CHAPTER I.
CRINOLINE.
An express train was just on the eve of leaving the railway station in Munich. Two fashionably dressed gentlemen stood at the open door of a railway carriage, in conversation with a third, who sat within. These two young men bore on their features the marks of youthful dissipation, indicating that they had not been sparing of pleasures. The one in the carriage had a handsome, florid countenance, two clear, expressive eyes, and thick locks of hair, which he now and then stroked back from his fine forehead. He scarcely observed the conversation of the two friends, who spoke of balls, dogs, horses, theatres, and ballet-girls.
In the same carriage sat another traveller, evidently the father of the young man. He was reading the newspaper--that is the report of the money market--while his fleshy left hand dallied with the heavy gold rings of his watch-chain. He had paid no attention to the conversation till an observation of his son brought him to serious reflection.
"By the bye," said one of the young men quickly, "I was nearly forgetting to tell you the news, Richard! Do you know that Baron Linden is engaged?"
"Engaged? To whom?" said Richard carelessly.
"To Bertha von Harburg. I received a card this morning, and immediately wrote a famous letter of congratulation."
Richard looked down earnestly, and shook his head.
"I commiserate the genial baron," said he. "What could he be thinking of, to rush headlong into this misfortune?"
The father looked in surprise at his son; the hand holding the paper sank on his knee.
"Permit me, gentlemen," said the conductor; the doors were closed, the friends nodded good-by, and the train moved off.
"Your observation about Linden's marriage astonishes me, Richard. But perhaps you were only jesting."
"By no means," said Richard. "Never more earnest in my life. I expressed my conviction, and my conviction is the result of careful observation and mature reflection."
The father's astonishment increased.
"Observation--reflection--fudge!" said the father impatiently, as he folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. "How can a young man of twenty-two talk of experience and observation! Enthusiastic nonsense! Marriage is a necessity of human life. And you will yet submit to this necessity."
"True, if marriage be a necessity, then I suppose I must bow to the yoke of destiny. But, father, this necessity does not exist. There are intelligent men enough who do not bind themselves to woman's caprices."
"Oh! certainly, there are some strange screech-owls in the world---some enthusiasts. But certainly you do not wish to be one of them. You, who have such great expectations. You, the only son of a wealthy house. You, who have a yearly income of thousands to spend."
"The income can be enjoyed more pleasantly, free and single, father."
"Free and single--and enjoyed! Zounds! you almost tempt me to think ill of you. Happily, I know you well. I know your strict morality, your solidity, your moderate pretensions. All these amiable qualities please me. But this view of marriage I did not expect; you must put away this sickly notion."
The young man made no answer, but leaned back in his seat with a disdainful smile.
Herr Frank gazed thoughtfully through the window. He reflected on the determined character of his son, whose disposition, even when a child, shut him out from the world, and who led an interior, meditative life. Strict regularity and exact employment of time were natural to him. At school, he held the first place in all branches. His ambition and effort were to excel all others in knowledge. His singular questions, which indicated a keen observation and capacity, had often excited the surprise of his father. And while the companions of the youth hailed with delight the time which released them from the benches of the school and from their studies, Richard cheerfully bound himself to his accustomed task, to appease his longing for knowledge. Approaching manhood had not changed him in this regard. He was punctual to the hours of business, and labored with zeal and interest, to the great joy of his father. He recreated himself with music and, painting, or by a walk in the open country, for whose beauties he had a keen appreciation. The few shades of his character were, a proud haughtiness, an unyielding perseverance in his determinations, and a strength of conviction difficult to overcome. But perhaps these shades were, after all, great qualities, which were to brighten up and polish his maturity. This obstinacy the father was now considering, and, in reference to his singular view of marriage, it filled him with great anxiety.
"But, Richard," began Herr Frank again, "how did you come to this singular conclusion?"
"By observation, and reflection--and also by experience, although you deny my years this right."
"What have you experienced and observed?"
"I have observed woman as she is, and found that such a creature would only make me miserable. What occupies their minds? Fineries, pleasures; and trifles. The pivot of their existence turns on dress, ornaments, balls, and the like. We live in an age of crinoline, and you know how I abominate that dress; I admit my aversion is abnormal, perhaps exaggerated, but I cannot overcome it. When I see a woman going through the streets with swelling hoops, the most whimsical fancies come into my mind. It reminds me of an inflated balloon, whose clumsy swell disfigures the most beautiful form. It reminds me of a drunken gawk, who swaggers along and carries the foolish gewgaw for a show. The costume is indeed expressive. It reveals the interior disposition. Crinoline is to me the type of the woman of our day--an empty, vain, inflated something. And this type repels me."
