LOTTA SCHMIDT
AND
OTHER STORIES.
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF
“TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES,”
“DOCTOR THORNE,”
“PHINEAS FINN,”
“ORLEY FARM,”
ETC. ETC.
FOURTH EDITION.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY.
1876.
(_The right of translation is reserved._)
LOTTA SCHMIDT.
[Illustration: text decoration]
LOTTA SCHMIDT.
As all the world knows, the old fortifications of Vienna have been
pulled down,--the fortifications which used to surround the centre or
kernel of the city; and the vast spaces thus thrown open and forming a
broad ring in the middle of the town have not as yet been completely
filled up with those new buildings and gardens which are to be there,
and which, when there, will join the outside city and the inside city
together, so as to make them into one homogeneous whole.
The work, however, is going on, and if the war which has come and passed
has not swallowed everything appertaining to Austria into its maw, the
ugly remnants of destruction will be soon carted away, and the old
glacis will be made bright with broad pavements, and gilded railings,
and well-built lofty mansions, and gardens beautiful with shrubs, and
beautiful with turf also, if Austrian patience can make turf to grow
beneath an Austrian sky.
On an evening of September, when there was still something left of
daylight, at eight o’clock, two girls were walking together in the
Burgplatz, or large open space which lies between the city palace of the
emperor and the gate which passes thence from the old town out to the
new town. Here at present stand two bronze equestrian statues, one of
the Archduke Charles, and the other of Prince Eugene. And they were
standing there also, both of them, when these two girls were walking
round them; but that of the prince had not as yet been uncovered for the
public.
There was coming a great gala day in the city, Emperors and empresses,
archdukes and grand-dukes, with their archduchesses and grand-duchesses,
and princes and ministers, were to be there, and the new statue of
Prince Eugene was to be submitted to the art-critics of the world. There
was very much thought at Vienna of the statue in those days. Well; since
that, the statue has been submitted to the art-critics, and henceforward
it will be thought of as little as any other huge bronze figure of a
prince on horseback. A very ponderous prince is poised in an impossible
position, on an enormous dray horse. But yet the thing is grand, and
Vienna is so far a finer city in that it possesses the new equestrian
statue of Prince Eugene.
“There will be such a crowd, Lotta,” said the elder of the two girls,
“that I will not attempt it. Besides, we shall have plenty of time for
seeing it afterwards.”
“Oh, yes,” said the younger girl, whose name was Lotta Schmidt; “of
course we shall all have enough of the old prince for the rest of our
lives; but I should like to see the grand people sitting up there on the
benches; and there will be something nice in seeing the canopy drawn up.
I think I will come. Herr Crippel has said that he would bring me, and
get me a place.”
“I thought, Lotta, you had determined to have nothing more to say to
Herr Crippel.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. I like Herr Crippel very much, and
he plays beautifully. Surely a girl may know a man old enough to be her
father without having him thrown in her teeth as her lover.”
“Not when the man old enough to be her father has asked her to be his
wife twenty times, as Herr Crippel has asked you. Herr Crippel would not
give up his holiday afternoon to you if he thought it was to be for
nothing.”
“There I think you are wrong, Marie. I believe Herr Crippel likes to
have me with him simply because every gentleman likes to have a lady on
such a day as that. Of course it is better than being alone. I don’t
suppose he will say a word to me except to tell me who the people are,
and to give me a glass of beer when it is over.”
It may be as well to explain at once, before we go any further, that
Herr Crippel was a player on the violin, and that he led the musicians
in the orchestra of the great beer-hall in the Volksgarten. Let it not
be thought that because Herr Crippel exercised his art in a beer-hall
therefore he was a musician of no account. No one will think so who has
once gone to a Vienna beer-hall, and listened to such music as is there
provided for the visitors.
The two girls, Marie Weber and Lotta Schmidt, belonged to an
establishment in which gloves were sold in the Graben, and now, having
completed their work for the day,--and indeed their work for the week,
for it was Saturday evening,--had come out for such recreation as the
evening might afford them. And on behalf of these two girls, as to one
of whom at least I am much interested, I must beg my English readers to
remember that manners and customs differ much in Vienna from those which
prevail in London.
Were I to tell of two London shop girls going out into the streets after
their day’s work, to see what friends and what amusement the fortune of
the evening might send to them, I should be supposed to be speaking of
young women as to whom it would be better that I should be silent; but
these girls in Vienna were doing simply that which all their friends
would expect and wish them to do. That they should have some amusement
to soften the rigours of long days of work was recognised to be
necessary; and music, beer, dancing, with the conversation of young men,
are thought in Vienna to be the natural amusements of young women, and
in Vienna are believed to be innocent.
The Viennese girls are almost always attractive in their appearance,
without often coming up to our English ideas of prettiness. Sometimes
they do fully come up to our English idea of beauty. They are generally
dark, tall, light in figure, with bright eyes, which are however very
unlike the bright eyes of Italy, and which constantly remind the
traveller that his feet are carrying him eastward in Europe. But perhaps
the peculiar characteristic in their faces which most strikes a stranger
is a certain look of almost fierce independence, as though they had
recognised the necessity, and also acquired the power, of standing
alone, and of protecting themselves. I know no young women by whom the
assistance of a man’s arm seems to be so seldom required as the young
women of Vienna. They almost invariably dress well, generally preferring
black, or colours that are very dark; and they wear hats that are, I
believe, of Hungarian origin, very graceful in form, but which are
peculiarly calculated to add something to that assumed savageness of
independence of which I have spoken.
