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CHAPTER XXII.
“The product of ill-mated marriages.”
From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton.
BERLIN, November 1, 1895.
DEAREST MOTHER: What an insufferable egotist I must appear to you. A life made up of local coloring—a central figure with no accessories—a record of ways and means unwisely, perhaps, submitted to you, since they may only pain you. Better a gray and monotonous sea, without sail or sound, if so I could spare you the burden of apprehension which every anxious mother must feel for a destiny she has helped to direct. Following the train of argument, think you the loving Father acquits himself of responsibility when a helpless soul is launched for eternity? Truly no! and this conviction sustains my courage, and makes me unafraid to do my heart’s bidding.
It has been an observation that the thing we most condemn in others, we shall find in ourselves. Many years ago I conceived a prejudice against the popular cry concerning the wrongs of woman, a movement affirmatively named “woman’s rights,” for while it undoubtedly aided some women in obtaining justice, its aim was largely the gratification of some hysterical ambition or some love of conspicuousness.
Thus I am brought to question if, in my individual case, I am not exaggerating evils and magnifying wrongs by placing them under the strong light, if not of worldly criticism, at least of self-love and secret pride; if, instead of dealing soberly and wisely with flesh and blood, I am not following an ideal, or whether my matrimonial point of view is not interrupted by such inappreciable angles as seldom vex the eye of faith and perfect love.
All these questions, and many more, I wish to make clear to my own conscience and your mind, that you may be able to advise me when, if ever, the time shall come for me to ask your loving counsel.
To speak more personally, I conclude, after mentally reviewing the characteristics peculiar to my husband, the baron, that his faults are less of malice than of temperament, and that he would not really sacrifice any actual interest of his wife, not even her permanent peace of mind, any more than I would compromise those of the baron. If it were not so, I could less well afford the many hours of thought I give toward the fashioning of apologies for him, lest in my own mind I do him an injustice.
But, so believing, I must take many things on trust, and, after all, I am full of faults myself, no doubt of it. You know it is a popular theory over here that American girls must be broken like bronco horses before they are fit for wives, and I must say that my own mouth is a little tender to the foreign bit already.
We have invitations to a grand ball, although I have not yet seen them. Kindest love to papa, and a heart full of devotion for you, as always. When will you write to tell me you are coming to your affectionate daughter
ELLEN.
From Mrs. Perces Thornton to the Baroness Von Eulaw.
BOSTON, November 10, 1895.
To my daughter, the Baroness Von Eulaw.
DEARLY BELOVED CHILD: In these revolutionary times, the air thick with maledictions and curses, “the putrid breath of poverty, and the beetling brow of labor,” to quote the press, hot with greed for the ground they are slowly but surely losing—in these times I say, I am thankful that you, my child, are resting in the security of strong and wise rule.
There seems to be no end to the vindictiveness of the common people here. Your father, as you are aware, is president of the new Aerial Navigation Company, and, although, as he says, his policy is unaggressive, and his weight of counsel unswervingly in the direction of the interests of the poor and the laboring classes, they seem determined to make the breach as wide as possible, and go so far as even to demand a division of the proceeds of every enterprise, based upon the labor of either brawn or brain, and insolently propose to tax the companies to the extent of what they call their “labor investment.”
What nonsense! It makes me so mad I don’t know what to do. Papa says—he is always so conservative, you know—that the poor fellow who effected the invention of air navigation, really ought to have been paid better for it, but that he was a genius, with no common sense—none of them have, you know—and nearly starved, at that; that there is a man out West, whose name I have not heard, who is going to make it very warm for men concerned in such transactions as this, which he denounces as highway robbery, and in a short speech, wherein he maintained that labor was as much a factor and an investment as capital, in all successful enterprise, he called one Jack Spratt, and the other Jack Spratt’s wife, which simile pleased me immensely. We don’t know where it is going to end, but hope for the best.
Now, my darling, I want to say how gratified I am at the contents of your last letter. In it I discern a spirit of what Christians call humility, very consistent and very encouraging, considering the noble personage whom you are so lucky as to have captured by your charms and graces alone, for of course your fortune had nothing whatever to do with it.
If your husband were an American, I would advise you to stand up for your rights. American husbands, uxorious though they are, and they have earned the name, bring you no title, have no legitimate entrée to foreign courts, and even the most stupendous fortunes only inoculate and leave a scar. Really, the only clean business is an out and out marriage, love or no love, though, for the matter of that, one must feel toward the dear baron as the hero-worshiping woman said concerning the wife of Henry Ward Beecher, that she ought to be proud to bow her head and allow the great divine to pluck every individual hair out by the roots. “A most touching test of devotion,” I hear you say.
Do write, my dear, and tell me all the court gossip. Since the California practice of shooting obnoxious editors has been introduced in Boston, there has grown up a virtual censorship of the press hereabouts, and the newspapers are as dull as death. Every woman’s character is kept in a glass case, and one would suppose the men graduated from a meetinghouse. In fact, the reading public who lived upon scandals are dying of ennui, hence, I have no news to write you to-day. Present me with continued assurance of high respect to the baron, and receive, yourself, my undying love.
