Part 4

“Not so much, after all, dear papa--a little turn of fortune’s wheel; so far he has had nothing but sorrow since his childhood. Remember what Bernhard told us quite lately about him. His parents separated; his mother living abroad, and married again; his father, a spendthrift, caring nothing for the boy--worse off than an orphan; ill used at school, because the payments were so irregular. And he grows up, struggling through it all, and, even as a mere lad, takes a man’s cares upon himself and sets to earning his living.”

“Yes, yes; but then his Don Quixotism with his small inheritance, and his ridiculous love story.”

“Love story? That is odd.”

An unpleasant sensation came over me, and I thought it strange that Bernhard had told me nothing of this love story. After a while, I asked:

“Who was he in love with, this baron?”

Papa had thought no more of our conversation, and could not at first think whom I meant; then answered abruptly:

“He can only adore her memory now. She is dead.”

“When?”

“Some years ago, as the wife of another man, whom she preferred to him--ingratitude to fidelity which would have gained him a name in the Middle Ages, but which in modern times has simply made him ridiculous.”

“I do not understand that. How can the exercise of any virtue render anyone ridiculous? And fidelity is a virtue!”

Papa gave a slight cough, “If you ride a virtue to death, it becomes folly.”

Wisdom--folly. I hated those words, so often in the count’s mouth.

“Ah, well, papa,” said I, “it seems to me that there is no need for any virtue to grow into folly; it is a folly from the very beginning. That is why I have so little regard for wisdom either.”

“That is very evident,” observed my father.

“And why I love the constancy which, seeking no reward, yet remains stanch.”

“Indeed? You do not see how senseless it is in a man to believe he is loved by a woman when he is not? To let himself be fooled by her? To give no ear when he is told she does not care a straw for him? You do not see how senseless is such conduct? Or, perhaps, it rather attracts your admiration because it is such a piece of utter folly!”

“But did she really not love him?”

“She simply fooled him, I tell you. And he, poor fool, must needs be keeping lover’s watch under her windows, quarreling with those who saw through the little game, which cost him more than one duel.”

I was delighted.

“Quite right! I honor him! I can see it now--can hear how after the fight, whether conquered or conqueror, he cries, ‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the most peerless lady in all the world, and I am her true knight!’ Splendid, papa!”

“My dear child! What rubbish you talk! But it all comes from those confounded books, and I will----But enough of it!”

These last words were said in English, and I knew it was high time to give up a subject when my dear good father took to speaking English!

For some weeks past mamma had begun to receive again, every evening after the theater. She desired to give the count opportunities of coming more frequently to our house, without thereby exciting attention. Fruitless endeavor! Although his courtship proceeded so quietly that, thank Heaven, even I was scarcely aware of it, my girl friends began teasing me about him. Most of them, strange to say, called me a lucky girl; and one--I will name her Dora--never failed to add “but as silly, awfully silly, as she is lucky!”

She is older than I am, and is considered to be very clever and well read. When quite a little girl, an aunt, who was a woman of learning, bequeathed her whole library to her, and she was allowed to have it arranged in her own room; her parents letting her have her own way in everything. Thus at thirteen there was she deep in the study of Humboldt’s “Cosmos,” and Strauss’ “Life of Jesus.” She has explained whole pages of this latter to me, but not very clearly; I never could understand it.

Dora used often to threaten that, if I did not know how to value the count better, she would get him away from me. And I, only too ready, would reply:

“Take him, by all means; you could not please me better.”

For a long time she thought I was only joking.

“Do you know,” she said, “that the Taxens have a prince’s crown in their coat of arms?”

“How could one fail to know it?”

“And have you not thought how well your monogram will look with a crown over it?”

I burst into a fit of laughter.

“Is that the result of studying Humboldt and Strauss at thirteen, to make you such a baby at twenty?”

“Oh, that is quite another thing. I know what is due to the world. The greatest men of learning attach value to position, and would be only too glad to be admitted into princely salons, but as they are so prosy and pedantic----”

Indignant at her silly chatter, I cried:

“You ought to be ashamed to talk such rubbish. Pray what do you know about learned men: you have never even seen one!”

