FREDERICK GENTZ.
It was yet early in the morning; the blinds of all the windows in the
Taubenstrasse were as yet firmly closed, and only in a single house
an active, bustling life prevailed. At its door there stood a heavy
travelling-coach which a footman was busily engaged in loading with a
large number of trunks, boxes, and packages. In the rooms of the first
story people were very active; industrious hands were assiduously
occupied with packing up things generally; straw was wrapped around the
furniture, and then covered with linen bags. The looking-glasses and
paintings were taken from the walls and laid into wooden boxes, the
curtains were removed from the windows, and every thing indicated that
the inmates of the house were not only about to set out on a journey,
but entirely to give up their former mode of living.
Such was really the case, and while the servants filled the anterooms
and the halls with the noise of their preparations, those for whom all
this bustle and activity took place were in their parlor, in a grave and
gloomy mood.
There were two of them--a lady, scarcely twenty-four years of age, and
a gentleman, about twelve years older. She was a delicate and lovely
woman, with a pale, sad face, while he was a vigorous, stout man with
full, round features, and large vivacious eyes which at present tried
to look grave and afflicted without being able to do so; she wore a
travelling-dress, while his was an elegant morning costume.
Both of them had been silent for awhile, standing at the window, or
rather at different windows, and witnessing the removal of the trunks
and packages to the travelling-coach. Finally, the lady, with a deep
sigh, turned from the window and approached the gentleman who had
likewise stepped back into the room.
“I believe the trunks are all in the carriage, and I can set out now,
Frederick,” she said, in a low and tremulous voice.
He nodded, and extended his hand toward her. “And you are not angry with
me, Julia?” he asked.
She did not take his hand, but only looked up to him with eyes full of
eloquent grief. “I am not angry,” she said. “I pray to God that He may
forgive you.”
“And will YOU forgive me, too, Julia? For I know I have sinned
grievously against you. I have made you shed many tears--I have rendered
you wretched and miserable for two years, and these two years will cast
a gray shadow over your whole future. When you first entered this room,
you were an innocent young girl with rosy cheeks and radiant eyes, and
now, as you leave it forever, you are a poor, pale woman with a broken
heart and dimmed eyes.”
“A DIVORCED wife, that is all,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “I came
here with a heart overflowing with happiness--I leave you now with a
heart full of wretchedness. I came here with the joyous resolution and
fixed purpose to render you a happy husband, and I leave you now with
the painful consciousness that I have not bestowed upon you that
happiness which I sought so earnestly to obtain for myself. Ah, it is
very sad and bitter to be under the necessity of accepting this as the
only result of two long years!”
“Yes, it is very sad,” he said, sighing. “But after all, it is no fault
of ours. There was a dissonance in our married life from the start, and
for that reason there never could be any genuine harmony between us.
This dissonance--well, at the present hour I may confess it to you,
too--this dissonance simply was the fact that I never loved you!”
A convulsive twitching contracted the pale lips of the poor lady. “You
were a great hypocrite, then,” she whispered, “for your words, your
solemn vows never made me suspect it.”
“Yes, I was a hypocrite, a wretch, a coward!” he exclaimed,
impetuously. “They overwhelmed me with exhortations, supplications, and
representations. They knew so well to flatter me with the idea that the
beautiful, wealthy, and much-courted heiress, Julia Gilly, had fallen
in love with me, the poor, unknown Frederick Gentz, the humble military
counsellor. They knew so well to depict to me the triumph I would
obtain by marrying you, to the great chagrin of all your other suitors.
Flattery intoxicates me, and a success, a triumph over others, fills
me with the wildest delight. My father spoke of my debts, my creditors
threatened me with suits and imprisonment--”
“And thus,” she interrupted him--“thus you sacrificed me to your vanity
and to your debts--you falsely vowed a love to me which you never felt,
and accepted my hand. My father paid your debts, you solemnly promised
to all of us not to incur any new ones, but you utterly broke your
pledges. Instead of squandering hundreds as heretofore, you henceforth
lavished thousands, until my whole maternal property was gone--until my
father, in a towering passion, turned his back upon us and swore
never to see us again. The creditors, the debts, the embarrassments,
reappeared, and as I had no money left with which to extricate you from
your difficulties, you thought you owed me no further respect and were
not under the necessity of remembering that I was your wife. You had
a number of love-affairs, as I knew very well, but was silent.
Love-letters arrived for you, not from one woman with whom you had
fallen in love, but from God knows how many. I was aware of it and was
silent. And when you were finally shameless enough to let the whole
city witness your passion for an actress--when all Berlin spoke
contemptuously of this flame of yours and of the follies you committed
in consequence--then I could be silent no longer, and my honor and
dignity commanded me to apply for a divorce.”
“And every one must acknowledge that you were perfectly right. As a
friend I could not have given you myself any other advice, for I shall
not and cannot alter my nature. I am unable to accustom myself to a
quiet and happy family life--domestic felicity is repulsive to me, and
a feeling of restraint makes me rear and plunge like the noble charger
feeling his bit and bridle for the first time. I can bear no chains,
Julia, not even those of an excellent and affectionate wife such as you
have been to me.”
“You can bear no chains,” she said, bitterly, “and yet you are always
in chains--in the chains of your debts, your love-affairs, and your
frivolity. Oh, listen to me--heed my words for once. They are as solemn
as though they were uttered on a death-bed, for we shall never see each
other again. Fancy a mother were speaking to you--a mother tenderly
loving you. For I confess to you that I still love you, Gentz--my heart
cannot yet break loose from you, and even now that I have to abandon
you, I feel that I shall forever remain tenderly attached to you. Oh,
true love is ever hopeful, and that was the reason why I remained in
your house, although my father had applied for a divorce. I was always
in hopes that your heart would return to me--oh, I did not suspect that
you had never loved me!--and thus I hoped in vain, and must go now, for
our divorce will be proclaimed to-day, and honor forbids me to remain
here any longer. But now that I am going, listen once more to the
warning voice of a friend. Frederick Gentz, turn back! Pursue no longer
the slippery path of frivolity and voluptuousness. Break loose from the
meshes of pleasures and sensuality. God has given you a noble mind, a
powerful intellect--make good use of your surpassing abilities. Become
as great and illustrious as Providence has intended you if you but be
true to yourself. See, I believe in you, and although you only seem to
live for pleasure and enjoyment, I know you are destined to accomplish
great things, provided you strive to do so. Oh, let me beseech you to
change your course, and to emerge from this whirlpool of dissipation
and profligacy. Close your ears to the alluring songs of the sirens, and
listen to the sublime voices resounding in your breast and calling you
to the path of glory and honor. Follow them, Frederick Gentz--be a man,
do not drift any longer aimlessly in an open boat, but step on a proud
and glorious ship, grasp the helm and steer it out upon the ocean. You
are the man to pilot the ship, and the ocean will obey you, and you will
get into port loaded with riches, glory, and honor. Only make an effort.
Remember my words, and now, Frederick Gentz, in order to live happily,
never remember me!”
She turned round and hastily left the room. He stood immovable for
several minutes, dreamily gazing after her, while her words were still
resounding in his ears like an inspired prophecy. But when he heard the
carriage roll away on the street, he started, passed his hand across
his quivering face and whispered: “I have deeply wronged her; may God
forgive me!”
Suddenly, however, he drew himself up to his full height, and a gleam of
intense joy burst forth from his eyes. “I am free!” he exclaimed, loudly
and in a tone of exultation. “Yes, I am free! My life and the world
belong to me again. All women are mine again, Cupid and all the gods of
love will boldly flit toward me, for they need not conceal themselves
any longer from the face of a husband strolling on forbidden grounds,
nor from the spying eyes of a jealous wife. Life is mine again, and
I will enjoy it; yes I enjoy it. I will enjoy it like fragrant wine
pressed to our lips in a golden goblet, sparkling with diamonds. Ah, how
they are hammering and battering in the anteroom! Every stroke of
theirs is a note of the glorious song of my liberty. The furniture of my
household is gone; the pictures and looking-glasses are all gone--gone.
The past and every thing reminding me thereof shall disappear from these
rooms. I will have new furniture--furniture of gold and velvet, large
Venetian mirrors, and splendid paintings. Oh, my rooms shall look as
glorious and magnificent as those of a prince, and all Berlin shall
speak of the splendor and luxury of Frederick Gentz. And to whom shall
I be indebted for it? Not to any wife’s dower, but to myself--to myself
alone, to my talents, to my genius! Oh, in regard to this at least, poor
Julia shall not have been mistaken. I shall gain fame, and glory, and
honors; my name shall become a household word throughout all Europe; it
shall reecho in every cabinet; every minister shall have recourse to
me, and--hark! What’s that?” he suddenly interrupted himself. “I really
believe they are quarrelling in the anteroom.”
Indeed, a violent altercation was heard outside. Suddenly the door was
pushed open, and a vigorous, broad-shouldered man, with a flushed and
angry face, appeared on the threshold.
“Well,” he exclaimed, with a bitter sneer, turning to the footman who
stood behind him, “was I not right when I told you that Mr. Counsellor
Gentz was at home? You would not announce me, because your master had
ordered you not to admit any visitors of my class. But I want to be
admitted. I will not permit myself to be shown out of the anteroom like
a fool, while the counsellor here is snugly sitting on his sofa laughing
at me.”
“You see, my dear Mr. Werner, I am neither sitting on my sofa nor
laughing at you,” said Gentz, slowly approaching his angry visitor. “And
now let me ask you what you want of me.”
“What I want of you?” replied the stranger, with a sneer. “Sir, you know
very well what I want of you. I want my money! I want the five hundred
dollars you have been owing me for the last twelve months. I trusted
your word and your name; I furnished you my best wines--my choicest
champagne and the most exquisite delicacies for your dinner parties. You
have treated your friends; that was all right enough, but it should have
been done at your expense, and not at mine. For that reason I am here,
and you must pay me. For the hundredth and last time, I demand my
money!”
“And if I now tell you for the hundredth, but not the last time, that I
have not got any money?”
“Then I shall go to the war department and attach your salary.”
“Ah, my dear friend, there you would be altogether too late,” exclaimed
Gentz, laughing. “My honorable landlord has outstripped you as far as
that is concerned; he has attached my salary for a whole year, and I
believe it is even insufficient to cover what I owe him.”
“But in the d--l’s name, sir, you must find some other means of
satisfying my claim, for I tell you I shall not leave this room without
getting my money.”
“My dear Mr. Werner, pray do not shout so dreadfully,” said Gentz,
anxiously; “my ears are very sensitive, and such shouting terrifies me
as much as a thunderstorm. I am quite willing to pay you, only point out
to me a way to do it!”
“Borrow money of other people and then pay me!”
“My dear sir, that is a way I have exhausted long ago. There is no one
willing to advance me money either on interest or on my word of honor.”
“But how in the d--l’s name are you going to pay me then, sir?”
“That is exactly what I don’t know yet, but after a while I shall know,
and that time will come very soon. For I tell you, sir, these days of
humiliations and debts will soon cease for me. I shall occupy an exalted
and brilliant position; the young king will give it to me, and--”
“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Wemer, interrupting him; “do not feed me with
such empty hopes after I have fed you with delicacies and quenched your
thirst with my champagne.”
“My dear sir, I have not partaken all alone of your good cheer; my
friends have helped me, and now you ask me alone to pay the whole bill.
That is contrary to natural law and to political economy.”
“Mr. Counsellor, are you mocking me with your political economy? What do
you know about economy?”
“Ah, I am quite familiar with it, and my book on English finances has
brought me fame and honor.”
“It would have been better for you, Mr. Counsellor, if you had attended
to your own finances. All Berlin knows in what condition they are.”
“Nevertheless, there were always excellent men putting a noble trust in
me, and believing that I would repay the money I borrowed of them. You
are one of those excellent men, Mr. Werner, and I shall never forget it.
Have a little patience, and I will pay you principal and interest.”
“I cannot wait, Mr. Counsellor. I am in the greatest embarrassment
myself; I have to redeem large notes in the course of a few days,
and unless I can do so I am lost, my whole family is ruined, and my
reputation gone; then I must declare myself insolvent, and suffer people
to call me an impostor and villain, who incurs debts without knowing
wherewith to pay them. Sir, I shall never suffer this, and therefore I
must have my money, and I will not leave this room until you have paid
my claim in full.”
“In that case, my dear sir, I am afraid you will have to remain here and
suffer the same distressing fate as Lot’s unfortunate wife--”
“Sir, pray be serious, for my business here is of a very serious
character. Five hundred dollars is no trifle; a man may squander them in
a few days, but they may cause him also to commit suicide. Pay me, sir,
pay me; I want my money!”
“For God’s sake, do not shout in this manner. I told you once already
that I cannot stand it. I know very well that five hundred dollars is
a serious matter, and that you must have your money. I will make an
effort, nay, I will do my utmost to get it for you; but you must be
quiet. I pledge you my word that I will exert myself to the best of my
power in order to obtain that amount for you, but in return you must
promise me to go home quietly and peaceably, and to wait there until I
bring you the money.”
“What are you going to do? How are you going to get the money? You told
me just now you were unable to borrow any thing.”
“But somebody may give me those miserable five hundred dollars, and it
seems to me that would do just as well.”
“Oh, you are laughing at me.”
“By no means, sir. Just be still and let me write a letter. I will
afterward show you the address, and thereby let you know from whom I am
expecting assistance.”
He walked rapidly to his desk, penned a few lines, and placed the paper
in a large envelope, which he sealed and directed.
“Read the address,” he said, showing the letter to Mr. Werner.
“To his excellency the minister of the treasury, Count von
Schulenburg-Kehnert, general of artillery,” read Werner, with a
hesitating tongue, and casting astonished and inquisitive glances upon
Gentz. “And this is the distinguished gentleman to whom you apply for
the money. Mr. Counsellor?”
“Yes, my friend; and you must confess that a minister of finance is the
best man to apply to for money. I have written to his excellency that I
stand in urgent need of five hundred dollars today, and I request him to
extricate me from my embarrassment. I ask him to appoint an hour during
the forenoon when I may call upon him and get the money.”
“And you really believe that he will give you the money?”
“My dear sir, I am perfectly sure of it, and in order to satisfy
you likewise, I will make a proposition. Accompany my footman to the
minister’s house, carry the letter to him yourself, and hear his reply.
You may then repeat this reply to my footman, go home in good spirits,
and wait there until I bring you the money.”
“And if you should fail to come?” asked Werner.
“Then that last remedy you alluded to, suicide, always remains to you.
Now go, my dear sir. John! John!”
The footman opened the door with a rapidity indicating that his ears
probably had not been very far from the keyhole.
“John,” said Gentz, “accompany this gentleman to the house of Minister
Schulenburg-Kehnert, and wait at the door for the reply he will repeat
to you. And now, Mr. Werner, good-by; you see I have done all I can, and
I hope you will remember that in future, and not make so much noise for
the sake of a few miserable dollars. Good gracious, if I did not owe any
one more than you, my creditors might thank their stars--”
“Poor creditors!” sighed Mr. Werner, saluting Gentz, and left the room
with the footman, holding the letter like a trophy in his hand.