Elective Affinities (28 page)

It was in his presence that the women first really learned to appreciate their surroundings. His experienced eye took in every effect as if it were brand new and he took all the greater pleasure in what had been effected in that he had not known the place before and hardly knew how to tell what had been done artificially from what nature had provided.

It could well be said that his observations enlarged and enriched the park. He knew in advance what the new struggling plantations promised. No spot escaped his notice where some kind of beauty might be introduced or brought into prominence. Here he drew attention to a spring which, made clear and bright, promised to ornament a whole group
of bushes, there to a cavern which, cleared and enlarged, could provide a much desired resting place, while they had only to fell a few trees to gain a view from it of magnificent cliffs towering up. He congratulated the occupiers that they had so much work left to do and begged them not to hurry it but to reserve for the coming years the pleasure of this creating and contriving.

Outside these companionable hours he was, moreover, in no way a burden, for he occupied himself the greater part of the day in capturing the picturesque views of the park in a portable
camera obscura
and then drawing them, thus preserving for himself and others the fruit of his travels. He had been doing this for many years in every significant region he visited and had thus provided himself with the most pleasant and interesting collection. He showed the ladies a big portfolio he carried with him and entertained them with the pictures and his commentary on them. They were delighted to range through the world thus comfortably in their solitude and to watch coasts and harbours, mountains, lakes and rivers, cities, castles and many another spot with a name in history moving before their eyes.

Each of the two women had a special interest: Charlotte’s was more general, she was interested in those places where something historically noteworthy had taken place, while Ottilie preferred to dwell on those regions of which Eduard had used to speak, where he liked to stay, whither he often returned; for every man has certain places, near and distant, which attract him, which, in accordance with his nature, especially appeal to or excite him, whether because of the first impression they made on him, or because of certain circumstances connected with them, or because he is used to them.

She would therefore ask the English nobleman what places he liked best and where he would now make his home if he had to choose. He could then point to more than one lovely
spot and in his singular French expound to them what had happened to him there to render the place dear to him.

But to the question where he usually stayed now, where he most liked to return to, he replied without hesitation, yet to the surprise of the ladies: ‘I have got myself used to being at home everywhere, and by now nothing contents me more than that others should build and plant and make domestic arrangements on my behalf. I have no desire to return to my own estate, partly on political grounds but chiefly because my son, for whose sake I really built it up, to whom I hoped to bequeath it, and with whom I hoped to enjoy it during my lifetime, has no interest in any of it, but has taken himself off to India, where, like many another, he proposes to devote his life to higher ends, or even to throw it away altogether.

‘We expend far too much on paving our way through life, and that is a fact. Instead of settling down right away to enjoy ourselves in moderate circumstances, we expand more and more and make things more and more uncomfortable for ourselves. Who now has the benefit of my buildings, my park, my gardens? Not I, not even my family: unfamiliar visitors, inquisitive strangers, travellers passing through.

‘Even when we are well off we are never more than half at home, especially when we are in the country, where we lack so much we are used to in town. The book we particularly want is not to hand, and precisely what we need most has been forgotten. We never set up house but we go dashing off out of it again, and if it is not our own will and fancy that drives us out, chance, necessity, passion, circumstances and I don’t know what else drives us out instead.’

The nobleman had no suspicion how nearly he had touched his lady friends by these observations. And how often may any of us not run into like danger if we venture some general observation, even in company whose circumstances are, except on this one point, known to us? A chance hurt of this sort, even from people who meant no harm, was nothing new
to Charlotte, and in any event she saw the world so clearly that she felt no special pain if anyone inconsiderately compelled her to turn her eyes upon this or that unpleasantness. Ottilie, on the other hand – who in her half-aware youthfulness was given more to intuition than observation, and might, indeed must turn her eyes away from what she did not want and ought not to see – Ottilie was thrown into a terrible state by these confidences: they tore the veil from her eyes and it seemed to her now that all that had been done for the home and the household, for the garden and the park, and for all the domain around, had been done utterly in vain, because he to whom it all belonged could not enjoy it, because he too, like this present guest, had been driven by his nearest and dearest out to roam the world and, yes, out to face the greatest of the world’s dangers. She was used to listening and keeping silent, but this time she found her situation an agony which was rather exacerbated than eased by the stranger’s further discourse, which he cheerfully proceeded with in his cautious and idiosyncratic French.

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that I am now on the right path. I regard myself at all times simply as a traveller who gives up much so as to enjoy much. I have grown accustomed to change, indeed it has become a necessity to me, just as at the opera you always expect to find a new scene and set because there have been so many different scenes and sets before. I know what I can expect from the best inn and from the worst: let it be never so good or never so bad, it will not be what I have had before, and in the long run it comes to the samething whether you are dependent on a habit grown to a necessity or on the most capricious fortuitousness. In any event, I no longer experience the annoyance of finding that something has been lost or mislaid, of being unable to use my living room because I have had to have it redecorated, that a favourite cup has been broken and that for a whole week I cannot enjoy drinking out of any other. I am raised
above things of this kind, and if the house starts to burn down about my ears, my servants quietly pack up and off, and we get out into the courtyard and away to town. And with all these advantages, when I work it out, by the end of the year I haven’t spent any more than it would have cost me to stay at home.’

During the course of this description Ottilie had before her only Eduard: she saw him too struggling in want and hardship along trackless paths, lying down in the field with danger and distress for companions and, surrounded by so much hazard and uncertainty, accustoming himself to being without home or friend and to throwing all away merely so as not to run the risk of losing it. Happily the company now broke up for a time, and Ottilie found somewhere to weep her heart out in solitude. None of the dull vague pain she had felt had seized on her more violently than did this clarity of vision, which she strove to make even clearer to herself – for when we are tormented from without we usually react by also tormenting ourselves.

