CONFLICTS.
It was morning! The lamp had almost burned out! Josepha and the
countess were busied with the boy, whose sleep was disturbed by a
short, dry cough. The mother had remained at the little castle all
night and rested only a few hours. When with the little one there were
times when her maternal affection was roused. Then she was seized with
dread lest God should recall a precious gift because she had not known
its value. It would be only just, she was aware of that--and because of
its justice it seemed probable, and her heart strove to make amends in
a few hours for the neglect of years. Perhaps thereby she might escape
the punishment. But when she had gone, the little pale star in her
horizon receded into the background before the motley phenomena of the
world in which she lived, and only in isolated moments did she realize,
by a dull pain, that feelings were slumbering within her soul which
could not be developed--like a treasure which lies concealed in a spot
whence it cannot be raised. It was akin to the parable of the servant
who did not put out his talent at interest. This talent which God
entrusted to men is _love_. A lofty noble sentiment which we suppress
is the buried treasure which God will require of us, when the period
for which He loaned it has expired. There were hours when the unhappy
woman realized this. Then she accused everything--the world and
herself! And the poor little child felt in his precocious soul the
grief of the "beautiful lady," in whom he presciently loved his mother
without knowing that it was she. Ordinary children, like animals, love
best those who provide for their physical wants and therefore
frequently cling more fondly to the nurse than to the mother. Not so
this boy. He was almost ungrateful to Josepha, who nursed him the more
faithfully, the more he was neglected by the countess.
Josepha was passionately attached to the boy. All the sorrowful love
which she had kept in her desolate heart for her own dead son was
transferred from the first hour to this delicate, motherless creature.
It reminded her so much of her own poor child: the marked family
likeness between him and Freyer--the mystery with which he must be
surrounded. A mother who was ashamed of him, like Josepha at the
time--it seemed as though her own dead child had returned to life. And
besides she passed for his mother.
The boy was born while the countess was travelling in the East, and it
was an easy matter to arrange with the authorities. The countess, while
in Jerusalem, took the name of Josepha Freyer--Josepha that of Countess
Wildenau, and the child was baptized under the name of Freyer. It was
entered in the register as an illegitimate child, and Josepha bore the
disgrace and returned to Germany as the boy's mother.
What was lacking to complete Josepha's illusion that the child was
hers, and that she might love it as a mother? Nothing, save the return
of her affection. And this was a source of bitter pain. She might give
and do what she would, devote her days and nights to him, sacrifice her
already failing health--nothing availed. When after weeks and months of
absence the "beautiful lady," as he called her, came, his melancholy
eyes brightened and he seemed to glow with new life as he stretched
out his little arms to her with a look that appeared to say: "Had
you not come soon, I should have died!" Josepha no longer existed
for him, and even his father, whom he usually loved tenderly as his
god-father--"Goth," as the people in that locality call it--was
forgotten. This vexed Josepha beyond endurance. She performed a
mother's duties in all their weariness, her heart cherished a mother's
love with all its griefs and cares and, when that other woman came, who
deserved nothing, did nothing, had neither a mother's heart nor a
mother's rights--she took the child away and Josepha had naught save
the trouble and the shame! The former enjoyed hurriedly, lightly,
carelessly, the joys which alone could have repaid Josepha's
sacrifices, the child's sweet smiles, tender caresses, and coaxing
ways, for which she would have given her life. She ground her sharp
white teeth and a secret jealousy, bordering on hatred, took root in
her embittered mind. What could she esteem in this woman? For what
should she be grateful to her? She was kind to her--because she needed
her services--but what did she care for Josepha herself! "She might
give me less, but do her duty to her husband and child--that would suit
me better," she secretly murmured. "To have such a child and not be a
mother to him, not give him the sunshine, the warmth of maternal love
which he needs--and then come and take away from another what she would
not earn for herself."
To have such a husband, the highest blessing Josepha knew on earth--a
man to whom the whole world paid homage as if to God, a man so devout,
so good, so modest, so faithful--and desert him, conceal him in a
ruinous old castle that no one might note the disgrace of the noble
lady who had married a poor wood-carver! And then to come and snatch
the kisses from his lips as birds steal berries, when no one was
looking, he was good enough for that! And he permitted it--the proud,
stern man, whom the whole community feared and honored. It was enough
to drive one mad.
