I have often in later days tried to recall the state of mind in which I
was on this miserable night: but have never been able perfectly to do
so. So I am conscious than any account I can now give of it must be a
most imperfect one. I can only say that I was overpowered by an emotion
which was probably the intensest form of pity--a feeling always
peculiarly strong with me, and which on far lighter occasions is
aroused in my breast to an extent which must appear absurd and childish
to shrewder and more coldblooded persons. Perhaps the extraordinary
statements which I had just heard might have affected me differently,
had the persons concerned been entire strangers to me; but this they
were not. Constance had played an important and fateful part already in
my life; the young prince had come into contact with me at eventful
moments; and I had loved Constance, and the prince had inspired me with
interest and sympathy such as an older brother might feel for a
younger. What had happened appeared to me awful, and what was to
happen, terrible. True I had again a dim consciousness that I could do
nothing to hinder the march of fate, that I had started upon an idle,
an insane expedition; but what was this to the voice that cried within:
It must not be! it must not be!
In this intense excitement which now seems to me to have bordered on
insanity, I reached the lodgings of the actor. He was greatly surprised
at seeing me, but received me with politeness, and conducted me from
the room in which I found him with one of his companions at the
theatre, into another apartment to hear what I had to say.
But what had I to say? Good heavens, there was so much to be said, or
else so little! The _much_ I could not tell him, for I felt that I had
no right to disclose the secret, and that if I had revealed it, he
would have considered it a wretched device suggested by the prince's
cowardice. And the _little_--that the duel must not take place--what
good could that do? What could the man do but shrug his shoulders and
look sharply into my eyes to see if I was quite in my senses? He was a
young man with a face wasted by a life of dissipation, and yet
handsome, and with very expressive large dark eyes, and I felt how my
cheeks flushed under their steady gaze. Under their gaze, and at the
words which almost forced their way through my lips, the words that if
he desired vengeance on Constance's lover--one who had been her lover
at a time when he claimed her as his own--he should select the right
man--he should come to me rather than the prince. And though I bit my
lips to restrain myself from saying this, the words forced their way
through my teeth in a hoarse hissing tone, which the other probably
took for the accents of rage that could scarcely be controlled.
"That is your business then," he said, rising from his chair. "A
favored or a betrayed lover, I do not know which. Very well: I shall
meet you, sir, you may rely upon it; and every one who has or pretends
to have any claim upon the lady's favor. But each in his turn, sir,
each in his turn; you have come some hours too late; and you will
perceive that I can settle with my antagonists only in the order in
which they present themselves. Is there any other way in which I can
serve you?"
He made me a polite bow, as he finished, and added: "Through this
door"--indicating by a gesture--"you can pass at once into the hall."
I had also arisen and stood facing him. I could have stricken this
slender delicate man, feeble and nerveless from a life of dissipation,
to the earth with a single blow; the puny arm which he extended towards
the door with a theatrical gesture as I hesitated, I could have crushed
in my hand. It was the only time in my life that I was ever tempted to
abuse my physical strength; but I withstood the temptation, and forced
myself out of the room and out of the house.
The coach was still standing at the door.
"Where am I to drive now?" asked the man.
I directed him to Constance's lodging, and we drove off. It was bitter
cold, and the glass of the coach-window was encrusted with sleet,
the crystals of which sparkled and glittered in the light of the
street-lamps as we passed them. I noticed it, and mechanically counted
the seconds that elapsed until we passed another lamp, when I again
observed the sparkling and glittering, and recalled to mind certain
optical laws which seemed to bear upon this phenomenon, as if I had
nothing else in the world to do on my way to see Constance von Zehren,
Prince Prora's sister.
The coach stopped.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour--it was now probably eleven
o'clock--the door was opened at once; the hall and stairway were
lighted up: they seemed in this house to be accustomed to late arrivals
and departures. As I rang at the door upon which stood, in great golden
letters, "Ada Bellini, Actress at the Theatre Royal," I heard the
rustling of a dress inside, and the next moment Constance stood before
me. She had doubtless expected a different visitor, and started back
with a cry. I closed the door, caught her by the hand as, with a face
white with terror, she endeavored to escape, and said:
"I must speak with you, Constance."
