Elective Affinities (22 page)

What kind of shortcomings ought we to retain, even cultivate in ourselves? Those which rather flatter than injure other people.

Passions are shortcomings or virtues intensified.

Our passions are phoenixes: as the old one burns away a new one immediately rises from its ashes.

Great passions are illnesses without hope of cure. That which would cure them is that which first makes them really dangerous.

Passion is both enhanced and alleviated by confession. Perhaps the middle course is nowhere more desirable than in confiding in and keeping quiet before those we love.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HUS
did Luciane continue to drive herself on in an unceasing round of pleasure. Her court expanded with every day that passed, in part because her riotous behaviour excited and attracted others, in part because she knew how to grapple others to her by acts of kindness. She was generous in the highest degree: for, since her aunt’s and her fiancé’s affection had brought her in a short space of time so many beautiful and costly gifts, she seemed to possess nothing of her own and not to realize the value of the things she had heaped up around her. She did not hesitate for a moment to take off a costly shawl and drape it around a woman who seemed to her to be too poorly clad compared with the others, and she did it so lightheartedly no one could have refused such a present. One of her court always had a purse and a standing instruction to ask after the oldest and the sickest in the places they visited and to ease their condition at any rate for the time being. As a result she acquired throughout the entire region a name for benevolence which could sometimes be inconvenient, since it attracted to her all too many burdensome sufferers.

But nothing served to enhance her reputation more than did the constant attention she paid to a certain unfortunate young man who avoided society because, although otherwise handsome and presentable, he had lost his right hand in battle. This mutilation so upset him, he was so weary of having to explain it to every new acquaintance, that he preferred to hide himself away, devote himself to reading and other studies, and once and for all have nothing further to do with society.

She came to learn of this young man’s existence. He had
to come and join her, at first in an intimate group, then in a bigger, then in the biggest. She was more charming towards him than towards anyone else. She especially managed to make him conscious of the value of what he had lost, in as much as by her importunate readiness to be of service to him she sought to replace it. At table he had to sit beside her and she cut up his food so that he needed to use only a fork. If older people or those of more exalted rank interposed themselves, she kept an eye on him from the other end of the table and the hurrying servants had to render him the assistance of which her removal from his side threatened to deprive him. Finally she encouraged him to write with his left hand. He had to address all his attempts at writing to her, and so whether she was near or far she was always in touch with him. The young man did not know what had happened to him, and indeed that moment saw for him the start of a new life.

It might perhaps be thought that this kind of behaviour would have been displeasing to the Baron, but the opposite was the case. He thought very highly of her for these efforts, and his equanimity was the more complete in that he knew of her almost exaggerated caution where anything the least little bit risky to herself was concerned. She wanted to amuse herself with everyone just as it took her fancy, everyone was in danger of being badgered, pulled, pushed or otherwise teased by her at some time or other, but no one was permitted to do the same to her, no one could play fast and loose with her, no one could even think of taking with her the lliberties she herself took; and thus she kept the rest strictly within those bounds of propriety which she seemed at any moment to be on the point of overstepping herself.

In general you might have thought she had made it her principle to expose herself to an equal measure of praise and blame, affection and disaffection. If she tried in a dozen ways to win people over, she usually managed to alienate them again through the sharpness of her tongue, which spared
nobody. They never paid a visit in the neighbourhood, she and her companions were never hospitably received in some house or mansion, without she made it clear on the way home in the most uninhibited way how inclined she was to find all human affairs merely ridiculous. Here there were three brothers who had politely waited for one to be the first to get married while old age overtook them; here there was a little young wife with a big old husband; there, contrariwise, a cheerful little husband and a clumsy giantess. In one house you could not move a step without treading on children, another she thought empty-looking even when crowded because there were no children in it. Certain elderly husbands ought to get themselves buried as soon as possible so that, since there were no legal heirs, someone could for once have a good laugh in the house again. Certain married couples ought to travel because they were in no way fitted to keep house. And as she criticized the people, so did she criticize their goods, their homes, their furniture, their crockery. Wall decorations of any kind especially excited her mockery. From the most ancient wall-carpets to the latest wallpaper, from the most venerable family portraits to the most frivolous current copperplates, all had to go through it, she pulled them all to pieces, so that you had to marvel that anything for five miles around continued to exist.

There may not perhaps have been any actual malice in this destructiveness; usually it was no doubt merely selfish mischievousness; but in her relations with Ottilie real bitterness had developed. She looked down with contempt on the dear child’s constant quiet industriousness which everyone else approved and applauded, and when it was mentioned how great an interest Ottilie took in the gardens and greenhouses, she made fun of that fact, not only by affecting surprise that there seemed to be no flowers or fruit about (unmindful that they were now in the depth of winter), but by thenceforth having so much greenery, branches and whatever
else was beginning to show life brought into the house and squandered on daily decoration of the rooms and the table that Ottilie and the gardener saw with dismay their hopes destroyed for the coming year and perhaps for many years after that.

She was equally reluctant to let Ottilie stay quietly in the house, where she was happy. Ottilie had to come with her on their sleigh rides and outings, she had to come to the parties held in the neighbourhood, and, since the others were not worried by snow and cold and raging night storms, she had to brave them too. The delicate child suffered not a little under this treatment, but Luciane gained nothing by it: although Ottilie always went dressed very simply she was still, or at least she always seemed to the men, the loveliest girl there. A gentle attraction drew all the men around her, no matter where she might be in the great halls where the parties were held; indeed, Luciane’s young man himself often spent his time with her, and he was the more anxious to do so in that he wanted her advice and assistance in a matter he was engaged on.

