CHAPTER V.

FRUITLESS PRETENSIONS.

"Your new dress-coat has come from the tailor's," was Frau Herbert's greeting to her husband, upon his entrance.

"Indeed! where is it?" he asked gruffly.

"In the next room, on the bed."

"On the bed!" her husband snapped out. "So that it may be covered with lint? How careless!"

Frau Herbert looked down, and was silent. Herbert hurried into the next room to rescue his slighted property.

Professor Herbert's dwelling-room was rather small and low, but there appeared, at a cursory glance, an air of elegance about it. The chairs and lounges were covered with fine woollen stuff, the curtains were richly embroidered, and an elegant cabinet, with mirrored doors, closely locked, apparently contained silver plate. Upon a closer inspection, however, the furniture was found to be stuffed with straw, the curtains were shabby, with the holes in them not even darned, and the cabinet contained only broken household-utensils, with the remains of the previous meal, locked up there to be safe from the hungry servant-maid. Even the arm-chair by the window, occupied by Frau Herbert, evidently an invalid, was as hard as a stone. The only thing in the room of real and decided value was a collection of old English copper-plates that decorated the walls of the apartment, representing scenes from Shakspeare's plays and Roman history. These old pictures were one of Professor Herbert's fancies; and he belonged to that class of men with whom the necessities of a wife and of the household are never considered in comparison with the gratification of their fancies.

Frau Herbert was one of those unfortunate women who, in the consciousness that they are burdens to their husbands, believe themselves called to endure everything, even the grossest injustice, with meekness, and who hold it their duty to entreat forgiveness of their lords and masters for continuing to exist at all. The sight of that quiet woman, with her sad face, upon which pain had ploughed deep furrows, sitting at the window mending the straw-coloured gloves in which her husband was, in the evening, to play the part of an aesthetic exquisite, while she lay suffering at home, would instantly suggest the complete picture of an unhappy wife tied to the side of a cold-blooded egotist.

"Poor Professor Herbert!" people were wont to say, "what a misfortune it is for a man to have such an invalid wife!"

But a closer observer of the pair would have said, "What a misfortune for an invalid wife to have such a husband!"

The miserable woman, however, had no such thought; she would gladly have died,--not only to be free from suffering, but that her husband might be rid of her presence. In her inmost heart she despised his selfishness and want of feeling. She knew that a worthier man would have had consideration for her and patience with her, as her burden was surely the heavier; but she was too much afraid of her husband to put such thoughts in words, even to her own mind. Suffering that is incessant, and that undermines the physical frame, must gradually weaken the mind; and thus the only strength of the hapless wife consisted in hopeless endurance.

Professor Herbert entered in his new coat, and surveyed himself attentively in the large mirror.

"It fits well,--does it not?" he asked.

"Very well! but it is very expensive."

"Did the bill come with it?"

"Here it is."

"Oh, that is not so bad. Hecht is certainly the best tailor in the city."

A shade of bitter feeling passed across his wife's face and she could not refrain from saying, "When I recollect that you lately refused to let me have the shawl I so needed, that did not cost half so much, and----"

"The money for your dress all goes to the apothecary, my dear," Herbert replied, with a sneer.

"My dress!" his wife repeated,--"you would be ashamed to walk in the street with me,--my clothes are so shabby."

"No one expects much elegance from an invalid whose illness costs her husband so much money."

Frau Herbert cast a glance at her husband, but she said not a word more. For one moment she leaned her weary head against the back of her chair, but the position was too uncomfortable, and she resumed her work, thinking with pain how the physician had imperatively recommended her to procure a more comfortable chair, in which she could sleep sitting up,--but now this small luxury, as well as all the rest, had been denied her!

Suddenly the door opened, and in rustled and fluttered a creature half child, half old maid,--half butterfly, half bat. Around her head floated a mass of very light curls. A _nez retrousse_ gave to her face a naive air of youthfulness, which, however, the crafty, eager expression of her small eyes contradicted. Just so her teeth, short and wide apart, resembled those of a young child who has shed his first set, while the wrinkles about her thin, open lips indicated an age of thirty years at least. The figure, crowned by this strange head with its huge mane of curls, was delicate and slender as that of a half-grown girl. Her hands were small, but wrinkled like those of an old woman. She was dressed in thin, flowing garments,--her round straw hat was adorned by long, light-brown ribbons. Her gait, bearing, and address were light, airy, sylph-like. It was evident at the first glance that she was a creature who believed herself highly poetic, richly gifted, breathing a charmed atmosphere, and that although she might in reality be thirty years old she had in imagination never passed sweet sixteen. Such a creature is only conceivable with a sheet of music or a sketch-book in her hand; and, in obedience to a mysterious law of nature, this too was not wanting in the present instance. "Brother, darling!" she cried, skipping up to Herbert, "how charming you are in your new coat! Aha, are you going to the Moellner's reception this evening? Yes!" Trilling a little air, she laid aside her book, hat, and gloves. "Tra-la-la-la--oh, I am so happy to-day I cannot talk, I can only sing." And she hummed the refrain of the charming song by Taubert, "I know not why, but sing I must!" Then she remembered that she had not yet spoken to her brother's wife. "Oh, dear Ulrika, forgive me for not asking how you are. No better yet? Ah! your little Elsa is so agitated to-day! I feel--I can't tell how--my bosom heaves and thrills as with the breath of May! I must go to my work. To-day I feel sure, in my present frame of mind, I must create something!"

And she was about to hover away to the blissful retirement of her own room, when Herbert, who had meanwhile exchanged his new coat for a light summer sacque, cried after her, "Stay here a moment, and speak at least one sensible word before you go."

She paused.

"What are you going to attempt now? I am really afraid to trust you by yourself."

She skipped up to her brother again and roguishly laid her finger on his lips, looking archly in his eyes. "Dearest brother, I shall surprise you! I have an idea!"

"Pray cease your folly for the present. You do not want to flirt with your brother, I hope? Tell me, what is your idea? If it is good for anything, it will be the first of its kind that you have ever had in your head."

"Oh, you discourteous brother!" pouted the fair indignant, "to grieve your sister so! But, since you bid me, I will obey you, and give you a glimpse into the transparent depths of an artist's soul. Every maiden must practise the sweet duty of obedience, that she may one day gladden a husband's heart by her submission."

"Well, well, to the point!" cried Herbert impatiently.

Elsa bashfully cast down her eyes, and, stammering with the charming embarrassment of an artistic nature, said, "When, a few days ago, I asked Professor Moellner what lady author was his favourite, he answered me in jest, 'She who has written the best cookery book!' I am going to show the mocking man that I can do that too. Oh, how amazed he will be when he finds that the wealth of fancy in my soul can beautify and transfigure what is so prosaic! This it is that he deems the charm of womanhood,--the power to seize and mould to beauty the commonplace and sordid. I am going to publish a cookery book in verse, with illustrations, and entitle it 'The German Wife at the Hearth of Home.' Only think what splendid initial letters and arabesques I can have! I will show that a bunch of parsley can be as gracefully arranged as roses or violets. Such lovely green borders to the pages must always be beautiful, whether composed of parsley, lettuce, or sorrel; and, if a warmer colour is desirable, I will paint a couple of blushing radishes peeping, half hidden, from among the leaves, and there you have as perfect a picture as any of our famous artistes have produced of Spring. Is not the meanest kitchen-stuff the work of the Creator, and as beautiful as any other of his creations? And there can be such variety in the volume. For example, the chapter of receipts for cooking fish can have a title-page of its own, after the style of the engravings in Schleiden's 'Wonders of the Deep.' Beneath a placid crystal lake may be seen sporting together all the fish alluded to in the ensuing chapter. Branches of coral are wreathed in and out, and, illuminated by the rosy light of the setting sun, water-lilies float upon the calm surface of the water. Every chapter will have a suitable title-page, displaying in its native element the animal to be cooked,--game in the forest, fleeing from the pursuing huntsman and hounds,--the dove hovering above the ark, with the olive-branch in her beak,--domestic fowls, in the Dutch style, cooped in their accustomed poultry yard. Fruit and vegetables can be treated as still-life, in arabesques, and decorating the margins of single recipes. At the end of the book a picture representing a family seated at dinner. Over their heads, in gothic letters, the line, 'Lord Jesus, come and be our guest.' And, in pursuance of this invitation, he must be seated at the head of the table, in the midst of a brilliant halo of glory. On either side of the table sit the children, and at the foot the happy husband and wife, each offering food to the other. Angels are in attendance upon the able,--the angels of harmony, peace, and content. The wife sits with her face turned from the spectator, but the husband--and this is the grand point--the husband will be a portrait!"

She paused, carried away by her poetic dreams, and by the thought of the immense success that the book must command.

"Well, and whom is the portrait to represent?--me, perhaps?" asked Herbert with a sneer.

"You? Oh, no. Ah, rogue! can you not guess? Heavens! do not look at me so,--you know whom I mean!"

"Moellner?" asked her brother.

"Yes,--you have guessed it. Oh, when I think of the smile that will play around that proud mouth as he beholds his portrait drawn by my hand, as he sees how his image is present with me everywhere in all that I think and do! Oh, it will, it must touch him!"

"Yes, it will touch him uncommonly," remarked Herbert; "and there will be a charming scene when he presents his inamorata, the Hartwich, with the work, that she may learn cookery from it. Do not forget to add a receipt for broiling frogs' legs, by which she can dress the frogs that they use together for their physiological experiments."

"Oh, Edmund!" exclaimed Elsa, startled and a little vexed, "your words are full of wormwood to-day. Go,--your caustic wit destroys all my flowers of fancy. This is why I always avoid you when I am about to begin a work. What pleasure can it give you to thrust me from my paradise? Is it right? Let the soul that can find no home on this rude earth seek it in brighter realms."

And she raised her eyes to the ceiling, and laid her wrinkled little hand upon her breast. "Mine is a modest, shrinking soul,--its childlike trust and hope are all that I possess. Dear brother, do not you rob me of them, as long as no other hand snatches them from me."

"But you must find out at last that your hopes are vain, and therefore I wish to warn you, that you may not make yourself ridiculous by an untimely parade of your feelings. I know, from the most trustworthy sources, that Moellner has been to Hochstetten to see the Hartwich, and that he spent two hours with her. Rhyme that with his enthusiasm for her at the meeting the other day, and complete the verse yourself."

Elsa looked down and thought for a minute or two, then she sighed and shook her flowing mane, saying, "No, it cannot, cannot be! That man-woman may excite his curiosity, she cannot win his heart! No, no, Elsa has no fear that Lohengruen will be misled by Ortrude! And now to work, that the day may soon come when he will ask, 'Elsa, whose is the face of the wife who sits at table by my side?' Then I shall avert my face and reply, 'That you know best.' Oh, darling brother! dearest sister! he will turn my blushing countenance to him then, and say, 'This is her face!' Oh, I must go: the breath of spring is wafted towards me from my studio. Yes, yes, I feel that the Muses await me there." With these words she rustled and fluttered away to her room.

Frau Herbert looked after her with a sad, almost a compassionate, glance. "Tell me, Edmund," she said to her husband, "did you ever for one moment believe that such a man as Moellner would marry that girl?"

"Why not? There are many more unequal matches made every day: the only thing is to man[oe]uvre the matter skilfully. If poor Elsa had as managing a mother as you were blessed with, the affair would certainly not be beyond the bounds of possibility. But the poor thing has no one to help her but myself, and we men are clumsier at match-making than the most stupid of women."

Frau Herbert looked pained and crushed by this attack upon her mother and herself. She thought it, however, beneath her dignity to reply to it. She only said very quietly, "I am glad, Edmund, that there is one creature in the world for whom you have some regard, or even blind affection. Well, she is your sister. I, too, love the poor thing, but I cannot believe that she will ever succeed in kindling one spark of interest in Moellner's breast."

"You have always regarded her with jaundiced eyes," Herbert went on to say. "You talk as though she were a monster. She is no longer young, but there is still something youthful about her. She is not, it is true, a genius, but her nature is really artistic. She is not pretty, but an enthusiast like Moellner is more observant of inner graces than physical beauty, and he cannot fail to be impressed by her beauty of soul. It certainly is true that he always distinguishes her in society. Does he not always take her to supper when she is unprovided with an escort, as is usually the case? When all the others avoid her, is not Moellner sure to sit and talk with her? Such a conscientious prig as Moellner would not do that unless he had some object in view; and if she has no other charm for him, her undisguised admiration of him would attract him to her, for he has a due amount of vanity, and every one must take pleasure in being so fanatically adored. If it were not for that confounded Hartwich, who knows how far he might be brought! But I will be revenged upon her, she may rely upon that!"

"Why visit your anger upon the innocent? How can it be this stranger's fault that Moellner is more interested by her genius than by our Elsa's sentimental dilettanteism, her perpetual attempts and failures? His courtesy to her in society always seemed to me prompted by his humanity. She certainly makes herself very ridiculous,--you must see that; and a man of Moellner's kindly, chivalric character cannot permit an innocent, harmless girl to be made sport of, and, accordingly, he constitutes himself her protector, and tries generously to indemnify her for the neglect of others. He does not dream that Elsa's vanity builds all kinds of schemes upon his conduct, or he would never forgive himself----"

"Enough, enough!" Herbert interrupted her angrily. "I cannot see how, with the pain in your face, you manage to talk so much. I can understand that Elsa is disagreeable to you because I have educated her, but I cannot understand how, tied to your invalid chair as you are, you have contrived to fall in love with this Moellner. Indeed, if I had not had hopes of marrying him to my sister, I should have broken with the arrogant pedant long ago, for I hate him as much as you women, old and young, adore him."

Frau Herbert looked with a quiet, thoughtful expression at the speaker, who had worked himself into a violent rage, and then she silently resumed her work, suppressing the words that rose to her lips,--for she possessed the rare talent of knowing when to be silent.

Herbert waited for some minutes for a reply which might afford him further opportunity for venting his spleen, but, receiving none, he turned away, and was about to seek his study.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and the postman entered, with a thick square parcel in his hand. Herbert grew pale at sight of it, and his wife too looked sad and sorry.

"Your manuscript?" she asked.

"My manuscript," he said, writing his name in the mail-book with an unsteady hand.

"There's a gulden and twenty-four kreutzers to pay," said the messenger.

"So much?" growled Herbert, counting out the money carefully by groschen and kreutzers. When the man had left the room, Herbert hastily tore open the envelope, and a letter appeared, which he hurriedly looked through and handed to his wife with a look of despair. The letter was from the manager of the royal court theatre at X----, and ran thus:

"To Herr Professor Herbert, of N----:

"I am greatly concerned, sir, to be obliged to return you your tragedy of 'Penthesilea,' as it presents insurmountable difficulties for scenic representation. The secrecy enjoined upon me shall be inviolably preserved.

"With great respect, etc.,

"W----."

Frau Herbert looked up with a sigh at her husband, who stood pale and trembling beside her.

"There goes my last hope," he said, tearing up the letter. "I forgave all the other managers and directors for sending back the manuscript, for they are incapable of appreciating the value of such a work. But no one can accuse a man like W---- of not appreciating genuine art, and if he refuses to bring it out he must be actuated by envy. However that may be, in these lines he has written his own death-warrant." He raised his hand containing the crushed letter with something like solemnity, and continued: "I now declare war upon the German stage and its supporters. If I have nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear. I have written six tragedies for the waste-paper basket. I will not write another. Having nothing to fear, I may allow myself the delight of revenge. Criticism is an all-embracing friend, affording a sure refuge for every one who is misunderstood and depreciated. I will throw myself into its arms from this moment. Our public is degenerate. I give up composing for a people who crowd to a farce, shout applause at the commonplace jests of the hero of a modern comedy, and dissolve in tears at a sensation drama from a woman's pen. Shakspeare's, Schiller's, and Goethe's works would be rejected to-day as 'pulpit eloquence,' if past ages had not stamped them as classic. This degraded generation must be educated anew by criticism. They sneer and jeer, and jingle the money in their pockets, these traders of the drama, who demoralise the public; but I will so scourge them that I shall be called the Attila of the German stage."

He paused, for breath failed him to continue his philippic, and he began to read over his manuscript, murmuring to himself, "This is for the future."

Frau Herbert, as was her wont, suffered him to rage on without interruption; but at last she was compelled, out of regard for truth, to attempt to check the outpourings of the angry man. "It is a mournful office," she began, "that of literary executioner, and one I should be sorry to undertake. There is no good done to anybody by it. Many a blossoming genius is destroyed in the bud, and the critic brings upon himself the curses of those who have been striving and labouring honestly, night and day, only to see the offspring of all their pains ruthlessly murdered by the cold steel of his criticism. And the public do not thank you for degrading in its eyes what it had taken pleasure in, and thus robbing it of much enjoyment. Schiller and Goethe never practised criticism after this fashion. They knew how to live and let live, for they were too great to wish to aggrandize themselves at the expense of their contemporaries, and too good to destroy the results of the painful labours of others. Oh, Edmund, how small the man must be who can seek to exalt himself by depreciating others!"

"You are preaching again without sense or reason," Herbert said angrily to his wife. "It was very easy for Schiller and Goethe to play at magnanimity, for they were never misunderstood,--the wiser generation of their day did not refuse them the crowns that belonged to them of right. A king by election would be a fool to make war upon the vassals of his realm. But the nation refuses me my right, and therefore I shall make war upon it."

"Are you so sure of this right?" Frau Herbert asked in a low tone. "Are you so sure that your works are of equal value with Schiller's and Goethe's, and deserve the same applause?"

