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Anthony Trollope >> The House of Heine Brothers, in Munich
This etext was produced by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk,
from the 1864 Chapman and Hall "Tales of all Countries" edition.
THE HOUSE OF HEINE BROTHERS, IN MUNICH
by Anthony Trollope
The house of Heine Brothers, in Munich, was of good repute at the
time of which I am about to tell,--a time not long ago; and is so
still, I trust. It was of good repute in its own way, seeing that
no man doubted the word or solvency of Heine Brothers; but they did
not possess, as bankers, what would in England be considered a large
or profitable business. The operations of English bankers are
bewildering in their magnitude. Legions of clerks are employed.
The senior book-keepers, though only salaried servants, are
themselves great men; while the real partners are inscrutable,
mysterious, opulent beyond measure, and altogether unknown to their
customers. Take any firm at random,--Brown, Jones, and Cox, let us
say,--the probability is that Jones has been dead these fifty years,
that Brown is a Cabinet Minister, and that Cox is master of a pack
of hounds in Leicestershire. But it was by no means so with the
house of Heine Brothers, of Munich. There they were, the two
elderly men, daily to be seen at their dingy office in the Schrannen
Platz; and if any business was to be transacted requiring the
interchange of more than a word or two, it was the younger brother
with whom the customer was, as a matter of course, brought into
contact. There were three clerks in the establishment; an old man,
namely, who sat with the elder brother and had no personal dealings
with the public; a young Englishman, of whom we shall anon hear
more; and a boy who ran messages, put the wood on to the stoves, and
swept out the bank. Truly he house of Heine Brothers was of no
great importance; but nevertheless it was of good repute.
The office, I have said, was in the Schrannen Platz, or old Market-
place. Munich, as every one knows, is chiefly to be noted as a new
town,--so new that many of the streets and most of the palaces look
as though they had been sent home last night from the builders, and
had only just been taken out of their bandboxes It is angular,
methodical, unfinished, and palatial. But there is an old town;
and, though the old town be not of surpassing interest, it is as
dingy, crooked, intricate, and dark as other old towns in Germany.
Here, in the old Market-place, up one long broad staircase, were
situated the two rooms in which was held the bank of Heine Brothers.
Of the elder member of the firm we shall have something to say
before this story be completed. He was an old bachelor, and was
possessed of a bachelor's dwelling somewhere out in the suburbs of
the city. The junior brother was a married man, with a wife some
twenty years younger than himself, with two daughters, the elder of
whom was now one-and-twenty, and one son. His name was Ernest
Heine, whereas the senior brother was known as Uncle Hatto. Ernest
Heine and his wife inhabited a portion of one of those new palatial
residences at the further end of the Ludwigs Strasse; but not
because they thus lived must it be considered that they were
palatial people. By no means let it be so thought, as such an idea
would altogether militate against whatever truth of character
painting there may be in this tale. They were not palatial people,
but the very reverse, living in homely guise, pursuing homely
duties, and satisfied with homely pleasures. Up two pairs of
stairs, however, in that street of palaces, they lived, having there
a commodious suite of large rooms, furnished, after the manner of
the Germans, somewhat gaudily as regarded their best salon, and with
somewhat meagre comfort as regarded their other rooms. But, whether
in respect of that which was meagre, or whether in respect of that
which was gaudy, they were as well off as their neighbours; and
this, as I take it, is the point of excellence which is desirable.
Ernest Heine was at this time over sixty; his wife was past forty;
and his eldest daughter, as I have said, was twenty-one years of
age. His second child, also a girl, was six years younger; and
their third child, a boy, had not been born till another similar
interval had elapsed. He was named Hatto after his uncle, and the
two girls had been christened Isa and Agnes. Such, in number and
mode of life, was the family of the Heines.
