You are my own sister. Placed in circumstances similar to mine, your
life would be as wretched as is mine,” continued Elizabeth, still
speaking with that terrible calmness.
While papa cried: “Wretched! What an extraordinary expression to use!”
And she: “Did I know one stronger, I would adopt it! Nothing is too
strong to express the humiliation of knowing the being one looks
up to--or rather one should look up to--to be a nonentity; or the
hypocrisy of seeming to defer to him one knows to be one’s inferior.”
“Pride! pride!” sighed mamma. Her work had fallen on to her lap,
she was white as death; and my heart felt how she was suffering, as
Elizabeth, merely acknowledging her interruption by a scornful curl
of the lips, continued icily:
“The moral death it is, and how one despises one’s self for it--but
only with penitent humiliation to crawl again under the sacred
yoke--that, of course, is understood. Who would make a public scandal
of their matrimonial troubles; who seek escape from them; who attempt
to drown themselves? Such, I have heard, is done by the vulgar horde
who are without religion, or are the poor-spirited descendants of
some worthy shoemaker or candlestick-maker, without courage or
endurance. We, of the upper ten, are religious, strong to endure,
have the blood of heroes in our veins! We know no deserters from our
posts! Therefore, Paula, weigh well before you undertake the post. It
is a vilely loathsome one.”
She turned to our parents:
“Dear father and mother, when you say to your child ‘Accept
So-and-so, he will give you a good position, splendid castles, a
great establishment, well-appointed carriages,’ and the like, you are
doubtless doing what is right in your own eyes. But do not say to
her, ‘Do it because it will bring you happiness.’ That you have no
right to say. Believe me, it is presumptuous.”
Only those who heard these words could form any idea of the effect,
uttered as they were by Elizabeth, without raising her voice or
accompanying them by the slightest gesture. Low and deliberately
they dropped like heart’s blood from some deep wound; and as I
hearkened to them, there arose in me the burning wish that there
were anything on this earth, anything, however great and well-nigh
impossible, that I might be privileged to do for my sister.
Mamma was petrified. Papa had sunk his arms upon his knees, and
was looking down at his clenched fingers. His forehead was deeply
furrowed, and for the first time the thought struck me how old he
looked.
Bernhard broke the silence:
“My dear parents, I entreat you if things are thus--it would be my
opinion--you understand what I mean----”
Oh, it was a blessing to us all, the warm-hearted manner in which he
spoke!
Papa raising his head, thanked the dear fellow with an approving nod,
then looking at mamma inquiringly: “What do you think?”
She, trying to answer, could not; could only sigh:
“O God! O God!”
“What do you think, Caroline?” repeated papa. “Are you not also----”
“I do not know,” said she painfully. “It is very difficult.”
“There is nothing difficult in it; it is all quite simple,” broke
in Bernhard. “You have only to tell the count our daughter is fully
sensible of the honor, etc., etc.; but she cannot yet make up her
mind to marry; she does not want to leave us--and the thing is done!”
There ensued a long, painful silence. Papa brought it to an end by
saying:
“Yes. If she really does want to stay with us----”
And mamma put in hesitatingly: “Paula is certainly still very young!”
“Much too young!” cried I. This solution had never occurred to me.
“Oh, my darling parents!” I would have rushed to them, but mamma made
a sign to Elizabeth, and my sister, rising, went and stood before her.
“You have given us much pain to-day, Elizabeth,” said papa. He held
out his hand to her. She did not offer to kiss it. What must have
been her feelings at that moment! Our dearest father had given her
his hand in reconciliation, and Elizabeth had not kissed it.
* * * * *
At that moment the count was announced; and with him my
brother-in-law, to fetch his wife for the usual drive. Both
gentlemen seemed to be in a high state of annoyance at some blunder
of their harness-maker; in each case their ideas had failed to be
carried out.
Bernhard sympathized ironically in their grievances, but they took
his malicious comments in sober earnest.
As Elizabeth and her husband left the room, running after them, I
threw my arms vehemently round my sister, and thanked her, caring
nothing for the disapproving looks of my brother-in-law.
“What is all this frantic excitement about?” he asked.
Bernhard, who, too, following my example, had left the room, answered:
“Ah, my dear fellow! If you only knew the vagaries of this small
person!” and he winked at me. “Only think, this person refuses to
have anything to say to Count Taxen. Count Taxen! the wittiest,
noblest, and handsomest of men, and--she will have nothing to say to
him!”
