me with an unbelieving smile; but afterwards he wrote to
me from Vienna, that he was well, and often thought of me. God knows! I
thought of him, day and night.
"I did not get a sight of him again for three long years, and when he
wrote to me from the great cities where he went to court, among all the
fine folks--he will get properly spoiled, I thought, as befits his
rank. I shall not know him again. But just the contrary; when he came
back at last in his twentieth year, without Mr. Leclerc, who had died
in Russia of the climate, the very first word he spoke: 'Flor,' says
he, 'and how is Miss Mimi?'--That was a cat I had, Sir, of whom he used
to be almost jealous, as a child.
"'Returns thanks for kind enquiries. Master Ernest,' I said; 'she has
just kittened, and will be delighted, as we all are, to see your honour
back again.'
"'I am afraid it is a delight that won't last long, Flor,' he said; and
at night, when I was lighting him to bed, as I always did, he told me
all about it; how he had done his father's bidding, and been to see the
great world, and he had seen enough of it to find it terribly tedious;
and now he had had some trouble in carrying his point, which was to go
and study alone for a year or two. 'It was a shame,' he said, 'the
confusion that was in his brain.' I could only stare at this, for to me
he seemed a man in all things, and cleverer, I thought, it was not
possible to be, when I heard him talk with others. But he knew best, of
course, and I did not contradict him then; for there were other things
I was more curious to know. I asked him about the life he had been
leading, and whether the fine ladies he had been dancing with, were
handsomer than the daughters of our townspeople? And look you, Sir, at
this, he turned as red as a boy;--he, the accomplished fine-grown
gentleman, who had just come from living among the fine folks;--and he
only said: 'Some perhaps, not many;' and so I saw that old love does
not always rust. The very next day he rode over to the town; I suppose
to make enquiries, and find out whether she were still unmarried. Of
course, I did not know, for I had never heard who she was. When he came
back, in the evening, he looked very grave. 'It is all over,' I said to
myself, 'and all the better that it is so; what could have ever come of
it?'
"Between him and his father things were no better than they used to be.
When I helped to wait at table, I saw that the count was always ready
for a quarrel with his son, who could never say or do a single thing to
please him. He seemed provoked to be, in a manner, forced to respect
the lad, who never by any chance forgot himself, but only quietly
defended his own opinion, or held his tongue. Just as the blessed
countess had always done, and the count was not fond of being reminded
of her. Nothing would have pleased him better than to see his son just
such another bold bird of prey as he himself still was, for all his
half century. Never had he found a horse too wild, a woman too witty,
or a sword too sharp for him. He could not forgive the boy for being so
modest. Indeed I often thought--God forgive me!--that he had rather
have seen Count Ernest forget his duty to him as his father, if he only
would have forgotten that the countess was his mother. Therefore the
count always went back to talk of the good old times, when the world
was merrier and less particular. Now it was only a world for sneaks and
lubbers. And when he had drunk a glass beyond the common, he would tell
us all sorts of love-adventures he had had when he was young; while the
young count would look straight before him, and hold his peace. I was
horrified to hear him, and said to myself: 'Can a father really find it
in his heart to be the tempter of his son, when he finds his innocence
a reproach to him?'"
"To be sure, I knew that was not the way to tempt my boy at all; he did
not even lose the respect he owed him as a father. Only it grieved him
sadly, never to see the slightest sign that his father loved him; that
I saw by his eyes; but he never spoke about it, not even to me, to whom
he generally told everything. And so I was almost glad when he left us
in a week to go to College, and never once came home for the next five
years; much as he loved his home, and his woods, and everything about
the place, and often as he used to enquire after them in his letters.
"I say, I was almost glad, and was more glad presently.
"The young count may have been away for about three years, when I fell
into a bad illness; and that left me a weakness in my limbs, so that I
could hardly drag myself up and down the stairs. For I kept all the
keys, and nobody but Mamsell Flor ever touched a thing in the cellars,
store-rooms, or plate-chests. When the count came home in the autumn,
and saw me crawling about the house with a stick; 'Flor,' he said, 'you
have been doing too much for your strength; you must have some
assistance; a sort of housekeeper under you, to save you going up and
down the stairs.' So kind he was, you see, sir, in some things; and for
all I could say against it, next day, it appeared in the daily papers,
that a housekeeper was wanted at the castle.
"All sorts of women came, but none to please me. One or two among them
I even suspected of coveting a higher place, (or a lower, as one takes
it) than that of housekeeper; for the count was known to be a gallant
gentleman. I was rather pleased that none of them could be found to
suit; I was always too particular, and none of them did things as I
liked to have them done. And so we had nearly forgotten that we had
wanted one, when one afternoon, in comes a tall slight young woman, in
deep mourning, with very weary eyes. She had come two days' journey
from a town where her father and mother, one after the other, had
lately died, and left her entirely unprovided for. Her father had been
a functionary of some importance, and had lived upon his pay. Her only
brother was an engineer, and was now employed in England on a railway,
which he could not leave without the sacrifice of all his prospects.
She had therefore written to him not to mind her; she had found a
situation in a noble family, and was well provided for; meaning if she
were not accepted here, to take even a lower place.
"Although everything I could learn about the poor child was entirely
satisfactory, and though she passed the severest examination I could
think of in household matters, I felt a something in my heart, that
warned me not to take her. I told her plainly I thought it might not be
for her good. I said she was too young, and what more I could think of.
And just as she was going, quite submissively, without any prayers or
tears, I called her back, and kept her after all. In fact I was only
afraid she might please the count too well, for she was as fine a girl
as you could see, with a splendid figure, and a high-bred face like
nobody else's; and then such a weight of long brown hair, that could
reach three times round her head. But I found that she had a grave
decided way with her, and that she was not easily to be put upon. And
besides, Count Henry was just then over head and ears in love, as Mr.
Pierre had whispered, with a singer he had met in London, and had only
broken from her chains for a short time, to hasten back to them as fast
as ever he could. So he did not take much notice of the stranger, when
she took her place at the servants' table for the first time; he just
glanced at her from head to foot, gave an approving nod, and sat all
the evening alone, at the master's table, playing with his ring, and
letting the beautiful green stone glitter at the light, and Mr. Pierre
told us it was a present from his London friend. And I suppose it was
true, for when he came back next year, the ring was gone, and Mr.
Pierre told us strange stories about it, which you will not care to
hear, sir.
"When the count first saw the girl again, Mamsell Gabrielle, as she was
called, I watched his face attentively as she walked across the hall.
He looked much as he used to do, when the dealers brought him horses,
and he had them trotted out into the yard. But he treated her just as
he did the rest of us, only that he spoke to her less often. She had
begun to bloom again, in the quiet life here among the woods, and with
the exercise she took when she was busy about the house. She had left
off mourning, and sometimes I even heard her singing in the little
garden she had laid out with her own hands in the moat, that we might
have our vegetables more handy.
"In this, as in everything else, she was clever, quiet, and
independent; I may say I got to love her dearly, and thought we never
should be able to do without her; and yet we had done so long!--We used
to sit together for many a pleasant hour, spinning and chatting. I used
to talk to her of my dear Count Ernest, and read his letters to her,
and when Count Henry was at home, we would stand at the window till
late at night, listening to his beautiful playing, and to the
nightingales singing. Then she would tell me how her childhood had been
passed, and of the happy life she had led when her parents were alive,
and how well off they had been; and also about her brother; and she
spoke of all this without any bitterness, and so I saw that she was
quite contented; and that the longer she lived among us, the more she
liked us.
"And now, for the first time, I was glad when the winter came, and we
were snowed up again by ourselves. When the count was here, we had no
peace; though he only received gentlemen, and was particular about
these. To be safe from the ladies of the neighbourhood, he had left all
the roads without repair, save only a few bridle paths. But it did not
come at all as I expected. The count did not leave the castle, and Mr.
Pierre insinuated that it was because he had never been able to forget
that faithless love of his, and therefore preferred to live in
solitude. I could not get this idea into my stupid old head, for I knew
my master too well to believe that he could be so long cast down, for
such an amour as that. However, stay he did, and the winter came, and
snowed us up; and with us, the count and Mr. Pierre.
"How he managed to get through those long winter-days, is more than I
can tell; for he never had been fond of his book. We could hear him
playing on the piano out of his own head for hours together, and then
he used to take long rides into the woods, and it was fine to see him
come home, riding in a cloud of smoke from the nostrils of his snorting
horse, his beard all tinkling with icicles, and his grand proud face
colored by the frosty air. He had always been a handsome man, and if
his hair was getting a trifle thinner and more grey, his eyes looked
all the darker and more fiery. He must have found a sweetheart in this
neighbourhood, I thought, but we heard nothing; not even in this dull
place, where we could hear the leaf fall; market-women and butter-women
took care of that. Visits or invitations there were none. I used to
shake my head, and Mr. Pierre, who had been used to a gayer life, shook
his. He had never dreamed that the count would hold out so long as
Christmas.
"'Mamsell Flor,' he said; 'il y a du mystere, as sure as my name is
Pierre!' and he would whistle the Marseillaise and wink; but in fact,
the rogue knew nothing. To pass the time, he took it into his head to
make love to Mamsell Gabrielle, but he soon let that alone. For modest
as she was, yet she had a way of throwing back her head at times, you
would have thought she was a duchess, and he found out that it was none
of his Paris sewing women he had to deal with. Something French he must
have, and so he took to the Bordeaux wine in our cellars, and often he
was so drunk that he could not wait at table. But his master never said
a word to him. The count was more gentle than he used to be; he never
said an angry word, and at Christmas he made each of us a present. With
the new year he took to dining downstairs in the hall, and of an
evening he came early, and sat reading the newspapers all alone, at the
master's table. But he did not like us to be silent; on the contrary,
after supper, he made us stay and sing. The second forester had a fine
bass voice, and Mamselle Gabrielle could sing like the very wood witch
herself. We often sat up till past eleven, and it sounded, beautifully
in the echo of the great hall. Many a time I saw the count drop the
paper, and listen pensively, with his head leaning on his hand. But I
always kept thinking of my own dear young count, and what a weary time
he had been away; and I used to talk of him to Mamselle Gabrielle, till
she sometimes fell asleep;--which made me cross with her.
"For the rest, we were always the best of friends, and it was no small
shock to me, when one morning she came to tell me, that she was obliged
to give up her place. She did not think the air was good for her; she
meant to try another. Well, she had slept very badly, I knew, the night
before. She still looked feverish, and her eyes were red; and as often
as I called to her, she would begin trembling all over. She might have
caught cold, for she had come home late from a walk in the woods the
day before, and had gone straight to bed, without coming down to
supper. 'Child,' I said;--'it will pass off. The air of this place is
healthy; and where will you find so easy a situation, and so kind a
master?--not to speak of my own humble self.' But the more I talked,
the more positive she grew, and I thought I should only make her worse;
so I went upstairs to my master, to tell him that Mamselle Gabrielle
had just given warning.
"The count heard me out, and then he said: 'Do you know any reason for
her going, Flor?'--when I began about her health;--'What room have you
given her?' 'I took her into mine. Sir,' I said; 'Your honor knows the
rooms on the first story, just opposite my lady's bedroom; I have slept
in them for twenty years and more, and I never found anything
unwholesome for one moment.'"