"You want to murder me!" she said.
"No; but I intend to prevent another being murdered on your account.
Come!"
I drew her, half by force, into the brightly lighted, almost gorgeous
parlor which she had just left, leaving the door open after her, and
led her to a chair in which she took her seat, her eyes uneasily
watching all my movements.
"Have no fear," I said. "Do not be in the least alarmed. Once in
long-past days you called me your faithful George, who was to kill all
the dragons lurking in your path. Hitherto I have had no opportunity;
or did not use it if I had. The hour is now come; but I cannot do it
alone: you must help me and will help me."
"Are you assured of that?" she asked.
Her face had suddenly assumed another expression; the terror which had
been previously imprinted upon it, had vanished and made way for a look
of dark hatred, the same look that it wore that night when she adjured
me to avenge her on the prince.
I do not know how I found the words, but I said what I had come to say.
"What does the prince pay you for it?"
This question was her reply.
It was the same reply that I had expected from the actor, and it was
not to hear this that I had held my tongue before him. Here it was
different: it was the sister to whom I was speaking: she _must_ believe
me: I must find the place in her heart: nature could not so belie
herself.
And whether it was that I succeeded in touching the mysterious bond
that unites two beings whose veins flow with the same blood; whether it
was that Constance's clear intelligence could not reject the proof that
I offered, I saw that the dark look passed away from her face, and gave
way to a confusion, an astonishment, that passed into actual horror.
"It was _that_, then!" she murmured; "_that_ was the reason! And
that then was the reason that I hated my father--no, he was not my
father--and that he hated me! That--but then _she_ must have known it!
no, no, it cannot be!"
She had sprung from her chair.
"Where are you going?" I asked, seizing her hand.
She tore herself loose and rushed from the room.
I remained, hesitating what to do; I feared for a moment she was going
to kill herself; and then I heard her coming back, not alone.
She re-entered, dragging after her the decrepit form of an old woman,
whom under other circumstances I should have taken for a housekeeper or
something of the sort, and in whom I recognized, with a shudder of
disgust, old Pahlen.
How this horrible creature, after her escape from prison, found her way
to her mistress, I never learned; but the closer the relations that had
existed, as mistress and servant, between them, the fiercer was the
rupture, and more frightful the reckoning.
"Here! here!" cried Constance, dragging the woman almost to my feet,
"here she is! George. I adjure you by heaven and all that is holy, kill
this monster who would have plunged me into horrible crime."
Constance's words, her passion, my presence, all combined overwhelmed
the wicked woman. I saw in her old wrinkled face, in the sidelong look
of her evil eyes, that she knew her guilt; and Constance saw it as well
as I; for as the creature with faltering words tried to frame some
excuse, she cut her short with a cry of rage, almost a yell, that long
after sounded in my ears; "Begone! out of my sight! wretch! monster!"
The wretch was no doubt glad of the chance of escape for which her
sidelong eyes had been searching before, and rushed out of the door. I
never saw her again, and know not how long afterwards she dragged out
her wretched existence, nor when and how it ended.
Constance was pacing up and down the room, with a face which showed her
entire conviction of the truth, and wringing her hands in anguish.
Suddenly she threw herself upon her knees in a corner of the room, and
seemed to pour forth her heart in agonized prayer. I observed that
where she knelt a small ivory crucifix was attached to the wall, and
that from time to time she separated her hands to make the sign of the
Cross, and then clasped them again in fervent prayer. Later I learned,
by chance, that Constance, when in Italy, had returned to the Catholic
church, the faith of her mother. Whatever spiritual peace she may have
afterwards found, after confession and long penance, as the abbess of a
Roman convent, at this moment her prayers seemed to be unavailing. She
arose from the crucifix only to fall at my feet, to clasp my knees, and
to beg me to avert the frightful consequences of what she had done. I
raised her, saying that I had already done all that was in my power,
and that I had come to her to learn if she could do nothing.
