AN INTERESTING PARALLEL.
I had a whimsical desire that somebody, no matter who, should speak the
truth about the affair. That I myself should was out of the question,
nor would candour be admissible from any of my family; even Victoria
could do no more than kiss me. Elsa did not know the truth; her
realization of it lay in the future--the future to me ever so present.
Varvilliers would not tell it; his sincerity owned always the limit of
politeness. I could not look to have my whim indulged; perhaps had there
seemed a chance of fulfilment I should have turned coward. Yet I do not
know; the love of truth has been a constant and strong passion in my
mind. Hence come my laborious trackings of it through mazes of moods and
feelings; painful trifling, I daresay. But my whim was accomplished; why
and under what motive's spur it is hard to guess.
I sent a message to the Chamber announcing my betrothal; a debate on the
answer to be returned followed. Here was a proper and solemn formality,
rich in coloured phrases and time-honoured pretence. No lie was allowed
place that could not prove its pedigree for five hundred years. Then
when Bederhof and the rest had prated, there rose (_O si audissem_) a
man with a pale-lined face, in which passion had almost destroyed
mirth, or at least compelled it to put on the servile dress of
bitterness, but with eyes bright still and a voice that rang through the
Chamber. Wetter was back, back from wounding me, back from his madness
of Coralie, back from his obscure wanderings and his reported
bank-breakings. Somewhere and somehow he had got money enough to keep
him awhile; and with money in his pocket he was again and at once a
power in Forstadt. There must have been strange doings in that man's
soul, worthy of record; but who would be so bold as to take up the pen?
His reappearance was remarkable enough. I asked whether he did what he
did in malice, in a rivalry that our quarrel and our common defeat at
the hands of the paunchy impresario could not wipe out, or whether he
discerned that I should join in his acid laugh, and, as I read his
speech, cry to myself, "Lo, here is truth and a man who tells it!"
For he rose, there in the Chamber, when Bederhof's sticky syrup had
ceased to flow. He spoke of my betrothal, sketching in a poet's mood,
with the art of an orator, that perfect love whereof men dream; painting
with exquisite skill the man's hot exultation and the girl's tremulous
triumph, the spontaneous leap of heart to heart, the world without
eclipsed and invisible; the brightness, the glory, and the unquestioning
confidence in their eternity. His voice rose victorious out of
falterings; his eyes gleamed with the vision that he made. Then, while
still they wondered as men shown new things in their own hearts, his
lips curved in a smile and his tones fell to a moderate volume. "Such,"
said he, "are the joys which our country shares with its King. Because
they are his they are ours; because they are his they are hers. Hers
and his are they till their lives' end; ours while our hearts are worthy
to conceive of them."
They were silent when he sat down. He had outraged etiquette; nobody had
ever said that sort of thing before on such an occasion. Bederhof
searched in vain through an exhaustive memorandum prepared in the
Chancellery. He consulted the clerks. Nobody had ever said anything in
the least like it. They were puzzled. It was all most excellent, most
loyal, calculated to impress the people in the most favourable way. But,
deuce take it, why did the man smile while he talked, and why did his
voice change from a ring of a trumpet to the rasp of a file? The Chamber
at large was rather upset by Wetter's oration.
Ah, Wetter, but you had an audience fit though small! I read it--I read
it all. I, in my study at Artenberg; I, alone. My mind leaped with
yours; my lips bent to the curve of yours. Surely you spoke to please
me, Wetter? To show that one man knew? To display plainest truth by the
medium of a giant's lies? I could interpret. The language was known to
me; the irony was after my own heart.
"It's dashed queer stuff," said William Adolphus, scratching his head.
"All right in a story book, you know; but in the Chamber! Do you think
he's off his head?"
"I don't think so, William Adolphus," said I.
"Victoria says it's hardly--hardly decent, you know."
"I shouldn't call it exactly indecent."
"No, not exactly indecent," he admitted. "But what the devil did he want
to say it there for?"
"Ah, that I can't answer."
My brother-in-law looked discontented. Yet as a rule he resigned himself
readily enough to not understanding things.
"Victoria says that Princess Heinrich requested the Duchess to manage
that Elsa----"
"My dear William Adolphus, the transaction sounds complicated."
"Complicated? What do you mean? Princess Heinrich requested the Duchess
not to let Elsa read it."
"Ah, my mother has always good reasons."
