Only a Girl Part 30

"Indeed! where is it?" he asked gruffly.

"In the next room, on the bed."

"On the bed!" her husband snapped out. "So that it may be covered with lint? How careless!"

Frau Herbert looked down, and was silent. Herbert hurried into the next room to rescue his slighted property.

Professor Herbert's dwelling-room was rather small and low, but there appeared, at a cursory glance, an air of elegance about it. The chairs and lounges were covered with fine woollen stuff, the curtains were richly embroidered, and an elegant cabinet, with mirrored doors, closely locked, apparently contained silver plate. Upon a closer inspection, however, the furniture was found to be stuffed with straw, the curtains were shabby, with the holes in them not even darned, and the cabinet contained only broken household-utensils, with the remains of the previous meal, locked up there to be safe from the hungry servant-maid. Even the arm-chair by the window, occupied by Frau Herbert, evidently an invalid, was as hard as a stone. The only thing in the room of real and decided value was a collection of old English copper-plates that decorated the walls of the apartment, representing scenes from Shakspeare's plays and Roman history. These old pictures were one of Professor Herbert's fancies; and he belonged to that cla.s.s of men with whom the necessities of a wife and of the household are never considered in comparison with the gratification of their fancies.

Frau Herbert was one of those unfortunate women who, in the consciousness that they are burdens to their husbands, believe themselves called to endure everything, even the grossest injustice, with meekness, and who hold it their duty to entreat forgiveness of their lords and masters for continuing to exist at all. The sight of that quiet woman, with her sad face, upon which pain had ploughed deep furrows, sitting at the window mending the straw-coloured gloves in which her husband was, in the evening, to play the part of an aesthetic exquisite, while she lay suffering at home, would instantly suggest the complete picture of an unhappy wife tied to the side of a cold-blooded egotist.

"Poor Professor Herbert!" people were wont to say, "what a misfortune it is for a man to have such an invalid wife!"

But a closer observer of the pair would have said, "What a misfortune for an invalid wife to have such a husband!"

The miserable woman, however, had no such thought; she would gladly have died,--not only to be free from suffering, but that her husband might be rid of her presence. In her inmost heart she despised his selfishness and want of feeling. She knew that a worthier man would have had consideration for her and patience with her, as her burden was surely the heavier; but she was too much afraid of her husband to put such thoughts in words, even to her own mind. Suffering that is incessant, and that undermines the physical frame, must gradually weaken the mind; and thus the only strength of the hapless wife consisted in hopeless endurance.

Professor Herbert entered in his new coat, and surveyed himself attentively in the large mirror.

"It fits well,--does it not?" he asked.

"Very well! but it is very expensive."

"Did the bill come with it?"

"Here it is."

"Oh, that is not so bad. Hecht is certainly the best tailor in the city."

A shade of bitter feeling pa.s.sed across his wife's face and she could not refrain from saying, "When I recollect that you lately refused to let me have the shawl I so needed, that did not cost half so much, and----"

"The money for your dress all goes to the apothecary, my dear," Herbert replied, with a sneer.

"My dress!" his wife repeated,--"you would be ashamed to walk in the street with me,--my clothes are so shabby."

"No one expects much elegance from an invalid whose illness costs her husband so much money."

Frau Herbert cast a glance at her husband, but she said not a word more. For one moment she leaned her weary head against the back of her chair, but the position was too uncomfortable, and she resumed her work, thinking with pain how the physician had imperatively recommended her to procure a more comfortable chair, in which she could sleep sitting up,--but now this small luxury, as well as all the rest, had been denied her!

Suddenly the door opened, and in rustled and fluttered a creature half child, half old maid,--half b.u.t.terfly, half bat. Around her head floated a ma.s.s of very light curls. A _nez retrousse_ gave to her face a nave air of youthfulness, which, however, the crafty, eager expression of her small eyes contradicted. Just so her teeth, short and wide apart, resembled those of a young child who has shed his first set, while the wrinkles about her thin, open lips indicated an age of thirty years at least. The figure, crowned by this strange head with its huge mane of curls, was delicate and slender as that of a half-grown girl. Her hands were small, but wrinkled like those of an old woman. She was dressed in thin, flowing garments,--her round straw hat was adorned by long, light-brown ribbons. Her gait, bearing, and address were light, airy, sylph-like. It was evident at the first glance that she was a creature who believed herself highly poetic, richly gifted, breathing a charmed atmosphere, and that although she might in reality be thirty years old she had in imagination never pa.s.sed sweet sixteen. Such a creature is only conceivable with a sheet of music or a sketch-book in her hand; and, in obedience to a mysterious law of nature, this too was not wanting in the present instance. "Brother, darling!" she cried, skipping up to Herbert, "how charming you are in your new coat! Aha, are you going to the Mollner's reception this evening? Yes!" Trilling a little air, she laid aside her book, hat, and gloves. "Tra-la-la-la--oh, I am so happy to-day I cannot talk, I can only sing." And she hummed the refrain of the charming song by Taubert, "I know not why, but sing I must!" Then she remembered that she had not yet spoken to her brother's wife. "Oh, dear Ulrika, forgive me for not asking how you are. No better yet? Ah! your little Elsa is so agitated to-day! I feel--I can't tell how--my bosom heaves and thrills as with the breath of May! I must go to my work. To-day I feel sure, in my present frame of mind, I must create something!"

