"What is it?" I said.
"The Staffordshire Clarion of August 16th 1879."
"I didn't do it on purpose, Mummy," I said, but my mother had walked out of the room without seeing me.
We left for the country soon afterwards. My Uncle Gustavus, Clara and her brother were spending Easter with us. My Croquet Party, my mother said. Easter Sunday was a fine day, though windy, and the grownups had their
tea out-of-doors under the lime tree. I was with them. Fanny came to see us. My father and Gustavus were playing dominoes. Fanny nuzzled their coats. "She wants your note-case," my father said; "she likes to count a man's money, it's a trick she has. Give it to her." Gustavus fished out his note-case and held it out to Fanny. It was a big fat one, and the leather had a smooth polish. "I see you still have yours," my father said, "so have I. They last forever."
Fanny stretched her muzzle and one by one pulled out the bank notes without making them wet.
I squeaked.
"How she enjoys showing off," my mother said; "Clara, do you think it's good for donkeys?"
"A goose we had could do it too," said Gustavus.
Fanny opened another flap in the note-case with her lips. "Eh—" said my uncle. Fanny clenched her muzzle and jerked the note-case out of his hand. "You mustn't take other people's note-cases," said my father. But Fanny shook her mane, cut a caper and cantered off a few paces.
"Starved for an audience," said my mother. "Get it from her, duck."
I got up with an air of resolution. "Fanny, please," I said, standing in front of her. Fanny looked at me with her clear large eyes. She took a corner of the case between her teeth and shook it, the way she sometimes used to shake me: money, photographs and bits of paper blew over the lawn.
"Oh you clumsy creature," cried my uncle.
"Catch them," cried my mother. I ran. I was quicker than the wind and retrieved handfuls before anybody else. Aunt Clara picked up something by her feet. She held it at arm's length, "That must be yours, Conrad," she said, "it is your writing." Count Bernin and my father were the only ones who had stayed sitting in their chairs. Count Bernin glanced at it, "No, it's not," he said, "it's Papa's."
"Give it to me!"
We all looked at Gustavus then.
"May I not see it?" Conrad Bernin said quietly.
"Give it to me— " my uncle said again, and I can see him. I had never seen anyone stand so still.
My father rose.
"Please stay, Jules," said Count Bernin.
Then he spoke. "This is a note my father wrote to your father, Gustavus. We've all heard about it. Your father is supposed to have burnt it. Unopened. Unread. This is what you told him and my sister at the time. Would you care to explain, Gustavus?"
Clara made a movement. Bernin turned to my mother. "Caroline, will you be good enough to read this to us? I should very much like your opinion; everybody's opinion here."
My mother looked at Clara. Clara inclined her head. My mother looked at the piece of paper, drew a breath, then slowly in her very English voice read the German words.
Dear Felden,
Please give your whole attention to this.
Your boy must not be sent back. Father Hauser tells me he might lose his reason. Hauser, as you may remember, practised medicine for some years before he entered the seminary. He has convinced me. A political issue is at stake and Montclair & Co have been deceiving you. This is most serious; I cannot come over now as I'm detained, but I hope to be at Landen this evening and deal with everything. Meanwhile let Julius keep an eye on his brother.
In great haste, yours ever...
When she had finished, Clara spoke first. "Our father wrote this, Conrad," she said. Her lips moved.
"I have never heard of it," Julius said. He was trembling.
"You were not there, Jules," Clara said. "It was after you went off that we were told about the note; it was the night Gabriel was killed. My father was supposed to have warned yours by sending him a note which he refused to look at and put on the fire in the envelope. But the old Baron told me he had seen no note that day. I always felt that both my father and Gustavus knew something about that note they would not tell. I was never sure the note had existed. In my heart I believed that Gustavus had been trying to be good to my father, and I knew that the lie would be forgiven him. Now may / be forgiven."
Julius said, "Caroline . . . ?"
She said, "Did Jules's father read this note?"
"Yes, Gustavus," said Clara, "tell us what happened. We can hear it now."