My brother-in-law, who evidently took it as a bad joke, answered:
“Ah, well, it is a good thing that you are here to bring her to
reason.” He turned toward the door, Elizabeth with him. We looked
after her, walking so calmly by his side--my poor, poor sister.
“I have often shuddered to think what must come to light if ever the
secrets of that prison house were unfolded,” said Bernhard.
“I, too, have often dreaded that she was unhappy,” I replied, unable
longer to restrain my tears. “My only wonder was that she never
complained.”
“No need to wonder at that!” he cried. “It is not suitable for
general conversation. If circumstances force it from a true woman,
she may speak of it once, but never again. Take example from her;”
and he affectionately patted my cheek. “Our friend in the drawing
room is getting his _congé_. Are you content, pussy?”
I was about to thank him for his goodness; but with an impatient
movement he drew back, as he said:
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t come the sentimental!”
My parents said no more to me about the count; and it may be readily
imagined that I never mentioned him to them. A few evenings before
the soirée at which I made the resolve to write my Memoirs, his
mother was present, and made a point of showing me the greatest
kindness. This noble heartedness made me feel so small and ashamed
that I had to exercise the greatest self-control to prevent myself
from earnestly praying the countess to think kindly of me and forgive
me. It would have been a fearful want of tact had I done so.
As she moved away, mischievous Pierre Coucy said, with a titter, “She
is more _la crème_ to-night than ever--but sour.”
“No wonder,” rejoined his brother, with a side glance at me.
Then to Elizabeth: “Have you heard our paragon son is off on a
cruise--to Bohemia?”
“No, no,” put in Pierre; “in an air balloon to recover his
equilibrium.”
I was confused at their sallies. But Elizabeth, with her majestic
calm, said: “You are romancing, now the secret is out! I have long
suspected your silent proclivities.”
“You are wrong, countess! More than a writer of romance, I am a
prophet!”
“Highly necessary, in order to see through a sphinx like our friend
Count Taxen.”
So they went on cutting bad jests, until I felt quite sorry for the
count, who looked upon the Coucys as his friends. They must have
imparted their surmise to others besides ourselves, for when Baron
Schwarzburg came up to me that evening, I read it on his brow, and
it laughed in his eyes, as he heartily wished the count a pleasant
journey.
* * * * *
Things are very strange at home now, and not altogether pleasant.
Even my Duphot, for the first time in my life, bears a grudge against
me--in her gentle way, be it understood, and quite as much to her
sorrow as to mine.
My beloved father is out of sorts, and although he often says, “Do
whatever you like,” the words over which I used to exult now make
me sad. I always dread lest I should hear in them, “Our wishes, of
course, are of no account to you.”
Mamma, too, seems depressed, and spends more time in church than ever.
She must be praying there for Elizabeth; for she has laid it upon
me in my daily prayers to commend my poor sister to God, that he
may turn her heart, and awaken in it a befitting and dutiful love
to her husband. And I pray accordingly, though I must confess I
doubt whether the Divine Power will see fit to be influenced in
such a cause. The true love which can arouse that burning devotion
in us, akin only to sacred adoration, is given us by our Heavenly
Father, if to be given at all, from the very beginning. The miserable
supplementary love, gathered together for us by joint prayers, what
can that avail?
_May 25th._--Reading through these pages yesterday, I asked myself
if these really are memoirs that I am writing? Memoirs treat of
interesting people, and I am only writing about myself; they treat of
interesting times, and I only occupy myself with the present, which,
for the matter of that, is very interesting.
“A momentous period in the political world!” I heard an old gentleman
say the other day.
My whole understanding for politics, however, is confined to a
decided interest in all that concerns the governorship of our
province. Opportunities of discussing it, ever so welcome to me, are
not wanting, papa having interests at stake in it. His object is
to prevent the inhabitants of one of the districts, against better
judgment, from cutting down the trees and tilling the land of one
of the forests belonging to him. Until quite lately he was forever
complaining of the laxity of the local authorities. Suddenly, his
invectives have ceased. I had long wanted to know why, but had not
ventured to inquire into the subject on account of his not standing
well with the authorities. At length to-day, taking courage, I said:
“How are things going about the district forest, papa? Is it going to
be under tillage?”
