condition. I endured it that was all. I had a definite feeling that
things could not remain so; that something must happen, be decided, or
expressed, if I were not to be stifled by the suppression. But what the
something would be I could not imagine. My cigar had long gone out; yet
I remained on the parapet of the little pavilion and gazed out over the
dusky surface of the lake, which appeared like some vast, metallic
mirror framed in black mountains. Not till the first stars began to
glimmer forth could I decide to return to the house. For the first
time, the thought of meeting my wife was painful to me. Therefore it
was an actual relief when, knocking gently at her door, I heard instead
of 'Come in!' the whispered request not to enter then; she had just put
the little one to bed and did not wish to disturb her. She bade me
good-night. So for the present I was alone with my troubled soul.
"I lighted the lamp and attempted to read. The letters danced before my
eyes. I took up my wife's portfolio and looked at her drawings leaf by
leaf; but when I came to the portrait sketch I closed the folio
hastily, as if I had caught myself entering upon forbidden paths. Then,
for a long while, I sat perfectly passive before my writing-table with
my head resting on my hand, and sank ever deeper into an abyss of
hopeless wishes, sorrows, and self-reproaches.
"By and by the door was opened softly, and my wife entered. She had on
her night-cap, but was otherwise completely dressed. Evidently in the
act of going to bed she had suddenly resolved on something else.
"Her face was unusually pale; her beautiful eyes glistened strangely as
if a slight shower of tears had passed over them. A certain air of
timidity made her seem ten years younger, indeed, almost girlish. I had
never felt so clearly what a treasure she was to me.
"'I shall not trouble you long,' she said, 'but I must talk with you.
Perhaps we shall both sleep better.'
"She seated herself with her back toward the open balcony-door.
"'Shall I close the window?' I asked.
"'Why? It is nothing secret. I could say it as well before a third
person. It has been clear and comprehensible to you yourself for a long
time.'
"'What?' I asked, looking past her out into the night.
"'That you love her. One can see it easily enough. And she too is no
longer an inexperienced child. I would only like to know if you have
told her, and how she received it.'
"I sat before her as if in a spiritual swoon, or as when one dreams of
being almost naked in a gorgeous company, and would perish for shame.
"'How can you imagine----' I stammered.
"'It has not been easy for me,' she continued with a sad smile; 'but it
will not be otherwise, because I wish it so. I saw it coming, and had
time enough to become used to it, if it is ever possible to accustom
one's self to certain experiences. It is always best not to close the
eyes and seal the lips when people love each other. And you love me
yet, I know, in spite of everything.'
"'Thank you for those words!' I exclaimed, and rushed to take her in my
arms. But she repelled me with gentle firmness.
"'No, stay there,' she said; 'we will talk it over calmly. I am no
heroine, and this discussion is very hard for me. But tell me.'
"I assured her, on my honor, that no word had passed my lips which
could have betrayed the state of my feelings. Then I told her, even to
the smallest detail, all that had happened on the lake that day, and
also everything which I had felt.
"'I suspected something of the sort,' she replied quietly. 'She avoided
my eye, and you--you had no thought for our child. It is a passion;
that we cannot hide from ourselves. You will not think me so childish
as to surrender to a miserable jealousy, overwhelm you with reproaches,
or make any scene which might show our friend how much harm she has
done me. Can I blame you for loving her? She is so lovable, that I
myself, even yet, love her as an only sister. It does not surprise me.
I knew it at the first sight of her charming face. If, in spite of
that, I did nothing to keep her away from us, indeed, rather brought
her into closer intimacy, it was because I have always considered that
old proverb--'Out of sight, out of mind--' perfectly false. No, the
absent are preferred to all present people; our hearts idealize them;
love and longing grow with separation. I hoped that the first witchery
would be paled and effaced by frequent meeting. It has certainly
happened otherwise, and the future is very dark to me.'
"'Let us go away!' I said. 'We could pack this evening and go to
Lausanne tomorrow at dawn. I promise you, this sickness will leave my
blood with change of air.'
"She shook her head gently.
