AN IDYLL.
The feverish pulse of a city is not felt in the same degree in all
parts of it. There are places from which all circulation seems shut
out, and where the rapid stream of life hardly shows a ripple. Quiet
houses are there, only separated from the noisy street by the thickness
of a wall. They seem to be many miles from the heated movement of life,
and their inhabitants complacently gaze from their windows with the
same unconcern as they would look at a picture on their own walls--a
view perhaps of violence or excitement, a storm at sea, or a battle.
The Markers' house in the Lutzowstrasse was just such a peaceful island
in the tossing sea of the city. It was only a few steps from the
Magdeburger Platz--the first story in a stately house with a round arch
over the door. Three generations of women--grandmother, mother, and
daughter--lived there, without a single man to take care of them,
attended only by an old widowed cook and her daughter, who had grown up
into the position of a waiting maid. A dreamy, monotonous life they
lived here, like that of the sleepers in the palace of the Sleeping
Beauty behind their hundred-year-old hedge of thorns.
The grandmother was the head of the house--Frau Brohl, a lady of over
sixty years, and a widow for the last twenty. She was a small thin
woman, her figure very much bent, with snow-white hair, a narrow, pale
face, and pretty brown eyes. She moved slowly and with great exertion,
spoke softly and with shortness of breath, and seemed weary and sad.
She looked as if she had some hidden sickness, and as if her feeble
lamp of life might soon flicker out. As a matter of fact she had never
had a day's illness; her appearance gave the impression of weakness,
and increasing age made her neither better nor worse. Even now she was
the first to rise in the morning and the last to go to bed; had the
best appetite at table; and, in her occasional walks, was the least
tired.
Her late husband--Herr F. A. Brohl, of the firm of Brohl, Son &
Co.--had been one of the largest ship-brokers in Stettin. They had
lived together for a quarter of a century in peace and happiness, and
her eyes filled with tears when she remembered that part of her life.
It was a beautiful time, much too good for a sinful human being. They
had a house to themselves, with large high rooms, and every day she
received visits from the richest women of the town, and visited them in
return. There was never a betrothal, marriage, or christening in a
well-known family to which she was not invited; every child in the
street knew her and smiled at her; and the suppers in her hospitable
house were renowned as far as Russia and Sweden.
The marriage was blessed by one daughter, who grew up to be a rather
pretty, well-mannered, and well-grown girl. Her horizon stretched from
the storeroom to the linen-press, and from the flatiron to her book of
songs. She felt a high esteem for her father--just as everyone does for
a rich man--and for her mother, if hardly love, at least a boundless
respect. She regarded her as almost more than human, and the care with
which she listened to her mother's instructions into the secrets of the
kitchen, the market, and the linen-room, was almost unnatural. She was
afraid she would never attain to the fluctuations of price in the fish
market in different seasons of the year, the starching of muslins, the
time it took to cook a pudding, and how much sugar went to a pot of
preserved fruit; and her mother destroyed the last remnant of
self-confidence when half-pityingly, half-contemptuously she told her
that she was not sufficiently developed to understand such things. When
Fraulein Brohl was old enough, her parents married her to Herr Marker.
It was hardly a love match, but in Brohl, Son & Company's house such
folly as love was not considered. Herr Marker was the son of a
wholesale coffee-merchant, and was neither handsome nor
distinguished-looking; he was small, thin, bandy-legged, with an
unwholesome complexion, a peevish expression, and almost bald-headed.
Herr F.A. Brohl soon found that he had made a mistake, and been in too
great a hurry. The old Marker lost his fortune in an unlucky
speculation during the Crimean War, and was only saved by Brohl from
the shame of bankruptcy. He died soon afterward of grief, and left his
son nothing but debts. The young Marker showed no special genius for
the coffee business, but an uncomfortable ambition for speculation in
stocks. He opened an exchange office, and entered into transactions
with the Exchanges of Berlin, Frankfort, and Amsterdam, and after a
short time the last penny of his wife's dowry disappeared. His
father-in-law dipped into his pockets and renewed the dowry, but
stipulated that Marker in the future should ask his advice before any
undertaking. This Marker felt as a deep humiliation, and rather than
submit to Brohl's tyranny, preferred to loaf all day with his hands in
his pockets at the Exchange, and shortened the evenings by going to the
club, and boring people with endless stories of the meanness and
thick-headedness of his cad of a father-in-law, who in his
old-fashioned, narrow-minded Philistinism had not the least capacity
for any great undertakings.
