A SEASIDE ROMANCE.
Wilhelm's immediate destination was Ostend. He hardly knew himself how
he came to fix on that particular place. Since those days, long past,
when his thoughts had hovered for weeks round the Belgian
watering-place, the name had remained in his mind, and now, with his
desire to spend some months in company with the sea, Ostend was the
first place that occurred to him.
It was the middle of July, and watering places not very full as yet,
nor were there many people staying at the Ocean Hotel where he stopped.
Two Americans, who had begun a summer tour on the Continent by a short
stay at Ostend, made friends with him on the first day after his
arrival, when they found he could speak English. They invited him to
join them on their walks, and made him give them information about
Germany, and especially about Berlin, which they intended visiting; in
return they told him all about the north coast of France, with its
watering-places, big and little, which they had "done" last year from
Cherbourg to Dunkirk.
Strolling the next afternoon with his new acquaintances along the
Digue, a few steps in front of them he saw a lady, plainly and darkly
but most elegantly dressed leaning on the arm of a tall man. They
walked slowly, and were evidently lost in contemplation of the softly
rolling sea. At first he paid but little attention to the couple, and
would not have noticed them at all had not the Digue been very empty of
visitors just then. But, strange to say, his gaze kept wandering from
the oily surface of the sea, and the steamers and fishing-smacks
plowing their way through it, to the slender figure of the lady, who
looked small beside her tall companion; and there gradually dawned upon
him a dim idea that that slight figure reminded him of somebody--that
he had seen those delicate contours, those graceful proportions, that
light and gliding gait before. Without hastening his steps he soon
overtook them, and recognized at the first glance that it was Loulou.
She too turned her head involuntarily to look at the passing trio. As
she caught sight of Wilhelm a sudden pallor overspread her face, and
with an unconscious movement of terror she dropped her companion's arm.
Both stood stockstill, as if suddenly deprived of the power of motion,
and gazed at one another wide-eyed. The silent encounter only lasted a
few seconds, but the play on both sides was so marked that it could not
fail to excite the attention of the lookers-on. Loulou's attendant
cavalier looked in surprise from her to him, and evidently thought the
proceedings most extraordinary. But before he had time to ask for an
explanation, Wilhelm had turned on his heel and was walking rapidly
back to the hotel. The two Americans followed him in silence. Nothing
in the scene had escaped them, but as true Anglo-Saxons they had too
much native reserve to ask for a confidence which was not offered them.
Wilhelm was most painfully affected by the encounter, and not for
worlds would he risk the possibility of meeting again with the
unfortunate woman and the man to whom she now was bound in sinful
union. That same day he took leave of his Americans, and left Ostend
early the next morning; at once fearful and relieved, as though fleeing
successfully from the scene of a dark deed of his own committing.
After a long and tiresome journey, not made pleasanter by having to
change four or five times, he arrived late in the evening at Eu, where
he spent the night. The next morning, an hour's drive in a hotel
omnibus brought him to Ault, a small market-town in the department of
Somme, which the Americans had recommended to him as the quietest,
cheapest, most unpretending, and at the same time picturesquely
situated of any of the seaside places on the north coast of France, at
least as far as Dieppe.
Wilhelm found Ault to be all it had been described. The little place
presented a well-to-do, self-respecting appearance. The High Street, at
right angles with the shore, and rising gently toward the higher,
billowy country beyond, was wide and straight as a dart, and
scrupulously clean; the roadway was macadamized, and a flagged pavement
ran along the two rows of houses. At its upper end, broad and defiant,
was a wonderful mediaeval church in the earliest Gothic style, with
high pointed windows, a severely beautiful west door, and a mighty
square tower. The church blocked the way, and forced the street to make
a bend in order to pass round it. This building, which would have
adorned a capital, stood there haughty and arrogant like a gigantic
knight in full tilting armor in the midst of the common people, and
seemed to wave the simple, unpretentious provincial houses to right and
left with a lordly gesture so that nothing might intercept his view of
the sea. Beside the High Street there were a few little side alleys,
mostly inhabited by locksmiths, who worked with untiring industry from
morning till night, keeping up a cheerful but far from unpleasing din
which, mingled with the roar of the breakers below, reached the ear as
a soft musical ring of metal. The only prominently ugly features in the
charming picture were the few villas on the neighboring heights, built
by retired Paris grocers and haberdashers; liliputian, pretentious,
with blatant, highly-colored facades, ludicrous imitations of baronial
fortresses, Venetian palaces, or Renaissance chateaux.
The inhabitants of Ault were a peaceable, sober-minded people. No one
was ever drunk, nor was the sound of quarreling ever to be heard. There
were few public-houses; several places, however, dignified by the name
of cafes. The natives were so far accustomed to summer visitors that
they did not take much notice of them, but happily not so much as to
direct their whole thought and energy to fleecing them. It seemed as if
the people of Ault had merely arranged a bathing place for the purpose
of deriving a little amusement out of the strangers, not in order to
make a living out of them, that being quite unnecessary, as their
comfortable figures, good clothes, and well-filled shops could testify.
Wilhelm took up his quarters in the Hotel de France, situated just
where the High Street swept round the side of the church. As the house
was separated from the sea by the whole opposite row of houses, one
only caught a glimpse of it as a narrow, glittering streak across the
intervening roofs from the second-floor windows. The view from the
front windows was the more remarkable. They looked out upon the
churchyard which lay behind the Gothic cathedral. Not that there was
anything depressing in the sight; it made, on the contrary, a cheerful
impression, with its carefully tended flower beds and magnificent old
trees, which almost hid the modest headstones they overshadowed, and in
whose branches count less singing birds had built their nests, while
noisy troops of children played under them at all hours of the day.
Wilhelm directed his steps at once to this churchyard, where, beside
the modern iron crosses, there were marble headstones showing dates
that went back to the seventeenth century. In the oldest as well as the
newest inscriptions the same name occurred over and over again,
speaking well for the settled habits of the population. And, according
to the inscriptions, most of those buried here had lived to be eighty
or ninety years of age. Had Ault been a professedly fashionable bathing
place, one might have been tempted to think that this churchyard, with
its cheering records in stone and iron of the longevity of the natives,
had been set down in the very center of the town to encourage the
visitors.
