University of Virginia Library

1. THE
COUNTESS IDA.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was six when Claude returned to his hotel. He
was met at the door by his friend Denham, who had just
arrived from London. Of all men, he was the one he
most esteemed and loved. He was, in some respects,
the antithesis of Claude, and it was, perhaps, this very
difference which made them more attached to each
other. He was totally without Claude's contemplative
habits, but usually acted from impulses which, if
not always prudent or wise, were always noble. He
was frank, generous, and bold; full of strong affections
and quick passions; a faithful friend, and a good
hater. In one respect he differed widely from his
friend. He held duelling to be a custom, under certain
circumstances, sanctioned by necessity, and useful
in its effects upon society. Without any particularly
serious views of religion, he professed to believe
that, in the present state of the world, the meek doctrines
of Christianity were permitted at times to give
way to other considerations bearing upon individual
character and the general harmony of society; in short,
he was also a duellist, though in a far different way
from the debauched, vindictive, and cruel Elkington.
The latter adopted the principle as a mode of shielding
himself in a course of profligacy, and of acquiring
a notoriety of which a purer mind or a more generous
heart would have been ashamed; the former as a

means of protecting his person from insult and his
name from calumny, and of redressing all unjust injuries
directed either against himself or his friends.
He thought the world was thronged with persons who
might be regarded as beasts of prey, ready to attack
those not prepared with means of physical defence,
and that the same principle which permitted a traveller
to use a pistol against a highwayman, allowed a
resort to the same weapon against those who, by force
or fraud, encroached too far on the rights and feelings
of a gentleman. This subject had often been discussed
between these two young men, who each respected,
while he opposed the opinion of the other.

The delight of such a friendly meeting as now took
place, chased from Claude the clouds with which his
present painful position had long shaded his mind and
countenance. Many and rapid were the inquiries and
replies on either side; and, if anything could have added
to their pleasure, it was the mutual discovery that each
contemplated a tour into southern Germany, and to
spend the winter in Italy. The proposition that Claude
should join the party was at once made and accepted;
and, while listening to the voice of true friendship, so
rarely heard in the crowded halls of fashion, and thus
opening to himself a prospect of freedom from the sad
thoughts and humiliations which had so long oppressed
him in Berlin, Claude already felt the weakness
of yielding to despondency, and the certainty of finding
contentment, if not happiness, elsewhere; even after
having parted for ever from the object of his now so
deep but melancholy love. It was not long before
Denham had drawn from his ingenuous friend a clear
account of what had happened since his last letter—
of his almost formal dismissal by the Carolan family—
of the malignant enmity of Elkington and his dark
threats—and of the challenge and its refusal. He
looked grave for a moment, and said,

“You must get away at once if you are determined
to suffer this puppy to calumniate you with impunity;

and I fear also, lest, in some personal encounter, you
might be placed in an awkward position.”

“I fear nothing,” said Claude, “and I will certainly
make no open demonstration of a desire to avoid him.
I have offered to Carolan all the necessary explanations
respecting the falsehood of his charges, and I
have openly pronounced them false. I am yet more
than ever firmly persuaded, that a man who has nothing
to reproach himself with, should, where legal redress
is not advisable or possible, point to the tenour of a
blameless life as the sole reply to passing slanders.”

Denham shook his head.

“I have a great mind,” said he, “and, were it not
for Mary, I would make him eat his words myself.
Even as it is—”

“No, Charles,” said Claude. “Remember you
are a husband, and have no right to risk your wife's
happiness, whatever you may choose to do with your
own.”

“Well, then, let us get off as soon as possible; we
will take a glance at Berlin, and arrange our route for
the summer; but I shall expose this unprincipled ruffian—that
is my duty, wherever I speak of him; and as
for meeting such a blackleg, for he is nothing more, he
must wash his hands clean from the stain of fraud
upon them before he has a right to call upon me.”

Mrs. Denham now entered, and welcomed Claude
with a warmth which proved how sincerely he was esteemed
where he was really known. With Mrs. Denham
there was also a lovely little girl, her niece, whom
these amiable people had adopted. Nothing could be
more delightful than the attachment and sunshiny happiness
which reigned continually in this little circle,
where intelligent and cultivated minds were inspired
by the best impulses that adorn the heart and character.
Mrs. Denham was an extremely lovely person
of three or four-and-twenty, with all the ease and
charm of a fashionable woman, without her frivolity or
pretension. The marriage had been one of mutual