Brohl died soon after, and Marker experienced a new and painful
sensation. His wife did not inherit a penny by her father's will, his
whole property under limited conditions going to the widow. This was
specially arranged for by Brohl to prevent Marker from laying his hands
on more capital. He shook his fist at the opening of the will, and
broke out into unseemly abuse; he went all over Stettin, and cried out
that he was robbed, that the old rascal had plundered him. To his wife
and mother-in-law he also talked day after day and night after night,
saying how shamefully he had been treated, and that it was his
mother-in-law's duty to make good the mistake. Frau Marker could not
endure this perpetual grumbling and badgering, and Frau Brohl became
weak with not only her son-in-law but her daughter constantly at her
ear. She consented to give him a large sum to put him into a new
business, which he described as having a brilliant and unfailing
future, and after a great deal of begging and worrying she at length
brought herself to the far greater sacrifice of a removal to Berlin,
that Marker might have a greater sphere for his energies. So the
stately house in the Frauenstrasse with its lofty rooms was abandoned,
and exchanged for the small flat in Berlin.
The departure from Stettin was a miserable one. It was desperate work
packing the thousand things which had gathered together during the
quarter of a century in careless profusion. It was heart-breaking to be
obliged to leave behind the stores of wood, coal, and potatoes in the
cellar, the cranberry jam in the storeroom, which the Markers, in their
grandeur of ideas, did not think worth the trouble of taking with them!
And the farewell visits to the rich friends, in whose family festivals
she would never more take part; and the last visit to the Jacobkirche,
where she would never more go on Sundays and meet her intimate friends,
for whose benefit she wore the family ornaments, and the stiff silk
dress. There were many tears and sobs, but the cup was drained like the
others; and Marker began his new life in the Lutzowstrasse with his
wife, his mother-in-law, and the little Malvine, who was the only child
of their marriage.
At first things went on pretty well. Frau Brohl often had tears in her
eyes when looking at the familiar furniture in her room, which had been
designed for a house three times as large, and she would rather have
sacrificed one of her hands than one of her old sofas or tables. But
Marker was gay as he had never been before, and full of wonderful
stories of the future importance of his firm, astounding both the
women, and even making them respect him, which feeling had never before
influenced them. He had an office in the Burgstrasse, near the
Exchange, shared by other young men, and came home every day with new
reports of the wonderful business he was doing.
A day came, however, when he had no news to tell them, when his
complexion was as yellow as ever, his eyes avoided the questioning
glances of his mother-in-law, and after playing at concealment for a
whole week, he was at last forced to tell them that he had again lost
all his money. He hastened to add, however, that every thing could be
saved if the mother would once more set him on his feet; in every new
undertaking one had to pay something for learning; he had hardly
understood his position so far, but now he knew what he was about, he
must be contented with modest profits. Frau Brohl made a fresh
sacrifice, giving Marker his position in business again after six
months. He had hardly the courage to come home with new plans, but used
to steal in quietly like a shadow on the wall, sit down at table with a
heart-breaking sigh, sulked with the women, and often was heard talking
to himself in this fashion: "This is no sort of life. If women hold the
cards, stupidity is trumps. The woman in the kitchen, the man in
business," and so on. Finally the thing happened which Frau Brohl had
foreseen with anxiety--Marker came with a new project, for which he
wanted fifty thousand thalers. It was an entirely new idea, unheard of
before; it couldn't miscarry, it must bring in a hundred thousand; with
one stroke all the former losses would be retrieved. Then he stopped
talking, and showed yards of figures, read aloud letters of advice, and
went on reading and talking and crackling papers for an hour to Frau
Brohl, following her from the drawing-room into the kitchen, from the
kitchen back to the drawing-room; and when she took refuge in her
bedroom, he read to her through the door. However, it was no good, and
Frau Brohl stood firm. Then Marker tried a new method. He was
argumentative before, now he became tragic; he threatened to throw
himself out of the window, to become dangerously ill, to go away and
never be heard of again. He left half-finished letters on his
writing-table, in which he announced his death to his acquaintances,
laying the blame on his wife and mother-in-law; in short, poor Frau
Brohl, whose existence had become a veritable hell, with a heavy heart
put her hand once more into her pocket, and gave Marker what he wanted.