The Hotel de France recommended itself by extreme cleanliness, but
otherwise it was very simple. The rooms contained only such furniture
as was absolutely necessary, the dining-room was bare of decoration,
and therefore happily free of those gruesome colored prints which the
commercial traveller delights to sow broadcast over the unsuspecting
country towns. Only the so-called salon boasted the luxury of a cottage
piano, a polished table, a few cane chairs, and a looking-glass over
the chimneypiece, on which lay a box of dominoes and a backgammon
board, eloquently suggestive of mine host's ideas as to the most
suitable occupation for his guests.
The hotel proprietors were as simple and homely as their house. The man
wore a seaman's cap and a blue coat with brass anchor buttons, and was
more than delighted if you took him for a seafaring man. He had, in
fact, been to sea once, as ship's cook, or steward, or something of the
sort. Now he sat most of the time in the cafe of the hotel, supplied
the neighbors with little drams of cognac, and told the visitors
endless stories of the buying and selling of property in the little
town. His wife was the soul of the establishment. She possessed the
gift of omnipresence. At one and the same moment you might see her in
the kitchen and in the outhouses, in the hotel and in the cafe. The
servants, of whom there was a considerable number, answered to a look,
a bock of her finger. You could hear her clear voice from morning till
night in the courtyard or on the stairs. Everywhere she lent a helping
hand, and her busy fingers accomplished as much as all the men and
maids put together. With it all she was never out of temper, always had
a word or a smile for every passer-by, took a personal interest in each
of her guests, took instant notice of a diminished appetite or a pale
cheek, and always sent up lime-flower tea to anybody who happened to
come rather later than usual to breakfast.
The hotel was pretty full when Wilhelm arrived, but he made no attempt
to mix with the company he met twice a day at the table d'hote. His
French had grown somewhat rusty for want of practice, and he did not
trust himself to join in the exceedingly lively and general
conversation till he had regained something of his old fluency in long
daily talks with the landlord. Beside which, he did not feel greatly
drawn toward his fellowguests. Their high-sounding and
pompously-expressed platitudes bored him, their absurd views on
politics, their parrot-like and yet self-satisfied remarks on
literature and art filled him with compassion. One guest in particular,
who sat at the head of the table, and generally led the conversation in
the loudest tones, succeeded in making him very impatient, in spite of
the mildness with which Wilhelm usually judged his fellows. He did
business in sewing machines in Paris, but here gave himself out as an
"ingenieur constructeur," and belonged to that class of persons who
cannot endure not to be the center of observation wherever they happen
to be. It has been said of a man of that stamp, that if he were at a
wedding he would wish to be the bridegroom, and if at a funeral to be
in the place of the corpse. At the dinner table of the Hotel de France
he reigned supreme. His strong point lay in the perpetration of the
most ghastly puns, which he would discharge first to the right and then
to the left, and finally, with a roar of laughter, over the whole
table. In his outward appearance, too, he sought to create a sensation.
He was not dressed, he was costumed. He wore long stockings,
knickerbockers and a tight-fitting jacket, and when he stood up, tried
to produce effects with his calves, spread his legs wide apart as if,
like the Colossus of Rhodes, ships were to pass beneath, and affected
sporting and athletic attitudes generally. He was accompanied by a lady
who had at first roused the horrified disgust of the others by her
appetite, which surpassed every known human limit, and then proceeded
to make herself still more hateful by a frequent change of costume.
Wilhelm's immediate neighbor was a lady of somewhat exuberant outline,
but extremely plainly dressed, and without a single ornament, of whom
at first he took no more notice than of the rest of the company. She
returned his silent bow at coming and going, and acknowledged the
little attentions of the dinner table--the handing of salt or entrees,
of bread or cider (the table beverage)--with a low "Merci, monsieur,"
accompanied by a pleasant smile and an inclination of the head. The
acquaintance began with a look. It was after a more than usually
exasperating pun from the man in the knickerbockers, and involuntarily
their eyes met, after which they exchanged glances each time he came
out with a particularly blatant piece of idiocy. They could not long
remain in doubt that their opinion on the prevailing conversation was
identical, and the unanimity of their tastes was still further
demonstrated by the fact that the lady was as silent during the meals
as Wilhelm.
The interchange of looks was presently followed by words. It was the
lady who broke the ice by alluding to a somewhat peculiar incident. It
happened to be market day, and Wilhelm had been watching with interest
the cheerful bustle in the High Street, and the new type of country
people: the men with their carts bringing in calves, pigs, and grain,
fine-looking fellows, with tall sturdy figures, and shrewd,
clean-shaven faces above the blue cotton white-embroidered blouses and
severely stiff snow-white shirt collars; and the women in round
dark-brown cloaks reaching to their feet; the drum-beating, yelling
tooth-drawers and patent medicine venders praising their remedies
against tapeworm and ague with incredible volubility, and the couple of
majestic gendarmes in their imposing uniforms, with yellow leather
belts and cocked hats, who found no occasion to exhibit their stern
official side to the noisy, laughing, but well-behaved crowd. After
strolling for awhile among the carts and people, Wilhelm had caught
sight of a large and handsome donkey, had gone up to him and stroked
him, and said a variety of friendly things to him.
At dinner, noting that his neighbor was looking about in search of
something, he asked politely:
"Madame is in want of something?"
"The water, if you please," said she.
He handed her the carafe, which was out of her reach; she thanked him,
and, not to let the conversation drop, added with a pleasant smile:
"Monsieur seems fond of donkeys?"
"Indeed!" He answered, surprised.
"I saw you this morning patting and stroking a splendid donkey."
He had not thought of it again.
"Yes, now I remember," he answered, "it was a charming beast, with
wonderfully wise, thoughtful eyes."
