read. When quite a little girl, an aunt, who was a woman of learning,
bequeathed her whole library to her, and she was allowed to have it
arranged in her own room; her parents letting her have her own way
in everything. Thus at thirteen there was she deep in the study of
Humboldt’s “Cosmos,” and Strauss’ “Life of Jesus.” She has explained
whole pages of this latter to me, but not very clearly; I never could
understand it.
Dora used often to threaten that, if I did not know how to value the
count better, she would get him away from me. And I, only too ready,
would reply:
“Take him, by all means; you could not please me better.”
For a long time she thought I was only joking.
“Do you know,” she said, “that the Taxens have a prince’s crown in
their coat of arms?”
“How could one fail to know it?”
“And have you not thought how well your monogram will look with a
crown over it?”
I burst into a fit of laughter.
“Is that the result of studying Humboldt and Strauss at thirteen, to
make you such a baby at twenty?”
“Oh, that is quite another thing. I know what is due to the world.
The greatest men of learning attach value to position, and would be
only too glad to be admitted into princely salons, but as they are so
prosy and pedantic----”
Indignant at her silly chatter, I cried:
“You ought to be ashamed to talk such rubbish. Pray what do you know
about learned men: you have never even seen one!”
“Nor you, either.”
“No, nor anyone of us, because they do not frequent society, nor
have the slightest wish to do so. But you are talking about what you
do not understand. You prate about knowledge of the world, and see no
further than your own little circle. That is all you think about!”
She was piqued. She is as much accustomed to be admired as the count,
and can as little as he endure to be contradicted.
Our passage of arms had been carried on before a room full of my
friends, of both sexes, to their great delectation. Dora was not a
favorite among her girl friends, and they chuckled audibly at my
onslaught.
“You may be as contemptuous as you please,” said Dora angrily, but in
so low a voice that only I heard. “You will see the consequences of
having made an enemy of me,” with a meaning look toward the door, by
which the count was just then entering.
I understood her, and answered in an equally low voice:
“If you only succeed in what you mean, you will make me a friend for
life.”
“Very well, I accept your challenge!” she responded, little knowing
how I was silently rejoicing in her determination, and wishing it all
speed.
The count stood before me; and it seemed as if with his presence the
atmosphere about me had become more oppressive, the light darkened.
Dora rising, left him the chair opposite to me, and seated herself
on the arm of mine. In her white gauze dress, and hair so becomingly
arranged, she looked charming, as charming as a Dresden china figure;
and the contrast between her bewitching get-up and the conversation
she carried on was irresistibly funny.
“I wager,” exclaimed the count, “that the thermometer is up to 28°.”
“If it were 38°,” said she, “I should not feel it. I am never warm. I
am the marble guest.”
With an uninterested look the count murmured:
“Yes?”
“But also, I never feel the cold.”
“Ha, ha! You are doing the original. I am not at all original;
perfectly prosaic.”
“Oh! I am very prosaic. Would you believe it? I take snuff.”
“Indeed?”
“I always carry my snuffbox about with me.”
“With nothing in it?”
She produced a tiny gold box, no larger than a florin, from her
pocket.
“There happens to be nothing in it, just to-day. Look, I have had a
death’s head engraved on the lid; and I use death’s-head notepaper.
I am always thinking of death. I believe I shall commit suicide one
day.”
The count looked aghast.
“I always carry a dagger about with me.”
“Do you really?” said the count.
“So that I may plunge it into my heart the moment that tobacco, my
one friend, has no more charms for me.”
He smiled. He began to find her interesting; and as she now went
on to tell of a curious old chest which had been discovered in a
lumber room of her castle, he became thoroughly engrossed. Seizing an
opportunity when they were absorbed in their conversation, I rose
and stole away. As I turned, I saw Bernhard standing by me.
“I have been looking for you ever so long,” said he. “One cannot stir
a step in this crush.”
And looking round, he called:
“Schwarzburg!”
And I, surprised and so delighted, as though it had been some dear,
impatiently looked-for friend, exclaimed:
“Is he here?”
Now, be it said, Bernhard scolded me afterward, quite roundly, for my
“Is he here?” But I have never been able to repent it. As I said it,
I looked into a pair of eyes radiant with bliss, far too great for me
ever to repent the words which called it forth.
Baron Schwarzburg bowed so low before me, that the reverence thus
expressed in his salutation almost abashed me. What had I done to
arouse reverence?