Eduard’s condition appeared to her so miserable and so wretched she resolved that, whatever it might cost her, she would do all she could to reunite him with Charlotte; she would hide her love and grief in some quiet spot and, by keeping occupied with any sort of activity whatever, escape and elude them.

In the meantime, the nobleman’s companion, a quiet, sensible and observant man, had noticed the
faux pas
his friend had committed, and had revealed to him how similar his situation was to that at the house they were visiting. The latter knew nothing of the family’s circumstances; but his companion, whose interest while on his travels was aroused by nothing more than it was by singular situations produced by natural or social circumstances and by the conflict between law and violence, commonsense and reason, passion and prejudice, had acquainted himself in advance, and further
after his arrival, with all that had happened and was still happening.

The nobleman regretted what he had done without growing confused or embarrassed over it. You would have to keep utterly silent in society if you wanted to be certain of never committing a blunder of this sort, for not only weighty observations but the most trivial remarks are capable of giving offence. ‘We will make up for it this evening,’ he said. ‘We shall avoid all general conversation. Let the company hear something of the many amusing and instructive tales with which you have enriched your memory and filled your portfolio in the course of our travels.’

But even with the best of intentions, the visitors did not succeed this time either in providing their friends with harmless entertainment. For after the nobleman’s companion had engaged their attention and aroused their interest to the highest pitch with a succession of singular, instructive, amusing, touching and terrible tales, he thought to close with the narration of an event which, though singular indeed, was of a more tender description than those preceding: he little suspected how familiar the story would be to his audience.

The Wayward Young Neighbours

A Novella

The children of two neighbouring families of rank and position, a boy and a girl, were of an age that would allow them one day to become man and wife. They were brought up together with that pleasant prospect in view, and their parents looked forward to a future union. Very soon, however, it began to appear that their intention was going to miscarry, since a strange antipathy sprang up between these two admirable young people. Perhaps they were too much alike. Both were self-engrossed, both clear as to what they
wanted and firm in their intentions, loved and respected by their companions, always enemies when they met, constructive when alone, mutually destructive when together, never competing but always fighting with one another, altogether kind and well-behaved, and vicious, indeed malignant, only towards one another.

This wayward relationship was already apparent in their childhood games, and it was apparent as they grew older. And as boys are accustomed to play war-games, dividing up into sides and doing battle against one another, the bold defiant girl on one occasion placed herself at the head of one of the armies and fought the other with such violence and animosity it would have been beaten shamefully from the field if the only boy who ventured to oppose her had not borne himself very manfully and at length disarmed and captured his fair opponent. But even then she struggled so fiercely that, to preserve his eyes without injuring his foe, he was compelled to tear off his silk neckerchief and tie her arms behind her back.

This act she never forgave him; indeed, she engaged in so much secret plotting against him with the object of harming him that the parents, who had long been aware of these strange passions, came to a mutual agreement to separate the two inimical creatures and abandon their romantic hopes for them.

The boy soon distinguished himself in his new sphere, and profited from every sort of instruction. Well-wishers and his own inclination marked him for a military career. He was admired and respected wherever he went. He seemed to have nothing but a beneficial and pleasing effect on others and, without formulating the fact clearly in his mind, he was happy to have parted company from the only enemy nature had provided him.

The girl, on the other hand, suddenly changed. Her years, an increasing culture, and even more a certain inner change
of feelings, drew her away from the rough games she had hither to played in the company of boys. On the whole she seemed to be lacking something: there was nothing in her vicinity worth her hatred and she had not yet found anyone she was able to love.

A young man, older than her former neighbour and foe, of rank, wealth and standing, admired in society and sought after by women, turned all his attentions in her direction. It was the first time a man had offered himself to her as friend, lover and servant. That he should prefer her to many who were older, more cultivated, more brilliant and had more claim to attention, pleased her very well. His constant concern for her, which never became importunate, his loyal support on certain unpleasant occasions, his wooing of her parents – which was, though open, quiet and no more than hopeful, since she was, to be sure, still very young – all this charmed and captivated her, and custom, the relations between them which the world now took for granted, also played its part. She had been referred to so often as betrothed, she finally came to consider herself betrothed, and neither she nor anyone else thought any further time of trial necessary when she exchanged rings with him who had for so long passed as her fiancé.

The quiet course the whole affair had taken was not at all accelerated by the engagement. Both sides agreed to let everything go on as before; they enjoyed one another’s company and wanted to continue to bask in this pleasant season as in the springtime of the more earnest life to come.

In the meantime, her now distant neighbour had made himself into the finest type of young man, had risen to a well-deserved eminence in his profession, and came home on leave to visit his family. It was quite natural, and yet it seemed strange to them, that he should once again meet his beautiful companion of former years. She had of late known only the feelings of a girl in the midst of her family and about
to be married; she was in harmony with all around her; she believed she was happy, and she was in fact happy after a fashion. But now, for the first time for a long time, she encountered something from outside: it was not something to be hated; she had become incapable of hatred; indeed, her childish hatred, which had in reality been only an obscure recognition of an inner worth, now expressed itself in a joyful astonishment, in pleasant reflections, in complaisant admissions, and in a half willing, half reluctant and yet inevitable coming-closer: and all this was mutual. Long absence made for lengthy conversation. Now they were more enlightened they were even able to joke about their childhood unreasonableness, and it was as if they had to make good their former teasing and enmity by now being amiable and attentive, as if they now had expressly to recognize how ill they had recognized one another before.