Herbert stood as if petrified at the presumption of such a speech. "I really think the pain must have gone from your face to your brain. We had better discontinue this conversation."

Frau Herbert went on with her work. A slight flush tinged her bloodless cheek, but she was too used to such attacks to reply to them. She had already said too much of what she thought, and when she looked at Herbert's anxious face she was seized with compassion. Poorly as he bore it, he had met with misfortune, and she would not add to his pain. "Pray, Edmund," she said, after a pause, occupied by Herbert in seeking and finding consolation in the beauties of his manuscript, "make up your mind now to read the piece to your friends. There are so many intellectual people here who will give you their opinion honestly,--then you can see what impression your work makes as a whole, and perhaps their criticism may enable you to improve it here and there."

"I desire no one's opinion. I know perfectly well myself what the tragedy is worth. Shall I give occasion to have it said that I needed the assistance of others to enable me to complete my work? And then to have it reported that I composed dramas that were always rejected! No, I will not acknowledge a work that has met with no applause; neither my brother professors nor my students must hear of it."

The handle of the door was turned, and through the opening smiled another opening,--Elsa's large mouth. When she saw the gloom overspreading her brother's countenance, her snub-nose, too, made its appearance, and, finally, her entire lovely person. She wore a white apron with a bib, calico over-sleeves, and had one pencil in her hand and another behind her right ear.

"Your voices disturbed me at my work. Why contend thus? You know that my exquisite fancies are scared away, like timid birds, by the slightest noise."

"It is a fine time to consider your nonsense, when such a work as my 'Penthesilea' has been returned to its author as 'unserviceable!'" thundered her brother.

"Heavens!" cried Elsa in dismay. "Penthesilea rejected by W----! Oh, who would have thought it! I so revered that man! My poor brother, this is hard! But, brother, dear Edmund, do not be too much depressed! Oh, I feel with you entirely. Any one who knows as well as I do what it is to have works rejected, can understand your pain. And what says my poor Ulrika? She looks so disappointed."

"Oh, you need not pity her!" observed Herbert bitterly. "Her husband's incapacity alone, not his misfortune, troubles her."

Frau Herbert turned her face towards the window, as if she had not heard him.

"Oh, you must forgive her, brother dear--she has never done anything but translate. She cannot know a poet's finer feeling."

At this disparaging remark, Frau Herbert looked calmly and gravely at Elsa. "And yet my unpretending translations for the periodicals supply us with the only means upon which we can rely, apart from Edmund's salary and the small interest of my property. That is because I never attempt what lies beyond my reach. No undertaking, however humble, that keeps pace with one's ability, can fail to produce some fruit, small though it may be."

Elsa turned away, rather taken aback by this turn of the conversation, and her brother muttered, "Of course this is the sequel to the fine talk about attempting and failing."

Elsa threw herself down upon a cushion at his feet, in Claerchen's attitude before Egmont, patted his smoothly shaven cheeks, and taking the thick manuscript out of his hand, pressed it to her bosom, saying, "Take comfort, my poet. Your 'Penthesilea' must always live! Here,--here,--and in the hearts of all. Print it, and publish it as a dramatic poem. It will find readers among the most intellectual people of the country."

"You are a good sister," said Herbert, flattered. "But you know that I have never yet been able to find a publisher enlightened enough to bring out my tragedies. And my own means are not sufficient to enable me to print the work."

"Oh, brother dear, I cannot believe that 'Penthesilea' would not find a publisher. It is the greatest thing you have ever written. The coarsest of men must be touched by such elevation of thought. There may perhaps be some difficulty in representing fitly upon the stage the conflict between Trojans, Greeks, and Amazons in the presence of the gigantic horse. But I cannot think that any one would refuse to print such a gem,--no--never! Yet, even in case of such incredible obtuseness, do not despair. My cookery-book will bring me in such a large sum that I shall be able to help you. Oh, what a strange freak of destiny, should I be permitted by means of a cookery-book to afford the German nation the knowledge of this immortal work! The ways of genius are inscrutable, and perhaps 'Penthesilea' may one day be born from the steam of a soup-tureen, as Aphrodite was from the foam of the sea. There, now, you are smiling once more. May not your sister contribute somewhat to her brother's success?"

"You are a dear poetical child. Although I do not share your anticipations, your appreciation of my efforts does me good. Thank you!" And darling Edmund laid his hand upon his sister's curly head as it lay tenderly upon his breast.