Linda Tressel was a tall, light-built, active young woman, in full
health, by no means a fine lady, very able and very willing to assist
Tetchen in the work of the house, or rather to be assisted by Tetchen
in doing it, and fit at all points to be the wife of any young
burgher in Nuremberg. And she was very pretty withal, with eager,
speaking eyes, and soft luxurious tresses, not black, but of so very
dark a brown as to be counted black in some lights. It was her aunt's
care to have these tresses confined, so that nothing of their wayward
obstinacy in curling might be seen by the eyes of men; and Linda
strove to obey her aunt, but the curls would sometimes be too strong
for Linda, and would be seen over her shoulders and across her back,
tempting the eyes of men sorely. Peter Steinmarc had so seen them
many a time, and thought much of them when the offer of Linda's hand
was first made to him. Her face, like that of her aunt, was oval in
its form, and her complexion was dark and clear. But perhaps her
greatest beauty consisted in the half-soft, half-wild expression of
her face, which, while it seemed to declare to the world that she was
mild, gentle, and, for the most part, silent, gave a vague, doubtful
promise of something that might be beyond, if only her nature were
sufficiently awakened, creating a hope and mysterious longing for
something more than might be expected from a girl brought up under
the severe thraldom of Madame Charlotte Staubach,--creating a hope,
or perhaps it might be a fear. And Linda's face in this respect was
the true reflex of her character. She lived with her aunt a quiet,
industrious, sober life, striving to be obedient, striving to be
religious with the religion of her aunt. She had almost brought
herself to believe that it was good for her heart to be crushed. She
had quite brought herself to wish to believe it. She had within her
heart no desire for open rebellion against domestic authority. The
world was a dangerous, bad world, in which men were dust and women
something lower than dust. She would tell herself so very often, and
strive to believe herself when she did so. But, for all this, there
was a yearning for something beyond her present life, for something
that should be of the world, worldly. When she heard profane music
she would long to dance. When she heard the girls laughing in the
public gardens she would long to stay and laugh with them. Pretty
ribbons and bright-coloured silks were a snare to her. When she
could shake out her curly locks in the retirement of her own little
chamber, she liked to feel them and to know that they were pretty.
But these were the wiles with which the devil catches the souls of
women, and there were times when she believed that the devil was
making an especial struggle to possess himself of her. There were
moments in which she almost thought that the devil would succeed,
and that, perhaps, it was but of little use for her to carry on any
longer the futile contest. Would it not be pleasant to give up the
contest, and to laugh and talk and shout and be merry, to dance, and
wear bright colours, and be gay in company with young men, as did the
other girls around her? As for those other girls, their elder friends
did not seem on their account to be specially in dread of Satan.
There was Fanny Heisse who lived close to them, who had been Linda's
friend when they went to school together. Fanny did just as she
pleased, was always talking with young men, wore the brightest
ribbons that the shops produced, was always dancing, seemed to be
bound by no strict rules on life; and yet everybody spoke well of
Fanny Heisse, and now Fanny was to be married to a young lawyer from
Augsburg. Could it be the fact that the devil had made sure of Fanny
Heisse? Linda had been very anxious to ask her aunt a question on
that subject, but had been afraid. Whenever she attempted to discuss
any point of theology with her aunt, such attempts always ended in
renewed assurances of the devil's greediness, and in some harder,
more crushing rule by which the devil's greed might be outwitted.
Then there came a time of terrible peril, and poor Linda was in
greater doubt than ever. Fanny Heisse, who was to be married to
the Augsburg lawyer, had long been accustomed to talk to young men,
to one young man after another, so that young men had come to be
almost nothing to her. She had selected one as her husband because
it had been suggested to her that she had better settle herself in
life; and this special one was well-to-do, and good-looking, and
pleasant-mannered, and good-tempered. The whole thing with Fanny
Heisse had seemed to go as though flirting, love, and marriage
all came naturally, without danger, without care, and without
disappointment. But a young man had now spoken to her, to Linda,--had
spoken to her words that she did not dare to repeat to any one,--had
spoken to her twice, thrice, and she had not rebuked him. She had
not, at least, rebuked him with that withering scorn which the
circumstances had surely required, and which would have made him know
that she regarded him as one sent purposely from the Evil One to
tempt her. Now again had come upon her some terrible half-formed idea
that it would be well to give up the battle and let the Evil One
make free with his prey. But, in truth, her heart within her had so
palpitated with emotion when these words had been spoken and been
repeated, that she had lacked the strength to carry on the battle
properly. How send a daring young man from you with withering scorn,
when there lacks power to raise the eyes, to open or to close the
lips, to think even at the moment whether such scorn is deserved, or
something very different from scorn?
