“The product of ill-mated marriages.”
_From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton._
BERLIN, November 1, 1895.
DEAREST MOTHER: What an insufferable egotist I must appear to you. A
life made up of local coloring—a central figure with no accessories—a
record of ways and means unwisely, perhaps, submitted to you, since they
may only pain you. Better a gray and monotonous sea, without sail or
sound, if so I could spare you the burden of apprehension which every
anxious mother must feel for a destiny she has helped to direct.
Following the train of argument, think you the loving Father acquits
himself of responsibility when a helpless soul is launched for eternity?
Truly no! and this conviction sustains my courage, and makes me unafraid
to do my heart’s bidding.
It has been an observation that the thing we most condemn in others, we
shall find in ourselves. Many years ago I conceived a prejudice against
the popular cry concerning the wrongs of woman, a movement affirmatively
named “woman’s rights,” for while it undoubtedly aided some women in
obtaining justice, its aim was largely the gratification of some
hysterical ambition or some love of conspicuousness.
Thus I am brought to question if, in my individual case, I am not
exaggerating evils and magnifying wrongs by placing them under the
strong light, if not of worldly criticism, at least of self-love and
secret pride; if, instead of dealing soberly and wisely with flesh and
blood, I am not following an ideal, or whether my matrimonial point of
view is not interrupted by such inappreciable angles as seldom vex the
eye of faith and perfect love.
All these questions, and many more, I wish to make clear to my own
conscience and your mind, that you may be able to advise me when, if
ever, the time shall come for me to ask your loving counsel.
To speak more personally, I conclude, after mentally reviewing the
characteristics peculiar to my husband, the baron, that his faults are
less of malice than of temperament, and that he would not really
sacrifice any actual interest of his wife, not even her permanent peace
of mind, any more than I would compromise those of the baron. If it were
not so, I could less well afford the many hours of thought I give toward
the fashioning of apologies for him, lest in my own mind I do him an
injustice.
But, so believing, I must take many things on trust, and, after all, I
am full of faults myself, no doubt of it. You know it is a popular
theory over here that American girls must be broken like bronco horses
before they are fit for wives, and I must say that my own mouth is a
little tender to the foreign bit already.
We have invitations to a grand ball, although I have not yet seen them.
Kindest love to papa, and a heart full of devotion for you, as always.
When will you write to tell me you are coming to your affectionate
daughter
ELLEN.
_From Mrs. Perces Thornton to the Baroness Von Eulaw._
BOSTON, November 10, 1895.
_To my daughter, the Baroness Von Eulaw._
DEARLY BELOVED CHILD: In these revolutionary times, the air thick with
maledictions and curses, “the putrid breath of poverty, and the beetling
brow of labor,” to quote the press, hot with greed for the ground they
are slowly but surely losing—in these times I say, I am thankful that
you, my child, are resting in the security of strong and wise rule.
There seems to be no end to the vindictiveness of the common people
here. Your father, as you are aware, is president of the new Aerial
Navigation Company, and, although, as he says, his policy is
unaggressive, and his weight of counsel unswervingly in the direction of
the interests of the poor and the laboring classes, they seem determined
to make the breach as wide as possible, and go so far as even to demand
a division of the proceeds of every enterprise, based upon the labor of
either brawn or brain, and insolently propose to tax the companies to
the extent of what they call their “labor investment.”
What nonsense! It makes me so mad I don’t know what to do. Papa says—he
is always so conservative, you know—that the poor fellow who effected
the invention of air navigation, really ought to have been paid better
for it, but that he was a genius, with no common sense—none of them
have, you know—and nearly starved, at that; that there is a man out
West, whose name I have not heard, who is going to make it very warm for
men concerned in such transactions as this, which he denounces as
highway robbery, and in a short speech, wherein he maintained that labor
was as much a factor and an investment as capital, in all successful
enterprise, he called one Jack Spratt, and the other Jack Spratt’s wife,
which simile pleased me immensely. We don’t know where it is going to
end, but hope for the best.