Both the girls who were walking in the Burgplatz were of the kind that I
have attempted to describe. Marie Weber was older, and not so tall, and
less attractive than her friend; but as her position in life was fixed,
and as she was engaged to marry a cutter of diamonds, I will not
endeavour to interest the reader specially in her personal appearance.
Lotta Schmidt was essentially a Viennese pretty girl of the special
Viennese type. She was tall and slender, but still had none of that
appearance of feminine weakness which is so common among us with girls
who are tall and slim. She walked as though she had plenty both of
strength and courage for all purposes of life without the assistance of
any extraneous aid. Her hair was jet-black, and very plentiful, and was
worn in long curls which were brought round from the back of her head
over her shoulders. Her eyes were blue,--dark blue,--and were clear and
deep rather than bright. Her nose was well formed, but somewhat
prominent, and made you think at the first glance of the tribes of
Israel. But yet no observer of the physiognomy of races would believe
for half a moment that Lotta Schmidt was a Jewess. Indeed, the type of
form which I am endeavouring to describe is in truth as far removed from
the Jewish type as it is from the Italian; and it has no connexion
whatever with that which we ordinarily conceive to be the German type.
But, overriding everything in her personal appearance, in her form,
countenance, and gait, was that singular fierceness of independence, as
though she were constantly asserting that she would never submit herself
to the inconvenience of feminine softness. And yet Lotta Schmidt was a
simple girl, with a girl’s heart, looking forward to find all that she
was to have of human happiness in the love of some man, and expecting
and hoping to do her duty as a married woman and the mother of a family.
Nor would she have been at all coy in saying as much had the subject of
her life’s prospects become matter of conversation in any company; no
more than one lad would be coy in saying that he hoped to be a doctor,
or another in declaring a wish for the army.
When the two girls had walked twice round the hoarding within which
stood all those tons of bronze which were intended to represent Prince
Eugene, they crossed over the centre of the Burgplatz, passed under the
other equestrian statue, and came to the gate leading into the
Volksgarten. There, just at the entrance, they were overtaken by a man
with a fiddle-case under his arm, who raised his hat to them, and then
shook hands with both of them.
“Ladies,” he said, “are you coming in to hear a little music? We will do
our best.”
“Herr Crippel always does well,” said Marie Weber. “There is never any
doubt when one comes to hear him.”
“Marie, why do you flatter him?” said Lotta.
“I do not say half to his face that you said just now behind his back,”
said Marie.
“And what did she say of me behind my back?” said Herr Crippel. He
smiled as he asked the question, or attempted to smile, but it was easy
to see that he was too much in earnest. He blushed up to his eyes, and
there was a slight trembling motion in his hands as he stood with one of
them pressed upon the other.
As Marie did not answer at the moment, Lotta replied for her.
“I will tell you what I said behind your back. I said that Herr Crippel
had the firmest hand upon a bow, and the surest fingers among the
strings, in all Vienna--when his mind was not wool-gathering. Marie, is
not that true?”
“I do not remember anything about the wool-gathering,” said Marie.
“I hope I shall not be wool-gathering to-night; but I shall
doubtless;--I shall doubtless,--for I shall be thinking of your
judgment. Shall I get you seats at once? There; you are just before me.
You see I am not coward enough to fly from my critics,” and he placed
them to sit at a little marble table, not far from the front of the low
orchestra in the foremost place in which he would have to take his
stand.
“Many thanks, Herr Crippel,” said Lotta. “I will make sure of a third
chair, as a friend is coming.”
“Oh, a friend!” said he; and he looked sad, and all his sprightliness
was gone.
“Marie’s friend,” said Lotta, laughing. “Do not you know Carl Stobel?”
Then the musician became bright and happy again. “I would have got two
more chairs if you would have let me; one for the fraulein’s sake, and
one for his own. And I will come down presently, and you shall present
me, if you will be so very kind.”
Marie Weber smiled and thanked him, and declared that she should be very
proud;--and the leader of the band went up into his place.
“I wish he had not placed us here,” said Lotta.
“And why not?”
“Because Fritz is coming.”
“No!”
“But he is.”
“And why did you not tell me?”
“Because I did not wish to be speaking of him. Of course you understand
why I did not tell you. I would rather it should seem that he came of
his own account,--with Carl. Ha, ha!” Carl Stobel was the diamond-cutter
to whom Marie Weber was betrothed. “I should not have told you
now,--only that I am disarranged by what Herr Crippel has done.”
“Had we not better go,--or at least move our seats? We can make any
excuse afterwards.”
“No,” said Lotta. “I will not seem to run away from him. I have nothing
to be ashamed of. If I choose to keep company with Fritz Planken, that
should be nothing to Herr Crippel.”
“But you might have told him.”
“No; I could not tell him. And I am not sure Fritz is coming either. He
said he would come with Carl if he had time. Never mind; let us be happy
now. If a bad time comes by-and-by, we must make the best of it.”
