Peter Steinmarc had a cousin in a younger generation than himself,
who lived in Nuremberg, and who was named Ludovic Valcarm. The mother
of this young man had been Peter's first cousin, and when she died
Ludovic had in some sort fallen into the hands of his relative
the town-clerk. Ludovic's father was still alive; but he was a
thriftless, aimless man, who had never been of service either to his
wife or children, and at this moment no one knew where he was living,
or what he was doing. No one knew, unless it was his son Ludovic,
who never received much encouragement in Nuremberg to talk about his
father. At the present moment, Peter Steinmarc and his cousin, though
they had not actually quarrelled, were not on the most friendly
terms. As Peter, in his younger days, had been clerk to old Tressel,
so had Ludovic been brought up to act as clerk to Peter; and for
three or four years the young man had received some small modicum of
salary from the city chest, as a servant in the employment of the
city magistrates. But of late Ludovic had left his uncle's office,
and had entered the service of certain brewers in Nuremberg, who
were more liberal in their views as to wages than were the city
magistrates. Peter Steinmarc had thought ill of his cousin for making
this change. He had been at the trouble of pointing out to Ludovic
how he himself had in former years sat upon the stool in the office
in the town-hall, from whence he had been promoted to the arm-chair;
and had almost taken upon himself to promise that the good fortune
of Ludovic should be as great as his own, if only Ludovic for the
present would be content with the stool. But young Valcarm, who by
this time was four-and-twenty, told his cousin very freely that
the stool in the town-hall suited him no longer, and that he liked
neither the work nor the wages. Indeed, he went further than this,
and told his kinsman that he liked the society of the office as
little as he did either the wages or the work. It may naturally be
supposed that this was not said till there had been some unpleasant
words spoken by the town-clerk to his assistant,--till the authority
of the elder had been somewhat stretched over the head of the young
man; but it may be supposed also that when such words had once been
spoken, Peter Steinmarc did not again press Ludovic Valcarm to sit
upon the official stool.
Ludovic had never lived in the garret of the red house as Peter
himself had done. When the suggestion that he should do so had
some years since been made to Madame Staubach, that prudent lady,
foreseeing that Linda would soon become a young woman, had been
unwilling to sanction the arrangement. Ludovic, therefore, had
housed himself elsewhere, and had been free of the authority of the
town-clerk when away from his office. But he had been often in his
cousin's rooms, and there had grown up some acquaintance between him
and aunt Charlotte and Linda. It had been very slight;--so thought
aunt Charlotte. It had been as slight as her precautions could make
it. But Ludovic, nevertheless, had spoken such words to Linda that
Linda had been unable to answer him; and though Madame Staubach was
altogether ignorant that such iniquity had been perpetrated, Peter
Steinmarc had shrewdly guessed the truth.
Rumours of a very ill sort had reached the red house respecting
Ludovic Valcarm. When Linda had interrogated Tetchen as to the nature
of the things that were said of Ludovic in that conversation between
Peter and Madame Staubach which Tetchen had overheard, she had not
asked without some cause. She knew that evil things were said of the
young man, and that evil words regarding him had been whispered by
Peter into her aunt's ears;--that such whisperings had been going on
almost ever since the day on which Ludovic had declined to return
again to the official stool; and she knew, she thought that she knew,
that such whisperings were not altogether undeserved. There was a
set of young men in Nuremberg of whom it was said that they had a
bad name among their elders,--that they drank spirits instead of
beer, that they were up late at nights, that they played cards among
themselves, that they were very unfrequent at any house of prayer,
that they belonged to some turbulent political society which had, to
the grief of all the old burghers, been introduced into Nuremberg
from Munich, that they talked of women as women are talked of in
Paris and Vienna and other strongholds of iniquity, and that they
despised altogether the old habits and modes of life of their
forefathers. They were known by their dress. They wore high round
hats like chimney-pots,--such as were worn in Paris,--and satin
stocks, and tight-fitting costly coats of fine cloth, and long
pantaloons, and they carried little canes in their hands, and gave
themselves airs, and were very unlike what the young men of Nuremberg
used to be. Linda knew their appearance well, and thought that it
was not altogether unbecoming. But she knew also,--for she had often
been so told,--that they were dangerous men, and she was grieved that
Ludovic Valcarm should be among their number.
