Elective Affinities (17 page)

If this remark of Charlotte’s had given Ottilie occasion for thinking about the men again and particularly about Eduard, another remark did so all the more strikingly: Charlotte said the Captain would be getting married soon, and spoke of this eventuality as of something altogether certain and well-known, and this gave everything a very different complexion from what Ottilie had been led to imagine by Eduard’s earlier assurances. As a result of all this Ottilie began to scrutinize every remark Charlotte made and to observe her every gesture, her every action, her every step much more closely than before. Without realizing it Ottilie had become shrewd, sharp-witted, suspicious.

In the meantime Charlotte made a detailed appraisal of the estate and everything concerning it and set to work on it with her customary efficiency. She always insisted that
Ottilie participate too. She resolutely reduced the household expenses, and when she looked into them properly she came to consider the emotional events which had taken place a blessing in disguise, because if they had gone on as they had been going on they could easily have got themselves involved in limitless expense and before they knew it their impetuous way of living and working would have, if not destroyed, at any rate seriously undermined their fortune and the comfortable circumstances that went with it.

She did not interrupt the work already in progress in the new park; on the contrary, she was glad to let it go on, since it would have to provide the basis for future development, but when that much was done it would have to stop, because when her husband came back she wanted him to find enough pleasurable activity left to do to keep him busy.

In all this work and preparation she found the architect’s endeavours beyond praise. Within a short time the great lake spread out before her and the newly created banks were attractively grassed and decorated with plants of many kinds. All the rough work on the pavilion was done and all that was necessary to conserve it taken care of, and then she called a halt at a point where it would be pleasurable to take it up again. While this was going on she was relaxed and cheerful. Ottilie only seemed to be. All she looked for in anything was whether it was a sign Eduard was expected back soon or not. This was the only thing that interested her.

That being so, she welcomed a new arrangement under which the peasant lads were collected together with the object of keeping the now very extensive park clean and tidy. Eduard had entertained the idea before. A kind of cheerful uniform was made for them which they put on in the evening after they had scrubbed themselves thoroughly. The uniforms were kept in the mansion, the most intelligent and careful of the boys were entrusted with looking after them,
the architect supervised the whole thing, and before you knew it all the boys had acquired a certain aptitude. It was not hard to train them and when they went to work it was with a kind of military precision. In fact, when they marched along with their scrapers, garden knives, rakes, trowels and hoes and brooms, and others came along behind them with baskets for carrying off weeds and stones, and others came pulling the huge iron garden-roller, it made a very pretty procession. To the architect it suggested a succession of poses for the frieze of a garden-house; Ottilie, on the other hand, saw it only as a kind of parade which was soon to greet the returning master of the house.

This encouraged her to want to receive him with something similar on her own account. They had been trying for some time to encourage the village girls in sewing, knitting, spinning and other womanly accomplishments, and these virtuous activities too had been more in evidence since they had begun the cleaning and beautification of the village. Ottilie had taken part, but only occasionally and when she felt inclined. Now she thought of going to work more thoroughly and consistently. But girls cannot be formed into a troop in the way boys can. She followed her own good sense and without being too specific she attempted no more than to imbue each girl with a sense of devotion to her home, her parents and her brothers and sisters.

With many she succeeded. But there was one lively little girl about whom she heard nothing but complaints that she was without any aptitude and would never do anything about the house. Ottilie could not dislike the girl because the girl was always very friendly towards her, seemed drawn towards her and came and went with her whenever she was allowed to. When she was with Ottilie she was active, cheerful and untiring. Her need seemed to be to attach herself to an admired mistress. At first Ottilie tolerated the child’s company, then she was taken with an affection for her, finally
they became inseparable and Nanni accompanied her mistress everywhere.

Ottilie often went to the garden and took pleasure in the way everything was growing. The season for cherries and berries was coming to an end, although there was still enough left for Nanni to enjoy the last of them. The rest of the fruit, which promised such a rich harvest in the autumn, always made the gardener think of the master and he never thought of him without wishing him back. Ottilie very much enjoyed listening to the good old man. He knew his job inside out and he never tired of talking about Eduard.

