The Children of the World Part 52

"I see I can't ride to-day," she said carelessly. "My foot is still lame from the mis-step I made."

"If that's the case," replied the count, "don't tax it. The stag will lead us a long distance to-day; it's the old one we chased last year, but which finally escaped. I've ordered the hunting carriage for the Herr Doctor. Perhaps it will be pleasant for you--"

"Certainly," she carelessly interrupted, without looking at Edwin. "We can drive to the ranger's house together. I'll take Jean with me."

The lad, evidently proud of this preference, stepped forward from the crowd of footmen, hurried toward the carriage, which stood a little apart, behind the saddle horses and hounds, sprang on the box, and taking the reins drove skillfully through the groups of huntsmen and idle grooms to the steps.

"You shall witness my skill as a charioteer," said the countess in a jesting tone to Edwin, who had hastily approached. "Don't be afraid; I know how responsible science would hold me if I should upset one of her votaries." Then she entered the carriage and took the reins and whip; Edwin followed her, and urging on the beautiful animals she guided the light carriage through the gate of the courtyard into the wide forest avenue.

Her attention seemed to be entirely occupied with the horses; for the first ten minutes at least she did not turn her eyes away from them or utter a word. "How beautiful this forest is," said Edwin at last. She smiled and then nodded gravely, but was still silent. She evidently had not heard what he said. So he had plenty of leisure to watch her, and was compelled to acknowledge that her beauty had really gained some mysterious charm. The face was longer, the nose seemed to have lengthened and the eyes to have grown larger and darker, but her smile was no longer the same. It was not that strangely wearied sad smile, that appears when we are too proud to show we have cause to weep, but something far more mournful; a strange, fierce, implacable expression hovered around the lips, the expression that a face might wear after a heavy life storm in which every hope has perished, or when madness is approaching. Edwin was overwhelmed with an emotion of such deep sorrow, that after his fruitless attempt to break the ice, he remained perfectly silent. The air was still and oppressive, a few solitary drops fell, but there was no steady rain; not a bird moved in the forest, no human being met them; only from the distance they occasionally heard sounds from the hunting party, the barking of a dog and the thud of horses' hoofs, which at last died away in the forest.

The road led through the village at the foot of the mountain. Peasant women with their children stood in the doorways as they pa.s.sed, and eagerly greeted the young countess. A very young woman with a baby stepped directly before them. Toinette stopped a moment, lifted the rosy-cheeked little creature into the carriage, kissed it and asked the mother various questions concerning it. When she gave it back to her again, a crowd of village children had collected, who all held out their little hands and cried good morning. The countess gave the oldest a handful of s.h.i.+ning silver. "You must divide it, Hans," said she.

"Give something to each. But you must be good and go to school regularly." The mothers came forward and thanked her in the name of the little people. The next moment the horses moved forward again, and they left the village behind them.

"They love you very dearly here," said Edwin.

"I can't help it," she replied. "It's easy to seem like a divinity to these poor people, if we merely treat them kindly. But if the G.o.ds have no other happiness than that of being idolized, they're really not to be envied."

Then they were both silent again. They had left the wide highway and turned into a narrower road, where the carriage rolled noiselessly over the soft earth. Meantime the sky had grown darker, and a fine warm summer rain was beginning to sprinkle their faces. Suddenly Toinette stopped the horses.

"If it will be agreeable to you," said she, "let's get out and walk a little way on foot. We shall reach the ranger's house too early even then."

He sprang out and offered her his arm, which she only touched with the tips of her fingers. Jean, who was holding the reins, asked if the countess would like an umbrella. "Why?" she asked. "It's scarcely raining at all. Or yes, take it out of the case, the Herr Doctor will be kind enough to open it."

"May I offer you my arm, Countess?" said Edwin.

Again she did not seem to hear him, but stood gazing into the dark, silent forest, as if lost in thought. Then she shook back her hair--Edwin involuntarily thought of the scene in the park the night before--and took his arm. "Come," she said quietly. "Open the umbrella.

Doesn't this remind you of something? Haven't we walked together in the rain before? To be sure, it was a long time ago, a whole life lies between. Don't you think I have altered very much?"

"Certainly. You've accomplished the seemingly impossible; you have become yet more beautiful."