"Do you think so too?" she cried, delighted. "You must know, I have a
special weakness for donkeys, and consider that, next to dogs they are
by far the most intelligent of our domestic animals. They have such a
look of profound wisdom, such stoical philosophy and resignation, that
I feel they are quite a lesson to me."
Wilhelm could not repress a smile at her lively tone.
"I should like to think," he said, "that our agreeing in a good opinion
of the donkey is a sign that the ungrateful world has at last come to a
proper appreciation of this ugly fellow-laborer."
"Ugly?" she exclaimed. "I don't think so at all! Look at his delicate
hoofs, his elegantly-tufted tail, the soft, silvery gray of his coat
with the velvety, black markings, and his ears are very becoming to
him. It is such an injustice always to compare him with the horse. He
is altogether a different type, but quite as handsome in his way."
"Then you would whitewash Titania in 'Midsummer Night's Dream?'"
She laughed "Well, Titania might have done worse. But how is it that
the donkey has come to be the symbol of stupidity?"
"Perhaps because of his want of spirit, and his perversity."
"No, I believe it is something else. People found a great, strong
animal that could, if it liked, be just as difficult to manage, and
resist just as well as a horse, and yet was quite content with the
worst of food, required neither stable nor grooming, worked till it
dropped, and never bit or kicked. So they said, an animal that is
strong enough to hurt us, and yet puts up with any kind of treatment,
must necessarily be deadly stupid. That is how it was. People cannot
believe that one may be good-tempered and uncomplaining and yet have
any brains. With them to be wicked and violent and pretentious is to be
clever. If the donkey would refuse to eat anything but oats and barley,
and turned and rent anybody who annoyed him in the slightest degree,
you would see how people would immediately have the highest respect for
his intellect."
"You seem to have a low opinion of your fellow-creatures, madame?"
"It is their own fault then," she replied, gazing through the window
into the courtyard.
After this conversation Wilhelm looked for the first time more
attentively at his neighbor. He had a general impression of her being
tall and stout, with a remarkably clear, bright complexion. Now he took
in the details. In spite of the fullness of her figure she was slender
about the waist, and her small slim hands, with their tapering fingers
and pink nails, retained the purity of their outline, and had by no
means degenerated into mere cushions of fat. The proudly-poised head
was crowned by a wealth of heavy, pale brown hair with dull gold
reflections in it, waving in soft, downy locks round her forehead. The
cheeks were very full but firm, and the well shaped, boldly modeled
nose stood in exactly the right proportion to the rather large face.
The light brown eyes with their remarkably small pupils were
conspicuously lively, and flashed and sparkled incessantly on all
sides. Their expression was extremely intelligent and generally
mocking, and if you looked long at them you gained the somewhat
uncomfortable impression that that cold clear glance could, on
occasion, stab a heart as cruelly as would a dagger. But her most
striking feature was her mouth--a sudden dash of violent coral-red in
the opalescent white of her face. This brutal effect of color exercised
a peculiar fascination and riveted the attention. The eye lingered upon
those lips--so voluptuously, so sinfully full, so burning, blood-red
that in the chastest mind, even a woman's, they must suggest the image
of vampire-like kisses. Take her for all in all, she was a magnificent
creature, this woman of thirty, overflowing with health and life, in
all her triumphant display of full-blown womanly beauty. Not a man in
the hotel but had looked at her in undisguised admiration, and if they
had not yet ventured to make advances to her, it was because she
intimidated them by her cold hauteur, or by the mocking twinkle of her
eye.
Only for Wilhelm, now that she had really taken notice of him, did
those eyes begin to grow soft and gentle, and when they met his turned
meek and harmless, and, in their apparent innocence, seemed to plead to
him for notice, confidence, instruction. He did not remain impervious
to their influence. It afforded him distinct pleasure to sit at table
beside this beautiful woman and show her small attentions. On his long
walks he caught himself thinking deeply about her, while the blood
coursed with unwonted heat through his veins. He marked her entrance
into the dining room or salon by his heart stopping suddenly and then
racing on in wild, irregular beats, and if he looked at her the
indecorous thought came to him that it would be a joy to stroke those
firm, round cheeks, to pass one's fingers gently over those swelling
lips, but more especially to bury one's hands in that flood of silken
hair. These various discoveries rather took him aback, and resulted in
increasing his reserve almost to the point of rudeness. He still only
met her at the table d'hote, and never attempted to approach at any
other time, although she had asked him repeatedly if he did not take
walks or make excursions into the country.
One morning, soon after the conversation about the donkey, he went down
to the beach, where, it being the bathing hour, the whole visiting
population of Ault was assembled. The coast met the sea at this point
as a perpendicular wall of rock a hundred and fifty feet high,
stretching away to the west in an endless line, but on the east side,
sloping gradually down, till about two miles further on, it lost itself
in the flat line of the shore. Where the sweep of the bare, gray cliff
made a slight backward curve, the sea had washed the shingle together
to form a little beach covered with pebbles from the largest to the
smallest size. Here two rows of modest wooden cabins were erected,
which served as bathing houses, and beside these, a great wooden
structure on wheels, not unlike the enormous house-caravans in which
the owners of shows and menageries and such-like wandering folk travel
about from fair to fair. The French flag fluttering from a pole on the
top of the caravan drew attention to it, and on closer inspection one
read above the entrance--which was approached by a movable wooden
staircase--the proud legend "Casino d'Ault." Yes, Ault actually boasted
a casino, with an entrance fee of ten centimes a head, and in the
single room, which occupied the whole structure, you found a jeu de
course, and other games of hazard, exactly as they had them in the most
renowned and elegant dens of thieves of the fashionable watering places.
Here, however, nobody went to the dogs. Life on the shore was prim and
patriarchal. Whole families sat or lay about on camp stools or on
traveling rugs, the wives in morning wraps, the husbands smoking in
linen suits; the former occupied with needlework, the latter reading
the newspapers or novels. The young people ran about barefoot and in
bathing costume, or lay at the edge of the water fishing for shrimps,
which they rarely or never caught. There were merry, noisy groups of
bathers in the shallow water near the shore, splashing one another,
shrieking at the approach of the larger waves, bobbing up and down, and
shouting encouragement to the newcomers, who only ventured timidly and
by degrees into the chilly waters. As very few of the bathers could
swim, this all took place in the close vicinity.
At first Wilhelm had been rather shocked to see the two sexes bathing
together, and that the girls and married women--coming out of the sea
with their legs and arms bare, and their clinging, wet bathing dresses
revealing the outline of their forms with embarrassing
distinctness--should calmly stroll back to the bathing houses under the
open gaze of the men. For that reason he even refrained from going to
the shore at the bathing hour, or bathing there himself. By degrees,
however, he grew accustomed to it, seeing that nobody thought anything
of it, and that the almost nude figures disported themselves among
their equally unconcerned parents, relatives, and friends with the
naive unconsciousness of South Sea Islanders.
As he made his way, not too easily, over the rolling shingle between
the chattering, lazy groups, he saw his neighbor of the table d'hote
sitting, a little apart, on a camp stool under a large dark sunshade,
an open book on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the smooth, bright
surface of the ocean. She noticed Wilhelm, and smiled and nodded
pleasantly, almost before he could bow to her. There was something of
invitation in her nod, which, however, he did not follow, he could not
have said exactly why. Confused, and a prey to all sorts of undefined
emotions, he continued his walk till he reached the point where the
waves, breaking at the very foot of the cliff, prevented his going any
further. As he turned, ho remembered that he would have to pass her
again, and considered if he could not avoid it by keeping close to the
cliff and so get behind her. But why go out of his way to avoid her?
That was driving shyness to the verge of churlishness. She was friendly
toward him, why repay her kindness by such foolish and uncalled-for
reserve? And ashamed, almost indignant at himself, he came to a sudden
determination, and directed his steps straight toward the lady. She had
watched him all the time, and now smiled to him from afar, as she saw
him making for her.
When he got up to her he stood still and raised his hat. She saved him
the embarrassment of making a beginning by saying at once in the most
natural tone in the world:
"How nice of you to come and keep me company for a little while! Won't
you sit down on this plaid?"
He thanked her, and did as he was bid, seating himself on the thick,
soft rug. His head was shaded by the great parasol, the sun warmed his
knees.
"Are you a great admirer of the sea?" asked the lady.
"I hardly know myself yet. I must make its nearer acquaintance first,"
answered Wilhelin.
"I confess that it leaves me quite unmoved. No, not that exactly, for I
am rather vexed at it for giving so many idiots an excuse for ranting
and absurd sentimentality. Now just look at all these people on the
beach. In reality they are bored to extinction, and enjoy the
Boulevards infinitely more than this expanse of water, which is quite
meaningless to them. And yet you have only to mention the word--the
sea--and they will instantly turn up their eyes and start off repeating
the lesson they have learned by rote about their rapture and
enthusiasm, just like a musical box which grinds out a tune when you
press a button at the top. The sea was invented by a few romantically
inclined poets. But I deny that there is any truth in then rhapsodies;
the sea is hopelessly monotonous, and monotony excludes the possibility
of beauty or charm. One has at most the same feeling for it as for a
mirror in which one sees oneself reflected. The sea is a blank page,
which each one fills up with whatever he happens to have in his own
mind, or, if you like it better, a frame into which one puts pictures
of one's own imagining. I grant that you can dream by the side of the
sea, for it does nothing to disturb your dreams or give them any
particular bent or coloring. But can it give the impulse to thought and
emotion like the eve-changing outlines of mountain and forest? Never!
People with unsophisticated minds know that well enough. The population
of the coast always builds its houses with their backs to the sea.
"As a defence against the storms," Wilhelm interposed.
"That may be. But that is not the only reason. It is because the sight
of that eternal waste of waters, without a boundary line, without the
variety or movement of life upon it, bores them, and they prefer to
look out upon the country with all its expressive and varying outlines."
"But the expression which you see in a landscape--you put that into it
yourself, by an effort of your own imagination. Forests and mountains
are in themselves as inanimate as the sea."
"Quite so; but the landscape has features which remind us of something
else, which play, as it were, upon the keyboard of our associations,
and it thus calls up the pictures with which we proceed to enliven it.
The sea does nothing of this, and the best proof of that is, that no
painter has ever yet used the sea by itself for his model. Did you ever
know of an artist who painted nothing but the sea?" "Yes, Aiwasowky."
"Who is he?"
"A Russian who paints extraordinary sea pieces."
"What! Only water--without shore, or people, or ships?"
"I remember a picture with absolutely nothing but water, only a spar,
or a mast floating on it."
"There, you see!" she cried in triumph. "That broken mast is a trick of
the artist. There lies the story. You instantly think of a wrecked
ship; you see men, catastrophes, weeping widows and sweethearts; the
spar becomes the central point of the picture, and you forget all about
the sea. Moreover, the ancients, who surely had an eye for all that is
grand and beautiful, they did not know either what to do with the sea.
They were a magnificent race, healthy-minded realists--and kept
strictly to the evidences of their senses without adding anything
transcendental. The sea only appealed to their ear. Homer's adjectives
for the sea are only expressive of sound--the resounding, the jubilant,
the loud-rushing; hardly more than once does he allude to the gloomy or
the wine-colored sea."
"You have your classics at your fingers' ends, like any philologist."
"That need not surprise you. With regard to the really beautiful, I
have neither pride nor prejudice. Even the fact that the common herd of
the reading public has made a point of praising him for a hundred years
does not prevent me from enjoying a true poet."
"But if you dislike the sea so much why do you come here?"
"Oh," laughed the handsome lady, "that is the fault of my doctors. They
sent me to the sea to thin me down, and by their orders I was to choose
a very dull, very remote bathing place, where I should be sure not to
meet any acquaintances. For directly I have friends about me, I enjoy
myself, laugh, talk, and then I get stout again. Now to-day, for
instance, I have acted contrary to my medical orders--I have had a very
pleasant chat with you."
"You are too kind. You have given everything and received nothing in
return."
"That is exactly what I like--always to give, never to receive."
"That is not woman's way usually. But you are very exceptional. Pardon
a possibly indiscreet question--do you write?"
"Good gracious! Do I look like a blue-stocking?"
"I never made a distinct picture of that type."
"You need not be afraid, I am not an authoress. The most I have ever
done in that way was to give a novelist, or a comedy-writer of my
acquaintance, a little help now and then. When they want a lady's
letter, they like me to write it. But you--I suppose you are an author?"
"No, madame; I study natural science."
"A professor then?"
"No, only an amateur."
"Ah! And you are French?"
"I am German."
"Impossible!" exclaimed the lady.
"Why impossible?" asked Wilhelm, smiling.
"You have no accent, and you look--"
"You probably think that every German has light blue eyes, flaxen hair,
and a long pipe?"
"That is certainly pretty much how we picture Germans to ourselves in
Spain."
It was his turn to be surprised. "You a Spaniard?"
"And how had you pictured a Spanish lady? Of course with jet black eyes
and hair, and a mantilla?"
Wilhelm nodded.
"There are fair Spaniards, however, as you see. In fact, it is very
common in our best families--an inheritance perhaps from our Gothic
ancestors."
"I suppose, like all Latins, you despise the Germans?"
"I beg, monsieur, that you will not class me with the mass. I wish to
be regarded as an individual. Whatever the prejudices of the Latins may
be, I have my own opinion. Your nationality in a matter of indifference
to me. I only consider the man," and she gave him a look that sent the
blood flaming to his cheek.
The hotel meals were always announced by a bell which could be heard
quite well on the shore. In the heat of their conversation, however,
they did not notice the signal. A lady's maid whom Wilhelm had often
seen at the hotel--a middle-aged, female dragoon with a mustache and a
very stiff and dignified deportment--now came up to the lady and said:
"Madame la Comtesse did not hear the dinner bell?"
She rose and took Wilhelm's arm without further ado. The maid followed
with the rug and the camp stool. The beach was quite deserted,
everybody having gone to dinner. The tide was rising, and had nearly
covered the strip of beach. The thunder of the waves, mingled with the
rattle of the pebbles which they sucked after them as they receded,
followed the couple as they slowly made their way back to the hotel.
On the road home they passed the post office. The maid, whose gentle
name of Anne hardly matched her martial appearance, had hurried on in
front to fetch her mistress' letters and newspapers. She handed them to
the lady, who smilingly tore off the wrapper from her Figaro and gave
it to Wilhelm, saying: "You do not know my name yet?" Wilhelm read, on
the slip of paper: "Madame la Comtesse Pilar de Pozaldez--nee de
Henares." "My father," she added in explanation, "was Major-General
Marquis de Henares."
"And here is my very plebeian name," returned Wilhelm, pulling out his
card and handing it to her.
"There are no such things as plebeian names--only plebeian hearts,"
said the countess, as she glanced at the card, and then put it away in
her own elegant tortoise-shell case, which bore her monogram and crest
in gold and colored enamel.
The acquaintance was now fully established, and after dinner the
countess invited Wilhelm, in the most natural manner possible, to
accompany her on a walk into the country.
The surroundings of Ault were very pretty. Emerald-green meadows
alternately with a few cornfields decked the gentle billowy uplands,
which sloped away abruptly toward the sea. Trees stood separately or in
groups reaching to the edge of the cliff, over which many of them bent
their storm-disheveled heads and gazed into the waves below. Here and
there were small inclosed woods, and it was at the edge of one of
these, about a quarter of a mile walk from the town, that the countess
seated herself on a mossy bank in the shade. Wilhelm sat down beside
her on the gnarled root of a tree; Anne was sent home, to return in two
hours' time, but Fido was allowed to remain. He was a silvery-white
sheepdog with a sharp muzzle, stiff little pointed ears, and a bushy
tail curling tightly over his back. He had attached himself to Wilhelm
from the first moment, and gave vent to his delight when caressed by
having a severe attack of asthmatic coughing, puffing and blowing.
"You live in Paris, do you not?" asked the countess after they had
exchanged remarks on the scenery.
"No," returned Wilhelm, "up till now I have lived in Berlin, but I had
to leave for political reasons, and now I am a sort of vagrant without
any actual home."
"Ah--a political refugee!" cried the countess. "How charming! Of course
you will take up your abode in Paris now--that is the sacred tradition
with all political exiles. Yes, yes--you must; beside, how horrid it
would have been to part after a few weeks and go our separate ways--you
to the right, I to the left--and with only the consoling prospect of
meeting again some day beyond the stars! So you will come to Paris, and
if you have any intention of getting up a revolution in Germany, I beg
that you will count me among your confederates. You need not
laugh--Paris is swarming with Spanish refugees of all parties, and I
have had plenty of opportunity of gaining experience in the planning of
conspiracies."
"I have no such ambition," answered Wilhelm, smiling, "and am, in any
case, no politician, although I enjoy the distinction of being an
exile."
"Shall you take up any profession in Paris? I have connections--"
"You are very good, Madame la Comtesse. You will perhaps think less of
me, but I have no actual profession."
"Think less of you. On the contrary, to have no profession is to be
free--to be one's own master. Any one who is forced to earn his living
must, of course, have a profession. But it is never anything but a
necessary evil. It is only pedantic people who look upon it as an
object of life. At most, it is a means to an end."
"And what do you consider to be the real object of life?"
"Can you ask? Why, happiness of course!"
"Happiness--certainly. But then each one of us has a different
conception of happiness. To one it is knowledge, to another the
fulfilling of duty, to lower natures wealth and worldly honors.
Therefore, it is possible to imagine that some one may find happiness
in pursuing a profession."
"Oh, no, my dear Herr Eynhardt, those are the mistaken views of gloomy
and limited natures who are incapable of recognizing the true object of
life. There are no two ideals of happiness--there is but one."
"And that is?"
"To wish for something very, very much--and get it."
"Even if it is something foolish?"
"Even then."
"And even if one should lose if afterward?"
She gazed for a while into the distance in silence and then said
firmly--"Yes, even then." And after a pause she added--"You have, at
least, had a moment of absolute happiness--when you found your wish
fulfilled. And what more do you want? One only lives to experience such
moments."
"Unfortunately, your theory of happiness does not fit every case. Where
is the happiness to come from for one who has no wishes at all, or who
wishes for something unattainable--perfect understanding, for instance?"
"A human being without a wish--is there such a thing?"
"Yes, Madame la Comtesse, there is."
"You perhaps?" she asked quickly.
"Perhaps," Wilhelm returned.
"Then you are not in love?" she said, and let her brilliant eyes rest
upon his melancholy face.
He shook his head gently without looking at her, as if ashamed of the
want of gallantry in such a confession.
"But at least you were once?" she persisted eagerly.
"Have I ever really been in love? Perhaps--Or no, I do not know myself."
"Thankless creature! You hesitate--you are not sure! How shameful of
you to deny the gods you have once worshiped! But that is the way with
you men. If you cease to love, you will not admit that you ever had
loved. Tell me, was there ever a moment in your life when you could
have answered my question--'Are you in love?'--with an unqualified Yes?"
"Yes, I have known such a moment. But, looking back upon it now--"
"No, no, you were quite right then and you are wrong now. That is just
your great mistake. You imagine that one can only love once, and that
love, to be real, must last forever. My poor friend, nothing lasts
forever, and the truest love is sometimes as perishable as the
loveliest rose--the most exquisite dream. But it is not to say that
because it is over we are to deny that it ever existed. You may not
feel anything now, but that is no reason for declaring that you did not
feel it then. You thought you were in love, and therefore you were. It
is sophistry to try to persuade oneself of the contrary in after days."
"You are a brilliant advocate of your views, Madame la Comtesse, but
nevertheless may one take a momentary delusion--"
"Delusion' And who shall say, my German philosopher, if our whole
existence may not be a delusion?"
"Ah, there you drive my philosophy very hard," murmured Wilhelm.
"Never been in love?" exclaimed the countess, and her lustrous hazel
eyes flashed, "why you would be a monster. I suppose you are nearly
thirty!"
"Nearly thirty-five."
"I congratulate you, Herr Eynhardt, I should have taken you for at
least five years less But whether thirty or thirty-four, it would be
culpable to have reached that age without having been in love. For you
surely are not--a disciple of Abelard."
At this point-blank question Wilhelm reddened and cast down his eyes
like the boy he really was in some respects. She observed his
embarrassment, not without secret amusement.
"But seriously," she went on, "your little bit of love is the best
there is about you men. No, it is the only good thing, the only thing
that makes your bluntness, your selfishness, your want of sentiment
bearable."
"Yes, so the women say. They see nothing in the whole world or in life
but love. They judge men solely according to their capacity for, or
their zeal in, loving. And yet it takes more strength and manliness to
resist love than to give way to it. They only care for men who are
slaves to that passion. I admire those chaste and saintly men who have
been able to cast off the bonds of the flesh. The highest point of the
human mind is only reached by him who has never suffered himself to be
dragged down by his senses. Christ taught the denial of the flesh both
in precept and example. Newton never knew a woman."
"I know nothing about Newton," she retorted, "but Christ had a feeling
heart for the Magdalen and the adulteress. Beside, Christ was a God,
and I am speaking of ordinary mortals, and it is only through woman,
through your love of woman, that you become heroes and demigods."
"No," Wilhelm answered bluntly, "it is woman who drags man down to the
level of the beasts. We have a German fairy tale in which a bear
becomes human as soon as he embraces a woman. In real life it is just
the opposite. The knowledge of woman, the lust of the flesh, transforms
man into a beast. You know the classics so well and are so fond of
them--there is no apter allegory than the story of Semele, who desired
once to see her lover, Jupiter, without the weaknesses and infirmities
of the flesh--as the Lord of High Heaven--and perished at the sight."
"Very well," said she softly, "you may despise me and say I am like
Semele. I prefer a warm-hearted, loving beast to an icy-cold and proud
philosopher. Anyhow, I am very fond of animals," and, lost in dreamy
thought, she stroked Fido, who began to gasp and choke with delight,
and eagerly licked the caressing hand. After a pause she resumed
slowly--"I should never have thought you were such a desperate
woman-hater. You have heaped insult on my sex and consequently on me. I
expect you to make reparation for that by--being very nice to me."
She looked him deep in the eyes and stretched out her hand, which he
seized in confusion and pressed. Suddenly he let it drop. The countess
looked up in surprise, and following Wilhelm's gaze, she caught sight
of the hotel wit and his lady coming along the deep pathway that ran
round the foot of the wooded hill, on the slope of which they were
sitting.
"Oh,--what do these common people matter?" exclaimed the countess in a
tone of vexation. "And what is the harm, if they do see us? They will
only boast, when they get back to their shop in Paris, that they saw a
great lady in Ault."
But for all that, the dangerously sweet spell of the moment was broken,
and did not return before Anne arrived, whom Fido ran sneezing and
wriggling to meet.
For the rest of the day Wilhelm was silent and thoughtful, seeming to
awake from a dream each time the countess spoke to him at dinner. She
was perfectly aware of what was going on in him, and sought by looks,
words, and manner to increase the effects of the afternoon's
conversation. When the meal was over she took Wilhelm's arm again and
asked--totally unconcerned that the rest of the company exchanged
glances--"What are you going to do this evening?"
"I thought of taking a little walk on the shore," he stammered shyly.
"Oh, selfish creature!--and leave me all alone, though I might be bored
to death? No, come up to my room. You have never paid me a visit yet.
Anne will get us some tea, and we can talk."
The countess had two rooms on the first floor, most plainly furnished,
without a carpet or a single decoration on the walls. One of the rooms
served as bedroom, the other as salon. At least it contained no bed,
but a chaise longue instead, a rocking chair, and a table with a jute
cover. The countess was inwardly much amused at Wilhelm's timorous
hesitation in crossing her threshold. She relieved him of his hat and
gave it to Anne, who hung it on a nail with the utmost gravity, but
could not refrain from casting a curious glance at Wilhelm from time to
time.
When the tea was on the table, and Anne had discreetly retired into the
bedroom, closing the door behind her, the countess began: "As we are to
become friends--no, we are friends already; tell me, you are my friend,
are you not?"--she held out her hand, which he pressed warmly and
retained in his--"you ought to know who I am and how I live. I will
tell you the whole truth--I never lie, it is so vulgar and cowardly.
The worst that can be said of me, you shall hear out of my own mouth.
And still I hope that, after you have heard all, you will not feel less
kindly disposed toward me than before."
She moistened her blood-red lips in the tea without leaving hold of his
hand.
"I am married. My husband, Count Pozaldez, is Governor of the
Philippine Islands. I have lived for years in Paris. The count had the
post given to him in order to put a few thousand miles between him and
me. We have no divorce in Spain, and that was the only way of insuring
to me a little peace and freedom." She took another little sip. "From
this you will understand," she went on, "that I am not happily married.
You must know that I am an only child. My father, the Marquis de
Henares, idolized me. He was a soldier through and through, very stern
and reserved toward everybody, even my mother, who never really
understood his rare nature. Only to me he showed his heart of gold, his
high and noble character, his deep feeling--a prickly pear, outside
rough and inside honey-sweet. He brought me up as if I was to be a
cabinet minister, and treated me like a beloved comrade from the time I
was twelve, so that my mother was often jealous of me. When I grew up,
he would sometimes say, 'Whoever wants to marry my Pilar will have to
fight with me first.' And he meant it. You probably know that we
develop early in Spain. At sixteen I was not very different from what I
am now. Count Pozaldez was a young lieutenant of cavalry, and my
father's adjutant. Of course we saw a good deal of one another, and he
soon began to behave as if he were madly in love with me. I was not
averse to him, for he was young, handsome, and aristocratic. And what
else does a girl of sixteen look for? I naturally had no difficulty in
understanding his glances and his sighs, but it went on for months
without his making me a formal proposal. One day he wrote me a letter
eight pages long, in which he informed me that, as he possessed nothing
in the world but his sword, he dared not venture to lift his eyes to
the heiress of the richest landowner in Old Castile; beside that, he
was not worthy of me, only a king could be that--the wretch! But I will
come back to that later on. On the other hand, however, he could not
live without me, and if I did not return his love he was resolved to
put a bullet through his brain. Of course I instantly saw him with a
bullet-hole in his forehead, and shed tears for the poor young man. I
did not want anybody to die for my sake. I pictured to myself how
beautiful it would be to make a young man, without fortune or position,
with nothing but his love for me, happy, rich, and great by the gift of
my hand. I showed the letter to my mother, and asked her what was to be
done. She at once took up the young man's cause. My soul would most
assuredly fall a prey to the devil if I let poor Pozaldez kill himself.
He was of good family, and would soon make his way as the son-in-law of
the Marquis de Henares. I must unquestionably do something to raise his
spirits. My mother's advice coincided with my own feelings. I allowed
the count a secret interview, and he had permission to ask my father
for my hand. He did so in fear and trembling. He was dismissed with
scorn and contumely. My mother and I then used all our influence to
turn my father, and--I was married to Count Pozaldez before I was
seventeen."
She was silent for a little while, and then went on: "I will make my
story short. One year afterward, when I was in bed with my first child,
he brought his mistresses to the house. I was determined to leave him
on the spot. My mother brought about a reconciliation. Soon after that
he began to ill-treat me. I suffered that in silence too, to avoid a
public scandal, and more particularly for my father's sake. He would
have killed him if he had known. Later--later--I must tell it you, so
that you may grasp the whole situation--the villain did all he could to
direct King Amadeo's attention to me--he had just come to Madrid. When
I noticed his base schemes--as I could not fail to do--that put the
finishing touches. I gave him the choice between a scandalous lawsuit,
which would have deprived him of my fortune, and voluntary banishment
by accepting some government post across the sea with half my income.
He finally chose exile and the money, and I was free. I left Madrid and
settled in Paris. You can imagine the circumstances--a young woman of
twenty-three--alone, whose life could not possibly be filled by the
care of two little children."
"Two children?" asked Wilhelm.
"Yes," she answered, and hung her head.
"There is cowardice of which even a courageous woman will be guilty
when, out of consideration for public opinion, she continues to live
under one roof with the father of her first child. And then--you must
take me as I am, with all my imperfections, for which some good
qualities may perhaps make up."
She looked at him humbly, with the eyes of an imploring child, and
continued in a low voice:
"The Spanish colony in Paris received me with open arms. There was no
end to the entertainments, soirees and theaters. But can that satisfy a
young and embittered woman thirsting for happiness? Of course I
received a great deal of attention. An attache of our embassy succeeded
in attracting me. I swear to you that I struggled long with him and
myself, but his passion was stronger than my powers of resistance."
Wilhelm would have drawn away his hand, but she held it fast, and went
on hurriedly.
"I have finished. For four years I shared his life, and then discovered
that I had deceived myself a second time, and put an end to a
connection which had lost the excuse of sincerity For two years now I
have been free--for two years my heart has been at rest. Tell me, can
you condemn me now that you know all?"
"It is not for me to judge you," said Wilhelm sadly. "All I think is
that you have had a great deal of misfortune in your life."
"Yes, have I not?" cried the countess eagerly.
"Do not misunderstand me. You had the misfortune to make a mistake in
thinking you loved Count Pozaldez."
"How should a sixteen-year-old child know? The first passably
good-looking, well-bred man who flatters her wins her heart."
"That is only too true. But if a young girl throws away her heart so
lightly, she has no right to complain if she has to repent of it for
the rest of her life."
"But that is a terrible theory!" exclaimed the countess, and dropped
his hand "What? One wakes to a knowledge of the world and of life--one
is wretched, one sees that there is such a thing as happiness, and how
it may be obtained, and one is not to stretch out a hand to grasp it?
You would really be so cruel as to say to a woman--young, and in need
of love--in childish ignorance and folly you were guilty of a mistake,
all is over for you, abandon all claims to love and hope, sunshine and
life, pass your years in mourning, and bury yourself alive, you have no
further right to share in the joys of life?"
Wilhelm left her string of passionate questions unanswered, and
continued the thread of his former discourse:
"But most certainly an older and more sensible woman, who should have
learned wisdom from a first error, has no right to be guilty of a
second one."
"Oh, how hard you are!" murmured the countess.
"What would you have?" said Wilhelm. Then with a sudden inspiration: "A
woman has every right to love; but then you have loved--twice."
"No, no, not even once. I thought so perhaps, but--"
"But, according to your own assertion this afternoon, one has been in
love really if only one seriously believes one is. And it is thankless
to deny one's love later on. Do not contradict yourself."
"And you, monsieur le philosophe," she returned, raising her head, and
her burning gaze encompassed him as with a circle of fire, "do you not
contradict yourself too? A little while ago you were demonstrating to
me that you were a part of nature, and that unknown natural forces were
at work within you, directing all you did, and to-day you extol the
mortification of the flesh, which certainly has nothing to do with your
unknown natural forces."
He was going to reply, but she laid her soft hand upon his mouth.
"Oh, please, monsieur le philosophe, do not prove to me that I am
wrong. Be indulgent to my inconsistencies, as well as to everything
else, I know I am full of contradictions. I am no German philosopher.
But nature too is full of contradictions--first day, then night--now
summer, now winter. But in spite of it all I can be very consistent and
true to myself in a question of real importance."
Wilhelm drew away from the hand that caressed his lips and cheek, and
said, averting his eyes:
"You are a beautiful woman, and have a most exceptional mind, and it
must be happiness indeed to be loved by you, but in order that that
happiness might be full, one would have to love you in return, and
there are men--I do not know whether to call them too proud or too
fastidious--who can only love with their whole heart or not at all, and
who cannot endure that the woman they love should treasure another
image or other memories in her life."
"Stop, my friend, stop!" cried the countess. "You do not realize what
you are saying. That comes of your pride and vanity. You always want to
be the first--to write your names at the head of a blank sheet. Why? Is
the conquest of a silly, ignorant girl more flattering than that of a
woman of sense, who can compare and judge? Is not your triumph a
thousand times greater when a disappointed, deeply-skeptical woman lays
her heart at your feet, and says--'You I will trust, you will bring me
healing and happiness'--than when a young girl gives you her love
because you happen to be the first man who asks for it? Other
images!--other memories! Do you know so little of a woman's heart? Do
you imagine that the past exists for us when real true love comes upon
us? We see nothing in the whole world but the one man, we cannot
believe that our heart has not always beat for him, and we are firmly
persuaded that we have always known and always loved him and him alone."
The eyes that gazed at him glowed with maenad-like desire, and bending
suddenly she covered his hand with lingering, burning kisses.
Wilhelm passed his hand soothingly over the masses of her silky hair,
and it flashed across him how much he had once wished to be able to do
so, and now his wish was fulfilled. Was fulfilled desire really
happiness, as this beautiful woman asserted? His heart beat loud and
fast; he was conscious of emotions long unfelt, and--yes, these
emotions were pleasant ones.
He moved as if to rise, but she clung to his arm to hold him back. He
pointed to the door of the room from which Anne might appear at any
moment.
"Do have a little more pride of spirit," said the countess; "one does
what one likes, without caring what the servants think."
"Let me go," he entreated, and stroked her beautiful hair.
"Why?"
"It is late, and the air in here is close. I should like to take a turn
by the sea. Please--"
She looked at him, and a mysterious smile played about her full lips;
she dropped his arm.
He hastened away toward the shore, where the waves were rolling in,
rattling the pebbles and striking the cliff with dull, heavy thuds. The
August night was mild and full of stars, and there was scarcely a
breath of wind. The tide was rising, wave after wave rolled in, fell
over, and swept up the beach in a thin white sheet of foam. Further out
the sea was calm and deserted, only in the extreme distance the lights
of some passing steamer crept over the smooth dark waters like tiny
glowworms.
Wilhelm's mind was in a tumult. This woman--what a strange, terrifying
creature. Why was she throwing herself at his head? And who knows if
only at his? And then--what need to tell him her story? Perhaps it was
a wild, insane flare of passion; but how could he have roused it? There
was nothing in him to account for it. And she did not know him--knew
nothing about his life or his character. She was beautiful
certainly--beautiful and alluring, and clever and original--a most
exceptional woman. She might well be able to disarm a man of his
self-control, and paralyze his will. But after that--what then? How
would it end? Better not begin--not begin. That would be the wisest
ending.
He left the shore and returned to the hotel. The view before him was
remarkable. At the further end of the street rose the church, its
Gothic flourishes outlined sharply against the lighter background of
the sky. Just behind it stood the full moon, tracing--as if for its
amusement--the silhouette of the roof of the church tower upon the
ground. Where the shadow of the church ended, the moon poured its
silvery light in a broad flood over the street, and further off
painted, with, a bold stroke of the brush, a glittering streak of white
light across the sea, away to the semi-transparent mists on the horizon.
Passing first through the shimmering light, and then through the black
shadow of the church, Wilhelm reached the hotel, where the lights were
already extinguished. Without lighting the candle, which he found ready
for him at the foot of the stairs, he mounted to his room. He was
surprised, on reaching the door, to find Fido lying in front of it, his
nose resting on his outstretched paws.
"I suppose they have shut you out, and you want a night's lodging with
me," said Wilhelm; "very well, I won't refuse you my hospitality--come
in."
He opened the door and let the dog pass in before him, then followed,
pushed the bolt, and put the candlestick down on the table. Suddenly
two cool, bare arms were laid about his neck, and his startled cry was
smothered by the pressure of two burning lips upon his own.