by Ouida
It was not very often that these gloomy terrors seized him — his temper was elastic and his mind sanguine; but when they did so they overcame him utterly; he felt like Orestes pursued by the Furies. What smote him most deeply and hardly of all was his consciousness of the wrong done to his wife.
He rode fast and recklessly in the soft, grey atmosphere of the still day, making his young horse leap brawling stream and fallen tree-trunk, and dash headlong through the dusky greenery of the forests.
When he returned Wanda was seated on the lawn under the great yews and cedars by the keep. She kissed her hand to him as he rode in the distance up the avenue.
A little while later he joined her in her garden retreat, calm and even gay. With her greeting his terror seemed to have faded away; his home was here, he possessed her entire devotion — what was there to fear? Never had the serenity of his life here appeared more precise to him; never had the respect and honour which surrounded him seemed more needful as the bulwarks of a contented career. What could the furnace of ambition, the fatigue of exhausted pleasure give, that could equal this profound sense of peace, this cultured leisure, and this untainted atmosphere. The moral loveliness of his wife seemed to him almost more than mortal in its absolute and unconscious rejection of all things mean or base. ‘The world would find the spring by following her,’ seemed to him to have been written for her — the spring of hope, of faith, of strength, of purity. Perhaps a better man might have less intensely perceived and worshipped that spiritual beauty.
‘Shall we have any house-parties this year or not?’ she asked him as he joined her. ‘I fear you must feel lonely here after your crowded days in Paris last year?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Let us be without people. We had enough of the world in Paris, too much of it. How can I be lonely whilst I have you? And the weather for once is superb, and promises to remain so.’
‘I do not know how it seems to you,’ she replied, ‘but when I came from the glare and the asphalte of Paris, these deep shadows, these cool fresh greens, these cloud-bathed mountains seemed to me to have the very calm of eternity in them. They seemed to say to me in such reproach, “Why will you wander? What can you find nobler and gladder than we are?” I want the children to grow up with that love of country in them; it is such a refuge, such an abiding, innocent joy. What does the old English poet say: ‘It is to go from the world as it is man’s to the world as it is God’s.’
‘Well, then, I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree,’
he said, with a smile. ‘Cowley was a very wise man; wiser than Socrates, when all is counted. But, then, Cowley forgot, and you, perhaps, forget that one must be born with that wiser, holier love in one; like any other poetic faculty or insight, it is scarcely to be taught, certainly not to be acquired. I hope your children may inherit it from you. There is no surer safeguard, no simpler happiness!’
‘But since you are content, may it not be acquired?’
‘Ah, my beloved!’ he said with a sigh. ‘Do not compare the retreat of the soldier tired of his wounds, of the gambler wearied by his losses, with the poet or the saint who is at peace with himself and sees all his life long what he at least believes to be the smile of God. Loyola and Francis d’Assisi are not the same thing, are not on the same plane.’
‘What matter what brought them,’ she said softly, ‘if they reach the same goal?’
‘You think any sin may be forgiven?’ he said irrelevantly, with his face averted.
‘That is a very wide question. I do not think S. Augustine himself could answer it in a word or in a moment. Forgiveness, I think, would surely depend on repentance.’
‘Repentance in secret — would that avail?’
‘Scarcely — would it? — if it did not attain some sacrifice. It would have to prove its sincerity to be accepted.’
‘You believe in public penance?’ said Sabran, with some impatience and contempt.
‘Not necessarily public,’ she said, with a sense of perplexity at the turn his words had taken. ‘But of what use is it for one to say he repents unless in some measure he makes atonement?’
‘But where atonement is impossible?’
‘That could never be.’
‘Yes. There are crimes whose consequences can never be undone. What then? Is he who did them shut out from all hope?’
‘I am no casuist,’ she said, vaguely troubled. ‘But if no atonement were possible I still think —— nay, I am sure — a sincere and intense regret which is, after all, what we mean by repentance, must be accepted, must be enough.’
