She laughed bitterly, and a violent burst of tears quenched the fire in her brain. She threw herself down upon the lion's skin, unconsciously representing the Ariadne.

"Loveliest of women!" murmured Herbert, intoxicated by the sight. "Is it not monstrous that such a woman should mourn over an unrequited love? Does he who could withstand such charms deserve the name of man?

No, most certainly not. He is an overstrained pedant, the type of a German Philister, and if blind nature had not endowed him with the head of a Jove and the form of an athlete, the Countess Worronska would never have wasted a tear upon him!"

"Herbert, you shall not revile him! You cannot know how great he seems to me in thus coldly despising my beauty, as though he might choose amongst G.o.ddesses,--as though Olympus were around him, instead of this insignificant town filled with ugly, gossiping women. What a lofty ideal must have filled his fancy,--an ideal with which I could not compete! When he saw me first, he did not know this Hartwich. I remember how cold his eye was when he first saw me. He looked at me with the cool gaze of an anatomist. And it was always so. Whenever he visited my husband, he always treated me with the strictest formality.

Always the same gentle, inviolable repose,--the same calm scrutiny that one accords to a fine picture, but not to a lovely woman. Oh, there is something overpowering, in all this, for a woman used to seeing all men at her feet!" She sank into a gloomy reverie. At last she seized Herbert's hand. "Herbert, who is she who has power to enchant this man?

Is all contest with her useless? Must I resign all hope?"

Herbert, as if electrified by her touch, whispered scarcely audibly, "Will you grant me that kiss if I show you how to annihilate the Hartwich in Mollner's eyes?"

A pause ensued.

"It is my only price. Without it I am dumb."

"Well, take it, then!" cried the countess, driven to extremity; and she held up to him her lovely lips.

But, as Herbert approached her, with the expression of a jackal thirsting for his prey, disgust overpowered the haughty woman, and she thrust the slender man from her so violently that he fell to the ground. She was terrified,--perhaps her impetuosity had ruined everything. She went to him and held out her hand. "Stand up and forgive me."

Herbert stood up, pale as a ghost, with sunken, haggard eyes, and readjusted his dress, disordered by his fall. He wiped the cold drops from his brow with his handkerchief, and, without a word, took up his hat.

The countess regarded his proceedings with alarm. "Herbert," she said with a forced smile, "are you angry with me for being so rude?"

"Oh, no," he answered, in a hoa.r.s.e, hollow tone.

She held out her hand, but he did not take it.

"Do not bear malice against me. I--I am too deeply wounded. I do not know what I am doing."

Herbert was silent. He shivered, as if with cold. His look--the expression of his eyes--alarmed the countess more and more.

"Now you will revenge yourself by not telling me how I can annihilate the Hartwich?"

"Why should I not tell you?" stammered Herbert, with blue lips. "I keep my promises." He fixed his eyes upon the countess. "Make the Hartwich your friend, and you will make her an object of aversion in Mollner's eyes."

The countess started; her terrible glance encountered Herbert's look of hate. They stood now opposed to each other,--enemies to the death,--the effeminate man and the masculine woman. She had offended him mortally, but Herbert's last thrust had gone home; and softly, lightly as an incorporeal shade, he pa.s.sed from the room.

When the countess was alone, she fell upon her knees, as though utterly crushed.

"Thus outraged Virtue revenges herself! Artful hypocrite that she is!

When I left her, she gave me no warning,--I sinned unpunished,--and now, when I would return to her repentant, she thrusts me from her with a remorseless 'Too late!' Too late!--my ships are burned behind me, and there is nothing left for me but to advance, or to repent,--Repent?"

She writhed in despair. "No! O Heaven, take pity on me,--I am still too young and too fair for that!"

CHAPTER VII.

EMANc.i.p.aTION OF THE SPIRIT.

High up upon the platform of her observatory, fanned by the pure night-breeze and bathed in starry radiance, stood Ernestine, waiting for the moon to rise. On her serious brow and in her maidenly soul there was self-consecration, and peace. The heated vapour of pa.s.sion that was gathering like a thunder-cloud about her name in the world beneath her, the poisonous slander of lips that mentioned her only to defame her, could not ascend hither. Unconscious, a.s.sailed by no sordid temptations, she stood there in vestal purity,--elevated physically but a few feet from the earth, but soaring in mind worlds above it.