"He considered a while, and said: 'If Mamselle Gabrielle chooses to go,
of course we can't prevent her, Flor; she is her own mistress. But at
least, she shall not say that she lost her health in my service. Your
rooms look to the forest, and the west winds come blowing against the
windows. It must be damp; and in winter there is not a finger's breadth
of sunshine. While Mamselle Gabrielle remains, you will have to give
her another room. Put her in those opposite, that look into the court;
they have the morning-sun full upon them; and then you may advertise
for another situation for her.'
"I stared at him. 'I am to put Mamselle Gabrielle in the appartments
where our gracious countess slept?'"
"He nodded. 'I will have it so:' he said shortly."
"'But all the furniture is just as it was then;' I went on, without
minding his frown. 'How can I give my blessed mistress's things,--her
bed and table, and her toilette service--to a stranger?'"
"'You can do as I bid you;' he said, very quietly. 'Leave every thing
as it stands.'"
"'And if the poor thing gets worse;'--and I spoke more eagerly;--'whom
has she at hand to look after her?'"
"'There is only the passage between you;' he answered. 'If Mamselle
Gabrielle should be unwell, it will be very easy for you to nurse
her.'"
"He sat down to the piano, and began to play, and so I was obliged to
go. And I must say, fond as I was of Mamselle Gabrielle, it cut me to
the heart to have to go down-stairs, and air those beautiful
appartments, to put a servant in them. For that she was, the same as I
was. And moreover, I did not like her face, when I told her what the
count had been pleased to order. She first turned white, as if she had
been frightened, and then she grew scarlet; she curled her lip half
scornfully, and said: 'Very well; God will not forget me, wherever you
may please to put me!' She took over her little bed with her, and would
not put her bits of clothes in those beautiful inlaid drawers, but left
them packed in her little trunk, all ready to go. And I liked that of
her; and I kissed her, and begged her pardon in my heart, for having so
grudged her my lady's rooms. She sobbed a while on my shoulder, and I
had some little trouble in soothing her, but I laid it all upon the
fever. That night, I left my door ajar, to hear if she went quietly to
sleep; and all was quiet till about twelve o'clock. Then, all of a
sudden, I thought I heard her talking loud and angrily. I jumped out of
bed, and all the time I was feeling for my slippers, I heard her
talking on. I could not catch the words till I got into the passage,
and then I distinctly heard her say: 'I am only a poor servant-girl;
but may the walls of this castle fall upon me, and crush me, rather
than ...'
"I knocked at the door,--(which she had bolted by my advice),--and
screamed out: 'Gabrielle, child! What is the matter? Answer me, for the
love of God! Whom are you talking to?--Is the room haunted?'--No
answer. I looked through the keyhole--nothing to be seen--I went on
knocking and calling, but it was a long time before I could get a
wiselike answer. 'Mamsell Flor? is that you? what makes you come so
late?'--and presently I heard her unbolting the door.
"She stood before me in the darkness; only the snow gave a faint light
from the windows. I took her hand, and felt it trembling and ice-cold.
'What makes you come to me so late, Mamsell Flor?' she said--'Have I
been talking in my sleep? Oh! yes, I am ill; I think I am in a fever;
just feel how my limbs are shaking!' And with that, she burst out
crying. I got her to bed again as fast as ever I could, and sat up all
night with her.
"In the morning she was too ill to rise, and did not get well again for
more than a week. The count did not seem much concerned about it,
though he sent Mr. Pierre to enquire after her.
"The first time she came downstairs to supper, my master went up to
her, and said a few words in a low voice, and then she walked silently
and thoughtfully to her seat. And silent and thoughtful she remained,
for the matter of that. But she slept quietly of nights, and did her
work, as usual, like a pattern. She asked me now and then, whether any
answer had been made to our advertisement. Our letters all went through
Mr. Pierre's hands, and he had heard of none. But she seemed in no
hurry to go, and I was only too glad to have her stay.
"Spring came, and we were still without my dear young count. Instead of
him, there arrived one day a very disagreeable stranger, a gentleman
from London--and indeed I don't think that even my master was quite
glad to see him. But he did his best to receive him civilly, as was due
to an old acquaintance; he rode with him all over the country, and he
invited people to play cards with him. They would sit up gambling till
daybreak; trying all the wines in the cellar, and never once coming
down to the hall.
"This went on for about a fortnight, and glad enough I was when I heard
that the English Lord was going away next morning. The last day, they
had been to dine at the Baron's, eight miles off; it might be about
nine o'clock, when we heard their horses come pattering over the
bridge. We were just at supper, and I was getting up to take a candle,
and light the gentleman upstairs, but before we could leave the table,
they came in. The English gentleman foremost, with that look he had in
his eyes when he had just dined. And the count came after him, with his
riding-whip under his arm, and his spurs jingling with that heavy tread
by which I knew that his spirit was up.
"We all rise, and make our bows and curtsies; the English Lord, keeping
his hat upon his head, gives us a sort of condescending nod, and says:
'Devil take long rides, Harry! I feel as stiff as a poker! don't
let us go upstairs to-night; let us have our grog down here by the
chimney corner--I incline to affability towards these your trusty
vassals!'--and he stared from one of us to the other, and never
listened to what the count was saying to him in French, in a low
voice. All at once he catches sight of Mamsell Gabrielle, and chuckles
quite out loud. 'Ha! Harry, old boy!' he cries; 'what an old fox you
are! do you keep such doves as these in your hen-house? Foi de
gentilhomme!'--and he laughed so insolently that I felt the blood rush
into my face. 'Let us have this dove at supper, I say, with a good
glass of Burgundy: you have plucked it long ago, of course--' and then
another great roar of laughter. My very heart stood still--I looked at
the poor girl--she was as white as the wall--and my master looked--Sir,
I cannot tell you how he looked. He went close up to the Englishman,
where he stood laughing, and said out loud: 'You will ask the young
lady's pardon, sir, this moment--and then you will leave the room. I
can protect my people from the insolence of any man, be he who he
may!'"
"The Lord did not seem to hear him, and kept staring at the girl. 'By
Jove!' he said, speaking thick with drink; 'deuced neat built she is!
and I have been in the house a week and more, and never yet--Ah!
Harry--I say--d--d sly old fox is Harry. Come, dear, don't let me
frighten you.' And he stretched out his arm to take her round the
waist, while the poor thing stood motionless against the wall, as if
she had been struck by lightning--when we heard a sharp sound whistling
through the air, and with a great oath the Lord drew back his hand. The
count had drawn a broad red stripe across it with his riding-whip.
"Sir, I need not tell you all that passed that night; only, that by
seven o'clock next morning my master had fought the stranger, without
seconds, at a place they call the wolfs gap. We heard the crack of the
four shots in the still February morning, and half an hour afterwards,
the count came home bleeding from his left hand. He did not send for a
surgeon, but had it bound up by his valet, Mr. Pierre, who had been
with him on the ground, and told us that the Lord had not come off so
easily; but he had been able to get on horseback and ride on to the
next town.
"What that poor thing,--Gabrielle,--said to it all? Good Lord! She held
her peace, as if she had really been turned to stone that evening--and
what surprised me rather--she never thought of going to thank her
master for what he had done; but she never talked of leaving now.
"From that morning when we heard the shots, she was so changed, I
should scarcely have known her. She went through her work as usual, and
was neither glad nor sad, only absent; so absent, that of an evening
she would sit for hours, staring into the light, as if she were in a
trance--and I must say these strange ways became her; she grew
handsomer from day to day. We every one of us noticed it. As to the
younger functionaries about the place, there was not a single man of
them, who was not over head and ears in love with her. But she never
seemed to see it--and not one of them had a kinder word to boast of
than the others.
"Summer came, and brought no change. The count was still at the castle;
Mr. Pierre sitting with his bottle before him half the day; and every
body wondering and conjecturing what was likely to come of this new
style of living. The busy tongues had a fresh match ready every week
for my Master. For he had got to be far gayer; he willingly accepted
invitations in the neighbourhood, and even gave little fetes in return,
where he was all politeness. I had never known him to be in such a
humour before, and I thanked God for it; the more, as we expected our
young count to come home in the Autumn, and it would have broken my
heart if they had not met in peace and kindness.
"And oh! Sir, that night, when my Count Ernest came, and his father
rode out to meet him--(he came from Berlin, after having passed his
examination most brilliantly)--I felt--his own mother could not have
felt more. And when I saw him, so tall and handsome, riding beside his
father through the triumphal arch of fir-trees the men had put up for
him across the bridge--and the lovely transparency over the gate, with
the word: 'Welcome!' and Mr. Pierre's rockets whizzing right up into
the sky, I burst into tears, and could not speak a word--I only took
his hand, and kept kissing it again and again.--
"And he was just the same as ever; and he stroked my face, and had his
old jokes with me, that were only between us two. Ah! Sir, that was a
pleasant meeting! The count--I mean the father--walked upstairs with
his son, looking quite pleased and proud; and indeed it was a son to be
proud of. I felt so cross with Mamsell Gabrielle, when I asked her what
she thought of our young count, and found she could not tell me whether
he were dark or fair. But when I came to consider of it, I said to
myself that, after all, this was better than falling in love with
him--for that was what I had always been afraid of.--Poor shortsighted
creatures that we are!
"In the evening I was called upstairs, to help to wait upon the
gentlemen, who had their supper in Count Henry's room. Monsieur
Pierre's fireworks had so heated him, that he was not to be got out of
the cool cellars that night at all; and I was only too happy to take
his place, and have a good look at my young count. But my pleasure was
soon spoiled, for the count his father soon began to talk again, as he
used to do, of the good old times. 'The young folks of the present
day,' he said, 'are fit for nothing but to sit by the chimney-corner,
with their noses on their books--worse still, to write themselves--even
for the daily papers.' I don't remember all he said--only some things
that appeared to me the worst--some things I shall not forget to my
dying-day.
"You must know. Sir, that when Count Henry had been a half-grown lad,
he had, been taken to Paris by his father, just when the Empire was at
its height; and as the old count (grand-father to our Count Ernest) had
always been of those to whom Napoleon was as a god, of course they met
with the best reception. The old count had been at Paris before, for
some years during the revolution; and most of those bad bloody men had
been his friends; and Count Henry began to talk of these. 'Do you
suppose,' he said, 'that the Emperor could have fought these battles
with our good bourgeois of the present day? Wild beasts those were he
had to tame, and to let loose upon his enemies. There was a scent of
blood in the very air of Paris then, that was withering to the sicklier
plants; and turned the weaker spirits faint. But to a resolute man,
the sulphureous atmosphere proved intoxicating. He would have dared
a thousand devils. And as the men, so the women; all had tasted
blood--and blood makes brighter eyes than household dust. Just look at
our present world,'--he said--'our German world at least--compared to
that! all so prim, precise, and regular, like the straight lines of a
Dutch garden. Fathers, schoolmasters, and wise professors are there to
trim it, and if anything escapes them, there is the police. If ever the
brute begins to shew itself in man,--in civilized man--quick comes
the police with a summons to expel it; but the beast is not to be
expelled--it must have blood--if not in pailfuls, at least in drops--it
will turn sneakingly domestic, and suck it from the veins of its
nearest neighbour. Out upon the small sly social vices of the day! they
are so shabby!--worse:--they are so stupid!--see what they will do for
this puny generation when a time for action comes--for great deeds to
be done by thorough men, and genuine mettle. When a man says he shrinks
from shedding blood, and would not crush a worm, I say it is his own
blood he is so chary of, and shrinks from shedding. At that time Death
was the Parisian's familiar,--his bosom friend; together they fought
and won the Emperor's great victories.' And then my master went on to
talk of a ball where his father had been; they called it 'le bal
des Zephirs,' because it was given on a spot which had been a
churchyard--I forget the name of the church. And just above the skull
and cross-bones upon the gateway, they had put up a transparency with
the inscription: 'Le bal des Zephirs;' and they had danced like mad
upon the graves and tombstones, till morning.