And she, Josepha, must swallow her wrath year after year--and dared not
say anything--for woe betide her if she complained of the countess! He
would allow no attack upon her--though this state of affairs was
killing him. She was forced to witness how he grieved for this woman,
see him gradually lose flesh and strength, for the wicked creature
bewitched every one, and charmed her husband and child till they were
fairly dying of love for her, while she was carrying on her shameless
flirtations with others.
Such were the terrible accusations raging in Josepha's passionate soul
against the countess, charges which effaced the memory of all she owed
her former benefactress.
"I should like to know what she would do without me" was the constant
argument of her ungrateful hatred. "She may well be kind to me--if I
chose, her wicked pranks would soon be over. She would deserve it--and
what do I care for the pay? I can look after myself, I don't need the
ill-gotten gains. But--then I should be obliged to leave the boy--he
would have no one. No, no, Josepha, hold out as long as possible--and
be silent for the child's sake."
Such were the conflicts seething in the breast of the silent dweller in
the hunting-castle, such the gulfs yawning at the unsuspicious woman's
feet.
It was the vengeance of insulted popular morality, to which she
imagined herself so far superior. This insignificant impulse in the
progress of the development of mankind, insignificant because it was
the special attribute of the humble plain people, will always conquer
in the strife against the emancipation of so-called "more highly
organized" natures, for it is the destiny of individual giants always
to succumb in the war against ordinary mortals. Here there is a great,
eternal law of the universe, which from the beginning gathered its
contingent from the humble, insignificant elements, and in so-called
"plebian morality" is rooted--Christianity. Therefore, the former
will conquer and always assert its right, even where the little
Philistine army, which gathers around its standard, defeats a far
nobler foe than itself, a foe for whom the gods themselves would mourn!
Woe betide the highly gifted individuality which unites with Philistine
elements--gives them rights over it, and believes it can still pursue
its own way--in any given case it will find pity before _God_, sooner
than before the judgment seat of this literal service, and the spears
and shafts of its yeomanry.
Something like one of these lance-thrusts pierced the countess from
Josepha's eyes, as she bent over the waking child.
Josepha tried to take the boy, but he struggled violently and would not
go to her. With sparkling, longing eyes he nestled in the arms of the
"beautiful lady." The countess drew the frail little figure close to
her heart. As she did so, she noticed the stern, resentful expression
of Josepha's dry cracked lips and the hectic flush on the somewhat
prominent cheek bones. There was something in the girl's manner which
displeased her mistress. Had it been in her power, she would have
dismissed this person, who "was constantly altering for the worse." But
she was bound to her by indissoluble fetters, nay, was dependent upon
her--and must fear her. She felt this whenever she came. Under such
impressions, every visit to the castle had gradually become a penance,
instead of a pleasure. Her husband, out of humor and full of
reproaches, the child ill, the nurse sullen and gloomy. A spoiled child
of the world, who had always had everything disagreeable removed from
her path, could not fail at last to avoid a place where she could not
breathe freely a single hour.
"Will you not get the child's breakfast, Josepha?" she said wearily,
the dark circles around her eyes bearing traces of her night vigil.
"He must be bathed first!" said Josepha, in the tone which often
wounded the countess--the tone by which nurses, to whose charge
children are left too much, instruct young mothers that, "if they take
no care of their little ones elsewhere, they have nothing to say in the
nursery."
The countess, with aristocratic self-control, struggled to maintain her
composure. Then she said quietly, though her voice sounded faint and
hoarse: "The child seems weak, I think it will be better to give him
something to eat before washing him."
"Yes," pleaded the little fellow, "I am thirsty." The words reminded
the countess of his father, as he said on the cross: "I thirst." When
these memories came, all the anguish of her once beautiful love--now
perishing so miserably--overwhelmed her. She lifted the boy--he was
light as a vapor, a vision of mist--from the bed into her lap, and
wrapped his little bare feet in the folds of her morning dress. He
pressed his little head, crowned with dark, curling locks, against her
cheek. Such moments were sweet, but outweighed by too much bitterness.
"Bring him some milk--fresh milk!" Madeleine von Wildenau repeated in the
slightly imperious tone which seems to consider opposition impossible.
"That will be entirely different from his usual custom," remarked
Josepha, as if the countess' order had seriously interfered with the
regular mode of life necessary to the child.