Slowly and solemnly the moon's disc arose from the horizon and mounted upwards, lonely and quiet, in soft splendour. Thousands of little moons were reflected in the telescopes of astronomers in thousandfold diversity of aspect; but they were all images of the one orb slowly sailing through the air. Ernestine was not busied with her telescope, for no mortal quest could aid her in what she was seeking to-night. It was to be found only in her own breast. It was not the material, but the immaterial, that she was now longing to grasp; no single sense could be of any avail. She needed all the powers of her being harmoniously co-operating. And, as she gazed there, full of dreamy inspiration, it was as if the moon had paused in its course to mirror itself in those eyes. Oh that we could die when and as we choose! that we could breathe out our souls in a single sigh! No human being could pa.s.s away more calmly and blissfully than Ernestine could have done at that moment, as she gazed at that serene moon and breathed forth a yearning sigh after the Unfathomable.

Happiness, pure and unspeakable, descended into her soul from the sparkling canopy of night This was her holiday, her hour of enfranchis.e.m.e.nt from the fetters of toil and study. She was alone beneath the starry sky,--a lone watcher, while all around were sleeping,--thinking while others were unconscious. She seemed to herself appointed to keep guard over the dignity of humanity, while all beside were sunk in slumber. She could rest only when others were roused to consciousness. The fever of night, that brings remorse to so many tossing upon restless couches, never a.s.sailed her. All earthly phantoms recede from the heart bathed in starlight, for in that light there is peace. In view of immensity, eternity is revealed to us, and every earthly pain vanishes like a shadow before it. But when star after star faded, and the moon had paled, the first rosy streak of dawn kissed a brow pale as snow, and a weariness as of death a.s.sailed her.

The sacred fire of her soul had devoured her bodily strength and was extinguished with it. Then she sank to rest silently and uncomplainingly, like the lamps of night at the approach of day. So it was at this hour. As the darkness vanished, she descended to her apartments, and sought in brief repose the strength that would suffice for a day of constant labour.

"The more time I spend in sleep, the less of life do I enjoy," she said in answer to the remonstrances of her anxious attendant. "Everything in the world is so beautiful that we should not lose one moment of it,--so short a time is ours to enjoy it."

"Enjoy! Good heavens! What do you enjoy? you do nothing but work."

"That is my enjoyment, my good Willmers. For my work is nothing less than the constant study and discovery of the beauties of the world. An immortality would not suffice to enjoy it all,--and what can we accomplish in our brief span of existence? Shall we curtail it by sleep? Has not nature, who gives us eighty years of life, robbed us of almost half of it by imposing upon us the necessity of spending from seven to nine hours out of the twenty-four in a state of unconsciousness? I will defy her as long as I can, and maintain my right to enjoy her gift as I please, and not as she please."

Frau Willmers looked with intense anxiety at the pale cheeks of the speaker. As she lay in her bed, white as the snowy draperies around her, her thin hands fallen wearied upon the coverlet, her breath coming short and quick, the faithful servant's heart misgave her; for she saw that nature had already begun to revenge herself for the disobedience of her laws. She covered her up carefully in the soft coverlet. "Do not talk any more, my dear Fraulein von Hartwich,--you are worn out."

"And you are wearied too, my good Willmers. Why do you rise whenever you hear me going to bed?"

"Because I always hope that I may force you, out of consideration for me, to do what you will not do for yourself,--retire earlier and grant yourself the repose which is needful even for the strongest man,--how much more so for such a delicate creature as you are!"

Ernestine languidly held out her hand. "You are kind and unselfish, my dear Willmers, but you cannot understand me. And, if you will insist upon sacrificing your night's rest to me, I must give you a room at a distance from mine, where you cannot hear what I am doing. Thank you for your care. Good-night."

"Good-night," replied the housekeeper sadly, delaying her departure for a moment to draw the curtains closely around Ernestine's bed, that they might exclude the first golden rays of sunlight.

That same night the countess spent tossing, like one scourged by the furies, upon her restless couch. She could hardly wait for the day that should take her to see her rival, and the same rising sun that filled Ernestine's sleep with friendly dreams,--for even in slumber the eye is conscious of light, and communicates it to the soul,--the same rising sun drove the tortured woman from her silken bed. She knew no weariness. Her healthy physical frame, hardened by exercise, withstood every attack of weakness. She owned no restraint, physically, morally, or mentally. She was talented, but she refused to think. Thought was in her view a fetter upon self-indulgence. Knowledge had limits which those who knew nothing were unconscious of. She would be free as the air, and therefore avoided everything that could disturb her superficial security. And she had sufficient intellect to feel that thought might lead to conclusions most dangerous to her theory of life.