He had now become better acquainted with the architect, had talked with him a great deal over his art collection about the history of the past, and from other converse with him, especially when inspecting the chapel, had come to appreciate his talent. The Baron was young and rich, he collected and he wanted to build, his enthusiasm was great but his knowledge small, and he believed he had found in the architect a man with whose help he could achieve several of his ambitions simultaneously. He had told Luciane of his intentions and she had signified her approval, and was in fact highly delighted at the idea, although perhaps the reason was rather that she would have liked to take this young man away from Ottilie – for she thought she had noticed signs of something like affection for her on his part – than any intention of employing his talents. For although he had been very active
at her extemporary festivities and had offered his services in preparing this or that performance, she always thought she knew better how to go about these things and, since her ideas were usually commonplace, they could be executed as well by a skilled valet as by the finest artist in the world. When she wanted to celebrate somebody’s birthday or some other special occasion, her imagination was incapable of rising above sacrifices on an altar and a crowning with wreaths, whether it was a plaster or a real head that was crowned being a matter of indifference.

The Baron wanted to know what the architect’s position in the house was, and Ottilie was able to tell him precisely. She knew Charlotte had already been looking around for a post for him, for if the present company had not arrived he would have left as soon as the chapel was finished, because all building had to stop during the winter, and it was therefore very desirable he should be found a new patron to employ and advance him.

Ottilie’s relations with the architect were altogether pure and unaffected. She had enjoyed his pleasant and lively presence as if it were that of an elder brother. Her feelings towards him remained on the quiet passionless level of blood relationship, for there was no room left in her heart for anything else, it was filled entirely with her love for Eduard and only the Divinity which permeates all things could occupy this heart with him.

Meanwhile, the deeper the winter, the wilder the weather, the more impassable the roads, the more attractive did it seem to pass the waning days in such good company. Its numbers altered, but after every ebb the house was soon flooded again. Officers from more distant garrisons began to attend, the cultivated ones to their own great advantage, the coarser ones to the embarrassment of the company; there was also no lack of the non-military; and quite unexpectedly the Count and the Baroness one day came driving up together.

Their presence seemed to create for the first time a real court. The men of quality surrounded the Count and the ladies paid homage to the Baroness. They did not have to wonder for long how they came to be together and in so happy a mood: it was revealed that the Count’s wife had died and that a new marriage would be celebrated as soon as propriety allowed. Ottilie recalled their previous visit, she recalled every word they had said about marriage and divorce, uniting and separating, about hope and expectation and privation and renunciation. Then they had both been quite without prospects, now they stood before her so near to their hoped-for happiness, and an involuntary sigh welled up from her heart.

As soon as Luciane heard that the Count was a lover of music, she set about organizing a concert. She wanted them to hear her singing to a guitar. And this is what happened. She was not without skill on the instrument, she had a pleasant voice, but as far as the words were concerned they were as incomprehensible as they usually are when a German young lady sings to a guitar. But everyone agreed she had sung with great expression and the loud applause she received was enough to satisfy her. Only she had a singular piece of misfortune on this occasion. Among the company there was a poet whom she especially hoped to charm over because she wanted him to write one or two songs for and about her, and for that reason the songs she had sung that evening had mostly been his. He was polite about her performance, like everyone else, but from him she had hoped for something more than politeness. She tried several times to get that something more out of him but without any success, until at last in exasperation she sent one of her courtiers to him to sound him as to whether he had not been delighted to hear his wonderful poems sung so wonderfully. ‘My poems?’ the poet replied in astonishment. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he added, ‘but I heard nothing but vowel sounds, and I did not hear all
of those. However, I can see I do owe it to her to show myself grateful for her kind intentions.’ The courtier said no more and refrained from passing on what the poet had said. The latter sought to escape with a few well-turned compliments. Luciane dropped him an obvious hint that she would very much like to possess something he had composed especially for her. He felt like offering her the whole alphabet, so that she could herself construct any panegyric she fancied to fit any available tune, but he refrained because that really would have been too impolite. But she was not to escape from this incident without some injury to her feelings. Shortly afterwards she learned that that very evening the poet had written a beautiful poem to one of Ottilie’s favourite tunes, and that the words were more than merely complimentary.

And now Luciane, who like everyone of her type was for ever incapable of distinguishing the profitable from the unprofitable, wanted to try her luck at recitation. She had a good memory but her performance was, not to mince words, unintelligent, and vehement without being passionate. She recited ballads, tales and whatever else is customarily produced at such declamatoria, and she had acquired the unfortunate habit of accompanying whatever she was reciting with gestures, so that what ought to be simply epic and lyrical was unpleasantly confused rather than united with what is dramatic.

The Count, who was a man of discernment, very quickly took the measure of the company, its inclinations, passions and favoured entertainments, and he suggested to Luciane, fortunately or otherwise, a new kind of performance well suited to her personality. ‘There are so many well-proportioned people here,’ he said, ‘who are certainly capable of impersonating the movements and postures of paintings. Have you not yet tried representing real well-known pictures? Such tableaux demand a great deal of troublesome
arrangement, I know, but they produce an unbelievable effect.’

Luciane grasped at once that here she would be altogether in her element. Her fine proportions, her full figure, her regular yet individual face, her braided light brown hair, her slim neck, were all as if made for portraiture, and had she known that she looked more beautiful when she stood still than when she walked, since a certain lack of grace became perceptible when she walked, she would have thrown herself into the preparation of these
tableaux vivants
with even greater enthusiasm.