“No, it is not.”
“Then you have carried your point. That is capital.”
“Father has carried his point, because he has put it, at last,
into the hands of the right man,” interposed Bernhard, continuing,
unabashed by papa’s meaning look--“of the man of right, who this time
has proved the truth of his axiom, Right must conquer.”
Mamma and Mme. Duphot in vain endeavored to turn the subject;
Bernhard, sticking to his point, would not yield until he had forced
from dear papa the acknowledgment that Baron Schwarzburg was a man of
great talent, and a very fine fellow.
That afternoon it was settled that in a week we should leave town for
Trostburg. Elizabeth was to come on a long visit to us, and without
her husband, who has just bought a new place in the Marmaros, and is
about to build a hunting castle there.
My sister is quite another person since her husband’s departure;
so much more animated, lively to audacity, and so loving and
affectionate to papa and mamma.
She coaxes and pets me as if I were a baby.
“If only you had a real baby!” I said to her once.
“Silence!” she cried. “It is my one source of thankfulness that
Heaven has not given me one! I should have hated it as I do----”
She did not finish her sentence; but I understood her too well, and
felt a rush of deepest pity for her.
When I see her breathing thus freely again in her liberty, it
always makes me think of a certain lovely mountain ash tree in
the forest. A terrific storm beating over it had bowed down the
young tree, until its crest had caught in the branches of a puny
misshapen fir tree, much smaller than it, and the poor ash could
not free itself. Its slender stem was bent like a bow; its tender
branches, accustomed only to the free space of heaven above them
wherein to stir and expand at their own sweet will, hung to earth
withered and disconsolate, pining in the straggling clutches of the
tyrant. Fortunately my father and I happened to pass that way. He
had the worthless fir tree cut down; and oh, joy! the mountain ash
was freed; its elastic stem quickly righted itself, its branches
swayed blissfully in the breeze, each individual leaflet uplifted
itself with joyous flutter, and its graceful summit seemed to bow
in greeting to its companions, and to the blue sky above it, which,
answering, shed the gladdening rays of sunlight full upon it.
The mountain ash is forever freed from its oppressor. My poor
sister must return to her imprisonment when summer is over. But she
does not allow this thought to trouble her happiness; she is too
noble-spirited. She says, Enjoy your blessings while you have them;
it is only the pampered children of fortune who do not give thanks
for happiness, because it is fleeting. A Crœsus has no easy minute,
for he has no security but that he may outlive his riches. The beggar
does not enjoy the crust you give him any the less through fear of
to-morrow’s hunger.
The more I am with her, the more do I admire her and sorrow for her;
and the more I compare our lots, the more grateful am I for mine.
How merciful God has been to me! The blessed freedom only granted
for a brief space to my sister, is mine forever to enjoy, and in
addition to it the great, silent bliss of being privileged to think
to my heart’s content of him who is so unspeakably dear to me. Though
separated from him, I will walk as if in his sight in all I do, or
leave undone, asking myself, “Would he approve it?” he the right man,
the man of right!
There must be something unusual in contemplation. There are
mysterious conferences in the small drawing room; long discussions
in papa’s study. Confusion reigns in every nook and corner. Mamma
has sent round notes of excuse, and is not holding the remaining
receptions this season; and Baron Schwarzburg, who seemed to have
received no intimation of the change in her arrangements, was greatly
astonished the other evening on finding us alone. I noticed papa and
Bernhard exchange a hurried glance as he was announced, and that they
looked with some concern at mamma. Her manner to him was cold, but
not half as cold as that of my Duphot. She has conceived the most
inexplicable antipathy to the baron, and has confided to me more than
once, with symptoms of extremest aversion, that she looks upon him as
an _esprit fort_. He stayed an hour. The happiness I experienced in
seeing and hearing him was sadly marred by thinking every instant,
“Now he will take his leave, and I shall see and hear him no more,
perhaps, for years--perhaps, who knows? forever!”
It was an unspeakable surprise to me to hear papa say to him, as they
shook hands: “You must look in again and see us before you leave.” I
could not help it--I rushed to papa and impulsively kissed his hand.
Looking at me severely, he muttered:
“What is the matter? You seem to be growing foolish.”
