THE COUNT VON FRAUENSTEIN.
The fragments of the golden bowl, to use Clara’s figure, could not be
patched together, and at last Mrs. Forest gave up all hope, and took
refuge in the consolations of religion, in a saintly, aggravating way
that was hard to witness. Whenever Clara proposed any change in her own
life, or even suggested anything for the comfort of the family, the
answer was invariably and with a martyr-like sigh of resignation, “Do
anything you like. I have no preference.” Therefore, as the autumn
advanced, Clara spent more and more time with Mrs. Buzzell and Susie.
One day the old lady said to Clara, “You had better come here and live.
Leila and Linnie are with your mother, and she does not need you. I am
really beginning to fear, now I am getting so old, that Min will be
neglected. Susie is perfectly absorbed with her potting, and rooting,
and slipping, and re-potting, and really she ought not to have any other
responsibilities. She used to help Mary a great deal, but now Mary
herself is bewitched, and likes nothing so well as ‘flower-work,’ as she
calls it. I expect nothing but that she will abandon the cooking and
washing, and take permanently to potting and rooting. If you were here,
you could keep Mary out of the clutches of that conservatory. Min will
be the next victim,” said Mrs. Buzzell, laughing.
“This morning I found her ‘helping mamma,’ as she said, and Susie
declared she was doing good service. This consisted in filling up small
pots with soil. The implement used, I noticed, was my big iron kitchen
spoon; but I said nothing. When I see a woman seriously working to gain
an independent position, I am always delighted. I never spent any money
in my life that brought me such pleasure as that which I invested in
that hot-house; and I’m going to do more, Clara, but, you understand,
that is a secret.”
“You have already proved yourself a noble friend to Susie,” said Clara,
warmly.
“Oh, she’s done more for me than I ever did for her. I have not had a
moment’s loneliness since she came, and my health has been better. Min,
too, is a great pleasure to me. Though the little rat will pull my
work-basket about, I notice she never touches a leaf or flower of
Susie’s plants, and it wouldn’t be healthy for her to do so, I suspect,”
Mrs. Buzzell added, smiling.
“It is wonderful,” said Clara, “that Susie has acquired such a knowledge
of flower culture. I don’t even now understand the secret of her
success.”
“The secret, my dear Clara, is the secret of all honest success—eternal
vigilance. She failed in several things at first. Her tube-roses, for
example, grew all stalks and no flowers. Then the insects troubled her.
She fought them by main force at first, but now she has made a
discovery—a vase of carbolic soap-suds did not quite meet her
expectations, so she added laudanum to it—pure empirical experiment, you
see. That was an improvement; then she put in the vase one of the
doctor’s nastiest old pipe-bowls, and really, I think that was a great
discovery. With a little mop she washes the bark of her plants with this
mixture; every day some plant is treated, and so she keeps all insects
at bay. She actually cried with joy when I promised to build the
hot-house. She had not dared to hope for so much, though she often asked
me how far I thought one hundred dollars would go towards building a
little one, ten feet square. You know I never spent the hundred from
Dan, which you gave into my keeping. She thinks it went into the
conservatory, but I put something with it and put it by for Min’s
education; but that, also, is one of my secrets.”
But the movement of our story is too slow. We will therefore make a
rapid dash over just one year. During this time, Clara, who had taken up
her residence with Mrs. Buzzell, suffered many a sleepless night,
thinking over her buried hopes, and sometimes feeling as if her life was
an utter failure; but the gloom was always dissipated with the hour or
so of pleasant morning work with Susie among the flowers, and with the
pleasant reunion afterward at the breakfast-table. Mrs. Buzzell, though
quite feeble, was always present in her arm-chair, wrapped in her shawl,
and Min, also seated in her high chair, joyous as a bird and as full of
animal spirits as a kitten, and of mischief as a young monkey. Her
special duty was to arrange a bouquet for the centre of the breakfast
table, having _carte blanche_ to use her own taste on the flowers and
leaves that her mother gave her for the purpose. Mrs. Buzzell used to
praise their arrangement without much discretion, but Min had learned by
this time to separate her scarlet and blue flowers by white ones, or
green leaves, and when she won a compliment from her mother she was
always delighted. On one of these occasions, Min sat pouting and would
not touch her food.
“What is the matter with my little pet?” asked Clara, twisting one of
the child’s long, golden tresses.
“I shan’t tell.”
Mrs. Buzzell looked at Min, praised the toast and the excellence of the
coffee, and then, as if suddenly noticing the bouquet, added, “and those
pretty flowers! How nicely Minnie has arranged them. Her taste grows
better every day.” Min’s appetite suddenly appeared; but Susie said, “I
do not much admire that character which manifests happiness only when
praised, and when the temper is not tried. Do you, Clara? I think that
is the strongest and best nature which finds its pleasure in making
others happy, and that temper is the sweetest which is sweet under
vexations.” Min knew this was aimed at her, and she suddenly turned the
subject of conversation.
“I used to fear,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “that my old age would be lonely
and cheerless; but God has been infinitely good to me. See what a
pleasant family I have about me, when I am weak and need so much care.
And with Min to bother me by asking questions I can’t answer, surely my
life lacks nothing. What do you think of it, Min?” she asked, addressing
the spoiled pet.
“I should think God _might_ be good to auntie, ’cause auntie is so good
to Min.”
“I think you had better not consult Min on points of faith and
doctrine,” said Clara. “She seems to inherit some of her grandpapa’s
heresies.”
“Auntie Clara, who is my grandpapa?”
“Why, your doctor, as you call him.”
“Is he? honest and true, Auntie Clara? Then I shall call him grandpapa.”
“No, no,” said Susie, with a faint flush on her face. “Call him just as
you do now.” She was wondering for the thousandth time how it would be
when Minnie commenced to go to school, for example. Children would tell
her of her father, and perhaps say ill things of her mother. Already the
child’s resemblance to Mrs. Forest was remarkable, and grew more marked
every day. The likeness consisted particularly in a kind of droop to the
eyelids toward the outer corners, giving a dreamy, refined expression.
Only a short time before, when Min was playing at the gate, a little
girl, one of Mrs. Kendrick’s guests, came and made her acquaintance, and
asked her to walk with her. Min ran and got permission of “auntie,” and
started off. They turned up shortly after on the doctor’s broad
door-steps, and Mrs. Forest, recognizing one of Mrs. Kendrick’s
visitors, made the children go in, and treated them to cake. She was
greatly struck by the rare beauty of the little blonde, and asked her
her name. “Sha’n’t tell,” was the reply, of course. The doctor came in a
few minutes later. At the sight of Min seated on her grandmother’s
knees, eating jelly-cake with great gusto, he burst out laughing. This
evidently displeased Min, and kept her from obeying her first impulse,
which was to run to “my doctor,” as she always called him. “How very
maternal you are, Fannie! Whose child is that?”
“She won’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Forest, “but she is one of Mrs.
Kendrick’s friends. Is she not lovely?” she added, toying with Min’s
rich, sunny hair. The doctor took the child and asked his wife to follow
him. Standing before the mirror in the drawing-room, he held the child’s
face beside his wife’s, saying, “Look at that child’s eyes, and then at
yours.”
“Good heavens, doctor! You don’t mean—”
“That it is your only grandchild!”
Mrs. Forest tied on Min’s hat, and suggested to the older girl that she
had better not bring the little one so far from home again.
“I sha’n’t come to see you again,” said Minnie, feeling her dignity
offended, “and I sha’n’t let my doctor come, either. My Auntie Clara
don’t send Minnie away.” And the child’s eyes filled, but she would not
cry. The doctor tried to pet her, but she drew away pouting. The doctor
looked out of the window as the little ones toddled down the street, and
then turning to his wife, tried to waken kindly feelings for Dan’s
child; but the seed fell on stony ground. While he was talking, a
carriage drove up to the gate and left the Count von Frauenstein. Mrs.
Forest was in a flutter. To be so honored by a rich and titled person
was a great event. Finding the doctor free, the count stayed to lunch,
and talked over great plans that were maturing in his mind. He had just
returned from Guise, in France, where he had visited the grand social
palace founded by a great French capitalist for his workmen. “I tell
you, Dr. Forest,” he said, with enthusiasm, “the age is ripe for a grand
spring toward social organization, and the sight of that palace of
workers inspires me with new hope. There are over a thousand people,
honest wealth-producers, surrounded by a sum of conveniences and
luxuries to be found nowhere else on the planet, even among the rich.”
“Why, I never heard of it!” said Mrs. Forest, pouring the count a glass
of wine, produced freely on this occasion in honor of the distinguished
gentleman. “I am greatly interested. What are some of these luxuries? Do
those workmen actually live in a palace?”
“Aye, madam. A magnificent structure it is, too, I assure you. It is
surrounded by groves and gardens and rich fields, through which winds
the River Oise. There are nurseries and schools on a magnificent scale,
for the children. There are swimming and hot and cold baths for all,
medical service of the best, a restaurant, a billiard saloon, a café, a
charming theatre, a library and reading-room, societies for various
objects, such as music and the drama, beside the board, composed of men
and women, who manage the internal affairs of the palace. All the courts
of the palace are covered with glass, and the various suites of
apartments open on corridors in these courts.” The doctor inquired about
the water supply, and the ventilation. The latter, the count said, was
effected by gigantic underground galleries, opening into the courts,
connected by tubes passing up through the walls and opening into each
apartment, where they were used mostly in winter, as every suite of
rooms was well supplied with windows on the courts, and also on the
exterior of the building.
“I am sure it must be a wonderful charity,” said Mrs. Forest.
“No, madam,” said the count; “every one of the advantages I have named,
and many more, are included in the rents, and Monsieur Godin, the
founder, makes six per cent. on the capital invested. It has been in
successful operation some twelve years.”
Further conversation developed the fact that the count was to leave the
next day to look after business investments in the South and West, which
might detain him some weeks, or even months, after which, he was
determined to see what he could do by way of a social palace for workmen
and their families. “Oakdale,” he said, “is not a bad field to commence
in. Your industries are growing, the population rapidly increasing, it
is a very healthy location, pure water, and a nice light soil. I don’t
believe in heavy soils. Scientific culture finds more scope and success
with a light one. The doctor was eager for the experiment. Before I die,
Frauenstein,” he said, “I hope to see a few children, at least,
surrounded by conditions for integral culture. Count on me for
everything in my power to aid the work.” Mrs. Forest was a little
shocked at the doctor’s addressing the count as simply, “Frauenstein.”
“It would seem to me, count,” she said, in her suavest tone, “that you,
with your wealth and social position, would find more pleasure in
building yourself a palace, where you could surround yourself with all
that wealth can procure.”
“My dear madam, what should I do for society?”
“Goodness gracious!” thought Mrs. Forest, “he is as crazy as the
doctor;” but she asked him to please explain.
“I am very familiar, madam,” he replied, “with what is known as the best
society, and of course there is much real refinement and much honorable
sentiment among its various members; but real nobility of sentiment, by
which I mean devotion to the broad interests of mankind, is very rarely
met, and least of all at the courts of rulers. They are all cramped and
degraded by petty aims, petty intrigues for personal advancement; and
above all, they are lacking the first element of wisdom—a belief in the
people. What is the aristocracy of birth, name, inherited wealth robbed
from generations of wages-slaves, compared to the grander aristocracy of
labor, which is as old as the evolution of man himself? My mother,
Kendrick’s cousin, you know, was the granddaughter of a day-laborer.
Kendrick wouldn’t mention it for his best span of horses, but I am proud
of it. So far as I know he is the only ancestor I have, who had an
honest right to the bread he ate. So you see, madam, I would do
something to atone for the sins of all the robber crew to which I
belong, and so shorten my prospective hours in purgatory. To be serious,
there is no congenial society for me anywhere, as life is ordered at
present. I must help to build up a society of men and women who can be
honest and free, because sure of the present and of the future for
themselves and their children. I found more intelligence, more faith in
humanity, and more freedom of expression among those workingmen at
Guise, than I ever met among any set of people in my life; and the
children, madam! O, the children! I can give you no idea of their rosy
health, their frank expression of advanced opinions, and their courteous
manners.” Mrs. Forest said that what she understood as “advanced
opinions” would be a very equivocal attraction in a child according to
her way of seeing things.
“But, madam, your way of seeing things,” said the count, courteously,
“would be different, if you had been trained to positive methods of
thought. I assure you, in any case, you would be charmed by the ease,
and grace of address of many of those children. Why it would make you
regret that you were not the mother of the whole three hundred of them!
There are prizes given them for politeness and grace of bearing.—Think
of it! There is the commencement of stirpiculture, and yet the stupid,
lunk-head scientists of the world, are giving _all_ their attention to
the fossils of a dead past. Depend upon it, madam, this world need not
be the vale of tears we have been taught to think. Life is what we
should study. Life is what we should love, and as a general rule, the
present is the best time to live;” and the count, praising Mrs. Forest’s
wine, and apologizing for making a monologue of what should have been a
conversation, bade her good-bye and left, taking the doctor with him.
The next day the doctor spent a full hour at Mrs. Buzzell’s talking to
Clara of Frauenstein and his grand social-palace scheme. Clara expressed
regret that she had not seen him. “Regret!” said the doctor; “you may
well regret, for you have lost a rare pleasure. When you see him you
will love him, and at first sight too. I am sure of it, for he is the
only man I ever met whom I thought worthy of you. He is coming back,
though, and then you shall see him. He’s a man after my own heart in
everything. He’s perfect; he’s without a flaw. I know him just as well
as if I had been intimate with him for years. Every thought and feeling
of the man is honest and true, and what is better than all, he has faith
in human nature.” Clara was interested, but the count was no vital part
of her thoughts as he was of her father’s, and besides her heart was
filled that day with its old pain. Albert had written, saying simply
that, as a year had passed, he thought he had a right to expect she
would have had time to reflect upon their mutual position, and that he
hoped she had decided to return. It was a very cold letter, but it moved
her deeply, and under the first impulse she wrote, sinking every thought
of pride, hoping only, blindly, that he would, by an impulse as simple,
and as frankly expressed as hers, prove that he loved her despite all
that had happened. She wrote:
“DEAR ALBERT:—Your letter moves me deeply, but it does not show me that
you have any tender thought of me, any motive of real love in saying you
expect me to return. Do you know so little of me after all, as to
suppose that I can be influenced by the wealth you speak of? Can you
doubt that I would rather be your wife were you poor and unknown, if you
only loved me as once you did, than to be your queen were you master of
the world, if I must see you seek in other women that which I alone
would give?
“Oh, Albert! why can I never make you see me as I am? I have no pride,
as you think; willingly would I prove myself the very queen of fools in
the eyes of the world—would kneel in the dust and kiss your feet, could
I thereby find that you love me with the divine tenderness that once
made my life. Dear one, what shall I say? What shall I do? I long, with
all my being, for the tender words you used to breathe so eloquently,
for the sight of your beautiful eyes, for your kisses and caresses. If
you do really want me—me, not your legal mate, but Clara—you will show
me this beyond the shadow of a doubt.
“I cannot tell you how I have suffered, and do suffer still, at times. I
pray only that I may wake from this long cold night of misery, and find
myself in the blessed warmth and light of that love which made me once
your proud and happy
CLARA.”
To this letter he wrote, among other things not touching the subject
nearest Clara’s heart: “If you love me so ineffably as you would have me
think you do, I should like you to show it in the only possible way—by
coming home at once. As for me, I do not pretend to sentiment. We should
not trouble ourselves with riddles, dear Clara, but love where we may
beneficently, and as much as we can.”
To this Clara replied as promptly as to the other: “At last, Albert, I
fully understand you. You are true to yourself in this letter, and I
respect you for it. You might as well have told me in so many words, ‘I
do not want my love, but the mistress of my house.’ Well, Albert,
receive my final, eternal answer: _I shall never go back to you while I
live._ Again I assure you, I have no pride. I confess that my eyes are
red with weeping, for I have shed the first tears of absolute despair
that I ever knew. Until now there has been hope, however faint, but now,
every trace is gone. Hereafter, we will study the problems of life as if
we had never met.”
When Dr. Delano received this letter he knew that all was over, and
regretted that he had not played his cards better. He did not love
Clara, but he was proud of her, and knew that, as a wife, she was an
honor to him. He had not doubted seriously that she would return, and he
had intended to humble her by his forgiveness, and in the future make
her, through this lesson, a patient, dependent, and wholly exemplary
wife. Now there was no hope of this, and, to make matters worse,
Charlotte utterly refused to see Miss Wills. Mr. Delano died soon after,
leaving all his property to his son, except his daughter’s portion. He
had been kept in ignorance, on account of his illness and his very
nervous condition, of the breach between Clara and his son. He left her
his kindest wishes, and the hope that through her, the family name might
be preserved. After his death his daughter wrote a very kind letter to
Clara, manifesting a depth of womanly feeling which Clara had never
suspected could exist under the austere manners of Miss Delano. From
this there arose a correspondence between them, and the utter frankness
and sweetness of Clara’s nature, as it developed in this new relation,
had a great charm for Miss Charlotte. At first she tried to persuade
Clara to return to her husband; but having the whole case presented to
her in a simple and clear light, she finally approved Clara’s course.
She expressed herself strongly on the want of delicacy in men’s
treatment of women, and her own satisfaction that she herself had never
given any one of them the power over her happiness that Clara had. “Come
and see me,” she wrote, “whenever you are in the city. I like you and
trust you; and if you think a sour-tempered old maid worth cultivating,
it will be a great consolation to me.”