Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (81 page)

‘O, pardon me!’ cried the Colonel.  ‘You have never been expelled from the divinity hall; you have never been broke.  I was: broke for a neglect of military duty.  To tell you the open truth, your Highness, I was the worse of drink; it’s a thing I never do now,’ he added, taking out his glass.  ‘But a man, you see, who has really tasted the defects of his own character, as I have, and has come to regard himself as a kind of blind teetotum knocking about life, begins to learn a very different view about forgiveness.  I will talk of not forgiving others, sir, when I have made out to forgive myself, and not before; and the date is like to be a long one.  My father, the Reverend Alexander Gordon, was a good man, and damned hard upon others.  I am what they call a bad one, and that is just the difference.  The man who cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green hand in life.’

‘And yet I have heard of you, Colonel, as a duellist,’ said Gotthold.

‘A different thing, sir,’ replied the soldier.  ‘Professional etiquette.  And I trust without unchristian feeling.’

Presently after the Colonel fell into a deep sleep and his companions looked upon each other, smiling.

‘An odd fish,’ said Gotthold.

‘And a strange guardian,’ said the Prince.  ‘Yet what he said was true.’

‘Rightly looked upon,’ mused Gotthold, ‘it is ourselves that we cannot forgive, when we refuse forgiveness to our friend.  Some strand of our own misdoing is involved in every quarrel.’

‘Are there not offences that disgrace the pardoner?’ asked Otto.  ‘Are there not bounds of self-respect?’

‘Otto,’ said Gotthold, ‘does any man respect himself?  To this poor waif of a soldier of fortune we may seem respectable gentlemen; but to ourselves, what are we unless a pasteboard portico and a deliquium of deadly weaknesses within?’

‘I? yes,’ said Otto; ‘but you, Gotthold — you, with your interminable industry, your keen mind, your books — serving mankind, scorning pleasures and temptations!  You do not know how I envy you.’

‘Otto,’ said the Doctor, ‘in one word, and a bitter one to say: I am a secret tippler.  Yes, I drink too much.  The habit has robbed these very books, to which you praise my devotion, of the merits that they should have had.  It has spoiled my temper.  When I spoke to you the other day, how much of my warmth was in the cause of virtue? how much was the fever of last night’s wine?  Ay, as my poor fellow-sot there said, and as I vaingloriously denied, we are all miserable sinners, put here for a moment, knowing the good, choosing the evil, standing naked and ashamed in the eye of God.’

‘Is it so?’ said Otto.  ‘Why, then, what are we?  Are the very best — ’

‘There is no best in man,’ said Gotthold.  ‘I am not better, it is likely I am not worse, than you or that poor sleeper.  I was a sham, and now you know me: that is all.’

‘And yet it has not changed my love,’ returned Otto softly.  ‘Our misdeeds do not change us.  Gotthold, fill your glass.  Let us drink to what is good in this bad business; let us drink to our old affection; and, when we have done so, forgive your too just grounds of offence, and drink with me to my wife, whom I have so misused, who has so misused me, and whom I have left, I fear, I greatly fear, in danger.  What matters it how bad we are, if others can still love us, and we can still love others?’

‘Ay!’ replied the Doctor.  ‘It is very well said.  It is the true answer to the pessimist, and the standing miracle of mankind.  So you still love me? and so you can forgive your wife?  Why, then, we may bid conscience “Down, dog,” like an ill-trained puppy yapping at shadows.’

The pair fell into silence, the Doctor tapping on his empty glass.

The carriage swung forth out of the valleys on that open balcony of high-road that runs along the front of Grünewald, looking down on Gerolstein.  Far below, a white waterfall was shining to the stars from the falling skirts of forest, and beyond that, the night stood naked above the plain.  On the other hand, the lamp-light skimmed the face of the precipices, and the dwarf pine-trees twinkled with all their needles, and were gone again into the wake.  The granite roadway thundered under wheels and hoofs; and at times, by reason of its continual winding, Otto could see the escort on the other side of a ravine, riding well together in the night.  Presently the Felsenburg came plainly in view, some way above them, on a bold projection of the mountain, and planting its bulk against the starry sky.

‘See, Gotthold,’ said the Prince, ‘our destination.’

Gotthold awoke as from a trance.

‘I was thinking,’ said he, ‘if there is any danger, why did you not resist?  I was told you came of your free will; but should you not be there to help her?’

The colour faded from the Prince’s cheeks.