"Man's destiny is labour, woman's enjoyment" This was her motto, and she lived up to it. She dazzled the world with the rare spectacle of beautiful power and powerful beauty carrying away like the hurricane in its mad career whatever lies in its path, stripping the leaves from every flower, uprooting every young tree, and bearing them on perhaps for one moment before casting them aside, crushed and dying. A glorious spectacle for exultant Valkyrias, but one at which the common herd cross themselves. Every destructive force of nature--and such was this woman--possesses a shuddering poetic attraction for the on-looker who is himself secure. He admires what he fears, he revels in the sight of what he knows to be destructive. This was the position held by the inhabitants of the little town of N---- towards the beautiful Russian since she had arrived there with her sick husband. With her wild manner of life, she was a wonderful apparition in their eyes, a constant source of interest, yet always provoking sternest disapproval. When the magnificent woman galloped through the streets upon her fiery Arabian, or held the reins behind her pair of horses with a skilful hand, like Victory in her triumphal car, no one could refrain from rushing to the window to enjoy a sight not to be forgotten. Strength, health, and beauty seemed to be her monopoly and the firm foundation of her joyous existence.

"The woman who desires to be emanc.i.p.ated," she was wont to say, "must have the true stuff in her. And as there are so few who possess it, there are but a few who are emanc.i.p.ated. If you cannot compete with a man, do not try to rival him. But she who has been baptized, as I have, in the ice-cold Neva, can afford to laugh at the whole tribe with their masculine arrogance."

In Russia, where she had played her part in a community far less strict, she had had an excellent field for displaying her grace and agility in all knightly exercises at the tilting-school which had been inst.i.tuted by the Russian n.o.bility. There she made her appearance usually in a steel helmet and closely-fitting coat of mail of woven silver that shone in the brilliant sunlight, enveloping her as it were in splendour. When she rode into the lists thus arrayed, a crooked scimitar by her side, pistols in her belt, and mounted upon her Arabian steed, nothing could restrain the loud applause of all present. She rivalled the most distinguished sons of the Russian n.o.bility in the grace and skill with which she managed her horse, the precision of her aim in shooting, and the boldness of her leaps. She knew no fear and no fatigue.

She had the strength and vigour of a Northern divinity, with the glowing temperament of an Oriental. What wonder that, from Emperor to serf, all were her admiring slaves?

Her father, Alexei Fedorowitsch, was a poor and uneducated n.o.ble, who had distinguished himself by his bravery in the war with Napoleon, and, invalided at its close, retired to his small estate in the country, where he lived upon his pension. His wife, a sickly aristocrat, who had condescended to marry him for want of a more desirable _parti_, was the torment of his life. In despair at the trouble and annoyance caused by his wife's delicate health, sensibility, and affectation, he made a vow, when she bore him a daughter, to educate his child to be an utter contrast to her mother. Better that the child should die than live to be such an invalid as his wife. And he began by causing his little daughter to be baptized, like the children of the poorest Russians in that part of the country, in the icy waters of the Neva. The little Feodorowna outlived her icy bath, and her entire education corresponded with this beginning. Her mother died a few days after this cruel baptism; anxiety for her child put the finishing stroke to her invalid existence. And so her rude, uncultured father was her only guide and instructor. He loved her after his fashion, and made her his companion in all his amus.e.m.e.nts, riding, training horses, and the chase.

She was scarcely sixteen when he married her to a wealthy landed proprietor in the neighbourhood, ruder and more illiterate even than himself, and to the girl an object of aversion. As his wife, she lived on his lonely estate like a serf. Her husband was cruel and suspicious, and made her married life perfect torture. She was compelled to resign her free habits of life, which she loved better than all else in the world. Every extravagance, even the most harmless, was forbidden by her husband. The joyous girl who had been used to fly upon the back of her spirited steed over steppe and heath was not allowed to mount a horse, but was made to sit with her maid-servants and spin by the dim light of a train-oil lamp until her husband came home to compel, perhaps by the _kantschu_, her reluctant attention to his wishes. She bore this martyrdom for one year in silence. At last she made a confidant of a neighbouring n.o.bleman, and implored his aid in her great need; but she found no sympathy,--no a.s.sistance. He called her a fool, who did not appreciate her good fortune,--told her that to think of a divorce was a crime, and that her husband was perfectly right. In her utter loneliness, longing for love, if it were only the love of her old father, a desire for freedom and hatred of her tormentor gained the victory, and she fled, without taking anything with her but the few clothes that she had possessed at her marriage. She travelled the greater part of the way on foot, and arrived at her father's in such a wretched condition that he was touched by compa.s.sion, received her kindly, and took her part against her husband. Her suit for divorce left her wholly without means, but free, and when shortly afterwards she came to know the old diplomat Count Worronska, and he laid his rank and his millions at her feet, offering a field for her beauty at court at St. Petersburg, she could not withstand the temptation. She became his wife, and was transplanted from the midst of half-savage serfs to one of the most magnificent courts in the world,--from the Russian forests and steppes to apartments gorgeous with every luxury of life.

