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CHAPTER XII.

Meanwhile  the  baroness  had  spent  several  days  disquieted  by  anxious  fears

and  unsatisfied  curiosity.  Since  the  late  adventure,  the  count’s  demeanor  had

been  altogether  an  enigma  to  her.  His  manner  was  changed:  none  of  his

customary jokes were to be heard. His demands on the company and the servants

had very much abated. Little pedantry or imperiousness was now to be discerned

in him; he was silent and thoughtful, yet withal he seemed composed and placid;

in short, he was quite another man. In choosing the books, which now and then

he  caused  to  be  read  to  him,  those  of  a  serious,  often  a  religious,  cast,  were

pitched  upon;  and  the  baroness  lived  in  perpetual  fright  lest,  beneath  this

apparent  serenity,  a  secret  rancor  might  be  lurking,    —    a  silent  purpose  to

revenge  the  offence  he  had  so  accidentally  discovered.  She  determined,

therefore,  to  make  Jarno  her  confidant;  and  this  the  more  freely,  as  that

gentleman and she already stood in a relation to each other where it is not usual

to be very cautious in keeping secrets. For some time Jarno had been her dearest

friend, yet they had been dexterous enough to conceal their attachment and joys

from  the  noisy  world  in  which  they  moved.  To  the  countess  alone  this  new

romance had not remained unknown; and very possibly the baroness might wish

to get her fair friend occupied with some similar engagement, and thus to escape

the silent reproaches she had often to endure from that noble-minded woman.

Scarcely  had  the  baroness  related  the  occurrence  to  her  lover,  when  he  cried

out laughing, “To a certainty the old fool believes that he has seen his ghost! He

dreads that the vision may betoken some misfortune, perhaps death, to him; and

so he is become quite tame, as all half-men do, in thinking of that consummation

which no one has escaped or will escape. Softly a little! As I hope he will live

long  enough,  we  may  now  train  him  at  least,  so  that  he  shall  not  again  give

disturbance to his wife and household.”

They accordingly, as soon as any opportunity occurred, began talking, in the

presence  of  the  count,  about  warnings,  visions,  apparitions,  and  the  like.  Jarno

played  the  sceptic,  the  baroness  likewise;  and  they  carried  it  so  far,  that  his

lordship  at  last  took  Jarno  aside,  reproved  him  for  his  free-thinking,  and

produced his own experience to prove the possibility, nay, actual occurrence, of

such preternatural events. Jarno affected to be struck, to be in doubt, and finally

to  be  convinced;  but,  in  private  with  his  friend,  he  made  himself  so  much  the

merrier at the credulous weakling, who had thus been cured of his evil habits by

a bugbear, but who, they admitted, still deserved some praise for expecting dire

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calamity, or death itself, with such composure.

“The  natural  result  which  the  present  apparition  might  have  had,  would

possibly have ruffled him!” exclaimed the baroness, with her wonted vivacity; to

which, when anxiety was taken from her heart, she had instantly returned. Jarno

was  richly  rewarded;  and  the  two  contrived  fresh  projects  for  frightening  the

count  still  further,  and  still  further  exciting  and  confirming  the  affection  of  the

countess for Wilhelm.

With this intention, the whole story was related to the countess. She, indeed,

expressed her displeasure at such conduct; but from that time she became more

thoughtful,  and  in  peaceful  moments  seemed  to  be  considering,  pursuing,  and

painting out that scene which had been prepared for her.

The preparations now going forward on every side left no room for doubt that

the  armies  were  soon  to  move  in  advance,  and  the  prince  at  the  same  time  to

change  his  headquarters.  It  was  even  said  that  the  count  intended  leaving  his

castle, and returning to the city. Our players could therefore, without difficulty,

calculate  the  aspect  of  their  stars;  yet  none  of  them,  except  Melina,  took  any

measures  in  consequence:  the  rest  strove  only  to  catch  as  much  enjoyment  as

they could from the moment that was passing over them.

