Part 6

This modest requirement disconcerted and displeased me, and I had the courage to tell him so. He must know perfectly well, I thought to myself, how very dear he is to me--and if I can make so bold as to assume that he likes me, he surely might be satisfied of my love for him. And so I told him that, for my part, I should always have him in my thoughts, and that to do so would be my greatest happiness. My dear parents had now quite yielded to my wish that I should never marry. So that danger was over--once for all. I should go on living with them, loving and tending them as long as their dear lives lasted; and when I had them no longer on earth, would honor their memories, carry on their good works, and lead the life of an old maid, honored, happy, and perhaps of some use in my generation.

He listened patiently, then responded:

“Very good. You have made me fully acquainted with it all: first, of your rules day by day; now your plans for the future. Very good, we will keep to it. You a willing and contented old maid; I,” he shrugged his shoulders, “of necessity, an old bachelor.”

“Of necessity?”

“Yes!” he cried. “Where should I find a wife willing to share the hard life which I, at least temporarily, have to offer her?”

“Oh, on that account? A hard life is no obstacle!”

“And what is?”

“The wishes of one’s parents.”

“Ah, there we come back to the same thing. The parents’ wishes spring from the feeling that the children they have brought up in luxury must not make a bad match; it would only lead to unhappiness and misery. It would lower them in their own eyes, and they would lose caste.”

Waxing hotter and hotter as he went on, in his warmth he said many things which were utterly illogical. He derided the prejudices of society, and yet constrained himself with painful self-mastery to declare that custom had sanctified these prejudices, and that they who belonged to the circles where they held good, did right to honor them.

“Then you do not act up to your convictions?” I said.

“I? Good Heavens! Do not speak of what I do. I, as everyone will tell you, am a fool. I am far from acting up to those convictions, because I do not, in truth, hold them; and on that account I am a very fool. But not fool enough, countess, not fool enough to persuade the one I love”--and here he pressed my hand with such force that I had the greatest difficulty to prevent an exclamation--“to follow my example, and be my companion on my lonely way.”

He clenched his teeth. His eyes looked wild; his accustomed self-control had quite forsaken him. He looked so fearfully agitated that he would have terrified me had I not loved him so well; but because I loved him so well I felt, oh, so sorry for him, and I said:

“I know somebody who would have no need of persuasion; who would only be too glad to go with you, if she dared!”

Instead of calming him, my words only seemed to excite him the more.

“Happy for that foolish girl that she does not dare! Happy for her. She little knows what she would be taking upon herself; little as I knew, nor the name that would be given me, and that I first heard myself christened in scorn and derision, ‘Idealist!’ Be one! Struggle against the mighty element; waste your strength in useless warfare! Wrench yourself free from all the fresh, joyous pursuits of your equals, your associates--once your brethren, now your adversaries, whose interest you oppose, whose convictions you belie, and--to whom you yet cling with every fiber of your heart!”

He was silent. And I did not venture to break the silence. Still ever louder, more distinct, there arose within me: Foolish girl! Yes, twice foolish; to have thought it enough to follow him at a distance. With him is your place. All my other duties suddenly seemed to me unimportant in comparison. My dread of my beloved father, childish. I believe that it was then that in a very low, yet decided, voice, I said:

“Were it not better, in such a fight, to have a companion at one’s side?”

“A companion?”

“One equally minded with one’s self; but who, hitherto, has not so plainly stated her views, because she could not trust herself, did not so clearly see----”

I came to a standstill; I did not dare to look up at him. But I felt that his eyes were resting upon me as he asked gently, and with a ring of deep affection in his voice:

“Has it really only just become clear to her?”

“Yes, she knows that she, like you, is an idealist.”

“Miracle of miracles!” he said, in oh, so playful a voice, and with such repressed rapture. “Am I really to meet with so rare a being as an idealist in your circle? Nowadays? Impossible!”

“Convince yourself.”

“Shall I? Dare I? Would the idealist you speak of be able to endure to cast her lot with one so obscure, so unknown as I?”

“Of course. And I only wish, with all my heart that you may remain obscure and unknown, that I may the better prove to you----”

I got no further; for, rejoicing, he interrupted me:

“You! You! You then are willing to be that faithful, devoted companion? And to me is to be granted that rare fortune--highest of all earthly joys--to find in the wife of my soul the sharer of my views, the confidante of all, even my boldest aims; my counselor in doubt, sweetest consoler in sorrow, closest sympathizer in success? You will be to me all that? All--despite everybody?”

“It will not need to be despite everybody,” I made answer, confused by the passionate delight with which he pressed me to him. “I will entreat my dear father----”

“Your father!” he cried. And springing back, he struck his forehead like one possessed.

And I, to my great amazement, looking up, saw my father and Bernhard standing there.

“Well!” said papa; “kept your word?”

“Do not ask me. Do not ask me!” cried Schwarzburg, beside himself.

With a loud laugh, Bernhard cried:

“What, have you not succeeded in persuading her against Baron Schwarzburg? I am jolly glad!”

“I am not,” responded papa. “It is as I expected. But then, I am no idealist; I know mankind.”

Bernhard blurted out, “If he had really been such a Don Quixote as to----”

“Be still!” said my father authoritatively.