And she was about to hover away to the blissful retirement of her own room, when Herbert, who had meanwhile exchanged his new coat for a light summer sacque, cried after her, "Stay here a moment, and speak at least one sensible word before you go."

She paused.

"What are you going to attempt now? I am really afraid to trust you by yourself."

She skipped up to her brother again and roguishly laid her finger on his lips, looking archly in his eyes. "Dearest brother, I shall surprise you! I have an idea!"

"Pray cease your folly for the present. You do not want to flirt with your brother, I hope? Tell me, what is your idea? If it is good for anything, it will be the first of its kind that you have ever had in your head."

"Oh, you discourteous brother!" pouted the fair indignant, "to grieve your sister so! But, since you bid me, I will obey you, and give you a glimpse into the transparent depths of an artist's soul. Every maiden must practise the sweet duty of obedience, that she may one day gladden a husband's heart by her submission."

"Well, well, to the point!" cried Herbert impatiently.

Elsa bashfully cast down her eyes, and, stammering with the charming embarra.s.sment of an artistic nature, said, "When, a few days ago, I asked Professor Mollner what lady author was his favourite, he answered me in jest, 'She who has written the best cookery book!' I am going to show the mocking man that I can do that too. Oh, how amazed he will be when he finds that the wealth of fancy in my soul can beautify and transfigure what is so prosaic! This it is that he deems the charm of womanhood,--the power to seize and mould to beauty the commonplace and sordid. I am going to publish a cookery book in verse, with ill.u.s.trations, and ent.i.tle it 'The German Wife at the Hearth of Home.'

Only think what splendid initial letters and arabesques I can have! I will show that a bunch of parsley can be as gracefully arranged as roses or violets. Such lovely green borders to the pages must always be beautiful, whether composed of parsley, lettuce, or sorrel; and, if a warmer colour is desirable, I will paint a couple of blus.h.i.+ng radishes peeping, half hidden, from among the leaves, and there you have as perfect a picture as any of our famous artistes have produced of Spring. Is not the meanest kitchen-stuff the work of the Creator, and as beautiful as any other of his creations? And there can be such variety in the volume. For example, the chapter of receipts for cooking fish can have a t.i.tle-page of its own, after the style of the engravings in Schleiden's 'Wonders of the Deep.' Beneath a placid crystal lake may be seen sporting together all the fish alluded to in the ensuing chapter. Branches of coral are wreathed in and out, and, illuminated by the rosy light of the setting sun, water-lilies float upon the calm surface of the water. Every chapter will have a suitable t.i.tle-page, displaying in its native element the animal to be cooked,--game in the forest, fleeing from the pursuing huntsman and hounds,--the dove hovering above the ark, with the olive-branch in her beak,--domestic fowls, in the Dutch style, cooped in their accustomed poultry yard. Fruit and vegetables can be treated as still-life, in arabesques, and decorating the margins of single recipes. At the end of the book a picture representing a family seated at dinner. Over their heads, in gothic letters, the line, 'Lord Jesus, come and be our guest.' And, in pursuance of this invitation, he must be seated at the head of the table, in the midst of a brilliant halo of glory. On either side of the table sit the children, and at the foot the happy husband and wife, each offering food to the other. Angels are in attendance upon the able,--the angels of harmony, peace, and content. The wife sits with her face turned from the spectator, but the husband--and this is the grand point--the husband will be a portrait!"

She paused, carried away by her poetic dreams, and by the thought of the immense success that the book must command.

"Well, and whom is the portrait to represent?--me, perhaps?" asked Herbert with a sneer.

"You? Oh, no. Ah, rogue! can you not guess? Heavens! do not look at me so,--you know whom I mean!"

"Mollner?" asked her brother.

"Yes,--you have guessed it. Oh, when I think of the smile that will play around that proud mouth as he beholds his portrait drawn by my hand, as he sees how his image is present with me everywhere in all that I think and do! Oh, it will, it must touch him!"

"Yes, it will touch him uncommonly," remarked Herbert; "and there will be a charming scene when he presents his inamorata, the Hartwich, with the work, that she may learn cookery from it. Do not forget to add a receipt for broiling frogs' legs, by which she can dress the frogs that they use together for their physiological experiments."