"But Elsa had read it already."
"How unfortunate wisdom always is! Did Elsa like it?"
"She told Victoria that it seemed great nonsense."
"Yes, she would think so."
"Well, it is, you know," said William Adolphus.
"Of course it is, my dear fellow," said I.
Yet I wanted to know more about it, and observing that Varvilliers was
stated to have been present in the Diplomatic Gallery, I sent for him to
come to Artenberg and describe the speech as it actually passed. When I
had sent my message I went forth in search of my _fiancée_. She had read
the report already; my mother's measures had been taken too late. What
did pretty Elsa think? She thought it was all great nonsense. Poor
pretty Elsa!
My heart was hungry. Wetter had broken--as surely he had meant to
break--the sleep of memory and the sense of contrast. I went to her not
with love, but with some vague expectation, a sort of idea that,
contrary to all likelihood, I might again have in some measure what had
come to me before, springing now indeed not whence I would, but whence
it could, yet being still itself though grown in an alien soil. The
full richness of native bloom it could not win, yet it might attain some
pale grace and a fragrance of its own. For these I would compound and
thank the malicious wit that gave them me. But she thought it all great
nonsense; nay, that was only what she had told Victoria. My mother was
wise, and my mother had requested that she should not read it.
When I came to her she was uncertain and doubtful in mood. She did not
refer to the speech, but a consciousness of it showed in her
embarrassment and in the distrustful mirth of her eyes. She did not know
how I looked upon it, nor how I would have her take it; was she to laugh
or to be solemn, to ridicule or to pretend with handsome ampleness?
There were duties attached to her greatness; was it among them to
swallow this? But she knew I liked to joke at some things which others
found serious; might she laugh with me at this extravagance?
"Well, you've read the debate?" I asked. "They all said exactly the
proper things."
"Did they? I didn't know what the proper things were."
"Oh, yes; except that mad fellow Wetter. It's a sad thing, Elsa; if only
he weren't a genius he'd have a great career."
She threw a timid questioning glance at me.
"Victoria says that he talked nonsense," she remarked.
"Victoria declares that it was you who said it."
"Well, I don't know which of us said it first," she laughed. "Princess
Heinrich said so too; she said he must have been reading romances and
gone mad, like Don Quixote."
"You've read some?"
"Oh, yes, some. Of course, it's different in a story."
So had observed William Adolphus. I marked Victoria as the common
origin.
"You see," said I tolerantly, "he's a man of very emotional nature. He's
carried away by his feelings, and he thinks other people are like
himself." And I laughed a little.
Elsa also laughed, but still doubtfully. She seemed ill at ease. I found
her venturing a swift stealthy glance at me; there was something like
fear in her eyes. I was curiously reminded of Victoria's expression when
she came to Krak with only a half of her exercise written, and
mistrusted the validity of her excuse. (Indeed it was always a bad one.)
What, then, had Wetter done for her? Had he not set up a hopeless
standard of grim duty, frowning and severe? My good sister had meant to
be consolatory with her "great nonsense," remembering, perhaps, the
Baron over there at Waldenweiter. Elsa was looking straight before her
now, her brows puckered. I glanced down at the hand in her lap and saw
that it trembled a little. Suddenly she turned and found me looking; she
blushed vividly and painfully.
"My dearest little cousin," said I, taking her hand, "don't trouble your
very pretty head about such matters. Men are not all Wetters; the
fellow's a poet if only he knew it. Come, Elsa, you and I understand one
another."
"You're very kind to me," she said. "And--and I'm very fond of you,
Augustin."
"It's very charming of you, for there's little enough reason."
"Victoria says several people have been." She hazarded this remark with
an obvious effort. I laughed at that. There was also a covert hint of
surprise in her glance. Either she did not believe Victoria fully, or
she was wondering how the thing had come about. Alas, she was so
transparent! I found myself caught by a momentary wish that I had chosen
(as if I could choose, though!) a woman of the world, whose accomplished
skill should baffle all my scrutiny and leave me still the consolations
of uncertainty; it is probable that such a one would have extorted from
me a belief in her love for five minutes every day. Not for an instant
could that delusion live with Elsa's openness. Yet perhaps she would
learn the trick, and I watch her mastery of it in the growth. But at
least she should not learn it on my requisition.