The young man had not been seen by Linda's eyes for nearly a month,
when Peter Steinmarc and Madam Staubach settled between them that
the ice should be broken. On the following morning aunt Charlotte
prepared herself for the communication to be made, and, when she came
in from her market purchases, went at once to her task. Linda was
found by her aunt in their lodger's sitting-room, busy with brooms
and brushes, while Tetchen on her knees was dry-rubbing the polished
board round the broad margin of the room. "Linda," said Madame
Staubach, "I have that which I wish to say to you; would you come
with me for a while?" Then Linda followed her aunt to Madame
Staubach's own chamber, and as she went there came over her a guilty
fear. Could it be that her aunt had heard of the words which the
young man had spoken to her?
"Linda," said Madame Staubach, "sit down,--there, in my chair. I
have a proposition to make to you of much importance,--of very great
importance. May the Lord grant that the thing that I do shall be
right in His sight!"
"To make to me, aunt?" said Linda, now quite astray as to her aunt's
intention. She was sure, at least, that there was no danger about the
young man. Had it been her aunt's purpose to rebuke her for aught
that she had done, her aunt's manner and look would have been very
different,--would have been hard, severe, and full of denunciation.
As it was, Madame Staubach almost hesitated in her words, and
certainly had assumed much less than her accustomed austerity.
"I hope, Linda, that you know that I love you."
"I am sure that you love me, aunt Charlotte. But why do you ask me?"
"If there be any one in this world that I do love, it is you, my
child. Who else is there left to me? Were it not for you, the world
with all its troubles would be nothing to me, and I could prepare
myself to go in peace when He should be pleased to take me."
"But why do you say this now, aunt Charlotte?"
"I will tell you why I say it now. Though I am hardly an old woman
yet--"
"Of course you are not an old woman."
"I wish I were older, that I might be nearer to my rest. But you are
young, and it is necessary that your future life should be regarded.
Whether I go hence or remain here it will be proper that some
settlement should be made for you." Then Madame Staubach paused, and
Linda began to think that her aunt had on her mind some scheme about
the house. When her aunt had spoken of going hence or remaining here,
Linda had not been quite sure whether the goings and remainings
spoken of were wholly spiritual or whether there was any reference to
things worldly and temporal. Could it be that Tetchen was after all
right in her surmise? Was it possible that her aunt was about to be
married to Peter Steinmarc? But she said nothing; and after a while
her aunt went on very slowly with her proposition. "Yes, Linda, some
settlement for your future life should be made. You know that the
house in which we live is your own."
"It is yours and mine together, aunt."
"No, Linda; the house is your own. And the furniture in it is yours
too; so that Herr Steinmarc is your lodger. It is right that you
should understand all this; but I think too well of my own child to
believe that she will ever on that account be disobedient or unruly."
"That will never make a difference."
"No, Linda; I am sure it will not. Providence has been pleased to put
me in the place of both father and mother to you. I will not say that
I have done my duty by you--"
"You have, aunt, always," said Linda, taking her aunt's hand and
pressing it affectionately.
"But I have found, and I expect to find, a child's obedience. It is
good that the young should obey their elders, and should understand
that those in authority over them should know better than they can do
themselves what is good for them." Linda was now altogether astray in
her thoughts and anticipations. Her aunt had very frequently spoken
to her in this strain; nay, a week did not often pass by without such
a speech. But then the speeches would come without the solemn prelude
which had been made on this occasion, and would be caused generally
by some act or word or look or movement on the part of Linda of which
Madame Staubach had found herself obliged to express disapprobation.
On the present occasion the conversation had been commenced without
any such expression. Her aunt had even deigned to commend the general
tenor of her life. She had dropped the hand as soon as her aunt began
to talk of those in authority, and waited with patience till the gist
of the lecture should be revealed to her. "I hope you will understand
this now, Linda. That which I shall propose to you is for your
welfare, here and hereafter, even though it may not at first seem to
you to be agreeable."
"What is it, aunt?" said Linda, jumping up quickly from her seat.
"Sit down, my child, and I will tell you." But Linda did not reseat
herself at once. Some terrible fear had come upon her,--some fear
of she knew not what,--and she found it to be almost impossible to
remain quiet at her aunt's knee. "Sit down, Linda, when I ask you."
Then Linda did sit down; but she had altogether lost that look of
quiet, passive endurance which her face and figure had borne when she
was first asked to listen to her aunt's words. "The time in your life
has come, my dear, when I as your guardian have to think whether it
is not well that you should be--married."
"But I do not want to be married," said Linda, jumping up again.
"My dearest child, it would be better that you should listen to me.
Marriage, you know, is an honourable state."
"Yes, I know, of course. But, aunt Charlotte--"
"Hush, my dear."
"A girl need not be married unless she likes."
"If I were dead, with whom would you live? Who would there be to
guard you and guide you?"
"But you are not going to die."
"Linda, that is very wicked."
"And why can I not guide myself?"