We had a long talk together, much too long, I was afterward told
reproachfully. I cannot say what it was about; I was unconscious of
the lapse of time, and of the presence of others. He was talking to
me, and all that he said and his manner of saying it was pleasant to
me, and worth listening to; seemed better and wiser than anything I
had ever heard before, at once dear and true.
When, looking back to that evening, I ask myself the question: Was
that when we first made acquaintance? I answer, No. We did not need
it; we greeted each other as friends of long standing; our first
meeting was as a coming together after separation.
Our conversation was interrupted by papa. He wanted to consult with
the baron concerning some matters connected with his estate, and
Bernhard had told him that he could not do better than put them into
his hands. Both gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation; and at its
close I saw them shake hands, and felt quite elated. So the fool of a
Schwarzburg could talk sensibly for once--his advice could even be of
use!
The soirée was over. Most of the guests had left. Among the last
to go were Dora and her people, and the count and his mother. The
_comtesse douairière_, as my Duphot called her, was especially
amiable to me on saying good-night.
“You are so sweet, dear child, I quite admired you. How charming you
were this evening toward that poor baron, the _attaché_ fellow! But
do not forget that there may be a danger of your good nature being
misunderstood. That class of person does not always know how to
accept our notice, and is often made uncomfortable by our desire to
make them feel _à leur aise_ in our society.”
I hardly knew what to make of this comment; whether to take it as one
of praise or blame.
* * * * *
I will not attempt to describe my simple love story at length. That
my parents would consent to my marriage with Baron Schwarzburg, the
“_attaché_ fellow,” I did not for a moment believe. The consciousness
of my love for him and of its hopelessness revealed themselves
simultaneously to me; and it would have been a grave wrong in me had
I given myself up to the former. But I had not given myself up to
it; it had taken hold of me before I was aware, and from the first
moment I was as completely under its sway as I am to this day. It was
the same with him. His affection for me came as suddenly as did my
great love for him. It was only his perfect absence of vanity which
for a long time made him think it impossible that he could inspire
me with any warmer feelings than those of friendship. But even that
seemed to make him supremely happy; and as for me--a new life had
unfolded to me since he had taken me into his confidence, and since
I had learned to know the workings of his noble, unselfish heart. He
had met almost on every side with injustice, and yet he always held
that Right must conquer. He had endured countless bitternesses, yet
had come through them without one taint of bitterness. Truly with
such a fund of love and strength in his own heart, how should he
believe in anything but goodness?
The wonderful thing to me is that his own estimate of himself should
be so different from what he really is. He affirms the motive of the
greater part of his actions, and the source of all his strength, to
have been self-will. The other day when he was repeating this to me,
I asked:
“And was it mere act of self-will that led you, as a young barrister,
to enter that action against yourself?”
He replied, with a frown, “Is that old story not yet forgotten?”
“Not yet.”
“Then allow me to give you the true reading of it. It was undertaken
in no ridiculous spirit of self-sacrifice, but in order to defend
my integrity against my money; a thing of priceless worth against
that which has a marketable value. My client was the widow of an
estimable man and faithful old servant; the money in question his
savings honestly earned. How many years back the sum had been in
all confidence intrusted to his master’s keeping, the wife did not
know. She only knew that his master had repeatedly assured him that
the money had been invested in a thoroughly sound mortgage. What the
mortgage was her husband had no idea, and as the widow of the baron’s
most faithful and devoted servant it would never have occurred to her
to ask if her money was safely invested, or in what. All very well,
the lawyer said, but why was the woman so stupid? Could she not see
what was going on, and how the baron was making ducks and drakes of
his property? She had seen it all, but trusted to her lord’s word
more than to the evidence of her senses. And for that implicit trust,
was she to be made the victim, and was her master’s son to consent to
such plunder? Could he? What is your opinion, countess; how would you
have acted in his place?”
My answer was, “As you did.”
“And would that have been anything extraordinary?”
“No; only what was right.”
“Thank God!” he exclaimed, while a great peaceful joy illumined his
countenance; “only what was right. Yes, that is it.”
He looked radiant.
“Why thank God?” I asked.
“Because I have been permitted to justify myself to you.”
“You justify yourself--to me!” I said in some confusion.