We English folk are apt to imagine that we are nearer akin to
Germans than to our other continental neighbours. This may be so in
blood, but, nevertheless, the difference in manners is so striking,
that it could hardly be enhanced. An Englishman moving himself off
to a city in the middle of Central America will find the customs to
which he must adapt himself less strange to him there, than he would
in many a German town. But in no degree of life is the difference
more remarkable than among unmarried but marriageable young women.
It is not my purpose at the present moment to attribute a
superiority in this matter to either nationality. Each has its own
charm, its own excellence, its own Heaven-given grace, whereby men
are led up to purer thoughts and sweet desires; and each may
possibly have its own defect. I will not here describe the
excellence or defect of either; but will, if it be in my power, say
a word as to this difference. The German girl of one-and-twenty,--
our Isa's age,--is more sedate, more womanly, more meditative than
her English sister. The world's work is more in her thoughts, and
the world's amusements less so. She probably knows less of those
things which women learn than the English girl, but that which she
does know is nearer to her hand for use. She is not so much
accustomed to society, but nevertheless she is more mistress of her
own manner. She is not taught to think so much of those things
which flurry and disturb the mind, and therefore she is seldom
flurried and disturbed. To both of them, love,--the idea of love,--
must be the thought of all the most absorbing; for is it not fated
for them that the joys and sorrows of their future life must depend
upon it? But the idea of the German girl is the more realistic, and
the less romantic. Poetry and fiction she may have read, though of
the latter sparingly; but they will not have imbued her with that
hope for some transcendental paradise of affection which so often
fills and exalts the hearts of our daughters here at home. She is
moderate in her aspirations, requiring less excitement than an
English girl; and never forgetting the solid necessities of life,--
as they are so often forgotten here in England. In associating with
young men, an English girl will always remember that in each one she
so meets she may find an admirer whom she may possibly love, or an
admirer whom she may probably be called on to repel. She is ever
conscious of the fact of this position; and a romance is thus
engendered which, if it may at times be dangerous, is at any rate
always charming. But the German girl, in her simplicity, has no
such consciousness. As you and I, my reader, might probably become
dear friends were we to meet and know each other, so may the German
girl learn to love the fair-haired youth with whom chance has for a
time associated her; but to her mind there occurs no suggestive
reason why it should be so,--no probability that the youth may
regard her in such light, because that chance has come to pass. She
can therefore give him her hand without trepidation, and talk with
him for half an hour, when called on to do so, as calmly as she
might do with his sister.
Such a one was Isa Heine at the time of which I am writing. We
English, in our passion for daily excitement, might call her
phlegmatic, but we should call her so unjustly. Life to her was a
serious matter, of which the daily duties and daily wants were
sufficient to occupy her thoughts. She was her mother's companion,
the instructress of both her brother and her sister, and the charm
of her father's vacant hours. With such calls upon her time, and so
many realities around her, her imagination did not teach her to look
for joys beyond those of her present life and home. When love and
marriage should come to her, as come they probably might, she would
endeavour to attune herself to a new happiness and a new sphere of
duties. In the meantime she was contented to keep her mother's
accounts, and look after her brother and sister up two pair of
stairs in the Ludwigs Strasse. But change would certainly come, we
may prophesy; for Isa Heine was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful,
comely to the eye, and fit in every way to be loved and cherished as
the partner of a man's home.
I have said that an English clerk made a part of that small
establishment in the dingy banking-office in the Schrannen Platz,
and I must say a word or two of Herbert Onslow. In his early career
he had not been fortunate. His father, with means sufficiently
moderate, and with a family more than sufficiently large, had sent
him to a public school at which he had been very idle, and then to
one of the universities, at which he had run into debt, and had
therefore left without a degree. When this occurred, a family
council of war had been held among the Onslows, and it was decided
that Herbert should be sent off to the banking-house of Heines, at
Munich, there being a cousinship between the families, and some
existing connections of business.