_May 30th._--I must write down what has happened--if I can, if my
trembling hand will let me, if my thoughts do not chase each other
too swiftly. I have kept so calm all the evening, have been able to
speak of the most indifferent things with such composure--why then
should I feel so painfully agitated now? I certainly did think that
my family quietly overlooked the answers _à tort et à travers_ I gave
them at first. Could I have been mistaken? They all looked so wise,
and the wildest imaginings were flying through my brain. But that was
afterward; what first took place was as follows:
This afternoon I was sitting alone in the great drawing room,
awaiting the return of mamma and Mme. Duphot from church; when the
door suddenly opened, and, without being announced, Baron Schwarzburg
came in, saying:
“I came to say good-by, countess. I start to-morrow.”
And I, in my bewilderment, could say nothing but:
“My mamma is not at home.”
“I know,” he replied.
“She will soon be back,” I said. Upon which he bowed silently.
I had risen at his entry, and now did not know whether I might ask
him to be seated. To leave him standing was too uncourteous. This
threw me into a dilemma, and the first few delicious moments of our
being alone together were truly uncomfortable.
He walked to the window, and for a while appeared to be absorbed
in what was passing below. Then he turned again toward me. He was
holding his hat in one hand, his gloves in the other, beating them on
the brim of his hat.
For the sake of saying something, I remarked:
“The dust is blowing up very unpleasantly to-day.”
The dearest smile played about his lips as he answered:
“Oh, no. It has been raining hard.”
Another pause ensued, this time a long one; until the baron brought
it to a close by saying:
“You are aware that I am very glad to be going to Bosnia?”
I replied:
“Yes, I know; and I know the reason. You have a great work before you
there.”
“For the small scope of my office,” he hastened to make reply. “It
is just the inferiority of the office I hold which gives a certain
importance to the work in hand. At any rate, it must take a long
time to settle; and I shall not think of coming home until it is
completed.”
“But you will have leave from time to time?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“And you will come and see us?”
“Oh, of course.”
“That will give pleasure to many--to me especially.”
These very natural words of mine seemed to produce a remarkable
impression upon him.
With warmth and agitation, he repeated:
“You, especially? you, especially?”
He seemed about to add something, took a step toward me, then
recalling himself, preserved silence, merely throwing his gloves
impetuously into his hat, which he had placed upon the window-sill.
Then I, regaining courage, said: “Do take a seat, Baron Schwarzburg.”
He accepted my invitation, and we sat down on the two easychairs by
the flower table, facing each other, near the French window leading
on to the balcony.
“How heavy and oppressive the air is in town, now!” he exclaimed.
And I agreed that it would be ever so much pleasanter in the country,
and in Bosnia, too.
“Oh, infinitely. And will you be as glad to go into the country as I
to go to Bosnia?”
I said yes. And then he wanted a description of my life at Trostburg,
and I gave him a detailed account of the way I spent each day. He
thanked me warmly. It would be so delightful to know where his
thoughts could seek me at every hour of the day; in the woods, in
the garden, in my own room, or in the library absorbed in some
interesting book. “And be sure that my thoughts will often follow
you,” he added.
“I shall count upon that,” was my reply.
“And will you be thinking of me?” He looked into my eyes as he asked
it.
With as firm a look, I answered:
“Always.”
Then he seized my hand, and held it nervously, almost as though I
were some priceless treasure.
“No, that you must not do! Even to one’s best friend--and that I am
to you--one does not give up all one’s thoughts. He will consider
himself happy indeed if you occasionally grant him a kindly
remembrance.”
This modest requirement disconcerted and displeased me, and I had
the courage to tell him so. He must know perfectly well, I thought
to myself, how very dear he is to me--and if I can make so bold as
to assume that he likes me, he surely might be satisfied of my love
for him. And so I told him that, for my part, I should always have
him in my thoughts, and that to do so would be my greatest happiness.
My dear parents had now quite yielded to my wish that I should never
marry. So that danger was over--once for all. I should go on living
with them, loving and tending them as long as their dear lives
lasted; and when I had them no longer on earth, would honor their
memories, carry on their good works, and lead the life of an old
maid, honored, happy, and perhaps of some use in my generation.
He listened patiently, then responded:
“Very good. You have made me fully acquainted with it all: first,
of your rules day by day; now your plans for the future. Very good,
we will keep to it. You a willing and contented old maid; I,” he
shrugged his shoulders, “of necessity, an old bachelor.”
