REVELATIONS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES.
* * * * *
"I did not love him, but I consented to be his wife. I loved no one
except my father, and even he was more of an abstraction than a reality
to me, for I saw him but seldom, and scarcely ever talked with him. He
was always away from home, and I was left alone with my French
governess at the lonely country-house in Russian Poland. Nevertheless I
loved the being that my fancy had created, to which I had lent my
father's form and name, little as it really resembled him. It was,
therefore, not at all difficult for me, in order to save him from ruin,
to promise to be the wife of a handsome man who had presented me with a
_parure_ of diamonds. I was, besides, weary of my quiet life, and
longed to see something of the world of which I read in books. They
told me that for political reasons my future husband was obliged to
preserve a certain incognito in Russia, and that therefore our marriage
must take place shortly and privately.
"I thought this very romantic, and packed my trunk--which was but
scantily furnished--and got into the travelling-carriage, full of happy
dreams of the future. The marriage ceremony was performed in the chapel
of a castle which was entirely unknown to me.
"Thus I became the wife of Josef von Moehazy, and my father retrieved
his fortune with the money paid him by my husband. I had been sold like
a chattel, but I was such a perfect child that I saw nothing degrading
in the transaction, but was glad to have been of use to my father.
"We went to Paris; Herr von Moehazy purchased exquisite toilettes for
me, since I did not know how to select them myself, and engaged a
French maid for me.
"Standing before a huge mirror in the Hotel Royal, I first discovered
that I looked well, and the same evening I was told, also for the first
time, that I was beautiful. From this day I continually contemplated
myself in the looking-glass, and Herr von Moehazy rubbed his hands and
told me I 'exceeded his expectations.'
"My expectations were also exceeded. I had not imagined the world so
bright and merry, and if I had dreamed of love it had seemed to me that
its home would be found in some quiet garden among blossoming roses,
rather than in a ball-room with gas-lights and artificial flowers and
finely-dressed people; but I soon perceived that the garden of roses
existed for me only in my dreams, and that I must accommodate myself to
the ball-room.
"Herr von Moehazy loved travel and variety. From Paris we went to Cairo,
then to Naples, and thence still farther. I saw new countries and new
people, and learned that there are two forces that influence the world
and mankind,--money, and the attraction between man and woman which
they call love.
"There were days when life did not seem to me worth the living, only to
repeat the same experience,--days when all that I saw others engaged in
wearied and disgusted me. But these were only passing shadows,
sentimental emotions, deserving only, Herr von Moehazy thought, of a
compassionate shrug. On the whole, I liked the splendour and the
pleasure reigning everywhere in my world, and would not willingly have
foregone them. We returned to Paris when the chaotic bustle of the
great Exposition was at its height, and went thence to Trouville. We
had charming apartments, comprising the larger half of a pretty villa.
In the other half a couple of rooms were rented to a young German, whom
I sometimes saw sitting on a little side-balcony near our veranda.
Sometimes, too, I met him on the shore, and, as we lived beneath the
same roof, we bowed to each other. At last, when driving one day on the
Corso, it so befell that he was introduced to me. There was a certain
distinguished air of cool reserve about him that struck me, because it
was to me quite a novel characteristic in a man. I soon found that he
differed entirely from the men whom I was accustomed to see in Herr von
Moehazy's society, and although, in spite of his youth, he inspired me
with a kind of diffidence, I nevertheless felt great confidence in him.
I often thought that if some terrible accident were to happen where we
were, all the other men of our society would take care of their own
safety, but that Herr von Eichhof would think of me because I was the
weakest. I believed he would do this, although he never paid me the
smallest attention, much less made love to me, as did so many of the
others. I regretted extremely that he evidently rather avoided us, and
I told him so one day. I cannot remember his reply exactly, but I know
that it made a deep impression upon me. Perhaps it was less his words
than his manner that told me that he disapproved of our mode of life
and did not enjoy our society.
"I ought, I suppose, to have felt insulted, but instead I only felt
sad. I certainly began at this time to be less gay and more and more
thoughtful.
"One day I thought that Herr von Moehazy paid very marked attentions to
a lady of our acquaintance. I was by no means strait-laced on this
point, and it did not pain me at all to be neglected by Herr von
Moehazy, but my pride revolted at the thought that his neglect might be
observed by others, and that I might be thought an object of
compassion. An unpleasant scene between this lady and myself ensued,
and I imperatively demanded of Herr von Moehazy that he should take me
away from Trouville.
"At first he laughed, then he ridiculed me, and finally he angrily
refused to listen to my request. I insisted upon my demand; he
persisted in his refusal. The words we exchanged grew more and more
sharp and bitter, until at last he uttered the dreadful revelation that
influenced my whole future life, and separated me in my own eyes from
everything which my instinct told me was good and noble.
"'You have no right to demand this of me, for you are not my wife!'
"I staggered back, and stared at him as though I could not understand
the words he spoke.
"'You are not legally my wife,' he repeated once more.
"Then the calm of despair seemed to take possession of me. I did not
faint, I did not even burst into tears. I approached Herr von Moehazy
and ordered him to give me a thorough explanation. Perhaps I still
entertained a slight hope that he had only meant to terrify me.
"If this were so, that hope was annihilated in a moment. The priest by
whom I had supposed myself married was a friend of Herr von Moehazy's,
and had but worn the priestly garb over his uniform. I had been
fearfully betrayed, and--my father had known the truth. When Herr von
Moehazy told me this I lost consciousness.
"When I came to myself I heard talking and laughing in the next room. I
could distinguish Moehazy's voice and the laughter of the woman who had
been the cause of our quarrel. I sprang up and rushed out of my chamber
and down the stairs, not knowing what I did, possessed by the one
thought that I must leave the house, that I would rather die than ever
again set eyes upon the man who had deceived me so terribly.
"At the foot of the staircase I met Herr von Eichhof. My disordered
appearance probably struck him, for he stood still and addressed me. My
teeth chattered as in a fever-fit; instead of answering him, I covered
my face with my hands and burst into tears.
"'You are in no condition to go out,' he said, taking my hand; and his
voice sounded so kind and gentle that I let him detain me for an
instant as he tried to persuade me to go up-stairs again.
"'It is your duty to stay with your husband,' he said, 'even
although----'
"I extricated myself, and in an access of disgust and aversion the
words escaped my lips, 'He is not my husband!'
"Herr von Eichhof started, then turned silently away, and ascended the
stairs without turning once to look at me. I stared after him until he
had vanished. I was not in his eyes worthy of another glance. I knew
it, and I knew that his judgment would be echoed by every one. I left
the house almost mechanically.
"Outside it was growing dark. I pulled a black lace shawl that I had on
over my head and passed on quickly, without an aim, without a resolve,
desiring nothing, caring for nothing except to leave the house that had
so lately been my home.
"Suddenly I found myself on the shore. It was a lonely spot, and I
heard the roar of the ocean and saw the moon rise out of it like a
fiery red ball. I went on until the waves broke almost at my feet, and
I thought how it would be best for me to go on and on thus until the
waters rolled over my head. Then all would be over; the sea would look
unchanged, and on shore no one would miss me. In my thoughts death
seemed far easier and better than life. Suddenly two points of light
gleamed on the water,--a dark shadow glided over the waves across the
wake of the moon, and the tones of a woman's glorious voice singing
fell upon my ear. It sang a song that I knew and loved; the voice
seemed to allure my thoughts and take them captive. I listened first,
and finally I sang too. I cannot understand now how such a thing was
possible at such a moment, but I did it. Some inward impulse urged me
to unite my voice with those lovely tones. Perhaps the people in the
boat would remember my voice after it was silent forever. I would have
liked to leave some kindly memory behind me. And as I sang I thought of
my lonely childhood, my ruined and desolate youth, and unutterable
compassion for myself overcame me, and as the song died away I burst
into a flood of burning tears.
"I went back from the shore. Life can be thrown away when it is hated
or despised, but not when it is pitied.
"The singer had ceased; but the sound of voices came to me across the
water. I could distinguish no words, but it was the sound of kindly
human speech, and I began to wonder if some voice might not speak
tenderly to me at some future day; the world was so large, surely there
was some quiet corner in it for me.
"I remembered to have heard that a famous songstress, who had retired
from a public career on account of her health, and who devoted her
powers to the training of other voices, was among the visitors at
Trouville, and that I had also heard that she was to leave on the
following morning.
"The thought occurred to me that it was her voice that had so attracted
me, and with it came the determination to go to her, to tell her of my
utter misery, and to beg her to grant me her protection. Her voice had
called me back to life. I would ask her to decide my future fate.
Perhaps she would employ me as her maid, perhaps she would think my
voice worth training. I hurried on. There was still, then, a 'perhaps,'
still a hope for me----"
Here the manuscript ended, and when Bernhard Eichhof had finished
reading it he still held it in his hand, and his eyes were riveted upon
the written page, as though it could afford him further intelligence.
And yet he knew what must follow. He knew that Julutta's hopes were
fulfilled, that she left Trouville with that same singer and came to
Germany, where her distant cousin, Marzell Wronsky, met her beneath the
roof of her protectress and married her.
At last he laid aside the sheets that she had given him at his visit of
the morning, and sighed deeply. "Poor, poor creature!" he murmured. "I
judged her too harshly; and she is so gentle, so humble to me in spite
of the pain I have given her."
He remembered how pale and ill she had looked to-day. The event of the
previous evening had evidently agitated and distressed her fearfully.
And yet when Bernhard had offered to seek out Moehazy, to induce him to
pursue his journey immediately, she had not hastened to accept his aid.
"You must first know the story of my youth," she said, "and then decide
whether I am worthy of your help. I could not trust myself to tell you
this story; but if you will read it--since my marriage I have indulged
the idle practice of keeping a diary, and that it might be complete I
have prefaced it with my sad story. No human eye save my own was ever
to rest upon these pages; but I make an exception in your case, because
fate has already willed that you should have some knowledge of my
secret."
In this wise had Bernhard come into possession of these pages. "Fate
has dealt cruelly with her," he thought, "and I have added to its
cruelty wherever I could. Oh, I have much to atone for!"
He paced his room to and fro in some agitation, then consulted the
paper for the list of names of new arrivals, among which he had already
seen Moehazy's address, and, after re-reading it, tossed the paper aside
and ordered his carriage.
Half an hour later a servant handed Herr von Moehazy the Count's card.
Herr von Moehazy was wont to rise about noon, and was therefore still
wrapped in his silken Turkish dressing-gown when his unexpected visitor
was announced. As the visitor followed close upon his card, there was
nothing for it but to prepare for his reception as best he might by
tightening the silken cord and tassels around his waist.
"Excessively delighted to see you. Quite an unexpected honour," he
called out, as Bernhard hastily entered the room and closed the door
behind him; "but I must beg you to excuse this." And he indicated his
brilliant habiliments.
"I have a very special reason for my visit, Herr von Moehazy," Bernhard
replied curtly, without accepting an offered seat. "You asked yesterday
for a lady who is held in high esteem in society here. I know that you
had certain relations with this lady, which, by a monstrous deceit, as
you know, you----"
"Sir!"
"I am ready to answer for my words,--which relations you established by
a monstrous deceit."
"I must pray you to use less violent language!"
"I must pray you to hear me out!" Bernhard said, in a raised voice, and
with flashing eyes. "From what you said yesterday, I cannot but suppose
that you intend to compromise this lady, and to destroy the peace of a
happy home."
"Not an idea of anything of the kind," Herr von Moehazy calmly remarked.
But Bernhard had grown so eager in his part of chivalrous defender that
he neither heard nor heeded.
"I am come to you now to give you an opportunity of leaving Berlin this
very day, if you would not be so insulted by me as to make a hostile
meeting between us inevitable."
Herr von Moehazy was speechless for a moment, staring by turns at
Bernhard's tall, threatening figure, as it stood between him and the
door, and at a singular object which the young man had taken out as he
spoke, and which strongly resembled a braided leather riding-whip.
Bernhard's eyes were riveted upon him, and the singular object quivered
meanwhile in his hand. But Herr von Moehazy was not bewildered for
longer than a second, and, putting the entire length of the table
between Bernhard and himself, he suddenly threw back his head and burst
into a fit of laughter.
"Delicious!" he cried. "But, my dear Herr von Eichhof, all this could
have been arranged very much more comfortably. I think your Berlin so
insupportably tedious that I should certainly have left it to-day or
to-morrow, and because I find it all so tiresome, I thought it might
possibly have amused me to see that lady again; although, I assure you,
she is far too indifferent to me to make it worth while to run the risk
of a bullet or a sabre-cut for a sight of her. I am rejoiced to learn
that she has found so devoted a friend in you. I--ha! ha!--I--'tis so
excellent a joke that it more than atones to me for not seeing her
again. A thousand thanks, Herr von Eichhof!"
Bernhard had grown pale. He had not looked for this turn of affairs,
and it was his part now to be bewildered for a moment.
"You are as coarse as you are cowardly," he ground out between his
teeth, coming up to the table, whereat Herr von Moehazy thought best to
bluster a little.
"No need of such ugly words, sir," he said, with a forced smile.
"Will you leave Berlin to-day?" Bernhard insisted.
"_Mais oui, mon cher_; I see no reason why I should remain here."
"I should have no more difficulty in finding you to-morrow than
to-day!" Bernhard exclaimed, with a glance of menace, as he turned
towards the door.
Herr von Moehazy came out from behind his table. "Oh, you have nothing
further to fear!" he cried, as Bernhard opened the door. "I dislike to
disturb the amusements of others. My remembrances to Frau Julutta
Wronsky!" And he laughed once more.
Bernhard slammed the door behind him.
Julutta now had nothing to fear, and Bernhard and she had one more
secret, one more memory, in common.
Herr von Moehazy left Berlin the same day, and an hour later a note from
Bernhard informed Frau von Wronsky that there was no reason why she
should absent herself from the opera on the plea of illness, as she had
resolved to do in case Moehazy did not leave town.
She appeared in her box, and when Bernhard paid his respects to her
between the acts he read in every glance of her fine eyes the gratitude
that she could not otherwise express in her husband's presence.
Hugo von Hohenstein sat in Councillor Kohnheim's box opposite, and his
opera-glass was scarcely, during the _entr'acte_, turned away from his
_vis-a-vis_.