A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT.
The next day Rudolf only met his wife at dinner before a numerous
company. There was no trace of displeasure on the lady's handsome face;
she was as captivating, as fascinating as ever, and nothing could exceed
her tenderness, her amiability towards her husband.
Late in the evening, when all the guests had dispersed, they found
themselves alone with each other again, and Rudolf had a grateful
recollection of the German proverb, which says that lovers ought to
quarrel occasionally in order to love each other all the better
afterwards. He fancied that he was enjoying to the full the victory won
in yesterday's warfare, and he felt magnanimous and would not reproach
his wife with her defeat in that sweet hour. But when he embraced Flora
with both arms as if he were going to hold her fast for ever, the lady
gently disentangled herself, and, leaning on his shoulder, whispered in
his ear--
"And now, my dear Rudolf, God be with you! Let us wish each other good
night."
Rudolf was dumfounded.
"You see I am not so flighty as you fancied. I am not weak even where
you are concerned; but I can love, and nobody shall forbid me to love
whom I will." And with that she blew him a kiss from the threshold of
her bedroom, and Rudolf heard her double-lock the door behind her.
Now this of itself was more than enough to make any man angry.
Rudolf tore at least two buttons off his coat in the act of undressing,
and in his wrath took down Hugo Grotius, read steadily away at it till
midnight, and then dashed Hugo Grotius to the ground, for he did not
understand a word that he had been reading. His thoughts were elsewhere.
And the following day passed away with the same peculiar variations.
His wife was captivatingly amiable. Like a seductive siren, she immeshed
her husband in the magic charms of her caresses, was kindness,
tenderness personified, loaded him with every little attention which one
can look for from a gracious lady, right up to her bedroom door, which
she again locked in his face.
Now this was the most exquisite torture conceivable to which a man can
be submitted. Compared with this little fairy, a Nero, a Caligula was a
veritable philanthropist.
"But how long is this obstinacy to last?" burst forth Rudolf one day, in
spite of himself.
"Until you withdraw your disparaging opinion of women."
Well, a single word would have been enough, but that single word was too
precious for the pride of a husband to part with. Such a word meant
submission, unconditional surrender; only at the very last extremity
could it be resorted to.
No, instead of that, he will compel his wife to surrender, and he had
plenty of time in those lonely, sleepless nights to hatch a plan of
action. He would leave home for a week, and not tell his wife where he
was going. The Kárpáthys were now at their castle at Nagy Kun Madaras;
he would spend the week with them. That young woman would be certain to
welcome him most gladly, and he would pay his court to her. Success was
certain. He was sure to triumph over women of a much more obstinate
character, if only he made up his mind to conquer. Old Kárpáthy would
not trouble himself about it; he would only be too glad if his wife had
plenty of amusement. There was not even any necessity for using any
particular charm or seduction, the young woman was so avid of pleasure,
that she was pretty sure to show favour to any one. She herself would be
his best ally.
With such ideas in his head, he prepared, on the following day, for his
journey. Flora was as kind, as tender as ever as she parted from him,
and it was impossible to suspect her of any pretence.
Rudolf whispered lovingly in her ear, "Come now, shall there be an end
to our warfare?"
"I require an unconditional surrender," said Flora, with an unappeasable
smile.
"Good! there shall be an end to it when I return, but then I shall
_dictate_ peace."
Flora shook her pretty head dubiously, and kissed her husband again and
again; and when he was actually sitting in the coach, she ran after him
to kiss him once more, and then went out on the balcony and followed him
with her eyes, whilst Rudolf leaned out of the coach, and so they kept
on bidding each other adieu with hat and handkerchief till the coach was
out of sight.
And thus an honest husband quitted his house with the fixed resolve to
deceive another man's wife, simply in order that he might thereby win
back his own.
If only he had known what he was doing!
* * * * *
Since the day of the installation, the Kárpáthys had been residing at
their castle at Madaras. Old Kárpáthy had yielded to his wife's wishes
in that respect. She had begged that they might live there for a short
time, although it was by no means so pleasantly situated as Kárpátfalva.