As ever,
PERCES THORNTON.
From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton.
BERLIN, November 20, 1895.
MY DEAR MOTHER: The grand ball, the mention of which seems to catch your fancy, is to be given at the Chateau d’Or, a magnificent edifice on the heights overlooking the river. Its turrets, and domes, and roofs, and arches, and balustrades, glitter against the background of bluest skies like shining gold—hence its name. Indeed, its architectural device is so cunningly conceived as to catch and fill the eye with radiant color like the facets of a diamond, while its proportions suggest all the beauties of form to be found in the scale of harmonized effects.
It is just completed, and is a wonder. Its occupants are not much talked about; indeed, I do not even know who they are, though I fancy the baron does, for I recall that he replied curtly to my question concerning them, that I should not wish to know them, by which I fancied they might be Americans.
Neither can I give you any idea of the bidden guests, although, of course, it promises to be a magnificent affair. As you know, in compliance with custom, I could, in no event, make excuse for non-appearance with my husband. Such women as accept their titles and position from their lords, are expected to follow, unquestioning, his leadership through all social labyrinths, and I am no exception to the rule.
Dear mother, forgive me, if I say I feel very disinclined to these gayeties. Since our experiences at Mentone, I decided to give over all control of the exchequer into the hands of the baron, accepting only a regular stipend. I find this the only means of securing harmony and altercations weary and depress me overmuch. Wherefore it is I have lost interest in handsome toilets, and therefor it is I shall have nothing new for the occasion.
Did papa receive my letter acknowledging and thanking him for his munificent gift? and does it occur to you that it is a good deal of money to invest in methods of pacification? But what is the remedy? This is a question I am puzzling my head about to a much larger extent, let me say, than about what I shall wear to the ball.
The baron dines at home to-day, so I will close, in order not to be a moment late. You see I am growing to be a model wife, if not a heroic woman. I see the baron from my window beating a poor dwarf, at the entrance of the alley. He has lost at play. In haste and love, dear ones, adieu.
Faithfully your own, ELLEN.
From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton.
BERLIN, December 2, 1895.
DEAR MOTHER: Is there but one depth for a creature like him I call husband? What mockery in a name! What have I suffered for him, and what concealed in my pride! And this is my reward!—To have been made the dupe of a dastardly plot to ensnare cowardly victims! to have sullied my skirts with the dust of a usurer’s and gambler’s den! to have my name blazoned side by side with the modern Cora Pearls in every court journal in Europe! to have been led into the lair blindly, by one who is sworn to be my protector! to have followed in faith the man who could load the dice of his self-imposed despair, with a wife’s dishonor!
But I must remember that all this is a riddle to you, and must read like the ravings of a maddened brain, so I will give you the story of my shame and rage, albeit it has probably already been telegraphed over two continents. Verily, it is too sweet a morsel to escape the newspapers.
As I believe I mentioned to you, invitations were issued for a ball, to be given at the Chateau d’Or. I noticed that the occurrence was making rather a stir, and especially that the baron was unwontedly nervous over the event, insomuch that when I proposed sending regrets, he fell into a violent rage, and declared that I would ruin him, past and future. Naturally, I did not comprehend his meaning, but, seeming to take it so much to heart, I readily consented to accompany him, asking no further questions.
Arrived at the place of what later proved to be a scene of the most disgraceful orgies, we entered the salon, and instantly my heart misgave me. There was present a mixed assemblage of people, among them a few whom I had met in the best circles—a few who seemed equally out of place with myself—and many of that nondescript quality found in every society, who defy comment. But not until we were presented to the receiving party, was my amazement at its climax. I am not yet sufficiently in possession of myself, to describe the magnificent apartments of the interior of this most superb mansion. All that wealth could bring from the uttermost ends of the earth, contributed to the sumptuousness of these most artistic apartments. No smallest detail had been forgotten in the programme for this entertainment, even to the grottoes with singing birds, and floes of ice in seas of wine.
But the recollection is hateful, and I hurry on. The host was a tall, sinewy, middle-aged man, with a strongly-marked Hebraic cast of face, and an oily, obsequious manner, quite at variance with his prominent features. He greeted us with an air of the most profuse cordiality, and passed us along to a bevy of much-painted and overdressed, or, rather, underdressed women, who vied with each other in chattering society phrases.
From the first moment, an undeniable air of dissoluteness pervaded the entire place, and I looked to the baron for an explanation. He pressed my arm nervously, and politely warned me to hold my tongue. There was no mistaking the animus of this party. It was revelry, riot, unrestraint. Answering a sign from the host, the baron soon left my side, and joined the convivialists, I being politely led to the main salon, where there was dancing.
Pleading indisposition, I declined to take part, and remained aside observing the dancers. I noticed that many of the women were singularly lovely and exquisitely attired, but generally lacking in grace of movement and aplomb. I observed, also, groups of women, some of them deathly pale, others flushed with indignation, evidently discussing the situation, and the truth slowly dawned upon me that these were women of the demi-monde, and that I had been tricked into an attendance upon this reception.
