“I never recollect being so much at a loss what to say, as I now am, when it is necessary to account to you, for a reception so little like what you had a right to expect, my dear Chevalier, even though you had not succeeded in the commission which you so generously undertook. It is difficult, indeed, because I ought to be, I must be ingenuous, and ingenuous I connot cannot be, without imputing to two of the best men in the world, the only errors and prejudices that detract from the general excellence of their characters. The Baron, whose life has been passed between the court and camp, is an excellent husband, father, and master, but out of his own family he has no attachment, and very little sensibility. This will undoubtedly appear strange to you who have not yet had an opportunity of observing the various shades of characters, which in a longer life you will meet with. The Baron de Rosenheim is passionately attached to his daughter and her children, and he would see nothing extraordinary in all the rest of the world, being equally interested for them; yet for one of his friends who had a daughter or a son in sorrow or distress, he would feel no concern; but turn to indifference matters with the most perfect composure, even while the sufferers were yet before his eyes. I have often seen instances of this temper with concern and wonder, in the younger part of my life, indeed it has frequently hurt me so much, that it was necessary to recollect all the other qualities of my husband, before I could reconcile myself to this apparent hardness of heart; this tendency towards selfishness, and self consequence, blemishes for which hardly any virtues can make amends ; gradually I have become accustomed to it, and as I see other men with faults so much more pernicious to their families and to society, I have learned to pass by this defect, (for a defect I must ever think it) in a character otherwise irreproachable; nor should I now have named it, but to account for the coldness and indifference with which the Baron de Rosenheim may receive a service so important as that you have rendered him. I have not yet told him of it, nor did he know that you had undertaken it; but as, for particular reasons, I said in general terms that measures were taken to repair my neglect of these papers, he will probably — but too probably, receive the material objects you have recovered, as a matter of course; as he heard, without expressing any interest in your future destiny, the detail I gave him of your first destiny, the detail I gave him of your first arrival at Rosenheim, the death of the Viscount de Fayolles, and the activity and address which you had so happily exerted when our lives were in such imminent hazard on our way to Coblentz. He listened without any apparent emotion, to what appeared to me so interesting and affecting; and when I said I had given you an invitation to come hither, did not even say that he wished to see, and thank you for the preservation of his family.
“My son in law, Count D’Alberg, who is of a very different disposition, has received I know not what unfavorable impressions, I fear from Heurthofen. He passed the early part of his life in France; and from some circumstances that happened to him there, with which I was never perfectly acquainted, has entertained such ideas of the libertinism of the young and highly-born of your nation, that he believes no young married woman can admit one of them to her friendship, without the greatest risk of losing her character, if not her honor. My daughter, whose warmth of heart and conviction of your worth led her to speak of you in terms of the highest praise, perceived at once that her husband did not willingly hear her; persisting, however, in declaring sentiments which did her honour, sentiments as pure as those of angels, she found after a few days, and after the Count had passed some hours shut up with Heurthofen, that not only general prejudice, but particular suspicion, operated against you, in the mind of her husband, and for the first time since her marriage, she found that jealousy and mistrust, the banes of felicity, had touched the heart of the man whom she almost adores. I know not whether her pride or her love have suffered most; but I know that her distress has been extreme; and that she has her distress has been extreme; and that she has rescued every thing but the future repose of her life, to convince Count D’Alberg how cruelly he injured her tenderness and your honor. On this subject he hears not with patience, a woman whose wishes were till now his law; and he had told her, that however ill founded his notions of the dissolute manners of the French may be, he expects she will pay him the compliment of yielding to them her prediction, (for more he knows it is not) in favor of a stranger, who may be an exception; but who, with at least equal probability, may be as loose in principle as the rest of his countrymen. Far from considering your fortunate exertions, when you saved us from the most imminent risque of drowning, as an obligation, he believes we exaggerate the danger, to exaggerate the value of the service, and is persuaded by Heurthofen, that what hazard we were in, were incurred by our preferring the rash advice of a young man, unacquainted with the country, to his, who would have directed better. This Heurthofen, whom I never esteemed, I am now convinced is a villain; and I have in my turn insisted on his being dismissed from my family. The Baron has promised that he shall; but his is not a moment, he says, in which he can dismiss a man who is acquainted with the affairs of his estate, which the unfortunate events of the campaign have thrown into confusion. To this reason I have been compelled for the present to yield, but I have declared, that in whatever else the Baron or Count D’Alberg may chose to employ this man, he shall never fill that of almoner to the family, while I am at the head of it. He is now sent by the Baron on business, I know not whither, and I am thus delivered from his hateful presence; but the mischief he has done is irreparable.
“It is so delicate a matter to interfere between married people, and the happiness of Adriana is so dear to me, that I have not ventured to speak to Count D’Alberg on this subject, so decidedly as on any other I would have done. I dread lest he should believe my daughter has complained of his groundless prejudice, and unworthy suspicions; and that by remonstrating with him, I may rather irritate than conciliate. Had I less dependence on the nobleness of your nature, my amiable young friend, I should not have written all this; but I think; am not mistaken in supposing, that whatever resentment you may feel towards the Count, for the hasty, undeserved, and I must add, illiberal opinion he has formed and in regard to you, you will sacrifice it to the tranquillity of a family you honor with your esteem — such a being as Heurthofen is altogether beneath your regard, and excites contempt rather than anger.
Be assured, my dear Sir, that though our acquaintance is thus interrupted, though I cannot, as I intended, make my house your home, and shew you all the little kindness in my power; (all would, alas! have been infinitely short of what you have a claim to) yet no time, no circumstance, will erase from my memory, and that of my daughter, the obligations we owe you; and if you would not render us both more unhappy, allow us still, in such manner as may yet be in our power, to continue our acknowledgments of esteem and of gratitude. I would have requested again to have seen you, rather than to have troubled you with this long letter, but I am conscious that I could not meet you without pain, and should probably communicate some part of the regret I feel. I had better, I believe conclude here, requesting only to know, by a messenger I will send to day, whither you go on quitting Vienna. Do not write me; you may intrust the person charged with my commission, with any message with which you may oblige,
Dear Sir,
Your most sincere friend,
and faithful servant,
WILHELMINA ULRICA,
Baroness de Rosenheim.”
CHAPTER X.
“Success and miscarriage have the same effect in all conditions
— the prosperous are feared, hated and flattered —
The unfortunate avoided, pitied and despised.”
S. JOHNSON.
D’ALONVILLE had read the Baroness’s letter only once over, execrated the man he before despised, and began to consider how he ought to act, when a woman, muffled up in a close cap and hood, was shewn into his room; in whom he recognized his old friend Theresa, the faithful attendant on the children of Madame D’Alberg. “I am s
ent by my lady, the Baroness, Sir,” said she, as soon as she sat down. “Without my saying so, you must thing think it very strange that I make you such a visit, especially after what has been said.”
“Tell me, my good Theresa, what has been said? I understand, indeed, that I have been strangely misrepresented in your family; and I suspect to whom I owe those misrepresentations.”
“Yes, Sir, for I’ll venture to say there was only one person who could make them. — A false monster! I believe I should be almost ready to tear his eyes out, were I to see him at this moment. But, however, other people have not been quite free from false dealings, neither. There is Bessola: — I cant say I ever thoroughly like her — a vain conceited thing! It has been told to the Count, Sir, for as to my lord, the Baron, he troubles himself very little with what does not immediately concern his own family; but it has been told to the Count, that you were frequently seen in deep conference with Mademoiselle Bessola at undue hours; which they pretended to believe, forsooth, was to prevail upon her to carry letters to my lady. I declare such infamous insinuations put one out of the patience — as if you ever thought of such a wicked thing as winning my lady’s affections away from the Count.”
“Never,” cried D’Alonville, with vehemence, “Never, as there is honor, truth, or gratitude in man.” “I do believe you, sir, said Theresa; “ and how the Count, who never before shewed the least disposition to jealousy ever since he married my lady, should get such abominable nonsense into his head now, without the least ground, is to me unaccountable. For my part, I believe he is bewitched.”
“There is nothing extraordinary in it, however, my friend,” answered D’Alonville, “if he is weak enough to listen to such a fellow as Heurthofen, and narrow-minded enough to entertain those prejudices, which affix to different nations different characters of vice. I am sorry it is so, Theresa, as it deprives me of almost the only happiness I reckoned upon, being allowed to call myself the friend of those generous and amiable women, the Baroness de Rosenheim and her daughter. But my hopes, dear as they were to me, must be instantly sacrificed to their repose. For Count D’Alberg, I know him not, nor shall I ever seek to know him — I believed him to be a soldier and a gentleman. — I wish there was now less difficulty than there will be, in my learning to respect him as the husband of your excellent lady; as such only I will endeavour to think of him; but with his chaplain, if I am so lucky as to be able to meet with him, I must renew my acquaintance on terms somewhat different from those on which we last met.”
“That is the very circumstance Madame de Rosenheim is apprehensive of, Sir” said Theresa; “and one of the principal things she charged me to entreat of you was, not to speak to Heurthofen, if you happen to meet with him. She says she has the most urgent and particular reasons to request this of you, and she hopes you will not refuse her; remembering, that towards a priest you cannot shew the same anger as you might to another person. Besides, if you were to say any thing to him, it would be known that somebody had told you of the ill-office he had done you, and the mischief would be greater than ever. My lady and the Baroness both charged me to ask you to promise them, upon your word of honor, that you will not seek Heurthofen.”
“I will not,” answered D’Alonville, “since their commands ought to be my laws. I will not seek this villainous fellow, but if I meet him!”
“You must pass him by; indeed, Sir, you must; your resentment you cannot properly shew; and he is of that disposition, my lady says that it is one of his highest gratifications to know he has been successful in mischief. If he can but make himself of consequence, he care not by what means; and his maxim is, that next to the pleasure of being beloved, is that of being dreaded.”
