MARIANNE MEIER.
At that moment of silent devotion, no one took any notice of a lady who
crossed the threshold a few seconds after the rabbi had entered. She was
a tall, superb creature of wonderful beauty. Her black hair, her glowing
eyes, her finely-curved nose, the whole shape of her face imparted to
her some resemblance to Fanny Itzig, the banker’s beautiful daughter,
and indicated that she belonged likewise to the people who, scattered
over the whole world, have with unshaken fidelity and constancy
preserved everywhere their type and habits. And yet, upon examining the
charming stranger somewhat more closely, it became evident that she bore
no resemblance either to Fanny or to her sisters. Hers was a strange and
peculiar style of beauty, irresistibly attractive and chilling at the
same time--a tall, queenly figure, wrapped in a purple velvet dress,
fastened under her bosom by a golden sash. Her shoulders, dazzling
white, and of a truly classical shape, were bare; her short ermine
mantilla had slipped from them and hung gracefully on her beautiful,
well-rounded arms, on which magnificent diamond bracelets were
glittering. Her black hair fell down in long, luxuriant ringlets on both
sides of her transparent, pale cheeks, and was fastened in a knot by
means of several large diamond pins. A diamond of the most precious
brilliants crowned her high and thoughtful forehead.
She looked as proud and glorious as a queen, and there was something
haughty, imperious, and cold in the glance with which she now slowly and
searchingly surveyed the large room.
“Tell me,” whispered Baron Arnstein, bending over Fanny Itzig, “who is
the beautiful lady now standing near the door?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fanny, joyfully, “she has come after all. We scarcely
dared to hope for her arrival. It is Marianne Meier.”
“What! Marianne Meier?” asked Baron Arnstein. “The celebrated beauty
whom Goethe has loved--for whom the Swedish ambassador at Berlin,
Baron Bernstein, has entertained so glowing a passion, and suffered so
much--and who is now the mistress of the Austrian minister, the Prince
von Reuss?”
“Hush, for Heaven’s sake, hush!” whispered Fanny. “She is coming toward
us.”
And Fanny went to meet the beautiful lady. Marianne gently inclined her
head and kissed Fanny with the dignified bearing of a queen.
“I have come to congratulate you and your sisters,” she said, in a
sonorous, magnificent alto voice. “I wanted to see how beautiful you
looked, and whether your betrothed was worthy of possessing you or not.”
Fanny turned round to beckon Baron Arnstein to join them, but he had
just left with the rabbi and the other officers of the synagogue.
The ladies were now alone, for the ceremony was about to begin. And now
the women entered, whose duty it was to raise loud lamentations and weep
over the fate of the brides who were about to leave the parental roof
and to follow their husbands. They spread costly carpets at the feet of
the brides, who were sitting on armchairs among the assembled ladies,
and strewing flowers on these carpets, they muttered, sobbing and
weeping, ancient Hebrew hymns. The mother stood behind them with
trembling lips, and, raising her tearful eyes toward heaven. The door
was opened, and the sexton in a long robe, his white beard flowing down
on his breast, appeared, carrying in his hand a white cushion with three
splendid lace veils. He was followed by Mr. Itzig, the father of the
three brides. Taking the veils from the cushion, and muttering prayers
all the while, he laid them on the heads of his daughters so that their
faces and bodies seemed to be surrounded by a thin and airy mist. And
the mourning-women sobbed, and two tears rolled over the pale cheeks of
the deeply-moved mother. The two men withdrew silently, and the ladies
were alone again.
But now, in the distance, the heart-stirring sounds of a choir of sweet,
sonorous children’s voices were heard. How charming did these voices
reecho through the room! They seemed to call the brides, and, as if
fascinated by the inspiring melody, they slowly rose from their seats.
Their mother approached the eldest sister and offered her hand to her.