"Because you are young, and weak, and foolish. Because it is right
that they who are frail, and timid, and spiritless, should be made
subject to those who are strong and able to hold dominion and to
exact obedience." Linda did not at all like being told that she was
spiritless. She thought that she might be able to show spirit enough
were it not for the duty that she owed to her aunt. And as for
obedience, though she were willing to obey her aunt, she felt that
her aunt had no right to transfer her privilege in that respect
to another. But she said nothing, and her aunt went on with her
proposition.
"Our lodger, Peter Steinmarc, has spoken to me, and he is anxious to
make you his wife."
"Peter Steinmarc!"
"Yes, Linda; Peter Steinmarc."
"Old Peter Steinmarc!"
"He is not old. What has his being old to do with it?"
"I will never marry Peter Steinmarc, aunt Charlotte."
Madame Staubach had not expected to meet with immediate and positive
obedience. She had thought it probable that there might be some
opposition shown to her plan when it was first brought forward.
Indeed, how could it be otherwise, when marriage was suggested
abruptly to such a girl as Linda Tressel, even though the suggested
husband had been an Apollo? What young woman could have said,
"Oh, certainly; whenever you please, aunt Charlotte," to such a
proposition? Feeling this, Madame Staubach would have gone to work by
degrees,--would have opened her siege by gradual trenches, and have
approached the citadel by parallels, before she attempted to take
it by storm, had she known anything of the ways and forms of such
strategy. But though she knew that there were such ways and forms of
strategy among the ungodly, out in the world with the worldly, she
had practised none such herself, and knew nothing of the mode in
which they should be conducted. On this subject, if on any, her niece
owed to her obedience, and she would claim that obedience as hers of
right. Though Linda would at first be startled, she would probably be
not the less willing to obey at last, if she found her guardian stern
and resolute in her demand. "My dear," she said, "you have probably
not yet had time to think of the marriage which I have proposed to
you."
"I want no time to think of it."
"Nothing in life should be accepted or rejected without thinking,
Linda,--nothing except sin; and thinking cannot be done without
time."
"This would be sin--a great sin!"
"Linda, you are very wicked."
"Of course, I am wicked."
"Herr Steinmarc is a most respectable man. There is no man in all
Nuremberg more respected than Herr Steinmarc." This was doubtless
Madame Staubach's opinion of Peter Steinmarc, but it may be that
Madame Staubach was not qualified to express the opinion of the city
in general on that subject. "He holds the office which your father
held before him, and for many years has inhabited the best rooms in
your father's house."
"He is welcome to the rooms if he wants them," said Linda. "He is
welcome to the whole house if you choose to give it to him."
"That is nonsense, Linda. Herr Steinmarc wants nothing that is not
his of right."
"I am not his of right," said Linda.
"Will you listen to me? You are much mistaken if you think that it is
because of your trumpery house that this honest man wishes to make
you his wife." We must suppose that Madame Staubach suffered some
qualm of conscience as she proffered this assurance, and that she
repented afterwards of the sin she committed in making a statement
which she could hardly herself have believed to be exactly true. "He
knew your father before you were born, and your mother; and he has
known me for many years. Has he not lived with us ever since you can
remember?"
"Yes," said Linda; "I remember him ever since I was a very little
girl,--as long as I can remember anything,--and he seemed to be as
old then as he is now."
"And why should he not be old? Why should you want a husband to be
young and foolish and headstrong as you are yourself;--perhaps some
one who would drink and gamble and go about after strange women?"
"I don't want any man for a husband," said Linda.
"There can be nothing more proper than that Herr Steinmarc should
make you his wife. He has spoken to me and he is willing to undertake
the charge."
"The charge!" almost screamed Linda, in terrible disgust.
"He is willing to undertake the charge, I say. We shall then still
live together, and may hope to be able to maintain a God-fearing
household, in which there may be as little opening to the temptations
of the world as may be found in any well-ordered house."
"I do not believe that Peter Steinmarc is a God-fearing man."
"Linda, you are very wicked to say so."
"But if he were, it would make no difference."
"Linda!"
"I only know that he loves his money better than anything in the
world, and that he never gives a kreutzer to any one, and that he
won't subscribe to the hospital, and he always thinks that Tetchen
takes his wine, though Tetchen never touches a drop."
"When he has a wife she will look after these things."
"I will never look after them," said Linda.
The conversation was brought to an end as soon after this as Madame
Staubach was able to close it. She had done all that she had intended
to do, and had done it with as much of good result as she had
expected. She had probably not thought that Linda would be quite so
fierce as she had shown herself; but she had expected tears, and
more of despair, and a clearer protestation of abject misery in the
proposed marriage. Linda's mind would now be filled with the idea,
and probably she might by degrees reconcile herself to it, and learn
to think that Peter was not so very old a man. At any rate it would
now be for Peter himself to carry on the battle.
