When he had left the room, the family didn’t know what to make of this. The mother said it would hardly be possible for him to want to send dispatches, with which he was on his way to Naples, back to Z—merely because, on his way through M—, he had not succeeded in obtaining a consent to marriage after a conversation lasting five minutes with a woman completely unknown to him. The head forester declared that such a foolish act should surely be punished with no less than prison! “And dishonourable discharge into the bargain,” added the Commandant, “but there is no such danger attached,” he continued. It was just a pre-battle warning shot. The Count would almost certainly come to his senses again before sending off the dispatches. When told of this possibility, the mother expressed the gravest anxiety lest he do so. She thought that the strength of his will focused on this single issue would be capable of just such an act. She asked the head forester with the utmost urgency to follow him immediately and prevent him from taking so potentially disastrous an action. The head forester replied that a step like that would bring about precisely its opposite and would only strengthen the Count’s hope of succeeding through such a move. The Marquise agreed, though she asserted that if her brother did not take this action the dispatches would certainly be sent, because the Count would rather be unhappy than reveal a weakness. All agreed that his behaviour was utterly strange and that he appeared to be used to capturing women’s hearts, like fortresses, by assault. Just at this moment the Commandant noticed the Count’s carriage ready outside the door. Astounded, he called the family to the window and asked a servant just entering if the Count was still in the house. The servant answered that he was downstairs in the servants’ quarters with an adjutant, writing letters and sealing packets. The Commandant suppressed his shock, hurried downstairs with the head forester and asked the Count, seeing him doing his business at an unsuitable table, if he didn’t want to come up to his quarters instead—and if he had any other needs? Hurriedly continuing to write, the Count expressed his humblest thanks, said he had completed his business and, as he sealed a letter, asked the time and wished the adjutant, after giving him the entire portfolio, a happy journey. The Commandant, who couldn’t believe his eyes, said as the adjutant left the house, “Count, if you don’t have vital reasons…” “Decisive ones,” interrupted the Count, accompanying the adjutant to the carriage and opening the door for him. “In that case,” continued the Commandant, “I shall at least…” “Not possible,” answered the Count as he helped the adjutant into the carriage. “The dispatches are worth nothing in Naples without me. I thought of that too. Drive on!” “And your uncle’s letters?” shouted the adjutant, leaning out of the carriage door. “Will reach me,” replied the Count, “in M—.” “Drive on,” said the adjutant, and the carriage departed with him.
Turning to the Commandant, the Count now asked if he would be so kind as to show him to his room. He would have the honour of doing so immediately, answered the confused Colonel, ordered his and the Count’s servants to take up the Count’s travelling cases, and led him into that part of the house reserved for visitors, before leaving him, a frosty expression on his face. The Count changed his clothing and left the house in order to report to the local governor. Invisible for the whole of the rest of the day, he only returned shortly before the evening meal.
Meanwhile, the family were in a state of the most lively confusion. The head forester reported how categorically the Count had answered the Commandant, and said that, in his opinion, his behaviour seemed to be totally calculated, and what in all the world was the meaning of this wooing by post-horse? The Commandant said he understood nothing and asked the family not to speak about it any more in his presence. The mother kept on looking out of the window to see if the Count was coming to regret his foolish action and returning to atone for it. Lastly, as it was dark, she sat herself next to the Marquise, who was busy working at the table, seemingly avoiding the discussion. In a whisper, while the father was walking up and down, the mother asked the Marquise if she understood what was supposed to come of all this. The Marquise answered with a tentative look in the direction of the Commandant. If her father had brought it about that the Count had gone to Naples, everything would have been all right. “To Naples!” exclaimed the Commandant, who had overheard this. “Shall I send for a priest? Or should I have had the Count locked up, arrested and sent to Naples under armed guard?” “No,” answered the Marquise, “but strong measures can be effective,” and she looked down again a little reluctantly at her work. At last, towards night-time, the Count appeared. After initial polite courtesies, it was only to be expected that the subject of the dispatches would be discussed, so that they could emphatically unite against him, so that he could, if it was still possible, reverse the step he had dared to take. But in vain. Such a moment was awaited for the whole course of the evening meal. Conscientiously avoiding anything that could lead to the subject, the Count talked to the Commandant about war and to the head forester about hunting. When he mentioned the fighting at P— where he was wounded, the mother involved him in the story of his illness, asking how he had fared in that little place and if he had found the relevant creature comforts there. At this he related various interesting details arising from his passion for the Marquise: how she had constantly sat by his bedside and how in the heat of the fever caused by his wound he had always confused her image with that of a swan he had seen as a boy on his uncle’s estate, and that a particular recollection had moved him—that he had once thrown mud at this swan, whereupon it silently slid under the water only to arise from it again completely clean. He said it had always swum in dangerous waters and he had called out “Tinka”, the swan’s name, but that he wasn’t able to attract it because it took its pleasure merely in gliding about and throwing out its beautiful breast. Then he suddenly went deep red in the face and vowed that he loved the Marquise beyond measure, looked down again at his plate and fell silent. Eventually the time came to rise from the table, and the Count, after a short conversation with the mother, bowed to the rest of the company and withdrew again to his room. The remainder were left standing and didn’t know what to think. The Commandant was of the opinion that the matter had to run its course. In taking this step the Count was probably relying on relatives, otherwise dishonourable discharge from the army would follow. The Colonel’s wife then asked her daughter what she thought of him and whether she was in a position to say anything which could avert an unhappy outcome. “My dearest Mother,” answered the Marquise, “that’s not possible. I regret that my gratitude has been so harshly tested. But it was my decision not to marry again. I don’t want to risk my luck, and not with such haste, a second time.” The head forester remarked that if this was her firm intention,
such a declaration could be useful to the Count, and that it seemed almost necessary to give him some kind of definite answer. The mother added that this young man was blessed with so many excellent qualities and wanted to stay for a while in Italy, and that his suit in her opinion was deserving of a well-considered decision from the Marquise. The head forester, sitting down beside her, asked her how she liked him as a person. With some embarrassment she replied that she liked and disliked him, and wondered what the others thought. The mother said, “If he returns from Naples and the reports we collect about him do not contradict the general impression you have of him, how would you respond if he repeated his suit?” “In that case,” said the Marquise, “I would—indeed his desire seems so urgent, I would…”—she hesitated, and her eyes shone as she spoke—“for the obligation I owe him, I would fulfil his desire.” Her mother, who had always wished for a second marriage for her daughter, found it difficult to hide her pleasure at this declaration and wondered what indeed would come of it. The head forester, rising disturbed from his chair, said that if the Marquise even considered the possibility of giving the Count the pleasure of her hand, it would be necessary immediately to take steps to prevent the consequences of his wild action. The mother agreed, but maintained that the danger was not very great because on the night the fortress was taken by storm by the Russians the Count had revealed so many excellent qualities that it was hardly to be feared that the rest of the course of his life should not match them. The Marquise looked down in front of her with an expression of distinct discomfort. “You could,” continued her mother, taking her hand, “give him some kind of declaration that you wish to enter into no other engagement until his return from Naples.” The Marquise replied: “Such a declaration, dear Mother, I can give. I only fear that it will not comfort him and will bring complications to us.” “Leave that to me!” replied the mother with lively delight, and she turned round towards the Commandant. “Lorenzo,” she asked, “what do you think?” and prepared to get up from her chair. The Commandant, who had heard everything, stood by the window, looked down at the street and said nothing. The head forester insisted that after such an innocuous declaration he would make it his business to turn the Count out of the house. “So do it, do it, do it!” shouted the Commandant, turning round. “Must I surrender to this Russian a second time?” At this the mother jumped up, kissed him and his daughter and asked, the father smiling at her enthusiasm, how their daughter’s declaration could be immediately conveyed to the Count. At the head forester’s suggestion it was decided to ask him, in so far as he had not yet undressed, kindly to put himself for a moment at the family’s disposal. The Count let it be known that he would have the honour of appearing very shortly, and hardly had the servant returned with this news when he entered the room on steps winged with joy to sink with the profoundest emotion at the Marquise’s feet. The Commandant wanted to say something but, rising to his feet, the Count intervened. He knew enough! He kissed the hands of both the Commandant and the mother, embraced the brother and only asked for the favour of being helped straight away to find a coach. Though moved by this performance, the Marquise couldn’t help saying, “I’m afraid, Count, that your rash hopes will lead you too far—” “Not at all! Not at all!” he rejoined. “Nothing will have happened if the information you find out about me contradicts the feelings which brought me back to you in this room.” At this the Commandant embraced him most warmly, the head forester immediately offered him his own carriage, a groom hurried to the post to secure relay-horses at the best price; and so this departure became more joyful than any arrival. The Count said he hoped to catch up with the dispatches in B—, whence he would proceed to Naples by a shorter route than via M—. In Naples he would do his utmost to refuse the further tour of duty to Constantinople, and if the worst came to the worst he was determined to report sick so that he would unfailingly be back in M— in four to six weeks, barring unavoidable obstacles. His groom then appeared, reporting that the carriage was prepared and all was ready for departure. The Count took his hat, stepped up to the Marquise and held her hand. “So then,” he said, “Julietta, I’m relieved to some degree,” keeping his hand in hers, “though it was my most earnest wish to marry you before I left.” “Marry!” cried all the members of the family. “Marry,” repeated the Count, kissed the Marquise’s hand and said, because she asked if he had taken leave of his senses, that the day would come when she would understand him. The family were close to getting angry with him, but he immediately bade a most warm farewell to each of them, asked them not to think any more about what he had just said, and left.