Two of the eldest ladies took the hands of the younger sisters. The
other ladies and the mourning-women formed in pairs behind them, and
then the procession commenced moving in the direction of the inviting
notes of the anthem. Thus they crossed the rooms--nearer and nearer came
the music--and finally, on passing through the last door, the ladies
stepped into a long hall, beautifully decorated with flowers and covered
with a glass roof through which appeared the deep, transparent azure of
the wintry sky. In the centre of this hall there arose a purple canopy
with golden tassels. The rabbi, praying and with uplifted hands, was
standing under it with the three bridegrooms. The choir of the singers,
hidden behind flowers and orange-trees, grew louder and louder, and to
this jubilant music the ladies conducted the brides to the canopy, and
the ceremony commenced.
When it was concluded, when the veils were removed from the heads of
the brides so that they could now look freely into the world, the whole
party returned to the parlor, and brides and bridegrooms received the
congratulations of their friends.
Fanny and Marianne Meier were chatting in a bay-window at some
distance from the rest of the company. They were standing there, arm
in arm--Fanny in her white bridal costume, like a radiant lily, and
Marianne in her purple dress, resembling the peerless queen of flowers.
“You are going to leave Berlin to-day with your husband?” asked
Marianne.
“We leave in an hour,” said Fanny, sighing.
Marianne had heard this sigh. “Do you love your husband?” she asked,
hastily.
“I have seen him only twice,” whispered Fanny.
A sarcastic smile played on Marianne’s lips. “Then they have simply sold
you to him like a slave-girl to a wealthy planter,” she said. “It was
a mere bargain and sale, and still you boast of it, and pass your
disgusting trade in human hearts for virtue, and believe you have a
right to look proudly and contemptuously down upon those who refuse
to be sold like goods, and who prefer to give away their love to being
desecrated without love.”
“I do not boast of having married without love,” said Fanny, gently.
“Oh, I should willingly give up wealth and splendor--I should be quite
ready to live in poverty and obscurity with a man whom I loved.”
“But first the old rabbi would have to consecrate your union with such
a man, I suppose?--otherwise you would not follow him, notwithstanding
your love?” asked Marianne.
“Yes, Marianne, that would be indispensable,” said Fanny, gravely,
firmly fixing her large eyes upon her friend. “No woman should defy the
moral laws of the world, or if she does, she will always suffer for it.
If I loved and could not possess the man of my choice, if I could not
belong to him as his wedded wife, I should give him up. The grief
would kill me, perhaps, but I should die with the consolation of having
remained faithful to virtue--”
“And of having proved false to love!” exclaimed Marianne, scornfully.
“Phrases! Nothing but phrases learned by heart, my child, but the world
boasts of such phrases, and calls such sentiments moral! Oh, hush! hush!
I know what you are going to say, and how you wish to admonish me. I
heard very well how contemptuously your husband called me the mistress
of the Prince von Reuss. Don’t excuse him, and don’t deny it, for I have
heard it. I might reply to it what Madame de Balbi said the other
day upon being upbraided with being the mistress of the Royal Prince
d’Artois: ‘Le sang des princes ne souille pas!’ But I do not want to
excuse myself; on the contrary, all of you shall some day apologize to
me. For I tell you, Fanny, I am pursuing my own path and have a peculiar
aim steadfastly in view. Oh, it is a great, a glorious aim. I want
to see the whole world at my feet; all those ridiculous prejudices of
birth, rank, and virtue shall bow to the Jewess, and the Jewess shall
become the peer of the most distinguished representatives of society.
See, Fanny, that is my plan and my aim, and it is yours too; we are only
pursuing it in different ways--YOU, by the side of a man whose wife you
are, and to whom you have pledged at the altar love and fidelity WITHOUT
feeling them; I, by the side of a man whose friend I am--to whom, it
is true, I have not pledged at the altar love and fidelity, but whom
I shall faithfully love BECAUSE I have given my heart to him. Let
God decide whose is the true morality. The world is on your side and
condemns me, but some day I shall hurl back into its teeth all its
contempt and scorn, and I shall compel it to bow most humbly to me.”
“And whosoever sees you in your proud, radiant beauty, must feel that
you will succeed in accomplishing what you are going to undertake,” said
Fanny, bending an admiring glance on the glorious creature by her side.
Marianne nodded gratefully. “Let us pursue our aim,” she said, “for it
is one and the same. Both of us have a mission to fulfil, Fanny; we have
to avenge the Jewess upon the pride of the Christian women; we have to
prove to them that we are their equals in every respect, that we are
perhaps better, more accomplished, and talented than all of those
haughty Christian women. How often did they neglect and insult us in
society! How often did they offensively try to eclipse us! How often did
they vex us by their scorn and insolent bearing! We will pay it all back
to them; we will scourge them with the scourges with which they have
scourged us, and compel them to bow to us!”
“They shall at least consider and treat us as their equals,” said Fanny,
gravely. “I am not longing for revenge, but I want to hold my place
in society, and to prove to them that I am just as well-bred and
aristocratic a lady, and have an equal, nay, a better right to call
myself a representative of true nobility; for ours is a more ancient
nobility than that of all these Christian aristocrats, and we can count
our ancestors farther back into the most remote ages than they--our
fathers, the proud Levites, having been high-priests in Solomon’s
temple, and the people having treated them as noblemen even at that
time. We will remind the Christian ladies of this whenever they talk to
us about their own ancestors, who, at best, only date back to the middle
ages or to Charlemagne.”
“That is right. I like to hear you talk in this strain,” exclaimed
Marianne, joyfully. “I see you will represent us in Vienna in a noble
and proud manner, and be an honor to the Jews of Berlin. Oh, I am so
glad, Fanny, and I shall always love you for it. And do not forget me
either. If it pleases God, I shall some day come to Vienna, and play
there a brilliant part. However, we shall never be rivals, but always
friends. Will you promise it?”
“I promise it,” said Fanny, giving her soft white hand to her friend.
Marianne pressed it warmly.
“I accept your promise and shall remind you of it some day,” she said.
“But now farewell, Fanny, for I see your young husband yonder, who would
like to speak to you, and yet does not come to us for fear of coming in
contact with the mistress of the Prince von Reuss. God bless and
protect his virtue, that stands in such nervous fear of being infected!
Farewell; don’t forget our oath, and remember me.”
She tenderly embraced her friend and imprinted a glowing kiss upon her
forehead, and then quickly turning around, walked across the room.
All eyes followed the tall, proud lady with admiring glances, and some
whispered, “How beautiful she is! How proud, how glorious!” She took no
notice, however; she had so often received the homage of these whispers,
that they could no longer gladden her heart. Without saluting any
one, her head proudly erect, she crossed the room, drawing her ermine
mantilla closely around her shoulders, and deeming every thing around
her unworthy of notice.
In the anteroom a footman in gorgeous livery was waiting for her. He
hastened down-stairs before her, opened the street door, and rushed
out in order to find his mistress’s carriage among the vast number of
coaches encumbering both sides of the street, and then bring it to the
door.
Marianne stood waiting in the door, stared at by the inquisitive eyes
of the large crowd that had gathered in front of the house to see
the guests of the wealthy banker Itzig upon their departure from the
wedding. Marianne paid no attention whatever to these bystanders. Her
large black eyes swept over all those faces before her with an air of
utter indifference; she took no interest in any one of them, and their
impertinent glances made apparently no impression upon her.
But the crowd took umbrage at her queenly indifference.
“Just see,” the bystanders whispered here and there, “just see the proud
Jewess! How she stares at us, as if we were nothing but thin air! What
splendid diamonds she has got! Wonder if she is indebted for them to her
father’s usury?”
On hearing this question, that was uttered by an old woman in rags, the
whole crowd laughed uproariously. Marianne even then took no notice.
She only thought that her carriage was a good while coming up, and the
supposed slowness of her footman was the sole cause of the frown which
now commenced clouding her brow. When the crowd ceased laughing, a
woman, a Jewess, in a dirty and ragged dress, stepped forth and placed
herself close to Marianne.
“You think she is indebted to her father for those diamonds!” she
yelled. “No, I know better, and can tell you all about it. Her father
was a good friend of mine, and frequently traded with me when he was
still a poor, peddling Jew. He afterward made a great deal of money,
while I grew very poor; but he never bought her those diamonds. Just
listen to me, and I will tell you what sort of a woman she is who now
looks down on us with such a haughty air. She is the Jewess Marianne
Meier, the mistress of the old Prince von Reuss!”
