CHAPTER XIV. THE MEMORIAL TO FREDERICK WILLIAM III
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, returning the letter to Gentz, “I believe the minister wanted to teach you a lesson. He made you wait in order to teach you the necessity of being punctual.”
“And I shall not forget the lesson.”
“You will be punctual hereafter?”
“On the contrary. This time I was half an hour behind time, and he paid me one hundred dollars for it. Hereafter I shall be an hour too late; he will make me wait an hour and pay me two hundred dollars for it. I believe that is sound arithmetic. Don’t look at me so scornfully, Gualtieri; this state of affairs will not last for any length of time; there will be a time at no distant period when no minister will dare to make me wait in his anteroom, nor to pay me such petty, miserable sums. The ministers then will wait in my anteroom, and will be only too happy if I accept the thousands which they will offer to me. I have formed the fixed resolution to obtain a brilliant position and to coin wealth out of my mind.”
“And I am sure you will succeed in accomplishing your purpose,” said Gualtieri. “Yes, I am satisfied a brilliant future is in store for you. You are a genius such as Germany has not seen heretofore, for you are a political genius, and you may just as well confess that Germany greatly lacks politicians who are able to wield their pen like a pointed two-edged sword, to strike fatal blows in all directions and obtain victories. Germany has already fixed her eyes upon you, and even in England your name is held in great esteem since you published your excellent translation of Burke’s work on the French Revolution. The political pamphlets you have issued since that time, and the excellent political magazine you have established, have met with the warmest approval, and the public hopes and expects that you will render great and important services to the country. Go on in this manner, my friend; boldly pursue the path you have entered, and it will become for you a path of glory, honor, and wealth.”
Gentz looked at him almost angrily.
“I hope,” he said, “you will not believe me to be an avaricious and covetous man. I value money merely because it is an instrument wherewith to procure enjoyment, and because, without it, we are the slaves of misery, privations, and distress. Money renders us free, and now that people would like to set up freedom as the religion of all nations, every one ought to try to make as much money as possible, that alone rendering him really free. The accursed French Revolution, which has dragged all principles, all laws and old established institutions under the guillotine, was under the necessity of leaving one power unharmed—the power of money. The aristocracy, the clergy, nay, even royalty had to bleed under the guillotine, but money never lost its power, its influence, and its importance. Money speaks a universal language, and the Sans-culotte and Hottentot understand it as well as the king, the minister, and the most beautiful woman. Money never needs an interpreter; it speaks for itself. See, my friend, that is the reason why I love money and try to make as much as possible, not in order to amass it, but because with it I can buy the world, love, honor, enjoyment, and happiness. But not being one of those who find money in their cradles, I must endeavor to acquire it and avail myself of the capital God has given me in my brains. And that I shall and will do, sir, but I pledge you my word, never in a base and unworthy manner. I shall probably make people PAY very large sums of money for my services, but never shall I SELL myself; all the millions of the world could not induce me to write AGAINST MY PRINCIPLES, but all the millions of the world I shall demand, when they ask me to write FOR MY PRINCIPLES! See, my friend, that is my programme, and you may be sure that I shall live up to it. I am an aristocrat by nature and conviction; hence I hate the French Revolution which intended to overthrow every aristocracy, not only that of pedigree, but also that of the mind, and therefore I have sworn to oppose it as an indefatigable and indomitable champion, and to strike it as many blows with my pen and tongue as I can. Hence I shall never join the hymns of praise which the Germans, always too complaisant, are now singing to the little Corsican, General Bonaparte. Whatever you may say about his heroism and genius, I believe him to be an enemy of Germany, and am, therefore, on my guard.”
“So you do not admire his victories, the incomparable plans of his battles, which he conceives with the coolness of a wise and experienced chieftain, and carries out with the bravery and intrepidity of a hero of antiquity?”
“I admire all that, but at the same time it makes me shudder when I think that it might some day come into the head of this man who conquers every thing, to invade and conquer Germany also. I believe, indeed, he would succeed in subjugating her, for I am afraid we have no man of equal ability on our side who could take the field against him. Ah, my friend, why does not one of our German princes resemble this French general, this hero of twenty-seven years? Just think of it, he is no older than our young king; both were born in the same year.”