Elsa sat silent, but presently a slight meditative smile came on her
lips and made a little dimple in her chin. Her thoughts were pleasant
then; no more of that grim impossible duty. Had Wetter's wand conjured
any other idea into her mind? Had his picture another side for her
imagination? It seemed possible enough; it may well have seemed possible
to Princess Heinrich when she requested that Elsa should not read the
speech. Princess Heinrich may have preferred that such notions should
not be suggested at all under the circumstances of the case. There was
always a meaning in what Princess Heinrich did.
"What are you thinking of, Elsa?"
"Nothing," she answered with a little start. "Is he a young man?"
"You mean Wetter?"
"Yes."
"Oh, a few years over thirty. But he's made the most of his time in the
world. The most, not the best, I mean, you know."
Her thoughts had been on Wetter and Wetter's words. Since she had smiled
I concluded that my guess was not far off. Elsa turned to me with a
blush and the coquettish air that now and then sat so prettily on her
innocence.
"I should think he might have made love rather well," she said.
"I shouldn't wonder in the least," said I. "But he might be a little
tempestuous."
"Yes," Elsa acquiesced. "And that wouldn't be nice, would it?"
"Not at all nice," said I, and laughed. Elsa joined in my laugh, but
doubtfully and reluctantly, as though she had but a dim glimmer of the
reason for it. Then she turned to me with a sudden radiant smile.
"Fancy!" said she. "Mother says I must have forty frocks."
"My dear," said I, "have four hundred."
"But isn't it a lot?"
"I suppose it is," I remarked. "But have anything you ought to have. You
like the frocks, Elsa?"
She gave that little emphatic double nod of hers.
We talked no more of the frocks then, but during the few days which
followed Elsa's perusal of Wetter's speech there was infinite talk of
frocks and all the rest of the furnishings and appurtenances of Elsa's
new rank. The impulse which moved women so different as my mother, the
Duchess, and Victoria, to a common course of conduct was doubtless based
on an universal woman's instinct. All the three seemed to set themselves
to dazzle the girl with the glories and pomp that awaited her; at the
same time William Adolphus became pressing in his claims on my company.
Now Victoria never really supposed that I desired to spend my leisure
with William Adolphus; she set him in motion when she had reason to
believe that I had better not spend it with some other person. So it had
been in the days of the Countess and in Coralie's epoch; so it was now.
The idea was obvious; just at present it was better for Elsa to think of
her glories than to be too much with me; she was to be led to the place
of sacrifice with a bandage over her eyes, a bandage that obscured the
contrasted visions of Wetter's imagination and of my actual self. I saw
their plan and appreciated it, but seeing did not forbid yielding. I was
not hoodwinked, but neither was I stirred to resistance. It seemed to me
then that kindness lay in not obtruding myself upon her, in being as
little with her as courtesy and appearances allowed, in asking the
smallest possible amount of her thoughts and making the least possible
claim on her life. They asked me to efface myself, to court oblivion, to
hide behind the wardrobe. It was all done with a soothing air, as though
it were a temporary necessity, as though with a little patience the mood
would pass, almost as though Elsa had some little ailment which would
disappear in a few days; while it lasted, men were best out of the way,
and would show delicacy by asking no questions. The way in which women
act, look, and speak, when they desire to create that impression, is
clear and unmistakable; a wise man goes about his business or retires to
his smoking-room, his papers, and his books.
The treatment seemed to answer well, and its severity was gradually
relaxed. William Adolphus, sighing relief I doubt not (for I was
well-nigh as tedious to him as he to me), went off to his horses. I was
again encouraged to be more with Elsa, under a caution to say nothing
that could excite her. She met me with a quiet gay contentment, seemed
pleased to be with me, and was profuse and sincere in thanks for my
kindness. Sometimes now she talked of our life after we were married,
when Princess Heinrich would be gone and we alone together. She was
occupied with innocent wonderings how we should get on, and professed an
anxiety lest she should fail in keeping me amused. Then she would take
refuge in reminding herself of her many and responsible duties. She
would have nearly as much to do as I had, she said, and was not her work
really almost as important as mine?
"Princess Heinrich says that the social influence I shall wield is just
as important to the welfare of the country," she would say, with that
grave inquiring look in her pretty blue eyes.
"All the fashionable folk in Forstadt will think it much more
important," said I, laughing. "Especially the young men, Elsa."