But he continued: “I would have cut him dead.”

Here a footman announced that mamma awaited the gentlemen in the small drawing room. They obeyed the summons at once; papa sending me up to my own room. Here I still am. They seem to have quite forgotten me; or else they will have no more to say to me. No one seems to trouble about me. Oh, if I had not you, my faithful Diary, in which to confide my every thought, I should indeed be greatly, greatly to be pitied.

EPILOGUE.

If you have followed me thus far, kind readers, my thanks are due to you for your constancy. We must now bid farewell to each other. Not only have the Memoirs I so presumptuously undertook to write degenerated into a diary, but even that diary must now give place to a correspondence, the nature of which will forever remain the secret of two individuals.

If you care to know how this came about, grant me your indulgence yet a little longer.

They left me an unconscionable time to myself that day. It had grown dark, and a deathlike stillness reigned around. Even the most indefatigable songster among my birds had ceased singing, and, all crouched up, was asleep on his perch. How I envied the pretty little creature’s peace of mind.

At last I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my door, the tiny step of my Duphot.

“Ah, _ma chère_!” she said, mournful and reproachful, as she came in and bade me go with her to my parents. So wild a beating of the heart I do not suppose anyone has ever experienced as that with which I obeyed her behest; it was too agonizing, too dreadful.

Besides papa and mamma, I found my brother and sister and Baron Schwarzburg. He stood up as I came in; I, too, remained standing. Papa began:

“Paula, your mother and I, not desiring to incur a second time the reproach that the happiness of one of our children----”

“Or what she considers to be happiness,” broke in mamma.

“Is of less importance to us,” continued papa, “than it should be to parents who love their children, had therefore given our permission to Baron Schwarzburg to speak to you before he left. It has resulted----”

“Differently from what we anticipated,” interpolated mamma.

“And, as I hear, you are agreed in the idea----”

“Or in imagining,” suggested mamma.

“That you are made for each other,” said papa.

To which I said “Yes.”

“Yes,” repeated the Baron Schwarzburg, deeply moved.

“Well then, if two people are really made for each other--a thing which very rarely happens--there is but one thing to be done. But it remains to be proved; and proof requires time. Endurance is the proof; so you must wait.”

“We will wait,” said Schwarzburg.

“Three years,” said papa.

My head turned. I could not realize my happiness. So it was not, as I had with fear and trembling so fully expected to hear: “Do it if you will. But give up all hope of our consent!”

“Only three years?” I asked.

“Not a day less,” said mamma.

And I: “Why, that is nothing! We would wait _ten_ years if you required it, dearest father and mother. We are happy beyond everything, and have no other wish than----”

“Speak for yourself!” put in Bernhard.

Baron Schwarzburg was looking decidedly alarmed, and I asked him: “Do you think so? To wait--wait for each other--what could be more heavenly?”

“The shorter, the more heavenly,” he returned.

Elizabeth, coming up to me, had taken me in her arms. “See, what a wise, sensible child it is! Three years’ probation are too little for her; she prefers ten. Ah, she knows death is easy, but marriage is a venture!”

“Do not jest, countess,” interposed Schwarzburg. “I consent to three years--not a day less, but not a day more.” His voice faltered, but a strong, unswerving determination gleamed in his eyes.

“So it is settled, and so it shall remain. A few hours ago,” he continued, turning to me, “I had counted the happiness that has come to me as utterly unattainable; but now I have known it; it is mine, and I hold it fast, as fast as I am wont to hold the things most precious to me; and you are the most precious thing of all to me, Paula, and, I well know, the most sure.” He took my hand, “In three years; but then; for life.”

“From now; for life.” I could say no more.

He took leave of us all. How sweet and natural Elizabeth was with him! Oh, dear sister mine, can I ever thank you enough?

Only when the door had closed upon him, did the consciousness of our parting fall with leaden weight upon my heart. He had gone, and we had scarce--nay, we had not even said good-by to each other. An unspeakable sense of yearning came over me; I fought with the tears which choked me. No one said a word.

Suddenly Bernhard said laughingly: “Why, he has actually gone without his hat!”

All at once it flashed across me where it had been left; and I ran to the great drawing room to fetch it. To the drawing room they came, papa and the baron--and how it happened I have not the least conception, but the next instant I was in the arms of my betrothed, pressed close to his heart, and he was showering kisses upon me--hot, passionate kisses.

Papa was standing by us; no longer the stern papa of the last few weeks, but the tender, loving one of old, and of all time to come.

I had only to look into his dear face to straightway regain my former boundless confidence in him; and in the strength of this confidence to say:

“May I write to him, papa?”

“And I to her?” asked Schwarzburg.

Papa hesitated.

“Why? what for? See----” he broke off, sighed, looked at us both with strong emotion, then with all the loving intonation of old came the dear, priceless formula:

“Well, do whatever you like.”

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 33: ‘and goodess only’ replaced by ‘and goodness only’. Pg 42: ‘so, extendng’ replaced by ‘so, extending’. Pg 64: ‘know off the’ replaced by ‘know of the’. Pg 142: ‘la crême’ replaced by ‘la crème’.