Part 4

“The farther he progressed toward recovery, the more his depression increased; this, and the numerous sittings, aroused Herr von F.’s suspicions and one day he entered unexpectedly when the artist and his wife were alone together. He saw the youth on his knees before her, weeping bitterly, while she, bending over him, was trying to comfort him. The scene which followed was brief but terrible. F. rushed upon the Italian and dealt him a blow in the face. The insulted youth seized a rapier hanging on the wall, pressed furiously upon his host, and would have killed him if the unhappy wife had not thrown herself between them. At the noise servants rushed in, who seized the raging artist, thrust him into the traveling carriage into which the horses had been hastily harnessed, and advised his coachman to drive to his destination, wherever that might be.

“The affair caused great excitement at the time; Herr von F. refused to accept a challenge sent to him from Pesth, and his wife, for a long period, sought refuge on a secluded estate.

“About five months after the scene just described, a box arrived containing the altar painting and a letter, in which the artist entreated Frau von F. to think often of him as an unfortunate man, who had seen the sun of his life rise once for a moment only to lose it forever. He also asked that the picture might be placed in the newly-built church, which, after much opposition from the owner of the estate, was done. The beautiful woman whom you saw in the foreground of the picture is Frau von F., the youth with the folded arms is the artist himself.

“Heaven knows that the young couple did not have a single happy hour afterward. A dark suspicion, though a wholly groundless one, rested on the husband’s heart, and this, with the gossip of the people, made the poor, beautiful wife utterly wretched. When, after a few years, she became a widow—I came here just at that time—I often saw her, when the church was empty, kneel before the picture for hours, shedding burning tears. She did not remain here long, but withdrew to her lonely estate, whence she often comes to the village, and never neglects to visit the church.

“Nothing more was heard from the artist himself, who disappeared without leaving a trace, only some of the owners of the neighboring estates, who knew him, said that he had gone to Africa as a missionary and vanished there.”

We thanked the pastor for his story and set out on our way home.

END.

A CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS.

It was Christmas Eve of the year 1874. We were slowly pressed forward by the human tide constantly surging to and fro upon the broad pavement of the Boulevard des Italiens. Often it was scarcely possible to pause a moment in front of the brilliantly-lighted show windows of a shop, to admire, here the diamonds, yonder the bronzes and ivory carvings displayed within. But one exhibit attracted us too strongly to pass it with a hasty glance. We checked our steps, which produced the same effect as when a drifting log suddenly grounds across a stream. First there was a violent shock, then an angry murmur, an excited chattering, and the stream gradually turns aside and flows in a slight bend around the obstacle which cannot be swept away.

The articles in this show window, which belonged to a fashionable confectioner, were far too tempting. A Christmas Fair, a veritable paradise for children: miniature Hussar boots, cradles, tiny champagne bottles, bomb-shells, burning logs, a poodle dressed as a waiter, with a napkin at his neck, all made of sugar and executed with Parisian daintiness, and in the midst of this French fiddle-faddle stood the sturdy, simple German pine tree.

“Is the Christmas tree much used in French families?” I asked my companion, Monsieur G., a Paris architect, who has recently won much renown.

“I think not,” he replied, “but I have always had my arbre de noël in my own house, and it is the central point of one of my most sorrowful memories.”

A mournful expression shadowed his mobile features as he spoke, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. We went on and, a few steps beyond, turned into the “Rue du 4 Septembre.” I did not wish to interrupt my friend’s deep reverie by obtrusive, curious questions, so for a short time we walked silently side by side. It was he who interrupted this pause by voluntarily telling his sad story.

“Four years,” he began, “have passed since that terrible winter, but everything is still as vividly impressed upon my mind as though it had happened only yesterday. The Prussians had forged their iron ring around the city, and we breathed more and more heavily. The whole world knows the epic of that siege, from its commencement to its close. In the beginning ‘useless mouths’ were banished, and the assurance was given that those who remained need have no anxiety about suffering want; first we ate pork, then horse-flesh, and at the end of six weeks the most incredible things supplied us with food. In addition, the winter was one of those severe seasons which we do not have once in a decade. The Seine froze, and loaded carts could cross the lake in the Bois de Boulogne. Our foes were warmly ensconced in our country-houses, they cut down our groves and the trees in our parks to keep the flames on the hearths burning, and fed their camp-fires with our grand pianos and carved furniture. We had no woods to fell, and naturally were less ready to use our pianos for fire-wood than our enemies. The lack of fuel was really less keenly felt than the lack of food. All the wood and coal remaining in Paris was purchased by the rich at fabulous prices, and the poor, nay, even the well-to-do classes had to shift for themselves. The proletarians succeeded in doing so without much difficulty. Our stock of absinthe was inexhaustible, unfortunately it was the only thing with which we were supplied for months or years; ‘Une goutte’ will fully compensate the Paris workman for the fire on the hearth or the warmth of the stove—but what was to become of our women, our children, who do not drink absinthe?

“It was comparatively easy for us men. We were all soldiers, we were daily occupied either in drilling within the city or in digging and building at the out-works; and that keeps one tolerably warm, I can assure you. But when we came home in the evening, we found a room cold and dismal as a vault, a black, fireless hearth, the children huddled under the bed-clothes, the wife muffled in cloak and shawls. We clasped cold hands and kissed cold lips, which had forgotten how to smile.

“So the Christmas festival approached. Did I say festival? Suffering and want had reached their height, and our eyes constantly saw too much blood flow to have the red hue in the calendar attract our attention. The poor children! The siege cut off even their pure, innocent pleasures; there was no Christmas for them that year. The first week in December my little Louise asked me if the naughty Prussians would let St. Nicholas into the city, and a few days before Christmas she anxiously asked the same question about the Christ child. Both times I answered that I was afraid this year neither St. Nicholas nor the little Christ-child could get through to the children who expected them, but next year they would doubtless make ample amends for it. Louise looked very sorrowful and was not easily comforted; it was so long since the last Christmas festival, and the next one would probably come no earlier than usual! But I could not help her; neither I nor my wife were in the mood to prepare Christmas pleasures for the poor child.

“Nor was Louise in a condition to enjoy such pleasures. She had been ailing all the Winter and on Christmas Eve the illness broke out with alarming violence. She was tortured by attacks of convulsive coughing and in a high fever. We put the child to bed and sent at once for our physician. My wife was greatly alarmed, and I, too, awaited the doctor’s verdict with much anxiety. He came; we silently exchanged greetings, and he approached the little one’s sick bed. My wife and I in trembling suspense watched every line of his face, every expression of his eyes; we scarcely dared to breathe. The doctor was an old and dear friend, and Louise was very fond of playing with him; this time, however, she did not recognize him, and thrust him back with her little hand as he stroked the hair away from her flushed face and felt her throbbing pulse.

“‘It is a long time since I have been here but, as you know, the numerous wounded men, the crowded hospitals,’ he said apologetically, as he watched the little sufferer.

“‘Of course, of course, but what do you think of our Louise?’

“The doctor forced a smile.

“‘It would not be difficult to give good advice,’ he said in a tone whose lightness was evidently assumed. ‘Louise has grown excessively thin since I last saw her; she must be better nourished. Under different circumstances I should say: give her chicken broth, eggs, do not let her go out of a moderately warm room, but now’—his eyes rested on a piece of bread which lay on the table, the bread furnished by the government, of which a clumsy wit said that it contained every possible ingredient, among others even grain. ‘However,’ he added after a painful pause, ‘there will be time enough to nourish her better after the siege, which cannot last forever. What is immediately necessary is a cup of hot tea, which must be repeated in two hours.’

“My wife cast a despairing glance at me, whispering with quivering lips, ‘I have neither wood nor coal in the house.’ A deathlike stillness pervaded the room, interrupted only by the gasping breath and an attack of coughing from the child. I cannot describe now what I felt at that moment, I only know that I would infinitely rather have been dead than alive. The doctor was the first to break the silence. He looked very grave as he said: ‘The hot tea is indispensable; if you have no wood, no coal—not even any alcohol?’ My wife shook her head mournfully. ‘Has not some neighbor—?’ (The same answer.) ‘Well, then you must sacrifice some piece of furniture at once, for much depends upon this tea.’

“I instantly rushed into the kitchen, which no longer contained anything combustible, seized the ax, and was on the point of dealing a blow on the piano, my wife’s favorite instrument, but the only large article in the room, except an armoire, which contained little wood. During the last fortnight we had been obliged to use our furniture to supply the fuel for cooking, there was no attempt at heating! I was already lifting the ax, when my wife suddenly uttered a faint cry, seized my arm, and directly after rushed out of the room, exclaiming: ‘I have something!’

“Was any neighbor fortunate enough to have some wood? Did she expect to find a coal dealer’s shop open at this hour and procure fuel there? I was not to remain in uncertainty long. Five minutes after, the door opened and my wife, her face radiant with joy, while tears of gratitude sparkled in her eyes, entered, carrying with both hands—last year’s huge Christmas tree which, since the festival, had remained unnoticed in a corner of the attic.

“The whole terrible contrast between the present and the past suddenly rose before me as if sharply illumined by a flash of lightning. There was the slender, beautiful pine, which twelve short months ago, so brief a span of time, a mere moment, looking back upon it, had formed the center of a lovely picture of family happiness! It was in that very room, a bright fire was blazing on the hearth, merry children were dancing and bounding around the table, a happy father and mother were smiling at the delight of the little ones; there was Louise, looking like an angel in her white dress, with a blue ribbon in her fair curls, her arms round, her cheeks plump, her dark eyes sparkling with joy, and, with her, two little playmates whom she had invited to the festival. They laughed and shouted as if fifty invisible angels were laughing and clapping their hands with the children to fill the room to the utmost with mirth and childish glee. On the table had stood the magnificent Christmas tree, with tiny candles, gilded fruits, and tin soldiers glittering among its green boughs, soldiers in French, English, and Prussian uniforms. We jested and played and made merry until after midnight, till the children fell asleep from sheer happiness with dolls and soldiers from the Christmas tree clasped in both hands.

“Now, here was the same Christmas tree, withered, dry and dusty, its needles yellow, many of its boughs broken and drooping, others, instead of golden apples and bonbons, bearing long trailing cobwebs, the room was cold, the fire dead, and Louise lay on her bed, her little arms emaciated, her little face thin and flushed by fever, racked by that torturing cough.

“Her mother’s entrance had attracted her attention, and she partially recovered her consciousness. Noticing the Christmas tree, she clapped her little hands joyfully. ‘Oh, the Christmas tree, the pretty Christmas tree!’ she exclaimed in a faint voice. Then, in touching words, she begged her mamma to light the pretty candles and hang the gold apples and the soldiers, only no Prussian ones, and to send for Mimi and Lolotte, they had been good, and she, too, would be good in future, very good.

“I was on the point of doing a cowardly act; I longed to go out into the darkness, into the streets, the outposts, in order not to be obliged to witness this sorrowful scene; I wished that a shell might enter the house and put an end to everything. But, no, shells were not fired on the night when the foe was also celebrating the Christmas festival. I regained my composure with difficulty, and while my wife sat on the edge of the bed, with one arm round the child, softly singing songs, stroking and soothing her, I chopped the Christmas tree with trembling hands and lighted a fire.

“The dry needles crackled and snapped, blazing high aloft, a sweet, heavy aroma of resin pervaded the room, and the water in the pot began to sing and boil. The doctor had gone out, my wife was still whispering loving words and promises to the sick child, and while watching the flames, and preparing the tea, I thought: ‘I thank thee, I thank thee, thou blessed tree, which once made my child happy, and will now make her well!’

“The Christmas tree did not make Louise well. And since that time I have not needed one—she was my only child.”

THE STEPMOTHER.

AN OPEN LETTER TO FRAU I. H.

There are ideas which affect the mind, as the touch of a spider feels on the finger. They awaken horror, loathing, lasting discomfort. I fear that the conception “stepmother” is one of them. The word is uttered in our presence, and awakes in our souls a series of images, some painful, some repulsive; on the one hand is the poor motherless child in the care of strangers, meanly clad, ill-fed, scolded, beaten, burdened with impossible tasks, who secretly steals out on Winter nights to its mother’s grave, and there, with heart-rending sobs, calls to the snow-clad mound the reproachful question why she did not take her child with her, why she had left it alone in the world; on the other hand is the wicked woman, toothless, blear-eyed, with hooked chin and nose, which almost meet, fingers as bony as a skeleton’s, who is happy only when she has devised some new torture, some new humiliation for her foster-child. How have these images entered our sphere of thought? Perhaps from fairy tales, perhaps from poems and stories, I don’t know myself. Not from experience, that is certain. Most of us have probably no knowledge of stepmothers, and those with whom we are acquainted do not bear the remotest resemblance to the idea which dwells in our minds. Yet the contradiction between preconceived opinions and the reality does not impress us, and we do not think of correcting the former by the latter.

The letter which you, madame, addressed to me a few days ago, for a definite purpose and in which, with noble excitement, you demanded justice for the stepmother, first led me to reflect, and I have now become aware of my prejudices, my cruel injustice toward one of the most meritorious classes of the human race. You are right, the stepmother is a martyr. She is a sufferer, but no one pities her, a martyr who never receives the reward of canonization, a tragic heroine who never finds her poet. She has married a widower and enters her new home, where she meets a beautiful, sorrowful orphaned child. Her heart is overflowing with the noblest feelings. She will be a loving mother to the poor orphan, will kiss away the shadow of premature grief from the young brow! Fate was less kind to her than to her companions, who, during the first months after marriage, saw only the bright side of wedded life; pleasant wedding journeys, inexhaustible proofs of tenderness, endless love tokens. She is obliged to learn, with the pleasant side of married life, its hardest duties, for which nature has given to others of her sex long months of preparation; she has become at the same time wife and mother. But what of that? With the enthusiasm of a young soul, in whom love for the child and the pleasure of acting a mother’s part are a heritage of the female sex, she assumes her sublime task; she surrounds the child with solicitude and tenderness; she kisses it awake in the morning and sings it to sleep at night; she talks to it, plays with it, never loses sight of it. Under this warmth of affection the child instantly begins to flourish, as the earth responds to the heat of the sun. It has the coquettish beauty of a wax-doll, its cheeks grow rosy, its eyes bright, its little arms round and plump, but no love beams in the eyes, the arms do not learn to clasp the neck of the stepmother, and the little mouth does not smile.

The stepmother is puzzled, and begins to reflect. Before her mind rises the scene when her husband first brought her to their future home and introduced her to the child with the words: “Baby, here is your new mamma; be good and obedient, and she will love you very, very dearly. There, now, give mamma a pretty kiss!” She had bent over the child, and while pressing it warmly to her heart a tear fell on its little fair head. The child had stood motionless, with its eyes fixed on its toes; it had submitted to everything, but without a word of affection or even a kiss in response. This had chilled the young mother like an icy breath; the husband noticed or felt it, and said: “You know how children are; the poor thing is shy, she is so unaccustomed to see strange faces. But she will soon love you as you deserve.” This had satisfied her, and she believed it. But now a year, two years had passed; the child must have become accustomed to the “strange face,” it must have felt long ago that the “new mamma” loved it very, very dearly! Yet it is as cold, as distant, as reserved, as on the first day. The stepmother looks tenderly at it, it lowers its eyes; she kisses it, it obediently offers its lips, but they are motionless; she speaks pleasantly to it, it maintains a sullen silence. The stepmother goes out with the child, everybody turns, admires its beauty, envies the woman who has such a treasure. Alas, this angel has a joyous glance for all except the stepmother, a gay, childlike laugh for every one save her. The beautiful child is only lively in the street, out of the house; at home it is sulky. Every act of kindness from a stranger is eagerly and enthusiastically acknowledged, but the loving words of the foster-mother find no echo; they die away with no more effect than if they had been flung into the sea.

The stepmother, with deep sorrow, asks herself the cause of all this, and can find no answer. Poor woman! Busily, untiringly you weave your web of love around the heart of the child confided to you, and do not know that behind your back an evil Penelope sits, raveling at night what you have done during the day! First, there are the first wife’s relatives; from devotion to the dead they are wicked to the living; whenever the child visits them it hears itself pitied; it is told of its mamma, not the new one, for she is not its mother, but the old one, how differently she would have loved it, how differently she would have treated it; it is questioned about the stranger’s acts, and whether she treats it kindly. Then there are servants, governesses, foolish strangers, who, partly to win the child’s affection, partly from wretched sentimentality, which considers it noble and kindhearted to roll up the eyes and express pity where there is no cause for compassion—sing the same song to the little one from morning till night. It never hears itself called anything but “poor child! poor orphan!” It learns that it tells an untruth whenever it calls its stepmother “mamma”; it is taught to play the spy, to suspect, to dissimulate; it is robbed of the frankness and guilelessness of childhood and accustomed to seek beneath its stepmother’s words different thoughts, beneath her acts hostile motives. Poor child, in whose mind distrust is roused ere the judgment is formed! The mother denies it an apple because it has already eaten too many, and it feels sure that it is her malice which prompts her to refuse it the most innocent pleasure; the mother will not permit it to visit a friend because it has taken cold, and the weather is stormy, and it no longer doubts the enmity of this woman, of whom everybody tells it so much evil. And now come Christmas gifts of fairy tales, which describe the wicked stepmother who thrice poisoned Snow-White, and the other one who killed her stepson and served him to the father on the dinner table, and if the child has previously doubted, it is now confident, for the book, printed, bound, and filled with pictures, cannot deceive! So it learns to hate at an age when it is our fairest privilege to love, and to doubt at a time whose happiness is implicit faith.

Can this criminal poisoning of the child’s soul remain without influence upon the stepmother? I deny it. What can you expect? Even the noblest woman is mortal, and she has a still keener sensitiveness to the return, or the failure to return her feelings than the rest of us. Categorical necessity was not created for women, it is hard enough for men. To fill a bottomless cask was rightfully considered by the subtle Greek the most terrible punishment which could be devised for women. In the bitter conflict with constant ingratitude, even the strongest sense of duty, the most self-sacrificing nobility, must finally succumb. We can give love only when, in some degree, we receive love in return. One-sidedness here leads finally to impoverishment, and at last the stepmother really feels for the child indifference, possibly aversion, or even hate.