‘Enough to efface it in the eyes of one who had never sinned?’
‘Where is there such an one? I thought you spoke of heaven.’
‘I spoke of earth. It is all we can be sure to have to do with; it is our one poor heritage.’
‘I hope it is but an ante-chamber which we pass through, and fill with beautiful things, or befoul with dust and blood, at our own will.’
‘Hardly at our own will. In your ante-chamber a capricious tyrant waits us all at birth. Some come in chained; some free.’
They were seated at her favourite garden-seat, where the great yews spread before the keep, and far down below the Szalrassee rippled away in shining silver and emerald hues, bearing the Holy Isle upon its waters, and parting the mountains as with a field of light. The impression which had pursued her once or twice before came to her now. Was there any error in his own life, any cruel, crooked twist of circumstance concealed from her? An exceeding tenderness and pity yearned in her towards him as the thought arose. Was he, with all his talent, power, pride, grace, and strength, conscious of fault or failure, weighted with any burden? It seemed impossible. Yet to her fine instinct, her accurate ear, there was in these generalities the more painful, the more passionate, tone of personal remorse. She might have spoken, might once more have said to him what she had once said, and invited him to place a fearless confidence in her affection; but she remembered Olga Brancka; she shrank from seeking an avowal which might be so painful to him and her alike.
At that moment the pretty figure of the Princess Ottilie appeared in the distance, a lace hood over her head, a broad red sunshade held above that, and Sabran rose to go forward and offer her his arm.
‘You are always lovers still, and one is afraid of interrupting you,’ she said, as she took one of the gilded wicker chairs. ‘I have had a letter from Olga Brancka; the post is come in. She says she will honour you in the autumn on her way to waiting at Gödöllö.’
‘It is impossible!’ cried Sabran, who grew first red, then pale.
‘Nothing is impossible with Olga,’ said the Princess, drily. ‘I see even yet you are not acquainted with her many qualities, which include among them a will of steel.’
‘She cannot come here,’ he said in haste under his breath.
Wanda looked at him a moment.
‘My aunt shall tell her that it will not suit us. She can go to Gödöllö by way of Gratz,’ she said quietly.
The Princess shifted her sunshade.
‘What effect do you think that will have? She will cross your mountains, and she will call up a snowstorm by incantation, so that you will be compelled to take her in. You who know so much of the world, Réné, can you inform me how it is that women possess tenacity of will in precise proportion to the frivolity of their lives? All these butterflies have a volition of iron.’
‘It is egotism,’ he replied with effort, unable to recover his astonishment and disgust. ‘Intensely selfish people are always very decided as to what they wish. That is in itself a great force; they do not waste their energies in considering the good of others.’
‘Olga’s energies are certainly not wasted in that direction,’ said Madame Ottilie.
Sabran rose and went in for his letters. It was intolerable to him to hear the name of this woman, whom he had only escaped by brutal violence, spoken in the presence of his wife; and even to hi
m, hardened to the vices of the world though experience had made him, it had never occurred as possible that she would have the audacity to come thither; he had too hastily taken it for granted that conscience would have kept her clear of their path for ever, unless the hazards of society should have brought them perforce together. The most secretive of men is always more sincere than an insincere and crafty woman, and he was overwhelmed for the moment at the infamy and the hardihood of a character which he had flattered himself he had understood at a glance. He forgot the truth that ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
‘There is not a déclassée in Paris who would not have more decency!’ he thought bitterly. He stood in the Rittersaal and affected to be occupied with his letters; but his eyes only followed their lines, his mind was absent. He saw no way to prevent her continued intimacy with them, if she were vile enough to persist in enforcing it. He could not tell Egon Vàsàrhely or Stefan Brancka; a man cannot betray a woman, however base she may be. He could not tell his wife of that hateful hour, which seemed burnt into his brain as aquafortis bites into metal. He shuddered as he thought of her here, in this house which had known so many centuries of honour. He cursed the weak and culpable folly which had first led him into her snares. If he had not dallied with this Delilah, she would have been vile of purpose and of nature in vain. He had escaped her indeed at the last; he had indeed remained faithful in act to his wife; but had it been such fidelity of the soul and the mind as she deserved? Would not even the semi-betrayal bring its punishment soon or late? Could he ever endure to see her beside the woman who so nearly had tempted him? He felt that he would sooner kill the other, as he had threatened, rather than let her set foot across the sacred threshold of Hohenszalras.