Then the music began, and, suddenly, as the first note of a fiddle was
heard, every voice in the great beer-hall of the Volksgarten became
silent. Men sat smoking, with their long beer-glasses before them, and
women sat knitting, with their long beer-glasses also before them, but
not a word was spoken. The waiters went about with silent feet, but even
orders for beer were not given, and money was not received. Herr Crippel
did his best, working with his wand as carefully,--and I may say as
accurately,--as a leader in a fashionable opera-house in London or
Paris. But every now and then, in the course of the piece, he would
place his fiddle to his shoulder and join in the performance. There was
hardly one there in the hall, man or woman, boy or girl, who did not
know, from personal knowledge and judgment, that Herr Crippel was doing
his work very well.
“Excellent, was it not?” said Marie.
“Yes; he is a musician. Is it not a pity he should be so bald?” said
Lotta.
“He is not so very bald,” said Marie.
“I should not mind his being bald so much, if he did not try to cover
his old head with the side hairs. If he would cut off those loose
straggling locks, and declare himself to be bald at once, he would be
ever so much better. He would look to be fifty then. He looks sixty
now.”
“What matters his age? He is forty-five, just; for I know. And he is a
good man.”
“What has his goodness to do with it?”
“A great deal. His old mother wants for nothing, and he makes two
hundred florins a month. He has two shares in the summer theatre. I know
it.”
“Bah! what is all that when he will plaster his hair over his old bald
head?”
“Lotta, I am ashamed of you.” But at this moment the further expression
of Marie’s anger was stopped by the entrance of the diamond-cutter; and
as he was alone, both the girls received him very pleasantly. We must
give Lotta her due, and declare that, as things had gone, she would much
prefer now that Fritz should stay away, though Fritz Planken was as
handsome a young fellow as there was in Vienna, and one who dressed with
the best taste, and danced so that no one could surpass him, and could
speak French, and was confidential clerk at one of the largest hotels
in Vienna, and was a young man acknowledged to be of much general
importance,--and had, moreover, in plain language, declared his love for
Lotta Schmidt. But Lotta would not willingly give unnecessary pain to
Herr Crippel, and she was generously glad when Carl Stobel, the
diamond-cutter, came by himself. Then there was a second and third piece
played, and after that Herr Crippel came down, according to promise, and
was presented to Marie’s lover.
“Ladies,” said he, “I hope I have not gathered wool.”
“You have surpassed yourself,” said Lotta.
“At wool-gathering?” said Herr Crippel.
“At sending us out of this world into another,” said Lotta.
“Ah! go into no other world but this,” said Herr Crippel, “lest I should
not be able to follow you.” And then he went away again to his post.
Before another piece had been commenced, Lotta saw Fritz Planken enter
the door. He stood for a moment gazing round the hall, with his cane in
his hand and his hat on his head, looking for the party which he
intended to join. Lotta did not say a word, nor would she turn her eyes
towards him. She would not recognise him if it were possible to avoid
it. But he soon saw her, and came up to the table at which they were
sitting. When Lotta was getting the third chair for Marie’s lover, Herr
Crippel, in his gallantry, had brought a fourth, and now Fritz occupied
the chair which the musician had placed there. Lotta, as she perceived
this, was sorry that it should be so. She could not even dare to look up
to see what effect this new arrival would have upon the leader of the
band.
The new comer was certainly a handsome young man, such a one as inflicts
unutterable agonies on the hearts of the Herr Crippels of the world. His
boots shone like mirrors, and fitted his feet like gloves. There was
something in the make and set of his trousers which Herr Crippel,
looking at them, as he could not help looking at them, was quite unable
to understand. Even twenty years ago, Herr Crippel’s trousers, as Herr
Crippel very well knew, had never looked like that. And Fritz Planken
wore a blue frock coat with silk lining to the breast, which seemed to
have come from some tailor among the gods. And he had on primrose
gloves, and round his neck a bright pink satin handkerchief joined by a
ring, which gave a richness of colouring to the whole thing which nearly
killed Herr Crippel, because he could not but acknowledge that the
colouring was good. And then the hat! And when the hat was taken off for
a moment, then the hair--perfectly black, and silky as a raven’s wing,
just waving with one curl! And when Fritz put up his hand, and ran his
fingers through his locks, their richness and plenty and beauty were
conspicuous to all beholders. Herr Crippel, as he saw it, involuntarily
dashed his hand up to his own pate, and scratched his straggling, lanky
hairs from off his head.
“You are coming to Sperl’s to-morrow, of course?” said Fritz to Lotta.
Now Sperl’s is a great establishment for dancing in the Leopoldstadt,
which is always open of a Sunday evening, and which Lotta Schmidt was in
the habit of attending with much regularity. It was here she had become
acquainted with Fritz. And certainly to dance with Fritz was to dance
indeed! Lotta, too, was a beautiful dancer. To a Viennese such as Lotta
Schmidt, dancing is a thing of serious importance. It was a misfortune
to her to have to dance with a bad dancer, as it is to a great
whist-player among us to sit down with a bad partner. Oh, what she had
suffered more than once when Herr Crippel had induced her to stand up
with him!
“Yes; I shall go. Marie, you will go?”
“I do not know,” said Marie.
“You will make her go, Carl; will you not?” said Lotta.
“She promised me yesterday, as I understood,” said Carl.
“Of course we will all be there,” said Fritz, somewhat grandly; “and I
will give a supper for four.”
Then the music began again, and the eyes of all of them became fixed
upon Herr Crippel. It was unfortunate that they should have been placed
so fully before him as it was impossible that he should avoid seeing
them. As he stood up with his violin to his shoulder, his eyes were
fixed on Fritz Planken and Fritz Planken’s boots, and coat, and hat, and
hair. And as he drew his bow over the strings he was thinking of his own
boots and of his own hair. Fritz was sitting, leaning forward in his
chair, so that he could look up into Lotta’s face, and he was playing
with a little amber-headed cane, and every now and then he whispered a
word. Herr Crippel could hardly play a note. In very truth he was
wool-gathering. His hand became unsteady, and every instrument was more
or less astray.
“Your old friend is making a mess of it to-night,” said Fritz to Lotta.
“I hope he has not taken a glass too much of schnapps.”
“He never does anything of the kind,” said Lotta, angrily. “He never did
such a thing in his life.”
“He is playing awfully bad,” said Fritz.
“I never heard him play better in my life than he has played to-night,”
said Lotta.
“His hand is tired. He is getting old,” said Fritz. Then Lotta moved her
chair and drew herself back, and was determined that Marie and Carl
should see that she was angry with her young lover. In the meantime the
piece of music had been finished, and the audience had shown their sense
of the performer’s inferiority by withdrawing those plaudits which they
were so ready to give when they were pleased.
After this some other musician led for awhile, and then Herr Crippel had
to come forward to play a solo. And on this occasion the violin was not
to be his instrument. He was a great favourite among the lovers of music
in Vienna, not only because he was good at the fiddle and because with
his bow in his hand he could keep a band of musicians together, but also
as a player on the zither. It was not often now-a-days that he would
take his zither to the music-hall in the Volksgarten; for he would say
that he had given up that instrument; that he now played it only in
private; that it was not fit for a large hall, as a single voice, the
scraping of a foot, would destroy its music. And Herr Crippel was a man
who had his fancies and his fantasies, and would not always yield to
entreaty. But occasionally he would send his zither down to the public
hall; and in the programme for this evening there had been put forth
that Herr Crippel’s zither would be there and that Herr Crippel would
perform. And now the zither was brought forward, and a chair was put for
the zitherist, and Herr Crippel stood for a moment behind his chair and
bowed. Lotta glanced up at him, and could see that he was very pale. She
could even see that the perspiration stood upon his brow. She knew that
he was trembling, and that he would have given almost his zither itself
to be quit of his promised performance for that night. But she knew also
that he would make the attempt.
“What! the zither?” said Fritz. “He will break down as sure as he is a
living man.”
“Let us hope not,” said Carl Stobel.
“I love to hear him play the zither better than anything,” said Lotta.
“It used to be very good,” said Fritz; “but everybody says he has lost
his touch. When a man has the slightest feeling of nervousness he is
done for the zither.”
“H--sh; let him have his chance at any rate,” said Marie.
Reader, did you ever hear the zither? When played, as it is sometimes
played in Vienna, it combines all the softest notes of the human voice.
It sings to you of love and then wails to you of disappointed love,
till it fills you with a melancholy from which there is no
escaping,--from which you never wish to escape. It speaks to you as no
other instrument ever speaks, and reveals to you with wonderful
eloquence the sadness in which it delights. It produces a luxury of
anguish, a fulness of the satisfaction of imaginary woe, a realisation
of the mysterious delights of romance, which no words can ever
thoroughly supply. While the notes are living, while the music is still
in the air, the ear comes to covet greedily every atom of tone which the
instrument will produce, so that the slightest extraneous sound becomes
an offence. The notes sink and sink so low and low, with their soft sad
wail of delicious woe, that the listener dreads that something will be
lost in the struggle of listening. There seems to come some lethargy on
his sense of hearing, which he fears will shut out from his brain the
last, lowest, sweetest strain, the very pearl of the music, for which he
has been watching with all the intensity of prolonged desire. And then
the zither is silent, and there remains a fond memory together with a
deep regret.
Herr Crippel seated himself on his stool and looked once or twice round
about upon the room almost with dismay. Then he struck his zither,
uncertainly, weakly, and commenced the prelude of his piece. But Lotta
thought that she had never heard so sweet a sound. When he paused after
a few strokes there was a noise of applause in the room, of applause
intended to encourage by commemorating past triumphs. The musician
looked again away from his music to his audience, and his eyes caught
the eyes of the girl he loved; and his gaze fell also upon the face of
the handsome, well-dressed, young Adonis who was by her side.
He, Herr Crippel the musician, could never make himself look like that;
he could make no slightest approach to that outward triumph. But then,
he could play the zither, and Fritz Planken could only play with his
cane! He would do what he could! He would play his best! He had once
almost resolved to get up and declare that he was too tired that evening
to do justice to his instrument. But there was an insolence of success
about his rival’s hat and trousers which spirited him on to the fight.
He struck his zither again, and they who understood him and his zither
knew that he was in earnest.
The old men who had listened to him for the last twenty years declared
that he had never played as he played on that night. At first he was
somewhat bolder, somewhat louder than was his wont; as though he were
resolved to go out of his accustomed track; but, after awhile, he gave
that up; that was simply the effect of nervousness, and was continued
only while the timidity remained present with him. But he soon forgot
everything but his zither and his desire to do it justice. The attention
of all present soon became so close that you might have heard a pin
fall. Even Fritz sat perfectly still, with his mouth open, and forgot to
play with his cane. Lotta’s eyes were quickly full of tears, and before
long they were rolling down her cheeks. Herr Crippel, though he did not
know that he looked at her, was aware that it was so. Then came upon
them all there an ecstasy of delicious sadness. As I have said before,
every ear was struggling that no softest sound might escape unheard. And
then at last the zither was silent, and no one could have marked the
moment when it had ceased to sing.
For a few moments there was perfect silence in the room, and the
musician still kept his seat with his face turned upon his instrument.
He knew well that he had succeeded, that his triumph had been complete,
and every moment that the applause was suspended was an added jewel to
his crown. But it soon came, the loud shouts of praise, the ringing
bravos, the striking of glasses, his own name repeated from all parts of
the hall, the clapping of hands, the sweet sound of women’s voices, and
the waving of white handkerchiefs. Herr Crippel stood up, bowed thrice,
wiped his face with a handkerchief, and then sat down on a stool in the
corner of the orchestra.
“I don’t know much about his being too old,” said Carl Stobel.
“Nor I either,” said Lotta.
“That is what I call music,” said Marie Weber.
“He can play the zither, certainly,” said Fritz; “but as to the violin,
it is more doubtful.”
“He is excellent with both,--with both,” said Lotta, angrily.
Soon after that the party got up to leave the hall, and as they went out
they encountered Herr Crippel.
“You have gone beyond yourself to-night,” said Marie, “and we wish you
joy.”
“Oh, no. It was pretty good, was it? With the zither it depends mostly
on the atmosphere; whether it is hot, or cold, or wet, or dry, or on I
knew not what. It is an accident if one plays well. Good-night to you.
Good-night, Lotta. Good-night, Sir.” And he took off his hat, and
bowed,--bowed, as it were, expressly to Fritz Planken.
“Herr Crippel,” said Lotta, “one word with you.” And she dropped behind
from Fritz, and returned to the musician. “Herr Crippel, will you meet
me at Sperl’s to-morrow night?”
“At Sperl’s? No. I do not go to Sperl’s any longer, Lotta. You told me
that Marie’s friend was coming to-night, but you did not tell me of your
own.”
“Never mind what I told you, or did not tell you. Herr Crippel, will you
come to Sperl’s to-morrow?”
“No; you would not dance with me, and I should not care to see you dance
with anyone else.”
“But I will dance with you.”
“And Planken will be there?”
“Yes, Fritz will be there. He is always there; I cannot help that.”
“No, Lotta; I will not go to Sperl’s. I will tell you a little secret.
At forty-five one is too old for Sperl’s.”
“There are men there every Sunday over fifty--over sixty, I am sure.”
“They are men different in their ways of life from me, my dear. No, I
will not go to Sperl’s. When will you come and see my mother?”
Lotta promised that she would go and see the Frau Crippel before long,
and then tripped off and joined her party.
Stobel and Marie had walked on, while Fritz remained a little behind for
Lotta.
“Did you ask him to come to Sperl’s to-morrow?” he said.
“To be sure I did.”
“Was that nice of you, Lotta?”
“Why not nice? Nice or not, I did it. Why should not I ask him, if I
please?”
“Because I thought I was to have the pleasure of entertaining you; that
it was a little party of my own.”
“Very well, Herr Planken,” said Lotta, drawing herself a little away
from him; “if a friend of mine is not welcome at your little party, I
certainly shall not join it myself.”
“But, Lotta, does not everyone know what it is that Crippel wishes of
you?”
“There is no harm in his wishing. My friends tell me that I am very
foolish not to give him what he wishes. But I still have the chance.”
“Oh yes, no doubt you still have the chance.”
“Herr Crippel is a very good man. He is the best son in the world, and
he makes two hundred florins a month.”
“Oh, if that is to count!”
“Of course it is to count. Why should it not count? Would the Princess
Theresa have married the other day if the young prince had had no income
to support her?”
“You can do as you please, Lotta.”
“Yes, I can do as I please, certainly. I suppose Adela Bruhl will be at
Sperl’s to-morrow?”
“I should say so, certainly. I hardly ever knew her to miss her Sunday
evening.”
“Nor I. I, too, am fond of dancing--very. I delight in dancing. But I am
not a slave to Sperl’s, and then I do not care to dance with everyone.”
“Adela Bruhl dances very well,” said Fritz.
“That is as one may think. She ought to; for she begins at ten, and goes
on till two, always. If there is no one nice for dancing she puts up
with some one that is not nice. But all that is nothing to me.”
“Nothing, I should say, Lotta.”
“Nothing in the world. But this is something; last Sunday you danced
three times with Adela.”
“Did I? I did not count.”
“I counted. It is my business to watch those things, if you are to be
ever anything to me, Fritz. I will not pretend that I am indifferent. I
am not indifferent. I care very much about it. Fritz, if you dance
to-morrow with Adela you will not dance with me again--either then or
ever.” And having uttered this threat she ran on and found Marie, who
had just reached the door of the house in which they both lived.
Fritz, as he walked home by himself, was in doubt as to the course which
it would be his duty as a man to pursue in reference to the lady whom he
loved. He had distinctly heard that lady ask an old admirer of hers to
go to Sperl’s and dance with her; and yet, within ten minutes
afterwards, she had peremptorily commanded him not to dance with another
girl! Now, Fritz Planken had a very good opinion of himself, as he was
well entitled to have, and was quite aware that other pretty girls
besides Lotta Schmidt were within his reach. He did not receive two
hundred florins a month, as did Herr Crippel, but then he was
five-and-twenty instead of five-and-forty; and, in the matter of money,
too, he was doing pretty well. He did love Lotta Schmidt. It would not
be easy for him to part with her. But she, too, loved him, as he told
himself, and she would hardly push matters to extremities. At any rate,
he would not submit to a threat. He would dance with Adela Bruhl, at
Sperl’s. He thought, at least, that when the time should come he would
find it well to dance with her.
