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CHAPTER VI

The  very  serious  discomfort  which  this  visit  had  caused  to  Charlotte  was  in

some way compensated to her through the fuller insight which it had enabled her

to gain into her daughter’s character. In this, her knowledge of the world was of

no slight service to her. It was not the first time that so singular a character had

come across her, although she had never seen any in which the unusual features

were so largely developed; and she had had experience enough to show her that

such  persons,  after  having  felt  the  discipline  of  life,  after  having  gone  through

something of it, and been in intercourse with older people, may come out at last

really  charming  and  amiable;  the  selfishness  may  soften  and  eager  restless

activity find a definite direction for itself. And therefore, as a mother, Charlotte

was able to endure the appearance of symptoms which for others might perhaps

have been unpleasing, from a sense that where strangers only desire to enjoy, or

at least not to have their taste offended, the business of parents is rather to hope.

After  her  daughter’s  departure,  however,  she  had  to  be  pained  in  a  singular

and unlooked-for manner, in finding that, not so much through what there really

was objectionable in her behavior, as through what was good and praiseworthy

in  it,  she  had  left  an  ill  report  of  herself  behind  her.  Luciana  seemed  to  have

prescribed  it  as  a  rule  to  herself  not  only  to  be  merry  with  the  merry,  but

miserable  with  the  miserable;  and  in  order  to  give  full  swing  to  the  spirit  of

contradiction  in  her,  often  to  make  the  happy,  uncomfortable,  and  the  sad,

cheerful.  In  every  family  among  whom  she  came,  she  inquired  after  such

members of it as were ill or infirm, and unable to appear in society. She would

go  to  see  them  in  their  rooms,  enact  the  physician,  and  insist  on  prescribing

powerful  doses  for  them  out  of  her  own  traveling  medicine-chest,  which  she

constantly  took  with  her  in  her  carriage;  her  attempted  cures,  as  may  be

supposed, either succeeding or failing as chance happened to direct.

In  this  sort  of  benevolence  she  was  thoroughly  cruel,  and  would  listen  to

nothing that was said to her, because she was convinced that she was managing

admirably.  One  of  these  attempts  of  hers  on  the  moral  side  failed  very

disastrously, and this it was which gave Charlotte so much trouble, inasmuch as

it  involved  consequences  and  every  one  was  talking  about  it.  She  never  had

heard of the story till Luciana was gone; Ottilie, who had made one of the party

present at the time, had to give her a circumstantial account of it.

One  of  several  daughters  of  a  family  of  rank  had  the  misfortune  to  have

caused  the  death  of  one  of  her  younger  sisters;  it  had  destroyed  her  peace  of

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mind, and she had never been properly herself since. She lived in her own room,

occupying herself and keeping quiet; and she could only bear to see the members

of  her  own  family  when  they  came  one  by  one.  If  there  were  several  together,

she suspected at once that they were making reflections upon her, and upon her

condition.  To  each  of  them  singly  she  would  speak  rationally  enough,  and  talk

freely for an hour at a time.

Luciana had heard of this, and had secretly determined with herself, as soon as

she got into the house, that she would forthwith work a miracle, and restore the

young lady to society. She conducted herself in the matter more prudently than

usual, managed to introduce herself alone to the poor sick-souled girl, and, as far

as  people  could  understand,  had  wound  her  way  into  her  confidence  through

music.  At  last  came  her  fatal  mistake;  wishing  to  make  a  scene,  and  fancying

that she had sufficiently prepared her for it, one evening she suddenly introduced

the beautiful pale creature into the midst of the brilliant, glittering assembly; and

perhaps,  even  then,  the  attempt  might  not  have  so  utterly  failed,  had  not  the

crowd themselves, between curiosity and apprehension, conducted themselves so

unwisely,  first  gathering  about  the  invalid,  and  then  shrinking  from  her  again;

and  with  their  whispers,  and  shaking  their  heads  together,  confusing  and

agitating her. Her delicate sensibility could not endure it. With a dreadful shriek,

which expressed, as it seemed, a horror at some monster that was rushing upon

her, she fainted. The crowd fell back in terror on every side, and Ottilie had been

one of those who had carried back the sufferer utterly insensible to her room.