The mother perceived this, and a faint flush of shame and indignation
suffused her face, but instantly vanished, as if grief had consumed the
wave of blood which wrath had stirred.
"Is your mother--Josepha--kind to you?" she asked, when Josepha had
left the room.
The boy nodded carelessly.
"She does not strike you, she is gentle?"
"No, she doesn't strike me," the little fellow answered. "She loves
me."
"Do you love her, too?" the countess went on.
"Wh--y--Yes!" said the child, shrugging his shoulders. Then he looked
tenderly into her face. "I love you better."
"That is not right, Josepha is your mother--you must love her best."
The boy shook his head thoughtfully. "But I would rather have you for
my mamma."
"That cannot be--unfortunately--I must not."
The child gazed at her with an expression of sorrowful disappointment.
=At last he found an expedient. "But in Heaven--when I go to
Heaven--_you_ will be my mother there, won't you?"
The countess shuddered--an indescribable pain pierced her heart, yet
she was happy, a blissful anguish! Tears streamed from her eyes and,
clasping the child tenderly, she gently kissed him.
"Yes, my child! In Heaven--perhaps I may be your mother!"
Josepha now brought in the milk and wanted to give it to him, but the
boy would not take it from her, he insisted that the countess must hold
the bowl. She did so, but her hand trembled and Josepha was obliged to
help her, or the whole contents would have been spilled. She averted
her face.
"She cannot even give her child anything to drink," thought Josepha, as
she moved about the room, putting it in order.
"Josepha, please leave me alone a little while," said the countess,
almost beseechingly.
"Indeed?" Josepha's cheeks flushed scarlet, it seemed as if the bones
grew still more prominent. "If I am in your Highness' way--I can go at
once."
"Josepha!" said the countess, now suddenly turning toward her a face
wet with tears. "Surely I might be allowed to spend fifteen minutes
alone with my child without offending any one! I will forgive your
words--on account of your natural jealousy--and I think you already
regret them, do you not?"
"Yes," replied Josepha, somewhat reluctantly, but so conquered by the
unhappy mother's words that she pressed a hard half reluctant kiss upon
the countess' hand with her rough, parched lips. Then, with a
passionate glance at the child, she gave place to the mother whose
claim she would fain have disputed before God Himself, if she could.
But when the door had closed behind her, the countess could bear no
more. Placing the child in his little bed, she flung herself sobbing
beside it. "My child--my child, forgive me," she cried, forgetting all
prudence "--pray for me to God."
Just at that moment the door opened and Freyer entered. All that was
stirring the mother's heart instantly became clear to him, as he saw
her thus broken down beside the boy's bed.
"Calm yourself--what will the child think!" he said, bending down and
raising her.
"Don't cry, Mamma!" said the boy, stroking the soft hair on the
grief-bowed head. He did not know why he now suddenly called her
"mamma"--perhaps it was a prospect of the heaven where she would be his
mother, and he said it in advance.
"Oh, Freyer, kill me--I am worthy of nothing better--cut short the
battle of a wasted life! An animal which cannot recover is killed out
of pity, why not a human being, who feels suffering doubly?"
"Magdalena--Countess--I do not know you in this mood."
"Nor do I know myself! What am I? What is a mother who is no mother--a
wife who cannot declare herself a wife? A fish that cannot swim, a bird
that cannot fly! We kill such poor crippled creatures out of sheer
compassion. What kind of existence is mine? An egotist who nevertheless
feels the pain of those whom she renders unhappy; an aristocrat who
cannot exist outside of her own sphere and yet pines for the eternal
verity of human nature; a coquette who trifles with hearts and yet
would _die_ for a genuine feeling--these are my traits of character!
Can there be anything more contradictory, more full of wretchedness?"
"Let us go out of doors, Countess, such conversation is not fit for the
child to hear."
"Oh, he does not understand it."
"He understands more than you believe, you do not know what questions
he often asks--ah, you deprive yourself of the noblest joys by being
unable to watch the remarkable development of this child."
She nodded silently, absorbed in gazing at the boy.
"Come, Countess, the sun has risen--the cool morning air will do you
good, I will ring for Josepha to take the boy," he said quietly,
touching the bell.
The little fellow sat up in bed, his breathing was hurried and anxious,
his large eyes were fixed imploringly on the countess: "Oh, mamma--dear
mamma in Heaven--stay--don't go away."
"Ah, if only I could--my child--how gladly I would stay here always.
But I will come back again presently, I will only walk in the sunshine
for half-an-hour."
"Oh, I would like to go in the sunshine, too. Can't I go with you, and
run about a little while?"
"Not to-day, not until your cough is cured, my poor little boy! But
I'll promise to talk and think of nothing but you until I return!
Meanwhile Josepha shall wash and dress you, I don't understand
that--Josepha can do it better."
"Oh! yes, I'm good enough for that!" thought the girl, who heard the
last words just as she entered.
"My beautiful mamma has been crying, because she is a bird and can't
fly--" said the child to Josepha with sorrowful sympathy. "But you
can't fly either--nor I till we are angels--then we can!" He spread out
his little arms like wings as if he longed to soar upward and away, but
an attack of coughing made him sink back upon his pillows.
The husband and wife looked at each other with the same sorrowful
anxiety.
The countess bent over the little bed as if she would fain stifle with
kisses the cough that racked the little chest.
"Mamma, it doesn't hurt--you must not cry," said the boy, consolingly.
"There is a spider inside of my breast which tickles me--so I have to
cough. But it will spin a big, big net of silver threads like those on
the Christmas tree which will reach to Heaven, then I'll climb up on
it!"
The countess could scarcely control her emotion. Freyer drew her hand
through his arm and led her out into the dewy morning.
"You are so anxious about our secret and yet, if _I_ were not
conscientious enough to help you guard it, you would betray yourself
every moment, you are imprudent with the child, it is not for my own
interest, but yours that I warn you. Do not allow your newly awakened
maternal love to destroy your self-control in the boy's presence. Do
not let him call you 'Mamma.' Poor mother--indeed I understand how this
wounds you--but--it must be one thing or the other. If you cannot--or
_will_ not be a mother to the child--you _must_ renounce this name."
She bowed her head. "You are as cruel as ever, though you are right!
How can I maintain my self-control, when I hear such words from the
child? What a child he is! Whenever I come, I marvel at his
intellectual progress! If only it is natural, if only it is not the
omen of an early death!"
Freyer pitied her anxiety,
"It is merely because the child is reared in solitude, associating
solely with two sorrowing people, Josepha and myself; it is natural
that his young soul should develop into a graver and more thoughtful
character than other children," he said, consolingly.
They had gone out upon a dilapidated balcony, overgrown with vines and
bushes. It was a beautiful morning, but the surrounding woods and the
mouldering autumn leaves were white with hoar frost. Freyer wrapped the
shivering woman in a cloak which he had taken with him. Under the cold
breath of the bright fall morning, and her husband's cheering words,
she gradually grew calm and regained her composure.
"But something must be done with the child," she said earnestly.
"Matters cannot go on so, he looks too ethereal.--I will send him to
Italy with Josepha."
"Good Heavens, then I shall be entirely alone!" said Freyer, with
difficulty suppressing his dismay.
"Yet it must be," replied the countess firmly.
"How shall I endure it? The child was my all, my good angel--my light
in darkness! Often his little hands have cooled my brow when the flames
of madness were circling around it. Often his eyes, his features have
again revealed your image clearly when, during a long separation, it
had become blurred and distorted. While gazing at the child, the dear,
beautiful child, I felt that nothing could sever this sacred bond. The
mother of this boy could not desert her husband--for the sake of this
child she must love me! I said to myself, and learned to trust, to
hope, once more. And now I am to part from him. Oh, God!--Thy judgment
is severe. Thou didst send an angel to comfort Thy divine son on the
Mount of Olives--Thou dost take him from me! Yet not my will, but
Thine, be done!"
He bent his head sadly: "If it must be, take him."
"The child is ill, I have kept him shut up in these damp rooms too
long, he needs sunshine and milder air. If he were obliged to spend
another winter in this cold climate, it would be his death. But if it
is so hard for you to be separated from the boy--go with him. I will
hire a villa for you and Josepha somewhere on the Riviera. It will do
you good, too, to leave this nook hidden among the woods--and I cannot
shelter you here in Bavaria where every one knows you, without
betraying our relation."
Freyer gazed at her with a mournful smile: "And you think--that I would
go?" He shook his head. "No, I cannot make it so easy for you. We are
still husband and wife, I am still yours, as you are mine. And though
you so rarely come to me--if during the whole winter there was but a
single hour when you needed a heart, you must find your husband's, I
must be here!" He drew her gently to his breast. "No, my wife, it would
have been a comfort, if I could have kept the child--but if you must
take him from me, I will bear this, too, like everything which comes
from your hand, be it life or death--nothing shall part me from you,
not even love for my boy."
There was something indescribable in the expression with which he gazed
at her as he uttered the simple words, and she clung to him overwhelmed
by such unexampled fidelity, which thus sacrificed the only, the last
blessing he possessed for a _single_ hour with her.
"My husband--my kind, noble husband! The most generous heart in all the
world!" she cried, caressing him again and again as she gazed
rapturously at the beautiful face, so full of dignity: "You shall not
make the sacrifice for a single hour, your wife will come and reward
your loyalty with a thousand-fold greater love. Often--often. Perhaps
oftener than ever! For I feel that the present condition of affairs
cannot last. I must be permitted to be wife and mother--I realized
to-day at the bedside of my child that my _guilt_, too, was growing
year by year. It is time for me to atone. When I return home I will
seriously consider what can be done to make an arrangement with my
relatives! I need not confess that I am already married--I could say
that I might marry if they would pay me a sufficient sum, but I would
_not_ do so, if they refused me the means to live in a style which
befitted my rank. Then they will probably prefer to make a sacrifice
which would enable me to marry, thereby giving them the whole property,
rather than to compel me, by their avarice, to remain a widow and keep
the entire fortune. That would be a capital idea! Do you see how
inventive love is?" she said with charming coquetry, expecting his
joyful assent.
But he turned away with clouded brow--it seemed as though an icy wind
had suddenly swept over the whole sunny landscape, transforming
everything into a wintry aspect.
"Falsehood and deception everywhere--even in the most sacred things.
When I hear you speak so, my heart shrinks! So noble a woman as you to
stoop to falsehood and deceit, like one of the basest!"
The countess stood motionless, with downcast lids, shame and pride were
both visible on her brow. Her heart, too, shrank, and an icy chill
encompassed it.
"And what better proposal would you make?"
"None!" said Freyer in a low tone, "for the only one I could suggest
you would not accept. It would be to atone for the wrong you have
committed, frankly confess how everything happened, and then retire
with your husband and child into solitude and live plainly, but
honestly. The world would laugh at you, it is true, but the
noble-hearted would honor you. I cannot imagine that any moral
happiness is to be purchased by falsehood and deceit--there is but one
way which leads to God--the way of truth--every other is delusive!"
The beautiful woman gazed at him in involuntary admiration. This was
the inward majesty by which the lowly man had formerly so awed her; and
deeply as he shamed and wounded her, she bowed to this grandeur. Yet
she could no longer bear his gaze, she felt humbled before him, her
pleasure in his companionship was destroyed. She stood before the man
whom she believed so far beneath her, like a common criminal, convicted
of the most petty falsehood, the basest treachery. She fairly loathed
herself. Where was there anything to efface this brand? Where was the
pride which could raise her above this disgrace? In her consciousness
of rank? Woe betide her, what would her peers say if they knew her
position? Would she not be cast out from every circle? What was there
which would again restore her honor? She knew no dignity, no honor save
those which the world bestows, and to save them, at any cost and by any
means--she sank still lower in her own eyes and those of the poor, but
honorable man who had more cause to be ashamed of her than she of him.
She must return home, she must again see her palace, her servants, her
world, in order to believe that she was still herself, that the ground
was still firm under her feet, for everything in and around her was
wavering.
"Please order the horses to be harnessed!" she said, turning toward the
half ruined door through which they had come out of the house.
It had indeed grown dull and cold. A pallid autumnal fog was shrouding
the forest. It looked doubtful whether it was going to rain or snow.
"I have the open carriage--I should like to get home before it rains,"
she said, apologetically, without looking at him.
Freyer courteously opened the heavy ancient iron door. They walked
silently along a dark, cold, narrow passage to the door of the boy's
room.
"I will go and have the horses harnessed," said Freyer, and the
countess entered the chamber.
She took an absent leave of the child. She did not notice how he
trembled at the news that she was going home, she did not hear him
plead: "Take me with you!" She comforted him as usual with the promise
that she would soon come again, and beckoned Josepha out of the room.
The boy gazed after her with the expression of a dying roe, and a few
large tears rolled down his pale cheeks. The mother saw it, but she
could not remain, her stay here was over for that day. Outside she
informed Josepha of the plan of sending her and the child to Italy, but
the latter shook her head.
"The child needs nothing but its mother," she said, pitilessly, "it
longs only for _you_, and if you send it still farther away, it will
die."
The countess stood as if sentenced.
"When you are with him, he revives, and when you have gone, he droops
like a flower without the sun!"
"Oh Heaven!" moaned the countess, pressing her clasped hands to her
brow: "What is to be done!"
"If you could take the boy, it would be the best cure. The child need's
a mother's love; that would be more beneficial to him than all the
travelling in the world. You have no idea how he clings to his mother.
It really seems as if you had bewitched him. All day long he wears
himself out listening and watching for the roll of the carriage, and
when evening comes and the hour that you usually drive up arrives, his
little hands are burning with fever from expectation. And then he sees
how his father longs for you. A child like him notices everything and,
when his father is sad, he is sorrowful, too. 'She is not coming
to-day!' he said a short time ago, stroking his father's cheek; he knew
perfectly well what troubled him. A delicate little body like his is
soon worn out by constant yearning. Every kid, every fawn, cries for
its mother. Here in the woods I often hear the young deer, whose mother
has been shot, wail and cry all night long, and must not a child who
has sense and affection long for its mother? You sit in your beautiful
rooms at home and don't hear how up here in this dreary house with us
two melancholy people, the poor child asks for the mother who is his
all."
"Josepha, you will kill me!"
The countess clung to the door-post for support, her brain fairly
whirled.
"No, I shall not kill you, Countess, I only want to prevent your
killing the child," said Josepha with flaming eyes. "Do you suppose
that, if I could supply a mother's place to the boy, I would beg you
for what is every child's right, and which every mother who has a
mother's heart in her breast would give of her own accord? Certainly
not. I would _steal_ the child's heart, which you are starving--ere I
would give you one kind word, and you might beg in vain for your son's
love, as I now beseech his mother's for him. But the poor little fellow
knows very well who his mother is, and no matter what I do--he will not
accept me! That is why I tell you just how matters are. Do what you
choose with me--I no longer fear anything--if the child cannot be saved
I am done with the world! You know me--and know that I set no value on
life. You have made it no dearer to me than it was when we first met."
Just at that moment the door opened and a small white figure appeared.
The boy had heard Josepha's passionate tone and came to his mother's
assistance: "Mamma, my dear mamma in Heaven, what is she doing to you?
She shan't hurt you. Wicked mamma Josepha, that's why I don't like you,
you are always scolding the beautiful, kind lady."
He threw his little arm around his mother's neck, as if to protect her.
"Oh, you angel!" cried the countess, lifting him in her arms to press
him to her heart.
The rattle of wheels was heard outside--the countess' four horses were
coming. To keep the fiery animals waiting was impossible. Freyer
hastily announced the carriage, the horses were very unruly that day.
The countess gave the boy to Josepha's care. Freyer silently helped her
into the equipage, everything passed like a flash of lightning for the
horses were already starting--one gloomy glace was exchanged between
the husband and wife--the farewell of strangers--and away dashed the
light vehicle through the autumn mists. The mother fancied she heard
her boy weeping as she drove off, and felt as if Josepha had convicted
her of the murder of the child. But she would atone for it--some
day--soon! It seemed as if a voice within was crying aloud: "My child,
my child!" An icy moisture stood in drops upon her brow; was it the
sweat of anxiety, or dew? She did not know, she could no longer think,
she was sinking under all the anxieties which had pressed upon her that
day. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the carriage as if
fainting, while the horses rushed swiftly on with their light burden
toward their goal.
The hours flew past. The equipage drove up to the Wildenau palace, but
she was scarcely conscious of it. All sorts of plans and resolutions
were whirling through her brain. She was assisted from the carriage and
ascended the carpeted marble stairs. Two letters were lying on the
table in her boudoir. The prince had been there and left one, a note,
which contained only the words: "You will perceive that at the present
time you _dare_ not refuse this position.
"_The friend who means most kindly_."
The other letter, in a large envelope, was an official document.
Countess Wildenau had been appointed mistress of ceremonies!