Fanny wished, in fact, to be far away from Szentirma, and had no longer
the slightest desire to go to Pest since hearing from Kecskerey that the
Szentirmays intended living there during the winter.
Squire John and his wife were just then walking in the newly-laid-out
English garden. The gentle fallow deer already knew their mistress well.
Her pockets were always full of sugar almonds, and they drew near to eat
the dainty morsels out of her hand, and accompanied her up and down the
walk. Suddenly the rumble of a carriage was audible on the high-road,
and Kárpáthy, looking over the fence, exclaimed--
"Look, look! those are the Szentirmay horses!"
Fanny almost collapsed. The Squire felt her arm tremble.
"I trod on a snail," said his wife, turning pale.
"You silly thing, what's there to be afraid of? I knew that Flora would
come here to seek you out. Oh, how greatly that lady loves you! But,
indeed, who would not love you?"
But Fanny could see very well, from afar, that in the carriage which was
approaching sat not a woman but a man. Kárpáthy's eyes were weak. He
could recognize a horse even at a distance, but he could not distinguish
people.
"Come, we will go and meet her," said he to his wife as the carriage
swept into the park.
Fanny stood still as if her feet were rooted to the ground.
"Come, come, don't you want to meet your friend?" insisted the good old
man.
"It is not Flora," stammered Fanny, with frightened, embarrassed eyes.
"Then who else can it be?" asked the Squire. He must have been somewhat
surprised at the conduct of his wife, but there was not a grain of
suspicion in his composition, so he simply asked again, "Then who else
can it be?"
"It is Flora's husband," said Fanny, withdrawing her hand from her
husband's arm.
Squire John began to laugh.
"Why, what a silly the girl is! Why, you must welcome him too, of
course. Are you not the mistress of the house?"
Not another word did Fanny speak, but she hardened her face as well as
her heart, and hastened towards the coming guest on her husband's arm.
By the time they reached the forecourt of the castle, Rudolf's carriage
was rumbling into the courtyard. The young nobleman perceived and
hastened towards them. Kárpáthy held out his hand while he was still
some way off, and Rudolf pressed it warmly.
"Well, and won't you hold out your hand too?" said the Squire to his
wife; "he's the husband of your dear friend, is he not? Why do you look
at him as if you had never seen him before?"
Fanny fancied that the ground beneath her must open, and the columns and
stone statues of the old castle seemed to be dancing round her. She felt
the pressure of a warm hand in hers, and she involuntarily leaned her
dizzy head on her husband's shoulder.
Rudolf regarded her fixedly, and his ideas concerning this woman were
peculiar: he took this pallor for faint-heartedness, this veiled regard
for coquetry, and he believed it would be no difficult matter to win
her.
As they ascended the staircase together, he told Kárpáthy the cause of
his coming: he had, he said, to settle a boundary dispute between two
counties, which would detain him for some days.
The two men spent the hours of the afternoon together; only at the
dinner-table did they all three meet again.
Kárpáthy himself was struck by the paleness of his wife; all through
dinner the lady was speechless.
The conversation naturally turned on general subjects. Rudolf had little
opportunity of speaking to Dame Kárpáthy by herself. After dinner
Kárpáthy used generally to have a nap, and it had now become such an
indispensable habit with him that he would not have given up his
after-dinner repose for the sake of all the potentates of the Orient.
"And meanwhile, little brother," said he to Rudolf, "amuse yourself as
you please. Have a chat with my wife, or, if you think it more prudent,
make use of my library."
The choice was not difficult.
Fanny, as soon as dinner was over, withdrew to the garden. Presently,
hearing footsteps approaching, she looked up and beheld Rudolf.
The unexpected apparition of a tiger just escaped from his cage would
not have terrified her so. There was no escape from him. They stood face
to face.
The young man approached her with friendly courtesy, and a conversation
on some general topic began. Rudolf remarked that the flowers in the
garden around them were as wondrously beautiful, as if they were
sensible of the close proximity of their mistress, and did not wish to
be inferior to her in beauty.
"I love flowers," stammered Fanny, as if she felt obliged to answer
something.
"Ah, if only your ladyship were acquainted with them!"
Fanny looked at him inquiringly.
"Yes, if only your ladyship knew the flowers, not merely by name, but
through the medium of that world of fancy which is bound up with the
life of the flowers! Every flower has its own life, desires,
inclinations, grief and sorrows, love and anguish, just as much as we
have. The imaginations of our poets give to each of them its own
characteristics, and associates little fables with them, some of which
are very pretty. Indeed, you will find much that is interesting in the
ideal lives of the flowers."
Here Rudolf broke off an iris from a side-bed.
"Look, here is a happy family, three husbands and three wives, each
husband close beside his wife. They bloom together, they wither
together; not one of them is inconstant. This is the bliss of flowers.
These are all happy lovers."
Then Rudolf threw away the iris, and plucked an amaranth.
"Now, here we have the aristocrats. In the higher compartment is the
husband, in the lower the wife--upper-class married life. Nevertheless,
the ashen-purple colour of the flower shows that its life is happy."
Here Rudolf rubbed the amaranth between his fingers, and innumerable
little dark seeds fell into the palm of his hand.
"As black as pearls, you see," said Rudolf.
"Yes, as pearls," lisped Fanny, thinking it quite natural that they
should pour out of the youth's hand into her own, for it was a shame to
lose them. There was not a pure pearl in the Indies that she would have
exchanged for these little seeds. And now Rudolf threw the amaranth away
too.
Fanny glanced in the direction of the rejected flower, as if to make
sure of the place where it had fallen.
"And now will your ladyship look at those two maples standing side by
side? What handsome trees they are! One of them seems to be of a
brighter green than the other: that, therefore, is the wife; the darker
one is the husband. They also are happy lovers. But now look over
yonder! There stands a majestic maple tree all by itself. How yellow its
foliage is! Poor thing! it has not found a husband. Some pitiless
gardener has planted it beside a nut tree, and that is no mate for it.
How pale, how yellow it looks, poor thing! But, good Heavens! how pale
you are! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, sir," said Fanny, "only a little giddiness," and
without the slightest hesitation she leant on Rudolf's arm.
He fancied he understood, but he was very far from understanding.
And now they reached the richly furnished conservatory in which a
splendid snow-white dahlia with a scarce perceptible rosy tinge in its
innermost petals was just then beginning to bloom. It was a great rarity
in Europe at that time. Rudolf thought this specimen very beautiful, and
maintained that only at Schönbrunn was a more beautiful one to be seen.
And again they fell a-talking about trifling general topics, walking as
they talked up and down the garden; and Rudolf fancied that now he had
conquered this woman, and the woman fancied that she had already sinned
sufficiently to be condemned for ever. It is true she had only been
walking arm-in-arm with Rudolf throughout one long hour, and they had
only been talking of insignificant, comical, general topics. But oh,
through it all she had felt a sinful pleasure in her heart. And what did
it matter that nobody knew, she herself felt that that happiness was a
stolen treasure.
At last they returned to the Castle again.
When Rudolf went to bed that night, he found on a table in the
antechamber of his bedroom a bouquet of flowers in a handsome china
vase, in the midst of which he immediately distinguished the unique and
magnificent dahlia.
And he thought he understood.
Next day the men were occupied all the morning with so-called official
business, and who would think of a woman in the midst of such grave
matters?
In the afternoon, rainy weather set in, whence arose the double
disadvantage that Squire John was doubly as sleepy as usual, and that
Fanny was unable to seek refuge in the garden where, beneath the
protection of the open air, she was better protected against the
threatened danger.
She felt the fever in every limb. She knew, she felt that the man whom
already she madly adored wanted to make her love him. If this was sport
on his part, what a terrible sport! and if it were reality, how much
more terrible still!
When there was a knock at the door she was scarce able to say, "Come
in." The door opened, and Rudolf entered.
Fanny was not pale now, but her face burned like fire when she perceived
Rudolf. She immediately arose from her recumbent position and confusedly
begged him to excuse her for a moment; she would be back in a short
time, and in the mean time would he occupy her place, and with that she
fled from the room. She wanted to speak to her lady-companion, she said.