Everything now went on as smoothly and merrily as before. After a few
weeks Marker again lost everything, and seemed so upset that he stayed
away all day without coming home. At last he appeared again, and
hesitatingly, with a timid expression, begged for forgiveness. "Very
well," said Frau Brohl, "only I hope you will not begin all over
again." Her hopes were not realized. The spirit of speculation had too
strong a hold over Marker to be kept back. After he had remained quiet
for about a year, he actually had the effrontery to ask his
mother-in-law for more capital. But this time she was like a rock. "Not
a penny," said Frau Brohl, and kept her word. Marker wept, and she let
him weep; he talked of suicide, and she advised him to use a rope, as
he did not understand the use of firearms. He had run through half her
money, and the other half she meant to defend like a lioness. The
specter of poverty rose up before her, she reflected that rich people
would cast her out of their society, and look upon her as a weak woman
without any self-respect, conquered by Marker's tenacity.
There were no more storms after this, and peace reigned in the
tightly-crammed flat in the Lutzowstrasse, but it was peace which
concealed a great deal of grumbling and sulkiness. Marker very seldom
spoke, and his obstinate silence was made easy for him, for the women
at last hardly ever spoke to him. Every week he had a certain sum given
him for pocket-money; Frau Brohl paid his tailor's and bootmaker's
bills, and he was treated in fact as if he had done with this world.
His business was to take the little Malvine to school and fetch her
home again, and on the way he grumbled incessantly to the child about
her mother and grandmother. The former he called "she," and the latter
"the old lady." He never mentioned their names. Malvine had noticed
that at home they never spoke to her father; in her childish way she
imitated this contemptuous silence. The only bright spot in his
existence was a visit to some old business friends, where he unburdened
his overflowing heart, and complained by the hour together of the
tyrants in his house, who trod him under-foot, and ill-treated him now
that he was unfortunate. He was the victim of two silly women, but he
would show them one day of what he was capable. "She" and "the old
lady" were too stupid to understand him, but he hoped he would not die
until he had seen them on their knees before him. In this way he
ceaselessly kept up the smouldering rage within him; his face became
more and more yellow, he grew thinner, he lost his appetite, he looked
as if he were suffering from some dreadful malady. He said nothing,
however, about his health, but seemed to find a comforting satisfaction
in the reflection that "she" and "the old lady" would one day be
surprised to see him lying there, and that would be his revenge. And so
it came to pass--one morning he was too weak to leave his bed. At
luncheon Frau Brohl and Frau Marker noticed his absence, and went to
look for him; as they had taken no notice of him for so long, they were
not aware how shriveled and emaciated he had grown, and were now
shocked and astonished to see how miserable and frail he was. They sent
for a doctor; Frau Brohl made some elder tea; Frau Marker sat up all
night by the sick-bed, but nothing could be done. A few days later he
died, with a look of hatred at his mother-in-law, and a movement of
aversion from his wife.
Nothing was changed in the household; there was another place at table
and a room at liberty, which was soon filled with the things
overflowing from the drawing-room. Frau Brohl still had a passion for
preserving and pickling, which had descended to her daughter and her
granddaughter, and also a passion for needle-work. Year in and year out
the three sat at the window of their drawing-room over embroidery,
lace-making, and such like, working as if they had to earn their daily
bread. They were mistresses of all kinds of fancy work, and invented
many more.
Frau Brohl was unequaled in her inventions of new kinds of work. Such
things as book-markers and slippers, paper-baskets, bed-quilts and
tablecloths, card-baskets, and chair-cushions were all too simple--the
mere a b c of the art. Wonders like embroidered pictures for the walls,
various kinds of fringes for the legs of pianos, fireplace hangings,
gold nets for window-curtains, mottoes for the canary's cage, silk
covers for books, were the order of the day. When any one came in he
was first struck with surprise, which quickly changed to bewilderment.
Wherever he looked his eye fell on some piece of work, with no repose
or unadorned space. Here a row of family portraits, in plush and gold
frames, all looking stiff and uninteresting--on inspecting them at
close quarters, they were seen to be not painted but embroidered in
colored silks. There hung a melon, the outside of the fruit represented
by yellow, green, and brown satin, the stalk by gold thread, the little
cracks and roughnesses by gray silk applique, the whole thing fearful
and absurd in its exuberance. And wherever one went or stood, sat down
or laid one's hand, there wandered a huge wreath of flowers in Berlin
wool, or the profile of a warrior in cross-stitch sneered at one, or a
piece of hanging tapestry of pompous pattern and learned inscriptions
flapped at one, and everything was rich and tedious and terrifying and
shocking in taste; and when one's tired eyes looked out of the triply
be-curtained windows into the street, one fell convinced that little
angels would come down out of the sky clad in what was left over of the
rococo furniture draperies, bordered with gold.
This unsightly museum of useless things was the occupation of Frau
Brohl and Frau Marker's lives, and here Malvine grew up to be the
pretty girl to whom we have been introduced at the Ellrichs'. Her
mother was a sort of elder sister to her, and the only authority in the
house was the grandmother. She ordered the servants, and her daughter
paid her the same timid reverence as in the time of her short frocks.