“You must not count his years,” exclaimed Gualtieri, “count his great days, his great battles. The enthusiasm of all Europe hails his coming, for he fights at the head of his legions for the noblest boons of manhood—for freedom, honor, and justice. No wonder, therefore, that he is victorious everywhere; the enslaved nations everywhere are in hopes that he will break their fetters and give them liberty.”
“He is a scourge God has sent to the German princes so that they may grow wiser and better. He wishes to compel them to respect the claims of their subjects to freedom and independence, that being the only way for them to erect a bulwark against this usurper who fights his battles not only with the sword, but also with ideas. Oh, I wish our German sovereigns would comprehend all this, and that all those who have a tongue to speak, would shout it into their ears and arouse them from their proud security and infatuation.”
“Well, have not you a tongue to speak, and yet you are silent?” asked Gualtieri, smiling.
“No, I have not been silent,” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically. “I have done my duty as a man and citizen, and told the whole truth to the king.”
“That means—”
“That means that I have written to the king, not with the fawning slavishness of a subject, but as a man who has seen much, reflected much, and experienced much, and who speaks to a younger man, called upon to act an important part, and holding the happiness of millions of men in his hands. It would be a crime against God and humanity, if we knew the truth and should not tell it to such a man. Because I believe I know the truth, I have spoken to the king, not in a letter which he may read to-day and throw to-morrow into his paper-basket, but in a printed memorial, which I shall circulate in thousands of copies as soon as I have heard that it is in the hands of the king.”
“And you believe the king will accept this printed memorial of yours?”
“My friend, Counsellor Menken, has undertaken to deliver it to the king.”
“In that case he will accept it, for he thinks very highly of Menken. But what did you tell the king in this memorial?”
“I gave him sound advice about government affairs.”
“Advice! my friend, kings do not like to listen to advice, especially when it is given to them spontaneously. Did you confine yourself to general suggestions? You see I am very anxious to learn more about your bold enterprise. Just read the memorial to me, friend Gentz!”
“Ah, that would be a gigantic task for you to hear it, and for myself to read it, the memorial being quite lengthy. I ask the king therein in impressive and fervent words—oh, I wept myself when I penned them—to make his people happy and prosperous. I directed his attention to the various branches of our administration; first, to military affairs—”
“And you advise him to make war?” asked Gualtieri, hastily.
“No, I advise him always to be armed and prepared, but to maintain peace as long as it is compatible with his honor. Next I allude to the condition of our judicial and financial affairs. I beseech him to abstain from interference with the administration of justice, to insist upon a constant equilibrium being maintained between the expenses and revenues of the state, so as not to overburden his subjects with taxes, and not to curtail the development of commerce and industry by vexatious monopolies. Finally, I ask him to devote some attention to intellectual affairs and to the press.”
“Oh, I expected that,” said Gualtieri, smiling, “and I should not be surprised at all if you had been bold enough to ask the timid and diffident young king to grant freedom of the press to his people.”
“Yes, that is what I ask him to do,” said Gentz, enthusiastically. “You want me to read the whole memorial to you. Let me read at least what I have said about the freedom of the press. Will you listen to it?”
“Oh, I am most anxious to hear it,” said Gualtieri, sitting down on the sofa.
Gentz took several sheets of paper from his desk, sat down opposite his friend and commenced reading in a loud and enthusiastic voice:
“Of all things repugnant to fetters, none can bear them as little as human thought. The oppression weighing down the latter is not merely injurious because it impedes what is good, but also because it promotes what is bad. Compulsion in matters of faith may be passed over in silence. It belongs to those antiquated evils on which now that there is greater danger of an utter prostration of religious ideas than of their fanatical abuse, only narrow-minded babblers are declaiming. Not so, however, with regard to freedom of the press. Misled by unfounded apprehensions, arising from the events of the times, even sagacious men might favor a system which, viewed in its true light, is more injurious to the interests of the government than it ever can be to the rights of the citizens, even in its most deplorable abuses.”
“What, even aside from all other considerations, peremptorily and absolutely condemns any law muzzling the press, is the important fact that it is impossible to enforce it. Unless there be a regular inquisition watching over the execution of such a law, it is now-a-days utterly impossible to carry it out. The facilities for bringing ideas before the public are so great, as to render any measure destined to curtail this publicity a mere matter of derision. But if these laws prove ineffectual they may yet exasperate the people, and that is precisely their most dangerous feature; they exasperate without deterring. They instigate those against whom they are directed to offer a resistance which frequently not only remains successful, but moreover becomes glorious and honorable. The most wretched productions, whose real value would not secure a life of two hours, obtain general circulation because it seems to have required some degree of courage to write them. The most insignificant scribblers will be looked upon as men of mind, and the most venal writers suddenly become ‘martyrs of truth.’ A thousand noxious insects, whom a sunbeam of truth and real sagacity would have dispersed, favored by the darkness created for them with deplorable short-sightedness, insinuate themselves into the unarmed minds of the people, and instil their poison to the last drop, as though it were a forbidden delicacy of the most exquisite character. The only antidote, the productions of better writers, loses its strength because the uninformed only too easily mistake the advocates of salutary restrictions for the defenders of such as are manifestly unjust and oppressive.”
“Let freedom of the press, therefore, be the immovable principle of your government, not as though the state or mankind, in this age so prolific in books, were interested in the publication of a thousand works more or less, but because your majesty is too great to maintain an unsuccessful, and therefore disastrous struggle, with petty adversaries. Every one should be held responsible, strictly responsible for unlawful acts and writings assuming such a character, but mere opinion should meet with no other adversary than its opposite, and if it be erroneous, with the truth. Never will such a system prove dangerous to a well-regulated state, and never has it injured such a one. Where it apparently became pernicious, destruction had preceded it already, and mortification and putrefaction had set in.” [Footnote: Memorial respectfully presented to his majesty Frederick William III., on his accession to the throne, November 16, 1797, by Frederick Gentz.]
“Well?” asked Gentz, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, when he had ceased reading, “what do you think of my exposition of the freedom of the press? Is it not clear, convincing, and unanswerable? Will not the king see that my words contain the truth, and hence follow them?”
Gualtieri looked at his friend with an air of compassionate tenderness.
“Oh, you are a full-grown child,” he said; “you still believe in the possibility of realizing Utopian dreams, and your faith is so honest, so manly! You want to force a scourge upon a timid young king, who most ardently desires to maintain peace, and to remain unnoticed, and tell him, ‘With this scourge drive out the evil spirits and expel the lies, so as to cause daylight to dawn, and darkness to disappear!’—as though that daylight would not be sure to lay bare all the injuries and ulcers of which our own poor Prussia is suffering, and for which she greatly needs darkness and silence.”
“What! you think the king will take no notice of my demands?”
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, shrugging his shoulders, “that you are a highly-gifted visionary, and that the king is a tolerably intelligent and tolerably sober young gentleman, who, whenever he wants to skate, does not allow himself to be dazzled and enticed by the smooth and glittering surface, but first repeatedly examines the ice in order to find out whether it is firm enough to bear him. And now good-by, my poor friend. I came here to congratulate you for having regained your liberty, and for belonging again to the noble and only happy order of bachelors; but instead of hearing you rejoice, I find in you a philanthropic fanatic, and an enthusiastic advocate of a free press.”
“But that does not prevent you from wishing me joy at my return to a bachelor’s life,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Yes, my friend, I am free; life is mine again, and now let the flames of pleasure close again over my head—let enjoyment surround me again in fiery torrents, I shall exultingly plunge into the whirlpool and feel as happy as a god! We must celebrate the day of my regeneration in a becoming manner; we must celebrate it with foaming champagne, pates de foie gras, and oysters; and if we want to devote a last tear to the memory of my wife, why, we shall drink a glass of Lacrymce Christi in her honor. You must come and see me to-night, Gualtieri. I shall invite a few other friends, and if you will afford us a rare pleasure, you will read to us some of La Fontaine’s Fables, which no one understands to recite so well as you.”
“I shall do so,” said Gualtieri, extending his hand to Gentz. “I shall read to you one of La Fontaine’s Fables, the first two lines of which eloquently express the whole history of your past.”
“Let me hear those two lines.”