“And because you made it so easy to me, and because you have such a
clear insight into things, and such an upright mind. Above all, that
you concede that we only do what is right, even must we defend that
right doing to our own loss.”
“But is not that natural?”
“No, egotism is natural. And the world just now prizes it highly.
Take up any newspaper, and you will read any number of articles
in favor of it and its ally, ‘healthy realism.’ In this age of
humanitarianism--strange anomaly--we find idealism arraigned, and
every kind of unusual display of self-denial, that groundwork and
absolute necessity of humanitarianism, stigmatized as sickly and
sentimental.”
Here the count, my sister, and Dora came up to us.
“Aha, here is the baron laying down the law!” exclaimed the count.
And Schwarzburg, looking dismayed, turned apologetically to me,
saying:
“Is it true--was I really laying down the law?”
“It is rather a habit of yours,” interposed the count, assuming the
cold haughty manner of people in society, to those not so highly
privileged, and that to me is so narrow and petty.
“You were certainly not laying down the law,” I cried; “on the
contrary, you were telling me something of great interest.”
“A secret?” giggled Dora.
“Certainly not.”
“Then pray impart your interesting story to us, especially if it
is not too long. But I fear it is long--as long-winded as it is
interesting. I have been watching you at a distance. You are always
so vastly entertaining, you two.”
My cheek crimsoned, and Baron Schwarzburg leveled a look at Dora
which spoiled all inclination to pursue her ill-bred jesting further.
But it had done its work, and bore ill consequences for me. Count
Taxen did not stir from my side the remainder of the evening; and we
carried on a melancholy duologue anent ancient castellated halls and
old armor! “A mold and mildew type of conversation,” as Elizabeth
calls it, when her husband, who is uncommonly like the count in
essentials, begins one of his interminable talks with her on that
theme. I saw her look across at me several times with unconcealed
commiseration.
The next day she came to talk over matters with me. It was early in
the afternoon, and I had just gone up to my room after luncheon,
when she came in.
She began taking off her bonnet and arranging a refractory lock
displaced by the wind, apparently very intent on so doing; but I
could see very plainly that her thoughts were no wise occupied by the
lovely, intellectual looking face reflected in the looking-glass.
Suddenly she began:
“Tell me, child, what are you meaning by this Schwarzburg worship of
yours?”
Her unexpected question took me by surprise, and I answered in a low
voice:
“What can I mean?”
“That is what I want to know. I want to know what you are thinking,
what dreams you are allowing yourself to indulge in! Do you know that
for some time past you are quite altered?”
I felt myself growing more and more downhearted.
“How altered, Elizabeth?”
“Oh,” she said, “do not let us waste time in fencing. The manner in
which you distinguish Schwarzburg is the subject of general remark.
You make your almost veneration of him so ostentatiously apparent.”
“I do not make it ostentatiously apparent; I only do not conceal it.”
“And what is it to lead to?”
“It will lead to nothing,” I answered dejectedly. “In a few weeks he
goes to Bosnia; and I to Trostburg.”
Shrugging her shoulders, she made a few steps forward, then sat down
on the chair before my writing table. The volume with “My Memoirs”
written large upon it attracted her attention; her face relaxed its
grave expression, and she began to laugh.
“So the child has taken to writing her ‘Memoirs’; here are all the
secrets--one need only to look in and find them all laid bare. Do not
look so frightened. I am curious, but not indiscreet.”
While her words were sarcastic, her great blue eyes were so sincere,
were looking at me with such a depth of love and sympathy, that,
taking courage, I went up to her and said:
“You asked me what I want. I will confess to you what I do not want;
I will not marry Count Taxen.”
“Bravo, that is good,” she answered phlegmatically. “And what about
the count, who purposes either to-day or to-morrow to make formal
proposal for your hand?”
In deadly fear, I cried:
“How do you know this?”
“From himself.”
“And does he not see how utterly indifferent he is to me?”
“No. That would be the last thing he would be likely to see.”
“And how much more, how unspeakably more, I prefer another to him?”
“That still less. A Count Taxen simply considers it an impossibility
that a Baron Schwarzburg should be preferred before him.”
“And Dora, who is a thousand times better suited to him, and who
promised me that she would make capture of him--Dora, on whom I have
set my hopes--why is she not as good as her word?”
“Because she cannot, sweet Simplicity. Because she has done all in
her power, but in vain. She is not to the count’s taste. He scents
the egoist in her, and is too utterly the egoist himself not to avoid
his duplicate.”