Wilhelm,  in  the  mean  time,  was  engaged  with  a  peculiar  task.  The  countess

had required from him a copy of his writings, and he looked on this request as

the noblest recompense for his labors.

A  young  author,  who  has  not  yet  seen  himself  in  print,  will,  in  such  a  case,

apply no ordinary care to provide a clear and beautiful transcript of his works. It

is  like  the  golden  age  of  authorship:  he  feels  transported  into  those  centuries

when the press had not inundated the world with so many useless writings, when

none but excellent performances were copied, and kept by the noblest men; and

he  easily  admits  the  illusion,  that  his  own  accurately  ruled  and  measured

manuscript  may  itself  prove  an  excellent  performance,  worthy  to  be  kept  and

valued by some future critic.

The prince being shortly to depart, a great entertainment had been appointed

in honor of him. Many ladies of the neighborhood were invited, and the countess

had  dressed  betimes.  On  this  occasion  she  had  taken  a  costlier  suit  than  usual.

Her head-dress, and the decorations of her hair, were more exquisite and studied:

she wore all her jewels. The baroness, too, had done her utmost to appear with

becoming taste and splendor.

Philina, observing that both ladies, in expectation of their guests, felt the time

rather  tedious,  proposed  to  send  for  Wilhelm,  who  was  wishing  to  present  his

manuscript, now completed, and to read them some other little pieces. He came,

and  on  his  entrance  was  astonished  at  the  form  and  the  graces  of  the  countess,

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which her decorations had but made more visible and striking. Being ordered by

the  ladies,  he  began  to  read;  but  with  so  much  absence  of  mind,  and  so  badly,

that, had not his audience been excessively indulgent, they would very soon have

dismissed him.

Every time he looked at the countess, it seemed to him as if a spark of electric

fire  were  glancing  before  his  eyes.  In  the  end  he  knew  not  where  to  find  the

breath he wanted for his reading. The countess had always pleased him, but now

it  appeared  as  if  he  never  had  beheld  a  being  so  perfect  and  so  lovely.  A

thousand  thoughts  flitted  up  and  down  his  soul:  what  follows  might  be  nearly

their substance.

“How foolish is it in so many poets, and men of sentiment as they are called,

to make war on pomp and decoration; requiring that women of all ranks should

wear  no  dress  but  what  is  simple,  and  conformable  to  nature!  They  rail  at

decoration,  without  once  considering,  that,  when  we  see  a  plain  or  positively

ugly  person  clothed  in  a  costly  and  gorgeous  fashion,  it  is  not  the  poor

decoration that displeases us. I would assemble all the judges in the world, and

ask them here if they wished to see one of these folds, of these ribbons and laces,

these  braids,  ringlets,  and  glancing  stones,  removed?  Would  they  not  dread

disturbing the delightful impression that so naturally and spontaneously meets us

here? Yes, naturally I will say! As Minerva sprang in complete armor from the

head of Jove; so does this goddess seem to have stepped forth with a light foot,

in all her ornaments, from the bosom of some flower.”

While  reading,  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  frequently,  as  if  he  wished  to

stamp this image on his soul forever: he more than once read wrong, yet without

falling  into  confusion  of  mind;  though,  at  other  times,  he  used  to  feel  the

mistaking  of  a  word  or  a  letter  as  a  painful  deformity,  which  spoiled  a  whole

recitation.

A  false  alarm  of  the  arrival  of  the  guests  put  an  end  to  the  reading;  the

baroness went out; and the countess, while about to shut her writing-desk, which

was standing open, took up her casket, and put some other rings upon her finger.

“We  are  soon  to  part,”  said  she,  keeping  her  eyes  upon  the  casket:  “accept  a

memorial of a true friend, who wishes nothing more earnestly than that you may

always  prosper.”  She  then  took  out  a  ring,  which,  underneath  a  crystal,  bore  a

little  plait  of  woven  hair  beautifully  set  with  diamonds.  She  held  it  out  to

Wilhelm,  who,  on  taking  it,  knew  neither  what  to  say  nor  do,  but  stood  as  if

rooted to the ground. The countess shut her desk, and sat down upon the sofa.