Gualtieri covered his head, and standing in the door he had opened, he said with a deep pathos and in a profoundly melancholy voice:
Et voila la guerreallumec”—
and nodding a last adieu, he disappeared. Gentz laughed. “Indeed, he is right,” he exclaimed; “that is the end of wedded life. But, thank God, mine is over, and, I swear by all my hopes, never will I be such a fool as to marry again! I shall remain a bachelor as long as I live; for he who belongs to no woman owns all women. It is time, however, to think of to-night’s banquet. But in order to give a banquet, I must first procure new furniture for my rooms, and this time I won’t have any but beautiful and costly furniture. And how shall I get it? Ah, parbleu, I forgot the six hundred dollars I received from the minister. I shall buy furniture for that sum. No, that would be very foolish, inasmuch as I greatly need it for other purposes. The furniture dealers, I have no doubt, will willingly trust me, for I never yet purchased any thing of them. Unfortunately, I cannot say so much in regard to him who is to furnish me the wines and delicacies for the supper, and I have only one hundred dollars in my pocket. The other five hundred dollars I must send to that bloodsucker, that heartless creditor Werner. But must I do so? Ah! really, I believe it would be rank folly. The fellow would think he had frightened me, and as soon as I should owe him another bill, he would again besiege my door, and raise a fresh disturbance here. No; I will show him that I am not afraid of him, and that his impudent conduct deserves punishment. Oh, John! John!”
The door was opened immediately, and the footman entered.
“John,” said Gentz, gravely, “go at once to Mr. Werner. Tell him some friends are coming to see me to-night. I therefore want him to send me this evening twenty-four bottles of champagne, three large pates de foie gras, two hundred oysters, and whatever is necessary for a supper. If he should fill my order promptly and carefully, he can send me to-morrow a receipt for two hundred dollars, and I will pay him the money. But if a single oyster should be bad, if a single bottle of champagne should prove of poor quality, or if he should dare to decline furnishing me with the supper, he will not get a single groschen. Go and tell him that, and be back as soon as possible.”
“Meantime, I will write a few invitations,” said Gentz, as soon as he was alone. “But I shall invite none but unmarried men. In the first place, the Austrian minister, Prince von Reuss. This gentleman contents himself with one mistress, and as he fortunately does not suspect that the beautiful Marianne Meier is at the same time my mistress, he is a great friend of mine. Yes, if he knew that—ah!” he interrupted himself, laughing, “that would be another illustration of La Fontaine’s fable of the two cocks and the hen. Well, I will now write the invitations.”
He had just finished the last note when the door opened, and John entered, perfectly out of breath.
“Well, did you see Mr. Werner?” asked Gentz, folding the last note.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Werner sends word that he will furnish the supper promptly and satisfactorily, and will deliver here to-night twenty-four bottles of his best champagne, three large pates de foie gras, two hundred oysters, etc., but only on one condition.”
“What! the fellow actually dares to impose conditions?” exclaimed Gentz, indignantly. “What is it he asks?”
“He asks you, sir, when he has delivered every thing you have ordered, and before going to supper, to be kind enough to step out for a moment into the anteroom, where Mr. Werner will wait for you in order to receive there his two hundred dollars. I am to notify him if you accept this condition, and if so, he will furnish the supper.”
“Ah, that is driving me to the wall,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Well, go back, to the shrewd fellow and tell him that I accept his conditions. He is to await me in the anteroom, and as he would, of course, make a tremendous noise in case I should disappoint him, he may be sure that I shall come. So go to him, John.”
“As for myself,” said Gentz, putting on his cloak, “I shall go and purchase several thousand dollars’ worth of furniture; my rooms shall hereafter be as gorgeous as those of a prince. By the by, I believe I have been too generous. If I had offered Werner one hundred dollars, he would have contented himself with that sum.”
CHAPTER XV. THE WEDDING.