Linda, as soon as she was alone, sat down with her hands before her
and with her eyes fixed, gazing on vacancy, in order that she might
realise to herself the thing proposed to her. She had said very
little to her aunt of the nature of the misery which such a marriage
seemed to offer to her,--not because her imagination made for her
no clear picture on the subject, not because she did not foresee
unutterable wretchedness in such a union. The picture of such
wretchedness had been very palpable to her. She thought that no
consideration on earth would induce her to take that mean-faced old
man to her breast as her husband, her lord--as the one being whom
she was to love beyond everybody else in this world. The picture was
clear enough, but she had argued to herself, unconsciously, that any
description of that picture to her aunt would seem to suppose that
the consummation of the picture was possible. She preferred therefore
to declare that the thing was impossible,--an affair the completion
of which would be quite out of the question. Instead of assuring her
aunt that it would have made her miserable to have to look after
Peter Steinmarc's wine, she at once protested that she never would
take upon herself that duty. "I am not his of right," she had said;
and as she said it, she resolved that she would adhere to that
protest. But when she was alone she remembered her aunt's demand, her
own submissiveness, her old habits of obedience, and above all she
remembered the fear that would come over her that she was giving
herself to the devil in casting from her her obedience on such a
subject, and then she became very wretched. She told herself that
sooner or later her aunt would conquer her, that sooner or later that
mean-faced old man, with his snuffy fingers, and his few straggling
hairs brushed over his bald pate, with his big shoes spreading here
and there because of his corns, and his ugly, loose, square, snuffy
coat, and his old hat which he had worn so long that she never liked
to touch it, would become her husband, and that it would be her
duty to look after his wine, and his old shoes, and his old hat,
and to have her own little possessions doled out to her by his
penuriousness. Though she continued to swear to herself that heaven
and earth together should never make her become Herr Steinmarc's
wife, yet at the same time she continued to bemoan the certainty of
her coming fate. If they were both against her--both, with the Lord
on their sides--how could she stand against them with nothing to aid
her,--nothing, but the devil, and a few words spoken to her by one
whom hitherto she had never dared to answer?
The house in which Linda and Madame Staubach lived, of which the
three gables faced towards the river, and which came so close upon
the stream that there was but a margin six feet broad between the
wall and the edge of the water, was approached by a narrow street
or passage, which reached as far as the end of the house, where
there was a small gravelled court or open place, perhaps thirty feet
square. Opposite to the door of the red house was the door of that
in which lived Fanny Heisse with her father and mother. They indeed
had another opening into one of the streets of the town, which was
necessary, as Jacob Heisse was an upholsterer, and required an
exit from his premises for chairs and tables. But to the red house
with the three gables there was no other approach than by the
narrow passage which ran between the river and the back of Heisse's
workshop. Thus the little courtyard was very private, and Linda could
stand leaning on the wicket-gate which divided the little garden from
the court, without being subject to the charge of making herself
public to the passers-by. Not but what she might be seen when so
standing by those in the Ruden Platz on the other side of the river,
as had often been pointed out to her by her aunt. But it was a habit
with her to stand there, perhaps because while so standing she would
often hear the gay laugh of her old friend Fanny, and would thus,
at second hand, receive some impress from the gaiety of the world
without. Now, in her musing, without thinking much of whither she was
going, she went slowly down the stairs and out of the door, and stood
leaning upon the gate looking over the river at the men who were
working in the front of the warehouses. She had not been there long
when Fanny ran across to her from the door of her father's house.
Fanny Heisse was a bright broad-faced girl, with light hair, and
laughing eyes, and a dimple on her chin, freckled somewhat, with a
pug nose, and a large mouth. But for all this Fanny Heisse was known
throughout Nuremberg as a pretty girl.
"Linda, what do you think?" said Fanny. "Papa was at Augsburg
yesterday, and has just come home, and it is all to come off the week
after next."
"And you are happy?"
"Of course I'm happy. Why shouldn't a girl be happy? He's a good
fellow and deserves it all, and I mean to be such a wife to him! Only
he is to let me dance. But you don't care for dancing?"
"I have never tried it--much."
"No; your people think it wicked. I am so glad mine don't. But,
Linda, you'll be let come to my marriage--will you not? I do so want
you to come. I was making up the party just now with mother and his
sister Marie. Father brought Marie home with him. And we have put
you down for one. But, Linda, what ails you? Does anything ail you?"
Fanny might well ask, for the tears were running down Linda's face.
"It is nothing particular."
"Nay, but it is something particular--something very particular.
Linda, you mope too much."
"I have not been moping now. But, Fanny, I cannot talk to you about
it. I cannot indeed--not now. Do not be angry with me if I go in and
leave you." Then Linda ran in, and went up to her bedroom and bolted
the door.