She looked at him quietly, almost sternly. "Promise me not to say such a thing again. It doesn't become you, and it wounds me. And don't address me as 'countess.' I don't know whether I can still venture to call you 'dear friend' as in old times; but I shouldn't like to have you treat me precisely the same as an ordinary acquaintance. No, I've grown old, much older than you suppose, so old that I often think I've outlived myself, and you must perceive that too. But we won't talk about that. Only tell me, why did you come here? I knew you would come sometime; If I'd not been sure of it, who knows whether I should still be alive! And yet it took me by surprise; for I could never imagine what was to bring you to me again, after all that--"

She hesitated. He frankly told her of his interview with Marquard, and that his old interest in her had been vividly awakened by the news that she was only separated from him by a two hours' drive.

"No, no," she said as if to herself, "that was not it, you don't tell me all. But as you please; I am weaned from wis.h.i.+ng to know things that are concealed from me. They're rarely pleasant. The more we get to the bottom of people and things, the uglier they seem to us. Enough, you're here, and I'm delighted to see you again, though at first I was as much startled as if your ghost had appeared. More than once--on lonely walks and in large a.s.semblies--I've fancied I saw you just as you stood in the hall below me, but it was only a freak of memory. You've not changed in the least. If I could only forget these four years a moment, I could fancy we were again walking beside the carp pond and I was telling you Toinette Marchand's story. Those were pleasant times." Then suddenly adopting a totally different tone, she continued:

"I heard you were married. Your wife was one of your old pupils. Have you any children? No? That's a pity. Although, if nothing else is wanting--! Tell me about your wife. But no, what can be learned from a description? one can merely mention traits of character. One's real nature is indescribable. You must bring her to me some day, will you?"

He nodded silently; but he knew that he should never do so.

"You've had a child and lost it," he said after a pause. "How much you must have suffered!" She suddenly stopped and let his arm fall.

"_More than any human being suspects!_" she said with great emphasis, laying a stress upon every syllable. "Let's say nothing about it. And yet, why may I not speak of it to you, the only person I know who can even understand what that anguish was, and also the only one who will not be cruel enough to say: 'it served you right,' and you would have more reason to say so than any other human being!"

She cast a backward glance toward the carriage, which was moving slowly along about twenty paces behind them.

"Please shut the umbrella," she said in a low tone. "I'm so warm, the damp air does me good. Dear friend, how often I've wished to be able to talk with you so. I thought everything would then be easier. Although in my hardest trials I should not have been able to show myself, even to you, exactly as I was. I did not like to confess the truth to myself; I dreaded to look in the gla.s.s, as if it were written on my brow and I must die of shame if I read it. Now--when everything is past--even the guilt, which I could not help--I only think of it all as a great misfortune, the greatest that can befal a woman. You said I must have suffered deeply when the child died. What will you think of me, when I tell you--that I suffered as long as it lived, and ceased to suffer when I lost it!

"It sounds horrible, does it not? And yet it is literally true. You'll think me an unnatural mother, and you're right. But can I help it, that I was born with this unnatural disposition, that everything which makes others happy becomes a torture to me?"

"You're silent, dear friend. But what could you say? We should draw a veil over that which is contrary to nature, and turn away. You were also silent, in the olden time when I informed you through Balder, why I must unfortunately live my life an exceptional creature; an unhappy variety of the species. At first your silence wounded me deeply; I thought, a friend ought not to make us suffer so keenly for what is not our fault. Afterwards I saw that you were right to act as the heavenly powers:

"'Then leave him to his punishment, Vengeance for ev'ry earthly sin is sent.'

"You remember the reading? 'the sins of the parents upon the children unto the third and fourth generations'?"

He stood still. "I don't understand a single word you're saying, my dear friend. What? You sent by Balder--but do you not know that the conversation he had with you, or rather with the count, was the last that he ever held? And you told him--what? What, for G.o.d's sake?"

He had seized her hand and pressed it violently. "Toinette, speak, tell me all. What is done and cannot be undone will at least be more endurable if it is purged of all which the rude hand of malicious chance may have mingled with it. You've misunderstood me; I now learn this for the first time, and I have also misunderstood you. Speak, speak--what thread did death sever, that would have guided us out of the labyrinth into the right path?"

She shook her head. "Who knows? even if my message had reached you, you would not have solved the problem! Of what use would it be? Can a heart incapable of love become more lovable if you learn that it has very natural reasons for being contrary to nature? A whim, a fit of obstinacy, a childish caprice--a refractory character like Katharine the shrew is not hopeless, since we need not once for all make a cross against it and go our way. But the child of a forced love, the fruit of a girl's bartered life--what can be hoped for, what aid can avail in such a case?"