“Oh, what can I do, Elizabeth! what can I do? If I have to marry the
count I shall die of despair.”
She threw her arms round me, and drew me down to her, and I laid my
cheek upon her wavy hair.
“Do you really think so?” she asked. “I believe you might manage to
be not so desperately unhappy with him. Only you need to be a little
wise, my pet; do not go against him in little things, and you would
soon find that you had your own way in more important ones. You would
have to be very careful not to hurt his vanity, and where possible to
sing his praises to him.”
“What, flatter him!” I cried, “praise what I do not approve!
Flattery! oh, the shame and disgrace of it!”
“Do not give it such high-sounding names,” said she. “To be a bad
wife is the only shame and disgrace to a woman. In comparison with
that, any self-imposed humiliation weighs but lightly in the scale.
And after all, it is but a case of weighing one evil against another,
a compromise with the enemy, otherwise called the ills of life.
Perfect happiness, cloudless, whose lot is it? Who even may indulge
an unbroken dream of it?”
“Oh, were it only a matter of a dream, I should soon be in possession
of it.”
“Indeed! Then trust me, and put your dream into words.”
“Dare I? May I?”
“You must.”
“Do not forget that it is only a dream.”
“Well--begin.”
“I should dream that I was his--you know whom I mean--and had no more
ardent wish than to make life, hitherto so hard to him, sweet and
beautiful. At his side I would grow wise, and clever, and better day
by day. Every breath I drew would be a song of praise to him. Did,
however, so strange a thing happen that he could ever do anything my
conscience did not approve, I would tell it him, frankly, freely. I
would shrink from no pain; for he would be there to bear it with me,
and its burden would be lightened. What pain could come to me, so
long as I was his, and his love mine?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, in a low, stifled voice; “yes.”
“That is what my dream is like--the purest bliss. But the reality
is horror--horror, Elizabeth! You have utterly crushed me. That
miserable compromise; that mean-spirited subjection in order to
preserve the outward appearance of unity while hiding the inward
disunion--I could not do it. And you----”
A horrible thought had flashed across me; I bent down and looked into
her face; it was bathed in tears. “Can you do it, my darling?” I
said, sinking on my knees, and embracing her.
She pressed me convulsively, and agonizing sobs shook her breast, as
she answered:
“I have learned to do it!”
For a time we preserved deep silence. When at length I raised my eyes
to her dear face, it wore its accustomed look of composure.
She rose.
“Come with me to our parents, child,” she said. “I cannot help you to
the realization of your dream; but you shall not be sacrificed.”
* * * * *
Mamma was sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting. Mme. Duphot
was reading aloud to her, Ozanani’s “Poëtas Francis Caius.”
“May we come in, mamma? We want to speak to you.”
Without looking up, mamma answered:
“Please let us just finish the chapter. Sit down, girls.”
We sat down, and Mme. Duphot finished the beautiful legend of the
Holy Francis and Wolf von Gubio. Then placing her book, over which
she had several times hurriedly glanced at me, on the table, she rose.
I caught her hand.
“Stay!” I whispered to her; and Elizabeth hurriedly joined in.
“Stay, dear Duphot, we count upon your help. We want papa here, too,
as well. May I send to ask him to come, mamma?”
“Yes, ask him to come.”
Dear mamma! so unsuspectingly and peacefully going on with her work,
meditating over the sweet teaching of St. Francis. I felt so sorry
for her. How gladly would I have spared her the pain I was about to
cause her, but--how could I?
The door opened. Papa came in, but not alone; my brother was with
him. The eyes of both were directed upon me as they came in.
“Oh, yes; there she is,” said papa, in a severe, menacing voice.
I wanted to rise, but my knees shook too violently, and I could only
stretch out my hand to seize his as he passed me. He drew it hastily
back, and going across to the sofa, sat down by mamma. My brother
subsided on to a chair near them; and Mme. Duphot, who had been
sitting by mamma, diffident as ever, pushed her tabouret a little
further back. My sister and I sat at a little distance from them,
like a criminal and his counsel before their judges.
“Dear papa, dear mamma,” began Elizabeth, “in Paula’s name I would
pray you ask the count to cease paying his addresses to her. Paula
cannot like him, and is determined that she will not marry him.”