When Ottilie said how glad she was the new shoots grafted that spring were all coming on so well, the gardener answered doubtfully: ‘I only hope the good master may be able to enjoy them. If he was here this autumn he could see what good kinds are still standing in the walled garden from the time of his father. Nowadays your orchard gardeners are not so reliable as the monks used to be. The names in the catalogue are fine enough, but when you have grafted them and brought them on, the fruit you get doesn’t make it worth while having such trees in the garden.’

But almost every time the faithful servant saw Ottilie what he most repeatedly asked about was the master’s return and when that was going to happen. And when Ottilie could not tell him the good man did not hide from her that he was sorry to think she did not trust him. This brought home to her how ignorant she was of what was happening and she found that feeling very painful. But she could not stay away from these flower-beds and borders. They had sown some of the flowers together and planted all the plants, and now everything was in full bloom, it needed hardly any further attention, except that Nanni was always ready to water it. The late flowers were only now appearing, and Ottilie watched them appear with deep emotion; she had often promised herself she was going to celebrate Eduard’s birthday
and these flowers were, in all their splendour and abundance, supposed to deck out that celebration, an expression of her affection and gratitude. But her hopes of ever seeing that day celebrated were not always equally lively. Doubt and uneasiness were whispering constantly at the good child’s soul.

It was not likely either that she would ever get on to a frank friendly footing with Charlotte again, because the two women were in very different situations. If everything stayed as it was before, if they went back to their old regular life, Charlotte would be happier than she was now and a happy prospect would open up for her for the future, but Ottilie would on the contrary lose everything. Yes, everything is the right word: in Eduard she had discovered for the first time what life and joy were, with things as they were now she was conscious of an infinite emptiness of which she had hitherto hardly had any conception. A heart that is seeking something feels there is something it lacks, a heart that has lost something feels its loss. Desire changes into ill-humour and impatience and a woman accustomed to wait passively now wants to step out of her usual confines, wants to become active, wants to do something to promote her own happiness.

Ottilie had not renounced Eduard. She could not do so, notwithstanding Charlotte was, despite her conviction to the contrary, shrewd enough to pretend she had, and that the fact was known, and to take it as settled that a calm friendly relationship was possible between her husband and Ottilie. Very often, when she had shut herself in her room for the night, Ottilie would kneel in front of the open chest and look at the birthday presents. She had touched none of them. Very often she would hurry out of the house at daybreak, out of the place where she had formerly found all her happiness, into the open, into the country which had formerly had no attraction for her. She would even want to get off the land itself, she would leap into the boat and row to the middle
of the great lake, and there she would take out a travel-book and let herself be rocked by the waves and read and dream herself into a far country; and there she would always discover her friend, he would tell her she had always been close to his heart, she would tell him he had always been close to hers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

W
E
have already got to know Mittler and something of the curious way in which that gentleman occupied his time, so it will come as no surprise to learn that, as soon as he heard of the misfortune which had struck these friends of his, he felt a strong inclination to prove his friendship and demonstrate his dexterity in this instance too, notwithstanding none of the parties involved had as yet called upon him for assistance. Yet he also felt it would be advisable to delay a while first; he knew only too well that when cultured people get themselves into a moral muddle they are more difficult to assist out of it than are uncultured people in a like predicament. For that reason he left them for a time to their own resources. But at last he could endure it no longer and, since he had already got on to Eduard’s track during his period of inactivity, he now hurried to seek him out.

His path led him to a pleasant valley. The green meadow which lay at the bottom of the valley was well wooded and the full-flowing sparkling stream which flowed through it sometimes meandered and sometimes rushed along. Fertile fields and well-stocked orchards stretched away over the gently rising slopes. The villages lay not too close together, the place as a whole had a peaceful character and, if its individual parts were not exactly suitable for painting, they seemed eminently suitable for living in.