"And this--this is what I should have learned if my poor Balder had survived that day. Oh! eternal G.o.ds!"

"Yes indeed," she nodded with a bitter smile. "I thought you would have taken pity on the poor monster and have borne with her for a time. I hoped so for three days. Then, as I said, I thought: 'he's right'--and came here with the old countess."

"Horrible!" he exclaimed, wiping his brow, on which drops of cold perspiration were standing. "And so I--none other than myself--blind and unsuspecting as I was--and your letter, which I did not understand--the three days respite--"

"Calm yourself, my friend. It's not your fault; the threads of fate were too delicately spun. Even if you had come, who knows whether I might not still be here? True, if I had known then, what I know now--"

"What, Toinette, what!"

She hesitated a moment, then with closed eyes and her delicate brows contracted in an expression almost threatening in its sternness, said slowly and softly: "That my womanly nature would some day awake, that the hour would come when, like every other lonely creature I should long for a happy love--and that I then should belong to a man, of whom my soul knows nothing, and who would force me to drain to the dregs the sorrowful cup that broke my mother's heart!" She sank down upon a moss covered stone beside the road, and buried her face in her hands.

Edwin stood before her; he did not feel the rain, which now began to fall in heavy drops, did not pick up her gloves, which had slipped from her lap and lay on the wet ground; he made no reply to little Jean's question whether he should close the carriage, except to wave the intruder away with his hand. All his thoughts were absorbed in the one emotion of pity he felt for the woman once so deeply loved, who across the gulf of years had suddenly once more approached so near him, as if naught had even come between them.

"My poor dear friend," he faltered at last, "be calm, compose yourself, you're no longer alone. I am here, I--" His voice died away. How false and powerless was everything he could say. Toinette suddenly rose, shook back her hair, as we do when reminded that we must hold up our heads, and said with a forced smile:

"I believe we're getting wet. The little discomforts of life have their use; they cause annoyance and compel a division even in the midst of great sorrow. Give me your arm again, and open the umbrella. Ten paces farther on is a beech wood, where the foliage is so thick that we might quietly await a deluge. To be sure, my velvet dress is ruined, and I'm not yet 'd.u.c.h.ess' enough not to regret it. However, it can be replaced.

If there were nothing else--but come, come, you're standing as still as a statue."

He mechanically obeyed, surprised at the sudden change in her expression, and they walked on a short distance farther. "Yes, indeed,"

she said as if to herself, "in other things too, I might take my present equals in rank for a pattern. It's very bad style to have any feelings at all, especially to speak of them, and to trouble old friends with them. But you must be lenient. I exhausted these aristocratic expedients long ago; pride is a weapon, but a two edged sword, as it were, a s.h.i.+eld that pierces the arm with its sharp edges.

Now my heart, which is not thoroughly aristocratic, has run away with me again. And for what do we have friends, except to abuse them? But we'll be sensible and talk of more cheerful things. Your friend Marquard, for instance, what do you really think of him? He has such contradictory traits of character, that he resembles people with one blue and one black eye, we never know which is of the right color. So he too in the same moment is grave and frivolous, honest and not to be trusted. A singular combination."

Edwin made no reply, he did not seem to have heard what she said. After a long pause, during which he had gazed intently into vacancy, he suddenly exclaimed: "And the child--your child? If your womanly nature awoke too late, were you not a mother soon enough to at least find consolation in that?"

"Oh! my friend," she replied, relapsing into her former tone, "these are strange, sad mysteries. This child--I might perhaps have been able to reconcile myself to the way in which I became its mother, but unfortunately it looked so much like its father that it reminded me with a thrill of horror, at what a price I had obtained it. Pray spare me the memory of the time when, each day, I asked myself whether I could endure to remain longer in this world! There are mothers who care little for their children and would rather dance or flirt, than be troubled with the charge of them. I--with my freshly aroused need of loving, of pressing something close to my heart--rose every day with the resolve to live only for the child; but when I approached its cradle and saw its delicate, cold, aristocratic little face, with the eyelids often half closed like its father's--I could not overcome my repugnance, could not hug and kiss it, rejoice in its innocent voice and baby ways. I sat beside it as if petrified, and it seemed as if I could read my doom in its features, as if the silent little mouth said: 'Mother; why have you done this, why have you sold yourself, profaned yourself without love? Now I shall atone for your sin, as you did for that of your mother, who at least did not commit it of her own free will.' And then, when it died, and I saw it lying before me in the coffin, with the haughty pale little lips distorted, the eyes so pitifully sunken--oh! my friend, it was strange that I did not fall lifeless beside it. Do you know how terrible it is, when a dead body seems to say: 'I've died to make room for you, we two cannot exist and breathe the same air?' No more! Oh! it drives me mad--even now, when I think of it for a single moment."