“Of necessity?”
“Yes!” he cried. “Where should I find a wife willing to share the
hard life which I, at least temporarily, have to offer her?”
“Oh, on that account? A hard life is no obstacle!”
“And what is?”
“The wishes of one’s parents.”
“Ah, there we come back to the same thing. The parents’ wishes
spring from the feeling that the children they have brought up in
luxury must not make a bad match; it would only lead to unhappiness
and misery. It would lower them in their own eyes, and they would
lose caste.”
Waxing hotter and hotter as he went on, in his warmth he said many
things which were utterly illogical. He derided the prejudices of
society, and yet constrained himself with painful self-mastery to
declare that custom had sanctified these prejudices, and that they
who belonged to the circles where they held good, did right to honor
them.
“Then you do not act up to your convictions?” I said.
“I? Good Heavens! Do not speak of what I do. I, as everyone will
tell you, am a fool. I am far from acting up to those convictions,
because I do not, in truth, hold them; and on that account I am a
very fool. But not fool enough, countess, not fool enough to persuade
the one I love”--and here he pressed my hand with such force that I
had the greatest difficulty to prevent an exclamation--“to follow my
example, and be my companion on my lonely way.”
He clenched his teeth. His eyes looked wild; his accustomed
self-control had quite forsaken him. He looked so fearfully agitated
that he would have terrified me had I not loved him so well; but
because I loved him so well I felt, oh, so sorry for him, and I said:
“I know somebody who would have no need of persuasion; who would only
be too glad to go with you, if she dared!”
Instead of calming him, my words only seemed to excite him the more.
“Happy for that foolish girl that she does not dare! Happy for her.
She little knows what she would be taking upon herself; little as I
knew, nor the name that would be given me, and that I first heard
myself christened in scorn and derision, ‘Idealist!’ Be one! Struggle
against the mighty element; waste your strength in useless warfare!
Wrench yourself free from all the fresh, joyous pursuits of your
equals, your associates--once your brethren, now your adversaries,
whose interest you oppose, whose convictions you belie, and--to whom
you yet cling with every fiber of your heart!”
He was silent. And I did not venture to break the silence. Still ever
louder, more distinct, there arose within me: Foolish girl! Yes,
twice foolish; to have thought it enough to follow him at a distance.
With him is your place. All my other duties suddenly seemed to me
unimportant in comparison. My dread of my beloved father, childish.
I believe that it was then that in a very low, yet decided, voice, I
said:
“Were it not better, in such a fight, to have a companion at one’s
side?”
“A companion?”
“One equally minded with one’s self; but who, hitherto, has not so
plainly stated her views, because she could not trust herself, did
not so clearly see----”
I came to a standstill; I did not dare to look up at him. But I felt
that his eyes were resting upon me as he asked gently, and with a
ring of deep affection in his voice:
“Has it really only just become clear to her?”
“Yes, she knows that she, like you, is an idealist.”
“Miracle of miracles!” he said, in oh, so playful a voice, and with
such repressed rapture. “Am I really to meet with so rare a being as
an idealist in your circle? Nowadays? Impossible!”
“Convince yourself.”
“Shall I? Dare I? Would the idealist you speak of be able to endure
to cast her lot with one so obscure, so unknown as I?”
“Of course. And I only wish, with all my heart that you may remain
obscure and unknown, that I may the better prove to you----”
I got no further; for, rejoicing, he interrupted me:
“You! You! You then are willing to be that faithful, devoted
companion? And to me is to be granted that rare fortune--highest of
all earthly joys--to find in the wife of my soul the sharer of my
views, the confidante of all, even my boldest aims; my counselor in
doubt, sweetest consoler in sorrow, closest sympathizer in success?
You will be to me all that? All--despite everybody?”
“It will not need to be despite everybody,” I made answer, confused
by the passionate delight with which he pressed me to him. “I will
entreat my dear father----”
“Your father!” he cried. And springing back, he struck his forehead
like one possessed.
And I, to my great amazement, looking up, saw my father and Bernhard
standing there.
“Well!” said papa; “kept your word?”
“Do not ask me. Do not ask me!” cried Schwarzburg, beside himself.
With a loud laugh, Bernhard cried: