Elective Affinities (33 page)

‘Unless I am very much mistaken,’ said Charlotte, ‘you feel drawn back to the boarding-school.’

‘Yes,’ Ottilie replied, ‘I do not deny it. It seems to me a happy vocation to teach others in the normal way when we ourselves have been taught in the strangest. And do we not see from history that people who, because of great moral misfortunes, withdrew into the wilderness, were quite unable to remain hidden and concealed there as they had hoped? They were summoned into the world again to lead those who had gone astray back on to the right path, and who could do that better than those already initiated into the sins and errors of life! They were called to aid the unfortunate, and who could do that better than those beyond all further earthly misfortune!’

‘You are choosing a strange vocation,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I shall not stand in your way: let it be so, even if, as I hope, it will be for only a short time.’

‘How grateful I am,’ said Ottilie, ‘that you are willing to allow me this experiment, this experience. Unless I flatter myself too much, I think I shall be successful. When I am there I shall remember how many trials I endured, and how small and petty they were compared with those I had to endure afterwards. How cheerfully I shall regard the embarrassments of the young budding creatures, smile at their childish troubles and, with gentle hand, lead them out of all their little errors. The fortunate are not suited to be in charge of the fortunate; it is in human nature to demand more and more from oneself and from others the more one has received. Only the unfortunate who are recovering from their misfortune know how to foster in themselves and in others the
feeling that even a moderate good should be received with joy.’

‘Let me raise one more objection to your proposal,’ said Charlotte at length, after some hesitation. ‘It seems to me the most important. It concerns, not you, but a third party. You are aware of the feelings of our good, sensible schoolmaster; if you follow the path you propose, you will become daily more valuable and indispensable to him. Since he already dislikes living without you, once he has grown accustomed to having you with him he will no longer be capable of carrying on with his work if you leave him. You will start by assisting him in it, only to end by spoiling it for him.’

‘Fate has not dealt gently with me,’ Ottilie replied, ‘and anyone who loves me ought perhaps to expect little better. This friend of ours is a good and understanding man, and thus I may hope that his relations with me will also develop according to sentiments of pure friendship; he will behold in me a person set apart who is perhaps able to atone for a dreadful evil, in her own eyes and in those of others, only if she dedicates herself to that holy spirit which, invisibly encompassing us, alone can protect us from the daemonic powers which press upon us.’

Charlotte quietly reflected on what the dear child had declared so warmly. She had inquired on occasion, though in the gentlest possible way, whether there was not some faint prospect of Ottilie’s approaching Eduard, but even the gentlest hint, the slightest expression of hope, the slightest suspicion of prompting in that direction seemed to have the profoundest effect on Ottilie; indeed, on one occasion, when she could not avoid the subject, she expressed herself quite plainly.

‘If your resolve to renounce Eduard is so firm and unalterable,’ Charlotte replied, ‘beware of the danger of seeing him again. When we are separated from the object of our love, the more lively our affection is, the more we seem to be in control
of ourselves, because the whole force of the passion formerly directed outwards is now turned inwards; but how soon we are wrenched out of this error when the one we thought ourselves capable of doing without all at once stands before us again, and we see we cannot do without him. Do now what you think most fitting; test yourself, indeed even alter your present resolve, but of your own free will, out of a free heart. Do not let yourself be drawn back again into the old state of affairs by chance or surprise: it is this which makes that schism in the heart which is unbearable. As I have said, before you take this step, before you leave me and begin a new life which will take you who knows where, consider once more whether you can renounce Eduard for all future time. If, however, you have determined on this, we will come to an agreement that you will not admit him, that you will not even speak to him, if he should seek you out, if he should force his way to you.’ Ottilie did not hesitate for as much as a moment: she made to Charlotte the promise she had already made to herself.

Yet still there hovered before Charlotte’s mind that threat of Eduard’s that he would renounce Ottilie only so long as she did not separate from Charlotte. It was true that circumstances had so changed, so much had happened, that that threat wrung from him in the heat of the moment could be regarded as annulled by subsequent events; yet she did not want to venture or undertake anything remotely likely to offend him, so Mittler was to go and discover Eduard’s present attitude.

Mittler had, since the child’s death, often visited Charlotte, though his visits had been brief. The accident, which made a reunion of husband and wife seem to him highly unlikely, had affected him powerfully; but, hopeful and energetic as ever, he now secretly rejoiced over Ottilie’s decision. He trusted in the alleviating effect of the passage of time, continued to believe he might keep husband and wife together,
and regarded these passions as no more than tests of marital love and fidelity.

As soon as Ottilie had first revealed her feelings, Charlotte had written to the Major informing him of what had happened and begging him most particularly to influence Eduard not to take any further steps, to keep calm, and to wait and see whether the child would be restored to her former frame of mind. She had also communicated the essentials of subsequent events and intentions, and now Mittler was charged with the admittedly difficult task of preparing Eduard for a change in the situation. Mittler, however, knowing well that a
fait accompli
is accepted more readily than a proposition is agreed to, persuaded Charlotte that the best thing to do would be to send Ottilie back to the school straight away.

As a result, preparations were made for the journey as soon as he had left. Ottilie packed her luggage, but Charlotte noted she made no move to take with her either the pretty little chest or any of its contents. Charlotte said nothing and let Ottilie do as she wished. The day of departure dawned; Charlotte’s carriage was, on the first day, to take Ottilie to quarters where she would be lodged for the night, and, on the second, on to the school; Nanni was to accompany her and remain in her service. The passionate girl had found her way back to Ottilie immediately after the child’s death and clung to her again as she had before; indeed, she seemed to want to make up for her previous absence by constant merry chatter and to dedicate herself wholly to her beloved mistress. Now, since she had never yet been away from her birthplace, she was quite beside herself with joy at the prospect of travelling and seeing strange places, and she ran from the mansion down to the village to tell her parents and relatives of her good fortune and to take her leave of them. Unhappily she also encountered a case of the measles and it was at once apparent that she had contracted the disease. There was no
desire to postpone the journey. Ottilie herself insisted on it. She already knew the way, she knew the people who ran the inn where she was to stay, the coachman would drive her there. There was nothing to worry about.

Charlotte did not resist. In her mind she too was hastening away from these surroundings, only she still wanted to arrange for Eduard the rooms Ottilie had occupied in the mansion and to restore them to exactly what they were before the Captain’s arrival. The hope of resurrecting old happy times refuses to die down in the human heart, and Charlotte was entitled, indeed compelled, to nourish such a hope.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

W
HEN
Mittler arrived to discuss the situation with Eduard, he found him alone with his head on his right hand and his arm propped on the table. He seemed to be in great suffering. ‘Is it your headache again?’ Mittler asked. ‘It is my headache,’ Eduard replied; ‘and yet I cannot hate it, for it reminds me of Ottilie. I think she too may be suffering at this moment, leaning on her left arm and perhaps suffering more than I am. Why should I not endure it, as she does? These pains are salutary pains, I might almost say I desire them: for they only make me picture her patience and all her other good qualities more clearly and vividly; only when we suffer are we really conscious of all those great qualities we need to endure suffering.’

Finding his friend resigned to this degree, Mittler did not hesitate to reveal why he had come, although he did present it in historical sequence, recounting step by step how the idea had been born in the women and how it had gradually matured into an intention. Eduard hardly spoke or objected. From what little he did say it appeared that he was willing to leave everything to them; his present pain seemed to have rendered him indifferent to everything else.

Scarcely was he alone, however, when he rose and paced up and down the room. He felt the pain no longer, he was altogether occupied with other things. The lover’s imagination had been kindled into violent activity even as Mittler was talking. He saw Ottilie alone, or as good as alone, on the familiar roadway, in the familiar inn whose rooms he had so often frequented; he thought, he reflected, or rather he thought without reflecting, he only longed and desired. He had to see her and speak with her. Why or wherefore or what
was to come of it was of no consequence. He merely succumbed to his desires: he had to do it.