"All this time, my dear young count sat grave and silent, opposite his
father, whose discourse, I could plainly see, appeared as blasphemous
to him, as it did to me; but he spoke very calmly, and beautiful were
the things he said:--'Man has progressed since then,' he said; 'it
requires more energy to build up than to destroy.' In his opinion: 'a
world without a sense of veneration must necessarily decay and fall in
pieces, like a building without cement;' and more of the like which I
have forgotten, more's the pity; but when he spoke, I used rather to
watch his eyes, than mind his lips! His eyes would grow so clear, you
could look right through them. Only one thing more I recollect; he
said: 'A generation that can dance on the graves of its fathers, will
assuredly care little for its children; a man who tramples upon the
past, is unworthy of a future--'
"As these words escaped him, he turned red and stopped short,--fearful
lest his father should be offended by them. But, bless you, he was not
used to mind such trifles!
"'Bah!' says he: 'we are all the same--only we are quieter; we do the
same things, only not to the sound of fifes and trumpets--we have no
piping to our dancing. In every generation man is selfish, and has a
right to be. There was another kind of ball in those days, they called
it le bal des victimes. When the Convention had confiscated the
property of the guillotined, it was returned to their heirs, after the
9th Thermidor. Thus many of them held their lands, par la grace de
Robespierre. Young men began to live fast again, and to enjoy
themselves. They gave balls where only those were admitted who could
prove that some very near relation had been beheaded; it was a sort of
herald's office to the scaffold; and to shew their gratitude for their
inheritance, they invented a peculiar mode of salutation. A gentleman
would go up to a lady, and jerk his head forwards, as if he dropped it,
and the lady would do the same. They called it Salut a la victime; and
all this with fiddling and dancing, and wax-lights and champagne. I do
not admire that style of thing myself; it was a fashion like any other,
and not a pretty one, I think; but I really do see no improvement in
young people's babbling of the sanctity of family ties, and of their
duty to their fathers, and forefathers, and sighing in secret for their
turn to come, even if without the connivance of a Robespierre.'"
"I left the room, for I could not hear him speak in such a way, to such
a son. I waited in the antechamber till Count Ernest came out to go to
bed. He was sad and silent, and would have passed without noticing me,
but I took up my light, and followed him. In the passage he suddenly
stopped and looked eagerly up the staircase, that was well lighted with
a two-branched lamp. 'What now?' thinks I--and then I saw Mamsell
Gabrielle coming down from the loft with some plate she had been to
fetch, and pass us on her way downstairs. When she had quite
disappeared; 'Who is that, Flor?' says he, quickly turning to me--'Who
is that lady?'
"When I told him, he shook his head. 'Can it be the same?' he murmured,
'or can I be so far mistaken?' And then after a while, when I had come
into his room with him: 'Flor,' he said, 'I am right; she was only on a
visit to X, when she was at that ball, and she left it again soon
after. _Both_ parents did you say?--and so poor,--so friendless--that
she was forced to go to service?--'
"'She wants for nothing here;' I said, to pacify him; for then I saw at
once that she was that old flame of his, for whom he had pined so long.
'My dear young master,' I said, 'she could never be better off than she
is here. His honor is very kind to her, and will have her treated with
the greatest consideration and respect.'
"But he did not seem to hear me; he was sitting there in that great
arm-chair by the open window--thinking, and thinking, till he made me
feel quite nervous. He appeared to be so troubled in his mind, as all
the past came over him, and all that he thought he had forgotten.
"The old rooms again; the tapestry with the hunting scenes; the
furniture he had seen from his childhood; the dark woods before the
windows, and then his father's horrid talk--if he forgot his poor old
Flor a while, I am sure I could not wonder. I was about to steal
quietly away and leave the room, when he saw me, and rising, he came
and laid his two hands upon my shoulders:
"'Flor,' he said: 'if it should really come to pass--which is more than
I dare to hope--what a wonderful,--delightful dispensation it would
be!'
"'If _what_ should come to pass?' says I; for fond as I was of the
girl, the idea that she could ever become our gracious countess was a
thing I never could have dreamed of. 'Let us leave it all to
Providence, Flor,' he said, very seriously. 'Good night, Flor--'
"And with that, he went to the window again, and I to my lonely room,
where, for all it was so quiet, I could not fall asleep for hours.
"And so, next morning I overslept myself, and was quite ashamed when I
saw the bright sun shining in at my window. My room just looked over
the vegetable beds that Mamsell Gabrielle had laid out; and I saw her
busy among them, cutting what was needed for the table. I was just
going to call to her, and tell her how long I had been sleeping, when I
saw Count Ernest coming out of the wood, and going towards the
little garden. He bowed to her, and I saw how she stood up, and
returned his bow with due respect, but quite naturally--not an idea of
recognition--not even when he spoke to her;--nothing of the awkwardness
of recollecting that her former partner now stood before her as her
master. He appeared more embarrassed than she was. And as they crossed
the garden, side by side, I could not help thinking to myself, if God
should so appoint it, a handsomer pair could not be found in all the
world. I was quite willing that the poor child should have all that
happiness and honor, if she only made my boy as happy as he deserved to
be.
"But you know, sir, 'man proposes, and God disposes,' as the proverb
says, and I soon found out.
"I had not looked after them long, when Mr. Pierre came running to tell
Count Ernest that his father was wanting him immediately--and soon
after they rode away together; and indeed, sir, it was quite a sight to
see that handsome father on his wild black horse, and the slender son
riding a light brown Arab mare, as they galloped over the bridge into
the wood. Mr. Pierre said they had been invited to the Baron's: there
they had cast their hooks in haste for the son, when they found the
father could not be made to bite; and indeed the three baronesses had
not much time to lose; but 'they reckon without the host,' thinks I.
"As for Mamsell Gabrielle, I could not get much out of her. Many years
ago she had been in X, on a visit to a friend, and there she had danced
with our young master. It was plain that he had been so bashful, that
she had no idea of the impression she had made; she talked of him as of
any other young man. This made me cross, I must confess; but to be
sure, it was all quite right, and far better so; and I resolved to have
no hand whatever in the business, and neither by word or hint, to
meddle with it, but to leave it entirely to Providence.
"When the gentlemen came back that night, I had a good long talk with
my young count at last. He was very merry. He described the foolish
dressed-up ways of these three lemon-colored baronesses, who in those
last five years had grown so young and bashful, so girlish and so
giggling; and had pouted so prettily at his father for being so bad a
neighbour, hinting at their hopes that the son might make amends; and
so, with one eye upon the father, and the other upon the son,
altogether the attraction had been rather 'louche.'
"'Ah! Flor,' he said, 'it was just the thing to make me sick of the
so-called proper matches. I half suspect my father to have taken me
there on purpose to warn me from the daughters of the country, and make
me feel the value of my liberty; he knows how I hate the thoughts of
going to Stockholm, where they want to send me with the Legation. I had
so far rather stay at home among my woods, and only be a sportsman, or
a farmer. And you, Flor, you faithful soul, you would never bid me go.
But when I just hinted at my wishes, treating them as a sort of
romantic whim, I saw at once that by staying I should lose the last
remnant of my father's good opinion; and indeed I have no occasion'--he
said, with a faltering in his voice, that made my heart ache
terribly--'I have no occasion to put his affection to too hard a test.
After all, Flor, one has but one father, in this world.'"
"Poor boy, it was the first time he ever shewed how much it grieved him
to be so little loved.
"'My darling Count Ernest,' I said; 'you know how I wish you all your
heart desires; but to live here in this solitude, at your age, one had
needs be wonderfully happy, or desperately wretched.'
"'And which was your case, Flor?' he asked.
"'I was happy,' I said; 'for I had a dear little master to bring up,
who never for a moment let me feel that I was not his own mother, but
only a penniless servant-girl.'
"He took my hand, and said; 'Right, you dear old woman! but if to live
here, one must needs have everything one wishes, or nothing, why should
I despair of having everything?'"
"I held my tongue, for I did not dare to begin first to speak of what
he might be thinking needful to his happiness. He guessed what I was
thinking of, for he said:
"'To be sure, even if the greatest of all gifts were within my reach,
who knows whether I should be allowed to take it? Curious, how men
contradict themselves! There is my father now, who never goes to court,
because, he says, the nobility of to-day has nothing thorough-bred
about it, if it be not in the stables. Yet how would he look, if I were
to go and propose giving him a daughter who was only a blameless girl,
who had been his servant? But I am talking nonsense. It is not likely
that I shall be tempted to make such a proposal.'"
"'The safest way not to be tempted, is to go abroad;' I said, at last,
as he sat silent and discouraged. 'For, my dear Count Ernest, if
Mamsell Gabrielle appears to have no eyes for her young master, I am
certain it is only because she is a servant girl, and knows what she is
about. It would be a thousand pities for the poor child, if she were to
suffer her heart to escape her through her eyes, for there would be no
recalling it. I know her well: she has a brave spirit of her own; if
she were to say:--"I will do this, if I were to die for it,"--she
_would_ do it and die, without a word.'
"God knows, I found it hard to say all this to my darling boy, and
moreover, presently I found that I had only been making matters worse.
"He had never hoped that the girl could love him, but now he
interpreted her reserve more favorably; he thought it might be
forced--in self-defence--to enable her to stand more firm; and that
perhaps she suffered from it no less than he did. And indeed I thought
the same. I, too, thought her changed since Count Ernest had been at
home; she had grown graver and more absent. I often saw her sweet face
change from white to red, without any sufficient cause. I meant to
speak to my young count at the very first opportunity, and entreat him
to come to some decision; to settle it one way or the other. But the
opportunity did not come of itself, and I wanted heart to seek one. I
loved him dearly, and it was hard for me to part with him so soon.
"And so a week passed, and then a fortnight, and three whole weeks, and
the evil was growing daily before my eyes; and other eyes saw it too.
At least I heard from Mr. Pierre, that the two counts had been talking
of Stockholm again. Count Henry had insisted on Count Ernest's going at
once, and Count Ernest had begged for time to think about it. After
that the father had taken care that they should be out all day, so that
his son should find no time for the handsome Mamsell Gabrielle. 'C'est
drole,' says Mr. Pierre, the cunning creature; 'if my master were in
love with the girl himself, he could not be more careful of her; but I
would lay my life, that he has not the shadow of a liaison with her. It
would be the first time he ever undertook such a thing, without my
help; and how could he?--in this castle all over ears and eyes! No, I
rather think there must be something deeper in it. The girl's mother,
perhaps, you understand me. But this is strictly between us two,
Mamsell Flor.' All this was puzzling, but the end was very different to
anything my stupid head had thought of.
