Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 449
This uneventful, though not unimportant retrospect, was necessary to make what follows, intelligible; but the web is not unravelled yet, for the struggle was not yet over in the heart of Rupert. The sort of mist through which he had been wont to look at her, and which had made her appear so far unlike what she really was, had, it is true, fallen from his eyes, and Gertrude felt in every move that it was so. But nevertheless their position relatively to each other, was still a very puzzling, and by no means a very happy one. The misery of doubt and uncertainty, however, was all on one side. The feelings of doubt had little or no share in the emotions which were at work in the breast of Rupert. Had he been asked to explain them, he could scarcely have done it better, or more correctly, than in the words of the well-known song,
“But if she is not for me,
What care I how fair she be?”
And he laboured so hard, poor youth, to keep this thought for ever awake within him, that no sensation deserving the name of Hope, had as yet been suffered to embellish his waking dreams.
From time to time, however, he endeavoured to assist the process of curing himself, which he was desperately determined to effect, by labouring to persuade himself, as may be seen in the sample given of his conversation with his mother, that the character of Gertrude was capricious and contradictory.
Such, with the exception of some few occasional fits of unchecked passionate adoration, was the condition of the unfortunate Rupert, when the Baron von Schwanberg, his daughter, and suite took their departure from the heavy walls within which the proud owner was born, for the purpose of visiting the light and glittering salons of Paris.
It would be difficult to say whether the heightened colour and flashing eye, which was marked by other eyes than those of his mother, should have been considered as indications of pain or of pleasure; it was evidently not with indifference, however, that he took his place in the vehicle which was to convey him to Paris.
Neither would it have been easy to analyze the secret feelings of the superb baron himself, at the moment he was preparing to exchange his time-honoured authority at Schloss Schwanberg, for the less assured, but more widely-extended influence, which he hoped, with his fair daughter’s assistance, to exercise in the gayest capital in Europe.
But however widely extended was the sphere of this new-born ambition, it was evident to his daughter, that his eye was still steadily fixed upon one pre-eminently important object as the great crowning glory of his ambition, for the last words he addressed to her, before quitting his home, were these: “Gertrude! you have, of course, packed up with your hands the Almanack de Gotha?”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THOUGH the Baron von Schwanberg was perfectly correct in his estimates of the financial value of his own property, he was a good deal mistaken as to the proportion which his own wealth bore to that of many individuals with whom he was likely to be brought into collision in the course of his present expedition.
He set out, however, with a very noble “sheaf of bills” on a substantial Paris banker; and not only was his mode of travelling almost stately in its style, but his choice of a residence, on arriving at Paris, was more in keeping with his own ideas of his personal importance, than in exact proportion to his rent-roll. Moreover, to do him justice, it had never occurred to him that one means by which the travelling magnates of most countries contrive to sustain their lofty flight, while on the wing, is by not troubling themselves to look back to their forsaken nests at home.
Now this mode of relieving himself from the burden of two establishments, had never occurred to him. He neither dismissed servants, nor sold horses, and had never made any very close calculations as to how much, or how little, his absence from home would enable him to save towards defraying the expenses of his foreign residence.
That no such calculations should ever suggest themselves as necessary to Gertrude, may be easily believed; for her father would have thought it equally degrading and unnecessary, had he ever attempted to draw her attention to the details of finance.
The young heiress, therefore, could scarcely have failed of being a very happy young heiress, as she took possession of a very elegant hotel in the Fauxbourg St. Honoré, all the principal apartments of which had been engaged for their use, had she not unfortunately fallen in love with a youth, who, in addition to a good many other disqualifications for being a fitting object for her devoted attachment, had as yet betrayed no signs whatever of having any propensity to return it.
Nevertheless, the misery which certainly seemed likely to arise from this untoward state of affairs, was, for the time at least, almost forgotten, in the novelty and the brilliance of the scenes to which she was immediately introduced. How matters might have been managed for her if she had not previously made the acquaintance of M. and Madame de Hauteville, it is difficult to guess; but the cordial liking which had sprung up between the two ladies in the country, had been sustained by a very brisk correspondence since they parted; and it was the De Hautevilles who had selected this charming apartment for them, the De Hautevilles who had taken care that everything necessary to their comfort awaited them on their arrival, and it was the De Hautevilles who had made their joyous appearance at an early hour on the following morning, to welcome them on their arrival, and to offer their services in every possible way that could secure to the strangers all the pleasures of novelty without any of its embarrassments. It is needless to dwell upon the facilities which such assistance afforded for establishing the noble strangers as welcome guests in every salon most desirable to enter, from the Bourbon sovereign to the banker millionaire; and in the case of our “baron,” ignorance was most decidedly bliss, for having been once assured upon unimpeachable authority, that the De Hautevilles were noble, it never entered his head to suspect that some of the most splendid salons which were opened to him, owed their gold and their damask to revenues which he would have considered as scarcely more illustrious in their origin, than those accruing from the dust-cart.
Not having been long accustomed, however, to the dignity of being attended by any gentleman of “his suite” either at home or abroad, he felt at first a little embarrassed by the necessity which he was assured there existed for his taking Rupert with him everywhere.
Having once assured him that it was right and proper that he should be so attended, Gertrude did not again condescend to allude to the subject. Nor was there, as she perhaps foresaw, any occasion that she should do so; for not only did the baron himself find an immense relief from always having at least one person born for his will, within easy reach of him, but the succès du salon, which the fine voice and good mien of the young man speedily obtained, aided as it most cordially was, by the zealous efforts of the De Hautevilles, would have rendered it much more difficult to have kept him out of society, than to have introduced him into it.
Nothing, in short, could apparently be more successful than this expedition. It was not that the baron felt his consequence increase — that, perhaps, was impossible — but he had the delightful consciousness that it was witnessed by a very considerably larger number of distinguished personages than he could even have hoped to assemble round him at Schloss Schwanberg.
Even the remarkable success of his secretary in every salon they entered, caused him but little surprise, and no annoyance, for he attributed it wholly to his own influence; and when, upon the first meeting between Madame de Hauteville and Gertrude’s humble dame de compagnie, he saw the arms of the French elegante literally open to receive her, he took the opportunity, the very first time he found himself alone with his daughter, of “improving the occasion,” by pointing out to her the great importance to persons in his exalted station, of permitting none but estimable individuals to appear under their patronage.
“It is perfectly evident, my dear Gertrude,” he said, with great solemnity, “that persons like ourselves might do incalculable injury to the morals of society, did we not carefully select the individuals whom, for our own pleasure, or convenience, we place near us, from among the most estimable portion of our inferiors. It must be as evident to you, my dear, as it is to me, that if this very useful mother and son, whom we have attached to our service, were as worthless, as we happily know them to be the reverse, their being presented by ME, would be quite enough to ensure their being received in the manner you now witness. This is certainly a great privilege, one of the greatest, perhaps, belonging to our rank; but, of course, we must take care not to abuse it.”
Gertrude listened to this, as she did to all his pompous harangues, with a sort of fixed and mute attention, which she flattered herself was as far from hypocrisy as the circumstances of the case permitted, but still she felt that it was hypocrisy; yet, alas! was it not a deeper hypocrisy still, to hide in her heart all that nestled there? Had it not been for this bitter thought, her present situation would often have been one of very great enjoyment. The gaiety, the animation, the bright variety of everything around her, so perfectly new, and so perfectly unlike the manner of life to which she had been accustomed, would have had great charms for her, had hey heart been more at ease; nay, there were certainly moments during which all her secret anxieties seemed forgotten, and when life appeared to her as a state of existence capable of more enjoyment than she had ever before thought it calculated to bestow.
The first serious misfortune, in truth, which befel her in Paris, was occasioned by her being seen at a ball at the Tuileries by an Hungarian nobleman of high birth and large possessions, who very speedily became convinced that she was in all respects precisely the individual intended by special providence to assume his name and share his honours.
It was not to herself, but, according to long-established continental fashion, to her father, that he communicated this important opinion. Nothing could be more dignified than the manner in which he made this communication, unless, indeed, it were the manner in which it was received; and never, perhaps, could any two gentlemen of their class have been seen to exhibit themselves to greater advantage, than they both did during this interview.
This splendid proposal was a very welcome one, even to the Baron von Schwanberg; for he was himself aware of being so very nearly dazzled by the constantly brilliant, yet constantly changing scene which surrounded him, that he had more than once become conscious of a painfully anxious feeling, lest the great object of his existence might be lost merely from the difficulty of selecting the best, amid so much that was desirable.
“JA!” was the syllable which his heart ejaculated in reply to the noble Count Hernwold’s dignified, and in every way flattering proposal; and “ja!” already trembled on his lips, when, by a sudden expansion of intellect, which he immediately felt to be providential, he recollected the solemn condition which must be fulfilled before such a proposal could be accepted.
It would have been difficult, however, for any man to have brought a greater number of stately words together, than the baron contrived to do before he concluded the harangue by which he contrived to make the Count understand, not without some little difficulty, however, that it was not in his power to respond to his polite proposal definitely at that moment.
“How, my Lord Baron?” returned the astonished suitor, waxing wrath and red; “I am not to receive an answer?”
“I must implore you, my Lord Count,” returned the flattered father, in a tone so meek and gracious, that a stranger to him might almost have been beguiled into believing that he considered himself of very little more consequence than all the other great men in the world, “I do beseech you,” said he, “to believe, what, in fact, it is quite impossible to doubt, namely, that no father living, except, perhaps, the few who are crowned kings, could listen to such a proposal as you have now done me the honour to make, without feeling themselves gratified, both as fathers and as nobles, in the very highest degree. Nevertheless, my Lord Count, I trust that I shall stand excused in your eyes, if I venture to repeat that I must petition for as much delay as may be required to announce your magnificent proposals to my daughter.”