It was, therefore, so settled; and Herbert, willing enough to see
the world,--as he considered he should do by going to Munich,--
started for his German home, with injunctions, very tender from his
mother, and very solemn from his aggrieved father. But there was
nothing bad at the heart about young Onslow, and if the solemn
father had well considered it, he might perhaps have felt that those
debts at Cambridge reflected more fault on him than on his son.
When Herbert arrived at Munich, his cousins, the Heines,--far-away
cousins though they were,--behaved kindly to him. They established
him at first in lodgings, where he was boarded with many others,
having heard somewhat of his early youth. But when Madame Heine, at
the end of twelve months, perceived that he was punctual at the
bank, and that his allowances, which, though moderate in England,
were handsome in Munich, carried him on without debt, she opened her
motherly arms and suggested to his mother and to himself, that he
should live with them. In this way he also was domiciled up two
pairs of stairs in the palatial residence in the Ludwigs Strasse.
But all this happened long ago. Isa Heine had been only seventeen
when her cousin had first come to Munich, and had made acquaintance
with him rather as a child than as a woman. And when, as she
ripened into womanhood, this young man came more closely among them,
it did not strike her that the change would affect her more
powerfully than it would the others. Her uncle and father, she
knew, had approved of Herbert at the bank; and Herbert had shown
that he could be steady; therefore he was to be taken into their
family, paying his annual subsidy, instead of being left with
strangers at the boarding-house. All this was very simple to her.
She assisted in mending his linen, as she did her father's; she
visited his room daily, as she visited all the others; she took
notice of his likings and dislikings as touching their table
arrangement,--but by no means such notice as she did of her
father's; and without any flutter, inwardly in her imagination or
outwardly as regarded the world, she made him one of the family. So
things went on for a year,--nay, so things went on for two years
with her, after Herbert Onslow had come to the Ludwigs Strasse.
But the matter had been regarded in a very different light by
Herbert himself. When the proposition had been made to him, his
first idea had been that so close a connection with, a girl so very
pretty would be delightful. He had blushed as he had given in his
adhesion; but Madame Heine, when she saw the blush, had attributed
it to anything but the true cause. When Isa had asked him as to his
wants and wishes, he had blushed again, but she had been as ignorant
as her mother. The father had merely stipulated that, as the young
Englishman paid for his board, he should have the full value of his
money, so that Isa and Agnes gave up their pretty front room, going
into one that was inferior, and Hatto was put to sleep in the little
closet that had been papa's own peculiar property. But nobody
complained of this, for it was understood that the money was of
service.
For the first year Herbert found that nothing especial happened. He
always fancied that he was in love with Isa, and wrote some poetry
about her. But the poetry was in English, and Isa could not read
it, even had he dared to show it to her. During the second year he
went home to England for three months, and by confessing a passion
to one of his sisters, really brought himself to feel one. He
returned to Munich resolved to tell Isa that the possibility of his
remaining there depended upon her acceptance of his heart; but for
months he did not find himself able to put his resolution in force.
She was so sedate, so womanly, so attentive as regarded cousinly
friendship, and so cold as regarded everything else, that he did not
know how to speak to her. With an English girl whom he had met
three times at a ball, he might have been much more able to make
progress. He was alone with Isa frequently, for neither father,
mother, nor Isa herself objected to such communion; but yet things
so went between them that he could not take her by the hand and tell
her that he loved her. And thus the third year of his life in
Munich, and the second of his residence in the Ludwigs Strasse, went
by him. So the years went by, and Isa was now past twenty. To
Herbert, in his reveries, it seemed as though life, and the joys of
life, were slipping away from him. But no such feeling disturbed
any of the Heines. Life of course, was slipping away; but then is
it not the destiny of man that life should slip away? Their wants
were all satisfied, and for them, that, together with their close
family affection, was happiness enough.