Luciana meanwhile, just like herself, had been reading an angry lecture to the

rest of the party, without reflecting for a moment that she herself was entirely to

blame,  and  without  letting  herself  be  deterred  by  this  and  other  failures,  from

going on with her experimentalizing.

The  state  of  the  invalid  herself  had  since  that  time  become  more  and  more

serious; indeed, the disorder had increased to such a degree that the poor thing’s

parents  were  unable  to  keep  her  any  longer  at  home,  and  had  been  forced  to

confide  her  to  the  care  of  a  public  institution.  Nothing  remained  for  Charlotte,

except,  by  the  delicacy  of  her  own  attention  to  the  family,  in  some  degree  to

alleviate  the  pain  which  had  been  occasioned  by  her  daughter.  On  Ottilie,  the

thing made a deep impression. She felt the more for the unhappy girl, as she was

convinced, she did not attempt to deny it to Charlotte, that by a careful treatment

the disorder might have been unquestionably removed.

So  there  came,  too,  as  it  often  happens,  that  we  dwell  more  on  past

disagreeables than on past agreeables, a slight misunderstanding to be spoken of,

which  had  led  Ottilie  to  a  wrong  judgment  of  the  Architect,  when  he  did  not

choose  to  produce  his  collection  that  evening,  although  she  had  so  eagerly

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begged him to produce it. His practical refusal had remained, ever since, hanging

about  her  heart,  she  herself  could  not  tell  why.  Her  feelings  about  the  matter

were undoubtedly just; what a young lady like Ottilie could desire, a young man

like the Architect ought not to have refused. The latter, however, when she took

occasion to give him a gentle reproof for it, had a very valid excuse to offer for

himself.

“If you knew,” he said, “how roughly even cultivated people allow themselves

to  handle  the  most  valuable  works  of  art,  you  would  forgive  me  for  not

producing mine among the crowd. No one will take the trouble to hold a medal

by  the  rim.  They  will  finger  the  most  beautiful  impressions,  and  the  smoothest

surfaces;  they  will  take  the  rarest  coins  between  the  thumb  and  forefinger,  and

rub  them  up  and  down,  as  if  they  were  testing  the  execution  with  the  touch.

Without remembering that a large sheet of paper ought to be held in two hands,

they will lay hold, with one, of an invaluable proof-engraving of some drawing

which cannot be replaced, like a conceited politician laying hold of a newspaper,

and  passing  judgment  by  anticipation,  as  he  is  cutting  the  pages,  on  the

occurrences  of  the  world.  Nobody  cares  to  recollect  that  if  twenty  people,  one

after the other, treat a work of art in this way, the one-and-twentieth will not find

much to see there.”

“Have not I often vexed you in this way?” asked Ottilie. “Have not I, through

my carelessness, many times injured your treasures?”

“Never  once,”  answered  the  Architect,  “never.  For  you  it  would  be

impossible. In you the right thing is innate.”

“In any case,” replied Ottilie, “it would not be a bad plan, if in the next edition

of the book of good manners, after the chapters which tell us how we ought to

eat  and  drink  in  company,  a  good  circumstantial  chapter  were  inserted,  telling

how to behave among works of art and in museums.”

“Undoubtedly,”  said  the  Architect;  “and  then  curiosity-collectors  and

amateurs  would  be  better  contented  to  show  their  valuable  treasures  to  the

world.”

Ottilie  had  long,  long  forgiven  him;  but  as  he  seemed  to  have  taken  her

reproof  sorely  to  heart,  and  assured  her  again  and  again  that  he  would  gladly

produce everything — that he was delighted to do anything for his friends — she

felt  that  she  had  wounded  his  feelings,  and  that  she  owed  him  some

compensation. It was not easy for her, therefore, to give an absolute refusal to a

request which he made her in the conclusion of this conversation, although when

she  called  her  heart  into  counsel  about  it,  she  did  not  see  how  she  could  allow

herself to do what he wished.

