At last he thought of a plan for making himself better known to her. He wrote a play, in which the heroine was destined for her; and as hers was the only character in the piece which was effective, she pronounced it the finest thing which had been written since Schiller. Franz was in ecstasies. She read the play herself to the manager, and exerted all her eloquence in its behalf. But the manager saw well enough her motive,—knew that she was so delighted with the play merely because her part was the important one, and declined to produce it. The play gained its author’s end however. It had established him among Clara’s friends. She began to notice his love for her, began to recognise its seriousness. She knew how to distinguish between the real homage of a heart, and the lip-homage which others offered her.
There is something inexpressibly charming in knowing yourself possessed of a heart’s first love; and women—especially those who have passed the first flush of youth—are more gratified by the love of a boy, than by that of twenty men. A boy’s love has something in it so intense, so absorbing, so self-forgetting! It is love, and love only, unmixed with any thoughts of responsibilities; looking forward to no future, reflected by no past. There is a bloom on first love. Its very awkwardness is better than grace; its silence or imperfect stammerings more eloquent than eloquence; there is a mute appeal in its eyes, which is worth all the protestations in the world.
Clara, who had been accustomed to the admiration of roués, felt the exquisite charm of this boy’s love. In a few weeks he became her acknowledged lover; and excited no little envy among the habitués of the theatre, who could not for the life of them comprehend “what the devil she could see in that bumpkin.”
But if boys love intensely, they love like tyrants, and Clara was made a slave. Jealous of every one who approached her, he forced her to give up all her friends; she gave way to every caprice; she began to idolise him.
This connexion with an actress, as may easily be foreseen, led to Franz’s adopting the profession of the stage. Clara taught him in a few months that which ordinary actors take years to acquire; but this was owing to his hereditary dramatic talent more than to her instruction. His appearance on the stage, which would, he knew, profoundly hurt his father, was not the mere theatrical ambition which possesses most young men: it was stern necessity; it was the only profession open to him, for he had married Clara!
Yes! he, the boy of one-and-twenty, had married a woman of five-and-thirty! It was a mad act—the recklessness or delirium of a boy: but it was an act which has too many precedents for us to wonder at it. He had by this act separated himself, he feared, from his father for ever. His only hope of pardon was, as he fondly thought, dramatic success. Could his father but see him successfully following in his footsteps, he would surely forgive him. It was a proud moment—that boy’s triumphant debut; proud because he had succeeded, proud because his pardon was purchased—as he thought!
Franz had only played a few weeks, and Germany was ringing with his praises. So great was his success, that when a few critics and actors whose judgments were all traditional, objected that he could not be a good actor because he had not gradually worked his way upwards, they were speedily silenced by the incontestible fact that he was a great actor. A brilliant engagement had been offered him at Berlin; and he was about to appear on the same stage with his father, before that father had the faintest suspicion of his son’s ever having entered a theatre.
CHAPTER IV.
The curtain fell. Franz had reappeared to receive the enthusiastic homage of the audience, and was now in his room undressing, when the door opened, and his father stood before him.
Instead of rushing into his arms, Franz stood confused, blushing, trembling. The haggard sternness of his father’s face told but too plainly with what feelings he was regarded.