At the house of the wealthy banker Itzig a rare festival took place to-day, a festival which all Berlin had been talking of for the last few days, and which had formed the topic of conversation, no less among the people on the streets, than among the aristocratic classes in their palatial mansions. To-day the wedding of three of his beautiful young daughters was to take place, and the rich, ostentatious, and generous gentleman had left nothing undone in order to celebrate this gala-day in as brilliant and imposing a manner as possible. All the manufacturers of Berlin had been employed for months to get up the trousseaux of his daughters, for he had declared that they should wear exclusively the productions of German industry, and that not a single piece of their new household goods should be of French manufacture. Hence, all the gorgeous brocades, velvets, and laces for their dresses and furniture had been woven in Berlin manufactories; the most magnificent linen had been ordered from Silesia, and a host of milliners and seamstresses had got up every thing required for the wardrobe of the young ladies, in the most skilful and artistic manner. Even the plate and costly jewelry had been manufactured by Berlin jewellers, and the rich and exquisitely painted china had been purchased at the royal Porzellan-fabrik. These three trousseaux, so beautiful and expensive, had been, as it were, a triumph of home art and home industry, and for this reason they excited general attention. Herr Itzig had finally, though very reluctantly, yielded to the urgent entreaties of his friends and admitted the public to the rooms and halls of his house in which the trousseaux of his daughters were displayed. However, in order not to lay himself open to the charge of boastful ostentation, he had tried to impart a useful and charitable character to this exhibition. He had fixed a tablet over the entrance to those rooms, bearing the inscription of “Exhibition of Productions of Home Industry;” in addition, every visitor had to buy a ticket of admission for a few groschen, the proceeds to be distributed among the poor.
Every one hastened to the banker’s house in order to admire the “productions of home industry.” Even the queen had come with one of her ladies of honor to inspect the gorgeous display, and while admiring the magnificence of the silks and velvets and the artistic setting of the diamonds, she had exclaimed joyfully: “How glad I am to see that Germany is really able to do entirely without France, and to satisfy all her wants from her own resources!”
The queen had uttered these words perhaps on the spur of the moment, but the public imparted to them a peculiar meaning and tendency; and the newspapers, the organs of public opinion, never tired of praising the royal words, and of admonishing the inhabitants of Berlin to visit the patriotic exhibition at the banker’s house.
Curiosity, moreover, stimulated the zeal of the ladies, while political feeling caused the male part of the population to appear at the exhibition. But when it became known that the French embassy had taken umbrage at the zeal manifested by the people of Berlin, and that the French minister had even dared at the royal table to complain loudly and bitterly of the words uttered by the queen in Herr Itzig’s house, the indignation became general, and the visits to the exhibition assumed the character of a national demonstration against the overbearing French. Hosts of spectators now hastened to Herr Itzig’s house, and gay, mischievous young men took pleasure in stationing themselves in groups in the street on which the French minister was living, right in front of the house, in order to converse loudly in the French language about the rare attractions of the banker’s exhibition, and to praise the noble patriot who disdained to buy abroad what he could get at home just as well, if not better.
The success of his exhibition, however, far exceeded the wishes of the banker, and he was glad when the days during which the exhibition was to continue were at an end, so that he could exclude the inquisitive visitors from his house.
But to-day the house was to be opened to the invited guests, for to-day, as we stated before, Herr Itzig was going to celebrate simultaneously the wedding of three of his beautiful daughters, and the whole place was astir with preparations for a becoming observance of the gala-day.
While the footmen and other servants, under the direction of skilful artists, were engaged in gorgeously decorating the parlors and halls; while a hundred busy hands in the kitchen and cellar were preparing a sumptuous repast; while Herr Itzig and wife were giving the last directions for the details of the festival, the three brides were chatting confidentially in their own room. All of them were quite young yet, the eldest sister having scarcely completed her twenty-first year. They were very beautiful, and theirs was the striking and energetic beauty peculiar to the women of the Orient—that beauty of flaming black eyes, glossy black hair, a glowing olive complexion, and slender but well-developed forms. They wore a full bridal costume; their bare, beautifully rounded arms and necks were gorgeously adorned with diamonds and other precious stones; their tall and vigorous figures were clad in white silk dresses, trimmed with superb laces. He who would have seen them thus in the full charm of beauty, grace, and youth, in their magnificent costumes, and with delicate myrtle-crowns on their heads, would have believed he beheld three favorite daughters of Fate, who had never known care and grief, and upon whose heads happiness had poured down an uninterrupted sunshine.