He took his valet into his confidence and his valet at once discovered the day and hour of Ottilie’s departure. The morning dawned; Eduard did not delay, but took horse alone to the place where Ottilie was to spend the night. He arrived there all too punctually; the innkeeper’s wife, taken by surprise, received him joyfully. She was obligated to him for a piece of great good fortune: he had procured her son a medal. The young man, who had borne himself very bravely as a soldier, had performed a deed which Eduard, who alone had witnessed it, had broadcast abroad, commending it to his superiors up as high as the general and overcoming the impediments placed in the way by a few who begrudged the young man his decoration. His mother could hardly do enough to express her gratitude. She quickly tidied up as well as she could in her best room, which was, to be sure, also cloakroom and storeroom, but Eduard informed her a lady would be arriving who would use this room and had her fix up a backroom off the corridor with the minimum requirements for his own use. The innkeeper’s wife scented a mystery in the affair and found pleasure in doing something to oblige her benefactor, who showed great interest in how the rooms were being arranged and himself lent a hand. And then with what sensations he spent the age that passed until evening! He gazed around the room in which he was to see her: it seemed, with its unwonted air of domesticity, a heavenly abode. What thoughts did not pass through his head! Ought he to surprise Ottilie or ought he to prepare her? The latter alternative finally gained the upper hand; he sat down and wrote. She should be met by this note:

Eduard to Ottilie

As you read this letter, my best beloved, I am near you. You must not be frightened: you have nothing to fear from me. I shall not force myself upon you. You shall not see me before you give me permission to come to you.

Consider first your situation, and mine. How grateful I am that you are not proposing to take any decisive step; but the step you are proposing to take is sufficiently grave. Do not take it! Here, at a sort of crossroads, consider once more: can you be mine, will you be mine? Oh you would be conferring a great blessing on us all, and on me an immeasurable one.

Let me see you again, and let it be with joy. Let me ask you this glorious question with my own lips, and let your reply be yourself, yourself in my arms, Ottilie! in the arms where more than once you have reposed and where you belong for evermore!

As he wrote he was seized by the feeling that what he longed for so ardently was approaching, would very soon be there. ‘She will come in at this door, she will read this letter, she whom I have so often summoned up in longing will again stand before me in reality. Will she still be the same? Will she look different, will she feel differently?’ He still had the pen in his hand, he was about to write what he was thinking, but the carriage came rumbling into the courtyard. With hasty pen he added: ‘I hear you coming. For a moment farewell!’

He folded the letter and addressed it to Ottilie: there was no time to seal it. He ran off into a room through which he knew he could gain the corridor, and instantly remembered he had left his watch and signet behind on the table. She must not come in and see these; he ran back and managed to retrieve them. He could already hear the innkeeper’s wife in the entrance hall making for the room to show it to her newly-arrived guest. He hurried back to the door but it had shut.
He had knocked the key from the lock as he had rushed in and it now lay outside; the lock had snapped shut and he was unable to get out. He pushed hard against the door but it did not yield. Oh how he would have liked to change into a ghost and slip through the cracks! In vain! He hid his face against the doorpost. Ottilie came in; when the innkeeper’s wife saw he was there she went out again. Ottilie too could not fail to see him. He turned towards her, and thus the lovers were once more brought face to face in the strangest manner. She looked at him with grave tranquillity, not moving from where she stood, and when he made a move to approach her she stepped back a few paces to the table. He too stepped back again. ‘Ottilie,’ he exclaimed, ‘let me break this dreadful silence. Are we no more than shadows facing one another? But before all, let me tell you it is by chance that you discover me here now in this room. There is lying beside you a letter which was meant to prepare you. Read it, I beg of you, read it! And then come to whatever decision you can.’