‘I knew what she was,’ he thought with endless self-accusation. ‘Why did I ever loiter an hour by her side, why did I ever look once at her hateful eyes?’
If she had been a stranger he would have braved his wife’s scorn of himself and told her all, but when it was her cousin’s wife — one who even had once been in a still nearer relationship to her — he could not do it. It seemed to him as if such nearness of shame would be so horrible to her that he would be included in her righteous hatred of it.
Moreover, long habit had made him reticent, and silence always seemed to him safety.
After some meditation he took his way to the library and there wrote a brief letter. He said in it, with no preamble, ceremony, or courtesy, that he begged to decline for himself and his wife the honour of the Countess Brancka’s presence at Hohenszalras. He sealed it with his arms, and sent a special messenger with it to Matrey. He said nothing of what he had done to his wife or her aunt.
He knew that if his antagonist were so disposed she could make feud between him and her husband for the insult which that curt rejection of her offered visit bore with it. But that did not weigh on him; he would have been glad to have a man to deal with in the matter. All he cared to do was to preserve his home from the pollution of her presence. Moreover, he knew that it would not be like the finesse and secrecy of Olga Brancka to do aught so simple or so frank as to seek the support of her lord.
Meantime, the Princess was saying to his wife:
‘Will you receive Olga? She will not give up her wishes; she will force her way to you.’
‘How can I refuse to receive Stefan’s wife?’
‘It would be difficult, but you would be justified. She endeavoured to draw your husband into an intrigue.’
‘Are we sure? Let us be charitable.’
‘My dear Wanda, you are a truer Christian than I am.’
‘Justice existed before Christianity, if you do not think me profane to say so. I try to be just.’
‘Justice is blind,’ said the Princess, drily. ‘I never understood very well how, being so, she can see her own scales.’
Wanda made no reply. She had not been blind, but she would have never said to any living being all that she had suffered in those weeks when he had stayed behind her in Paris. That he had returned to her blameless she was certain; she had put far behind her for ever the remembrance of those the only hours of anxiety and pain which he had given her since their marriage.
The Princess, communing with herself, wrote a letter to the Countess Brancka, chill and austere, in which she conveyed in delicate, but sufficiently clear, language, her sense that the same roof should not shelter her and Sabran, especially when the roof was that of Hohenszalras. She sent it because she believed it to be her duty to do so, but she had little faith in its efficacy. She would have written also to Stefan Brancka, but she knew him to be a weak, indulgent, careless man, still young, who had been lenient to his wife’s follies and frailties, and who was only kept from ruin by the strong hand of his brother. If she told him what was after all mere conjecture, he might only laugh; if he did not laugh he might kill Sabran in a duel, were his Magyar blood fired by suspicion. No one could be ever sure what Count Stefan would or would not do; the only thing sure was that he would be never wise. To his wife herself he was absolutely indifferent, but this did not prevent him from having occasional moods of furious resentment against her. He was too unstable and too perilous a person to resort to in any difficulty.
In a few days she received her answer, though Sabran received none. It was brief and playful and pathetic.