Gustavus was sitting again. He looked no longer rigid. "Oh I hardly remember," he said, "so much happened that day. Yes, I suppose Papa did read it, and got angry, yes, and then he put the envelope on the fire . . . Yes, I remember it all now."
Count Bernin's eyes were on him.
"He was good to his own father!" Clara said.
Caroline said, "How did the note get to Jules's father? Who brought it? Who was the messenger?"
"Gustavus was the messenger," Clara said.
Julius said, "On the fire? It was July. You see, there were never any fires laid at Landen in July."
There was long full silence.
Then Clara said, "Tell us the truth now."
"The truth!" said Count Bernin. "I believe my father always knew it."
"You never delivered the note," said Clara.
But no one looked at her. Julius had covered his face.
Then Caroline said, "But why? For God's sake, why?"
Clara gathered herself. She said with a great effort, "My father feared to compromise his career; he had told us that if Jean were not sent back he could not give his permission
for Gustavus and me to marry." After a pause, she said, "He did it for me."
Caroline cried, "Say something. Someone must speak! Gustavus— Jules—"
Count Bernin rose to his feet. His face looked horrible. "It was you," he said, "you —/" but he could not control his voice. "You, who brought this on us. Much is clear now—the way my father treated you in his house, the way he never let you have office— Oh why did he not tell me? It was you who destroyed our work—his—mine— You ruined us. Now it is your turn."
I had stayed, biding my time to get away unnoticed. Now I seized the chance and fled. I reached the house by way of the orchard, as I approached it another figure went streaking by. It was Gustavus.
"Go to him, Jules," Caroline said. "Shake him, hurt him —if that's what you feel like doing to him, but say to him whatever is in your heart. Go now."
Julius fitted the dominoes into the box. "There is nothing to say," he said.
It happened half an hour later as my mother was about to come into the library. When she heard the shot, her hand was on the door. She went in, saw, called for help; but it was too late for help. When the doctor arrived his main use was to give a sedative to Clara. Clara had fainted when she had been told.
Later in the evening, Count Bernin went to Caroline in her sitting room.
"I've come to ask you something."
Caroline gave him a chair.
"When you found him—he was already dead?"
"Yes. It was as the doctor said. He died at once."
"Caroline: my sister must not know this."
"Will not the doctor tell her?"
"I spoke to the man. He's a Catholic."
"You spoke to him already/* said Caroline.
"I will protect my sister. Where I can."
She said, "Will you not explain?"
"Yes, I expect I have to explain to you/*
"I never pretended to be what I am not. Beyond politeness, that is."
"I was aware of that," he said coldly. "It is very terrible to us; that he died the way he did—without the sacraments."
"Poor Clara. Oh, Conrad—" She looked at the old man, for he was that, and saw herself and him, two people alone in a bright room in a house in which unspeakable things have happened.
"There is another chance, the chance we all have; it is independent of the presence of a priest. It is contrition. If before our death we have an instant of contrition, one flash in which we realize the nature of our deeds and repent of them, not in fear, but for the love of God, if we have but that one instant, God can have mercy on us. 'Between the stirrup and the ground—' "
"Yes," Caroline said, "I can see that. Rather wonderful. . . ."
"But there must be time," said Count Bernin. "Consider that he died by his own hand. His chance could only have come after he had pulled the trigger."
Caroline said, "He was dead when I came into the room. I am sorry."
"Without that fraction of time he cannot—do you hear me?—he cannot be saved."
"You are very certain/' said Caroline.
"So is Clara. Assuming your point of view, which I do not, assuming we could be wrong, it would make no difference as it would not shake Clara. You know her. If she is told that her husband died at once, she will know that he did not have that time. She will know that he is damned."
"Conrad/*
"There's no need to be squeamish, Caroline. De mor-t u i s —there is no more foolish saying. Thousands of souls are damned every year, every day. . . It is a fact. It is presumption even to talk of being saved. All we have to believe in is the chance."