"One evening in October--by some chance or other there had been no
riding out that day--Count Henry was busy with the steward's accounts,
and Count Ernest had gone out with his gun and his melancholy to the
woods. I heard a strange voice in the court, speaking to one of the
men, and enquiring for Mamsell Grabrielle. She had just gone to the
garden, to cut some dahlias and china-asters for the supper-table. So
down I go, to ask the stranger what he wants with her, and feel quite
pleased to hear it is her brother come from England all the way to see
her. He had a serious, steady, manly way with him, that I rather liked,
though his dress and manner were far below his sister's; indeed his
dress was almost shabby. I gave him a hearty welcome, and told him how
glad the dear girl would be to see him, and led him through the little
postern-gate that opens to the moat and to the garden; and there,
standing among the tall flowers, we saw our Gabrielle. She knew him in
an instant, but, I thought, for a brother and sister who had not met
for years, they were not so very eager about it.
"She turned pale, as though she were going to faint, and he held out
his hand, saying a few words in a tone as if he pitied her. 'It is the
first time they are together since they have been orphans,' thinks I;
'I must go and leave them by themselves;' and so I went back to my own
room, and when I looked out of the window, I still saw them standing as
I had left them. He was saying something, but nothing pleasant, it
appeared, earnestly, in a low voice, while she only hung her head and
listened.
"In about ten minutes' time, Count Ernest came out of the wood, and saw
the two as they stood together. He went straight up to the stranger,
and bowed to him politely, and I saw that he joined in their
conversation. I could not hear what they said, they spoke so quietly.
But at last the young count raised his voice: 'You will think better of
it perhaps. How is it possible to decide so hastily? What does your
sister say? what do you think of it, yourself, Gabrielle? Your sister
is quite startled, you see, by this sudden break in the tenour of her
life. Not even your brotherly affection for her should induce you to
adopt any violent measures. Your sister is so highly valued by us;--she
is so necessary to us all! I am sure she has no reason to wish for any
change. If you will remain with us a few days as our guest, you will
convince yourself, I hope, that life may be very tolerable in this
wilderness of ours.'
"He held out his hand to the stranger, who was, I thought, rather slow
to take it, and turned away, and after saying a word or two I could not
catch, walked towards the castle.
"Count Ernest remained standing beside Gabrielle, saying nothing at
first, but only looking earnestly in her face, while she looked down.
Then he began to speak fast and low, and in my heart I felt every word
he said, though I heard nothing; upon which she suddenly dropped her
flowers, and covering her face with her two hands, she ran away and
left him, and I could see that she was crying bitterly.
"He stood looking after her till she disappeared among the woods; he
did not venture to follow her, but I saw that his face had that happy
thoughtful look he used to have long ago, when, after the long winter,
he would stand watching the sun rise above the woods for the first
time, and feel that the sweet spring season was at hand.
"My heart melted, and I folded my hands, and prayed; I hardly know what
I was praying for, till I heard the stranger's voice in the passage,
asking Mr. Pierre if he could be admitted to speak to Count Henry, and
there he stayed a long time. I heard them walking up and down in the
room above me, talking loud and angrily. When the stranger was gone,
and Count Henry had gone out, Mr. Pierre came and told me what he had
heard in the ante-chamber.
"And then, Sir, I heard that the stranger had come all this way from
England only to take his sister from us. And do you know what made him
come? That duel with the English Lord was at the bottom of it all. It
had appeared in the papers, and had been the talk in London for a day
or two, and many of my master's old adventures and love affairs had
been raked up again; so this brother had had no peace for thinking of
it, and at last he had started off, travelling day and night, meaning
to fetch his sister away at once, and take her with him just as she
stood, without stopping one moment longer.
"'Mon cher,' had my master said; 'let me tell you that you are acting
like a fool, to your own damage. I need not trouble myself to discuss
with you what is likely to prove more injurious to your sister, my
chastising a man who had insulted her, or your coming here to fetch her
away, at a moment's notice, from a home where she is perfectly secure
in the respect of all who know her, to take her to a strange place
where there are numbers of such lords, who are not often likely to be
so kind as to let you shoot them; but, as I said before, that is your
own affair. Mine is, to see that your sister's liberty be respected,
for she is of age; further, that the legal term of warning be observed.
I am not prepared to dismiss my servants at a day's notice, just as
they may think fit.'
"The young man had found a thousand reasons to oppose to this, speaking
in an abrupt business-like way, and suffering himself to be so far
carried away as at last to offer a sum of money for the rupture of the
contract. And then my master had turned his back upon him, and gone
out, leaving the bold man standing, who, after some consideration, had
hurried away, and left the castle for the next town; probably to
consult the burgher-master as to the lengths the law would let him go
in his attempts to force the count to give up his sister.
"With all these things buzzing in my head, I felt crosser than ever
with Mr. Pierre, and had no ears for his stale jokes. I wanted to ask
Gabrielle herself what she wished to do; for, after all, that was the
chief thing to be considered. So I went over to her room, to wait till
she came back. It was all just as it used to be--the gilding on the
mirrors and picture-frames, and on the furniture; and the beautiful
hangings of green damask with a large raised pattern on it. And there
was her plain servant's-bed under the silk curtains, and her trunk with
her bits of clothes. I began to think how it would be if we had a young
mistress living there; and while I was pondering, and looking at the
picture of Count Henry over the sofa, painted when he was going to be
married, (I will shew it you to-morrow, Sir), and seeing some dust upon
the consoles, I took the corner of my apron and was going to wipe them,
when I heard a noise like mice behind the hangings, and stood still to
hear where it was coming from. Well, there is a great mirror in a broad
old-fashioned frame, reaching down to the ground, (the fellow of it is
up-stairs in Count Henry's room); behind this I heard a rustling and a
creaking, and I was looking about to find the hole, when all of a
sudden the floor begins to slide, as it were; I see my face in the
glass going round, as if I were giddy, the wall opens in the gaping
frame, and who should step out of it but my own Count Ernest!
"If I was dreadfully startled, he was no less astonished. 'Why Flor!'
he cried, 'Good evening to you! Are you surprised? Here I come upon you
like a thief in the night, in an odd way enough. I had no conception of
such a thing--I wanted to speak to my father, and not finding him in
his room, I waited for him. I was determined to tell him all, and not
to pass another night in a state of such uncertainty. To her I had
spoken--her brother wants to take her away, and I asked her whether she
would find it so easy to go away and leave us, and if she thought she
could be induced to stay for my sake? Upon which she burst into tears
and ran away. But I rather hope you were right, Flor, and that there
really may be nothing to part us but the coat-of-arms above the
gateway. As for that, we might do without it, and quietly settle in a
happier home. Just as I was thinking over what I would say to my
father, my eye fell by chance on a part of the mirror where the frame
appeared to have been damaged. I put my finger upon it mechanically,
and was poking at it, when all at once the glass gave way, and then I
saw a great gap staring me in the face. I had scarcely stepped through
to see what was beyond it, when it closed upon me again and left me in
the dark; and finding neither spring nor handle to open it again, there
was nothing for it but to grope my way straight on, along a small
passage, and then down a small winding staircase all pitch dark, and
then I came to a dead halt against a wall. I must own that I had some
slight shudderings and misgivings while I was feeling about for the
spring, till I got hold of it. Deuce take these dungeons, Flor!' he
cried, quite amused: 'Are there many of these moleworks in this
place?--whither have they led me? Where am I now, Flor? Surely ... this
is not your room, Flor? is it--was it not--my mother's? and now,
now--does not--yes--does not Gabrielle--sleep--'
"He broke off short, and looked at me--and, oh! such a look of horror
flared up in his frightened eyes. And then he closed them, as though he
could not bear to look again on any human being. I myself felt more
dead than alive, but I made an effort to speak--to say something.
"'It was for her health,' I said; 'only because the sun is on this
room, that my master desired me to give it to Gabrielle. My dear
boy,--my darling--what is it you are thinking of? What is there in this
to trouble you so terribly? That passage,--you see, nobody ever knew of
it--not even your father, probably. It is true the mechanism has not
rusted--the springs slip smoothly into their grooves, but that is no
reason--my dear Count Ernest--you cannot think--how should damp or dust
get at it, where we take such care? It is a curious coincidence--a
chance;' I said, and tried to feel convinced; 'how could it be anything
else? and she such a modest girl, and so particular about her honor;
and but a few months ago, my master'--And then I was fool enough--only
think of the stupidity, Sir--to go and rake up that story of the duel,
and in my fright I thought I was doing wonders to make him easy, and
myself. But even whilst I was talking, the scales were dropping from my
eyes; I saw how it was--who ever _does_ fight a duel for a servant
after all? When I thought of this, I came to stammering, and could find
nothing wiser to go on with than: 'It would be beyond belief--it must
be a mistake,--or else I could never trust one human creature on earth
again--scarcely the Lord in heaven.'
"He looked up at his father's picture on the wall, and then at her
little trunk, and I saw that he did not believe in a mistake. I had
taken hold of his hand in my agitation, and I felt that it was quite
numb and cold; I don't believe there was a pulse in it. 'Flor,' he
said, in a low voice; 'You will never tell how it chanced--you will
tell no living soul--promise me, Flor.'
"I pressed his hand between both mine. I could not speak, for I felt as
if ten millstones had fallen on my heart. He gently drew away his hand
and left the room. Where he went, I never could find out. Nobody knew
where the others were that evening. Count Henry did not come down to
supper, Mamsell Gabrielle's brother did not return, and she herself was
walking in the woods long after dark.
"As soon as my trembling legs would carry me, I went over to my own
room; I wanted to hear or to see nothing of nobody--least of all, of
Mamsell Gabrielle. That evening I hated her with all my heart and soul.
"'If the earth would only open and swallow her up!' I thought to myself
a hundred times. 'If the woods would only fall upon her and crush her,
before she should come between father and son, to estrange them still
more than they already are!' I upbraided myself bitterly for having
been melted by her pale face and her mourning, and taken her into the
house, although I had felt a secret warning at the time; and then I
thought of my own Count Ernest, how he was wandering all night about
the woods half mad with grief--looking on his boyhood's brightest
dream--on the only thing he had ever set his heart on--as some
unnatural sin--perhaps--who knows?--as an offence to all he held most
sacred. 'What will be the end of it all?' I lamented to myself, as I
wrung my hands, and I felt as if the coming morning were to dawn on the
day of judgment!
"When I heard the girl go past my door at bedtime, I shook all over
with my hate and horror of her. If she had happened to come in, I
really do not know what I should have done to her. If my boy had been
poisoned by her, I don't think I could have hated her more. I could not
conceive how I had been so blind.
"Not to call myself a fool, I called her all the names I knew. I abused
her for the most horrid hypocrite, the sliest creature that ever
ensnared a man or deceived a woman. I tied a great silk handkerchief
over my head, that I might not hear her in her room, or be an unwilling
witness if anybody came to her in the night.
"If anybody _did_, I did not know it. I had lighted my lamp and taken
out my hymn-book; but, God forgive me, I did not know what I was
reading. And I was hungry too, for I had not gone down to supper, and
that made me feel still crosser with the girl.