Frau Marker seldom opened her lips except to eat, or to answer her
mother in a parrot-like sort of echo. Frau Brohl's energetic spirit
stirred even in these narrow boundaries. She did not feel at home in
Berlin; she met no one she knew in the streets, and in fact knew no
one, and this feeling of being among strangers, as if at some
out-of-the-way fair, made her so uneasy that she hardly ever went out.
Often since Marker's death she had thought of returning to Stettin, but
when she reflected how dreadful it would be to pack up and unpack again
all the thousand pieces of work, her courage failed her. All the same
she lived with her heart and soul in Stettin. A local paper from
Stettin was her only reading. She kept up a regular correspondence with
all her old acquaintances, who gave her news of all the engagements,
marriages, births, and deaths of the rich people she had known. If
Stettin people of good standing came to Berlin she called on them and
invited them to dinner, when her former celebrated triumphs in cookery
were repeated. If she found out that any wealthy inhabitants of Stettin
had been in Berlin without informing her of the fact, she took it so
much to heart that she had to go to bed for a week. A few Stettin
families, who in the course of the year emigrated to the capital,
constituted her circle of visiting acquaintances, enlarged later by
Malvine's school friends, and introductions at their houses. The
connection with the Ellrichs was through the Stettin circle. Frau Brohl
gave a large soiree twice in the course of the winter, when the
invitations they had received were returned. Since Malvine was grown up
there had been dancing, although the small size of the drawing-room,
and the displacement of all Frau Brohl's needlework, set everything in
great confusion.
This kind of life and its surroundings naturally could not develop
Malvine's mind and character in any high degree. She missed any
stimulus from her mother or from her grandmother; she only learned to
respect rich people, to fathom the mysteries of the kitchen, and to
cultivate a taste for peculiar and original fancy work; she was,
however, a good-tempered, rather slow-witted girl, of well-balanced
mind, without a trace of capriciousness or the nervous temperament so
common to city life; within her limited view of things she had a good,
honest intelligence, and with her plump figure and her round, rosy
face, which bore witness to her grandmother's kitchen, she was very
comely in men's eyes.
Paul Haber had already become acquainted with the flat in the
Lutzowstrasse during the winter before the war, and he liked the quiet
he found in the corners of the little rooms, and in the muffled voices
of these three women. The friendship was continued during the war by
means of frequent letters, and on his home-coming Paul renewed his
visits with pleasure. By cautious inquiries he had gathered that
Malvine had sixty thousand thalers in cash as her dowry, and would
inherit double that sum. Her modest, quiet, amiable disposition made
him drift into a strong attachment; her appearance was sufficiently
womanly and charming, and her steady, practical views on things,
utterly unromantic an unenthusiastic, harmonized entirely with his own.
It was refreshing for him to hear her chatter about people and things
with the calm good sense of a Philistine, especially in a society where
the bombastic and exaggerated talk of original, poetically minded young
ladies had repelled and bored him. At his first meeting with Malvine
Marker he had thought that she was the wife for him, and since he had
become friendly with her and her circle, he said to himself, "This one
and no other."
The three ladies liked him immensely. Frau Brohl took him at once to
her heart, and that was the chief consideration. His appearance made a
good impression on her. He was strongly built, not too thin, in fact,
showing signs of a respectable probable stoutness in later life; his
face was full, and his complexion healthy, his mustache carefully
trimmed, and his hair closely cropped; he certainly dressed well. The
young men of her former rich acquaintances were of the same type, so
also was the late F.A. Brohl when she first met him. He was
gentlemanly, without a doubt, and he must be well off to employ such a
good tailor and friseur. She also noticed, with an immense
satisfaction, that he had a due appreciation of fancy work. He did not,
like some superficial people, regard these housewifely creations as
merely pretty or useful things, but appreciated them as works of art,
and wondered at the difficulty of these marvelous fabrications.
Complicated lace-work, or embroidered pictures, filled him with
amazement, even if applique had no effect on him. When Frau Brohl
noticed these marks of distinction in him, she did not hesitate to
invite him to dinner on Sunday--at first occasionally, and afterward
regularly, and with increasing pleasure she noticed that in other ways
he also reached the ideal she had imagined in him. He had a good
appetite, and it was not necessary for him to say in words how much he
enjoyed the dishes set before him, every look and gesture showed it
plainly. He evinced a warm sympathy for family events, even when they
did not concern him in any way, and he had the same genuine esteem for
rich people, which had been handed down for three generations in the
Brohl-Marker families. She thought that he showed no disinclination to
be her granddaughter's husband, only at first she pondered over his
calling in life. She knew perfectly well that the highest professorship
could only earn in a year what an ordinary ship-broker made in a month.