"As if I should care about that!" she cried scornfully.
Now and then, at intervals, while I talked to her, the idea of doing
what my mother had meant by exciting her came into my head, the idea of
satisfying her unconscious longings and of fulfilling for her the dream
which had taken shape under the wand of that magician Wetter. I believed
then that I could have succeeded in the task; there may be vanity in
that opinion, but neither lapse of time nor later experience has brought
me to renounce it. Why, then, did I yield to the women's prescription,
and renounce the idea of gaining and chaining her love and her fancy
for myself? Nothing in her gives the answer to that question; it must be
sought in my mind and my temper. I believed and I believe that if I
could have stirred myself I could have stirred her. The claim is not
great; Wetter had done half the work for me, and nature was doing the
better part of the rest. I should have started with such an advantage
that the battle must have been mine. This is not merely perceived in
retrospect; it was tolerably clear to me even at the time. But the
impulse in me was wanting. I could have won, but I did not truly desire
to win. I could have given what she asked, but my own heart was a
niggard. It was from me more than from her that the restraint came; it
was with me to move, and I could not stir. She was lovable, but I did
not love her; she had love to give, but I could not ask for it. To marry
her was my duty, to seem to desire the marriage my _rôle_. There
obligation stopped; inclination refused to carry on the work. I had
driven a bargain with fate; I would pay the debt to the last farthing,
but I could not open my purse again for a gratuity or a bounty. I
acquiesced with fair contentment in it, and in the relations which it
produced between Elsa and myself. There was a tacit agreement among all
of us that a calm and cousinly affection was the best thing, and fully
adequate to the needs of the situation. The advice of the women chimed
in with my own mood. Making love to her would have seemed to them a
dangerous indiscretion, to me a rather odious taking advantage of one
who was not a free agent, and a rather humiliating bit of pretence
besides. We had all made up our minds that matters had better be left
considerably below boiling-point.
While things stood thus I received a letter from Varvilliers (who was at
Forstadt) accepting my invitation to Artenberg. His acceptance
signified, he went on:
"Of course all the town is full of you and your _fiancée_--her
portrait is everywhere, your name and hers in every mouth. There
is another coupled with them, surely in a strange conjunction!
When they speak of you and the Princess they speak of Wetter
also. It is recalled that you and he were friends and associates,
companions in amusement and sport (especially, of course, in
pistol practice!). Hence springs a theory that the fellow's odd
rhapsody (mad and splendid!) was directly inspired by yourself,
that you chose him as your medium, desiring to add to the formal
expressions usual on such occasions an unofficial declaration of
your private feelings. So you are hailed as a model and most
romantic lover, and every tea-table resounds with your praises.
Early indiscretions (forgive a pen itself indiscreet) are
forgotten, and you are booked for the part of the model husband,
an example of the beauty (and the duty) of marriages of
inclination in high places. Believe me, your popularity is
doubled. And the strange fellow himself, having money in his
pocket and that voice of his in magnificent order, is to be seen
everywhere, smiling mysteriously and observing a most significant
reticence when he is pressed to say that he spoke at your request
and to your pattern. But for your Majesty's own letters I should
not have ventured to be a dissenter from the received opinion; if
you bid me, at any moment I will gladly renounce my heresy and
embrace the orthodox faith. Meanwhile I am wondering what imp
holds sway in Wetter's brain; and I am laughing a little at this
new example of the eternal antagonism between what is the truth
and what is thought to be the truth. If mankind ever stumbled on
absolute naked verity, what the devil would they make of it? By
the way, I hear that Coralie is to make her _début_ in Paris in a
week or two. She being now reputably impresarioed, the Sempachs
have shown her some civility. I told Wetter this when I last ran
against him at the club. He raised his brows, twisted his lips,
scratched his chin, looked full in my face and said with a smile,
'My dear Vicomte, Madame Mansoni is passionately attached to her
husband. They are ideal lovers.' Your Majesty shall interpret, if
it be your pleasure. I leave the matter alone."
This fellow Wetter was very impertinent with his speeches and his
parallels. But, good heavens, he had eyes to see! Madame Mansoni and her
impresario were ideal lovers! Surely the world was grown young again!
Elsa also made her _début_ in a few weeks; I was her impresario. And she
was passionately attached to her impresario! I lay back in my chair,
laughing and wishing with all my heart that I could have a talk with
Wetter.