"'Out of sight, _in_ mind,' she said. 'Yes, even if it were only a
whim; you a light-minded, fickle-hearted man, and she a pretty theatre
princess. But consider how everything about her touches you--her
unhappiness, her loneliness, the nobility of her whole character, and
her music. At the first sound of a violin you would live it all over
again. No, my dear friend, we dare not flee, and I dare not appear
cowardly in your eyes. I am not so. I know that we are too firmly
united to be parted by any power whatever. But I am not so high-minded
that I can share you with another. I would rather die!'
"We sat facing each other in sorrowful silence. I felt that any word,
any assurance of my good faith, would be trivial, a desecration of the
situation which she regarded so purely and nobly. At length she arose.
"'I feel much better now,' she said, smiling with an indescribably
brave and beautiful expression. 'Do not think any more about it. Good
counsel comes in the night. But promise that you will keep your
confidence in me, and that you will never hide anything for fear of
hurting me. The concealment itself would pain me. Are we not human, and
therefore poor creatures unable to master our own hearts? No one is
responsible for his inclinations, but only for his deeds. And you, I
know, will never do anything which could really divide us. Good-night!'
"She gave me her hand. I wanted to take the noble woman in my arms;
but, retreating, she bade me farewell with her eyes, and disappeared
into her room.
"You can imagine that I fell asleep late. But this time it was not
because of the fever of an unreasoning, godless passion, like that
which had kept me dreamily half-awake for so many nights. The clear,
quiet words which I had just heard dropped upon my burning wound like a
powerful balsam. I felt myself already in a sort of convalescence,
because of whose great charm I could not sleep. I could scarcely
conceive how any other woman than my own wife could ever have gained
power over me. More than once I longed to steal into her chamber, kneel
by her bedside, and, if she awoke, declare my love to her. But I was
forced to remember that she had pushed me away, and that my warmest
protestations might perhaps find no belief. Thinking thus, I finally
fell asleep.
"I awoke before sunrise. You know that, on that shore, it is day some
time before the sun appears above the Dent-du-Midi. Downstairs, all was
already awake and astir. In the neighboring room nothing was moving.
She, too, did not close her eyes till late, and needs the morning
sleep, thought I.
"But I myself felt impelled to go out. I dressed noiselessly and
stepped softly down stairs. I longed for a bath in the lake; the blood
was burning in my veins. As I came down and approached her door, I saw
that it stood ajar; and within, seated upon a chair in the middle of
the room, and surrounded by locked trunks, I saw Lucile herself, her
bill and its amount in gold lying on the table before her.
"Involuntarily I stood still. At the same instant she glanced up and
recognized me. I crossed the threshold in intense excitement.
"'You intend to go away, Countess?' I exclaimed; 'why this sudden
decision?'
"'My brother telegraphed for me last evening,' she said hurriedly,
without looking at me. 'He is worried about the affair with the Count,
which I did not conceal from him. He wishes me to come at once to
Paris--he is perfectly right--it is best in every respect--'
"She stopped and bent over a small satchel in her lap. I went to the
piano and lingered some music lying on it, merely to make a noise. If
it remained so still, I feared that she would hear my heart beat. I
could not speak a word.
"'Remember me to your wife,' I heard her say. 'It is so early--she must
be asleep--I will not disturb her to say good-by. I shall write to her
from Paris--meanwhile, tell her--'
"She faltered again. Her voice sounded so timid and humble, she was so
perfect a picture of contrition and helplessness as she sat there,
afraid to look up, that I could not bear to let her suffer alone.
"I turned quickly toward her.
"'Shall we seek to deceive each other at this hour?' I said. 'It is
generous of you, but it shames me too much. I know why you wish to
leave us so suddenly; your brother has nothing to do with it; no, there
shall be no falsehood between us. I alone drive you away. You know that
I love you passionately. Listen to me patiently; I shall say nothing
unworthy of either of us. We three know it, therefore we can no longer
remain together. No one has been to blame. You esteem my wife too
highly, and me also--I know that you are my friend--to wish to bring
any trouble into our lives. Nothing is changed between my wife and me,
we live for each other as always before; but you are right, one should
not presume on such good fortune, and in time, even with the purest
intentions--'
"I do not know what more I said. I was looking down at her, and I can
see her head before me even yet, the narrow white part in the curly,
blue-black hair, and at the neck, the simple, heavy knot with a silver
pin. I saw that her bosom heaved painfully, and that the small hands on
the satchel trembled slightly. But I could not see her face.