At the same time she reflected that even a merchant made a bad job of
it sometimes, as her son-in-law's example had shown her only too
plainly; that the title "Professor" sounded very well, and if he did
not make very much money at most, at least he could not lose it, and
she came to the conclusion that in the circumstances a professor could
make his wife very happy. Frau Marker had nothing to say about the
matter, and was quite prepared to accept a son-in-law from her mother's
hand, as she had formerly accepted a husband, so the fact that Paul had
not made a very favorable impression on her did not matter very much.
There remained only Malvine--but just there lay the difficulty. The
girl was always kind and friendly to Paul, she took his homage without
any coquetry or apparent disinclination; when they went out walking she
took his arm quite unaffectedly; when they were invited to meet in
society, by a tacit agreement he took her in to dinner, had the
privilege of the greater part of the dances, and was her partner for
the cotillion. But whether they were alone or in company, whether they
danced or talked, whether he came or went, she showed a perfect
unconcern and freedom of manner to which he longed to put an end. She
was much too cold and collected even for his unsentimental nature. He
would have forgiven some agitation, some confusion, a few blushes now
and then, perhaps a sigh, but these signs of the heart's flutterings
were nowhere forthcoming. As they were out one day alone together,
something happened which filled Paul with doubt and trouble. Malvine
had been attracted to Wilhelm when first she saw him, and since then
she had incessantly thought and talked of him. He was so handsome, he
spoke so charmingly! She thought it astonishing that any one should not
love him, just because his admiration was mingled with so much shyness.
She herself was much too insignificant a person to think of loving him,
and beside, he was not free, and it would have been a sin to think of
the man who was engaged to her friend. This enthusiasm for Wilhelm
naturally did not escape Paul's notice, but it did not disquiet him,
because he took into account Malvine's nature. "It is a harmless
fancy," he said to himself, "the sort of fancy girls take sometimes for
princes whose photographs they see in shop-windows, or for actors whom
they have admired as Don Carlos or Romeo; later on they laugh over
their childish folly, and these fancies never prevent the pretty
enthusiast from marrying and being happy."
Nevertheless, things became suspiciously different after the breach
between Wilhelm and Loulou. In Malvine's somewhat narrow but
well-regulated mind a brave romance had been mistakenly built up. Now
Wilhelm was free: now she need have no feeling of duty on account of
that superficial, pleasure-seeking Loulou, who had never been worthy of
him. Was it impossible that he might notice her? would be grateful for
her sympathy? and perhaps--who knows--later--he might seek consolation
from her--who was so ready to give it? The concluding chapter of this
girlish romance remained her own secret, but the beginning she boldly
declared. She explained to her grandmother, as well as to Paul, that
now Dr. Eynhardt was in need of being comforted, it was the duty of his
friends to try to overcome his sorrow. She proposed that Paul should
bring him as often as possible, and she obtained from Frau Brohl the
unwonted permission of inviting him to the Sunday luncheon. Wilhelm had
little pleasure in going into ordinary society, especially to
strangers, but this invitation was so warm and pressing that he could
not bring himself to refuse it.
When Wilhelm was there Paul was put completely in the background.
Malvine had no words or glances for any one but Wilhelm, and if she
spoke to Paul it was only to thank him for having brought Dr. Eynhardt
to the Lutzowstrasse. If Paul came alone he was mortified to see a
shadow pass over Malvine's face, and he was forced to listen to a
string of inquiries after his friend. He had been conscious for a long
time that he must try to reconcile himself to this condition of things,
and if he felt himself rebelling, he reminded himself he must have
patience and wait, trying to console himself with the thought that
Malvine's enthusiasm was only on her side--Wilhelm's demeanor seemed to
show that he did not guess what was going on in the girl's mind. His
manner was courteous and friendly, but there was really no difference
between his demeanor toward Frau Brohl and toward the young girl. While
Malvine blushed and became confused when he entered the room, Wilhelm,
on his side, spoke to the grandmother, mother, and daughter with
exactly the same pleasant smile, and his hand rested not a moment
longer in Malvine's than in that of her grandmother. On his side there
was evidently nothing to dread. He felt he had a defender and support
in Frau Brohl. The old lady kept a sharp lookout on her little world
with her dim-sighted eyes. She noticed that Malvine was unable to
withstand the charm which Wilhelm exercised over her, and she could not
bring herself to be angry with the girl. She herself liked the young
man extremely, admired his handsome face, his fine voice, his modest,
unassuming manners, but she felt instinctively that he belonged to
quite a different world from herself, and that in a sense they would
always be strangers. When he spoke she could not follow his thoughts,
although she felt that they were very profound; when she spoke he
listened with the greatest politeness, but nothing more came of it. He
tried to be attentive to her stories about engagements and separations,
he was entirely uninterested in rich people, he did not praise the best
dishes at table, and he even went so far as not to conceal his aversion
for the design of the horrible knight in cross-stitch. Beside all this,
his clothes were bad, and although he had a house of his own, it was
only a little one. No, Wilhelm as a relation was not to be thought of.