Sperl’s dancing saloon, in the Tabor Strasse, is a great institution at
Vienna. It is open always of a Sunday evening, and dancing there
commences at ten, and is continued till two or three o’clock in the
morning. There are two large rooms, in one of which the dancers dance,
and in the other the dancers and visitors who do not dance, eat, and
drink, and smoke continually. But the most wonderful part of Sperl’s
establishment is this, that there is nothing there to offend anyone.
Girls dance and men smoke, and there is eating and drinking, and
everybody is as well behaved as though there was a protecting phalanx of
dowagers sitting round the walls of the saloon. There are no dowagers,
though there may probably be a policeman somewhere about the place. To a
stranger it is very remarkable that there is so little of what we call
flirting;--almost none of it. It would seem that to the girls dancing is
so much a matter of business, that here at Sperl’s they can think of
nothing else. To mind their steps, and at the same time their dresses,
lest they should be trod upon, to keep full pace with the music, to make
all the proper turns at every proper time, and to have the foot fall on
the floor at the exact instant; all this is enough, without further
excitement. You will see a girl dancing with a man as though the man
were a chair, or a stick, or some necessary piece of furniture. She
condescends to use his services, but as soon as the dance is over she
sends him away. She hardly speaks a word to him, if a word! She has come
there to dance, and not to talk; unless, indeed, like Marie Weber and
Lotta Schmidt, she has a recognised lover there of her very own.
At about half-past ten Marie and Lotta entered the saloon, and paid
their kreutzers and sat themselves down on seats in the further saloon,
from which through open archways they could see the dancers. Neither
Carl nor Fritz had come as yet, and the girls were quite content to
wait. It was to be presumed that they would be there before the men, and
they both understood that the real dancing was not commenced early in
the evening. It might be all very well for such as Adela Bruhl to dance
with anyone who came at ten o’clock, but Lotta Schmidt would not care to
amuse herself after that fashion. As to Marie, she was to be married
after another week, and of course she would dance with no one but Carl
Stobel.
“Look at her,” said Lotta, pointing with her foot to a fair girl, very
pretty, but with hair somewhat untidy, who at this moment was waltzing
in the other room. “That lad is a waiter from the Minden hotel. I know
him. She would dance with anyone.”
“I suppose she likes dancing, and there is no harm in the boy,” said
Marie.
“No, there is no harm, and if she likes it I do not begrudge it her. See
what red hands she has.”
“She is of that complexion,” said Marie.
“Yes, she is of that complexion all over; look at her face. At any rate
she might have better shoes on. Did you ever see anybody so untidy?”
“She is very pretty,” said Marie.
“Yes, she is pretty. There is no doubt she is pretty. She is not a
native here. Her people are from Munich. Do you know, Marie, I think
girls are always thought more of in other countries than in their own.”
Soon after this Carl and Fritz came in together, and Fritz, as he passed
across the end of the first saloon, spoke a word or two to Adela. Lotta
saw this, but determined that she would take no offence at so small a
matter. Fritz need not have stopped to speak, but his doing so might be
all very well. At any rate, if she did quarrel with him she would
quarrel on a plain, intelligible ground. Within two minutes Carl and
Marie were dancing, and Fritz had asked Lotta to stand up. “I will wait
a little,” said she, “I never like to begin much before eleven.”
“As you please,” said Fritz; and he sat down in the chair which Marie
had occupied. Then he played with his cane, and as he did so his eyes
followed the steps of Adela Bruhl.
“She dances very well,” said Lotta.
“H--m--m, yes.” Fritz did not choose to bestow any strong praise on
Adela’s dancing.
“Yes, Fritz, she does dance well--very well, indeed. And she is never
tired. If you ask me whether I like her style, I cannot quite say that I
do. It is not what we do here--not exactly.”
“She has lived in Vienna since she was a child.”
“It is in the blood then, I suppose. Look at her fair hair, all blowing
about. She is not like one of us.”
“Oh no, she is not.”
“That she is very pretty, I quite admit,” said Lotta. “Those soft gray
eyes are delicious. Is it not a pity she has no eyebrows?”
“But she has eyebrows.”
“Ah! you have been closer than I, and you have seen them. I have never
danced with her, and I cannot see them. Of course they are there--more
or less.”
After a while the dancing ceased, and Adela Bruhl came up into the
supper-room, passing the seats on which Fritz and Lotta were sitting.
“Are you not going to dance, Fritz?” she said, with a smile, as she
passed them.
“Go, go,” said Lotta; “why do you not go? She has invited you.”
“No; she has not invited me. She spoke to us both.”
“She did not speak to me, for my name is not Fritz. I do not see how
you can help going, when she asked you so prettily.”
“I shall be in plenty of time presently. Will you dance now, Lotta? They
are going to begin a waltz, and we will have a quadrille afterwards.”
“No, Herr Planken, I will not dance just now.”
“Herr Planken, is it? You want to quarrel with me then, Lotta.”