“In truth, my dear Theresa, the family of Rosenheim have chosen an admirable spiritual counsellor. But to put an end to all solicitude on my account, for what right have I to give them the least? Assure your ladies of my obedience to dare venture to promise this, because I am sure they will order nothing that shall be inconsistent with my honor.”
“That I am sure of too, Sir,” answered Theresa; “for as to the Baroness, I declare I believe, that if you were her own son she could not love you better. I don’t know when I have seen her so vexed as she has been at the Baron’s indifference, and the Count’s almost rude treatment of you. Indeed she hardly knows how to conceal her vexation; but she puts it all to the account of the burning of Rosenheim. Well, Sir, and so what I had farther in commission from my lady the Baroness, to say, that as she understood you meant immediately to leave Vienna, she entreated to know whither you intended to go, hoping, of all things, it was not to France. She cannot, she says ask you to write to her, for reasons that are too obvious; but if you would be so good as now and then to contrive to let her hear of you, by writing to me, if you would not be above such a condescension, both she and Madame D’Alberg indeed, charged me particularly to tell you, that however, from her behaviour last night, she may appear, she can never forget the obligations she owes you, and must always recollect with sisterly affection, a gentleman who she must consider as the saviour of her children, and of her fortune; for she knows, and I believe she only yet, that it is you who have almost by miracle, recovered these papers. Ah! Sir, the Baron is a very good man, but has been always too much disposed not to consider others enough, and to fancy all the world made for him.” D’Alonville sighed deeply, for among a thousand painful thoughts, he remembered how very lately he was in a situation of life equal, if not superior, to that of the Baron de Rosenheim; by whom his services were now only thought of among those due from a dependent to their lord.
“But do not, my good Sir, be cast down,” resumed Theresa; “depend upon it the day will come when you will see all right again; and when you will see your friends happy and be happy yourself. Yes, yes! Heurthofen will be found out, for the villain I know him to be. — Oh! Chevalier, I could tell you such stories of him; but I dare not stay any longer, and therefore must hasten to obey my last orders. The Baroness, Sir, gave me this,” continued she, “taking out of her pocket a small dear box, sealed with four seals, “and she directed me to deliver it to you upon receiving your promise that you will not open it till you are forty miles from Vienna. Chevalier, do you promise me?”
“I cannot indeed,” replied D’Alonville, “made any such promise, unless I knew the contents of the box. — I cannot even receive it.”
“You must, however,” said Theresa, “ for I assure you I shall not take it again. — The Baroness ordered me to tell you, that if you refused to receive this box, which perhaps contains her picture, she shall think you have renounced her friendship; and that nothing in the world can make her more unhappy. No, no! Chevalier, you must not distress Madame de Rosenheim by refusing it. Adieu, Sir! — may you be as happy wherever you go, as from my heart I believe you deserve to be!”
Theresa then hurried to the stairs, trying to conceal her tears and stifle her sobs. D’Alonville, uncertain how he ought to act, followed her, and begain began again to argue with her; but the public inn, was certainly an improper one for such a conference. Theresa reminded him of it:
“Oh! do think, Chevalier, what would be the consequence, should any one pass who knows me to be the servant of the Countess D’Alberg, and what is so likely!” D’Alonville, struck with the remark, immediately acknowledged the justice of it; and pressing the hand of Theresa, in losing whom he seemed to lose one of his last friends, he suffered her to depart, and hurried back into his own apartment.
He then took up the box; it was light, and might, he thought, contain that memorial of the friendship of Madame de Rosenheim which Theresa had intimated. But whatever were the contents, he could not return the box without offending a woman he so highly respected; not could he do it, without hazarding to disturb the peace of her family. Nothing indeed seemed to remain for him but to quit Vienna as soon as possible, and he began anew to consider whither he could go— “The world was all before him where to chuse choose ,” but no part
of it offered to him, “a place of rest.” A man of his age, however, seeks not rest; his wish was rather for the means of signalizing himself, or in dying in the cause which he had promised his father till his latest hour to defend. In pursuit of this object he went among those of his countrymen who were at Vienna, and found some with whom he was acquainted; but in their consultations how to proceed, all was yet confusion and doubt. Some were disposed to assemble under the princes of the blood; but without the assistance of foreign powers they could not long keep themselves embodied; and of that assistance they had no certain assurance. The cheerful and sanguine temper, so much the general character of the nation, supported many of these gallant unfortunate men amidst difficulties and mortifications, under which men of any other European nation would have sunk; but others, who had not only suffered the loss of fortune and the miseries of exile, but who were torn from their dearest connections, for whose fate they suffered more than a steady eye any prospect that was offered them; while there were those of a third description, who attached, from their former situations, to the fallen family of their king, were rendered desperate by the continual reports that arrived of the unmanly and unjustifiable treatment of the ill-fated prisoners in the Temple; and in their councils were rather actuated by frenzy than by reason, rashly insisting on plans impossible to execute, even had all circumstances been at this period as favorable as they were evidently otherwise.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 166