Caroline said, "He was practically a boy when he did it— In a moment of panic— A young man terrified of not getting what he wanted— How many of us—? And he carried it with him all his life. Think of having kept the note—"
"This is your way of looking at it," said Count Bernin.
"Did she see him again? Before—after what happened in the garden?"
"She did."
"She spoke to him?"
"Yes."
"And it made no difference?"
"It made the difference."
"She reproached him?"
"In a way. She did a very foolish thing. It is of no moment now."
"What was it?" said Caroline.
"There is no need to go into it again."
"I wish you would tell me, Conrad."
Count Bernin said reluctantly, "She threatened him with public exposure."
"Clara?"
"It was an idea she got into her head. She thought that if her father's letter were published it might revive interest, well, in that man's case. She thought it might be the chance they had been looking for. She told this to Gus-tavus, she told him that setting free the corporal might be his chance of atonement. Then she came to tell me."
"And you?"
"I told her I would do everything in my power to oppose such an intention. The first result has justified me."
"Poor Clara."
"Will you help me to help her?" said Count Bernin.
"Can a woman of her spirit be sustained by a theological quibble?"
"Hope is more than that. Without it we shall have destroyed her last chance of peace on earth."
"Conrad—she did love him?"
"I do not know," Count Bernin said harshly. "It does not concern me. She had duties to him as his wife; and she was responsible for their marriage."
"If we tell her—this story—must she not, on your own showing, find out the truth later on?"
"She will have what support she may need then. It does not regard us here and now. As you do not believe it does not regard you at all."
"So I am to invent the scene of Gustavus's deathbed repentance for your sister."
"You are asked nothing of the kind. I merely want you to say that you believe it possible that after you opened the door and went for help Gustavus was still alive. I want you to say this to her if she asks you. As I know her she will ask you when she wakes tomorrow. She will believe you, as she knows you are ignorant of the importance of the question. Will you do this for us?"
She said, "I do not think I can."
He waited.
"There have been too many lies."
He still waited.
"Now it must have a stop. It is a feeling I have. It is choking me. I feel if there were one more lie we should all perish."
"That is superstition," he said.
"Perhaps. Do we know where superstitions come from? The Greeks were superstitious. I know that we must break this pattern." In a different tone she added, "I know you're right about Clara. I'd do anything to be of help to her. Only, do not ask me to set up the next lie."
"That is the only way you can be of help to her," he said. "Perhaps you are asked to do this, to set up the next
lie as you call it, in redemption of a past lie of your own."
She gave him a clear and gentle look. "So you knew about that? I wondered. I did not choose that to be one. But of course you are right: I allowed it to become that. There were other people involved at the time; it seemed best so. It does not weigh very much now, there's been payment."
"I don't know what you are talking about, Caroline," said Count Bernin. "Do I understand you to say that you have lied for the benefit of others?"
"You argue well," she said.
"Will you draw the conclusion?"
"No, Conrad; no. It does not work in that way. It cannot be manipulated; even one's bad actions, it seems, have to be spontaneous. Not a wrong for a wrong . . ."
"Is telling a white lie to save a fellow creature from irrevocable anguish that? To you? You must have a strangely constituted conscience."
She said, "I know that I must not do it. I know as if I saw it written before me."
"You are very certain/' said Count Bernin.
"What can I do?" she said sadly.
Count Bernin said in a low voice, a voice that seemed to be speaking only for itself, "Nothing is knowable to man left to himself ... to man who believes himself alone . . . the mind creates its own illusions . . . the spirit that has never asked outside itself is alone . . . there is a knowable reality ... a link . . . for those who are far from truth . . . who will not see: compassion."
Caroline said, "If Gustavus were to have had the time he did not have, can we believe that he would have used it?"
"The mercy of God is infinite."
Alert, she said, "Did you ever feel that yourself?"
"It is what I believe," said Count Bernin.
"Ah—" Then she said, "It's no use, Conrad. I'm sorry." And then, "It must be getting late."