“And  I  must  go  empty?”  said  Philina,  kneeling  down  at  the  countess’s  right

hand.  “Do  but  look  at  the  man:  he  carries  such  a  store  of  words  in  his  mouth,

when  no  one  wants  to  hear  them;  and  now  he  cannot  stammer  out  the  poorest

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syllable  of  thanks.  Quick,  sir!  Express  your  services  by  way  of  pantomime  at

least;  and  if  to-day  you  can  invent  nothing,  then,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  be  my

imitator.”

Philina seized the right hand of the countess, and kissed it warmly. Wilhelm

sank upon his knee, laid hold of the left, and pressed it to his lips. The countess

seemed embarrassed, yet without displeasure.

“Ah!” cried Philina, “so much splendor of attire, I may have seen before, but

never  one  so  fit  to  wear  it.  What  bracelets,  but  also  what  a  hand!  What  a

neckdress, but also what a bosom.”

“Peace, little cozener!” said the countess.

“Is  this  his  lordship,  then?”  said  Philina,  pointing  to  a  rich  medallion,  which

the countess wore on her left side, by a particular chain.

“He is painted in his bridegroom-dress,” replied the countess.

“Was  he,  then,  so  young?”  inquired  Philina:  “I  know  it  is  but  a  year  or  two

since you were married.”

“His youth must be placed to the artist’s account,” replied the lady.

“He  is  a  handsome  man,”  observed  Philina.  “But  was  there  never,”  she

continued, placing her hand on the countess’s heart, “never any other image that

found its way in secret hither?”

“Thou  art  very  bold,  Philina,”  cried  she:  “I  have  spoiled  thee.  Let  me  never

hear the like again.”

“If  you  are  angry,  then  am  I  unhappy,”  said  Philina,  springing  up,  and

hastening from the room.

Wilhelm still held that lovely hand in both of his. His eyes were fixed on the

bracelet-clasp: he noticed, with extreme surprise, that his initials were traced on

it, in lines of brilliants.

“Have I, then,” he modestly inquired, “your own hair in this precious ring?”

“Yes,” replied she in a faint voice; then, suddenly collecting herself, she said,

and pressed his hand, “Arise, and fare you well!”

“Here is my name,” cried he, “by the most curious chance!” He pointed to the

bracelet-clasp.

“How?” cried the countess: “it is the cipher of a female friend!”

“They are the initials of my name. Forget me not. Your image is engraven on

my heart, and will never be effaced. Farewell! I must be gone.”

He kissed her hand, and meant to rise; but, as in dreams, some strange thing

fades and changes into something stranger, and the succeeding wonder takes us

by surprise; so, without knowing how it happened, he found the countess in his

arms: her lips were resting upon his, and their warm mutual kisses were yielding

them that blessedness which mortals sip from the topmost sparkling foam on the

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freshly poured cup of love.

Her  head  lay  on  his  shoulder:  the  disordered  ringlets  and  ruffles  were

forgotten. She had thrown her arm round him: he clasped her with vivacity, and

pressed her again and again to his breast. Oh that such a moment could but last

forever! And woe to envious Fate that shortened even this brief moment to our

friends!

How terrified was Wilhelm, how astounded did he start from his happy dream,

when  the  countess,  with  a  shriek,  on  a  sudden  tore  herself  away,  and  hastily

pressed her hand against her heart.

He stood confounded before her: she held the other hand upon her eyes, and,

after a moment’s pause, exclaimed, “Away! leave me! delay not!”

He continued standing.

“Leave me!” she cried; and, taking off her hand from her eyes, she looked at

him  with  an  indescribable  expression  of  countenance,  and  added,  in  the  most

tender and affecting voice, “Flee, if you love me.”

Wilhelm was out of the chamber, and again in his room, before he knew what

he was doing.

Unhappy creatures! What singular warning of chance or of destiny tore them

asunder?

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