At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa and
her mother that his heart was touched. He still declared to himself
that he had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward,
in that he had not done so. But he had made some sign, and the sign
had been read. There was no secret,--no necessity for a secret on
the subject between the mother and daughter, but yet it was not
spoken of all at once. There was some little increase of caution
between them as Herbert's name was mentioned, so that gradually each
knew what the other thought; but for weeks, that was all. Then at
last the mother spoke out.
"Isa," she said, "I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attached
to you."
"He has never said so, mamma."
"No; I am sure he has not. Had he done so, you would have told me.
Nevertheless, is it not true?"
"Well, mamma, I cannot say. It may be so. Such an idea has
occurred to me, but I have abandoned it as needless. If he has
anything to say he will say it."
"And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?"
"I should take time to think. I do not at all know what means he
has for a separate establishment." Then the subject was dropped
between them for that time, and Isa, in her communications with her
cousin, was somewhat more reserved than she had been.
"Isa, are you in love with Herbert?" Agnes asked her, as they were
together in their room one night.
"In love with him? No; why should I be in love with him?"
"I think he is in love with you," said Agnes.
"That is quite another thing," said Isa, laughing. "But if so, he
has not taken me into his confidence. Perhaps he has you."
"Oh no. He would not do that, I think. Not but what we are great
friends, and I love him dearly. Would it not be nice for you and
him to be betrothed?"
"That depends on many things, my dear."
"Oh yes, I know. Perhaps he has not got money enough. But you
could live here, you know, and he has got some money, because he so
often rides on horseback." And then the matter was dropped between
the two sisters.
Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessons
had been found tedious, and had dwindled away. Isa, nevertheless,
had kept up her exercises, duly translating German into English, and
English into German; and occasionally she had shown them to her
cousin. Now, however, she altogether gave over such showing of
them, but, nevertheless, worked at the task with more energy than
before.
"Isa," he said to her one day,--having with some difficulty found
her alone in the parlour, "Isa, why should not we go on with our
English?"
"Because it is troublesome,--to you I mean."
"Troublesome. Well; yes; it is troublesome. Nothing good is to be
had without trouble. But I should like it if you would not mind."
"You know how sick you were of it before;--besides, I shall never be
able to speak it."
"I shall not get sick of it now, Isa."
"Oh yes you would;--in two days."
"And I want you to speak it. I desire it especially."
"Why especially?" asked Isa. And even she, with all her
tranquillity of demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone and
quiet look, as she asked the necessary question.
"I will tell you why," said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up from
his seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she was
sitting near the window. Isa, as she saw him, still continued her
work, and strove hard to give to the stitches all that attention
which they required. "I will tell you why I would wish you to talk
my language. Because I love you, Isa, and would have you for my
wife,--if that be possible."
She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite as
perfect as usual, sufficed for their purpose.
"That is why I wish it. Now will you consent to learn from me
again?"
"If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another."
"Yes; certainly it would. That is what I intend. And now will you
learn from me again?"
"That is,--you mean to ask, will I marry you?"
"Will you love me? Can you learn to love me? Oh, Isa, I have
thought of this so long! But you have seemed so cold that I have
not dared to speak. Isa, can you love me?" And he sat himself
close beside her. Now that the ice was broken, he was quite
prepared to become an ardent lover,--if she would allow of such
ardour. But as he sat down she rose.
"I cannot answer such a question on the sudden," she said. "Give me
till to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;"
whereupon she left him, and he stood alone in the room, having done
the deed on which he had been meditating for the last two years.
About half an hour afterwards he met her on the stairs as he was
going to his chamber. "May I speak to your father about this," he
said, hardly stopping her as he asked the question. "Oh yes;
surely," she answered; and then again they parted. To him this
last-accorded permission sounded as though it carried with it more
weight than it in truth possessed. In his own country a reference
to the lady's father is taken as indicating a full consent on the
lady's part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no objection. But
Isa had no such meaning. She had told him that she could not give
her answer till the morrow. If, however, he chose to consult her
father on the subject, she had no objection. It would probably be
necessary that she should discuss the whole matter in family
conclave, before she could bring herself to give any reply.