"Suddenly she looked up, and her eyes as they met mine were full of
gratitude, but streaming with tears.
"'Lucile!' I cried, and falling on my knees before her, I drew her head
down with my hands. 'Farewell!' I stammered. She did not speak. I
pressed my lips to both her eyes, then tore myself away and fled from
the room. I hastened out of the house, down the nearest street, and up
the steep road toward Montreux. About half way there was a bench
standing against a vineyard wall. Halting there, I remained seated for
awhile with my eyes closed, in that stupefied state between pain and
pleasure, which usually comes to one who has done his duty at the cost
of a deep heart's need, or has renounced forbidden fruit.
"The morning remained sunless; a strong south wind wrapped the Savoyard
mountains in mist, and at length a slight rain began to fall. Looking
around, I saw the steamer which had landed at Vernex already well on
its way toward Vevey. I vainly strained my eyes to discover, among the
figures wrapped in rain-cloaks on the forward deck, her who was leaving
me forever. Then I slowly retraced my steps to the house, intending to
tell my wife of what had happened. But, first, I could not resist
entering the small salon below, for the door was still open.
"The traces of a hasty departure were still visible--torn bills,
flowers withered and scattered, and on the piano-stool a single sheet
of music torn through the centre. I picked it up. It was the first
music I had heard from the little piano, that prelude through which we
had learned to know each other--_Galeotto fu il libro_! It was a
sorrowful hour indeed when she vented her defiance and misery on the
innocent music. I carefully pocketed it.
"Then I went upstairs. Still no sound from my wife's sleeping-room.
Finally I knocked softly at the door, and when no one answered, entered
the room. Neither mother nor child were to be seen; the windows were
open; hats and wraps had disappeared.
"I do not know why this seemed so strange to me. Nothing was more
natural than that they should start on their morning walk when they
failed to find me. I called the chambermaid; she had seen my wife and
child going in the direction of Chillon; she had received no message
for me. As it had begun to rain, I imagined they would soon return, and
decided to wait for them. But I could not endure this half an hour.
"I strode down the street which, following the shore, between houses
and vineyards, leads to Chillon. At every bend in the road I expected
to see them. Each time I was disappointed. Finally reaching the isle of
Chillon, I asked the guard on the bridge if a lady and child had gone
into the castle. Excepting a few Englishmen, there had been no visitors
during the whole morning. I shall not attempt to describe my feelings
at this information. Immediately turning about, I returned in half the
usual time. Drenched, exhausted, and feverishly excited, I once more
reached the house.
"Dinner-time was past, and they had not arrived.
"For the time being I was incapable of going out and renewing my search
for the fugitives. I searched her chamber and my own, her desk, each of
her trunks and boxes, in the hope--or rather in the fear--of finding a
note which might give some clue to this mysterious disappearance. I
found nothing. That completely disheartened me. I stretched myself on a
sofa, and for a full hour was tormented by the most incredibly horrible
fancies, and suffered the bitterest distress in my poor soul, a
purgatory wherein I richly expiated my sins.
"At length I arose.
"It was about two o'clock, and the rain was lighter. Although I felt
lame and exhausted, I nevertheless resolved to go out again and search
in the direction of Montreux, where she had often sketched. Perhaps the
rain had surprised her there, and for the child's sake she had taken
shelter under some hospitable roof until the rain should cease.
"Just as I was ready to go, the door opened, and a man in a coachman's
blouse entered. He asked my name, and gave me a note. She wrote from
Vevey, whence the man had just come in his wagon. She had suddenly
decided that morning to carry out her plan, and visit the principal of
the _pension_ where she had lived as a girl. She begged me to excuse
her for not informing me before. She would tell me about it when she
saw me. She meant to remain there for the night; the room which she had
formerly occupied was empty, and she wished to sleep once more in the
bed where she had dreamed her girlish dreams, and to show the child all
the places which were dear to her in her youth. She would return next
day.