‘Beloved and reverend Mother, — You never like me, you always lecture me, but I am glad that you honour me by remembrance, even if it be to upbraid. I know not of what mysterious crime you suspect me, nor do I understand your allusions to M. de Sabran. I have always found him charming, and I think if he had not married so rich a woman he would have been eminent in some way; but content slays ambition. Salute Wanda lovingly and the pretty children. How is your little Ottilie? My Mila and Marie are grown out of knowledge. We shall soon have to be thinking of their dots — alas! where will these come from? Stefan and I have been the prey of unjust stewards and extortionate tradesfolk till scarce anything is left except the mine at Schermnitz. Pity me a little, and pray for me much.
‘Your ever devoted
‘OLGA.’
Princess Ottilie was a holy woman, and knew that rage was a sin against herself and heaven, but when she had read this note she tore it in a hundred pieces, and stamped her small foot upon it, trembling with passion the while.
Two months went on; the Countess Olga wrote no more; they deemed themselves delivered from her threatened presence. She had not replied to his refusal to permit her to come thither, and Sabran felt relieved from an intolerable position. Had she persisted, he had decided to make full confession to his wife rather than permit her to receive ignorantly the insult of such a visit.
It was now the end of September, and the weather remained fine and open. He spent a great deal of his time out of doors, and took his old interest in the forests, the stud, and the hunting. The letter of Olga Brancka had brought close to him again the peril from which he had so hardly escaped in Paris, and the peace and sweetness of his home-life seemed the more precious to him by contrast. The high intelligence, the serene temper of his wife, and her profound affection seemed to him treasures for which he could be never grateful enough to fate and fortune; their days passed in tranquil and sunny happiness; but ever and again a word, a look, the merest trifle, sufficed to awake the sleeping snake of remorse which was, dormant in his breast.
One day he took Bela with him when he rode — a rare honour for the child, who rode superbly. His pony kept fair pace with his father’s English hunter, and even the leaping did not scare either it or its rider.
‘Bravo, Bela!’ said Sabran, when they at last drew rein; ‘you ride like a centaur. Is your education advanced enough to know what centaurs were?’
‘Oh! they were what I should love to be,’ replied Bela rapturously. ‘They were joined on to the horse!’
Sabran laughed. ‘Well, a good rider is one with his horse, so you may come very near your ideal. Ulrich has taught you an admirable seat. Y
ou are worthy of your mother in the saddle.’
Bela coloured with pleasure.
‘In the study you are not so, I fear?’ Sabran continued. ‘You do not like learning, do you?’
‘I like some sorts,’ said the child with a little timidity; ‘I like history, knowing what the people did in the other ages. Now the Herr Professor lets us do our lessons out of doors, I do not mind them at all. As for Gela, he likes nothing but books and pictures,’ he added, with a sense of his one grief against his brother.
‘Happy Gela! whatever his fate in life he will never be alone,’ said his father, as he dismounted to let his hunter take breathing space. The child leapt lightly from his saddle, took his little silver folding cup out of his pocket, and drank at a spring, one of the innumerable springs rushing over the mossy stones and flower-filled grass.
‘One is never alone with horses?’ he said shyly, for he never lost his awe of Sabran.
‘Unless one be ill; then a horse is sorry consolation, and books and art are faithful companions.’
‘I have never been ill,’ said Bela, with a little wonder at himself. ‘I do not know what it is like.’
‘It is to be dependent upon others. A hero or a king grows as helpless as a lame beggar when he is ill; you will not escape the common lot; and when you stay in your bed, and your pony in his stall, then you will be glad of Gela and his books.’
‘Oh! I do love Gela always,’ said the child hastily and generously; ‘and the Herr Professor says he is ever — ever — so much cleverer than I am; a million times more clever!’
‘You are clever enough,’ said Sabran. ‘If you do not let yourself be vain and overbearing you will do well. Try and remember that if your pony made a false slip to-day and you fell badly, all your good health would vanish at a stroke, and all your greatness would serve you nothing. You would envy any one of the boys going with whole limbs up into the hills, and, perhaps, all your mother’s love and wealth could do nothing to mend your bones again.’