Books: The House of Heine Brothers, in Munich
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Anthony Trollope >> The House of Heine Brothers, in Munich
"Of course it is all over," said she, very calmly.
"Oh, Isa, is that your love?"
"No, Herbert, that is not my love; that is my discretion;" and she
even laughed with her mild low laughter, as she answered him. "You
know you are too impatient to wait four years, and what else
therefore can I say?"
"I wonder whether you love me?" said Herbert, with a grand look of
injured sentiment.
"Well; in your sense of the word I do not think I do. I do not love
you so that I need make every one around us unhappy because
circumstances forbid me to marry you. That sort of love would be
baneful."
"Ah no, you do not know what love means!"
"Not your boisterous, heartbreaking English love, Herbert. And,
Herbert, sometimes I think you had better go home and look for a
bride there. Though you fancy that you love me, in your heart you
hardly approve of me."
"Fancy that I love you! Do you think, Isa, that a man can carry his
heart round to one customer after another as the huckster carries
his wares?"
"Yes; I think he can. I know that men do. What did your hero
Waverley do with his heart in that grand English novel which you
gave me to read? I am not Flora Mac Ivor, but you may find a Rose
Bradwardine."
"And you really wish me to do so?"
"Look here, Herbert. It is bad to boast, but I will make this
boast. I am so little selfish, that I desire above all that you
should do that which may make you most happy and contented. I will
be quite frank with you. I love you well enough to wait these four
years with the hope of becoming your wife when they are over. But
you will think but little of my love when I tell you that this
waiting would not make me unhappy. I should go on as I do now, and
be contented."
"Oh heavens!" sighed Herbert.
"But as I know that this would not suit you,--as I feel sure that
such delay would gall you every day, as I doubt whether it would not
make you sick of me long before the four years be over,--my advice
is, that we should let this matter drop."
He now walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so there
was something in his gait and look and tone of voice that stirred
her heart more sharply than it had yet been stirred. "And even that
would not make you unhappy," he said.
She paused before she replied, leaving her hand in his, for he was
contented to hold it without peculiar pressure. "I will not say
so," she replied. "But, Herbert, I think that you press me too
hard. Is it not enough that I leave you to be the arbiter of my
destiny?"
"I would learn the very truth of your heart," he replied.
"I cannot tell you that truth more plainly. Methinks I have told it
too plainly already. If you wish it, I will hold myself as engaged
to you,--to be married to you when those four years are past. But,
remember, I do not advise it. If you wish it, you shall have back
your troth. And that I think will be the wiser course."
But neither alternative contented Herbert Onslow, and at the time he
did not resolve on either. He had some little present income from
home, some fifty pounds a year or so, and he would be satisfied to
marry on that and on his salary as a clerk; but to this papa and
mamma Heine would not consent;--neither would Isa.
"You are not a saving, close man," she said to him when he boasted
of his economies. "No Englishmen are. You could not live
comfortably in two small rooms, and with bad dinners."
"I do not care a straw about my dinners."
"Not now that you are a lover, but you would do when you were a
husband. And you change your linen almost every day."
"Bah!"
"Yes; bah, if you please. But I know what these things cost. You
had better go to England and fetch a rich wife. Then you will
become a partner at once, and Uncle Hatto won't snub you. And you
will be a grand man, and have a horse to ride on." Whereupon
Herbert went away in disgust. Nothing in all this made him so
unhappy as the feeling that Isa, under all their joint privations,
would not be unhappy herself. As far as he could see, all this made
no difference in Isa.
But, in truth, he had not yet read Isa's character very thoroughly.
She had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of that
boisterous love which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy;
but nevertheless she loved him. She, in her short life, had learnt
many lessons of self-denial; and now with reference to this half-
promised husband she would again have practised such a lesson. Had
he agreed at once to go from her, she would have balanced her own
account within her own breast, and have kept to herself all her
sufferings. There would have been no outward show of baffled love,-
-none even in the colour of her cheeks; for such was the nature of
her temperament. But she did suffer for him. Day by day she began
to think that his love, though boisterous as she had at first called
it, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He made no
slightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which she
had made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waiting
for four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course that
would be more possible,--except that evidently impossible course of
an early marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemence
charged her with coolness and want of love, her love waxed warmer
and warmer, and his happiness became the chief object of her
thoughts. What could she do that he might no longer suffer?
And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He
banished himself altogether from the house, going away again into
lodgings. "No," he said, on the morning of his departure, "I do not
release you. I will never release you. You are mine, and I have a
right so to call you. If you choose to release yourself, I cannot
help it; but in doing so you will be forsworn."
"Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing," said she, meaning that
she had not been formally betrothed to him.
"You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell
you what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad;
but I shall see you occasionally;--perhaps on Sundays."
"Oh, Herbert!"
"Well, what would you have? If you really cared to see me it would
not be thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,--
absolutely decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once.
Then I shall leave Munich."
"Herbert, I will never throw you over." So they parted, and Onslow
went forth to his new lodgings.
Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word
of love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own
quiet, unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of
love, though there might be an assurance of constancy. But her
constancy he did not, in truth, much doubt. Four years,--fourteen,-
-or twenty-four, would be the same to her, he said, as he seated
himself in the dull, cold room which he had chosen. While living in
the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know how much had been daily done for
his comfort by that hand which he had been so seldom allowed to
press; but he knew that he was now cold and comfortless, and he
wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse.
"Mamma," said Isa, when they were alone. "Is not Uncle Hatto rather
hard on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his
brother."
"So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time.
But your Uncle Hatto is hard."
"He is rich, is he not?"
"Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all
his income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He
is very good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early
marriages are very foolish."
"Mamma," said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in
silence over their work.
"Well, my love?"
"Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?"
"No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to
him. To tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if
you wish it, I will do so."
"I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented
or impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle
for his money;--for it comes to that."
"I suppose it does, my dear."
"And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not
think so much of these four years."
"You would still be young, Isa;--quite young enough."
"And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma,
there has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel
myself bound to think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it,
you are bound to think of him also. I know that he is unhappy,
living there all alone."
"But why did he go, dear?"
"I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He
is not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which
I could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was
silent and morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I
wish that this could be shortened."
Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it,
herself go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by
talking to Uncle Hatto. "But," she added, "I fear that no good will
come of it."
"Can harm come, mamma?"
"No, I do not think harm can come."
"I'll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you
will let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him.
I feel that I ought to do something." And so the matter was
settled, Madame Heine being by no means averse to escape a further
personal visit to the Head of the banking establishment.
Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said
she ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had
imperfectly expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to
do so much to prove his love,--when he was ready to sacrifice all
the little comforts of comparative wealth to which he had been
accustomed, in order that she might be his companion and wife,--did
it not behove her to give some proof of her love also? She could
not be demonstrative as he was. Such exhibition of feeling would be
quite contrary to her ideas of female delicacy, and to her very
nature. But if called on to work for him, that she could do as long
as strength remained to her. But there was no sacrifice which would
be of service, nor any work which would avail. Therefore she was
driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and at last she
resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto.
"Shall I tell papa?" Isa asked of her mother.
"I will do so," said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of
the firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he,
though he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that
it would be successful.
Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age,
who passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark
back chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so
passed every week-day of his life for more years than any of the
family could now remember. He had made the house what it was, and
had taken his brother into partnership when that brother married.
All the family were somewhat afraid of him, including even his
partner. He rarely came to the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse,
as he himself lived in one of the older and shabbier suburbs on the
other side of the town. Thither he always walked, starting
punctually from the bank at four o'clock, and from thence he always
walked in the morning, reaching the bank punctually at nine. His
two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated days they were wont
to attend on him at his lodgings, where they would be regaled with
cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned beer-garden
in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre kind;
and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of
the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their
lamentations.
In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all
probability, be made at the uncle's private residence; but at Munich
private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa
therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to
the Schrannen Platz.
"Is Uncle Hatto inside?" she asked; and the answer was given to her
by her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with
him. Isa, however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and
in a few minutes the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came
out into the larger room.
"You can go in now, Miss Isa," he said. And Isa found herself in
the presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the
roof. In the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a
word, and Herbert knew that something very special must be about to
occur.
"Well, my bonny bird," said Uncle Hatto, "and what do you want at
the bank?" Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon
with Uncle Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could be
drawn from them of any special good nature or temporary weakness on
his part.
"Uncle Hatto," she began, rushing at once into the middle of her
affair, "you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert
Onslow?"
"I know no such thing," said he. "I thought I understood your
father specially to say that there had been no betrothal."
"No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is
true; but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other."
"Well," said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer
any cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names.
"Perhaps you may think all this very foolish," said Isa, who, spite
of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly into
her uncle's face as she thus talked of her own love affairs.
"Yes, I do," said Uncle Hatto. "I do think it foolish for young
people to hold themselves betrothed before they have got anything to
live on, and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying
that you were not betrothed."
"Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that."
"Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as
neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end.
It is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of
you might die, or his money might never be forth coming, or you
might see somebody else that you liked better."
"I don't think I shall do that."
"You can't tell. And if you don't, the chances are ten to one that
he will."
This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa
at all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had
proposed in good faith, thinking that she could endure such a
termination to the affair without flinching. She was probably wrong
in this estimate of her power; but, nevertheless, her present object
was his release from unhappiness and doubt, not her own.
"It might be so," she said.
"Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was
Adelaide Schropner,--but that was before your time, and you would
not remember." Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for
many years a grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not
remember.
"But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something
to you, if it will not take too much of your time." In answer to
which, Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify
that Isa might speak.
"I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does
Herbert."
"But he wants to marry at once."
"Yes, he wants to marry--perhaps not at once, but soon."
"And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing."
Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. "Yes,
uncle, I do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish."
"Very likely,--very likely."