Count Hernwold had risen from his chair upon hearing the unpalatable words which informed him that he must wait awhile before he could receive an answer; and he stood face to face before the baron, with an aspect still more haughty than his own; but no sooner did the well-pleased father give him to understand that the delay required, was only for the purpose of making the lady of his choice acquainted with the honour done her, than the whole of the lover’s ample visage became radiant with satisfaction.
Count Hernwold was, beyond all question, a very handsome man, though somewhat approaching to heaviness, both in feature and stature. His ago was that which, in the male, must be considered as the meridian of human life, having just completed his fortieth year; and the smile with which he reseated himself, upon becoming aware that his proposals were to be referred to no harsher tribunal than that of the fair lady’s will, made him look younger and handsomer still.
The interview ended by the most dignified and courteous assurances on both sides, that the cementing the friendly relations which already existed between them, by the union proposed, would be ever considered as the most happy event of their respective lives.
During the time that the unfortunate Gertrude had been making this involuntary conquest, she might fairly have been considered as one of the most unhappy young ladies in Paris.
The first few weeks being over, during which a ceaseless succession of engagements had sometimes amused, and sometimes bewildered her, she first felt weary, very heavily weary, and then very profoundly miserable.
In truth, the self-examination to which she frequently subjected herself, could not well lead to any other result. She would sometimes sit for hours in the well-guarded solitude of her own chamber, and meditate upon her own position, and more minutely still, upon her own conduct.
The writing she read upon the wall was certainly neither flattering, nor consolatory.
Her conscience told her, that let the fruits or the follies of her father be what they might, he was still a loving and most devoted father to her. There was no hollow deception in his love, no mixture of falsehood in any demonstration of it. And having come to this conclusion, she turned her eyes to examine the sketch which her conscience proceeded to draw of herself.
In return for true affection, she paid a heartless seeming of deference, which, cold and the very reverse of loving (as at the best, it must be), had not in her case, even the merit of being sincere; for she felt no real deference for him; nor had she, at the bottom of her heart, the most remote intention of obeying him on any single point of sufficient importance to affect either his happiness, or her own.
Yet though she had courage enough, and truth enough, to enable her to finish this sketch, without leaving out a single fact, or a single thought, that tended to complete it, there was no feeling awakened by it which might lead her to atone for her deficiencies.
“I hate myself!” she murmured to her own ears in contrite bitterness of spirit; but it was a species of contrition that brought more of despair than of repentance with it.
And having reached this point of misery, she started from her chair, paced with a passionate and hasty step the noble room that was appropriated for her private use — examined anew the fastening which ensured her privacy, and then, throwing herself upon her knees, implored Heaven to grant her strength to conquer the fatal passion which had made her such a wretch.
She felt as if her desperate prayer was heard; when she suddenly resolved to tax her memory through the long portion of her past existence, during which her love for Rupert had influenced her every feeling and her every thought, in order to revive the bitter memory of all the proofs which he had demonstrated, that he shared not the madness which destroyed her.
It would have been difficult for her self-accusing spirit to have hit upon a severer penance for her faults.
Rare indeed were the traces left upon her memory of any word, or any look, that could be fairly construed as betraying LOVE; and of such love as she felt for him — not one.
“Is such a life worth having?” she exclaimed.”
“WORTH HAVING!” she repeated, bitterly. “Is not endurable, the better word? Why should any human being submit to the endurance of prolonged life, when conscious that every new day which dawns upon them can only bring a renewal of misery?
“Nature,” she whispered to herself, “Nature has not endowed us with the power to prolong our days, but she has bestowed upon us the power of shortening them.... Why should this power be left us, but for our use and benefit, as all other power is? Oh! what a luxury would it be, to lay my head upon my pillow, knowing that I should sleep, and never wake again to the misery of seeing his cold indifference!”
For a few guilty, dreadful moments, the miserable Gertrude remained with her eyes closed in very frightful reverie; but passion is as sudden in transition, as vehement in demonstration; and the next sob that relieved her throbbing heart, was given to repentance.
Poor girl! with all her vehemence, and all her faults, she was, perhaps, still more deserving of pity than of blame; she was still very young, and most unhappily situated. Madame Odenthal would assuredly have been the confidante of all her feelings, had she not been Rupert’s mother; but such confidence was now impossible. Would it not have been like pleading her cause to HIM, and imploring his love?
“Alas!” sighed poor Gertrude, as she meditated upon the impossibility of confiding her sorrows to this dear and only Mend; “I feel at times as if I were mad enough for anything. And perhaps I am — mad enough for anything but that!”