"As for my master, I never thought of blaming anything he did. I had
broken myself of _that_, years ago. At last I fell asleep with grief
and hunger--at least, I suppose I did, for I was waked up suddenly by
feeling a hand laid upon my shoulder. I could not hear, because I had
my head tied up.
"The lamp had quite burned down, and the first grey of the morning
light might be seen from the window. And beside my chair I saw
Mamsell Gabrielle standing. I stared at her, for she had her little
straw-bonnet on, and her brown shawl pinned across her chest, and her
parasol in her hand. I really had some trouble to collect my thoughts
and remember what had happened. Meanwhile that sad gentle face of hers
had had time to melt the cruel crust of hate that had gathered about my
heart. I untied my handkerchief and got up. 'Good heavens! what have
you come here for? is it so late? have I been asleep?'
"'My dear Mamsell Flor,' she said, 'it is hardly four o'clock; I am
very sorry to disturb you, but I have something to say to you, and I
must say it. You were always so kind to me, it would hurt me to have
you think ill of me when I am gone, if you did not know my reasons for
the step I am about to take.'
"'What step?' I cried; 'What are you going to do? You are ready dressed
for a journey; you don't mean to go and leave the house in this way, in
the dark and cold? Your brother has not come back to fetch you.'"
"'I am going to him,' she said; 'I am going to beg him to take me away
with him--to the very end of the world, rather than leave me here. Oh!
that I had only had the courage to do so sooner! Miserable I might have
been, for I should have left my heart behind me, but I should not have
been sinful; and I could have looked you bravely in the face and said
good-bye to you, my dear kind friend, who have been a mother to me. I
know you will forgive me for all I have done, you are so good and
pitiful. But now you will shiver when you hear my name, and when you
think of one who has been the cause of all this misery, and made your
darling feel the greatest pain a man can feel. Dear Mamsell Flor, only
yesterday he told me that he loved me,--and I ... for many months I
have been his father's--'
"She stopped, as if in horror at the sound of her own words; and I who
but yesterday had been so full of rage and hate, Sir, a daughter of my
own could hardly have melted me so soon. She stood before me the very
picture of wretchedness, her bosom heaving, her eyes drooping, as
though she could not bear one ray of light to fall upon her and her
miserable lost life. I sat like one struck dumb, and at last, only to
say something:
"'Won't you take a seat?' I said, 'You have a long way to go;' and then
immediately I blushed at my own silliness--such foolish words, you
know. Sir,--so out of place. But she did not seem to hear me. After a
pause, she said:
"'I did what I could to save myself in time; you know that. I plainly
saw my danger--plainly--I am not naturally careless. I am not a giddy
girl, dear Flor. I walked into this with open eyes--that is, I thought
I knew the path I had chosen; I little dreamed that it could lead to
this. Did I say with open eyes? Yet I think they might be blinded by my
tears. I cried so terribly when I saw his wound, and knew it was for
me. He had often tried to make me love him, and I had told him more
than once that I never would be his, except as his wedded wife--_that_
I could never be, he told me; he had a son who was not to be defrauded
of his inheritance, and who would be shocked if he gave him a young
stepmother. 'As it is, we never can agree,' he said; 'and this would
bring us to an open rupture.' He took some trouble to make this very
plain to me, but he never succeeded in altering my resolution. I had
never heard of what he called a conscience-marriage, and all my
principles rose up against it--not to speak of my pride, that revolted
at the secresy. If two persons are worthy of each other, I thought, and
their consciences worthy of being called to witness what they do, why
should there be secret?
"'I was in sore trouble day and night, and God knows how I struggled,
Flor! To hear that proud man--naturally so violent and so imperious--to
hear him beg and beseech, and to see him suffer, and to go on living
here in this solitary wilderness beside him, without a soul to help me,
or any counsel, save my own weak heart--it was hard to bear, it was
terrible! and it was worse when he never spoke to me at all for months,
nor even looked at me; and all the while I could see how his dumb
passion was wearing him out; and then at last the blood from that
wound!--then I did feel my courage spent, and I gave myself up. Dear
Flor, if there really be a woman's pride, that could have taken her
through all this unmoved--ordeals, I may say, by fire and water--if
there be such courage, I hardly think I could covet it!
"'We took an oath,' she went on; 'we pledged ourselves to eternal
constancy and to secresy. My mind was at peace--happy I was not. Not
that I ever doubted him, whatever he may have done--and indeed he never
tried to make me think better of him than others. This I know--never
will he love another woman now, nor I another man. But there was always
a heavy presentiment of evil that was to come--and now it has come, and
my life is at an end.
"'It is not possible for me to remain where I am,' she continued;
'between father and son. If Count Ernest had come back, and found me as
his father's lawful wife, he would have smothered his boyish flame at
once, and all would have been plain and open. But now this wretched
secresy has borne its bitter fruits! I have prayed to God to guide me,
and I am resolved to take it all upon myself, and by leaving the house
at once, to save what there is yet to save. If I were to die, it would
be the best thing I could do for all of us, and so I must anticipate
death, and take myself away, never to be heard of more. I will tell my
brother all, and that shall be my penance. I do not mean to spare
myself, for henceforth I shall have to live all my days alone. But it
will be a comfort to me, dear Flor, to think that you remember me and
have a kindly feeling for me!'
"I held her hand and stroked her cheek; 'I will never forget you,
dear,' I said: 'Wherever you go, my heart will follow you;' and it
quite moved me to see a faint rose return to her pale cheeks, with
pleasure at hearing me speak so. She drew a deep breath, as if a load
had been taken off her mind; and then she begged me to keep her flight
a secret. Afterwards, when it was no longer to be concealed, I was to
say that she had gone to her brother to persuade him to go back to
England quietly, and that perhaps she would not come back that night.
"'When I am safe across the channel, I will write to the count; she
said; 'and as for you, my best and dearest friend, I shall always think
of your love and goodness for me to my dying day.'
"And she fell upon my neck, and cried so bitterly that I cried myself
while I was trying to comfort her--saying the most stupid things--for
my poor old head was all astray. I could hardly get out the words for
sobbing, and only kept repeating: 'God bless you, poor dear!--bless you
I--don't forget your own old Flor, who wronged you so!--you are far too
good to be so wretched!'
"As if, in this world, the good people were the best off! As if my
blessed mistress had not been an angel even before she died!
"As soon as we heard the first birds singing in the woods, the pretty
creature rose and dried her eyes, and gave me her hand to say good-bye;
and when at the door she turned round to nod to me again, she looked so
lovely that I looked after her, as if I had been her lover myself, and
ran to the window to see her pass through the little gate, and walk
towards the wood to wave my hand to her again. The day was dawning
gradually over the trees, that all stood still, as if asleep, till the
dew fell, and then they began to stir in the morning air. To this
moment I can remember how I felt, as I put out my hot head to cool the
fever in it, and let the fresh breeze blow over my hair. 'God be
praised! who gave that poor girl the sense and courage to go at once,
and make an end of it!' I thought one moment, and the next--'But has
she a right to go? If that be true about the oath she took, and the
conscience-marriage, can she--can any woman--go and leave her husband
as though her life were still her own to dispose of?' Yet at every step
she was taking farther out into the wide world and farther from the
castle, I felt the weight on my heart loosening, and I imagined that if
only my poor dear boy were safe never to set eyes on her again, all
might yet be well, and we might leave the rest to Providence.
"She must have got a good start by the time our people began to be
stirring about the stables and the farm-buildings, and my master never
got up till several hours later. I always was the earliest in the
house, and had more than enough to do and to look after, but that
morning I could think of nothing at all; my head was dazed, everything
seemed running in it at once--I took a whole hour to plait up my poor
wisps of hair before I could make up my mind to leave the room. For I
thought I should meet the count, and if he were to ask for Mamsell
Gabrielle, I was sure to stammer and hesitate, and very likely to
confess the whole. However, I could not hold out any longer, I wanted
so much to go and see what my poor Count Ernest was about. I went along
on tiptoe, and slowly up the stairs. My legs shook as though I had
grown to eighty in a single night.
"I listened at the door of his room, and hearing nothing, I softly
opened it and went in. The room was empty, and the bed untouched; but
he must have spent the night here, for the candles were burned down to
their sockets. It all looked so sad, it made me begin to cry again, as
I went about setting things to rights, and opening the windows. I
looked out far over the tree-tops, and fell a-thinking. I can remember
that I almost went into a passion with that faded dog-boy there on the
tapestry, who grins and looks so happy, shewing all his teeth.
'Whatever happens, that fool must grin,' I said; sorrow had made me
that distracted, that even a picture on the wall could provoke me,
Sir."
"All at once I heard the piano in the room below me, long before the
time when my master was used to rise. 'The whole world is topsy-turvy;'
I thought, as I went downstairs. Now that I was sure not to meet the
count, I wanted to go and look for my dear boy all over the castle and
about the grounds."
"When I came to the door of my lady's room, where we had put Mamsell
Gabrielle, I could not pass it. I felt drawn in against my will, as it
were--it was like those places where dreadful murders have been
committed. I stood staring at the glass, and talking to myself like a
mad woman. We women are a weak and a curious race, you know. Sir, and
have a right to be, as our mother Eve was before us; and I could not
help fumbling about till I had found the mechanism; and then, I
thought, I would take one peep at the hidden passage--just one peep, I
thought--but when the mirror turned upon its hinges, I had one foot
over without intending it, and then the other--and I found myself
walking on, hardly venturing to breathe, and the door had closed behind
me of itself. I was not frightened. If I really never did get out, or
saw the light of day again, what would it matter? What is there in the
world to please me, where all is temptation and disappointment, and
where one man plays the part of Lucifer to the other?
"I saw a faint streak of light falling through a crack, and so I went
on till I came to the steps; I went up cautiously; I heard the piano
getting louder and louder as I went up. While I live, I shall not
forget that strange feeling; the dark dank air, like a prison, and the
beautiful music pealing above my head.
"I felt as if I were in my grave, and thousands of birds were singing
over the sod, and I could hear them and understand them all. At the
last step I stood still--'Where does this lead to?' I thought, 'and
shall I be able to get out?' and I turned cold all aver, when I saw
that this passage could only lead into Count Henry's morning-room, just
where the piano stood. If I were to walk in suddenly, what would he
think of me?
"Then I saw the light shining through a hole in the wall, and that made
me go on again. The mirror had been injured at one place, which looked
like a spot or blemish, and it had often vexed me while I was cleaning
it; and now I saw that it had been done on purpose, to enable one to
look into the room and see that all was safe, before putting the
springs in motion and opening the door.
"I crept close up and peeped in. Count Henry was sitting at the piano,
in his short velvet morning-dress, with his back turned to the mirror,
and all the windows were standing wide open. I was going to steal away
again, but the music bewitched me, as it were; I never could get enough
of it. It was easy enough for it to steal away the heart of a poor
young lonely creature like Gabrielle, when it could so bewilder an old
thing like me! It all came of itself while he was playing, out of his
own head. It was as if he were talking with the spirits within him, and
soothing them when he felt his fits of passion coming on; and at those
times the music sounded like two distinct and separate voices
discoursing--angry first, and quarrelling, and then at peace.