CHAPTER III — PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE LAST
IN WHICH SHE GALLOPS OFF

When the busy Countess came forth from her interview with Seraphina, it is not too much to say that she was beginning to be terribly afraid.  She paused in the corridor and reckoned up her doings with an eye to Gondremark.  The fan was in requisition in an instant; but her disquiet was beyond the reach of fanning.  ‘The girl has lost her head,’ she thought; and then dismally, ‘I have gone too far.’  She instantly decided on secession.  Now the
Mons Sacer
of the Frau von Rosen was a certain rustic villa in the forest, called by herself, in a smart attack of poesy, Tannen Zauber, and by everybody else plain Kleinbrunn.

Thither, upon the thought, she furiously drove, passing Gondremark at the entrance to the Palace avenue, but feigning not to observe him; and as Kleinbrunn was seven good miles away, and in the bottom of a narrow dell, she passed the night without any rumour of the outbreak reaching her; and the glow of the conflagration was concealed by intervening hills.  Frau von Rosen did not sleep well; she was seriously uneasy as to the results of her delightful evening, and saw herself condemned to quite a lengthy sojourn in her deserts and a long defensive correspondence, ere she could venture to return to Gondremark.  On the other hand, she examined, by way of pastime, the deeds she had received from Otto; and even here saw cause for disappointment.  In these troublous days she had no taste for landed property, and she was convinced, besides, that Otto had paid dearer than the farm was worth.  Lastly, the order for the Prince’s release fairly burned her meddling fingers.

All things considered, the next day beheld an elegant and beautiful lady, in a riding-habit and a flapping hat, draw bridle at the gate of the Felsenburg, not perhaps with any clear idea of her purpose, but with her usual experimental views on life.  Governor Gordon, summoned to the gate, welcomed the omnipotent Countess with his most gallant bearing, though it was wonderful how old he looked in the morning.

‘Ah, Governor,’ she said, ‘we have surprises for you, sir,’ and nodded at him meaningly.

‘Eh, madam, leave me my prisoners,’ he said; ‘and if you will but join the band, begad, I’ll be happy for life.’

‘You would spoil me, would you not?’ she asked.

‘I would try, I would try,’ returned the Governor, and he offered her his arm.

She took it, picked up her skirt, and drew him close to her.  ‘I have come to see the Prince,’ she said.  ‘Now, infidel! on business.  A message from that stupid Gondremark, who keeps me running like a courier.  Do I look like one, Herr Gordon?’ And she planted her eyes in him.

‘You look like an angel, ma’am,’ returned the Governor, with a great air of finished gallantry.

The Countess laughed.  ‘An angel on horseback!’ she said.  ‘Quick work.’

‘You came, you saw, you conquered,’ flourished Gordon, in high good humour with his own wit and grace.  ‘We toasted you, madam, in the carriage, in an excellent good glass of wine; toasted you fathom deep; the finest woman, with, begad, the finest eyes in Grünewald.  I never saw the like of them but once, in my own country, when I was a young fool at College: Thomasina Haig her name was.  I give you my word of honour, she was as like you as two peas.’

‘And so you were merry in the carriage?’ asked the Countess, gracefully dissembling a yawn.

‘We were; we had a very pleasant conversation; but we took perhaps a glass more than that fine fellow of a Prince has been accustomed to,’ said the Governor; ‘and I observe this morning that he seems a little off his mettle.  We’ll get him mellow again ere bedtime.  This is his door.’

‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘let me get my breath.  No, no; wait.  Have the door ready to open.’  And the Countess, standing like one inspired, shook out her fine voice in ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’; and when she had reached the proper point, and lyrically uttered forth her sighings after liberty, the door, at a sign, was flung wide open, and she swam into the Prince’s sight, bright-eyed, and with her colour somewhat freshened by the exercise of singing.  It was a great dramatic entrance, and to the somewhat doleful prisoner within the sight was sunshine.

‘Ah, madam,’ he cried, running to her — ’you here!’

She looked meaningly at Gordon; and as soon as the door was closed she fell on Otto’s neck.  ‘To see you here!’ she moaned and clung to him.

But the Prince stood somewhat stiffly in that enviable situation, and the Countess instantly recovered from her outburst.

‘Poor child,’ she said, ‘poor child!  Sit down beside me here, and tell me all about it.  My heart really bleeds to see you.  How does time go?’

‘Madam,’ replied the Prince, sitting down beside her, his gallantry recovered, ‘the time will now go all too quickly till you leave.  But I must ask you for the news.  I have most bitterly condemned myself for my inertia of last night.  You wisely counselled me; it was my duty to resist.  You wisely and nobly counselled me; I have since thought of it with wonder.  You have a noble heart.’