He was not of their own flesh and blood, like that good, delightful
Paul Haber.
It was not in Paul's nature to wait patiently in suspense, and he
determined to put an end to his uncertainty. Malvine seemed to him as
desirable as ever, and he had built up in his mind a future, of which
Malvine and her sixty thousand thalers were the foundation. He must
know whether she were for him or not; in the one case to transform his
castle in the air into reality without loss of time, and in the other
case not to waste the best years of his life in aimless disappointment;
not to let other opportunities slip by. He was not quite clear,
however, on one point, To whom should he make his proposal? To Frau
Brohl? That would be the most practicable way, no doubt, as the bent,
pale old lady, with the soft, sighing voice, ruled everything in the
house, and if she promised the hand of her grand-daughter, she would
certainly keep her word. But it went against the grain to put any
constraint on the girl, and he felt that he would be ashamed to answer
"No," if Frau Brohl were to ask him if he had already spoken to
Malvine. Then if he were to go in a straightforward way to Malvine, and
say, "I can no longer hide from you that I love you, and that I want
you to be my wife, will you consent?" there was a great deal of risk in
that, for if she misjudged her own feelings, and said that she loved
some one else, and so could not listen to him, the rupture between them
would be accomplished, and it would be no use to him if later she found
out that she had been mistaken in her feelings. There could be no
secure step for him, on that he was quite decided.
If he could approach neither Frau Brohl nor Malvine, there was one way
clearly open to him, and he took it without further delay.
One sunny afternoon in May, a few weeks after the Labor meeting at the
Tivoli, Paul came to see Wilhelm, and asked him to go for a walk with
him in the Thiergarten. Wilhelm was soon ready, and while they were
walking Paul was astonishingly quiet, and seemed sunk in deep thought.
He suddenly broke the silence, and when they were under the trees,
without any beating about the bush, asked his friend:
"Wilhelm, do you love Malvine?"
Wilhelm stood still, as if rooted to the ground, and in boundless
astonishment he said:
"Are you off your head, Paul?"
"I implore you, Wilhelm," said he in an anxious way, "just answer 'yes'
or 'no,' because the happiness of my life depends on your answer."
"But I never thought of it," cried Wilhelm, grasping Paul's hand. "What
put such an idea into your head?"
"Then you are not in love with Malvine?" asked Paul obstinately.
"No, I am not in love with Malvine, if you will have the answer in that
precise form."
"I thought as much, but I wished to have the answer from your own
lips;" and as they walked, he continued, "Do you see, Wilhelm, if you
had loved Malvine, I would have got out of your way; I would have
submitted to fate without any struggle or opposition."
"Have I been injudicious? Perhaps too intimate? Forgive me, Paul, if it
is so. It happened quite unintentionally. I only thought of her as my
friend's fiancee, and believed her also to be a friend of mine."
"I don't mean that, Wilhelm; you have always behaved awfully well--with
great tact, and all that. But you have not seen how it has been with
Malvine; she is quite mad about you, especially since you have been
free."
"You imagine these things."
"Be quiet, you impatient baby, and hear what I have to say. I believe
it is not love Malvine has for you, but it only wants a word or a look
from you to turn it into love. If she were convinced that you feel only
as a friend for her, she would be contented to admire you from a
distance, and begin to care a little more for an inferior specimen of
mankind like myself."
"I feel quite in despair about it. How could I be so blind, so stupid?"
"Never mind; it is not all over yet. I know Malvine. She is a
simple-minded girl, without a bit of sentiment in her, mentally and
morally healthy. If she knew she had nothing to expect from you, I am
perfectly certain that nothing would stand in the way of my happiness."
"I will do whatever you wish--and first of all, I must put a stop to my
visits there."