"Then you believe our women to be vain, pleasure-seeking, and destitute of true womanhood, because they wear crinoline?"
"No, the reverse. An overweening propensity to show and frivolity characterizes our women, and therefore they wear crinoline in spite of the protestations of the men."
"Bah! Nonsense; you lay too much stress on fashion. I know many women myself who complain of this fashion."
"And afterward follow it. This precisely confirms my opinion. Women have no longer sufficient moral force to disregard a disagreeable restraint. Their vanity is still stronger than their inclinations to a natural enjoyment of life."
"Do you want a wife who would be sparing and saving; who, by her frugality, would increase your wealth; who, by her social seclusion, would not molest your cash-box?"
"No; I want no wife," answered the young man, somewhat pettishly. "And I am not alone in this. The young men are beginning to awaken. A sound, natural feeling revolts against the vitiated taste of the women. Alliances are forming everywhere. The last paper announced that, at Marseilles, six thousand young men have, with joined hands, vowed never to marry until the women renounce their ruinous costumes and costly idleness, and return to a plain style of dress and frugal habits. I object to this propensity to ease and pleasure--this desire of our women for finery and the gratification of vanity. Not because this inclination is expensive, but because it is objectionable. Every creature has an object. But, if we consider the women of our day, we might well ask, for what are they here?
"For what are women here, foolish man?" interrupted Herr Frank. "Are they to go about without any costume, like Eve before the fall? Are they to know the trials of life, and not its joys? Are they to exist like the women of the sultan, shut up in a harem? For what are they here? I will tell you. They are here to make life cheerful. Does not Schiller say,
"'Honor to woman! she scatters rife
Heavenly roses, 'mid earthly life;
Love she weaves in gladdening bands;
Chastity's veil her charm attires;
Beautiful thoughts' eternal fires,
Watchful, she feeds with holy hands.'"
Richard smiled.
"Poetical fancy!" said he. "My unhappy friend Emil Schlagbein often declaimed and sang with passion that same poem of Schiller's. Love had even made a poet of him. He wrote verses to his Ida. And now, scarcely three years married, he is the most miserable man in the world--miserable through his wife. Ida has still the same finely carved head as formerly; but that head, to the grief of Emil, is full of stubbornness--full of whimsical nonsense. Her eyes have still the same deep blue; but the charming expression has changed, and the blue not unfrequently indicates a storm. How often has Emil poured out his sorrows to me! How often complained of the coldness of his wife! A ball missed--missed from necessity--makes her stupid and sulky for days. In vain he seeks a cheerful look. When he returns home worried by the cares of business, he finds no consolation in Ida's sympathy, but is vexed by her stubbornness and offended by her coldness. Emil sprang headlong into misery. I will beware of such a step."
"You are unjust and prejudiced. Must all women, then, be Ida Schlagbeins?"
"Perhaps my Ida might be still worse," retorted Richard sharply.
Herr Frank drummed on his knees, always a sign of displeasure.
"I tell you, Richard," said he emphatically. "Your time will come yet. You will follow the universal law, and this law will give the lie to your one-sided view--to your contempt of woman."
"That impulse, father, can be overcome, and habit becomes a second nature. Besides--"
"Besides--well, what besides?"
"I would say that the time of which you speak is, in my case, happily passed," answered Richard, still gazing through the window. "For me the time of sentimental delusion has been short and decisive," he concluded with a bitter smile.
"Can I, your father, ask a clearer explanation?"
The young man leaned back in his seat and looked at the opposite side while he spoke.