“Ah, a mistress!” shouted the crowd, sneeringly. “And she is looking at
us as though she were a queen. She wears diamonds in her hair, and wants
to hide her shame by dressing in purple velvet. She--”
At that moment the carriage rolled up to the door; the footman
obsequiously opened the coach door and hastened to push back the crowd
in order to enable Marianne to walk over the carpet spread out on the
sidewalk to her carriage.
“We won’t be driven back!” roared the crowd; “we want to see the
beautiful mistress--we want to see her close by.”
And laughing, shouting, and jeering, the bystanders crowded closely
around Marianne. She walked past them, proud and erect, and did not seem
to hear the insulting remarks that were being levelled at her. Only her
cheeks had turned even paler than before, and her lips were quivering a
little.
Now she had reached her carriage and entered. The footman closed the
door, but the mob still crowded around the carriage, and looked through
the glass windows, shouting, “Look at her! look at her! What a splendid
mistress she is! Hurrah for her! Long live the mistress!”
The coachman whipped the horses, and the carriage commenced moving, but
it could make but little headway, the jeering crowd rolling along with
it like a huge black wave, and trying to keep it back at every step.
Marianne sat proudly erect in her carriage, staring at the mob with
naming and disdainful eyes. Not a tear moistened her eyes; not a
word, not a cry issued from her firmly-compressed lips. Even when her
carriage, turning around the corner, gained at last a free field and
sped away with thundering noise, there was no change whatever in her
attitude, or in the expression of her countenance. She soon reached the
embassy buildings. The carriage stopped in front of the vestibule, and
the footman opened the coach door. Marianne alighted and walked slowly
and proudly to the staircase. The footman hastened after her, and when
she had just reached the first landing place he stood behind her and
whispered;
“I beg your pardon, madame; I was really entirely innocent. Your
carriage being the last to arrive, it had to take the hindmost place;
that was the reason why it took us so long to get it to the door. I beg
your pardon, madame.”
Marianne only turned to him for a moment, bending a single contemptuous
glance upon him, and then, without uttering a word, continued ascending
the staircase.
The footman paused and looked after the proud lady, whispering with a
sigh--
“She will discharge me--she never forgives!”
Marianne had now reached the upper story, and walked down the corridor
as slowly and as proudly as ever. Her valet stood at the door, receiving
her with a profound bow, while opening the folding door. She crossed
gravely and silently the long suite of rooms now opening before her, and
finally entered her dressing-room. Her two lady’s maids were waiting for
her here in order to assist her in putting on a more comfortable dress.
When they approached their mistress, she made an imperious, repelling
gesture.
“Begone!” she said, “begone!”
That was all she said, but it sounded like a scream of rage and pain,
and the lady’s maids hastened to obey, or rather to escape. When the
door had closed behind them, Marianne rushed toward it and locked it,
and drew the heavy curtain over it.
Now she was alone--now nobody could see her, nobody could hear her. With
a wild cry she raised her beautiful arms, tore the splendid diadem of
brilliants from her hair, and hurled it upon the floor. She then with
trembling hands loosened the golden sash from her tapering waist, and
the diamond pins from her hair, and threw all these precious trinkets
disdainfully upon the floor. And now with her small feet, with her
embroidered silken shoes, she furiously stamped on them with flaming
eyes, and in her paroxysm of anger slightly opening her lips, so as
to show her two rows of peerless teeth which she held firmly pressed
together.
Her fine hair, no longer fastened by the diamond pins, had fallen down,
and was now floating around her form like a black veil, and closely
covered her purple dress. Thus she looked like a goddess of vengeance,
so beautiful, so proud, so glorious and terrible--her small hands raised
toward heaven, and her feet crushing the jewelry.
“Insulted, scorned!” she murmured. “The meanest woman on the street
believes she has a right to despise me--me, the celebrated Marianne
Meier--me, at whose feet counts and princes have sighed in vain! And who
am I, then, that they should dare to despise me?”