The  circumstances  of  the  matter  were  these:  Ottilie’s  exclusion  from  the

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picture-exhibition by Luciana’s jealousy had irritated him in the highest degree;

and at the same time he had observed with regret, that at this, the most brilliant

part of all the amusements at the castle, ill health had prevented Charlotte from

being  more  than  rarely  present;  and  now  he  did  not  wish  to  go  away  without

some  additional  proof  of  his  gratitude,  which,  for  the  honor  of  one  and  the

entertainment  of  the  other,  should  take  the  thoughtful  and  attractive  form  of

preparing a far more beautiful exhibition than any of those which had preceded

it. Perhaps, too, unknown to himself, another secret motive was working on him.

It  was  so  hard  for  him  to  leave  the  house,  and  to  leave  the  family.  It  seemed

impossible to him to go away from Ottilie’s eyes, under the calm, sweet, gentle

glance  of  which  the  latter  part  of  the  time  he  had  been  living  almost  entirely

alone.

The Christmas holidays were approaching; and it became at once clear to him

that the very thing which he wanted was a representation with real figures of one

of those pictures of the scene in the stable — a sacred exhibition such as at this

holy season good Christians delight to offer to the divine Mother and her Child,

of the manner in which she, in her seeming lowliness, was honored first by the

shepherds and afterward by kings.

He  had  thoroughly  brought  before  himself  how  such  a  picture  should  be

contrived.  A  fair,  lovely  child  was  found,  and  there  would  be  no  lack  of

shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  But  without  Ottilie  the  thing  could  not  be  done.

The young man had exalted her in his design to be the mother of God, and if she

refused,  there  was  no  question  but  the  undertaking  must  fall  to  the  ground.

Ottilie,  half  embarrassed  at  the  proposal,  referred  him  and  his  request  to

Charlotte.  The  latter  gladly  gave  her  permission,  and  lent  her  assistance  in

overcoming  and  overpersuading  Ottilie’s  hesitation  in  assuming  so  sacred  a

personality.  The  Architect  worked  day  and  night,  that  by  Christmas-eve

everything might be ready.

Day and night, indeed, in the literal sense. At all times he was a man who had

but few necessities; and Ottilie’s presence seemed to be to him in the place of all

delicacies. When he was working for her, it was as if he required no sleep; when

he was busy about her, as if he could do without food. Accordingly, by the hour

of  the  evening  solemnity,  all  was  completed.  He  had  found  the  means  of

collecting  some  well-toned  wind  instruments  to  form  an  introduction,  and

produce  the  desired  temper  of  thought  and  feeling.  But  when  the  curtain  rose,

Charlotte was taken completely by surprise. The picture which presented itself to

her  had  been  repeated  so  often  in  the  world,  that  one  could  scarcely  have

expected  any  new  impression  to  be  produced.  But  here,  the  reality  as

representing  the  picture  had  its  especial  advantages.  The  whole  space  was  the

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color rather of night than of twilight, and there was nothing even of the details of

the  scene  which  was  obscure.  The  inimitable  idea  that  all  the  light  should

proceed  from  the  child,  the  artist  had  contrived  to  carry  out  by  an  ingenious

method  of  illumination  which  was  concealed  by  the  figures  in  the  foreground,

who  were  all  in  shadow.  Bright  looking  boys  and  girls  were  standing  around,

their  fresh  faces  sharply  lighted  from  below;  and  there  were  angels  too,  whose

own  brilliancy  grew  pale  before  the  divine,  whose  ethereal  bodies  showed  dim

and  dense,  and  needing  other  light  in  the  presence  of  the  body  of  the  divine

humanity. By good fortune the infant had fallen asleep in the loveliest attitude,

so that nothing disturbed the contemplation when the eye rested on the seeming

mother, who with infinite grace had lifted off a veil to reveal her hidden treasure.

At  this  moment  the  picture  seemed  to  have  been  caught,  and  there  to  have

remained  fixed.  Physically  dazzled,  mentally  surprised,  the  people  round

appeared to have just moved to turn away their half-blinded eyes, to be glancing

again toward the child with curious delight, and to be showing more wonder and

pleasure than awe and reverence — although these emotions were not forgotten,

and were to be traced upon the features of some of the older spectators.