“Nor you, either.”

“No, nor anyone of us, because they do not frequent society, nor have the slightest wish to do so. But you are talking about what you do not understand. You prate about knowledge of the world, and see no further than your own little circle. That is all you think about!”

She was piqued. She is as much accustomed to be admired as the count, and can as little as he endure to be contradicted.

Our passage of arms had been carried on before a room full of my friends, of both sexes, to their great delectation. Dora was not a favorite among her girl friends, and they chuckled audibly at my onslaught.

“You may be as contemptuous as you please,” said Dora angrily, but in so low a voice that only I heard. “You will see the consequences of having made an enemy of me,” with a meaning look toward the door, by which the count was just then entering.

I understood her, and answered in an equally low voice:

“If you only succeed in what you mean, you will make me a friend for life.”

“Very well, I accept your challenge!” she responded, little knowing how I was silently rejoicing in her determination, and wishing it all speed.

The count stood before me; and it seemed as if with his presence the atmosphere about me had become more oppressive, the light darkened. Dora rising, left him the chair opposite to me, and seated herself on the arm of mine. In her white gauze dress, and hair so becomingly arranged, she looked charming, as charming as a Dresden china figure; and the contrast between her bewitching get-up and the conversation she carried on was irresistibly funny.

“I wager,” exclaimed the count, “that the thermometer is up to 28°.”

“If it were 38°,” said she, “I should not feel it. I am never warm. I am the marble guest.”

With an uninterested look the count murmured:

“Yes?”

“But also, I never feel the cold.”

“Ha, ha! You are doing the original. I am not at all original; perfectly prosaic.”

“Oh! I am very prosaic. Would you believe it? I take snuff.”

“Indeed?”

“I always carry my snuffbox about with me.”

“With nothing in it?”

She produced a tiny gold box, no larger than a florin, from her pocket.

“There happens to be nothing in it, just to-day. Look, I have had a death’s head engraved on the lid; and I use death’s-head notepaper. I am always thinking of death. I believe I shall commit suicide one day.”

The count looked aghast.

“I always carry a dagger about with me.”

“Do you really?” said the count.

“So that I may plunge it into my heart the moment that tobacco, my one friend, has no more charms for me.”

He smiled. He began to find her interesting; and as she now went on to tell of a curious old chest which had been discovered in a lumber room of her castle, he became thoroughly engrossed. Seizing an opportunity when they were absorbed in their conversation, I rose and stole away. As I turned, I saw Bernhard standing by me.

“I have been looking for you ever so long,” said he. “One cannot stir a step in this crush.”

And looking round, he called:

“Schwarzburg!”

And I, surprised and so delighted, as though it had been some dear, impatiently looked-for friend, exclaimed:

“Is he here?”

Now, be it said, Bernhard scolded me afterward, quite roundly, for my “Is he here?” But I have never been able to repent it. As I said it, I looked into a pair of eyes radiant with bliss, far too great for me ever to repent the words which called it forth.

Baron Schwarzburg bowed so low before me, that the reverence thus expressed in his salutation almost abashed me. What had I done to arouse reverence?

We had a long talk together, much too long, I was afterward told reproachfully. I cannot say what it was about; I was unconscious of the lapse of time, and of the presence of others. He was talking to me, and all that he said and his manner of saying it was pleasant to me, and worth listening to; seemed better and wiser than anything I had ever heard before, at once dear and true.

When, looking back to that evening, I ask myself the question: Was that when we first made acquaintance? I answer, No. We did not need it; we greeted each other as friends of long standing; our first meeting was as a coming together after separation.

Our conversation was interrupted by papa. He wanted to consult with the baron concerning some matters connected with his estate, and Bernhard had told him that he could not do better than put them into his hands. Both gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation; and at its close I saw them shake hands, and felt quite elated. So the fool of a Schwarzburg could talk sensibly for once--his advice could even be of use!