"While I was reading, the messenger related in his _patois_ a rambling
story about a Fraeulein from the _pension_ whom he was obliged to take
to Vevey, and about the strange lady who had given him the note just as
he was harnessing; and now he must go. I listened with little
attention, gave the man his fee, and was once more alone.
"I could not believe it had happened so accidentally. I recognized a
little stratagem of my wife's, a ruse to make me feel what it meant
when she failed me. 'Out of sight, in mind' was indeed her maxim. She
proved it only too cruelly.
"I did not wish to prolong my penance unnecessarily. It was two hours
before another steamer left. The railroad was then only a subject for
conversation. Little time would be gained by taking a carriage, and I
knew that the slow movement would madden me.
"To be brief, I arrived in Vevey about seven o'clock, and was at once
driven to the _pension_. They sent me into the garden. It had become a
perfectly clear and beautiful evening, and although the sun had
long since set, the light was still so strong that one could read
out-of-doors. I saw the fugitives in the distance. My dear child ran to
meet me with a cry of joy, and threw herself as impetuously about my
neck as if she suspected what suffering the separation had caused me.
My wife approached more slowly, for she was walking with the old
directress; but her face wore a most loving expression, and she blushed
slightly, as if ashamed of being caught in a trick. She presented me to
her old friend, an excellent little spinster with snow-white hair,
merry black eyes, and an obstinately black and visible mustache. I went
the rounds of the house and garden, saw all the historical places, and,
finally, my wife's narrow, neat little room, where a bed for the child
had just been made on the sofa. It was then vacation, and most of the
scholars were visiting their parents. I was invited to dine; but
although we remained by ourselves and chatted about many things, what
had taken place in the morning was not once mentioned. When I departed
at nine o'clock, intending to spend the night in a hotel, my wife
pressed my hand warmly, yet, at the same time, with a look which
forbade any further tenderness--I remained in uncertainty whether out
of respect for the half-cloister-like house-customs or from another
reason.
"I brooded over it for a time. But I was so extremely tired by my hard
day, that I fell asleep almost instantly in my cheerless hotel room,
and was awakened by the morning sun.
"We took a carriage to return to Vernex. Since our little daughter sat
opposite us, any expression of deep feeling was of course impossible.
On arriving at the house, the child at once ran out into the garden
with a playfellow. We two ascended the stairs, passing our friend's
empty apartment.
"'I have regards for you,' I said; 'she went away early yesterday
morning. She will write to you from Paris.'
"My wife looked at me with a charming smile, half shy and half roguish.
"'I too have a greeting for you,' she said; 'at any rate, the last
hand-clasp, after we had embraced three times, was certainly intended
for you. But the letter from Paris will be omitted. We made no
arrangements for a correspondence. Yes,' she continued, as I looked
wonderingly at her, 'I do not have fine ears in vain. I heard very
plainly how my lord and master paid his morning call below, and knew
from the unusual stir and movement that her departure was decided upon.
I wished to accompany her a little distance. Why should we part so
silently and secretly? Did we think unkindly of each other? I, at
least, was not vexed because she found you lovable; she shared that
weakness with me. And how could she help it that I had met you first?
For a moment I even thought of begging her to remain. But that would
have been a foolish challenge to fate. But I sat by her side as far as
Vevey, and we explained ourselves as well as we could without calling
things by name. Are you satisfied with me?'
"She held out her hand. I took it somewhat hesitatingly. 'If you were
only satisfied with me!' I exclaimed. 'I found her miserably unhappy,
as if she had done something for which she could never forgive herself.
It seemed unknightly to let her believe that I was cold to her feeling.
So I expressed myself, and truly, called things by their right names.
Indeed, at the last, I kissed her on both eyes, and she suffered it.
This is all I have on my conscience.'
"'It is little--and yet, quite enough,' she replied softly; 'let us
speak of it no more.'