‘Otto,’ she said, ‘spare me.  Was it even right, I wonder?  I have duties, too, you poor child; and when I see you they all melt — all my good resolutions fly away.’

‘And mine still come too late,’ he replied, sighing.  ‘O, what would I not give to have resisted?  What would I not give for freedom?’

‘Well, what would you give?’ she asked; and the red fan was spread; only her eyes, as if from over battlements, brightly surveyed him.

‘I?  What do you mean?  Madam, you have some news for me,’ he cried.

‘O, O!’ said madam dubiously.

He was at her feet.  ‘Do not trifle with my hopes,’ he pleaded.  ‘Tell me, dearest Madame von Rosen, tell me!  You cannot be cruel: it is not in your nature.  Give?  I can give nothing; I have nothing; I can only plead in mercy.’

‘Do not,’ she said; ‘it is not fair.  Otto, you know my weakness.  Spare me.  Be generous.’

‘O, madam,’ he said, ‘it is for you to be generous, to have pity.’  He took her hand and pressed it; he plied her with caresses and appeals.  The Countess had a most enjoyable sham siege, and then relented.  She sprang to her feet, she tore her dress open, and, all warm from her bosom, threw the order on the floor.

‘There!’ she cried.  ‘I forced it from her.  Use it, and I am ruined!’  And she turned away as if to veil the force of her emotions.

Otto sprang upon the paper, read it, and cried out aloud.  ‘O, God bless her!’ he said, ‘God bless her.’  And he kissed the writing.

Von Rosen was a singularly good-natured woman, but her part was now beyond her.  ‘Ingrate!’ she cried; ‘I wrung it from her, I betrayed my trust to get it, and ‘tis she you thank!’

‘Can you blame me?’ said the Prince.  ‘I love her.’

‘I see that,’ she said.  ‘And I?’

‘You, Madame von Rosen?  You are my dearest, my kindest, and most generous of friends,’ he said, approaching her.  ‘You would be a perfect friend, if you were not so lovely.  You have a great sense of humour, you cannot be unconscious of your charm, and you amuse yourself at times by playing on my weakness; and at times I can take pleasure in the comedy.  But not to-day: to-day you will be the true, the serious, the manly friend, and you will suffer me to forget that you are lovely and that I am weak.  Come, dear Countess, let me to-day repose in you entirely.’

He held out his hand, smiling, and she took it frankly.  ‘I vow you have bewitched me,’ she said; and then with a laugh, ‘I break my staff!’ she added; ‘and I must pay you my best compliment.  You made a difficult speech.  You are as adroit, dear Prince, as I am — charming.’  And as she said the word with a great curtsey, she justified it.

‘You hardly keep the bargain, madam, when you make yourself so beautiful,’ said the Prince, bowing.

‘It was my last arrow,’ she returned.  ‘I am disarmed.  Blank cartridge,
O mon Prince
!  And now I tell you, if you choose to leave this prison, you can, and I am ruined.  Choose!’

‘Madame von Rosen,’ replied Otto, ‘I choose, and I will go.  My duty points me, duty still neglected by this Featherhead.  But do not fear to be a loser.  I propose instead that you should take me with you, a bear in chains, to Baron Gondremark.  I am become perfectly unscrupulous: to save my wife I will do all, all he can ask or fancy.  He shall be filled; were he huge as leviathan and greedy as the grave, I will content him.  And you, the fairy of our pantomime, shall have the credit.’

‘Done!’ she cried.  ‘Admirable!  Prince Charming no longer — Prince Sorcerer, Prince Solon!  Let us go this moment.  Stay,’ she cried, pausing.  ‘I beg dear Prince, to give you back these deeds.  ‘Twas you who liked the farm — I have not seen it; and it was you who wished to benefit the peasants.  And, besides,’ she added, with a comical change of tone, ‘I should prefer the ready money.’

Both laughed.  ‘Here I am, once more a farmer,’ said Otto, accepting the papers, ‘but overwhelmed in debt.’

The Countess touched a bell, and the Governor appeared.

‘Governor,’ she said, ‘I am going to elope with his Highness.  The result of our talk has been a thorough understanding, and the
coup d’état
is over.  Here is the order.’

Colonel Gordon adjusted silver spectacles upon his nose.  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the Princess: very right.  But the warrant, madam, was countersigned.’

‘By Heinrich!’ said von Rosen.  ‘Well, and here am I to represent him.’