After two or three attempts I succeeded in bringing the baron to my side, much the worse for wine but quite docile. I demanded to be led to my dressing-room, and at first he temporized. Finding me insistent, he begged me to remain, promising to be among the first to depart at the proper hour. His conduct was unusually conciliatory, and when I referred to the character of the entertainment, his manner was full of conscious guilt, while he assured me that he would explain everything later, but that he dared not precipitate a scene by taking me home.
At this juncture Count Volenfeldt, whom we knew, accompanied by the Prince of Waldeck, came our way, and, saluting, faced us, and, remarking somewhat satirically upon the unexpected numbers in attendance, gave me an opportunity to ask if his wife were present.
“The countess is not here to-night,” replied the count, a little dryly. “She is not well.”
“And my wife is here,” put in the prince bluffly, “but she will not be longer than till I shall have made my way through this crush.”
“Let us join the prince’s party and leave this place at once,” said I.
Meanwhile the music had for the moment ceased, and loud laughing and shrill voices, mingled with smoother tones and words of entreaty, were heard, and there was a simultaneous movement toward the dressing-rooms and places of exit. Suddenly word came back that the doors were locked, and the frightened lackeys had fled from their posts, with orders that no one should be allowed to leave the house. Then followed a scene of consternation and confusion,—wives demanding redress from their husbands, and husbands denouncing the violation of hospitality by their host, and through all the din the guttural tones and the piping taunts of the unsainted.
Presently the tall form of Herr Rosenblatt showed, a head above the crowd, adding to his length the height of a fauteuil, upon which he balanced, with a drunken man’s nicety of poise, for he was drunk but coherent.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have met together, as we have met before, for the purpose of proving which man among us has the staying qualities, and who is willing to risk his money in this little game. You come to me and say, ‘Open your doors, my lady wishes to go,’ but how many of you dare to go when I say to those who will go, ‘To-morrow I shall expose you, to-morrow you will sign over your estates to me, to-morrow you shall be ruined and I shall be winner.’ I did not make this party for your money—nor that you shall play, at my tables and lose, for that you have already done, but one thing I want which money will not buy,—social recognition,—and that you shall give me. You will not leave my house, gentlemen, till morning. The ladies will not talk about this entertainment. It is too beautiful; they will not attempt to describe it. Now, gentlemen, I bid you to stay and I shall make myself sure that you enjoy yourself. These remarks make it long for the champagne to wait, and the ladies, poor things, will be wanting refreshments. And such refreshments! Oh, mon Dieu, that the gods could sup with us,” and the speaker was helped caressingly to the floor.
My dear scandalized mother, what did I do? I, an American girl, with the blood of heroes in my veins? Why, I remained and supped and smiled with the others, for not a man even tried the doors. Thereafter there was no restraint. It was, as I have said, a night of orgies. Each man felt that he was no more deeply involved than his neighbor, and that Herr Rosenblatt had told the truth when he said to all, that he held their fates in his fist, otherwise they would not have been there.
He was right, the affair was not talked about except among themselves. But some mischievous astral,—some ubiquitous spirit of a reporter,—was floating about, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed, the court journals had published an account of the whole affair, comments included.
Dearest mother, this letter is long, and I can write no more to-night. I have decided upon nothing so far. So soon as I have done so, I will write, but I must have time for reflection. In tears and love adieu.
As ever yours, ELLEN.
From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Professor John Thornton.
BERLIN, December 5, 1895.
MY DEAR, DARLING PAPA: I have your telegram telling me to come home without delay, also message for the American Minister in case I should need it, as well as that to my banker. Wise and loving provisions all, for my fortune is squandered, my home dishonored, and my heart more than broken, in that I perfidiously assumed to give a love which was not mine to give, and if I had obeyed my first impulse I should have been on the way to your arms, and to the dear old hearth I so thoughtlessly deserted. But can you understand me when I say that all this I have brought upon myself? I was not a child; I had a fitting experience and was of sound judgment. I knew I did not love this man as it was in me to love, indeed, I felt for him neither the admiration nor esteem which must form the basis of genuine passion. I respected, aye, coveted his position, his title, and I brought myself feebly to hope that some day I should be a devoted wife. I staked my future, as he staked my fortune, and lost. If the money was not his own to lose, neither was my heart mine to lose.
One other test I have applied, and the result is in his favor. If I did love the baron as I might love another, would I be so ready with my revenge?—Verily, no; I would wear my life out in the effort to cancel or correct the wrong against myself. Sacrifice is the residue found in love’s crucible; passion is the flux which passes off in the process of retorting. In my crucible, alas! I find nothing but dross—the more the pity.
And so I have decided to remain in Berlin for the present. I am sketching out my plans for the future, but they are crude and unformed, and are of a sort of lighthouse quality, meant to warn people of the rocky places. But more of this anon. Tell my mother, dearest papa, how condemned I feel to give her so much agony on my account. Don’t worry; I will be quite happy now that my mind is settled. Possibly we shall come over in a few weeks, but only possibly. I am sorry I wrote my last to mamma with so much feeling. Good-night, and good-by.
Your devoted, ELLEN.