TREATS OF PORTRAITS, A GREEN FACE, JUMPING MICE,
AND ISRAELITISH CURSES.
Albertine, soon after she made Edmund's acquaintance, came to the
conclusion that the big oil portrait of her father which hung in her
room was a horribly bad likeness of him, and dreadfully scratched into
the bargain. She pointed out to her father that though it was so many
years since the portrait was painted, he was really looking much
younger, and better in every way, than the painter had represented him.
Also, she particularly disliked the gloomy, sulky expression of the
face, the old-fashioned clothes, and a preposterous bunch of flowers
which he was holding between his fingers in a delicate manner,
displaying in so doing certain handsome diamond rings.
She talked so much, and so long, on this subject, that at last her
father himself saw that the portrait was horrible, and couldn't
understand how the painter had managed to turn out such a caricature of
his well-looking person. And the more he thought the matter over and
looked at the picture, the more he was convinced that it was an
execrable daub. He determined to take it down, and stow it away in the
lumber room.
Albertine said that was the best thing that could be done, but that,
all the same, she was accustomed to see dear papa's picture in her
room, that the bare space on the wall would be such a blank to her that
she should never feel comfortable; so that the only course was for dear
papa to have _another_ portrait painted, by some painter who knew what
he was about, and that _she_ could think of nobody but Edmund Lehsen,
so celebrated for his admirable portraits.
"My dear," the Commissionsrath said, "you don't know what you're
talking about. Those young painters are so full of conceit, they don't
know where to turn themselves, don't care how much they ask for those
bits of scumblings of theirs, won't think of anything under gold
Fredericks."
But Albertine declared that Edmund Lehsen painted for the love of the
thing much more than for money, and would be sure to charge very
little. And she kept on at her father so assiduously, that at last he
agreed to go to Edmund Lehsen, and see what he would say about a
portrait.
We can imagine the delight with which Edmund expressed his readiness to
undertake the Commissionsrath's portrait; and his delight became
rapture when he heard that it was Albertine who put the idea in her
father's head. He saw, of course, that her notion was that this would
give him opportunities of seeing her. So that it was a matter of course
that when the Commissionsrath asked, rather anxiously, about the price,
Edmund said that the honour of being admitted, for the sake of Art, to
the house and society of a gentleman such as he, was more than
sufficient remuneration for any little effort of his.
"Good Heavens! Can I believe my ears?" the Commissionsrath cried. "No
money, dearest Mr. Lehsen? No gold Fredericks for your trouble? Not
even the expense of your paints and canvas?"
Edmund laughingly said all that was too insignificant to be taken into
account.
"But," Bosswinkel said, "I'm afraid you don't know that I'm thinking of
having a three-quarters length life-size."
"It doesn't matter in the slightest," the painter answered.
The Commissionsrath pressed him warmly to his heart, and cried, while
tears of joy rose to his eyes, "Oh, heavenly powers! Are there human
souls of this degree of disinterestedness in this world which lieth in
wickedness? First his cigars, and now this picture. Marvellous man!--or
'youth' I ought to say. Dear Mr. Lehsen, within your soul dwell those
virtues, and that true German singleness of heart, which one reads of
more than enough, but which are rare in these times of ours. But let me
tell you, though I am a Commissionsrath, and dress in French fashions,
I am quite of the same way of thinking as yourself. I can appreciate
your large-mindedness, and am as unselfish, and as free with my money,
as anybody in the land."
Crafty Miss Albertine had, of course, known exactly how Edmund would
proceed with her father's commission, and her object was attained.
Bosswinkel overflowed with laudation of this grand young fellow, so
entirely free from the least trace of that greediness which is such a
hateful quality in a man. And he ended by saying that young people,
especially the artistic, always have a turn for the romantic, and set
great store by withered flowers and the ribbons which some beloved girl
has worn, and go out of themselves altogether over any piece of work
done by the hands of those divinities; so that Albertine had better
knit a little purse for Edmund, and, if she saw no particular
objection, even put into it a little lock of her bonny nut-brown hair,
and thus get out of any little obligation they might be thought to be
under to him. To do this she had his full permission, and he undertook
to answer to Tussmann on the subject. Albertine, who was not yet taken
into her father's confidence as to his projects, had not the remotest
notion what Tussmann might have to say to the matter, and did not take
the trouble to inquire.
That very evening Edmund had his painting gear taken to Bosswinkel's
house, and the next morning he made his appearance there for the first
sitting.
He begged the Commissionsrath to think of the very happiest moment of
his life. For instance, when his dead wife first said she loved him, or
when Albertine was born, or when he unexpectedly saw some dear friend
whom he had thought to be lost to him; and to try and look as he had
done _then_.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Lehsen," said Bosswinkel; "I know what to do. One
day, about three months ago, I got a letter from Hamburg telling me I
had drawn a big prize in the lottery. I ran to my daughter with the
letter open in my hand. That was the happiest moment I ever had in all
my life. Let's choose _that_ one; and, just to place the whole thing
more vividly before your eyes--and mine--I'll go and get the letter,
and be taken with it in my hand--just as I was when it came."
So Edmund had no help but to paint Bosswinkel accordingly; and he
wouldn't be content, either, unless the writing on the letter was
rendered legibly and distinctly, word for word, as follows:--
"Honoured Sir,
"I have the honour to inform you----"
and so forth; moreover, the envelope had to be portrayed lying on a
little table, so that the address on it, displaying all the
Commissionsrath's official titles written out at full length, could be
clearly read. The very postmark Edmund had to copy with the utmost
minuteness.
For the rest, he made a portrait of a well-looking, good-tempered,
handsomely-dressed man, who _did_ display, in some of the features of
his face, a more or less distant resemblance to the Commissionsrath; so
that nobody who read what was on the envelope could make any mistake as
to whom the portrait was intended for.
The Commissionsrath was delighted with it. "There," he said; "there you
see what a painter who knows his business can make of a more or less
well-looking fellow, though he _may_ be getting a little on in years! I
begin to understand now (I didn't before), a thing that the Professor
in the Humanity Class used to say, that a proper portrait ought to be a
regular historical picture. Whenever I look at that one, I remember
that delicious and happy moment when the news came of my prize in the
lottery, and I understand the meaning of that smile on my face--that
reflection of the happiness I felt within me then."
Before Albertine could carry out the plans which she had formed in her
mind, her father took the initiative by begging Edmund to paint _her_,
as well. Edmund begun this work at once; but he did not find it so easy
to satisfy himself with her portrait as with her father's. He put in a
most careful outline, and then rubbed it out again; outlined once
more--carefully--begun to lay on some colour, and then threw the whole
thing aside; commenced again; altered the pose. There was always either
too much light in the room, or not enough. The Commissionsrath, who had
always been present at those sittings at first, got tired presently,
and betook himself elsewhere.
Upon this, Edmund came forenoon and afternoon, and if the picture did
not make much progress, the love-affair made a great deal, and entwined
itself more and more firmly. I have no doubt, dear reader, that your
own experience has shown you that when one is in love, and wants to
give to all the fond, longing words and wishes, which one has got to
express, their due and proper effect, so that they may go to the
listener's very heart, it is a matter of absolute necessity that one
should take hold of the hand of the beloved object, press it, and kiss
it; upon which, as by the operation of some sudden development of
electrical force, lip goes into contact with lip; and the electricity
(if that is what we are to call it), arrives at a condition of
equilibrium by means of a fire-stream of sweetest kisses. Thus Edmund
was very often obliged to stop painting, and not only that, but he had
very frequently to get down from the scaffold upon which he and his
easel were placed.
Thus it came about that, one forenoon, he was standing with Albertine
at the window, where the white curtains were drawn, and (on the
principle we have been explaining), in order to give more force to what
he was saying to her, was holding her in his arms, and kissing her
hand.
At this particular hour and moment, Mr. Tussmann, Clerk of the Privy
Chancery, happened to be passing Bosswinkel's house, with the 'Treatise
on Diplomatic Acumen,' and sundry tractates and pamphlets (in which
the useful and the entertaining were combined in due measure) in his
pockets. And although he was bounding along as fast as ever he
could--according to his manner--because the clock was just on the very
stroke of the hour at which he used always to enter his office, still
he drew up for a moment, in order to cast a sentimental glance up at
the window of his love.