I was dismayed and terrified at the abrupt manner in which she said
this.
Mme. Duphot sighed.
Bernhard muttered “Oho!”
My father and mother were silent.
“It is Paula’s earnest hope,” resumes Elizabeth, “that you, dear
father and mother, will give your sanction to her decision.”
“Oh, do!” I broke in; “be merciful. I will be forever grateful to
you. I cannot marry Count Taxen. I do not feel the smallest particle
of affection for him; rather the reverse.”
“Does that mean that you have a dislike to him?” exclaimed papa
angrily. “Who has been putting such folly into your head? I suppose
your elder sister?”
“For all I hold dearest in the world, do not think that! It is I who
have implored her to intercede for me with you.”
“In the first place,” said mamma, “you need no one to intercede
between you and your parents, but should have come in all confidence
to them yourself. In the second place, your sister, instead of being
so ready to take this office upon herself, should have pointed out
to you how foolish it is to have allowed any such fancy not only to
exist, but to be blurted out before us, and for which there is not
the slightest reason.”
“She declares it--that is her reason!” returned Elizabeth.
Her voice, before somewhat veiled, was now as hard and sharp as when
first she came to me. I drew nearer to her, and put my arm round
her--her whole frame quivered.
“Folly--folly,” repeated papa. “We cannot listen to such trash.”
“The count is an upright, honorable man; well bred, good looking, and
of unexceptionable manners; a man with whom you could not fail to be
happy, Paula,” pronounced mamma, in severe and uncompromising tones.
“You may not love him now, but you will certainly learn to do so when
it has become your duty.”
A shudder ran through me, and I stammered out:
“No, mamma, no! I shall never learn to love him, because I----”
The confession I was about to make died away upon my lips. I turned
a look of entreaty upon my sister. Her lovely face was aflame; with
arms crossed upon her breast, she was looking unflinchingly, an
expression of reproach and indignation in her eyes, at mamma.
“Do you remember,” she said, “some seventeen years ago addressing
that same promise to me, and with about as much justification? My
suitor, too, was upright, well bred, and good looking. Now, mother
dear, as you have not seen or guessed how matters stand with me, hear
once for all; your promise has _not_ brought its fulfillment.”
“Elizabeth!” cried my father and mother together.
Bernhard, who at first had listened with somewhat skeptical smile,
suddenly sunk his head. Mme. Duphot had risen, and slipped out of
the room like a shadow. With a calm that chilled me to the heart,
Elizabeth continued:
“That love, which as a matter of course was to come with marriage,
enveloping me in blessed blindness, in happy deception, came not. My
heart remained cold, my eyes clear, and with those clear eyes of mine
I saw my upright, well-bred husband through and through----” She gave
a short hard laugh. “It was no edifying spectacle.”
I had been so shocked at Elizabeth’s words, above all by the decided
manner in which she had said them, that I had not ventured to look
at my parents. I cast a furtive glance at the chair previously
occupied by Bernhard. It was empty; my brother had risen, and was
standing by the window near to which Elizabeth was sitting, looking
earnestly at her, but, to my relief, not angrily.
“What does this mean?” asked papa. “What accusation do you bring
against your husband? He has never acted other than as a gentleman;
never been guilty of a single reprehensible action.”
“Never! He has never wronged another in the matter of honor or
property,” returned Elizabeth; “nor has he ever, of his own free
will, stirred a finger to help another, let alone made any sacrifice
for anyone; has never forgotten self for the sake of any living
creature. He has no notion of generosity, or of the beautiful,
save”--and a roguish look flashed across her face--“when he comes
across it in the shape of some old oak chest or rusty spur, lost four
centuries ago by some brave knight intent on plundering a traveling
merchant.”
“My dear Elizabeth!” said Bernhard reproachfully, as, standing now
behind her, he laid his hand on the back of her chair.
“I know I ought not to talk like this,” she answered. “It has never
happened before, and would not to-day, were it not for the sake of
saving this child from the fate which has befallen me.”
Dear mamma was in a state of greatest agitation and perplexity.
“You exaggerate cruelly, Elizabeth,” said she reproachfully. “You
accuse your parents, and speak unbefittingly of your husband.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, so I do! But then I have promised my sister
to stand by her in her hard fight between the filial obedience she
would so gladly show to you, and the aversion she feels for the
count.”
“Aversion,” muttered my father; “absurd!”