Now, my darling, I want to say how gratified I am at the contents of
your last letter. In it I discern a spirit of what Christians call
humility, very consistent and very encouraging, considering the noble
personage whom you are so lucky as to have captured by your charms and
graces alone, for of course your fortune had nothing whatever to do with
it.
If your husband were an American, I would advise you to stand up for
your rights. American husbands, uxorious though they are, and they have
earned the name, bring you no title, have no legitimate entrée to
foreign courts, and even the most stupendous fortunes only inoculate and
leave a scar. Really, the only clean business is an out and out
marriage, love or no love, though, for the matter of that, one must feel
toward the dear baron as the hero-worshiping woman said concerning the
wife of Henry Ward Beecher, that she ought to be proud to bow her head
and allow the great divine to pluck every individual hair out by the
roots. “A most touching test of devotion,” I hear you say.
Do write, my dear, and tell me all the court gossip. Since the
California practice of shooting obnoxious editors has been introduced in
Boston, there has grown up a virtual censorship of the press hereabouts,
and the newspapers are as dull as death. Every woman’s character is kept
in a glass case, and one would suppose the men graduated from a
meetinghouse. In fact, the reading public who lived upon scandals are
dying of _ennui_, hence, I have no news to write you to-day. Present me
with continued assurance of high respect to the baron, and receive,
yourself, my undying love.
As ever,
PERCES THORNTON.
_From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton._
BERLIN, November 20, 1895.
MY DEAR MOTHER: The grand ball, the mention of which seems to catch your
fancy, is to be given at the Chateau d’Or, a magnificent edifice on the
heights overlooking the river. Its turrets, and domes, and roofs, and
arches, and balustrades, glitter against the background of bluest skies
like shining gold—hence its name. Indeed, its architectural device is so
cunningly conceived as to catch and fill the eye with radiant color like
the facets of a diamond, while its proportions suggest all the beauties
of form to be found in the scale of harmonized effects.
It is just completed, and is a wonder. Its occupants are not much talked
about; indeed, I do not even know who they are, though I fancy the baron
does, for I recall that he replied curtly to my question concerning
them, that I should not wish to know them, by which I fancied they might
be Americans.
Neither can I give you any idea of the bidden guests, although, of
course, it promises to be a magnificent affair. As you know, in
compliance with custom, I could, in no event, make excuse for
non-appearance with my husband. Such women as accept their titles and
position from their lords, are expected to follow, unquestioning, his
leadership through all social labyrinths, and I am no exception to the
rule.
Dear mother, forgive me, if I say I feel very disinclined to these
gayeties. Since our experiences at Mentone, I decided to give over all
control of the exchequer into the hands of the baron, accepting only a
regular stipend. I find this the only means of securing harmony and
altercations weary and depress me overmuch. Wherefore it is I have lost
interest in handsome toilets, and therefor it is I shall have nothing
new for the occasion.
Did papa receive my letter acknowledging and thanking him for his
munificent gift? and does it occur to you that it is a good deal of
money to invest in methods of pacification? But what is the remedy? This
is a question I am puzzling my head about to a much larger extent, let
me say, than about what I shall wear to the ball.
The baron dines at home to-day, so I will close, in order not to be a
moment late. You see I am growing to be a model wife, if not a heroic
woman. I see the baron from my window beating a poor dwarf, at the
entrance of the alley. He has lost at play. In haste and love, dear
ones, adieu.
Faithfully your own, ELLEN.
_From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton._
BERLIN, December 2, 1895.
DEAR MOTHER: Is there but one depth for a creature like him I call
husband? What mockery in a name! What have I suffered for him, and what
concealed in my pride! And this is my reward!—To have been made the dupe
of a dastardly plot to ensnare cowardly victims! to have sullied my
skirts with the dust of a usurer’s and gambler’s den! to have my name
blazoned side by side with the modern Cora Pearls in every court journal
in Europe! to have been led into the lair blindly, by one who is sworn
to be my protector! to have followed in faith the man who could load the
dice of his self-imposed despair, with a wife’s dishonor!