The soirée was over. Most of the guests had left. Among the last to go were Dora and her people, and the count and his mother. The _comtesse douairière_, as my Duphot called her, was especially amiable to me on saying good-night.

“You are so sweet, dear child, I quite admired you. How charming you were this evening toward that poor baron, the _attaché_ fellow! But do not forget that there may be a danger of your good nature being misunderstood. That class of person does not always know how to accept our notice, and is often made uncomfortable by our desire to make them feel _à leur aise_ in our society.”

I hardly knew what to make of this comment; whether to take it as one of praise or blame.

* * * * *

I will not attempt to describe my simple love story at length. That my parents would consent to my marriage with Baron Schwarzburg, the “_attaché_ fellow,” I did not for a moment believe. The consciousness of my love for him and of its hopelessness revealed themselves simultaneously to me; and it would have been a grave wrong in me had I given myself up to the former. But I had not given myself up to it; it had taken hold of me before I was aware, and from the first moment I was as completely under its sway as I am to this day. It was the same with him. His affection for me came as suddenly as did my great love for him. It was only his perfect absence of vanity which for a long time made him think it impossible that he could inspire me with any warmer feelings than those of friendship. But even that seemed to make him supremely happy; and as for me--a new life had unfolded to me since he had taken me into his confidence, and since I had learned to know the workings of his noble, unselfish heart. He had met almost on every side with injustice, and yet he always held that Right must conquer. He had endured countless bitternesses, yet had come through them without one taint of bitterness. Truly with such a fund of love and strength in his own heart, how should he believe in anything but goodness?

The wonderful thing to me is that his own estimate of himself should be so different from what he really is. He affirms the motive of the greater part of his actions, and the source of all his strength, to have been self-will. The other day when he was repeating this to me, I asked:

“And was it mere act of self-will that led you, as a young barrister, to enter that action against yourself?”

He replied, with a frown, “Is that old story not yet forgotten?”

“Not yet.”

“Then allow me to give you the true reading of it. It was undertaken in no ridiculous spirit of self-sacrifice, but in order to defend my integrity against my money; a thing of priceless worth against that which has a marketable value. My client was the widow of an estimable man and faithful old servant; the money in question his savings honestly earned. How many years back the sum had been in all confidence intrusted to his master’s keeping, the wife did not know. She only knew that his master had repeatedly assured him that the money had been invested in a thoroughly sound mortgage. What the mortgage was her husband had no idea, and as the widow of the baron’s most faithful and devoted servant it would never have occurred to her to ask if her money was safely invested, or in what. All very well, the lawyer said, but why was the woman so stupid? Could she not see what was going on, and how the baron was making ducks and drakes of his property? She had seen it all, but trusted to her lord’s word more than to the evidence of her senses. And for that implicit trust, was she to be made the victim, and was her master’s son to consent to such plunder? Could he? What is your opinion, countess; how would you have acted in his place?”

My answer was, “As you did.”

“And would that have been anything extraordinary?”

“No; only what was right.”

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, while a great peaceful joy illumined his countenance; “only what was right. Yes, that is it.”

He looked radiant.

“Why thank God?” I asked.

“Because I have been permitted to justify myself to you.”

“You justify yourself--to me!” I said in some confusion.

“And because you made it so easy to me, and because you have such a clear insight into things, and such an upright mind. Above all, that you concede that we only do what is right, even must we defend that right doing to our own loss.”

“But is not that natural?”

“No, egotism is natural. And the world just now prizes it highly. Take up any newspaper, and you will read any number of articles in favor of it and its ally, ‘healthy realism.’ In this age of humanitarianism--strange anomaly--we find idealism arraigned, and every kind of unusual display of self-denial, that groundwork and absolute necessity of humanitarianism, stigmatized as sickly and sentimental.”

Here the count, my sister, and Dora came up to us.

“Aha, here is the baron laying down the law!” exclaimed the count.

And Schwarzburg, looking dismayed, turned apologetically to me, saying:

“Is it true--was I really laying down the law?”

“It is rather a habit of yours,” interposed the count, assuming the cold haughty manner of people in society, to those not so highly privileged, and that to me is so narrow and petty.

“You were certainly not laying down the law,” I cried; “on the contrary, you were telling me something of great interest.”

“A secret?” giggled Dora.

“Certainly not.”

“Then pray impart your interesting story to us, especially if it is not too long. But I fear it is long--as long-winded as it is interesting. I have been watching you at a distance. You are always so vastly entertaining, you two.”

My cheek crimsoned, and Baron Schwarzburg leveled a look at Dora which spoiled all inclination to pursue her ill-bred jesting further. But it had done its work, and bore ill consequences for me. Count Taxen did not stir from my side the remainder of the evening; and we carried on a melancholy duologue anent ancient castellated halls and old armor! “A mold and mildew type of conversation,” as Elizabeth calls it, when her husband, who is uncommonly like the count in essentials, begins one of his interminable talks with her on that theme. I saw her look across at me several times with unconcealed commiseration.

The next day she came to talk over matters with me. It was early in the afternoon, and I had just gone up to my room after luncheon, when she came in.

She began taking off her bonnet and arranging a refractory lock displaced by the wind, apparently very intent on so doing; but I could see very plainly that her thoughts were no wise occupied by the lovely, intellectual looking face reflected in the looking-glass. Suddenly she began:

“Tell me, child, what are you meaning by this Schwarzburg worship of yours?”

Her unexpected question took me by surprise, and I answered in a low voice:

“What can I mean?”

“That is what I want to know. I want to know what you are thinking, what dreams you are allowing yourself to indulge in! Do you know that for some time past you are quite altered?”

I felt myself growing more and more downhearted.

“How altered, Elizabeth?”

“Oh,” she said, “do not let us waste time in fencing. The manner in which you distinguish Schwarzburg is the subject of general remark. You make your almost veneration of him so ostentatiously apparent.”

“I do not make it ostentatiously apparent; I only do not conceal it.”

“And what is it to lead to?”

“It will lead to nothing,” I answered dejectedly. “In a few weeks he goes to Bosnia; and I to Trostburg.”

Shrugging her shoulders, she made a few steps forward, then sat down on the chair before my writing table. The volume with “My Memoirs” written large upon it attracted her attention; her face relaxed its grave expression, and she began to laugh.

“So the child has taken to writing her ‘Memoirs’; here are all the secrets--one need only to look in and find them all laid bare. Do not look so frightened. I am curious, but not indiscreet.”

While her words were sarcastic, her great blue eyes were so sincere, were looking at me with such a depth of love and sympathy, that, taking courage, I went up to her and said:

“You asked me what I want. I will confess to you what I do not want; I will not marry Count Taxen.”

“Bravo, that is good,” she answered phlegmatically. “And what about the count, who purposes either to-day or to-morrow to make formal proposal for your hand?”

In deadly fear, I cried:

“How do you know this?”

“From himself.”

“And does he not see how utterly indifferent he is to me?”

“No. That would be the last thing he would be likely to see.”

“And how much more, how unspeakably more, I prefer another to him?”

“That still less. A Count Taxen simply considers it an impossibility that a Baron Schwarzburg should be preferred before him.”

“And Dora, who is a thousand times better suited to him, and who promised me that she would make capture of him--Dora, on whom I have set my hopes--why is she not as good as her word?”

“Because she cannot, sweet Simplicity. Because she has done all in her power, but in vain. She is not to the count’s taste. He scents the egoist in her, and is too utterly the egoist himself not to avoid his duplicate.”

“Oh, what can I do, Elizabeth! what can I do? If I have to marry the count I shall die of despair.”

She threw her arms round me, and drew me down to her, and I laid my cheek upon her wavy hair.

“Do you really think so?” she asked. “I believe you might manage to be not so desperately unhappy with him. Only you need to be a little wise, my pet; do not go against him in little things, and you would soon find that you had your own way in more important ones. You would have to be very careful not to hurt his vanity, and where possible to sing his praises to him.”

“What, flatter him!” I cried, “praise what I do not approve! Flattery! oh, the shame and disgrace of it!”

“Do not give it such high-sounding names,” said she. “To be a bad wife is the only shame and disgrace to a woman. In comparison with that, any self-imposed humiliation weighs but lightly in the scale. And after all, it is but a case of weighing one evil against another, a compromise with the enemy, otherwise called the ills of life. Perfect happiness, cloudless, whose lot is it? Who even may indulge an unbroken dream of it?”

“Oh, were it only a matter of a dream, I should soon be in possession of it.”

“Indeed! Then trust me, and put your dream into words.”

“Dare I? May I?”

“You must.”

“Do not forget that it is only a dream.”

“Well--begin.”

“I should dream that I was his--you know whom I mean--and had no more ardent wish than to make life, hitherto so hard to him, sweet and beautiful. At his side I would grow wise, and clever, and better day by day. Every breath I drew would be a song of praise to him. Did, however, so strange a thing happen that he could ever do anything my conscience did not approve, I would tell it him, frankly, freely. I would shrink from no pain; for he would be there to bear it with me, and its burden would be lightened. What pain could come to me, so long as I was his, and his love mine?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, in a low, stifled voice; “yes.”

“That is what my dream is like--the purest bliss. But the reality is horror--horror, Elizabeth! You have utterly crushed me. That miserable compromise; that mean-spirited subjection in order to preserve the outward appearance of unity while hiding the inward disunion--I could not do it. And you----”

A horrible thought had flashed across me; I bent down and looked into her face; it was bathed in tears. “Can you do it, my darling?” I said, sinking on my knees, and embracing her.

She pressed me convulsively, and agonizing sobs shook her breast, as she answered:

“I have learned to do it!”

For a time we preserved deep silence. When at length I raised my eyes to her dear face, it wore its accustomed look of composure.

She rose.

“Come with me to our parents, child,” she said. “I cannot help you to the realization of your dream; but you shall not be sacrificed.”

* * * * *

Mamma was sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting. Mme. Duphot was reading aloud to her, Ozanani’s “Poëtas Francis Caius.”

“May we come in, mamma? We want to speak to you.”

Without looking up, mamma answered:

“Please let us just finish the chapter. Sit down, girls.”

We sat down, and Mme. Duphot finished the beautiful legend of the Holy Francis and Wolf von Gubio. Then placing her book, over which she had several times hurriedly glanced at me, on the table, she rose.

I caught her hand.

“Stay!” I whispered to her; and Elizabeth hurriedly joined in.

“Stay, dear Duphot, we count upon your help. We want papa here, too, as well. May I send to ask him to come, mamma?”

“Yes, ask him to come.”

Dear mamma! so unsuspectingly and peacefully going on with her work, meditating over the sweet teaching of St. Francis. I felt so sorry for her. How gladly would I have spared her the pain I was about to cause her, but--how could I?

The door opened. Papa came in, but not alone; my brother was with him. The eyes of both were directed upon me as they came in.

“Oh, yes; there she is,” said papa, in a severe, menacing voice.

I wanted to rise, but my knees shook too violently, and I could only stretch out my hand to seize his as he passed me. He drew it hastily back, and going across to the sofa, sat down by mamma. My brother subsided on to a chair near them; and Mme. Duphot, who had been sitting by mamma, diffident as ever, pushed her tabouret a little further back. My sister and I sat at a little distance from them, like a criminal and his counsel before their judges.

“Dear papa, dear mamma,” began Elizabeth, “in Paula’s name I would pray you ask the count to cease paying his addresses to her. Paula cannot like him, and is determined that she will not marry him.”

I was dismayed and terrified at the abrupt manner in which she said this.

Mme. Duphot sighed.

Bernhard muttered “Oho!”

My father and mother were silent.

“It is Paula’s earnest hope,” resumes Elizabeth, “that you, dear father and mother, will give your sanction to her decision.”

“Oh, do!” I broke in; “be merciful. I will be forever grateful to you. I cannot marry Count Taxen. I do not feel the smallest particle of affection for him; rather the reverse.”