Nor was she, on this occasion, under any necessity of affecting what she did not feel, which, to do her justice, was a great relief to her. She painted her own situation very nearly such as it really was, described the heavy charge which the loss of her mother had brought upon her, with equal truth and feeling, and concluded her appeal by quietly desiring her humble, but sympathising friend, to paint to herself what her condition would be, if, upon her refusing the situation thus offered to her, her father should take upon himself the task of choosing another to fulfil it.
Both Gertrude and Madame Odenthal, with equal propriety and good feeling, avoided all broad allusions to the peculiarities which might be likely to render his selection a source of suffering; but she ended this appeal by saying, “Remember what my mother was! Remember how she loved me! — and remember, too, as freshly as I do, how she loved you! And having dwelt a little on these thoughts, refuse, if you can, to come between me and the suffering which must fall upon me, as the inevitable consequence of such refusal.”
The eyes of Madame Odenthal filled with tears, as she looked at, and listened to, her.
“I am afraid you know, my dear,” she replied, “that I have not strength of mind enough to refuse you; and, in truth, it is only my belief in your having greater firmness than myself, which can at all justify my yielding. It is you, dear child, who must teach me the way I am to go, and not I who must teach you. Of course, I am not alluding to any matters of importance, for, on such points, I do truly believe that there can never be any difference of opinion between us. But it is concerning all matters of etiquette that you will find me so utterly ignorant as may, I fear, be very inconvenient to you.”
“I have no doubt you are right, Madame Odenthal,” replied Gertrude, very frankly. “The probability of this inconvenience has not escaped me; but having been very ceremoniously brought up myself, I have all the routine of ceremony at my fingers’ ends; and if you, my dear Madame Odenthal, will condescend to learn from me the recondite mysteries of entrances and exits, and when to walk forward, and when to walk backwards, and all the ingenious varieties of bowings and bendings, from the angle which threatens absolute prostration, to the rapid little miniature dip, skilfully imitated from the graceful curtsey of a jointed doll, — if you will first give your whole heart and intellect to this branch of aristocratic learning, you will find all the rest extremely easy. You will have, indeed, to put your fingers in a particular angle at the distance of about an inch from your lips, and make them perform a sort of pantomimic manoeuvre, which means, by being interpreted, a vast variety of both courteous and affectionate greetings. But, in short, my dear, kind friend, if you do but love me well enough to put your common sense upon the shelf for a few moments, now and then, while I am exerting my somewhat dormant energies in giving you lessons in the fine arts, I have not the slightest doubt that we shall both of us be admired as most distinguished individuals, wherever we go.”
There was really as much truth as playfulness in all this; and when the grateful and kind-hearted Madame Odenthal had once made up her mind to believe that by accepting the situation offered to her, she might really contribute to the comfort of the motherless Gertrude, there were no more difficulties to be conquered.
Gertrude very faithfully kept her promise, and became an admirable mistress of forms and ceremonies; and, as the tall slight form of Madame Odenthal, and her fine features, were happily the reverse of everything described by the tremendous epithet, vulgar-looking, the wilful heiress not seldom congratulated herself upon the undaunted courage she had displayed in venturing to select for her chaperon, one of the very last people in the world, whom any one living in the world (but herself,) would have thought of installing in such an office. And yet, it is very possible that she selected the only person who could have filled it, without becoming, in some way or other, an annoyance to her.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE clever train of argument by which the young baroness had contrived to convince her father that he assuredly had the power of making any one great, whom it was his will to declare so, had proved very perfectly satisfactory; but nevertheless he was, as he privately confessed to his daughter, a good deal surprised at the appearance of Madame Odenthal, on the first occasion that he saw her officiate in fall dress, as her companion and dame de compagnie.
The mournful period of strict domestic seclusion being over, Gertrude, who knew her father well, had determined to profit by this first occasion, in order at once to produce the effect which she felt might be of so much serious importance to her future comfort.
The baron had invited a rather large party of noble neighbours, in honour of the highly distinguished guest of one of them, who had favoured the neighbourhood with his presence, for the purpose of enjoying the field sports for which it was celebrated.
As Gertrude had no intention of introducing Madame Odenthal as a relative, there was no occasion for her being in mourning; but nevertheless the young lady in selecting her dress, the choice of which was referred with laughing indifference wholly to her, decided that she should wear black velvet, which, though not mourning, might pass as that of a distant connection, or very intimate family friend.
If Gertrude had been an artist, she could not have dressed her friend with more successful effect.
In a word, the wilful girl being determined that nothing should be wanting to produce the effect she desired, had contrived to make the poor, but still very handsome widow, look exceedingly like a somewhat reserved, but very pleasing woman of fashion.
In order to avoid the possibility of her father’s betraying any inconvenient feeling of astonishment on first beholding the metamorphosis thus produced, Gertrude had contrived that the baron should be in her dressing-room when Madame Odenthal, according to promise, entered it in full costume, in order to know if the final arrangements of Teresa were approved.