He felt how wearily she tottered on by his side, leaning heavily on his arm; for a moment it seemed as if she were unable to stand erect; her eyes closed, and her lips parted like one fainting. But the emotion soon pa.s.sed away. She drew a long breath, paused and looked at him with a calm but sorrowful face.

"No doubt you remember," she began, "how on our excursion to Charlottenburg we were engaged in a similar grave conversation, and how I, in my inexperience, said it would not be difficult for a person to give up the business of life, if he could not pay his expenses or became totally bankrupt? You almost agreed, but adopted a different phraseology and replied: 'that when we could neither be useful nor give pleasure to ourselves or others, we might be permitted to leave our post.' Well, I've advanced successfully so far that, without boasting, I may be permitted to include myself among these chosen few. I could leave a legacy to the village children, the only persons to whom I can sometimes give pleasure, and the others who would perhaps miss me for three days after the last honors were paid to my remains, must become accustomed to it. But you see, dear friend, the most annoying part of misfortune is, that it makes even a brave soul weak and womanish. Day follows day, each adds its own contribution to the burden we bear, our shoulders grow hard, and the heart becomes callous. How often I've thought of Hamlet's soliloquy. But though he studied philosophy at Wittenberg, and I've only received a few lessons from you--I know better than he how the 'native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.' It's 'just the fear of something after death;' what makes us cowardly, is the fear that the most delightful portion of the feast of life will come after we have left the hall to sleep away all weariness and sorrow. Perhaps it is childish, but I never rise in the morning without hoping for some unexpected event that might deliver me. There are countless pleasures on earth--am I the only person to whom none are allotted? Must I alone never say--now I can die in peace, for I know why I have lived?' Well to-day I'm glad that I didn't lose patience, but lived on, though every evening found the hope of the morning withered and dead. To-day I rose with a heavier heart than ever, and only determined to join the hunting party because I said to myself: 'sometime your horse will have more sense than you have courage, and will throw you off and break your neck.' And then I saw you--or your ghost, as I at first thought--standing among the people who have acted as mutes in the farce of my life; then I at last felt that for which I have always longed, a joy, a great, strong, real joy--only at first it was too strong and overcame me. I'm entirely out of practice in being happy."

"My poor friend," paid Edwin deeply agitated, "you will, you must get into practice again. How happy I should be, if I could only succeed in reconciling you to your life? True, I'm still too much of a stranger here to fully understand the circ.u.mstances in which you are placed; but my short acquaintance with your husband has disclosed nothing which should make your estrangement irreconcilable. You know, and even the greatest stranger must see, what a deep grief it is to him that he has lost you, though you are his wife. He seems--whatever else he may lack--to be a gentleman, whom only the false and shallow education of his cla.s.s has prevented from making something more of himself. I should think, if you only desired it that for a fond glance, a kind word from you he would do the most unprecedented things. Can you blame him for surrounding himself with such society, if you deny him yours? Perhaps the very bitterness that has come between you, has served to sink him into a still lower depth. Now you've only to give him your little finger, and I think you could lead him a long distance up the heights, so high that these 'mutes' could not climb after you."

"Are you in earnest?" she asked looking quietly at him. "But why shouldn't you believe all this. You've not lived with this man. Did I know, myself, four years ago, that nothing is more hopeless than what you call a gentleman? To be sure, in your sense, as you and your friends are--where the inability to do anything unworthy arises from your nature and the honest desire not to mar humanity--! But where the point in question is only not to offend his consciousness of rank--oh!

my dear friend, I could tell you something that would arouse your indignation, and yet to do it was not derogatory to the honor of a certain 'gentleman.' No, no, it's very n.o.ble in you to persuade me to do what is kind, but I'm very sorry I can make no use of your good advice. When the hand has been cut off, you can't heal the stump with a blister. That cut has severed the joint. Such a mutilated relation--"