But I must remember that all this is a riddle to you, and must read like
the ravings of a maddened brain, so I will give you the story of my
shame and rage, albeit it has probably already been telegraphed over two
continents. Verily, it is too sweet a morsel to escape the newspapers.
As I believe I mentioned to you, invitations were issued for a ball, to
be given at the Chateau d’Or. I noticed that the occurrence was making
rather a stir, and especially that the baron was unwontedly nervous over
the event, insomuch that when I proposed sending regrets, he fell into a
violent rage, and declared that I would ruin him, past and future.
Naturally, I did not comprehend his meaning, but, seeming to take it so
much to heart, I readily consented to accompany him, asking no further
questions.
Arrived at the place of what later proved to be a scene of the most
disgraceful orgies, we entered the salon, and instantly my heart misgave
me. There was present a mixed assemblage of people, among them a few
whom I had met in the best circles—a few who seemed equally out of place
with myself—and many of that nondescript quality found in every society,
who defy comment. But not until we were presented to the receiving
party, was my amazement at its climax. I am not yet sufficiently in
possession of myself, to describe the magnificent apartments of the
interior of this most superb mansion. All that wealth could bring from
the uttermost ends of the earth, contributed to the sumptuousness of
these most artistic apartments. No smallest detail had been forgotten in
the programme for this entertainment, even to the grottoes with singing
birds, and floes of ice in seas of wine.
But the recollection is hateful, and I hurry on. The host was a tall,
sinewy, middle-aged man, with a strongly-marked Hebraic cast of face,
and an oily, obsequious manner, quite at variance with his prominent
features. He greeted us with an air of the most profuse cordiality, and
passed us along to a bevy of much-painted and overdressed, or, rather,
underdressed women, who vied with each other in chattering society
phrases.
From the first moment, an undeniable air of dissoluteness pervaded the
entire place, and I looked to the baron for an explanation. He pressed
my arm nervously, and politely warned me to hold my tongue. There was no
mistaking the animus of this party. It was revelry, riot, unrestraint.
Answering a sign from the host, the baron soon left my side, and joined
the convivialists, I being politely led to the main salon, where there
was dancing.
Pleading indisposition, I declined to take part, and remained aside
observing the dancers. I noticed that many of the women were singularly
lovely and exquisitely attired, but generally lacking in grace of
movement and aplomb. I observed, also, groups of women, some of them
deathly pale, others flushed with indignation, evidently discussing the
situation, and the truth slowly dawned upon me that these were women of
the demi-monde, and that I had been tricked into an attendance upon this
reception.
After two or three attempts I succeeded in bringing the baron to my
side, much the worse for wine but quite docile. I demanded to be led to
my dressing-room, and at first he temporized. Finding me insistent, he
begged me to remain, promising to be among the first to depart at the
proper hour. His conduct was unusually conciliatory, and when I referred
to the character of the entertainment, his manner was full of conscious
guilt, while he assured me that he would explain everything later, but
that he dared not precipitate a scene by taking me home.
At this juncture Count Volenfeldt, whom we knew, accompanied by the
Prince of Waldeck, came our way, and, saluting, faced us, and, remarking
somewhat satirically upon the unexpected numbers in attendance, gave me
an opportunity to ask if his wife were present.
“The countess is not here to-night,” replied the count, a little dryly.
“She is not well.”
“And my wife is here,” put in the prince bluffly, “but she will not be
longer than till I shall have made my way through this crush.”
“Let us join the prince’s party and leave this place at once,” said I.
Meanwhile the music had for the moment ceased, and loud laughing and
shrill voices, mingled with smoother tones and words of entreaty, were
heard, and there was a simultaneous movement toward the dressing-rooms
and places of exit. Suddenly word came back that the doors were locked,
and the frightened lackeys had fled from their posts, with orders that
no one should be allowed to leave the house. Then followed a scene of
consternation and confusion,—wives demanding redress from their
husbands, and husbands denouncing the violation of hospitality by their
host, and through all the din the guttural tones and the piping taunts
of the unsainted.