At first dazzled and confused, she won all hearts, even those of the women, by her innocent beauty and graceful diffidence. At last her unbridled nature broke forth all the more impetuously for the long restraint under which it had lain, and, with no guidance but that of her imbecile husband, who adored her, she rapidly degenerated in every way. Society always looks more leniently upon those errors that are gradually developed before its eyes and under its protection than upon those that it observes outside of its sphere, because it is cognizant of the excuse for the faults of those within it, and it was all the more willing to pardon the delinquent in this instance for the sake of the high rank of her husband. It therefore ignored escapades that the distinguished position held by the old count forbade it to punish, and the beautiful and enormously wealthy Countess Worronska, in spite of her dissipation, was and continued to be the centre of the most brilliant, if not the best, circle of society in St. Petersburg. All this she had resigned for the last six months, and she had lived like an outlaw, avoided by prudent "German Philisters," in the town of N----, for the sake of the only man whom she truly loved, and who--despised her.

Before the death of her husband she had always been surrounded by a brilliant crowd of gentlemen who had sought her society from the neighbouring famous baths,--acquaintances from St. Petersburg, distinguished Englishmen, Italians, Poles,--in short, the gay, wealthy idlers of every nation that invariably flock around a beautiful woman upon her travels. With these she smoked, rode, and drove,--proceedings that had excited no outcry in the gay world at St. Petersburg, but that called forth shrieks of horror from the women in the little German University-town and greatly excited the students, who were never weary of caricaturing her,--harnessing four horses, and, disguised as women, driving them wildly through the streets, mimicking her foreign admirers, making her bearded servants drunk, and playing many other madcap pranks in ridicule of her.

The universal horror culminated, however, when she did not dress in black after the count's death. People said with a shudder that she had declared that "it seemed to her despicable to play such a farce, and simulate a grief that she did not feel." How could any one so scorn conventionalities, and lay bare the secrets of the heart to the public gaze? Yes, it was even suggested that she had never been married, and they called her the "wild countess,"--much as we speak of wild fruit to distinguish them from those that are genuine. Although injustice was done her in this respect, she deserved the epithet "wild" in every other, and the name clave to her. Even Mollner, who was always ready to find some magnanimous excuse for feminine failings, thought that she ought to show more respect for her septuagenarian husband, and p.r.o.nounced her conduct heartless ostentation. From that moment she lost all interest, if she had ever possessed any, in his eyes. He never noticed that for months no gentleman had been allowed to enter her doors, for he did not think it worth while to observe her actions.

Whoever did observe it ascribed it to chance. The report of her improvement was drowned in the billows of scandal that had been lashed up by her previous conduct. No one believed in her reformation, least of all he for whom she made such sacrifices.

And now the moment had arrived when, for the first time, she found herself helpless, opposed to a higher power,--and the effect of this first collision with invisible barriers upon the untrained heart of the countess was terrible. Hitherto she had recognized only the laws of decorum, and had transgressed them with impunity whenever they had oppressed her. Decorum is almost always subject to the will of individuals and to fashion. But the higher law that hovers over the universe, subject to no human will, to no change,--unchangeable, as is all that is divine,--is the law of _morality_. It was this against which the countess was now struggling, of the existence of which she seemed now first to become aware.

But such a woman could not give up the battle. It was a law of her nature to resist. She could not yield. How could she?--she had never learned submission. She would battle for her desires. As a girl, she had endured hunger and cold for days in the pursuit of the chase, while food and warmth waited for her at home. From her earliest childhood, her will had been trained to iron persistence, and now, when she had again left the comforts and delights of home in pursuit of a far n.o.bler prey, should she desist from the chase because the game belonged to another? Such a course was impossible for such a woman, and, as strength could not avail her here, she resorted to the commonest weapon of the merest flirt,--cunning.