But now--now that her aunt had spoken to her of that horrid plan in
reference to Peter Steinmarc, what would Ludovic Valcarm be to her?
Not that he could ever have been anything. She knew that, and had
known it from the first, when she had been unable to answer him with
the scorn which his words had deserved. How could such a one as she
be mated with a man so unsuited to her aunt's tastes, to her own
modes of life, as Ludovic Valcarm? And yet she could have wished
that it might be otherwise. For a moment once,--perhaps for moments
more than once,--there had been ideas that no mission could be more
fitting for such a one as she than that of bringing back to the right
path such a young man as Ludovic Valcarm. But then,--how to begin to
bring a young man back? She knew that she would not be allowed to
accept his love; and now,--now that the horrid plan had been proposed
to her, any such scheme was more impracticable, more impossible than
ever. Ah, how she hated Peter Steinmarc as she thought of all this!
For four or five days after this, not a word was said to Linda by
any one on the hated subject. She kept out of Peter Steinmarc's way
as well as she could, and made herself busy through the house with
an almost frantic energy. She was very good to her aunt, doing
every behest that was put upon her, and going through her religious
services with a zeal which almost seemed to signify that she liked
them. She did not leave the house once except in her aunt's company,
and restrained herself even from leaning over the wicket-gate and
listening to the voice of Fanny Heisse. There were moments during
these days in which she thought that her opposition to her aunt's
plan had had the desired effect, and that she was not to be driven
mad by the courtship of Peter Steinmarc. Surely five days would not
have elapsed without a word had not the plan been deserted. If that
were the case, how good would she be! If that were the case, she
would resolve, on her aunt's behalf, to be very scornful to Ludovic
Valcarm.
But though she had never gone outside the house without her aunt,
though she had never even leaned on the front wicket, yet she had
seen Ludovic. It had been no fault of hers that he had spied her from
the Ruden Platz, and had kissed his hand to her, and had made a sign
to her which she had only half understood,--by which she had thought
that he had meant to imply that he would come to her soon. All this
came from no fault of hers. She knew that the centre warehouse in the
Ruden Platz opposite belonged to the brewers, Sach Brothers, by whom
Valcarm was employed. Of course it was necessary that the young man
should be among the workmen, who were always moving barrels about
before the warehouse, and that he should attend to his employers'
business. But he need not have made the sign, or kissed his hand,
when he stood hidden from all eyes but hers beneath the low dark
archway; nor, for the matter of that, need her eyes have been fixed
upon the gateway after she had once perceived that Ludovic was on the
Ruden Platz.
What would happen to her if she were to declare boldly that she loved
Ludovic Valcarm, and intended to become his wife, and not the wife of
old Peter Steinmarc? In the first place, Ludovic had never asked her
to be his wife;--but on that head she had almost no doubt at all.
Ludovic would ask her quickly enough, she was very sure, if only he
received sufficient encouragement. And as far as she understood the
law of the country in which she lived, no one could, she thought,
prevent her from marrying him. In such case she would have a terrible
battle with her aunt; but her aunt could not lock her up, nor starve
her into submission. It would be very dreadful, and no doubt all
good people,--all those whom she had been accustomed to regard as
good,--would throw her over and point at her as one abandoned. And
her aunt's heart would be broken, and the world,--the world as she
knew it,--would pretty nearly collapse around her. Nevertheless she
could do it. But were she to do so, would it not simply be that she
would have allowed the Devil to get the victory, and that she would
have given herself for ever and ever, body and soul, to the Evil One?
And then she made a compact with herself,--a compact which she hoped
was not a compact with Satan also. If they on one side would not
strive to make her marry Peter Steinmarc, she on the other side would
say nothing, not a word, to Ludovic Valcarm.
She soon learned, however, that she had not as yet achieved her
object by the few words which she had spoken to her aunt. Those words
had been spoken on a Monday. On the evening of the following Saturday
she sat with her aunt in their own room down-stairs, in the chamber
immediately below that occupied by Peter Steinmarc. It was a summer
evening in August, and Linda was sitting at the window, with some
household needlework in her lap, but engaged rather in watching the
warehouse opposite than in sedulous attention to her needle. Her eyes
were fixed upon the little doorway, not expecting that any one would
be seen there, but full of remembrance of the figure of him who had
stood there and had kissed his hand. Her aunt, as was her wont on
every Saturday, was leaning over a little table intent on some large
book of devotional service, with which she prepared herself for the
Sabbath. Close as was her attention now and always to the volume, she
would not on ordinary occasions have allowed Linda's eyes to stray
for so long a time across the river without recalling them by some
sharp word of reproof; but on this evening she sat and read and said
nothing. Either she did not see her niece, so intent was she on her
good work, or else, seeing her, she chose, for reasons of her own,
to be as one who did not see. Linda was too intent upon her thoughts
to remember that she was sinning with the sin of idleness, and would
have still gazed across the river had she not heard a heavy footstep
in the room above her head, and the fall of a creaking shoe on the
stairs, a sound which she knew full well, and stump, bump, dump,
Peter Steinmarc was descending from his own apartments to those of
his neighbours below him. Then immediately Linda withdrew her eyes
from the archway, and began to ply her needle with diligence. And
Madame Staubach looked up from her book, and became uneasy on her
chair. Linda felt sure that Peter was not going out for an evening
stroll, was not in quest of beer and a friendly pipe at the Rothe
Ross. He was much given to beer and a friendly pipe at the Rothe
Ross; but Linda knew that he would creep down-stairs somewhat softly
when his mind was that way given; not so softly but what she would
hear his steps and know whither they were wending; but now, from the
nature of the sound, she was quite sure that he was not going to the
inn which he frequented. She threw a hurried glance round upon her
aunt, and was quite sure that her aunt was of the same opinion. When
Herr Steinmarc paused for half a minute outside her aunt's door, and
then slowly turned the lock, Linda was not a bit surprised; nor was
Madame Staubach surprised. She closed her book with dignity, and sat
awaiting the address of her neighbour.
"Good evening, ladies," said Peter Steinmarc.
"Good evening, Peter," said Madame Staubach. It was many years now
since these people had first known each other, and the town-clerk
was always called Peter by his old friend. Linda spoke not a word of
answer to her lover's salutation.
"It has been a beautiful summer day," said Peter.
"A lovely day," said Madame Staubach, "through the Lord's favour to
us."
"Has the fraulein been out?" asked Peter.
"No; I have not been out," said Linda, almost savagely.
"I will go and leave you together," said Madame Staubach, getting up
from her chair.
"No, aunt, no," said Linda. "Don't go away; pray, do not go away."
"It is fitting that I should do so," said Madame Staubach, as with
one hand she gently pushed back Linda, who was pressing to the door
after her. "You will stay, Linda, and hear what our friend will say;
and remember, Linda, that he speaks with my authority and with my
heartfelt prayer that he may prevail."
"He will never prevail," said Linda. But neither Madame Staubach nor
Peter Steinmarc heard what she said.
Linda had already perceived, perturbed as she was in her mind, that
Herr Steinmarc had prepared himself carefully for this interview.
He had brought a hat with him into the room, but it was not the hat
which had so long been distasteful to her. And he had got on clean
bright shoes, as large indeed as the old dirty ones, because Herr
Steinmarc was not a man to sacrifice his corns for love; but still
shoes that were decidedly intended to be worn only on occasions. And
he had changed his ordinary woollen shirt for white linen, and had
taken out his new brown frock-coat which he always wore on those high
days in Nuremberg on which the magistrates appeared with their civic
collars. But, perhaps, the effect which Linda noted most keenly was
the debonair fashion in which the straggling hairs had been disposed
over the bald pate. For a moment or two a stranger might almost have
believed that the pate was not bald.