Presently the tall form of Herr Rosenblatt showed, a head above the
crowd, adding to his length the height of a fauteuil, upon which he
balanced, with a drunken man’s nicety of poise, for he was drunk but
coherent.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have met together, as we have met before, for
the purpose of proving which man among us has the staying qualities, and
who is willing to risk his money in this little game. You come to me and
say, ‘Open your doors, my lady wishes to go,’ but how many of you dare
to go when I say to those who will go, ‘To-morrow I shall expose you,
to-morrow you will sign over your estates to me, to-morrow you shall be
ruined and I shall be winner.’ I did not make this party for your
money—nor that you shall play, at my tables and lose, for that you have
already done, but one thing I want which money will not buy,—social
recognition,—and that you shall give me. You will not leave my house,
gentlemen, till morning. The ladies will not talk about this
entertainment. It is too beautiful; they will not attempt to describe
it. Now, gentlemen, I bid you to stay and I shall make myself sure that
you enjoy yourself. These remarks make it long for the champagne to
wait, and the ladies, poor things, will be wanting refreshments. And
such refreshments! Oh, _mon Dieu_, that the gods could sup with us,” and
the speaker was helped caressingly to the floor.
My dear scandalized mother, what did I do? I, an American girl, with the
blood of heroes in my veins? Why, I remained and supped and smiled with
the others, for not a man even tried the doors. Thereafter there was no
restraint. It was, as I have said, a night of orgies. Each man felt that
he was no more deeply involved than his neighbor, and that Herr
Rosenblatt had told the truth when he said to all, that he held their
fates in his fist, otherwise they would not have been there.
He was right, the affair was not talked about except among themselves.
But some mischievous astral,—some ubiquitous spirit of a reporter,—was
floating about, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed, the court
journals had published an account of the whole affair, comments
included.
Dearest mother, this letter is long, and I can write no more to-night. I
have decided upon nothing so far. So soon as I have done so, I will
write, but I must have time for reflection. In tears and love adieu.
As ever yours, ELLEN.
_From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Professor John Thornton._
BERLIN, December 5, 1895.
MY DEAR, DARLING PAPA: I have your telegram telling me to come home
without delay, also message for the American Minister in case I should
need it, as well as that to my banker. Wise and loving provisions all,
for my fortune is squandered, my home dishonored, and my heart more than
broken, in that I perfidiously assumed to give a love which was not mine
to give, and if I had obeyed my first impulse I should have been on the
way to your arms, and to the dear old hearth I so thoughtlessly
deserted. But can you understand me when I say that all this I have
brought upon myself? I was not a child; I had a fitting experience and
was of sound judgment. I knew I did not love this man as it was in me to
love, indeed, I felt for him neither the admiration nor esteem which
must form the basis of genuine passion. I respected, aye, coveted his
position, his title, and I brought myself feebly to hope that some day I
should be a devoted wife. I staked my future, as he staked my fortune,
and lost. If the money was not his own to lose, neither was my heart
mine to lose.
One other test I have applied, and the result is in his favor. If I did
love the baron as I might love another, would I be so ready with my
revenge?—Verily, no; I would wear my life out in the effort to cancel or
correct the wrong against myself. Sacrifice is the residue found in
love’s crucible; passion is the flux which passes off in the process of
retorting. In my crucible, alas! I find nothing but dross—the more the
pity.
And so I have decided to remain in Berlin for the present. I am
sketching out my plans for the future, but they are crude and unformed,
and are of a sort of lighthouse quality, meant to warn people of the
rocky places. But more of this anon. Tell my mother, dearest papa, how
condemned I feel to give her so much agony on my account. Don’t worry; I
will be quite happy now that my mind is settled. Possibly we shall come
over in a few weeks, but only possibly. I am sorry I wrote my last to
mamma with so much feeling. Good-night, and good-by.
Your devoted, ELLEN.