"What storm was raging in him that morning I do not know. He could not
be thinking of Gabrielle's brother,--he was not uneasy about that,--for
he was fully persuaded that she herself would never leave him--neither
of Count Ernest; for what did he know of what he was feeling? But he
must have a kind of presentiment that some great event was impending,
for the music was like the sound of a coming storm, and one could hear
the first roll of the distant thunder. It made me feel so frightened
and uncomfortable--partly because of the confined air in that little
passage--that I stood up, and was just going away, when the door of the
ante-chamber opened, and my dear Count Ernest came in.
"His father looked round, but he made a sign to beg him not to let
himself be disturbed, but to go on playing, and he sat down in an
arm-chair to wait; he sat so that I could see his face straight before
me. There was something so grave and grand about it, and yet so subdued
and peaceful,--he looked handsomer than I ever saw him. He did not
raise his eyes to the secret door; it was pain and grief to him to know
that it was there. He was very pale, and he looked down as if he were
studying the pattern of the inlaid floor, with a look of forced
cheerfulness that made my heart ache. And though he never moved an
eyelid, I saw his eyes getting wet, and then two large tears glittering
beneath his eyelashes, while his mouth remained as quiet and sweet as
ever. I saw that the music was too much for him, and almost overcame
him. His father did not seem to notice it; he went on playing for some
time longer, until at last, closing with a magnificent unison of all
the voices, he shut down the piano, got up, and took a few hasty turns
about the room. He never looked at his son, (in general he seldom did);
but still he appeared to be in a good humour, and took up a new
fowling-piece that was lying on the table to shew it him."
"'You are just come when I wanted you,' he said. 'I was going to send
over Pierre to ask whether you would like to take a ride with me
through the forest. Pierre tried this gun yesterday, and says he thinks
it is even better than my English one; did he speak to you about it?'"
"'No, he did not;' and the young count rose also; 'and I rather fear I
shall not be able to accompany you, my dear father. I have come to a
sudden decision about Stockholm, and I mean to go at once. You say very
justly, that it would be far too soon for me to stay here and bury
myself among these woods, without at least one trial of what I may be
fit for in this world. And I am come to say good-bye--that is, if you
still approve of my decision as much as I hoped you would, concluding
from the wishes you have so frequently expressed.'
"He spoke calmly and cheerfully; but oh! it was woe to me to hear him!
I could hear every word through the slight partition, and I held my
breath, for I even fancied they must hear how my heart was beating. I
did not dare to move, and so I stayed, and heard all they said. I found
I was to lose him again; and when to see him, who could tell?--never
perhaps. I knew what made him go. He was resolved never to see the girl
again. But she was gone, and what would they do when they found _that_
out? When I tried to think of this, my five senses failed me, and so I
rather listened to what they were saying. I cannot repeat every word,
but it was beautiful to hear my young count explaining to his father
how the post at Stockholm had just then acquired a great importance, in
consequence of our commercial relations, and what not; and how clearly
he saw it all, and knew what he had to do.
"Meanwhile the elder count was walking up and down, and never spoke a
word till he had done. Then he stopped short before his son, and held
out his hand to him; 'You are perfectly right in all you say, and I
entirely approve of the step you are about to take,' he said. 'I know
it is a sacrifice to my wishes on your part, for in fact, you are not a
man of action, you have far more of the German scholar in you, but in
your new position you will soon have shaken off the last vestige of
school-dust; and by-and-by you will agree with me, that my wishes were
entirely for your own good. When do you start?'
"'This very day, if you approve, Sir; I would take Fatme as far as the
station, and Pierre could take the horses back in the evening. My
things can be sent after me.'"
"His father nodded, and again they remained silent for a time. My
Ernest had still something weighing heavy on his mind--that I saw by
his face."
"At last he said: 'And you, my dear father, what have you decided upon
doing? What are your plans for the present? Do you mean to spend the
winter here?'"
"'I rather think so. I fancy I have had enough of being tossed about. A
quiet time in port to rest, would do no harm for a change.'
"'This is a solitary place,' returned his son, 'and our neighbours are
not much resource. Will you laugh at me if I ask you a strange
question? Did it never occur to you to think of marrying again?'
"The count gave a loud laugh. 'Well, I must say, you do ask searching
questions,' he said. 'You would like to do a good action before you go,
and see that your father is well provided for. Give it up, my son, give
it up! A second marriage is but a second folly; and if age cannot save
us from folly, youth at least, should not tempt us to it.'
"'You are not speaking seriously, Sir;' returned Count Ernest; 'I have
found you younger this time than when I left you five years ago. If you
really should decide on settling here, only consider how a young
mistress would improve the place--one who would prevent your growing
old before your time; and when that time does come in good earnest,
would make those quiet years pleasant to you. I know that I leave you
in the best of hands,' he went on; 'our Flor is fidelity itself, but
you require more than she can do for you, and as I cannot tell when I
may come back, I--'
"He stopped short, and I saw that he had some trouble to hide his
emotion. His father turned a searching look on him, and after a pause
he drily answered: 'Enough of this; I am very well as I am; and though
I may find other ways than you would, of combating dulness, I shall not
run to seed as you suppose. There are foxes enough to be shot, while my
hand can hold a gun; and when the end of all ends comes, I shall sit
down and write my memoirs, as a pattern to this generation of
propriety--that is, a pattern to be avoided.'
"He now evidently expected his son to take his leave, but Count Ernest
stood still, with his eyes fixed on his father's face. Count Henry did
not seem to feel quite easy under them; he looked annoyed, and added,
as if in jest: 'Well, and don't these prospects please you? I do
believe you have a match all ready made for me, and intend to show me
that your talents in the diplomatic line are greater than I should have
supposed. May I ask who the lady is? I confess I am getting curious. Is
it young F., with her Madonna eyes, and her liberal portion of
freckles? or Comtesse C., with her shortened leg, and her never-ending
giggle, who would persuade herself and the world, (though the world
knows better), that she has not seen sixteen summers?' And so he went
on, through the list of all the young ladies in the neighbourhood,
caricaturing them with a few sharp strokes, but without succeeding in
moving a muscle of his son's countenance."
"When he came to the end: 'You are on the wrong track, dear father,' he
said; 'It is no fine lady I am thinking of, nor should I like to see
any of these in this house, as its mistress. But there is a prize much
nearer home, that I should be glad to see you win. Have you really
never noticed the young lady who helps our Flor to rule the house? She
is fond of you, I know. Her passionate attachment to you has grown too
strong for her to conceal it even from herself.'
"The count stood rooted to the ground, and I saw a dark frown gather on
his brow. But he always knew how to command himself. With a laugh that
did not come from his heart: 'Mort de ma vie!' he cried--'Mamsell
Gabrielle? Why, that would indeed be a triumph of the new school over
the old, if you have managed to discover more in these three weeks,
than I in the last two years!'
"'To be candid with you. Sir,' said Count Ernest, 'I must honestly
confess that I did not discover this until last night--not, at least,
with any certainty. I was witness to the poor girl's struggle when her
brother wanted her to go with him, and I saw that it would be the death
of her to part from you.'
"'Part from me!--stuff and nonsense!' cried his father. 'That brother
of hers startled her--he is a hard-headed fool. It was his coming here
so fast and furious, as if it were a matter of life and death, that
frightened the girl out of her senses. I tell you, you are mistaken.
And besides, who says she is to go? She is of age, and can do as she
likes; I mean to take care that she does--her free will shall be
protected.'
"Another pause, and then the son: 'Are you sure she may not have to
suffer for being so protected? Let me own to you that I went over to X.
last night, to speak to this brother of hers. He told me how chivalrous
you had been, in defending his sister on one occasion, and also what
had been said about it at the time. If you do not intend to sacrifice
your protege's good name for ever, it is indeed high time to dismiss
her, or to give her a name that will effectually protect her. Dearest
father,' he continued while my master sat silent, angrily gnawing his
lip; 'Do not be angry with me for venturing to interfere with any of
your decisions. I have set my heart on seeing you in possession of this
good fortune, which has been so long within your reach, though you
would not see it. Of course, I do not know how you may feel towards
this young lady; whether you would care to see her go out alone into an
uncertain world--alone with her secret, her grief, and her love for
you. But if you really have one spark of feeling for her, why not take
a creature so fair and good, and make her your own for ever? If you do
decide in haste, I am certain that you will not repent at leisure.'"
"All this time I had never taken my eyes off my darling's face, and I
saw it glowing and reddening, till his eyes were all glittering with
tears.
"He was standing before his father, and had taken one of his hands in
his. 'Strange boy!' his father said; 'I do believe you mean it--you
would like to make me leap into this adventure blindfold, as my own
folly has often made me do in others. What is there about this girl to
make you plead her cause so passionately? And, when I come to think of
it, your proposal is not so utterly to be despised. I have only to
think of our highborn neighbours, and of their indignation when they
hear that Count ---- has married his housekeeper, to feel ready for the
wedding at once. It would be a satisfaction, but I am afraid it is a
satisfaction of which I must deprive myself. Not that there is anything
in your taste to be objected to--she comes of a respectable family, and
has manners that many a countess might envy her. Yet, it won't do,
Ernest, give it up--yes, I will talk to her brother; we will do all
that is right to be done, only do you go away now, and leave me to
myself for half an hour. Why,' he went on, as his son still kept hold
of his hand; 'are you not satisfied that I should have done this
proposal of yours the honor of thinking it worth a moment's
consideration? Enough of this! I say again. I acknowledge the kindness
of your heart, that would be glad to see me happy; but hearts are giddy
things, and are apt to come to their senses after it is too late.'"
"And he talked on in this style, without ever once looking at his son.
Then he got up, went to the piano, struck a chord or two, went to the
window, and shut it hastily.
"'There is something in this you will not tell me,' said his son. 'You
are disturbed. You have a reason you will not give me for not doing as
I request. I know your way of looking on these disparities of position;
therefore it is not that--and what else can it be? For I see by your
agitation that the young lady is not indifferent to you.'
"He waited for an answer, in vain. 'I know,' at length he said, very
sadly, in a tone of deep dejection; 'I have never been so fortunate as
to find my way to your confidence, though, God knows, I have sought it
with all my heart; and I never regretted this so much as I do now, but
I have been forgetting myself--this conversation has lasted too long
already. You think it absurd that a son should take his father's
happiness to heart. I have only now to beg your pardon, and to say
good-bye.'
"The count turned from the window to look at his son from head to foot,
as if he would read through him.
"'Go out into the world, my son, and let the bitter blasts from the
so-called summits of society blow over your brains a while, and cool
down the effervescence of that strange fanciful heart of yours, and
blow away the last of your romantic prejudices. You will soon come and
thank me for not having consented to give you a young stepmother, and
perhaps a batch of younger brothers. Your fortune would never be
sufficient to enable you to move with ease in the society to which you
belong, if you had to divide it with a young stepmother, and possibly
with other children, far less if you gave it up to them, and had to
live on your mother's portion only. On the other hand, a woman I had
made a countess of, I should not choose to leave a beggar. Now, have I
spoken plainly? and do we understand each other?'