"There is but one means," she said; "and that is to prevail if possible
upon Herr Lenz to quit the field--to leave here immediately."
"How can we do that? The man is evidently your tool, the tool of your
revenge; and it is no longer in your control--or do you think it is?"
"It may be, it may be," she said, in a low hurried tone. "He knows that
I do not love him; he knows about Carl, and that has made him furious;
but I know that he loves me, and that for the prize of my hand, which I
have always refused him, he would consent to anything--to anything! Am
I not fair enough, George, for a man to consent to anything for my
sake?"
She threw back with trembling hands the dark lustrous masses of hair
from either side of her face, and smiled upon me. I have only once in
my life seen such a face, and that was when, in the Glyptothek at
Munich, I saw the Rondanini Medusa, and then the world-celebrated mask
seemed to me but a weak copy.
"Come!" I said. She was about to start just as she was: I wrapped her
in a cloak of furs which she had probably worn from the theatre, and
which was lying on the floor. We left the house and drove to the
lodging of Herr von Sommer. The house was closed. Some minutes passed
before our repeated knocking brought the porter to the door.
"Herr von Sommer set out half an hour ago."
"Do you know where he was going?"
"He did not say, further than that he would not be back for several
days."
"Is no one in the house that can give further information?"
"Hardly: he took his own servant with him."
"You have no idea where he was going?"
"None. He went in a _droschky_."
I saw that nothing more was to be got out of the man, who stood
shivering in his sheepskin cloak; and in fact he cut short the
interview by shutting the door with a muttered oath.
Constance who had followed me, had heard all.
"Perhaps we can learn from _him_."
We drove to the palace of the prince. Our progress was slow; a furious
gale was blowing, and the wretched horse could scarcely drag the coach
through the snow-drifts. I fancied that our own slow journey was an
emblem of repentance, which toils painfully after the evil deed that it
can never overtake.
At last we reached the palace. As we got out, I cast an involuntary
look towards the sky. From a clear space, the blackness of which
contrasted with the white clouds that were driving with arrowy speed
across the sky, looked down upon us the calm eternal stars. The words
of Constance's favorite song came into my mind:
"All day long the bright sun loves me,
Woos me with his glowing light;
But I better love the gentle
Stars of night."
Alas, this starry love had guided her far astray--had brought her at
last _here_, in this fearful night, to the house where the sister was
knocking at the door of her brother whom she had involved in the web of
death.
The palace was dark; only the two lamps on either side the great
entrance were burning, and their golden light, in which the snow flakes
were once more fluttering down, shone dimly, as it had done a year
before at the unhappy meeting between us two at this very spot.
I rang the bell: I heard its hollow clamor dully reverberating in the
hall of stone, as in a great sepulchral vault. No one came. At last
after minutes of agonizing expectation, the door was opened: a man in
his shirt-sleeves, with a light in his hand, stood before me. The
fellow's face was flushed with drinking and his eyes glassy; it was
evident that in the servants' hall the master's absence had been turned
to good account. He was about to close the door in my face, but I set
my foot against it and pushed in. The man then recognized me, having
seen me at the palace twice already to-day, and probably before at
Rossow. He answered my questions with disagreeable servility. His
highness had driven out half an hour before with the count; not in his
own carriage, but in a hired _droschky_ taken from the stand. He did
not know where his highness had gone; his highness often went out in a
_droschky_. He would certainly not be back until very late, if he came
back at all to-night. He, for his part, had leave to go to bed.
It was evident that it was high time the fellow was making use of this
permission, for he tottered with sleep while he stammered out these
words. It was the same report that I had received at the other house:
both parties had already left the city, to go heaven only knew where:
somewhere where their meeting might be undisturbed. I said to Constance
that we could do no more.
"I will go home and pray," she said.
Was it a reminiscence from the tragedy in which she had been playing?
Was it really for her the close of the tragedy of her life? She spoke
no word further as we went home, except that once she said:
"I have at least helped you to your happiness."
I do not know what she meant.