But Ottilie’s figure, expression, attitude, glance, excelled all which any painter

has  ever  represented.  A  man  who  had  true  knowledge  of  art,  and  had  seen  this

spectacle, would have been in fear lest any portion of it should move; he would

have doubted whether anything could ever so much please him again. Unluckily,

there  was  no  one  present  who  could  comprehend  the  whole  of  this  effect.  The

Architect  alone,  who,  as  a  tall,  slender  shepherd,  was  looking  in  from  the  side

over those who were kneeling, enjoyed, although he was not in the best position

for seeing, the fullest pleasure. And who can describe the mien of the new-made

queen of heaven? The purest humility, the most exquisite feeling of modesty, at

the  great  honor  which  had  undeservedly  been  bestowed  upon  her,  with

indescribable  and  immeasurable  happiness,  was  displayed  upon  her  features,

expressing as much her own personal emotion as that of the character which she

was endeavoring to represent.

Charlotte was delighted with the beautiful figures; but what had most effect on

her was the child. Her eyes filled with tears, and her imagination presented to her

in  the  liveliest  colors  the  hope  that  she  might  soon  have  such  another  darling

creature on her own lap.

They  had  let  down  the  curtain,  partly  to  give  the  exhibitors  some  little  rest,

partly to make an alteration in the exhibition. The artist had proposed to himself

to transmute the first scene of night and lowliness into a picture of splendor and

glory;  and  for  this  purpose  had  prepared  a  blaze  of  light  to  fall  in  from  every

side, which this interval was required to kindle.

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Ottilie, in the semi-theatrical position in which she found herself, had hitherto

felt  perfectly  at  her  ease,  because,  with  the  exception  of  Charlotte  and  a  few

members  of  the  household,  no  one  had  witnessed  this  devout  piece  of  artistic

display.  She  was,  therefore,  in  some  degree  annoyed  when  in  the  interval  she

learnt that a stranger had come into the saloon, and had been warmly received by

Charlotte.  Who  it  was  no  one  was  able  to  tell  her.  She  therefore  made  up  her

mind not to produce a disturbance, and to go on with her character. Candles and

lamps  blazed  out,  and  she  was  surrounded  by  splendor  perfectly  infinite.  The

curtain  rose.  It  was  a  sight  to  startle  the  spectators.  The  whole  picture  was  one

blaze of light; and instead of the full depth of shadow, there now were only the

colors  left  remaining,  which,  from  the  skill  with  which  they  had  been  selected,

produced  a  gentle  softening  of  tone.  Looking  out  under  her  long  eyelashes,

Ottilie perceived the figure of a man sitting by Charlotte. She did not recognize

him; but the voice she fancied was that of the Assistant at the school. A singular

emotion came over her. How many things had happened since she last heard the

voice of him, her kind instructor. Like a flash of forked lightning the stream of

her joys and her sorrow rushed swiftly before her soul, and the question rose in

her  heart:  Dare  you  confess,  dare  you  acknowledge  it  all  to  him?  If  not,  how

little  can  you  deserve  to  appear  before  him  under  this  sainted  form;  and  how

strange must it not seem to him who has only known you as your natural self to

see  you  now  under  this  disguise?  In  an  instant,  swift  as  thought,  feeling  and

reflection  began  to  clash  and  gain  within  her.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while

she  forced  herself  to  continue  to  appear  as  a  motionless  figure,  and  it  was  a

relief,  indeed,  to  her  when  the  child  began  to  stir  —  and  the  artist  saw  himself

compelled to give the sign that the curtain should fall again.

If the painful feeling of being unable to meet a valued friend had, during the

last few moments, been distressing Ottilie in addition to her other emotions, she

was now in still greater embarrassment. Was she to present herself to him in this

strange disguise? or had she better change her dress? She did not hesitate — she

did the last; and in the interval she endeavored to collect and to compose herself;

nor  did  she  properly  recover  her  self-possession  until  at  last,  in  her  ordinary

costume, she had welcomed the new visitor.

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