The old gentleman’s first movement was to rise from his chair, and make her a profound bow; but his next, which was produced by her venturing to smile as she perceived his mistake, was to stagger back to his chair, very much as he might have done if she had pushed him into it.
He speedily recovered himself, however, and as he was not a man to be long awed by the aspect of any nobility only accorded by Heaven, he said to his daughter, without any sort of ceremony, “I should wish to speak with you alone, my dear Gertrude.” —
Whereupon Madame Odenthal glided from the room with the very least delay possible.
“Upon my word, my love, this is one of the most extraordinary things that I ever remember to have witnessed,” said he. “It certainly is very extraordinary! Very extraordinary indeed! I am quite aware that I have influence, my dear Gertrude, but I will frankly confess to you, my child, that I had no idea, till you pointed it out to me, of the sort of influence which it is evident I possess upon the appearance and manners of those who approach me.”
“You see then, that I was right, papa, about Madame Odenthal. I felt quite sure that if you placed her in the situation she now holds in your family, a very short time would suffice to make her, both in manner and appearance, all that you would wish her to be.”
“You were right in so thinking, Gertrude,” he replied, with great solemnity; “and I have no doubt, my dear,” he added, “that you were also right in the reason you gave for thinking so. You said, as I well remember, that I ought to be the source of dignity to those around me, and not to receive it from them.”
“Yes, papa, and I think so still,” replied his daughter, gravely.
Thus far everything had succeeded so perfectly according, to the wishes of the young lady, that there really seemed to be some danger of her following her father’s example, and fancying that her will was to be law in all things.
There was still, however, one more experiment to he made, before she could feel quite certain that her self-willed contrivances respecting the station which she wished Madame Odenthal to fill, would be approved by her son.
Rupert h
ad never yet seen his gentle mother robed in black velvet, and looking like a duchess; and she had some slight doubts as to his approving for her, what seemed to have so near an approach to child’s play. It was therefore not quite without a little nervous agitation that she awaited an occasion of this first dinner party, the moment of his entering the drawing-room.
She might have spared herself this annoyance, if it was one, by having contrived that he, as well as the baron, should see her in her robes of office in private. But, for some fanciful reason or other, Gertrude did not choose this, and, on the contrary, had made Madame Odenthal promise that she would carefully avoid his doing so.
It was not therefore till he entered the drawing-room, after the last guest had arrived, on the day I am describing, that this wonderful metamorphosis met his eye.
At the first glance he positively did not know her. He only saw before him a very handsome, middle-aged lady of fashion; but when she met his gaze, he felt that it was his mother who smiled upon him, and he certainly felt also, that any man might be proud of such a mother.
And then his eye glanced, almost involuntarily, from her to the young baroness.
The glance which he met in return, seemed sparkling with a sort of happy triumph which was quite unintelligible, unless this wondrous change was her own work.
Gertrude had not intended that he should discover this, and had hinted as much to Madame Odenthal, who, on her part, had kept her promise of secrecy very faithfully, considering it only, as a playful whim.
But though Madame Odenthal was faithful to her, she was not faithful to herself; for her sparkling eye, her brilliant colour, and her involuntary, but most radiant smile, revealed the secret.
Thus much it is easy to tell; but it is less so to explain why his discovery of its being the will, or whim, of the heiress of Schwanberg, to render his mother the most distinguished-looking person in the society, should produce so great a change in all his own feelings towards her.
The philosophical part of the world tell us, that we are all of us what circumstances make us; and this is true, if we go far enough back to look for the circumstances: but in the case of Gertrude, it was scarcely needful to go farther back than her own birth. Her mother was a very admirable person in many ways; and Rupert was quite sufficiently aware of this, to think it highly probable that Gertrude, also, would turn out to be an admirable person in many ways.
But, on the other hand, he was equally well aware of what her father was; and the occasional uncertainty of temper and demeanour, which he had for some time remarked in the great man’s heiress, was easily, he thought, accounted for, by her equally near relationship to him.
But he found it very difficult to bring this theory to bear upon the whim which had now seized her.
That there was a strong mutual attachment between Gertrude and his mother, there could be no doubt. During the whole period of the baroness’s illness, the thoughtful kindness with which each had sought to spare fatigue and suffering to the other, had been marked by him with equal pleasure and admiration. But her insisting upon it, that his mother should be made to look like a duchess, could have nothing to do with such feelings as were manifested then.
This new whim, certainly, was very puzzling; nor was the effect upon himself less so.
Why did he now, for the first time, discover that his friend, Adolphe Steinfeld, was right, in thinking the eyes of Gertrude not only more beautiful than those of her lovely mother, but very decidedly more beautiful, also, than those of the nymph of the fountain, or of any other nymph that benignant nature had ever created to embellish the earth?
It was a thrilling, and a very strange sort of sensation which shot though his heart, as the new-born doubt arose in his mind as to his long established belief, that Gertrude inherited her father’s been mistaken?” was a question which, though only propounded by himself, produced a very powerful effect upon his spirits.