attachment, and now presented the agreeable spectacle
of a union surrounded by a milder but deeper light
of affection, in proportion as the mere illusions of love
gave place to a truer knowledge of character, and a
soberer but not less delightful appreciation of their relative
position and merits. The little Ellen was an orphan,
the daughter of Denham's brother, who had died
without any fortune. She had been carefully educated,
and was beloved and watched over with the tenderest
care; and it was to recruit her health, which
had been somewhat impaired by the closeness of her
application at school, that she was permitted to enjoy
the present excursion. It was, however, by no means
a loss of time, as Mrs. Denham was peculiarly calculated
to instruct her young charge in all the necessary
branches, and, while she led her willing feet along the
path of knowledge, to teach her correct habits of thinking
and observing, to awaken and guide in her heart
those impulses, and to instil into her mind those principles,
without which the brightest talents and the
fairest charms are worthless and dangerous.

For several days Claude occupied himself with his
friends, in seeing the town and its environs. Now
they walked in the beautiful gardens at Charlottenbourg,
and now strolled through the royal grounds and
gorgeous palaces of Potsdam, where the numerous
tokens of the great monarch, philosopher, soldier, author,
and statesman, whose spirit had recently quitted
the earth, interested them extremely. All the curiosities
usually shown to travellers were diligently explored,
and many a merry party they had in the course
of these toilsome but exciting labours; and in the afternoon,
a drive around the Park or an evening at the
opera furnished new variety to their amusements, and
new and agreeable topics of conversation. In these
constant rounds of occupation Claude almost forgot
his situation. He found in the circle which gathered
every day at dinner, that ease and unreserved gayety
of private life, which pleased him more than all the

brilliancy and pomp of fashion amid which he had
spent the winter. Here all things appeared in their
true value. Rational standards of right and wrong
were the criterions of action, and the heart expanded
and opened its faculties in the warm temperature of
friendship and the sober light of nature.

At length the day of departure was fixed, and all the
necessary arrangements completed. On the afternoon
previous they sat down to dinner for the last time in
Berlin, and it was late ere they ceased the lively conversation
to which all that they had seen and all that
they expected to see gave rise.

“Well, here's a long adieu to Berlin,” said Denham,
“and a health to those who remain behind, except
that scoundrel Elkington. You may be right,
Claude, in letting him off; but, were I in your place—”

“That's Charles exactly,” said Mrs. Denham; “I
do believe he has a secret pleasure in being shot at.
I am glad you are going with us. I am sure, Mr.
Wyndham, you are too calm and reflective to suffer
passion to hurry you into actions against right and
reason. Some of your friends are not by half so sensible.”

“Come, come, my love,” said Denham, “no scandal.”

“Aunt Mary is angry because uncle Charles was
going to fight a duel,” said Ellen, “before we left
home.”

“How dare you,” said Charles, laughing, “betray
your uncle in such a heinous offence? So tell Mr.
Wyndham now the whole story, as a punishment, and
see what he will say to it.”

“A man said uncle Edward was no gentleman,” said
Ellen, coming up to Claude, who drew her towards
him, much pleased with her countenance and manner;
“and uncle Charles challenged him, and then the person
begged his pardon, and said he was a gentleman.”

“To be sure,” said Charles, laughing, “and that
illustrates my old opinion. Now there was a case,

Claude, where no alternative was left. Upon the fame
of a gentleman no one should breathe a doubt. It
should be distinctly understood that such an insult
must be answered, and then there would be fewer
evil tongues. If you permit a man to question your
character as a gentleman with impunity, when will
you stop him? from one word he will advance to
broader ones—from invectives to distinct charges—
and from them to—a blow, perhaps. If you are prepared,
under any circumstances, to call a person to account,
why not begin at the beginning? Why not refuse
to permit the slightest indignity? Principle upon
such a subject would be very well if you could carry
it out. But since, in case of the last provocation, you
must seek redress, the—”

“But I do not see why you must,” said Mrs. Denham.

“What, even where a blow—”

“Even a blow,” said she, “cannot excuse a man for
committing an action which is at once foolish and
wicked.”

“There, my love,” said Denham, “you must excuse
me; a blow admits of no compromise or reflection;
a blow is the worst insult which one man can
inflict upon another. A blow I bear from no man; at
the foot of the altar—from the hand of the priest or of
a king, it must be punished. It puts consequences
out of the question. It demands that every consideration
in life should give way to an honourable, instant,
and reckless demand for redress.”

“And yet our Saviour bore a blow,” said Mrs. Denham,
“and mere mortals have had the greatness of
mind to rise superior to such a humiliation, rather than
commit a criminal or an unwise action. I do not see
why a blow should be such a peculiarly unpardonable
insult, or why, however much it merits proper retaliation
and punishment, it should stand separate from
other wrongs, and reduce him who has the misfortune
to suffer it from the responsibilities and duties of a

rational being and of a Christian to a mere madman.
I do not see why an appeal to the laws may not be
made in this case with as much propriety as in any
other. A highwayman robs you of your money—a
swindler defrauds you in a lawsuit—a man borrows
money of you and refuses to pay—a person slanders
you or your friends—an incendiary sets your house on
fire—all these are wrongs, but you do not feel bound
to abandon your interests here and hereafter for the
sake of taking from the law the task of punishing the
aggressors; but a frantic madman—perhaps inebriated,
and not knowing what he does—dashes his hand into
your face, and straightway you profess to have received
such a stain in your character, such an injury
in your reputation, as must be remedied by committing
what is really a crime.”

“It is infamy,” said Denham; “and what is life
without honour?”

“And how is honour compromised by a blow?” demanded
Mrs. Denham. “Does it make you less honest
or noble in yourself? Does it make you treacherous,
impure, intemperate, or in any way abased or
wicked? Does it alter your affections or violate your
duties? Does it afflict you with a vice or deprive you
of a virtue? for, remember, I am not requiring you to
bear blows without that sensibility which preserves
the proper pride and dignity of a man, or to bear them
in any but a noble cause. How is a calm and virtuous
mind, pressing on in an honourable career of wisdom,
unfolding its powers, and occupied in strengthening and
purifying itself and benefiting others—how is such a
mind degraded by the touch of a thoughtless hand? Is
it not an ennobling and almost a divine effort, which
turns unresistingly from so rash and impotent an attack,
and continues to occupy itself only with what is
great and good? Be assured he has lived a doubtful
or an insignificant life who is required to illustrate its
purity or its courage by a duel. Believe me, my dear
husband,” continued Mrs. Denham, with a tremulous

voice, “existence is a mighty and mysterious gift. It
comes from the hand of God himself. Perhaps we
do not, with all our wisdom, know its true meaning.
Do not seek to destroy that of others for any human
passion. The provocation in your last moment will
show small beside the crime; and reserve your own
life for the duties attached to it. If a man be a coward,
taking life for a blow will not give him courage.
If he be not, enduring it will not make him one. How
wisely might every young malapert of the present day,
whose thoughts are of pistols, death, and eternity, on the
slightest casual occasion, take a lesson from the calm
old Greek, who said, `Strike, but hear me!”'

“My sweet Mary,” said Denham, as he regarded
the bright eyes and heightened colour of his wife with
admiration, “you speak well—you speak eloquently—
but you speak like a woman. Our Saviour, it is true,
bore a blow, but our Saviour was a God; we are
men.”

“And yet, did we but know it,” said Mrs. Denham,
“we have within us the power to follow in the foot-steps
of that Divine Master, who descended to earth
that we might imitate his example. If men would
only study the spirit of that religion—if a few, even,
would dare to think and act for themselves, and to present
the sounding reply of an irreproachable life to all
that attacked reputation—this—this, indeed, would be
courage. Am I not right, Mr. Wyndham?”

“I am certain,” said Denham, “that Wyndham, with
all his self-control and determination, would consider
himself bound to resent a blow to the last extremity.”

“I do not see,” said Claude, “what there is in the
blow of a frantic fool, to absolve from the rules of right
and wrong, or to alter the tenour of a great soul and a
rational mind. The extreme sensibility on this point
is a mode of feeling—a remnant of barbarism. He
who conducts himself as he ought to do, will rarely
be in a position to receive a blow; and when in such
a position without fault of his own, he discovers more
courage in bearing than in blindly resenting it.”

“Come,” said Denham, “you are cunning reasoners,
both of you; but I suspect neither knows what the
feelings and actions of a man would, or ought to be, on
such an occasion. Theory is one thing, and practice
another. And as for me, I really don't see the use of
making ourselves uncomfortable by reasoning on matters
which in no way concern us.”

“There is this use,” said Claude, “that when a
man has determined how he would act in certain cases,
upon the occurrence of these cases his steps, instead
of being committed to headlong passion, are
guarded by the cool decision of his temperate moments,
and he is saved by the hand of principle from
plunging down a precipice.”

“Well! well! we are too serious,” said Denham,
gayly. “Come, fill your glass, Wyndham! let us
leave blows and quarrels to those who are threatened
with them. For my part, now I am a Benedict, I
shall keep away from troubled waters. I may not determine
to let any one strike me who pleases; and, if
forced into a quarrel, I may not choose to sneak out of
it; yet, to avoid a quarrel, I would do as much as any
man. I hold with old Poloneus:

“Come, success to our new undertaking, and may
we all live a thousand years!”