"I must ask more from you than that, my poor Wilhelm. Merely staying
away is too passive. You must act. I want you to talk to Malvine, and
somehow explain to her that you don't love her."
"How can I possibly do that?" cried Wilhelm, really startled. "I should
have no right! If she laughed in my face and called me a fool and a
lout, I should feel I deserved it."
"You ought to know that she would not do that. I know I am asking a
very unusual thing, and a very difficult thing, but I feel I can ask
such a sacrifice from your friendship."
As Wilhelm did not immediately answer, Paul said, seizing his hand:
"Once more, Wilhelm, if you have any thought of Malvine, I will not
stand in your way."
"But, Paul--"
"And perhaps I ought to wish it for you; Malvine is a good, dear girl,
and will make the man who marries her happy all his life."
"Don't say any more; I have already told you that she is sacred to me
as your fiancee, and beside, I should have no claim on her, even if I
did not know how you stand with regard to her."
"Well, then, you must help me to reclaim her from her mistake. You
alone can do it, and I am sure that later--very soon, in fact, she will
be grateful to you."
Wilhelm was silent, looking at Paul in anxious suspense. At last, with
a deep sigh, he said:
"Well, if I must---"
"You are a brick," cried Paul, and embraced him before the passers-by,
who turned round to look at them with astonishment.
On the next day, at twelve o'clock, Wilhelm rang at the Markers' flat
in the Lutzowstrasse. Through the little peephole he caught a glimpse
of some one, then the door flew open, a maid ushered him into the
drawing-room, and without waiting for him to speak, said:
"Frau Brohl is in the kitchen; I will fetch her."
"Thank you," said Wilhelm, rather feebly; "there is no hurry.
Is--is--the Fraulein at home?"
The girl was already at the door, and turning round, stared at Wilhelm
with astonished eyes.
"Yes; shall I say that you would like to speak to her?"
Wilhelm nodded, and the girl went out. After a short pause Malvine
stood before him, offering him her white hand, with its short fingers,
while her face flushed to the roots of her hair.
"Might I speak to you, Fraulein?" he said, in a low, constrained voice.
Malvine went very white, all the blood seemed to leave her heart, and
she almost gasped for breath. After a short silence she whispered,
"Certainly, Herr Doctor," and took him into the little room next the
drawing-room, which contained a modest bookcase, a writing table, and
chairs in red damask. She sat down, and Wilhelm took a chair near; they
were silent for a minute or two, while she, with eyes downcast, went
alternately red and white, and could scarcely breathe. There was no
pretense this time about her agitation. It seemed as if suddenly a
flash of lightning had illuminated his mind, showing him a picture of
this trembling, pretty girl clashed to his heart, and he with his arms
round her. It only lasted for a second, but it struck him like an
electric shock, and left in his mind a mingled feeling of trouble,
shame, remorse and vexation. He had a consciousness of danger, and he
felt that he must make a great effort to become master of the situation
and of himself.
"Gnadiges Fraulein," he began, "what I want to say to you will seem
odd, and perhaps audacious, but I beg you in spite of that to hear me
to the end."
Malvine sat motionless, breathing quickly.
"I do not know," he went on, "in what position you and my friend Haber
are with regard to each other, but you must have noticed, without any
explanation, that he loves you."
At the mention of Paul's name, Malvine for the first time raised her
eyes, and looked at Wilhelm with such a troubled expression that he
felt still further alarmed. He had broken the ice, however, and he made
a courageous effort to regain his asssurance.
"Dear Fraulein," he said impressively, "I am afraid there has been some
misunderstanding between us, which it is my duty toward you, toward my
friend, and toward myself, to explain. My behavior has perhaps aroused
an impression which it should not have done. There is no doubt that I
ought not to have shown you how warm my friendship is for you--for you,
a good and beautiful girl, who have inspired my best friend with such a
love; but really I considered that so long as the engagement between
you and Paul was not clearly arranged, that you would understand my
position. If I seemed happy to be near you, it was because I told
myself how happy my friend would be when he could call you his own; if
you seemed to read warmth and tenderness when I looked at you, it was
because I was and am so grateful to you for so happily influencing
Paul."
While he was speaking Malvine had sunk back in her corner, and had
closed her eyes with a deep sigh. A few large tears began to roll down
her cheeks. Wilhelm touched her hand, which was cold as ice. She made a
feeble effort to draw it away, but he held it fast and went on:
"Dearest, best Malvine, do not bear me any grudge for this abominable
half-hour, and believe me that it is only out of consideration for your
life's happiness. I quite understand how it has all happened. Your kind
heart was filled with pity for me, and in your innocence you gave the
pity another name. It was quite natural that you should be uncertain of
yourself, while you thought you were loved by two men, and that the
confusion prevented you seeing clearly with your own heart. Now you
know that Paul loves you, and that the day on which he dares call you
his will be the first happy one I have had for a year. You will be able
to come to a determination more easily, as it concerns your own
happiness equally with Paul's. Paul is a good fellow, and worthy of the
woman who will bear his name."
He bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it. Malvine sobbed aloud,
and putting her arms on his shoulders kissed his hair, then sprang away
and flew to her room. Wilhelm hurried away in great confusion, thankful
that he had been spared meeting either Frau Brohl or Frau Marker. He
only breathed freely when he found himself in the street.
Paul was informed the same afternoon of the conversation which had
taken place, Wilhelm delicately passing over Malvine's outburst of
feeling, and he hurried at once to the Lutzowstrasse to take by storm
the fortress in which his friend had already made a breach. He was
received by Frau Brohl, who nodded in mysterious manner, and took him
into her bedroom, at the back of the flat, through the dining-room. In
her soft, feeble voice she mildly reproached him for not having more
confidence and coming to speak to her sooner. She then related to him
what had happened. She had heard with great surprise that Dr. Eynhardt
had come and gone away again, without saying good-day to her. As she
was going to ask what the visit meant, Malvine came and embraced her
grandmother, crying bitterly, to the old lady's great distress. With
many tears she had given a confused and broken account of the interview
with Wilhelm, begging Frau Brohl to comfort her and foretell that it
should end well. Frau Brohl explained that Malvine was now in her room,
meaning that Paul must not try to see her just at present. Such a
silly, inexperienced creature must have time given her to learn to be
reasonable, beside, she (Frau Brohl) would take care of everything, and
Herr Haber could call her grandmamma now if he liked. He kissed her
hand, deeply moved and grateful, and her eyes filled with tears. She
then explained the situation to Frau Marker, who, after looking very
much surprised, also embraced her son-in-law. It was a dignified scene,
tender, and, as befitted an honorable family, without any over display
of feeling; if all the wealthy people of Stettin had been assembled
there, they could have expressed nothing but admiration.
On the next day Frau Brohl spoke to her grand-daughter. She made her
understand that there were no real objections to be made, that she was
silly and was acting against her own happiness. Paul was much the
better match of the two, was more chic and practical than Wilhelm, had
better prospects in life, and was really better-looking than his
friend. Above all she liked Paul, and did not like Wilhelm, and that
ought to be taken into account. Malvine was not inaccessible to such
arguments, as Paul was really sympathetic to her. Soon her tears ceased
to flow, and her sighs became fainter and fainter. In two days' time
she regained her appetite, signs which Frau Brohl noticed, and quickly
imparted to Paul. At their first meeting he showed a little anxiety,
and she, a good deal of constraint, but that soon passed off, and as
they were constantly together, she found a great deal of pleasure in
his manly good looks and honorable qualities. Beside, it was spring!
the sun shone, the sky was blue, her room was full of the fragrance of
flowers, which Paul brought every day with the regularity of a postman,
and fourteen days later they were engaged, and his first kiss was given
in the presence of her grandmother, mother, and Paul's parents. Her
heart felt very warmly toward him, and she would have felt dreadfully
confused had not Wilhelm, with characteristic good feeling, declined
the invitation to be present.
Frau Brohl arranged for the wedding to take place after Whitsuntide. At
the Zwolf-Apostelkirche she wore her heavy silk dress and all the
family ornaments, as on the Sundays at church at Stettin. Her bent
figure was straighter than usual, and a smile of proud satisfaction
lighted up her pale, melancholy face. Several rich friends from Stettin
had come over to Berlin for the wedding. She leaned on the arm of the
bridegroom's father, Herr Haber, a dignified old gentleman with a long
beard. Paul wore his uniform and a Japanese order, which had been
conferred on him by a Japanese pupil at his lectures on agricultural
chemistry. Several officers in uniform were in the church, and a large
number of professors, councilors, etc. Paul's round face beamed with
happiness, his blond mustache looked triumphant, his hair was
mathematically cut, and a field-marshal might have sworn that he was a
regular officer. The bride was rosy, and looked happy. Her veil and
wreath were made by the family, and her satin dress covered with their
embroidery. Wilhelm was one of Paul's witnesses. When he went to
congratulate the happy pair after the ceremony, Malvine looked at him;
a gentle glance, with perhaps a mild reproach in it. Paul, however,
grasped his hand, and whispered into his ear:
"Your friend for life, Wilhelm, for life."