"My dear young friend," began the town-clerk, "your aunt has, I
think, spoken to you of my wishes." Linda muttered something, she
knew not what. But though her words were not intelligible, her looks
were so, and were not of a kind to have been naturally conducive
to much hope in the bosom of Herr Steinmarc. "Of course, I can
understand, Linda, how much this must have taken you by surprise
at first. But that surprise will wear off, and I trust that
you may gradually come to regard me as your future husband
without--without--without anything like fear, you know, or feelings
of that kind." Still she did not speak. "If you become my wife,
Linda, I will do my best to make you always happy."
"I shall never become your wife, never--never--never."
"Do not speak so decidedly as that, Linda."
"I must speak decidedly. I do speak decidedly. I can't speak any
other way. You know very well, Herr Steinmarc, that you oughtn't to
ask me. It is very wrong of you, and very wicked."
"Why is it wrong, Linda? Why is it wicked?"
"If you want to get married, you should marry some one as old as
yourself."
"No, Linda, that is not so. It is always thought becoming that the
man should be older than the wife."
"But you are three times as old as I am, and that is not becoming."
This was cruel on Linda's part, and her words also were untrue. Linda
would be twenty-one at her next birthday, whereas Herr Steinmarc had
not yet reached his fifty-second birthday.
Herr Steinmarc was a man who had a temper of his own, and who was a
little touchy on the score of age. Linda knew that he was touchy on
the score of age, and had exaggerated her statement with the view of
causing pain. It was probably some appreciation of this fact which
caused Herr Steinmarc to continue his solicitations with more of
authority in his voice than he had hitherto used. "I am not three
times as old as you, Linda; but, whatever may be my age, your aunt,
who has the charge of you, thinks that the marriage is a fitting
one. You should remember that you cannot fly in her face without
committing a great sin. I offer to you an honest household and a
respectable position. As Madame Staubach thinks that you should
accept them, you must know that you are wrong to answer me with scorn
and ribaldry."
"I have not answered you with ribaldry. It is not ribaldry to say
that you are an old man."
"You have answered me with scorn."
"I do scorn you, Herr Steinmarc, when you come to me pretending to
make love like a young man, with your Sunday clothes on, and your
hair brushed smooth, and your new shoes. I do scorn you. And you may
go and tell my aunt that I say so, if you like. And as for being an
old man, you are an old man. Old men are very well in their way, I
daresay; but they shouldn't go about making love to young women."
Herr Steinmarc had not hoped to succeed on this his first personal
venture; but he certainly had not expected to be received after
the fashion which Linda had adopted towards him. He had, doubtless,
looked very often into Linda's face, and had listened very often
to the tone of her voice; but he had not understood what her face
expressed, nor had he known what compass that voice would reach. Had
he been a wise man,--a man wise as to his own future comfort,--he
would have abandoned his present attempt after the lessons which he
was now learning. But, as has before been said, he had a temper, and
he was now angry with Linda. He was roused, and was disposed to make
her know that, old as he was, and bald, and forced to wear awkward
shoes, and to stump along heavily, still he could force her to become
his wife and to minister to his wants. He understood it all. He knew
what were his own deficiencies, and was as wide awake as was Linda
herself to the natural desires of a young girl. Madame Staubach was,
perhaps, equally awake, but she connected these desires directly with
the devil. Because it was natural that a young woman should love a
young man, therefore, according to the religious theory of Madame
Staubach, it was well that a young woman should marry an old man, so
that she might then be crushed and made malleable, and susceptible of
that teaching which tells us that all suffering in this world is good
for us. Now Peter Steinmarc was by no means alive to the truth of
such lessons as these. Religion was all very well. It was an outward
sign of a respectable life,--of a life in which men are trusted
and receive comfortable wages,--and, beyond that, was an innocent
occupation for enthusiastic women. But he had no idea that any human
being was bound to undergo crushing in this world for his soul's
sake. Had he not wished to marry Linda himself, it might be very well
that Linda should marry a young man. But now that Linda so openly
scorned him, had treated him with such plain-spoken contumely, he
thought it would be well that Linda should be crushed. Yes; and he
thought also that he might probably find a means of crushing her.
"I suppose, miss," he said, after pausing for some moments, "that the
meaning of this is that you have got a young lover?"
"I have got no young lover," said Linda; "and if I had, why shouldn't
I? What would that be to you?"
"It would be very much to me, if it be the young man I think. Yes, I
understand; you blush now. Very well. I shall know now how to manage
you;--or your aunt will know."
"I have got no lover," said Linda, in great anger; "and you are a
very wicked old man to say so."
"Then you had better receive me as your future husband. If you will
be good and obedient, I will forgive the great unkindness of what you
have said to me."
"I have not meant to be unkind, but I cannot have you for my husband.
How am I to love you?"
"That will come."
"It will never come."
"Was it not unkind when you said that I was three times as old as
you?"
"I did not mean to be unkind." Since the allusion which had been
made to some younger lover, from which Linda had gathered that Peter
Steinmarc must know something of Ludovic's passion for herself, she
had been in part quelled. She was not able now to stand up bravely
before her suitor, and fight him as she had done at first with all
the weapons which she had at her command. The man knew something
which it was almost ruinous to her that he should know, something by
which, if her aunt knew it, she would be quite ruined. How could it
be that Herr Steinmarc should have learned anything of Ludovic's wild
love? He had not been in the house,--he had been in the town-hall,
sitting in his big official arm-chair,--when Ludovic had stood in the
low-arched doorway and blown a kiss across the river from his hand.
And yet he did know it; and knowing it, would of course tell her
aunt! "I did not mean to be unkind," she said.
"You were very unkind."
"I beg your pardon then, Herr Steinmarc."
"Will you let me address you, then, as your lover?"
"Oh, no!"
"Because of that young man; is it?"
"Oh, no, no. I have said nothing to the young man--not a word. He is
nothing to me. It is not that."
"Linda, I see it all. I understand everything now. Unless you will
promise to give him up, and do as your aunt bids you, I must tell
your aunt everything."
"There is nothing to tell."
"Linda!"
"I have done nothing. I can't help any young man. He is only over
there because of the brewery." She had told all her secret now. "He
is nothing to me, Herr Steinmarc, and if you choose to tell aunt
Charlotte, you must. I shall tell aunt Charlotte that if she will
let me keep out of your way, I will promise to keep out of his. But
if you come, then--then--then--I don't know what I may do." After
that she escaped, and went away back into the kitchen, while Peter
Steinmarc stumped up again to his own room.
"Well, my friend, how has it gone?" said Madam Staubach, entering
Peter's chamber, at the door of which she had knocked.
"I have found out the truth," said Peter, solemnly.
"What truth?" Peter shook his head, not despondently so much as in
dismay. The thing which he had to tell was so very bad! He felt it so
keenly, not on his own account so much as on account of his friend!
All that was expressed by the manner in which Peter shook his head.
"What truth have you found out, Peter? Tell me at once," said Madame
Staubach.
"She has got a--lover."
"Who? Linda! I do not believe it."
"She has owned it. And such a lover!" Whereupon Peter Steinmarc
lifted up both his hands.
"What lover? Who is he? How does she know him, and when has she seen
him? I cannot believe it. Linda has never been false to me."
"Her lover is--Ludovic Valcarm."
"Your cousin?"
"My cousin Ludovic--who is a good-for-nothing, a spendthrift, a
fellow without a florin, a fellow that plays cards on Sundays."
"And who fears neither God nor Satan," said Madame Staubach. "Peter
Steinmarc, I do not believe it. The child can hardly have spoken to
him."
"You had better ask her, Madame Staubach." Then with some
exaggeration Peter told Linda's aunt all that he did know, and
something more than all that Linda had confessed; and before their
conversation was over they had both agreed that, let these tidings be
true in much or in little, or true not at all, every exertion should
be used to force Linda into the proposed marriage with as little
delay as possible.
"I overheard him speaking to her out of the street window, when they
thought I was out," said the town-clerk in a whisper before he left
Madame Staubach. "I had to come back home for the key of the big
chest, and they never knew that I had been in the house." This had
been one of the occasions on which Linda had been addressed, and had
wanted breath to answer the bold young man who had spoken to her.