A well-preserved farmstead with a neat little house surrounded by gardens at last caught his eye. He conjectured that this must be Eduard’s present residence, and he was not mistaken.

Of our solitary friend we can say this much: in the silence of his solitude he had given himself over completely to contemplating
his passion. He had evolved plans of all kinds, nourished hopes of all kinds. He found it impossible to deny that he wanted to have Ottilie there, that he wanted to bring her, entice her there, and he could not deny there were other thoughts too, of things permissible and impermissible, which would not be stilled. And then, working on these thoughts, his imagination would evoke one possibility after another. If he was not to possess her there, if he could not legitimately possess her, then he would make over to her the possession of his estate. There she should live as an independent person, there she should be happy, even – when his self-tormenting imagination took him that far – happy with somebody else.

Thus did his days pass in a never-ending vacillation between hope and torment, between tears and serenity, between plans, preparations and despair. He was not surprised by the sight of Mittler. He had long expected him and so he half welcomed his arrival. If he had been sent by Charlotte, Eduard had already armed himself with excuses and procrastinations of all kinds and then with certain more definite suggestions; if he brought some news of or from Ottilie, Mittler was as welcome as a messenger from heaven.

Eduard was therefore depressed and annoyed to learn that Mittler had not come from the mansion but was there on his own initiative. His heart was hardened and conversation would not at first get under way. But Mittler knew well that a heart preoccupied with love has an urgent need to express itself, to pour out to a friend what is going on within it, so after a certain amount of desultory chatter he was content to step out of his usual role and, deserting the role of mediator, to play the old comrade.

In this character he took it upon himself to rebuke Eduard gently for the solitary life he was leading, but Eduard replied: ‘Oh I cannot imagine a more pleasant way of spending my time! I think about her constantly, I am always with her. I possess the inestimable privilege of being free to imagine
where Ottilie is, where she goes, where she stops, where she rests. I see her before me acting as she always does, doing things and planning other things – admittedly always things which are most flattering to me. But it does not stop at that, because how can I be happy away from her! I set my imagination to work to decide what Ottilie has to do in order to come to me. I write myself sweet intimate letters and sign them with her name, I reply to them, and then I preserve the letters together. I have promised not to approach her in any way and that promise I shall keep. But what is stopping her from turning to me? Has Charlotte perhaps been so cruel as to demand from her a promise and vow not to write to me or let me have news of herself? It would be natural enough, I even think it probable, and yet the idea seems to me monstrous and unendurable. If she loves me, as I believe she does, as I know she does, why does she not resolve, why does she not dare to flee the house and come and throw herself in my arms? I often think that is what she ought to do, that is what she could do if she wanted to. Whenever I hear a noise in the hallway I look up at the door: “It’s her!” I think, I hope. And since what is perfectly possible is apparently impossible, I imagine the impossible must be possible. When I awake at night and the lamp throws an uncertain light over the bedroom her figure, her spirit, an intuition of her ought to be wafted across to me, approach me, seize me, for no more than a moment, so that I could have some kind of assurance she is thinking of me, that she is mine.

‘One joy alone remains to me. When I was near her I never dreamt of her, now we are apart we are together in dreams, and strange to say it is only since I have got to know other charming people here in this neighbourhood that her image appears to me in dreams, as if she were trying to say: “Look about you as you will, you will find nothing more lovely than me!” And so her image comes into all my dreams. All that befalls me with her in dreams is mixed and mingled
together. Sometimes we are putting our names to a contract: there is her hand and there is mine, there is her name and my name, they efface one another, they blend together. But these rapturous illusions of fantasy can be painful too. Sometimes she does something that offends the pure idea I have of her, and it is only then I know how much I love her, because I am then distressed beyond all power of description. Sometimes she teases and torments me in a way quite unlike her, and then straightway her image alters, her heavenly little round face grows longer, and she is somebody else; but still that does not appease me, my torment continues, and I am thrown into confusion.