Perhaps it was so; perhaps it was only the beautiful myrtle-crowns that cast a shadow over the faces of the three brides, and not their secret thoughts—their silent wishes.
They had eagerly conversed for a while, but now, however, they paused and seemed deeply absorbed. Finally, one of them slowly raised her glowing black eyes and cast a piercing glance upon her sisters. They felt the magic influence of this glance, and raised their eyes at the same time.
“Why do you look at us so intently, Fanny?” they asked.
“I want to see if I can read truth on your brow,” said Fanny; “or if the diamonds and the myrtle-crowns conceal every thing. Girls, suppose we take off for a moment the shining but lying masks with which we adorn ourselves in the eyes of the world, and show to each other our true and natural character? We have always lied to each other. We said mutually to each other: ‘I am happy. I am not jealous of you, for I am just as happy as you.’ Suppose we now open our lips really and tell the truth about our hearts? Would not it be novel and original? Would it not be an excellent way of whiling away these few minutes until our betrothed come and lead us to the altar? See, this is the last time that we shall be thus together—the last time that we bear the name of our father; let us, therefore, for once tell each other our true sentiments. Shall we do so?”
“Yes,” exclaimed the two sisters. “But about what do you want us to tell you the truth?”
“About our hearts,” replied Fanny, gravely. “Esther, you are the eldest of us three. You must commence. Tell us, therefore, if you love your betrothed, Herr Ephraim?”
Esther looked at her in amazement. “If I love him?” she asked. “Good Heaven! how should I happen to love him? I scarcely know him. Father selected him for me; it is a brilliant match; I shall remain in Berlin; I shall give splendid parties and by my magnificent style of living greatly annoy those ladies of the so-called haute volee, who have sometimes dared to turn up their noses at the ‘Jewesses.’ Whether I shall be able to love Ephraim, I do not know; but we shall live in brilliant style, and as we shall give magnificent dinner-parties, we shall never lack guests from the most refined classes of society. Such are the prospects of my future, and although I cannot say that I am content with them, yet I know that others will deem my position a most enviable one, and that is at least something.”
“The first confession!” said Fanny, smiling. “Now it is your turn, Lydia. Tell us, therefore, do you love Baron von Eskeles, your future husband?”
Lydia looked at her silently and sadly. “Do not ask me,” she said, “for you and Esther know very well that I do not love him. I once had a splendid dream. I beheld myself an adored wife by the side of a young man whom I loved and who loved me passionately. He was an artist, and when he was sitting at his easel, he felt that he was rich and happy, even without money, for he had his genius and his art. When I was looking at his paintings, and at the handsome and inspired artist himself, it seemed to me there was but one road to happiness on earth: to belong to that man, to love him, to serve him, and, if it must be, to suffer and starve with him. It was a dream, and father aroused me from it by telling me that I was to marry Baron von Eskeles, that he had already made an agreement with the baron’s father, and that the wedding would take place in two weeks.”
“Poor Lydia!” murmured the sisters.
A pause ensued. “Well,” asked Esther, “and you, Fanny? You examine us and say nothing about yourself. What about your heart, my child? Do you love your betrothed, Baron von Arnstein, the partner of Eskeles, your future brother-in-law? You are silent? Have you nothing to say to us?”
“I have to say to you that we are all to be pitied and very unhappy,” said Fanny, passionately. “Yes, to be pitied and very unhappy, notwithstanding our wealth, our diamonds, and our brilliant future! We have been sold like goods; no one has cared about the hearts which these goods happen to have, but every one merely took into consideration how much profit he would derive from them. Oh, my sisters, we rich Jewesses are treated just in the same manner as the poor princesses; we are sold to the highest bidder. And we have not got the necessary firmness, energy, and independence to emancipate ourselves from this degrading traffic in flesh and blood. We bow our heads and obey, and, in the place of love and happiness, we fill our hearts with pride and ostentation, and yet we are starving and pining away in the midst of our riches.”
“Yes,” sighed Lydia, “and we dare not even complain! Doomed to eternal falsehood, we must feign a happiness we do not experience, and a love we do not feel.”