“I do not want to be one of two. I will not be one of two. Adela Bruhl
is very pretty, and I advise you to go to her. I was told only yesterday
her father can give her fifteen hundred florins of fortune! For me--I
have no father.”
“But you may have a husband to-morrow.”
“Yes, that is true, and a good one. Oh, such a good one!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You go and dance with Adela Bruhl, and you shall see what I mean.”
Fritz had some idea in his own mind, more or less clearly developed,
that his fate, as regarded Lotta Schmidt, now lay in his own hands. He
undoubtedly desired to have Lotta for his own. He would have married her
there and then--at that moment, had it been possible. He had quite made
up his mind that he preferred her much to Adela Bruhl, though Adela
Bruhl had fifteen hundred florins. But he did not like to endure
tyranny, even from Lotta, and he did not know how to escape the tyranny
otherwise than by dancing with Adela. He paused a moment, swinging his
cane, endeavouring to think how he might best assert his manhood and yet
not offend the girl he loved. But he found that to assert his manhood
was now his first duty.
“Well, Lotta,” he said, “since you are so cross with me, I will ask
Adela to dance.” And in two minutes he was spinning round the room with
Adela Bruhl in his arms.
“Certainly she dances very well,” said Lotta, smiling, to Marie, who had
now come back to her seat.
“Very well,” said Marie, who was out of breath.
“And so does he.”
“Beautifully,” said Marie
“Is it not a pity that I should have lost such a partner for ever?”
“Lotta!”
“It is true. Look here, Marie, there is my hand upon it. I will never
dance with him again--never--never--never. Why was he so hard upon Herr
Crippel last night?”
“Was he hard upon Herr Crippel?”
“He said that Herr Crippel was too old to play the zither; too old! Some
people are too young to understand. I shall go home, I shall not stay to
sup with you to-night.”
“Lotta, you must stay for supper.”
“I will not sup at his table. I have quarrelled with him. It is all
over. Fritz Planken is as free as the air for me.”
“Lotta, do not say anything in a hurry. At any rate do not do anything
in a hurry.”
“I do not mean to do anything at all. It is simply this--I do not care
very much for Fritz, after all. I don’t think I ever did. It is all very
well to wear your clothes nicely, but if that is all, what does it come
to? If he could play the zither, now!”
“There are other things except playing the zither. They say he is a good
book-keeper.”
“I don’t like book-keeping. He has to be at his hotel from eight in the
morning till eleven at night.”
“You know best.”
“I am not so sure of that. I wish I did know best. But I never saw such
a girl as you are. How you change! It was only yesterday you scolded me
because I did not wish to be the wife of your dear friend Crippel.”
“Herr Crippel is a very good man.”
“You go away with your good man! You have got a good man of your own. He
is standing there waiting for you, like a gander on one leg. He wants
you to dance; go away.”
Then Marie did go away, and Lotta was left alone by herself. She
certainly had behaved badly to Fritz, and she was aware of it. She
excused herself to herself by remembering that she had never yet given
Fritz a promise. She was her own mistress, and had, as yet, a right to
do what she pleased with herself. He had asked her for her love, and she
had not told him that he should not have it. That was all. Herr Crippel
had asked her a dozen times, and she had at last told him definitely,
positively, that there was no hope for him. Herr Crippel, of course,
would not ask her again;--so she told herself. But if there was no such
person as Herr Crippel in all the world, she would have nothing more to
do with Fritz Planken,--nothing more to do with him as a lover. He had
given her fair ground for a quarrel, and she would take advantage of it.
Then as she sat still while they were dancing, she closed her eyes and
thought of the zither and of the zitherist. She remained alone for a
long time. The musicians in Vienna will play a waltz for twenty minutes,
and the same dancers will continue to dance almost without a pause; and
then, almost immediately afterwards, there was a quadrille. Fritz, who
was resolved to put down tyranny, stood up with Adela for the quadrille
also. “I am so glad,” said Lotta to herself. “I will wait till this is
over, and then I will say good-night to Marie, and will go home.” Three
or four men had asked her to dance, but she had refused. She would not
dance to-night at all. She was inclined, she thought, to be a little
serious, and would go home. At last Fritz returned to her, and bade her
come to supper. He was resolved to see how far his mode of casting off
tyranny might be successful, so he approached her with a smile, and
offered to take her to his table as though nothing had happened.
“My friend,” she said, “your table is laid for four, and the places will
all be filled.”
“The table is laid for five,” said Fritz.
“It is one too many. I shall sup with my friend, Herr Crippel.”
“Herr Crippel is not here.”
“Is he not? Ah me! then I shall be alone, and I must go to bed
supperless. Thank you, no, Herr Planken.”
“And what will Marie say?”
“I hope she will enjoy the nice dainties you will give her. Marie is all
right. Marie’s fortune is made. Woe is me! my fortune is to seek. There
is one thing certain, it is not to be found here in this room.”
Then Fritz turned on his heel and went away; and as he went Lotta saw
the figure of a man, as he made his way slowly and hesitatingly into the
saloon from the outer passage. He was dressed in a close frock-coat, and
had on a hat of which she knew the shape as well as she did the make of
her own gloves. “If he has not come after all!” she said to herself.
Then she turned herself a little round, and drew her chair somewhat into
an archway, so that Herr Crippel should not see her readily.
The other four had settled themselves at their table, Marie having said
a word of reproach to Lotta as she passed. Now, on a sudden, she got up
from her seat and crossed to her friend.
“Herr Crippel is here,” she said.
“Of course he is here,” said Lotta.
“But you did not expect him?”
“Ask Fritz if I did not say I would sup with Herr Crippel. You ask him.
But I shall not, all the same. Do not say a word. I shall steal away
when nobody is looking.”
The musician came wandering up the room, and had looked into every
corner before he had even found the supper-table at which the four were
sitting. And then he did not see Lotta. He took off his hat as he
addressed Marie, and asked some questions as to the absent one.
“She is waiting for you somewhere, Herr Crippel,” said Fritz, as he
filled Adela’s glass with wine.
“For me?” said Herr Crippel as he looked round. “No, she does not expect
me.” And in the meantime Lotta had left her seat, and was hurrying away
to the door.
“There! there!” said Marie; “you will be too late if you do not run.”
Then Herr Crippel did run, and caught Lotta as she was taking her hat
from the old woman, who had the girls’ hats and shawls in charge near
the door.
“What! Herr Crippel, you at Sperl’s? When you told me expressly, in so
many words, that you would not come! That is not behaving well to me,
certainly.”
“What, my coming? Is that behaving bad?”
“No; but why did you say you would not come when I asked you? You have
come to meet some one. Who is it?”
“You, Lotta; you.”
“And yet you refused me when I asked you! Well, and now you are here,
what are you going to do? You will not dance.”
“I will dance with you, if you will put up with me.”
“No, I will not dance. I am too old. I have given it up. I shall come to
Sperl’s no more after this. Dancing is a folly.”
“Lotta, you are laughing at me now.”
“Very well; if you like, you may have it so.” By this time he had
brought her back into the room, and was walking up and down the length
of the saloon with her. “But it is no use our walking about here,” she
said. “I was just going home, and now, if you please, I will go.”
“Not yet, Lotta.”
“Yes; now, if you please.”
“But why are you not supping with them?”
“Because it did not suit me. You see there are four. Five is a foolish
number for a supper party.”
“Will you sup with me, Lotta?” She did not answer him at once. “Lotta,”
he said, “if you sup with me now you must sup with me always. How shall
it be?”
“Always? No. I am very hungry now, but I do not want supper always. I
cannot sup with you always, Herr Crippel.”
“But you will to-night?”
“Yes, to-night.”
“Then it shall be always.”
And the musician marched up to a table, and threw his hat down, and
ordered such a supper that Lotta Schmidt was frightened. And when
presently Carl Stobel and Marie Weber came up to their table,--for Fritz
Planken did not come near them again that evening,--Herr Crippel bowed
courteously to the diamond-cutter, and asked him when he was to be
married. “Marie says it shall be next Sunday,” said Carl.
“And I will be married the Sunday afterwards,” said Herr Crippel. “Yes;
and there is my wife.”
And he pointed across the table with both his hands to Lotta Schmidt
“Herr Crippel, how can you say that?” said Lotta.
“Is it not true, my dear?”
“In fourteen days! No, certainly not. It is out of the question.”
But, nevertheless, what Herr Crippel said came true, and on the next
Sunday but one he took Lotta Schmidt home to his house as his wife.
“It was all because of the zither,” Lotta said to her old mother-in-law.
“If he had not played the zither that night I should not have been here
now.”
THE ADVENTURES OF FRED PICKERING.
[Illustration: text decoration]
THE ADVENTURES OF FRED PICKERING.
There was something almost grand in the rash courage with which Fred
Pickering married his young wife, and something quite grand in her
devotion in marrying him. She had not a penny in the world, and he, when
he married her, had two hundred and fifty pounds, and no profession. She
was the daughter of parents whom she had never seen, and had been
brought up by the kindness of an aunt, who died when she was eighteen.
Distant friends then told her that it was her duty to become a
governess; but Fred Pickering intervened, and Mary Crofts became Mary
Pickering when she was nineteen years old. Fred himself, our hero, was
six years older, and should have known better and have conducted his
affairs with more wisdom. His father had given him a good education,
and had articled him to an attorney at Manchester. While at Manchester
he had written three or four papers in different newspapers, and had
succeeded in obtaining admission for a poem in the “Free Trader,” a
Manchester monthly magazine, which was expected to do great things as
the literary production of Lancashire. These successes, joined, no
doubt, to the natural bent of his disposition, turned him against the
law; and when he was a little more than twenty-five, having then been
four years in the office of the Manchester attorney, he told his father
that he did not like the profession chosen for him, and that he must
give it up. At that time he was engaged to marry Mary Crofts; but of
this fact he did not tell his father. Mr. Pickering, who was a stern
man,--one not given at any time to softnesses with his children,--when
so informed by his son, simply asked him what were his plans. Fred
replied that he looked forward to a literary career,--that he hoped to
make literature his profession. His father assured him that he was a
silly fool. Fred replied that on that subject he had an opinion of his
own by which he intended to be guided. Old Pickering then declared that
in such circumstances he should withdraw all pecuniary assistance; and
young Pickering upon this wrote an ungracious epistle, in which he
expressed himself quite ready to take upon himself the burden of his
own maintenance. There was one, and only one, further letter from his
father, in which he told his son that the allowance made to him would be
henceforth stopped. Then the correspondence between Fred and the
ex-governor, as Mary used to call him, was brought to a close.