On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her father;
and Isa also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother. It was
singular to him that there should appear to be so little privacy on
the subject; that there should be held to be so little necessity for
a secret. Had he made a suggestion that an extra room should be
allotted to him at so much per annum, the proposition could not have
been discussed with simpler ease. At last, after a three days'
debate, the matter ended thus,--with by no means a sufficiency of
romance for his taste. Isa had agreed to become his betrothed if
certain pecuniary conditions should or could be fulfilled. It
appeared now that Herbert's father had promised that some small
modicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of years, and
that Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should have a
proportionate share in the bank when that promise should be brought
to bear. Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become a
millionaire. If all went well, the best would be that some three
hundred a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of the
quarter of that income which he at present received. But three
hundred a year goes a long way at Munich, and Isa's parents were
willing that she should be Herbert's wife if such an income should
be forthcoming.
But even of this there was much doubt. Application to Herbert's
father could not be judiciously made for some months. The earliest
period at which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine's agreement,
young Onslow might be admitted to the bank, was still distant by
four years; and the present moment was thought to be inopportune for
applying to him for any act of grace. Let them wait, said papa and
mamma Heine,--at any rate till New Year's Day, then ten months
distant. Isa quietly said that she would wait till New Year's Day.
Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared that he was ill-treated. But
in the end he also agreed to wait. What else could he do?
"But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other," he
said to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes. "Yes," she replied,
"we shall see each other daily--of course. But, Herbert--"
Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on.
"I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,--in
our manner to each other, I mean. We are not betrothed as yet, you
know, and perhaps we may never be so."
"Isa!"
"It may not be possible, you know. And therefore we will go on as
before. Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shall
be friends."
Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not have
his way. He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover's life,
but very few of those ecstasies were awarded to him. He rarely
found himself alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldness
overawed him. He could dare to scold her and sometimes did do so,
but he could not dare to take the slightest liberty. Once, on that
night when the qualified consent of papa and mamma Heine had first
been given, he had been allowed to touch her lips with his own; but
since that day there had been for him no such delight as that. She
would not even allow her hand to remain in his. When they all
passed their evenings together in the beer-garden, she would
studiously manage that his chair should not be close to her own.
Occasionally she would walk with him, but not more frequently now
than of yore. Very few, indeed, of a lover's privileges did he
enjoy. And in this way the long year wore itself out, and Isa Heine
was one-and-twenty.
All those family details which had made it inexpedient to apply
either to old Hatto or to Herbert's father before the end of the
year need not be specially explained. Old Hatto, who had by far the
greater share in the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both by
his brother and sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known to
them all, was a man straitened in circumstances. But soon after New
Year's Day the proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and the
letter was written. On this occasion Madame Heine went down to the
bank, and together with her husband, was closeted for an hour with
old Hatto. Uncle Hatto's verdict was not favourable. As to the
young people's marriage, that was his brother's affair, not his.
But as to the partnership, that was a serious matter. Who ever
heard of a partnership being given away merely because a man wanted
to marry? He would keep to his promise, and if the stipulated
moneys were forthcoming, Herbert Onslow should become a partner,--in
four years. Nor was the reply from England more favourable. The
alliance was regarded by all the Onslows very favourably. Nothing
could be nicer than such a marriage! They already knew dear Isa so
well by description! But as for the money,--that could not in any
way be forthcoming till the end of the stipulated period.
"And what shall we do?" said Herbert to Papa Heine.
"You must wait," said he.
"For four years?" asked Herbert.
"You must wait,--as I did," said Papa Heine. "I was forty before I
could marry." Papa Heine, however, should not have forgotten to say
that his bride was only twenty, and that if he had waited, she had
not.
"Isa," Herbert said to her, when all this had been fully explained
to her, "what do you say now?"