There he saw, as in a cloud, Albertine with Edmund; and, although he
could not make out anything at all distinctly, his heart throbbed, he
knew not why. Some strange sense of anxious alarm impelled him to
undertake things previously unattempted, undreamt of, namely, to go
upstairs to Albertine's rooms, at this totally unprecedented hour of
the day.
As he entered, Albertine was saying, quite distinctly:
"Oh, yes, Edmund! I must always--always love you!" And she pressed
Edmund to her heart, whilst a whole battery of "restoration of
electrical equilibrium" began to go off, rushing and sparkling.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery walked mechanically forward into the
room, and then stood, dumb and speechless, like a man in a cataleptic
fit. In the height of their blissfulness the two lovers had not heard
the elephantine tread of Tussmann's peculiar boot-like shoes, nor his
opening of the door, nor his coming in, and striding into the middle of
the room.
He now squeaked out, in his high falsetto:
"But--Miss Albertine Bosswinkel!----"
Edmund and Albertine fled apart like lightning--he to his easel, she to
the chair where she was supposed to be sitting for her portrait.
Tussmann, after a short pause, during which he tried to get back his
breath, resumed, saying--
"But, Miss Albertine Bosswinkel, what are you doing? What are you
after? First of all, you go and waltz with this young gentleman (I
haven't the honour of his acquaintance), in the Town-hall at twelve
o'clock at night, in a way that made me, your husband that is to be,
almost lose the faculties of seeing and hearing; and now--here--in
broad daylight, behind those curtains--Oh! Good gracious!--is this a
way for an engaged young lady to go on?"
"Who's an engaged young lady?" Albertine cried out, in immense
indignation. "Whom are you talking about, Mr. Tussmann? Tell me, if you
will be so kind."
"Oh, thou, my Creator," cried Tussmann, in the fulness of his heart.
"You ask, dearest Miss Albertine, who is an engaged young lady, and of
whom I am talking? To whom else can I be alluding but to yourself? Are
you not my future bride, whom I have so long adored in secret? Did not
your dear papa ever so long ago promise me your beautiful, white, _so_
kissable little hand?"
"Mr. Tussmann," said Albertine; "either you have been to a wineshop,
early as it is in the day--(my father says you go to them a great deal
more than you ought),--or you've gone out of your mind in some
extraordinary way. My father can never have had the slightest idea of
_your_ marrying _me_."
"Dearest Miss Albertine," cried Tussmann; "consider for a moment. You
have known me for many long years. Have I not always been a man of the
strictest moderation and temperance? Have I ever been given to
dissipation? Can you suppose that I have taken to drinking and improper
conduct all at once? Dearest Miss Albertine, I shall be only too happy
to close my eyes to what I have seen going on here; not a syllable
concerning it shall ever pass my lips--we'll forget and forgive. But
remember, adored one, that you promised to marry me out of the tower
window of the Town-hall at twelve o'clock at night; and, although you
were waltzing in such a style with this young gentleman (whose
acquaintance, as I said, I have not the honour of), still I----"
"Don't you see?" interrupted Albertine; "don't you know, that you're
talking all sorts of incoherent nonsense, like some lunatic out of the
asylum? Please go away. I feel quite unwell; do go away, for goodness'
sake."
Tears started in Tussmann's eyes.
"Oh, heavens!" he cried. "Treatment like this from the beloved Miss
Albertine! No; I shall not go. I shall remain here till you have
arrived at a truer opinion concerning my unworthy person, dearest Miss
Albertine."
"Go; go!" reiterated Albertine, running into a corner of the room, and
covering her face with her handkerchief.
"No, dearest Miss Albertine," answered Tussmann; "I shall not go
until, in compliance with the sapient advice of Thomasius, I endeavour
to----" and he made as if he would follow her into the corner.
While this was going on, Edmund had been scumbling angrily at the
background of his picture. But at this point he could contain himself
no longer.
"Damned, infernal scoundrel!" he cried, and flew at Tussmann, making
four dashes over his face with the brush, full of a greyish green tint,
which he had been working at his background with. Then he grasped him,
opened the door, and sent him out of it with a kick so forcible that he
went flying down stairs like an arrow out of a bow.
Bosswinkel, who was just coming up, started back in much alarm as this
school-chum of his came bumping into his arms.
