ATTEMPTS TO RESCUE.
The countess remained absent a long time, while the duke sat at the
window of the boudoir gazing out into the frosty winter morning, but
without seeing what was passing outside. Before him lay a shattered
happiness, a marred destiny. The happiness was his, the destiny hers.
"There is surely nothing weaker than a woman--even the strongest!" he
thought, shaking his head mournfully. Ought we not to punish this
personator of Christ, who used his mask to break into the citadel of
our circle and steal what did not belong to him? Pshaw, how could the
poor fellow help it if an eccentric woman out of ennui--ah, no, we
should not think of it! But--what is to be done now? Shall I sacrifice
this superb creature to an insipid prejudice, because she sacrificed
herself and everything else to a childish delusion? Where is the man
pure enough to condemn you because when you give, you give wholly,
royally, and in your proud self-forgetfulness fling what others would
outweigh with kingly crowns into the lap of a beggar who can offer you
nothing in exchange, not even appreciation of your value--which he is
too uncultured to perceive.
"Alas! such a woman--to be thrown away on such a man! And should I not
save her? Should I weakly desert her--I, the only person who can
forgive because I am the only one who _understands_ her?--No! It would
be against all the logic of destiny and reason, were I to suffer such a
life to be wrecked by this religious humbug. What is the use of my cool
brain, if I lose my composure _now_? _Allons donc_! I will bid defiance
to fate and to every prejudice, clasp her in my arms, and destroy the
divine farce!"
Such was the train of the duke's thoughts. But his pale face and
joyless expression betrayed what he would not acknowledge to himself:
that his happiness was shattered. He gathered up the fragments and
tried to join them together--but with the secret grief with which we
bear home some loved one who could not be witheld from a dangerous
path, knowing that, though the broken limbs may be healed, he can never
regain his former strength.
"So grave, Duke?" asked a voice which sent the blood to his heart. The
countess had entered--her step unheard on the soft carpet.
He started up: "Madeleine--my poor Madeleine! I was thinking of you and
your fate!"
"I have saddened you!" she said, clasping her hands penitently.
"Oh, no!" he drew the little hands down to his lips, and with a
sorrowful smile kissed them.
"My cheerfulness can bear some strain--but the malapert must be
permitted to be silent sometimes when there are serious matters to be
considered."
"You are too noble to let me feel that you are suffering. Yet I see
it--you would not be the man you are if you did not suffer to-day."
The duke bit his lips, it seemed as if he were struggling to repress a
tear: "Pshaw--we won't be sentimental! You have wept enough to-day! The
world must not see tear-stains on your face. Give me a cup of coffee--I
do not belong to the chosen few whom a mortal emotion raises far above
all the needs of their mortal husk."
The countess rang for breakfast.
The servant brought the dishes ordered into the boudoir, as the
dining-room was not yet thoroughly heated. In the chimney-corner beside
the blazing fire the coffee was already steaming in a silver urn over
an alcohol lamp, filling the cosy room with its aroma and musical
humming.
"How pleasant this is!" said the duke, throwing himself into an
armchair beside the grave mistress of the house.
"I will pour it myself," she said to the servant who instantly
withdrew. The countess was now simply dressed in black, without an
ornament of any kind, and with her hair confined in a plain knot.
"What a contrast!" the duke remarked, smiling--"you alone are capable
of such metamorphoses. Half an hour ago in a court costume, glittering
with diamonds, an aching heart, and hands half frozen from being
clasped in prayer in the chilled church, now a demure little housewife,
peacefully watching the coffee steam in a cosy little room, waiting
intently for the moment when the water will boil, as if there were no
task in the whole world more important than that of making a good
decoction."
A faint smile glided over the countess' face--she had nearly allowed
the important moment to pass. Now she poured out the coffee,
extinguished the spirit lamp, and handed her companion a cup of the
steaming beverage.
"A thousand thanks! Ah, that's enough to brighten the most downcast
mood! What comfort! Now let us enjoy an hour of innocent, genuine
plebeian happiness. Ah--how fortunate the people are who live so every
day. I should be the very man to enjoy such bliss!" His glance wandered
swiftly to the countess' empty cup. "Aha! I thought so! A great sorrow
must of course be observed by mortifying the body, in order to be sure
to succumb to it. Well, then the guest must do the honors of the
hostess! There, now _ma chere Madeleine_ will drink this, and dip this
buscuit into it! One can accomplish that, even without an appetite. Who
would wish to make heart and stomach identical!"
The countess, spite of her protestations, was forced to obey. She saw
that the duke had asked for breakfast only to compel her to eat.
"There. You see that it can be done. I enjoy with a touch of emotion
this coffee which your dear hands have prepared. If you would do the
same with the cup I poured out what a sentimental breakfast it would
be!" A ray of the old cheerfulness sparkled in the duke's eyes.
"Ah, I knew that with you alone I should find peace and cheer!" said
the countess, brightening.
"So much the better." The duke lighted a cigarette and leaned
comfortably back in his chair.
The countess ordered the coffee equipage to be removed and then sat
down opposite to him with her hands clasped in her lap.
"The main point now, my dear Madeleine, if I may be allowed to speak of
these things to you, is to release you from the cause of all the
trouble--I need not name him. Of course I do not know how easy or how
difficult this may be, because I am ignorant how far you are involved
in this relation and unfortunately lack the long locks of the Christ,
which would enable me successfully to play the part of the 'Good
Shepherd,' who freed the imprisoned lamb from the thicket."
"As if it depended on that!" said the countess.
"Not at all? Oh, women, women! What will not a few raven locks do? The
destiny of your lives turns upon just such trifles. Imagine that
Ammergau Christus with close-cropped hair and a bristling red beard!
Would that mask have suited the illusion to which you sacrificed
yourself? Hardly!"
The countess made no reply, silenced by the pitiless truth, but at last
she thought she must defend herself. "And the religious impression, the
elevation, the enthusiasm--the revelations of the Passion Play, do you
count these nothing?"
"Certainly not! I felt them myself, but, believe me, you would not have
transferred them to the person, if the representative of Christ had
worn a wig, and the next day had appeared before you with stiff,
closely-cropped red hair."
The countess made a gesture of aversion.
"There, now you see the realist again. Yet, say what you will, a few
locks of raven hair formed the net in which the haughty, clever
Countess Wildenau was prisoned!"
"You may be right, the greatest picture consists of details, and may be
spoiled by a single one. I will confess it--Yes! The harmony of the
whole person, down to the most trifling detail, with the Christ
tradition, enthralled me, and had the locks been wanting, the
impression would not have been complete. But, however I may have been
deceived in the image, I cannot let myself and him sink so low in your
opinion as to permit you to believe that it was nothing save an
ensnaring outward semblance which sealed my fate! Had not his spiritual
nature completed the illusion--matters would never have gone so far."
"Yes, yes, I can imagine how it happened. You prompted the part, and he
had skill enough to play to the prompter, as it is called in the
parlance of the stage."
"'Skill' is not the right word, he was influenced precisely as I was."
"Ah! He probably would not have been so foolish as to refuse such a
chance. A wealthy, beautiful woman--like you--"
"No, no, do not speak of him in that way. I cannot let that accusation
rest upon him. He is not base! He is uncultured, has the narrow-minded
views of a peasant, is sensitive and capricious, an unfortunate
temperament, with which it is impossible to live happily--but I know no
one in the world, to whom any ignoble thought is more alien."
The prince gazed at her admiringly. Tears were sparkling in her eyes.
"I don't deny that I am bitterly disappointed in him--but though I love
him no longer, I must not allow him to be insulted. He loved me and
sacrificed his poor life for mine--that the compensation did not
outweigh the price was no fault of his, and I ought not to make him
responsible for it."
The duke became very thoughtful. The countess was silent, she had
clasped her hands on her knee, and was gazing, deeply moved, into
vacancy.
"You are a noble woman, Madeleine!" he said in a low tone. "I always
ranked you high, but never higher than at this moment! I will never
again wound your feelings. But however worthy of esteem Freyer
may be, deeply as I pity the unfortunate man--you are my first
consideration--and you cannot, must not continue in this relation.
Throughout the whole system of the universe the lower existence must
yield to the higher. You are the higher--therefore Freyer must be
sacrificed! You are a philosopher--accept the results of your view of
the world, be strong and resolve to do what is inevitable quickly. You
yourself say that you no longer love him--whether you have ever done
so, I will not venture to decide! If he is really what you describe him
to be, he must feel this and--I believe, that he, too, is not to be
envied. What kind of respite is this which you are granting the hapless
man under the sword of the executioner. Pardon me, but I should term it
torture. You feign, from motives of compassion, feelings you no longer
have, and he feels the deception. So he is continually vibrating
between the two extremes of fear and hope--a prey to the most torturing
doubts. So you permit the victim whom you wish to kill to live, in
order to destroy him slowly. You pity him--and for pity are cruel."
The countess cast a startled glance at him. "You are terribly
truthful."
"I must say that I am sorry for that man," the duke went on in his
usual manner. "I think it is your duty to end this state of things. If
he has a good, mentally sound character, he will conquer the blow and
shape his life anew. But such a condition of uncertainty would unnerve
the strongest nature. This cat and mouse sport is unworthy of you! You
tried it with me ten years ago in a less painful way--I, knowing women,
was equal to the game, so no harm was done, and I could well allow you
the graceful little pastime. It is different with Freyer. A man of his
stamp, who stakes his whole life upon a single feeling, takes the
matter more tragically, and the catastrophe was inevitable. But must
romance be carried to tragedy? See, my dear friend, that it is confined
within its proper limits. Besides, you have already paid for it dearly
enough--it has left an indelible impress upon your soul--borne a fruit
which matured in suffering and you have buried with anguish because
destiny itself, though with a stern hand, tried to efface the
consequences of your error. Heed this portent, for your sake and his
own! I speak in his behalf also. My aim is not only to win you, but to
see the woman whom I have won worthy of herself and the high opinion I
cherish of her."
The countess' features betrayed the most intense emotion. What should
she do? Should she tell this noble man all--confess that she was
_married_. The hour that he discovered it, he would desert her. Must
she lose him, her last support and consolation? No, she dared not. The
drowning woman clung to him; she knew not what was to come of it--she
only knew that she would be lost without him--and kept silence.
"Where is he? In the old hunting-box of which your cousin Wildenau
spoke?" asked the duke after a long pause.
"Yes."
"As what?"
"As steward."
"Steward? H'm!"
The duke shook his head. "What a relation; you made the man you loved
your servant, and believed that you could love him still? How little
you knew yourself! Had you seen him on the mountains battling with wind
and storm as a wood-cutter, a shepherd, but free, you might have
continued to love him. But as 'the steward' at whom the servants look
with one eye as their equal, with the other as their mistress'
favorite--never! You placed him in a situation where he could not help
despising himself--how could you respect him? But a woman like you no
longer loves where she can no longer esteem!" He was silent a moment,
then with sudden determination exclaimed: "Do you understand what I say
now? Not free yourself from him--but free _him_ from _himself_! You
have done the same thing as the giantess who carried the farmer and his
plough home in her apron. Do you understand what a deep meaning
underlies Chamisso's comical tale? The words with which the old giant
ordered her to take her prize back to the spot where she found it, say
everything: 'The peasant is no plaything.' Only in the sphere where a
man naturally belongs is he of value, but this renders him too good for
a toy. You have transplanted Freyer to a sphere in which he ceased to
have any value to you and are now making him play a part there which I
would not impose on my worst enemy."
"Yes, you are right."
"Finally we owe it to those who were once dear to us, not to make them
ridiculous! Or do you believe that Freyer, if he had the choice, would
not have pride enough to prefer the most cruel truth to a compassionate
lie?"
"Certainly."
"And still more. We owe it to the law of truthfulness, under which we
stand as moral beings, not to continue deliberately a deception which
was perhaps unconsciously begun. When self-respect is lost--all is
lost."
The duke rose: "It is time for me to go. Consider my advice, I can say
nothing more in your interest and his."
"But what shall I do--how am I to find a gentle way--oh! Heaven, I
don't know how to help myself."
"Do nothing at present, everything is still too fresh to venture upon
any positive act--the wounds would bleed, and what ought to be severed
would only grow together the more firmly. Go away for a time. You are
out of favor with the queen. What is more natural than to go on a
journey and sulk. To the so-called steward also, this must at present
serve for a pretext to avoid a tragical parting scene."
"Go now! Now!--leave--you?" she whispered, blushing as she spoke.
"Madeleine," he said gently, drawing her hand to his breast. "How am I
to interpret this blush? Is it the sign of a sweeter feeling, or
embarrassment because circumstances have led you to say something which
I might interpret differently from your intention?"
She bent her head, blushing still more deeply.
"Perhaps you do not know yourself--I will not torture you with
questions, which your agitated heart cannot answer now. But if anything
really does bind you to me, then--I would suggest your joining my
father at Cannes. If even the faintest feeling of affection for me is
stirring within you, you will understand that we could never be nearer
to each other than while you were learning to be my old father's
daughter! Will you?"
"Yes!" she whispered with rising tears, for ever more beautiful, ever
purer rose before her a happiness which she had forfeited, of which she
would no longer be worthy, even could she grasp it.
The duke, usually so sharp-sighted, could not guess the source of these
tears; for the first time he was deceived and interpreted favorably an
emotion aroused by the despairing perception that all was vain.
He gazed down at her with a ray of love shining in his clear blue eyes,
and pressed a kiss on her drooping brow. Then raising his hand, he
pointed upward. "Only have courage, and hold your head high. All will
yet be well. Adieu!"
He moved away as proudly, calmly and firmly as if success was assured;
he did not suspect that he was leaving a lost cause.