"Don't be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other,
it is natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly
desires."
"Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!"
"Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though
I knew that you would be stern."
"Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no
doubt you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not
do what they are asked."
"Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in
the bank."
"That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can
say whether he will or no."
But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. "I have
come to ask you to admit him as a partner at once."
"Ah, I supposed so;--just as you might ask me to give you a new
ribbon."
"But, uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never
asked you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for
myself."
"Do you think that if I could do it,--which of course I can't,--I
would not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than
for him, who is a stranger?"
"Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your
orders for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in
the bank."
"Humph! If every clerk that does well,--pretty well, that is,--
wanted a partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go
home and tell him when you see him in the evening that all this must
be at an end. Men's places in the world are not given away so
easily as that. They must either be earned or purchased. Herbert
Onslow has as yet done neither, and therefore he is not entitled to
take a wife. I should have been glad to have had a wife at his
age,--at least I suppose I should, but at any rate I could not
afford it."
But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had
progressed exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed
it possible that her uncle would grant her so important a request as
soon as she opened her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment
expected that things would go so easily with her. Indeed she had
never expected that any success would attend her efforts; but, if
any success were possible, the work which must achieve that success
must now commence. It was necessary that she should first state her
request plainly before she began to urge it with such eloquence as
she had at her command.
"I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto."
"I am glad of that, at any rate."
"And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything."
"I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should
ask of her old uncle, I would give you."
"I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never
wanted new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I
have not wanted them;--not wanted them faster than they seemed to
come without any asking."
"No, no; you have been a good girl."
"I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and
with what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But
now I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this
which I ask of you. I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my
need I come to you."
"And now you want a husband with a fortune!"
"No!" and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was
low and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear
and to his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on.
"Your scorn, uncle, is unjust,--unjust and untrue. I have ever
acted maidenly, as has become my mother's daughter."
"Yes, yes, yes;--I believe that."
"And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the
same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this
young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no
answer till I had consulted my mother."
"She should have bade you not to think of him."
"Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think
of him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking? And then
he had thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not
mamma listen to my father when he came to her?"
"But your father was forty years old, and had a business."
"You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say."
"And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes
will come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want,
with large families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing
I cannot do."
"But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband."
"Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly."
"I do want--to be married." And here her courage failed her a
little, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. "It is true,
uncle. He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have told
him I could. He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and I
have given him a promise. After that, must not his happiness be my
happiness, and his misery my misery? Am I not his wife already
before God?"
"No, no," said Uncle Hatto, loudly.
"Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who
are themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and
with God's help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him.
Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but
not the less is my lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could
release me from that but his wish."
"And he will wish it in a month or two."
"Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as
best I may. He has loved me now for two years--"
"Psha!"
"And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot
now go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His
welfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I
am bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man she
loves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to help
me."
"And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying."
"Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me
enter this room."
"I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be
disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for
you."
"And that is your last answer, uncle?"
"Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years
hence, you will know then that I am right, and that your request was
unreasonable.
"It may be so," she replied, "but I do not think it."
"It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this
world for light reasons."
"Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take
up your time longer."
"Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;--that it
is quite out of my power to oblige you."
Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he,
as she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her
countenance and her gait, and listening to the very fall of her
footstep. "Ah," he said to himself; when he was alone, "the young
people have the best of it. The sun shines for them; but why should
they have all? Poor as he is, he is a happy dog,--a happy dog. But
she is twice too good for him. Why did she not take to one of her
own country?"
Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father,
and then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasant
kindly nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at that
interview, how much more he would have known of her than he now
knew, and how proud he would have been of her love. No word was
spoken as she went out, and then she walked home with even step, as
she had walked thither. It can hardly be said that she was
disappointed, as she had expected nothing. But people hope who do
not expect, and though her step was even and her face calm, yet her
heart was sad.
"Mamma," she said, "there is no hope from Uncle Hatto."
"So I feared, my dear."
"But I thought it right to try--for Herbert's sake."
"I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank."
"Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to it
all, I should indeed be wretched."
"No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almost
think it would be better that he should go back to England."
"Mamma, if he did, I should--break my heart."
"Isa!"
"Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whatever
happens."
"But I had been so sure that you had constrained your feelings!"
"So I had,--till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, if
he were contented to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, I
could watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want to
have him kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gone
too far now,--and I could not bear to lose him." And thus to her
mother she confessed the truth.
There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on the
subject, and for two days the matter remained as it then stood.
Madame Heine had been deeply grieved at hearing those last words
which her daughter had spoken. To her also that state of quiescence
which Isa had so long affected seemed to be the proper state at
which a maiden's heart should stand till after her marriage vows had
been pronounced. She had watched her Isa, and had approved of
everything,--of everything till this last avowal had been made. But
now, though she could not approve, she expressed no disapproval in
words. She pressed her daughter's hand and sighed, and then the two
said no more upon the matter. In this way, for two days, there was
silence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse; for even when the
father returned from his work, the whole circle felt that their old
family mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside.