The visitors were welcomed and brought in. They were delighted to find
themselves again in the same house and in the same rooms where in early
times they had passed many happy days, but which they had not seen for a
long time. Their friends too were very glad to see them. The Count and
the Baroness had both those tall fine figures which please in middle
life almost better than in youth. If something of the first bloom had
faded off them, yet there was an air in their appearance which was
always irresistibly attractive. Their manners too were thoroughly
charming. Their free way of taking hold of life and dealing with it,
their happy humor, and apparent easy unembarrassment, communicated
itself at once to the rest; and a lighter atmosphere hung about the
whole party, without their having observed it stealing on them.
The effect made itself felt immediately on the entrance of the
new-comers. They were fresh from the fashionable world, as was to be
seen at once, in their dress, in their equipment, and in everything
about them; and they formed a contrast not a little striking with our
friends, their country style, and the vehement feelings which were at
work underneath among them. This, however, very soon disappeared in the
stream of past recollection and present interests, and a rapid, lively
conversation soon united them all. After a short time they again
separated. The ladies withdrew to their own apartments, and there found
amusement enough in the many things which they had to tell one another,
and in setting to work at the same time to examine the new fashions, the
spring dresses, bonnets, and such like; while the gentlemen were
employing themselves looking at the new traveling chariots, trotting out
the horses, and beginning at once to bargain and exchange.
They did not meet again till dinner; in the meantime they had changed
their dress. And here, too, the newly arrived pair showed to all
advantage. Everything they wore was new, and in a style which their
friends at the castle had never seen, and yet, being accustomed to it
themselves, it appeared perfectly natural and graceful.
The conversation was brilliant and well sustained, as, indeed, in the
company of such persons everything and nothing appears to interest. They
spoke in French that the attendants might not understand what they said,
and swept in happiest humor over all that was passing in the great or
the middle world. On one particular subject they remained, however,
longer than was desirable. It was occasioned by Charlotte asking after
one of her early friends, of whom she had to learn, with some distress,
that she was on the point of being separated from her husband.
"It is a melancholy thing," Charlotte said, "when we fancy our absent
friends are finally settled, when we believe persons very dear to us to
be provided for for life, suddenly to hear that their fortunes are cast
loose once more; that they have to strike into a fresh path of life, and
very likely a most insecure one."
"Indeed, my dear friend," the Count answered, "it is our own fault if we
allow ourselves to be surprised at such things. We please ourselves with
imagining matters of this earth, and particularly matrimonial
connections, as very enduring; and as concerns this last point, the
plays which we see over and over again help to mislead us; being, as
they are, so untrue to the course of the world. In a comedy we see a
marriage as the last aim of a desire which is hindered and crossed
through a number of acts, and at the instant when it is reached the
curtain falls, and the momentary satisfaction continues to ring on in
our ears. But in the world it is very different. The play goes on still
behind the scenes, and when the curtain rises again we may see and hear,
perhaps, little enough of the marriage."
"It cannot be so very bad, however," said Charlotte, smiling. "We see
people who have gone off the boards of the theatre, ready enough to
undertake a part upon them again."
"There is nothing to say against that," said the Count. "In a new
character a man may readily venture on a second trial; and when we know
the world we see clearly that it is only this positive, eternal duration
of marriage in a world where everything is in motion, which has anything
unbecoming about it. A certain friend of mine, whose humor displays
itself principally in suggestions for new laws, maintained that every
marriage should be concluded only for five years. Five, he said, was a
sacred number--pretty and uneven. Such a period would be long enough for
people to learn each other's character, bring a child or two into the
world, quarrel, separate, and what is best, get reconciled again. He
would often exclaim, 'How happily the first part of the time would pass
away!' Two or three years, at least, would be perfect bliss. On one side
or the other there would not fail to be a wish to have the relation
continue longer, and the amiability would increase the nearer they got
to the parting time. The indifferent, even the dissatisfied party, would
be softened and gained over by such behavior; they would forget, as in
pleasant company the hours pass always unobserved, how the time went by,
and they would be delightfully surprised when, after the term had run
out, they first observed that they had unknowingly prolonged it."
Charming and pleasant as all this sounded, and deep (Charlotte felt it
to her soul) as was the moral significance which lay below it,
expressions of this kind, on Ottilie's account, were most distasteful to
her. She knew very well that nothing was more dangerous than the
licentious conversation which treats culpable or semi-culpable actions
as if they were common, ordinary, and even laudable, and of such
undesirable kind assuredly were all which touched on the sacredness of
marriage. She endeavored, therefore, in her skilful way, to give the
conversation another turn, and, when she found that she could not, it
vexed her that Ottilie had managed everything so well that there was no
occasion for her to leave the table. In her quiet observant way a nod or
a look was enough for her to signify to the head servant whatever was to
be done, and everything went off perfectly, although there were a couple
of strange men in livery in the way who were rather a trouble than a
convenience. And so the Count, without feeling Charlotte's hints, went
on giving his opinions on the same subject. Generally, he was little
enough apt to be tedious in conversation; but this was a thing which
weighed so heavily on his heart, and the difficulties which he found in
getting separated from his wife were so great that it had made him
bitter against everything which concerned the marriage bond--that very
bond which, notwithstanding, he was so anxiously desiring between
himself and the Baroness.
"The same friend," he went on, "has another law which he proposes. A
marriage shall be held indissoluble only when either both parties, or at
least one or the other, enter into it for the third time. Such persons
must be supposed to acknowledge beyond a doubt that they find marriage
indispensable for themselves; they have had opportunities of thoroughly
knowing themselves; of knowing how they conducted themselves in their
earlier unions; whether they have any peculiarities of temper, which are
a more frequent cause of separation than bad dispositions. People would
then observe each other more closely; they would pay as much attention
to the married as to the unmarried, no one being able to tell how things
may turn out."
"That would add no little to the interest of society," said Edward. "As
things are now, when a man is married nobody cares any more either for
his virtues or for his vices."
"Under this arrangement," the Baroness struck in, laughing, "our good
hosts have passed successfully over their two steps, and may make
themselves ready for their third."
"Things have gone happily with them," said the Count. "In their case
death has done with a good will what in others the consistorial courts
do with a very bad one.
"Let the dead rest," said Charlotte, with a half serious look.
"Why so," persevered the Count, "when we can remember them with honor?
They were generous enough to content themselves with less than their
number of years for the sake of the larger good which they could leave
behind them."
"Alas! that in such cases," said the Baroness, with a suppressed sigh,
"happiness is bought only with the sacrifice of our fairest years."
"Indeed, yes," answered the Count; "and it might drive us to despair, if
it were not the same with everything in this world. Nothing goes as we
hope. Children do not fulfil what they promise; young people very
seldom; and if they keep their word, the world does not keep its word
with them."
Charlotte, who was delighted that the conversation had taken a turn at
last, replied cheerfully:
"Well, then, we must content ourselves with enjoying what good we are to
have in fragments and pieces, as we can get it; and the sooner we can
accustom ourselves to this the better."
"Certainly," the Count answered, "you two have had the enjoyment of very
happy times. When I look back upon the years when you and Edward were
the loveliest couple at the court, I see nothing now to be compared with
those brilliant times, and such magnificent figures. When you two used
to dance together, all eyes were turned upon you, fastened upon you,
while you saw nothing but each other."
"So much has changed since those days," said Charlotte, "that we can
listen to such pretty things about ourselves without our modesty being
shocked at them."
"I often privately found fault with Edward," said the Count, "for not
being more firm. Those singular parents of his would certainly have
given way at last; and ten fair years is no trifle to gain."
"I must take Edward's part," struck in the Baroness. "Charlotte was not
altogether without fault--not altogether free from what we must call
prudential considerations; and although she had a real, hearty love for
Edward, and did in her secret soul intend to marry him, I can bear
witness how sorely she often tried him; and it was through this that he
was at last unluckily prevailed upon to leave her and go abroad, and try
to forget her."
Edward bowed to the Baroness, and seemed grateful for her advocacy.
"And then I must add this," she continued, "in excuse for Charlotte. The
man who was at that time suing for her, had for a long time given proofs
of his constant attachment to her; and, when one came to know him well,
was a far more lovable person than the rest of you may like to
acknowledge."
"My dear friend," the Count replied, a little pointedly, "confess, now,
that he was not altogether indifferent to yourself, and that Charlotte
had more to fear from you than from any other rival. I find it one of
the highest traits in women, that they continue so long in their regard
for a man, and that absence of no duration will serve to disturb or
remove it."
"This fine feature, men possess, perhaps, even more," answered the
Baroness. "At any rate, I have observed with you, my dear Count, that no
one has more influence over you than a lady to whom you were once
attached. I have seen you take more trouble to do things when a certain
person has asked you, than the friend of this moment would have obtained
of you, if she had tried."
"Such a charge as that one must bear the best way one can," replied the
Count. "But as to what concerns Charlotte's first husband, I could not
endure him, because he parted so sweet a pair from each other--a really
predestined pair, who, once brought together, have no reason to fear the
five years, or be thinking of a second or third marriage."
"We must try," Charlotte said, "to make up for what we then allowed to
slip from us."
"Aye, and you must keep to that," said the Count; "your first
marriages," he continued, with some vehemence, "were exactly marriages
of the true detestable sort. And, unhappily, marriages generally, even
the best, have (forgive me for using a strong expression) something
awkward about them. They destroy the delicacy of the relation;
everything is made to rest on the broad certainty out of which one side
or other, at least, is too apt to make their own advantage. It is all a
matter of course; and they seem only to have got themselves tied
together, that one or the other, or both, may go their own way the more
easily."
At this moment, Charlotte, who was determined once for all that she
would put an end to the conversation, made a bold effort at turning it,
and succeeded. It then became more general. She and her husband and the
Captain were able to take a part in it. Even Ottilie had to give her
opinion; and the dessert was enjoyed in the happiest humor. It was
particularly beautiful, being composed almost entirely of the rich
summer fruits in elegant baskets, with epergnes of lovely flowers
arranged in exquisite taste.
The new laying-out of the park came to be spoken of; and immediately
after dinner they went to look at what was going on. Ottilie withdrew,
under pretence of having household matters to look to; in reality, it
was to set to work again at the transcribing. The Count fell into
conversation with the Captain, and Charlotte afterward joined them. When
they were at the summit of the height, the Captain good-naturedly ran
back to fetch the plan, and in his absence the Count said to Charlotte:
"He is an exceedingly pleasing person. He is very well informed, and his
knowledge is always ready. His practical power, too, seems methodical
and vigorous. What he is doing here would be of great importance in some
higher sphere."
Charlotte listened to the Captain's praises with an inward delight. She
collected herself, however, and composedly and clearly confirmed what
the Count had said. But she was not a little startled when he continued:
"This acquaintance falls most opportunely for me. I know of a situation
for which he is perfectly suited, and I shall be doing the greatest
favor to a friend of mine, a man of high rank, by recommending to him a
person who is so exactly everything which he desires."
Charlotte felt as if a thunder-stroke had fallen on her. The Count did
not observe it: women, being accustomed at all times to hold themselves
in restraint, are always able, even in the most extraordinary cases, to
maintain an apparent composure; but she heard not a word more of what
the Count said, though he went on speaking.
"When I have made up my mind upon a thing," he added, "I am quick about
it. I have put my letter together already in my head, and I shall write
it immediately. You can find me some messenger who can ride off with it
this evening."
Charlotte was suffering agonies. Startled with the proposal, and shocked
at herself, she was unable to utter a word. Happily, the Count continued
talking of his plans for the Captain, the desirableness of which was
only too apparent to Charlotte.
It was time that the Captain returned. He came up and unrolled his
design before the Count. But with what changed eyes Charlotte now looked
at the friend whom she was to lose. In her necessity, she bowed and
turned away, and hurried down to the summer-house. Before she was half
way there, the tears were streaming from her eyes, and she flung herself
into the narrow room in the little hermitage, and gave herself up to an
agony, a passion, a despair, of the possibility of which, but a few
moments before, she had not had the slightest conception.
Edward had gone with the Baroness in the other direction toward the
ponds. This ready-witted lady, who liked to be in the secret about
everything, soon observed, in a few conversational feelers which she
threw out, that Edward was very fluent and free-spoken in praise of
Ottilie. She contrived in the most natural way to lead him out by
degrees so completely that at last she had not a doubt remaining that
here was not merely an incipient fancy, but a veritable, full-grown
passion.
Married women, if they have no particular love for one another, yet are
silently in league together, especially against young girls. The
consequences of such an inclination presented themselves only too
quickly to her world-experienced spirit. Added to this, she had been
already, in the course of the day, talking to Charlotte about Ottilie;
she had disapproved of her remaining in the country, particularly being
a girl of so retiring a character; and she had proposed to take Ottilie
with her to the residence of a friend who was just then bestowing great
expense on the education of an only daughter, and who was only looking
about to find some well-disposed companion for her--to put her in the
place of a second child, and let her share in every advantage. Charlotte
had taken time to consider. But now this glimpse of the Baroness into
Edward's heart changed what had been but a suggestion at once into a
settled determination; and the more rapidly she made up her mind about
it, the more she outwardly seemed to flatter Edward's wishes. Never was
there any one more self-possessed than this lady; and to have mastered
ourselves in extraordinary cases, disposes us to treat even a common
case with dissimulation--it makes us inclined, as we have had to do so
much violence to ourselves, to extend our control over others, and
hold ourselves in a degree compensated in what we outwardly gain for
what we inwardly have been obliged to sacrifice. To this feeling there
is often joined a kind of secret, spiteful pleasure in the blind,
unconscious ignorance with which the victim walks on into the snare. It
is not the immediately doing as we please which we enjoy, but the
thought of the surprise and exposure which is to follow. And thus was
the Baroness malicious enough to invite Edward to come with Charlotte
and pay her a visit at the grape-gathering; and, to his question whether
they might bring Ottilie with them, to frame an answer which, if he
pleased, he might interpret to his wishes.
Edward had already begun to pour out his delight at the beautiful
scenery, the broad river, the hills, the rocks, the vineyard, the old
castles, the water-parties, and the jubilee at the grape-gathering, the
wine-pressing, etc., in all of which, in the innocence of his heart, he
was only exuberating in the anticipation of the impression which these
scenes were to make on the fresh spirit of Ottilie. At this moment they
saw her approaching, and the Baroness said quickly to Edward that he had
better say nothing to her of this intended autumn expedition--things
which we set our hearts upon so long before so often failing to come to
pass. Edward gave his promise; but he obliged his companion to move more
quickly to meet her; and at last, when they came very close, he ran on
several steps in advance. A heartfelt happiness expressed itself in his
whole being. He kissed her hand as he pressed into it a nosegay of wild
flowers which he had gathered on his way.
The Baroness felt bitter in her heart at the sight of it. Even whilst
she was able to disapprove of what was really objectionable in this
affection, she could not bear to see what was sweet and beautiful in it
thrown away on such a poor paltry girl.
When they had collected again at the supper-table, an entirely different
temper was spread over the party. The Count, who had in the meantime
written his letter and dispatched a messenger with it, occupied himself
with the Captain, whom he had been drawing out more and more--spending
the whole evening at his side, talking of serious matters. The Baroness,
who sat on the Count's right, found but small amusement in this; nor did
Edward find any more. The latter, first because he was thirsty, and then
because he was excited, did not spare the wine, and attached himself
entirely to Ottilie, whom he had made sit by him. On the other side,
next to the Captain, sat Charlotte; for her it was hard, it was almost
impossible, to conceal the emotion under which she was suffering.
The Baroness had sufficient time to make her observations at leisure.
She perceived Charlotte's uneasiness, and occupied as she was with
Edward's passion for Ottilie, she easily satisfied herself that her
abstraction and distress were owing to her husband's behavior; and she
set herself to consider in what way she could best compass her ends.
Supper was over, and the party remained divided. The Count, whose object
was to probe the Captain to the bottom, had to try many turns before he
could arrive at what he wished with so quiet, so little vain, but so
exceedingly laconic a person. They walked up and down together on one
side of the saloon, while Edward, excited with wine and hope, was
laughing with Ottilie at a window, and Charlotte and the Baroness were
walking backward and forward, without speaking, on the other side. Their
being so silent, and their standing about in this uneasy, listless way,
had its effect at last in breaking up the rest of the party. The ladies
withdrew to their rooms, the gentlemen to the other wing of the castle;
and so this day appeared to be concluded.