The party which was assembled that day at Schloss Schwanberg was rather a brighter one than usual; for it so chanced that one of the baron’s noble neighbours had with him a newly-married young couple, as guests, who were well calculated to embellish and enliven any party. The bridegroom was French, and the bride English; and it had but seldom happened in that very noble neighbourhood that an evening was passed with so. near an approach to social enjoyment.
Though the English bride spoke French with tolerable facility, she freely confessed, that she greatly preferred speaking English; and upon hearing Madame Odenthal address her son in that language, she immediately placed herself beside her, and smilingly hailed her as a country-woman.
It is probable that people of all lands speak their own language more gracefully than any other; and the English stranger, who was herself too lovely not to be an object of attention, soon made Madame Odenthal share this honour with her; for the bride seemed very greatly to enjoy the pleasant lang syne recollections of her early English days, concerning scenes which the elder lady could report of quite freshly, from having visited them more recently.
While this was going on in one part of the room, the husband of the beautiful bride was vaunting with great energy in another, the extraordinary beauty of his lady’s voice, boldly declaring, that she had no reason to shrink from competition either with the voices of Germany or of Italy. Whereupon, the young baroness Gertrude so earnestly expressed her hope that she would kindly place herself at the excellent pianoforte, which stood ready for use in the middle of the room, that the proud bridegroom could not resist the temptation of insisting upon it that she should do so, and sing a certain English song, which, as he said, had greatly contributed to the good work of converting her into a French wife.
The pretty bride, who was really as free from all sorts of affectation as it was well possible for a pretty bride to be, made but a feeble resistance, and concluded her smiling remonstrance by saying, that if Madame Odenthal would sit by her, she would consent; for that she had a sad trick of forgetting the words of a song, and that in such a case she could only hope for help from a country-woman.
So saying, she passed her arm under that of the dame de compagnie, and they proceeded together to the pianoforte.
Her enamoured young husband had really said very little more in praise of her singing than it deserved; and she performed the song he asked for, not only in very good style, but without requiring the aid of her country-woman to prompt her.
The usual effect of such a performance, of course, followed, and Madame de Hauteville was earnestly entreated to sing again; and then, the genuine love of music being strong within her, she declared herself quite ready to sing again, provided some one else would sing also. Whereupon, Gertrude playfully and gracefully offered her services; and though her performance was by no means equal in excellence to that of her guest, it was good enough to deserve, and receive applause, as well as to justify the eager claim for another song, from Madame de Hauteville.
“Do you ever sing English, dear baroness?” demanded the bride.
“Alas! no,” answered Gertrude “I wish I did!”
“I wish so too, my dear, as in that case we might manage a duet together,” replied Madame de Hauteville. “Is there nobody,” she added, turning to Madame Odenthal, who was standing near her; “is there nobody here who could manage to sing this with me?” pointing, as she spoke, to a page which she had opened in a miscellaneous volume of music, which lay on the pianoforte.
Gertrude only answered by dolefully shaking her head; but Madame Odenthal smiled, and looked towards her son, who, with several others, was standing near the instrument.
The lively English lady caught the smile, and immediately interpreted it.
“That gentleman sings, does he?” said she. “Then pray present him, and I will try to persuade him to sing this duet with me.”
Now it so happened, that during the whole of Rupert’s long residence at the castle, nobody in it had ever heard him sing — for nobody in it had ever asked him to do so; but the fact was, t
hat ne had not only great love for music, but he had also a very fine voice, and though with little science, possessed sufficient taste to enable him to sing very charmingly.
His priestly uncle was, in the sacred line, a very good musician also, and possessed, German-like, a very tolerable pianoforte, by the help of which, he had not only taught his young parishioners to sing abundance of canticles, but had made his nephew a very tolerable musician.
As neither his mother, however, his uncle, nor himself, had ever conceived the idea that this very ordinary rational faculty could be of any essential use to him, he had been rather permitted, than encouraged to indulge it; and excepting occasionally in the long-day season, when he rose with the lark, he had rarely profited by the remote situation of the library, in which Gertrude’s practising piano stood, in order to indulge himself by the sound of it.
But, notwithstanding all this well-behaved prudence, Rupert loved music quite well enough to enjoy exceedingly this very novel mode of passing an evening in the stiff drawing-room of Schloss Schwanberg. Nevertheless, he was a good deal startled by Madame de Hauteville’s abrupt demand upon him, and for a moment scarcely knew how to answer her. The baron, indeed, was so completely occupied in explaining to the nobleman of the highest rank in the company the manner in which he administered the territorial laws of the domain around him, that Rupert was quite aware that he ran no risk of offending him, either by granting or refusing the request so eagerly made to him.
But the idea that either his mother, or Gertrude, should think he blundered in his manner of replying to this very unexpected demand, was annoying.
If the thing had happened the day before, it would have been the eye of his mother that he would have sought, in order to ask for counsel; but now it was not to her, but to the young baroness that his first glance was directed; and the appeal was answered by a look of such radiant satisfaction, and bright encouragement, that he had bowed his consent almost before he knew what he was doing.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 446