“I shall not do so!” exclaimed Fanny, proudly. “It is enough for me to submit to compulsion, and to bow my head; but never shall I stoop so low as to lie.”
“What! you are going to tell your husband that you do not love him?” asked the sisters.
“I shall not say that to my husband, but to my betrothed as soon as he makes his appearance.”
“But suppose he does not want to marry a girl who does not love him?”
“Then he is the one who breaks off the match, not I, and father cannot blame me for it. But do you not hear footsteps in the hall? It is my betrothed. I begged him to be here a quarter of an hour previous to the commencement of the ceremony, because I desired to speak to him about a very serious matter. He is coming. Now pray go to the parlor, and wait for me there. I shall rejoin you, perhaps alone, and in that case I shall be free; perhaps, however, Arnstein will accompany me, and in that eventuality he will have accepted the future as I am going to offer it to him. Farewell, sisters; may God protect us all.”
“May God protect YOU.” said Lydia, tenderly embracing her sister. “You have a courageous and strong soul, and I wish mine were like yours.”
“Would that save you, Lydia?” asked Fanny, sharply. “Courage and energy are of no avail in our case; in spite of our resistance, we should have to submit and to suffer. He is coming.”
She pushed her sisters gently toward the parlor door, and then went to meet her betrothed, who had just entered.
“Mr. Arnstein,” said Fanny, giving him her hand, “I thank you for complying so promptly with my request.”
“A business man is always prompt,” said the young baron, with a polite bow.
“Ah, and you treat this interview with me likewise as a business affair?”
“Yes, but as a business affair of the rarest and most exquisite character. A conference with a charming young lady is worth more than a conference with the wealthiest business friend, even if the interview with the latter should yield a profit of one hundred per cent.”
“Ah, I believe you want to flatter me,” said Fanny, closely scanning the small and slender figure and the pale face of the baron.
He bowed with a gentle smile, but did not raise his eyes toward her. Fanny could not help perceiving that his brow was slightly clouded.
“Baron,” she said, “I have begged you to come and see me, because I do not want to go to the altar with a lie on my soul. I will not deceive God and yourself, and therefore I now tell you, frankly and sincerely, I do not love you, baron; only my father’s will gives my hand to you!”
There was no perceptible change in the young baron’s face. He seemed neither surprised nor offended.
“Do you love another man?” he asked quietly.
“No, I love no one!” exclaimed Fanny.
“Ah, then, you are fortunate indeed,” he said, gloomily. “It is by far easier to marry with a cold heart, than to do so with a broken one; for the cold heart may grow warm, but the broken one never.”
Fanny’s eyes were fixed steadfastly on his features.
“Mr. Arnstein,” she exclaimed, impetuously, “you do not love me either!”
He forced himself to smile. “Who could see you—you, the proud, glorious beauty—without falling in love with you?” he exclaimed, emphatically.
“Pray, no empty flatteries,” said Fanny, impatiently. “Oh, tell me the truth! I am sure you do not love me!”
“I saw you too late,” he said, mournfully; “if I had known you sooner, I should have loved you passionately.”
“But now I am too late—and have you already loved another?” she asked, hastily.
“Yes, I love another,” he said, gravely and solemnly. “As you ask me, I ought to tell you the truth. I love another.”
“Nevertheless, you want to marry me?” she exclaimed, angrily.
“And you?” he asked, gently. “Do you love me?”
“But I told you already my heart is free. I love no one, while you—why don’t you marry her whom you love?”
“Because I cannot marry her.”
“Why cannot you marry her?”
“Because my father is opposed to it. He is the chief of our house and family. He commands, and we obey. He is opposed to it because the young lady whom I love is poor. She would not increase the capital of our firm.”
“Oh, eternally, eternally that cold mammon, that idol to whom our hearts are sacrificed so ruthlessly!” exclaimed Fanny, indignantly. “For money we sell our youth, our happiness, and our love.”
“I have not sold my love. I have sacrificed it,” said Baron Arnstein, gravely; “I have sacrificed it to the interests of our firm. But in seeing you so charming and sublime in your loveliness and glowing indignation, I am fully satisfied already that I am no longer to be pitied, for I shall have the most beautiful and generous wife in all Vienna.”