She traversed three or four rooms without perceiving a soul. God only
knew where everybody had gone. Not a domestic was near. And with this
disquieting knowledge she was obliged to return.
At the very moment when she returned, Rudolf noticed that Fanny had
hastily concealed a book which she evidently had hitherto been reading,
and flung a handkerchief over it in order that he might not see it.
Rudolf was interested, he felt he must take a deeper glance into the
character of this woman. What book could it be that she was so anxious
to hide from him? These modern women read risky books in private, and
love to be rigid moralists in public at the same time.
He raised the handkerchief from the book, and he opened the book--it was
a Prayer-book. And as the book opened wide of its own accord in two
places, he perceived two pressed flowers between its leaves--an iris and
an amaranth.
Rudolf suddenly grew grave. His heart felt heavy. Only now did he begin
to reflect what sort of a game he was playing. These two flowers so
fascinated him, so engrossed his attention, that he only perceived that
the lady had returned when she stood feverishly trembling before him.
Each of them shrank back from the other.
The secret was revealed.
Rudolf gazed speechlessly at the woman and she at him. How beautiful,
how bewitchingly beautiful she was in her dumb misery as slowly,
unconsciously, she folded her hands together and pressed them against
her bosom, to stifle by force the tempest of her tears!
Rudolf forgot his part, and, deeply moved, exclaimed, "My God!"
Now, for the first time, he really understood everything.
The sorrow in his voice broke down the energy with which Fanny had
hitherto restrained her tears, and they began to flow in streams down
her beautiful face as she sank into an armchair.
Taking tenderly one of her pretty hands, Rudolf asked compassionately,
"Why do you weep?"
But he knew well enough now why she wept.
"Why did you come here," inquired the lady in a voice trembling with
emotion--she could control herself no longer--"when, day after day, I
have been praying God that I might never see you again? When I avoided
every place where I might chance to meet you, why did you seek me out
here? I am lost, for God has abandoned me. In all my life, no man's
image has been in my heart save yours alone. Yet I had buried that away
too, far out of sight. Why, why did you make it come to life again? Have
you not observed that I fled every spot where you appeared? Did not your
very arms prevent me from seeking death when we met together again! Ah,
how much I suffered then because of you? Oh, why did you come hither to
see me in my misery, in my despair?"
And she covered her face with her hands, and wept.
Rudolf was vexed to the soul at what he had done.
Presently Fanny withdrew the handkerchief from the Prayer-book, dried
her streaming eyes, and resumed, in a stronger voice--
"And now what does it profit you to know that I am a senseless creature
struggling with despair when I think of you? Can you be the happier for
it? I shall be all the unhappier, for now I must deny myself even the
very thought of you."
What could he say to her? What words could he find wherewith to comfort
her? What could he do but extend his hand to her and allow her to cover
it with her tears and kisses? What could he do but allow her in her
passionate despair to fall upon his breast, and, sobbing and moaning,
hold him embraced betwixt unspeakable agony and unspeakable joy?
And when she had wept herself out on his breast, the poor lady grew
calmer, and ceasing her sobbing, said in a determined voice--
"And now I swear to you before that God who will one day judge me for my
sins, that if ever I see you again, that same hour shall be the hour of
my death. If, then, you have any compassion, avoid me! I beg of you not
your love but your pity; I shall know how to get over it somehow in
time."
Rudolf's fine eyes sparkled with tears. This poor lady had deserved to
be happy, and yet she had only been happy a single moment all her life,
and that moment was when she had hung sobbing on his breast.
How long and weary life must be to her from henceforth!
Rudolf quitted the woman, and scarce waiting until Kárpáthy had awoke,
he took his leave and returned to Szentirma. He was very sad and ill at
ease all the way.
On reaching home, his merry, vivacious, affectionate wife flew towards
him, and dried the traces of the bitter tears with her loving kisses.
"Ah, ha! so you were at Madaras, eh?" said Flora, roguishly; "a little
bird whispered me that you would go a-spying. Well, what have you
discovered?"
"That you are right," said Rudolf, tenderly--"women are not weak."
"Then there is peace between us. And what news of Fanny?"
"God help the poor lady, for she is very, very unhappy!"