"'We do;' slowly repeated Count Ernest, with a faltering voice; and
after a moment of meditation, he went up to the table, where among
other things there was an inkstand, and taking out a sheet of paper
from his father's portfolio, he wrote a line or two, standing where he
was. He had hardly finished, when the elder count came up. 'What on
earth are you about? what is this new fancy of yours?' he cried; 'I do
believe you are getting up a comedy. I hope you do not mean--'
"'My dear father,' said Count Ernest, placing the written paper before
him: 'let me entreat you to do nothing hasty; see here, what I have
written; and if you really would make me happy before I go, and do me
the greatest favor, please put your seal and signature here, as a
ratification of mine. I have sometimes thought I must seem stranger to
you than any stranger; our ways of thinking are so different. At the
age when sons grow up to be their father's friends, I have been pained
to find how little I have been yours. You have given me this moment a
strong proof of your affection. But if you repent of it, if you would
annul it, and prove to me that I am still as far from understanding
you, or doing anything to make you happy, as my poor mother always
was,--then, I say,--destroy that paper.'
"Count Henry took it, and I saw his hand tremble, as he held it up to
read it. 'Ernest,' he said; 'this is simply impossible; there never can
be any question of your giving up this property, to have it settled on
a stepmother and her heirs; it can't be done.'"
"The paper fell upon the table, and the two stood side by side for a
minute without speaking, and that sunny room was still as death."
"All at once we heard a quick step coming through the ante-chamber, and
Pierre came, out of breath, to say:"
"'Monsieur le Comte! Is M. le Comte aware that Mamsell Gabrielle is
missing, and that the ranger's assistant met her before day-break,
walking on the road to X, and that Mamsell Flor Las been missed as
well, and looked for all over the house without being found?'
"'The caleche to the door, this instant!' cried my master, snatching at
his hat, that lay on a chair. 'Stay,' he called after the man who was
already on the threshold; 'my horse--have it saddled and brought
round--allons!'
"'I will accompany you, Sir, if I may,' said Count Ernest; 'as it is, I
am all ready for the road.' And he would have hurried away after the
servant, but his father held him back, looked in his face without
saying a word, and then suddenly folding him in his arms, they stood
for a moment heart to heart. After that I saw no more; my eyes were
running over, and everything was swimming before me. By the time I had
got them dry again--and that was not easy--the room was empty, and only
the paper on the table was there to tell me that it had not been all a
dream."
"How I felt as I got down the winding staircase, you may fancy,
Sir;--when I had found the door again, groping about with my trembling
hands, and stepped out of the dark into the broad daylight again, I
felt as if it were a quite new world I was coming to. I heard the
horses' hoofs on the pavement of the court, and I saw from the window
father and son galloping over the bridge together, while the light
carriage that was going to fetch our Gabrielle, was driving gaily after
them in the morning sunshine."
"Yes, Sir, and it was a pretty sight to see: that poor thing that had
stolen out of the house by the back-gate, before daybreak, and all
alone, coming back joyfully by the light of noonday, driving over the
great drawbridge, and her master on his grand horse, riding proudly by
her side, and him leaping from his saddle, to open the carriage-door,
and give her his arm to lead her up the steps!
"And there was a still finer sight to be seen eight days after, when
there was a fine wedding at the castle. They were married in the great
saloon, and the dinner was downstairs in the hall; and there sat Count
Henry at the master's table, with his beautiful young wife, and her
brother; and all of us dined at the other table, with flowers and
wreaths all over, and the band from X. playing in the gallery. They
danced till long past twelve o'clock, and the young countess danced
with every one, from the steward to the assistant ranger, and it was
talked of all over the country, ever so long after. But to me, sir, the
best of all was wanting, and I cannot say that I felt really happy for
a single moment. For my dear Count Ernest had not returned with them
that morning, and I had not even been able to take leave of him!--And
all the time the band was playing, I could not keep from thinking of
him, at sea, on his way to Sweden, in that cold night, hearing nothing
but the salt waves beating against the ship, and the rough winds
blowing.
"When the wedding gaieties were over, everything in the castle went on
as it had done before, only that we spoke of our gracious countess,
instead of Mamsell Gabrielle, and that the new-married pair rode out
every day, and that often when my master played, his young wife sang.
"We had no visits, for those my master and mistress paid among the
families of the neighbourhood, were not returned; at which our master
only laughed, and indeed, it seemed as if nothing ever could succeed in
spoiling his temper again. If anything occurred among the servants, or
in the stables, which we would have been afraid to tell him formerly,
we had only to speak to the countess, who always knew how to make
things smooth, and to charm away his angry mood.
"Only once, I heard her beg and beseech in vain. It was soon after New
Year's Day, the snow was very deep, and we lay buried among the woods,
as if we had been walled up. An invitation came from the grand duke to
a ball at court. It was a ball where all the grand folks of the whole
country came together. Last winter our master had gone there too,
though he was not in very high favor in that quarter. A court-lackey on
horseback had brought the invitation, my master and mistress were at
table, and I still see the count, as he pushed away his plate and rose,
and walked about the room.
"'What an insult,'--he cried,--while his wife seemed anxious to quiet
him. 'They have not included my wife in this invitation;--and yet we
shall both do them the honor of going.' And in spite of all that the
countess could say or pray, he made the man come in, and ordered him to
take back his answer, that the count had accepted the invitation, both
for himself and his countess.
"After that he seemed in particularly good spirits, and never minded
the countess's petitions, but kissed her forehead, and said: 'Don't you
be frightened, child. It is the first time, I ever returned an insult
with a favor; I choose to show them that you are their superior, and
you must not spoil my sport.'
"And so it really came to my dressing my Gabrielle,--I mean my gracious
mistress,--for a ball. She wore a beautiful white satin dress, with a
wreath of scarlet and gold in her hair, and she looked like a queen."
"'Comme une reine;' said Monsieur Pierre, who rode before the sledge
with a lantern; and sweet she did look, as she nodded to me out of her
veils and furs, to say good-bye, and my master, who drove himself, was
just cracking his whip to start."
"I was quite in love with her myself, and sat up all that long night
awake by the fire, ready to receive her when she came home. I will not
weary you, sir, by repeating all I was thinking of the while. It made
me go to sleep myself, and I only waked towards morning at the noise of
the sledge bells. When I came running down, the count was already
leading his countess up to her room. Neither of them seemed tired at
all; they looked as bright and happy as if something particular had
occurred to please them. When he said good night, he took her tenderly
in his arms,--before me, sir, and all the servants,--held her there for
a minute, as if he had forgotten the whole world besides. I saw how
much moved she was, and I followed her into her room to help her to
undress. As soon as we were alone, she fell upon my neck in tears, and
as she always had treated me as a mother, she told me all that had
taken place. They had created a great sensation, when they came in,
later than the rest. The duchess, who was a very haughty woman, had not
said a word, when the count led her up and presented her as his wife.
But the young duke had been excessively courteous, and had opened the
ball with her, and had distinguished her more than all the other
ladies. She had felt completely at her ease, and I could easily see
that she had been the reigning beauty."
"But to her great alarm, she had come upon that rude English lord,
standing at one of the card-tables, and only on seeing her husband so
indifferent and calm, had she been able to recover her self-possession.
After one of the dances, the count had led her into another room to
take some refreshment; and there he had introduced some gentlemen to
her. Meanwhile the Englishman had come in with some ladies, unobserved;
and he had raised his eye-glass with a fixed stare at her, and had said
quite out loud: 'For a chamber-maid, she is not without tournure.'
There had been a dead silence; the count had changed color, and soon
after he had said, in a tone of the greatest indifference: 'Look there,
Gabrielle, don't you see a striking likeness between that gentleman who
has just come in, and that illbred person who was once so rude to you,
and was served with a taste of my horsewhip and my pistols as the
consequence? I rather think the horse-whip would have been enough;
people who know him are apt to think him hardly worth the powder and
shot.'"
"You can fancy, sir, how my poor countess felt when he said this.
However, she heard no more just then, for the duke came in to the
refreshment-room after his partner, and was politeness itself, and all
attention. I fancy more than one of these highborn ladies, must have
gone green and yellow with envy and jealousy. When the fete was over,
and my master and mistress took their leave, the English lord had
followed them in a very insulting manner, and when they came to the
staircase had whispered a word or two in the count's ear; who had then
stood still, and had answered quite loud enough to be heard by all the
footmen, and some of the court-gentlemen who were standing about:
"'This time you will have to look for another player at that game, my
lord--I have found a prize since then, which I have no intention of
staking on one card: even if I were certain that the cards were not
false, as, they did say in the London clubs, some people are in the
habit of using. In case you should require any further satisfaction, my
horsewhip is still, as it was then, very much at your service.'"
"And with that he had gone, and left the fellow standing. On their way
home, he had said to Gabrielle: 'I trust this is the last remnant of my
past life that will ever rise up to throw a shadow on my present
happiness. You alone are all my present and all my future, in this
world.' And he had said more of the like loving, heart-felt things that
kept her warmer in the cold and snow of that winter night than all her
furs."
"From that time they lived alone, and were all and all to each other,
refusing every invitation that came from court--only now and then, they
took little journeys; though it was easy to see that they were always
happiest at home, among our solitary woods. The countess never changed
to me, and used always to tell me everything. The only thing we never
spoke of, was what had passed between us on that awful morning, when
she had wanted to go away--I never heard whether she confessed the real
reason to her husband. I rather think it likely that she did, for now
the count had a peculiar look of tenderness, whenever he mentioned his
absent son; even when he got a letter from Stockholm. When that
happened he would send for me upstairs, and talk to me of my darling,
and give me the love he never forgot to send me. Once or twice a year
he wrote to me himself; familiarly and kindly, as ever, but never a
word of what was most important to me--not a word of what he felt or
thought."
"When he had been about two years away, he wrote to announce his
intended marriage with a highborn young lady in Sweden, and to ask for
his father's consent. To me he wrote, that he hoped I should not
withhold my blessing, as his bride was exactly such as I would have
chosen for him myself. And afterwards he sent me her picture;--an
angel's face; all gentleness and goodness. Before I had seen it, I used
sometimes to torment myself with thinking that he had only made up his
mind to marry, in order to set his father's mind at rest. But I knew,
those great clear, innocent eyes of hers, must have found their way to
his heart."
"Then came accounts of the wedding, and of their beautiful wedding-tour
among the mountains. You will hardly believe it, sir, but even then the
young countess found time and thoughts to spare for poor old Flor. She
wrote to thank me, for having taken such care of her Ernest all his
life, she said. But there was no word of their coming back to Germany,
especially after the pair of twins was born--which event was an
occasion of great rejoicing here in this castle. The count used to talk
of going to Sweden, and taking me along with them; and you will believe
that my head was turned by the thoughts of such a journey, and such a
meeting."
"But it is not for us to number our days--many an old cripple, or
useless pensioner, has to stand sentinel a weary while, watching for
the call, and waiting to be relieved. And other lives, on which a whole
world of happiness hangs, are taken--we do not know how or why."
"One day Count Henry was carried home for dead. He had been thrown from
his horse, and had received some internal injury, which no doctor was
able to discover. He came to himself again, but only with a faint light
of consciousness or memory. He knew the countess and me, but no one
else--Pierre he would not suffer in the room at all. He took him for a
rat, and cried incessantly; 'Take it away!--catch it!--set a trap for
it!--it has gnawed away my wedding-garment. See what a hole it has
bitten in it!'"
"And then he would call upon his son so movingly, it was impossible to
hear him without tears. The countess had written immediately to Count
Ernest, to tell him the state in which his father was; I only feared he
might come too late."
"Do not ask me, Sir, to describe those days, and the nights we had to
live through, nor the heart-rending sight it was to see that young
wife, who never uttered one word of complaint, but rather was a support
to us all. On the twelfth day, the young count came. We had hardly
expected him so soon, and we were almost startled when he entered the
sick room."
"As soon as he heard the door open, my master waked up from the
lethargy in which he had been lying, and sat up, and in a voice which I
shall hear all my life, he cried: 'Ernest, my son!' and burst into a
passion of tears, and wept as though his spirit were passing away
through his eyes. After that he became surprisingly cheerful and
sensible, and lay quietly, holding his son's hand in his. He talked
again without rambling; so for one moment we hoped the worst was over,
and the turn taken towards getting better. But ten minutes after, his
eyes grew dim again; he gave one look at his countess, and said:
'Ernest will take care of you.' He was going to say something to his
son as well, when he fell back and was gone."
"You must excuse me, Sir, for telling you all this so particularly, but
you must let me say a few words more, to tell you how it ended. Alas!
the end came soon enough! The very day after the funeral Count Ernest
went away again, after having done all that could be done, by seals and
documents, to make the countess complete mistress of the whole. For
they had found no will. Count Henry knew well enough that he had only
to say; 'Ernest will provide for you,' to close his eyes in peace."
"'If there is anything I can do for you, I beg you to command me in
every way;' my dear Count Ernest had said to his stepmother before he
went. 'If you should ever find this solitude too much for you, I hope
you will remember that my wife is waiting to receive you with open
arms.'"
"She looked at him affectionately, and held out her hand, which he
respectfully took and kissed."
"'You are well cared for;' he said in a low voice; 'I leave you with my
own faithful Flor--I only beg you will bring her with you, when you
come to Sweden.'"
"Of course this was more than I could hear with dry eyes. So I threw my
apron over my face, and ran away--but in the passage he held me fast,
and kissed me quite vehemently, and I felt how his heart was beating,
and the hot tears from his eyes came dripping on my grey hairs."
"'My boy, my Ernest, my dearest master!' I said;--'God bless you for
having come! as He has already blessed you for your truth and
tenderness. He did not take your father until you had heard from his
dying lips, that he well knew what a son he was leaving. Go, and God be
with you! Give old Flor's love to your countess, and to the darling
children; tell them that Flor has no other wish on earth, but that the
whole world might know Count Ernest's heart as she knows it, and then
the whole world would be ready to lay their hands beneath your feet, as
she is.'"
"He broke away from me, and ordered his horses to meet him at the top
of the walk that leads up the forest--He walked on before, and I heard
people say that he had wandered about the forest, taking leave of the
spots he loved, and now looked upon for the last time. So even at that
time he must have resolved never to return. He could not be happy again
in his old home."
"And so I knew that I had taken leave of him for ever. I would have
fretted still more about it, only I was so taken up with my mistress.
She pined away; white and quiet, and without a murmur. It was just as
if strong hands were dragging her down into her husband's grave. Even
dead, that proud man ruled her. When I wrote the sad tidings to Count
Ernest--it is hardly a year ago--he answered me immediately; he said I
was to go to them, at all events; and the young countess wrote and
begged me, as hard as one can beg. My Ernest had given up his post, and
settled where they are living still, on a very fine estate among the
hills, close by the sea, where I suppose it must be beautiful."
"'I would come myself to fetch you,' he wrote; 'only I am too
conscientious in my duties as a husband and a husbandman, to go from
home in harvest-time.'"
"He did not like to give his real reason. But all this melted me, and I
got my bits of things together, and gave over my keys to the new
steward. The countess's brother had a pride of his own, and never would
have anything to do with her inheritance; and so, one fine morning, I
really was quite ready to go, and drove away. But when I got to that
road in the hollow, to the place where one can see these chimney tops
just peeping above the woods, my heart failed me all at once, and I
jumped out of the carriage, and ran home as if the fiends had hunted
me. And when I got back into our court, I felt as if I had been a
hundred years away."
"Ah! Sir, it is no good transplanting a rotten tree!--it should be left
standing where it grew, waiting for the axe. Heaven knows, I would
gladly give the few years I have to live to see my Ernest's children
only once; to take them in my arms, and hug those darling babes; but I
know I could never be dragged so far. They would have to bury me in the
sea, and my ghost would walk the wild salt waves, and never rest in
peace."
"How different here, where our own pleasant woods are shading the
graves where my master and mistress are lying side by side. The birds
singing among the branches, and the deer grazing peacefully round the
two grave-stones that bear their names."
"When old Flor's weary eyes are closed, and there is no one alive to
tend them, they will soon be overgrown with moss and brushwood; and in
the woods where these two hid their happiness from the world, their
rest is hidden--and there, please God, shall mine be."
BLIND.
BLIND.
CHAPTER I.
At a window which opened over a little flower-garden, stood the blind
daughter of the village sexton, and sought revival from the wind as it
blew over her hot face. The delicate half-grown figure shook, and the
small cold hands lay clasped upon the windowsill.
Farther back in the room, sat a blind boy, on a stool before the old
spinet, playing restless melodies. He might be about fifteen; scarcely
a year older than the girl. No one who saw and heard him, as he lifted
up his large open eyes, or bent his head towards the window, could have
guessed him to be so afflicted--there was so much security, nay,
vehemence, in his movements.
He broke off suddenly, in the midst of a sacred song that had been
running wild beneath his fingers.
"Did you sigh, Marlene?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Not I, Clement; what should I sigh for? I only started when the wind
burst in so suddenly."
"But sigh you did! Do you think I do not hear you when I play? When you
shiver, I feel it even here."
"Yes, it is cold now."
"You don't deceive me! If you were only cold, you would not be standing
there at the window. And I know what makes you sigh and tremble; you
are afraid because the doctor is to come to-morrow and pierce our eyes
with needles. Yet he told us how quickly it is done, and that it is
only like the sting of a gnat. You used to be so brave and patient.
When I was little, and used to cry when I was hurt, were not you always
held up as a pattern to me by my mother, though you are only a girl.
And now you cannot find your courage, and do not in the least think of
all the joy that is to come after."
She shook her head. "Can you believe me to be afraid of so short a
pain? And yet I am oppressed by foolish childish fancies, from which I
cannot see my way. From that day when the strange doctor for whom the
baron sent, came down from the great house to see your father, and your
mother called us in to him from the garden--from that hour there has
been a weight upon me which will not go. You were so glad, you took no
notice; but when your father knelt down, and began to return thanks to
God for this great mercy, my heart was dumb within me, and I could not
join. I tried to find a reason for being thankful, but I could feel
none."
She said this very quietly, and her voice was steady. He struck
a few gentle chords. Between the hoarse jarring tones peculiar
to such old instruments, sounded the distant song of returning
labourers--contrasting, as did that life, in its plenitude of light and
power, with the dream-life of these two blind children.
The boy appeared to feel it; he rose hastily, and went to the
window with unerring step--for he knew that room and everything it
contained--and, tossing back his fine fair curls, he said:
"You are fanciful, Marlene; our fathers and mothers and all the village
wish us joy, and should it not be joy?--before they promised this, I
did not mind. We are blind, they say; I never knew what it was we
wanted. When visitors used to come and see my mother, and we heard them
pity us, and say; 'Ah, those poor children!' I used to get so angry.
What right have they to pity us? I thought. Still, I always knew that
we are not like other people. They often spoke of things I did not
understand, but yet which must be lovely; now that we are to know these
too, curiosity has taken hold of me, and will not let me rest night or
day."
"I was quite content before;" said Marlene, sadly. "I was happy, and
could have been happy all my life--now it will be different. Do you
never hear people complain of care and trouble? and what did we know of
care?"
"That was because we did not know the world; and I want to know it, at
whatever risk. I too have been contented to grope about with you, and
to be left in idleness--but not for ever. I will have no advantage over
those who have to work. Sometimes, when my father used to teach us
history, and tell us of all the heroes and their doings, I would ask
him if any of these were blind? But every man who had done anything to
speak of, could see. The like thoughts would keep tormenting me for
days. Then, when I was at my music, or was allowed to play the organ in
your father's place, I would forget my grievances. Again, I often
thought; 'Am I eternally to play this organ, and walk these few hundred
steps about this village here for ever? and beyond this village, never
to be heard of by one living soul, or spoken of when I am dead?' You
see, since that doctor has been up there at the castle, I have had a
hope of growing up to be a man like other men--and to be able to go out
into the wide world, and go where I please, and have nobody to mind."
"Not even me, Clement?" She spoke without complaint or reproach, but
the boy broke out passionately:
"How can you talk such stuff, which you know I can't abide? Do you
think I would go away and leave you all alone? or steal from home in
secret? Do you think I could do that?"
"I know how it is. When the village-lads begin their wanderings, or go
away to town, nobody ever may go with them, not even their own sisters;
and here, while they are children still, the boys run away from the
girls whenever they come near them. Till now they let you stay with me,
and we learned and played together; you were blind, as I was--what
should you have done with other boys? But when you see, and wish to
stay with me, they will mock you, and hoot after you, as they do to all
who do not hold to them; and then you will go away, for ever so long a
time, perhaps--and I--how shall I ever learn to do without you?"
The last words were spoken with an effort, and then her terrors
overcame her, and she sobbed aloud.
Clement drew her towards him, and stroked her cheeks, and said with
earnest tenderness: "Yon must not cry; I am not going to leave
you--never--rather remain blind and forget the rest. I will not leave
you if it makes you cry so. Come now, be calm; do be glad!--you must
not heat yourself, the doctor said; it is not good for the eyes, dear
darling Marlene!"
He took her in his arms, and clasped her close, and kissed her cheek--a
thing he had never done before. Just then he heard his mother calling
to him from the vicarage close by; and leading the still weeping girl
to a chair by the wall, and seating her upon it, he hurried out.
Shortly after, a venerable pair might be seen walking down the hill,
from the great house towards the village. The vicar, a tall and stately
form, with all the power and majesty of an apostle; and the sexton, a
simple slight-built man, with humble gait and hair already white. Both
had been invited to pass the afternoon with the lord of the manor and
the doctor, whom he had sent for from the adjacent town, for the
purpose of examining the children's eyes and attempting an operation.
The doctor had repeatedly assured the two delighted fathers, that he
had every reasonable hope of a perfect cure; and he had requested them
to hold themselves in readiness for the morrow.
It was the mother's business to prepare what was needful in the
vicarage. The children were not to be parted on the day appointed to
restore to both the light, of which, together, they had been so long
deprived.
When the two fathers reached their homes (they were opposite
neighbours), the vicar gave his old friend's hand a squeeze, and
said, with glistening eyes: "God be with them and us!"--and then they
parted. The sexton went into his house, where all was quiet, for the
servant-girl was in the garden. He went into his room, rejoicing in the
stillness that made him feel alone with his God. But when he crossed
the threshold he was startled by his child. She had risen from her
chair, holding her handkerchief to her eyes, her bosom heaving, as if
in spasms, her cheeks and lips dead white. He sought to comfort her;
begging her to be composed, and anxiously enquiring what had happened?
Tears were her only answer--tears which, even to herself, she could not
have explained.