"Oh, Edmund!" exclaimed Elsa, startled and a little vexed, "your words are full of wormwood to-day. Go,--your caustic wit destroys all my flowers of fancy. This is why I always avoid you when I am about to begin a work. What pleasure can it give you to thrust me from my paradise? Is it right? Let the soul that can find no home on this rude earth seek it in brighter realms."

And she raised her eyes to the ceiling, and laid her wrinkled little hand upon her breast. "Mine is a modest, shrinking soul,--its childlike trust and hope are all that I possess. Dear brother, do not you rob me of them, as long as no other hand s.n.a.t.c.hes them from me."

"But you must find out at last that your hopes are vain, and therefore I wish to warn you, that you may not make yourself ridiculous by an untimely parade of your feelings. I know, from the most trustworthy sources, that Mollner has been to Hochstetten to see the Hartwich, and that he spent two hours with her. Rhyme that with his enthusiasm for her at the meeting the other day, and complete the verse yourself."

Elsa looked down and thought for a minute or two, then she sighed and shook her flowing mane, saying, "No, it cannot, cannot be! That man-woman may excite his curiosity, she cannot win his heart! No, no, Elsa has no fear that Lohengrun will be misled by Ortrude! And now to work, that the day may soon come when he will ask, 'Elsa, whose is the face of the wife who sits at table by my side?' Then I shall avert my face and reply, 'That you know best.' Oh, darling brother! dearest sister! he will turn my blus.h.i.+ng countenance to him then, and say, 'This is her face!' Oh, I must go: the breath of spring is wafted towards me from my studio. Yes, yes, I feel that the Muses await me there." With these words she rustled and fluttered away to her room.

Frau Herbert looked after her with a sad, almost a compa.s.sionate, glance. "Tell me, Edmund," she said to her husband, "did you ever for one moment believe that such a man as Mollner would marry that girl?"

"Why not? There are many more unequal matches made every day: the only thing is to man[oe]uvre the matter skilfully. If poor Elsa had as managing a mother as you were blessed with, the affair would certainly not be beyond the bounds of possibility. But the poor thing has no one to help her but myself, and we men are clumsier at match-making than the most stupid of women."

Frau Herbert looked pained and crushed by this attack upon her mother and herself. She thought it, however, beneath her dignity to reply to it. She only said very quietly, "I am glad, Edmund, that there is one creature in the world for whom you have some regard, or even blind affection. Well, she is your sister. I, too, love the poor thing, but I cannot believe that she will ever succeed in kindling one spark of interest in Mollner's breast."

"You have always regarded her with jaundiced eyes," Herbert went on to say. "You talk as though she were a monster. She is no longer young, but there is still something youthful about her. She is not, it is true, a genius, but her nature is really artistic. She is not pretty, but an enthusiast like Mollner is more observant of inner graces than physical beauty, and he cannot fail to be impressed by her beauty of soul. It certainly is true that he always distinguishes her in society.

Does he not always take her to supper when she is unprovided with an escort, as is usually the case? When all the others avoid her, is not Mollner sure to sit and talk with her? Such a conscientious prig as Mollner would not do that unless he had some object in view; and if she has no other charm for him, her undisguised admiration of him would attract him to her, for he has a due amount of vanity, and every one must take pleasure in being so fanatically adored. If it were not for that confounded Hartwich, who knows how far he might be brought! But I will be revenged upon her, she may rely upon that!"

"Why visit your anger upon the innocent? How can it be this stranger's fault that Mollner is more interested by her genius than by our Elsa's sentimental dilettanteism, her perpetual attempts and failures? His courtesy to her in society always seemed to me prompted by his humanity. She certainly makes herself very ridiculous,--you must see that; and a man of Mollner's kindly, chivalric character cannot permit an innocent, harmless girl to be made sport of, and, accordingly, he const.i.tutes himself her protector, and tries generously to indemnify her for the neglect of others. He does not dream that Elsa's vanity builds all kinds of schemes upon his conduct, or he would never forgive himself----"

"Enough, enough!" Herbert interrupted her angrily. "I cannot see how, with the pain in your face, you manage to talk so much. I can understand that Elsa is disagreeable to you because I have educated her, but I cannot understand how, tied to your invalid chair as you are, you have contrived to fall in love with this Mollner. Indeed, if I had not had hopes of marrying him to my sister, I should have broken with the arrogant pedant long ago, for I hate him as much as you women, old and young, adore him."

Frau Herbert looked with a quiet, thoughtful expression at the speaker, who had worked himself into a violent rage, and then she silently resumed her work, suppressing the words that rose to her lips,--for she possessed the rare talent of knowing when to be silent.

Herbert waited for some minutes for a reply which might afford him further opportunity for venting his spleen, but, receiving none, he turned away, and was about to seek his study.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and the postman entered, with a thick square parcel in his hand. Herbert grew pale at sight of it, and his wife too looked sad and sorry.

"Your ma.n.u.script?" she asked.