She asked this question with a defiant, burning glance toward heaven,
but all at once she commenced trembling, and hung her head humbly and
mournfully.
“I am a disgraced woman,” she whispered. “Diamonds and velvet do not
hide my shame. I am the prince’s mistress. That’s all!”
“But it shall be so no longer!” she exclaimed, suddenly. “I will put a
stop to it. I MUST put a stop to it! This hour has decided my destiny
and broken my stubbornness. I thought I could defy the world in MY way.
I believed I could laugh at its prejudices; but the world is stronger
than I, and therefore I have to submit, and shall hereafter defy it
in its own way. And I shall do so most assuredly. I shall do so on the
spot.”
Without reflecting any further, she left her chamber and hastened
once more through the rooms. Her hair now was waving wildly around her
shoulders, and her purple dress, no longer held together by the golden
sash, was floating loosely around her form. She took no notice whatever
of her dishabille; only one idea, only one purpose filled her heart.
In breathless haste she hurried on, and now quickly opened a last door,
through which she entered a room furnished in the most sumptuous and
comfortable manner.
At her appearance, so sudden, and evidently unexpected, the elderly
gentleman, who had reposed on the silken sofa, arose and turned around
with a gesture of displeasure.
On recognizing Marianne, however, a smile overspread his features, and
he went to meet her with a pleasant greeting.
“Back already, dearest?” he said, extending his hand toward her.
“Yes, your highness--I am back already,” she said drily and coldly.
The gentleman upon whose features the traces of a life of dissipation
were plainly visible, fixed his eyes with an anxious air upon the
beautiful lady. He only now noticed her angry mien and the strange
dishabille in which she appeared before him.
“Good Heaven, Marianne!” he asked, sharply, “what is the cause of your
agitation, of your coldness toward me? What has happened to you?”
“What has happened to me? The most infamous insults have been heaped
upon my head!” she exclaimed with quivering lips, an angry blush
suffusing her cheeks, “For a quarter of an hour, nay, for an eternity,
I was the target of the jeers, the contempt, and the scorn of the rabble
that publicly abused me in the most disgraceful manner!”
“Tell me,” exclaimed the old gentleman, “what has occurred, and whose
fault it was!”
“Whose fault it was?” she asked, bending a piercing glance upon him.
“YOURS, my prince; you alone are to blame for my terrible disgrace and
humiliation. For your sake the rabble has reviled me, called me your
mistress, and laughed at my diamonds; calling them the reward of my
shame! Oh, how many insults, how many mortifications have I not already
suffered for your sake--with how many bloody tears have I not cursed
this love which attaches me to you, and which I was nevertheless unable
to tear from my heart, for it is stronger than myself. But now the
cup of bitterness is full to overflowing. My pride cannot hear so much
contumely and scorn. Farewell, my prince, my beloved! I must leave
you. I cannot stay with you any longer. Shame would kill me. Farewell!
Hereafter, no one shall dare to call me a mistress.”
With a last glowing farewell, she turned to the door, but the prince
kept her back. “Marianne,” he asked, tenderly, “do you not know that I
love you, and that I cannot live without you?”
She looked at him with a fascinating smile. “And I?” she asked, “far
from you, shall die of a broken heart; with you, I shall die of shame. I
prefer the former. Farewell! No one shall ever dare again to call me by
that name.” And her hand touched already the door-knob.
The prince encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back. “I shall
not let you go,” he said, ardently. “You are mine, and shall remain so!
Oh, why are you so proud and so cold? Why will you not sacrifice your
faith to our love? Why do you insist upon remaining a Jewess?”
“Your highness,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, “why do you
want me to become a Christian?”
“Why?” he exclaimed. “Because my religion and the laws of my country
prevent me from marrying a Jewess.”
“And if I should sacrifice to you the last that has remained to me?” she
whispered--“my conscience and my religion.”
“Marianne,” he exclaimed, solemnly, “I repeat to you what I have told
you so often already: ‘Become a Christian in order to become my wife.’”
She encircled his neck impetuously with her arms and clung to him with
a passionate outburst of tenderness. “I will become a Christian!” she
whispered.