"And so it was. Indeed, I not only ceased to speak of her, but in an
unexpectedly short time forgot to think of her. Many things aided me in
this. I was hastily called home by a letter from my inspector, for my
presence on the estate had become imperative. Then came an early winter
which brought me many cares, since I was occupied with the purchase of
a small neighboring estate. In these cares of house and field, my wife,
with her prudent forethought and encouraging cheerfulness, was of the
greatest assistance, and no one, seeing us together, would have
suspected any change in our admirably sympathetic life. And yet there
was a change.
"A sword lay between us, invisible, but not unfelt.
"At first I bore it calmly, when she quietly but firmly resisted any
show of tenderness on my part. In other ways she was not cold or
distant towards me; in fact, her loving care increased, and she
constantly endeavored to fulfill even my unexpressed wishes. But a
certain shy reserve never left her. When I finally asked if my presence
was distasteful to her, or if she wished to punish me by denying these
innocent caresses, she shook her head earnestly and blushed like a
girl.
"'I am not sure that you will understand me,' she said. 'But it seems
to me as if we were never alone, as if some one else were looking in on
our privacy, and even you--it seems as if you saw me and another at the
same time. Let us wait awhile. We shall somehow succeed in being alone
again.'
"The winter and part of the summer passed by. The letter from Paris did
not come. Politics were added to my usual occupations, and my head was
full of symbols and party programmes. When, now and then, I had time to
observe my inner self, I found only one of the two heart-chambers
occupied, and that one filled with the most ardent love. The other was
as empty and musty as a room which has not been aired or opened to the
sun for a long time. On the wall hung a picture whose frame was dusty
and whose colors were faded.
"I was scarcely surprised that this had happened so quickly. In the
strange second courtship in which I was living with my wife, my
passionate nature was completely engrossed by distress at our
estrangement. But I knew that she was not to be won 'with prayers, and
with whinings, and with self-exalting pains.' Perhaps another dream
will come to your aid, thought I. The transformation occurred in the
daytime, however.
"One morning we were sitting at breakfast alone, for the child had a
study hour with the pastor. Among the papers which we were looking over
was a French one, which a neighbor received and shared with us. I was
glancing mechanically down the columns, when my eyes suddenly fastened
on a name.
"'Look!' said I; 'at length we have the explanation of the missing
Parisian letter. Have you read it?'
"She looked at me searchingly, but did not reply.
"'In court circles they are talking of the betrothal of the Duke of C.
to the beautiful Countess Lucile of ----, who, as is well known, enjoys
the intimacy of the imperial court, and whose husband met such a sad
end three months ago after a great loss in play at Monaco. They say the
empress has given the bride a magnificent ornament, and so on. I own,'
I added, 'that no news has given me greater pleasure for a long time.
Poor Lucile! She certainly deserved imperial reparation for her
sorrowful youth.'
"My wife still remained silent. Then, rising, she came and threw her
arms around me, and kissed me on both cheeks. 'I have known it since
yesterday,' she said. 'Will you believe that I was weak enough to fear
how you might receive it?'
"'Oh, child,' I said, 'you have always seen ghosts. Will you now
believe that we are alone?'
"From that day there was never a shadow between us. Our happiness, like
every other real happiness, was never exhausted. Our motto might have
been those beautiful words:
"'The more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.'
"And when the end came--after three short years--the effect was
immeasurable, as in all true endings. But of that I cannot speak."
He stood up. Just then the clock struck one.
"I have detained you a long time," he said; "Now I shall take you home
by the shortest way. You will be wet through."
In fact, a light, warm rain was beginning to fall.
"And do you know nothing more about the Countess?" I asked. "I confess,
her hasty marriage touches me strangely. Perhaps she wished to end all
hopeless longings."
"You wrong her," he said; "there is something more to be told. I myself
thought that, but must humbly apologize for it. You know that when I
became a widower I could find no rest anywhere. I leased my estates,
and took my daughter to that excellent dame at Vevey, who had been such
a true friend to her mother. People often congratulated me upon
possessing in the child a perfect likeness of the mother. But this
resemblance affected me peculiarly. I was pained that she should
resemble her mother physically, without showing a trace of spiritual
likeness. She was much like me, and had my love of music. But this did
not make me happy; indeed, rather sharpened my pain; and it is only
recently that I have been able to recognize and enjoy the many good and
lovable traits which she possesses.