"What in the name of all that's----" he cried; "what's going on? what
ails your face?" Tussmann, almost out of his mind, related all that had
happened, in broken phrases; how Albertine had behaved to him--how
Edmund had treated him. The Commissionsrath, brimful of rage and fury,
took Tussmann by the hand and led him back to the room.
"What's all this?" he cried to Albertine. "This is very pretty
behaviour; is this the way you treat your husband that is to be?"
"My husband that is to be?" echoed Albertine, in wild amazement.
"Most undoubtedly!" the Commissionsrath answered. "I don't know why you
should pretend to be in a state of mind about a matter which has been
understood and arranged for such a long time. My dear old friend
Tussmann is your affianced husband, and the wedding will come off in a
week or two."
"_Never!_" said Albertine. "Never will I marry him. Good heavens! how
could anybody have _that_ old creature; nobody could ever bear him."
"I don't know about 'bearing' him, or whether he's an 'old creature' or
not," said her father. "What you have got to do is to marry him.
Certainly my friend Tussmann is not one of your giddy young fools. Like
myself, he has reached those years of discretion when a man is, very
properly, considered to be at his best; and into the bargain, he is a
fine, upright, straightforward, honourable fellow, most profoundly
learned, perfectly eligible, in every way, and my old schoolfellow."
"No!" cried Albertine, in the utmost agitation, with the tears starting
to her eyes. "I can't endure him. He's insupportable to me. I hate him!
I abhor him! Oh, Edmund!"
She sank, almost fainting, into Edmund's arms; and he pressed her to
his heart with the warmest affection.
The Commissionsrath, utterly amazed, opened his eyes as wide as if he
were seeing spectres, and then cried--"What's all this? what do I see?"
"Ah, yes! yes, indeed!" Tussmann said, in a lamentable tone. "It
appears, unfortunately, to be the fact that Miss Albertine doesn't care
to have anything to do with me, and seems to cherish a remarkable
partiality for this young gentleman--this painter (whose acquaintance I
have not the honour of, by the way)--inasmuch as she kisses him without
the slightest hesitation or shyness, though she will scarcely give
wretched _me_ her hand. And yet I hope to place the ring on her lovely
finger very shortly indeed."
"Come away from one another, you two," the Commissionsrath cried out,
and forced Albertine out of Edmund's arms. But Edmund shouted that he
would never give her up, if it cost him his life.
"Indeed, sir!" said the Commissionsrath, with scathing irony. "Nice
business, upon my word! A fine little love-affair going on behind my
back here! Excessively pretty! Very nice indeed, my young Mr. Lehsen!
This is the meaning of your liberality--your cigars and your pictures.
He comes sliding into my house--leads my daughter into all this sort of
thing. A charming idea, that I should go and hang her round the neck of
a miserable beggar of a dauber, without a rap to bless himself with!"
Beyond himself with anger, Edmund had his mahlstick raised in the act
to strike, when the voice of Leonhard was heard crying, in tones of
thunder, as he burst in at the door--
"Stop, Edmund! don't be in a hurry. Bosswinkel is a terrible ass; he'll
think better of it presently."
The Commissionsrath had run into a corner, frightened by the unexpected
arrival of Leonhard; and, from that corner, he cried--"I really do not
know, Mr. Leonhard, what business you have to----"
But Tussmann had hidden himself behind the sofa as soon as he saw
Leonhard come in. He was crouching down there, and chirping out, in a
voice of terror--"Gracious powers! take care, Commissionsrath! Hold
your tongue; don't say a word, dearest schoolfellow. Good God! here's
the Herr Professor come, the Ball-Entrepreneur of Spandau Street."
"Come along out, Tussmann," said the Goldsmith, laughing; "Don't be
frightened, nothing's going to happen to you. You've been punished
enough already for that foolish idea you had of wanting to marry. That
poor face of yours is going to be green all the rest of the days of
your life."
"Oh Lord!" cried the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, almost out of his
mind, "my face green for ever and ever! What will people say? What will
His Excellency, the minister, say? His Excellency will think I have had
my face painted green from motives of mere worldly vanity! Ah! it's all
over with me. I shall be suspended from my official functions. The
Government will never hear of such a thing as a Clerk of the Privy
Chancery with a green face. Wretched man that I am; what's to become of
me?"
"Come, come, Tussmann!" the Goldsmith said; "don't make such a fuss. I
have no doubt there's hope for you yet, if you pull yourself together,
and get rid of this idiotic notion of marrying Miss Bosswinkel."
In answer to this, Tussmann and Bosswinkel cried out together, in what
is termed on the lyric stage "_ensemble_"--
"I can't."
"He shan't."
The Goldsmith fixed his sparkling, penetrating eyes on the two of them;
but just as he was going to burst out at them, the door opened, and in
came Manasseh, with his nephew, Baron Benjamin Dümmerl, from Vienna.
"Benjie" went straight up to Albertine--who had never seen him in her
life before--and said, in a disagreeable, drawling tone, as he took her
hand--
"I have come here in person, dear Miss Bosswinkel, to lay myself at
your feet. Of course you know that is a mere _façon de parler_. Baron
Dümmerl doesn't really lay himself at anybody's feet, not even at the
Emperor's. What I mean is--let me have a kiss."
So saying, he went nearer to Albertine, and bent down towards her.
But, at that moment, a something happened which neither he nor anybody
else--except the Goldsmith--anticipated, and which caused them all much
alarm. Benjie's rather sizeable nose suddenly shot forward to such a
length that, passing beyond Albertine's face, it struck the opposite
wall of the room with a tremendous, resounding bang. He started back a
step or two, and his nose at once drew in to its ordinary dimensions.
He approached Albertine again, with exactly the same result. To make a
long tale short, his nose kept on shooting in and out like a trombone.
"Cursed necromancer!" Manasseh roared; and took a thin cord, fastened
in a sort of knot, out of his pocket, which he threw to the
Commissionsrath, crying--"Throw that about the brute's neck--the
Goldsmith, I mean--and then drag him out of the room. Never mind about
ceremony. Do as I tell you. All will be right then."
The Commissionsrath took hold of the noose, but instead of throwing it
about the Goldsmith's neck, he threw it over the Jew's; and immediately
he and the Jew began flying up to the ceiling and then down again. And
so they went on, shooting up and down, while Benjie carried on his
nose-concerto, and Tussmann laughed like a mad creature, till the
Commissionsrath fell down nearly fainting in an arm-chair.
"Now's the time! now's the time!" Manasseh cried. He slapped his
pocket, and out sprung an enormous, horrible-looking mouse, which made
a spring right at the Goldsmith. But as it was jumping at him, the
Goldsmith transfixed it with a sharp needle of gold, upon which it gave
a yell, and disappeared, none knew whither.
Then Manasseh clenched his fists at the fainting Commissionsrath, and
cried, with rage and hatred blazing in his face--
"Ha! Melchior Bosswinkel! thou hast conspired against me. Thou art in
league with this accursed sorcerer, whom thou hast brought into thine
house. But cursed, cursed shalt thou be. Thou and all thy race shall be
swept away like the helpless brood of a bird. The grass shall grow on
thy doorstep, and all that thou settest thy hand to shall be as the
dream of the famishing, who sates himself, in dreams, with savoury
food. And the Dā-lěs shall take up his dwelling in thine house,
and consume thy substance. And thou shalt beg thy bread, in rags,
before the doors of the despised people of God; and they shall drive
thee away like a mangy cur, and thou shalt be cast to the earth like a
rotten branch. And instead of the sound of the harp, moths shall be thy
fellows, and dogs shall make a divan of the tomb of thy mother!
Curses!--curses!--curses upon thee! Commissionsrath Melchior
Bosswinkel!"
And, having thus delivered himself, this raging Manasseh seized hold of
his nephew, and went storming out of the house with him.
Albertine, in her terror and horror, had taken refuge with Edmund,
hiding her face on his breast; and he held her closely to him, though
he had difficulty in mastering his own emotion. But the Goldsmith went
up to those two, and said, with a smile, and in a gentle voice:
"Don't you be put out in the slightest by all this business: everything
will come right. I give you my word for it. But, just now, you must bid
each other good-bye, before Tussmann and Bosswinkel come back to their
senses."
And he and Edmund left Bosswinkel's house.