“Then you really want to marry me? You will not break off the match, although your heart belongs to another woman, and although you know that I do not love you?”
“My beautiful betrothed, let us not deceive each other,” he said, smiling; “it is not a marriage, but a partnership we are going to conclude in obedience to the wishes of our fathers. In agreeing upon this partnership only our fortunes, but not our hearts, were thought of. The houses of Itzig, Arnstein, and Eskeles will flourish more than ever; whether the individuals belonging to these houses will wither is of no importance. Let us therefore submit to our fate, my dear, for we cannot escape from it. Would it be conducive to your happiness if I should break off the match? Your father would probably select another husband for you, perhaps in Poland or in Russia, and you would be buried with all the treasures of your beauty and accomplishments in some obscure corner of the world, while I shall take you to Vienna, to the great theatre of the world—upon a stage where you will at least not lack triumphs and homage. And I? Why should I be such a stupid fool as to give you up—you who bring to me much more than I deserve—your beauty, your accomplishments, and your generous heart? Ah, I shall be the target of general envy, for there is no lady in Vienna worthy of being compared with you. As I cannot possess her whom I love, I may thank God that my father has selected you for me. You alone are to be pitied, Fanny, for I cannot offer you any compensation for the sacrifices you are about to make in my favor. I am unworthy of you; you are my superior in beauty, intellect, and education. I am a business man, that is all. But in return I have at least something to give—wealth, splendor, and a name that has a good sound, even at the imperial court. Let me, then, advise you as a friend to accept my hand—it is the hand of a friend who, during his whole life, will honestly strive to compensate you for not being able to give his love to you and to secure your happiness.”
He feelingly extended his hand to her, and the young lady slowly laid hers upon it.
“Be it so!” she said, solemnly; “I accept your hand and am ready to follow you. We shall not be a pair of happy lovers, but two good and sincere friends.”
“That is all I ask,” said Arnstein, gently. “Never shall I molest you with pretensions and demands that might offend your delicacy and be repugnant to your heart; never shall I ask more of you than what I hope I shall be able to deserve—your esteem and your confidence. Never shall I entertain the infatuated pretensions of a husband demanding from his wife an affection and fidelity he is himself unable to offer her. In the eyes of the world we shall be man and wife; but in the interior of your house you will find liberty and independence. There you will be able to gratify all your whims and wishes; there every one will bow to you and obey you. First of all, I shall do so myself. You shall be the pride, the glory and joy of my house, and secure to it a brilliant position in society. We shall live in princely style, and you shall rule as a queen in my house. Will that satisfy you? Do you accept my proposition?”
“Yes, I accept it,” exclaimed Fanny, with radiant eyes, “and I assure you no other house in Vienna shall equal ours. We will make it a centre of the best society, and in the midst of this circle which is to embrace the most eminent representatives of beauty, intellect, and distinction, we will forget that we are united without happiness and without love.”
“But there will be a day when your heart will love,” said Arnstein. “Swear to me that you will not curse me on that day because I shall then stand between you and your love. Swear to me that you will always regard me as your friend, that you will have confidence in me, and tell me when that unhappy and yet so happy hour will strike, when your heart begins to speak.”
“I swear it to you!” said Fanny, gravely. “We will always be sincere toward each other. Thus we shall always be able to avert wretchedness, although it may not be in our power to secure happiness. And now, my friend, come, give me your arm and accompany me to the parlor where they are already waiting for us. Now, I shall no longer weep and mourn over this day, for it has given to me a friend, a brother!”
She took his arm and went with him to the parlor. A gentle smile was playing on her lips when the door was opened and they entered. With an air of quiet content she looked at her sisters, who were standing by the side of their betrothed, and had been waiting for her with trembling impatience.
“There is no hope left,” murmured Lydia; “she accepts her fate, too, and submits.”
“She follows my example,” thought Esther; “she consoles herself with her wealth and brilliant position in society. Indeed, there is no better consolation than that.”
At that moment the door opened, and the rabbi in his black robe, a skull-cap on his head, appeared on the threshold, followed by the precentor and sexton. Solemn silence ensued, and all heads were lowered in prayer while the rabbi was crossing the room in order to salute the parents of the brides.