"Last summer I visited Baden-Baden. On old Mount Eberstein, which is so picturesquely enthroned above the village, I fell in with a party. Among the number was a young lady of rare beauty and great modesty. An acquaintance gave me an opportunity of being introduced to her. We sat in pleasant conversation under the black oaks until the approaching twilight compelled us to return to the town. Isabella--such was the name of the beauty--had made a deep impression on me. So deep that even the detested crinoline that encircled her person in large hoops found favor in my sight. Her manner was in no wise coquettish. She spoke with deliberation and spirit. Her countenance had always the same expression. Only when the young people, into whose heads the fiery wine had risen, gave expression to sharp words, did Isabella look up and a displeased expression, as of injured delicacy, passed over her countenance. My presence seemed agreeable to her. My conversation may have pleased her. As we descended the mountain, we came to a difficult pass. I offered her my arm, which she took in the same unchanging, quiet manner which made her so charming in my sight. I soon discovered my affection for the stranger, and wondered how it could arise so suddenly and become so impetuous. I was ashamed at abandoning so quickly my opinion of women. But this feeling was not strong enough to stifle the incipient passion. My mind lay captive in the fetters of infatuation."
He paused for a moment. The proud young man seemed to reproach himself for his conduct, which he considered wanting in manly independence and clear penetration.
"On the following day," he continued, "there was to be a horse-race in the neighborhood. Before we parted, it was arranged that we would be present at it. I returned to my room in the hotel, and dreamed waking dreams of Isabella. My friend had told me that she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and that she had accompanied her invalid mother here. This mark of love and filial affection was not calculated to cool my ardor. Isabella appeared more beautiful and more charming still. We went to the race. I had the unspeakable happiness of being in the same car and sitting opposite her. After a short journey--to me, at least, it seemed short--we arrived at the grounds where the race was to take place. We ascended the platform. I sat at Isabella's side. She did not for a moment lose her quiet equanimity. The race began. I saw little of it, for Isabella was constantly before my eyes, look where I would. Suddenly a noise--a loud cry--roused me from my dream. Not twenty paces from where we sat, a horse had fallen. The rider was under him. The floundering animal had crushed both legs of the unfortunate man. Even now I can see his frightfully distorted features before me. I feared that Isabella's delicate sensibility might be wounded by the horrible sight. And when I looked at her, what did I see? A smiling face! She had lost her quiet, weary manner, and a hard, unfeeling soul lighted up her features!
"'Do you not think this change in the monotony of the race quite magnificent?' said she.
"I made no answer. With an apology, I left the party and returned alone to Baden."
"Very well," said the father, "your Isabella was an unfeeling creature--granted. But now for your application of this experience."
"We will let another make the application, father. Listen a moment. In Baden a bottle of Rhine wine, whose spirit is so congenial to sad and melancholy feelings, served to obliterate the desolate remembrance. I sat in the almost deserted dining-room. The guests were at the theatre, on excursions in the neighborhood, or dining about the park. An old man sat opposite me. I remarked that his eyes, when he thought himself unobserved, were turned inquiringly on me. The sudden cooling of my passion had perhaps left some marks upon me. The stranger believed, perhaps, that I was an unlucky and desperate player. A player I had indeed been. I had been about to stake my happiness on a beautiful form. But I had won the game.
"The wine soon cheered me up and I entered into conversation with the stranger. We spoke of various things, and finally of the race. As there was a friendly, confiding expression in the old man's countenance, I related to him the unhappy fall of the rider, and dwelt sharply on the impression the hideous spectacle made on Isabella. I told him that such a degree of callousness and insensibility was new to me, and that this sad experience had shocked me greatly.
"'This comes,' said he, 'from permitting yourself to be deceived by appearances, and because you do not know certain classes of society. If you consider the beautiful Isabella with sensual eyes, you will run great danger of taking appearances for truth--the false for the real. Even the plainest exterior is often only sham. Painted cheeks, colored eyebrows, false hair, false teeth; and even if these forms were not false, but true--if you penetrate these forms, if, under the constraint of graceful repose, we see modesty, purity, and even humility--there is then still greater danger of deception. A wearied, enervated nature, nerves blunted by the enjoyment of all kinds of pleasures, are frequently all that remains of womanly nature.
"'Do you wish to see striking examples of this? Go into the gaming saloons--into, those horrible places where fearful and consuming passions seethe; where desperation and suicide lurk. Go into the corrupt, poisonous atmosphere of those gambling hells, and there you will find women every day and every hour. Whence this disgusting sight? The violent excitement of gambling alone can afford sufficient attraction for those who have been sated with all kinds of pleasures. Is a criminal to be executed? I give you my word of honor that women give thousands of francs to obtain the best place, where they can contemplate more conveniently the shocking spectacle and read every expression in the distorted features of the struggling malefactor.
"'Isabella was one of these exhausted, enervated creatures, and hence her pleasure at the sight of the mangled rider.'
"Thus spoke the stranger, and I admitted that he was right. At the same time I tried to penetrate deeper into this want of sensibility. Like a venturesome miner, I descended into the psychological depth. I shuddered at what I there discovered, and at the inferences which Isabella's conduct forced upon my mind. No, father, no," said he impetuously, "I will have no such nuptials--I will never rush into the miseries of matrimony!"
"Thunder and lightning! are you a man?" cried Herr Frank. "Because Emil's wife and Isabella are good-for-nothings, must the whole sex be repudiated? Both cases are exceptions. These exceptions give you no right to judge unfavorably of all women. This prejudice does no honor to your good sense, Richard. It is only eccentricity can judge thus."
The train stopped. The travellers went out, where a carriage awaited them.
"Is everything right?" said Herr Frank to the driver.
"All is fixed, sir, as you required,"
"Is the box of books taken out?"
"Yes, sir."
The coach moved up the street. The dark mountain-side rose into view, and narrow, deep valleys yawned beneath the travellers. Fresh currents of air rushed down the mountain and Herr Frank inhaled refreshing draughts.
Richard gazed thoughtfully over the magnificent vineyards and luxuriant orchards.
The road grew steeper and the wooded summit of the mountain approached. A light which Frank beheld with satisfaction glared out from it. Its rays shot out upon the town that, amid rich vineyards, topped the neighboring hill.
"Our residence is beautifully located," said Herr Frank. "How cheerful it looks up there! It is a home fit for princes."
"You have indeed chosen a magnificent spot, father. Everything unites to make Frankenhöhe a delightful place. The vineyards on the slopes of the hills, the smiling hamlet of Salingen to the right. In the background the stern mountain with its proud ruins on the summit of Salburg, the deep valleys and the dark ravines, all unite in the landscape: to the east that beautiful plain."
These words pleased the father. His eyes rested long on the beautiful property.
"You have forgotten a reason for my happy choice," said he, while a smile played on his features. "I mean the habit of my friend and deliverer, who, for the last eight years, spends the month of May at Frankenhöhe. You know the singular character of the doctor. Nothing in the world can tear him from his books. He has renounced all pleasure and enjoyment, to devote his whole time to his books. When Frankenhöhe entices and captivates the man of science, so strict, so dead to the world, it is, as I think, the highest compliment to our place."
Richard did not question his father's opinion. He knew his unbounded esteem for the learned doctor.
The road grew steeper and steeper. The horses labored slowly along. The pleasant hamlet of Salingen lay a short distance to the left. A single house, separated from the village, and standing near the road in the midst of vineyards, came into view. The features of Herr Frank darkened as he turned his gaze from Frankenhöhe to this house. It was as though some unpleasant recollection was associated with it. Richard looked at the stately mansion, the large out-houses, the walled courts, and saw that everything about it was neat and clean.
"This must be a wealthy proprietor or influential landlord who lives here," said Richard. "I have indeed seen this place in former years, but it did not interest me. How inviting and pleasant it looks. The property must have undergone considerable change; at least, I remember nothing that indicated the place to be other than an ordinary farmhouse."
Herr Frank did not hear these observations. He muttered some bitter imprecation. The coach gained the summit, left the road, and passed through vineyards and chestnut groves to the house.
Frankenhöhe was a handsome two-story house whose arrangements corresponded to Frank's taste and means. Near it stood another, occupied by the steward. A short distance from it were stables and out-houses for purposes of agriculture.
Herr Frank went directly to the house, and passed from room to room to see if his instructions had been carried out.
Richard went into the garden and walked on paths covered with yellow sand. He strolled about among flower-beds that loaded the air with agreeable odors. He examined the blooming dwarf fruit-trees and ornamental plants. He observed the neatness and exact order of everything. Lastly, he stood near the vineyard whence he could behold an extensive view. He admired the beautiful, fragrant landscape. He stood thoughtfully reflecting. His conversation made it evident to him that his feelings and will did not agree with his father's wishes. He saw that between his inclinations and his love for his father he must undergo a severe struggle--a struggle that must decide his happiness for life. The strangeness of his opinion of women did not escape him. He tested his experience. He tried to justify his convictions, and yet his father's claims and filial duty prevailed.