Winter Evening Tales

“Franz, good morning.  Whose philosophy is it now?  Hegel, Spinosa, Kant or Dugald Stewart?”

“None of them.  I am reading Faust.”

“Worse and worse.  Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in the clouds.  At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to the right about, stick to Shakespeare.”

“He is too material.  He can’t get rid of men and women.”

“They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto.  Come, Franz, condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin Christine Stromberg.”

“I do not know the young lady.”

“Of course not.  She has just returned from a Munich school.  Her brother Max was at the Lyndons’ great party, you remember?”

“I don’t remember, Louis.  In white cravats and black coats all men look alike.”

“But you will go?”

“If you wish it, yes.  There are some uncut reviews on the table:  amuse yourself while I dress.”

“Thanks, I have my cigar case.  I will take a smoke and think of Christine.”

For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech.  He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the careless use of her name.  It fell upon some soul consciousness like a familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of his life for any clew to this familiarity.

He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, thoughtful eyes.  In a conversation that interested him his face lighted up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit.  Even the regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, “You are still Franz Müller.  No one is just like you.  I should think Cousin Christine will fall in love with you.”

Again Franz’s heart resented this speech.  It had been waiting for love for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it.  No one but the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally willing to respect it.

Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity.  It was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never have really loved any mortal woman.  But his hour had come at last.  As soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her.  A strange exaltation possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare exhibitions of such moods.  And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty and wit.  The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what questions Franz’s eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her.

“I wonder where I have seen him before,” she murmured—­“I wonder where it was?” and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was only to take it up again in dreams.

As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep.  “One has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness,” he said to himself.  And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but dawning day.

“In a few hours now I can go and see Christine.”  At this point in his love he had no other thought.  He was too happy to speculate on any probability as yet.  It was sufficient at present to know that he had found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again.

He chose the earlier number.  It was just eleven o’clock when he rung Mr. Stromberg’s bell.  Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, and greeted him pleasantly.  “Christine and I are just going to have breakfast,” she said, in her jolly, hearty way.  “Come in Mr. Müller, and have a cup of coffee with us.”

Nothing could have delighted Franz so much.  Christine was pouring it out as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor.  How beautiful she looked in her long loose morning dress!  How, bewitching were its numerous bows of pale ribbon!  He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had not the slightest conception.

A cup of coffee passing through Christine’s, hands necessarily suffered some wonderful change.  It could not, and it did not, taste like ordinary coffee.  In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls became sublimated.  So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as that breakfast on the avenue.

When it was over, it came into Franz’s heart to offer Christine a ride.  They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and the spring airs were full of happiness and hope.  Christine was arranging and watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz’s hands and hers had lingered happily together.  So now love gave to this mortal an immortal’s confidence.  He never thought of sighing and fearing and trembling.  His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believed that sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say to her.

“Shall we ride?” he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at her with eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness.

Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of what people would say.  But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, and laughed at society; and before Christine had decided which of her costumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door.

How they rattled up the avenue and through the park!  How the green branches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped about them!  By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgotten they were mortal.  Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidence of love’s exaltation into love’s silent tender melancholy, were just as blissful.

They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, but just before they parted Franz said, “I have been waiting thirty years for you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed.”

And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave them to him.

Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor.  Franz must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet weeks and months for him.  He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and laid his whole life down at Christine’s feet.  There was no definite engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as surely as the end of the season.

Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, but the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched.  And Franz was not anxious at all on this score.  His father, a shrewd business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer.  “It is not the boy’s fault,” he said to his partner, “he gets it from his grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it.”

So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase.  He had bought wisely, and Franz’s income was a certain and handsome one, with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been accustomed.

So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg.  All he had should be Christine’s and her father should settle the matter just as he thought best for his daughter.  In a general way this was understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm of their young lives’ idyl.

Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancient superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect happiness.  Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate.

But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been so green and gay, Franz’s dream was rudely broken—­broken by a Mr. James Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth three millions.  In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him.

Mr. Stromberg’s “private ledger” alone knew the whole secret; for of course money was at the foundation.  Indeed, in these days, in all public and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not “Who is she?” but “How much is it?” Franz Müller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on sight.  Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate affection.

In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the possibility of such a thing.  Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations that she had accepted so happily all summer.  As for Christine, she had constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with weeping.

At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a month with some relative near Boston.  A pitiful little note from Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information as to the locality of her relative’s house, and no invitation to call, he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him—­wait patiently for their return.

At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and anger.  When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found the house where Christine was staying.  He was received at first very shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very miserable.

Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, “just for five minutes.”  The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever.  The five minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been broken in two for this life.

One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called.  “Franz,” he said, “have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old Clarke?”

“Yes.”

“No one can trust a woman.  It is a shame of Christine.”

“Louis, speak of what you know.  Christine is an angel.  If a woman appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her forcing her to do it.”

“I thought she was to be your wife.”

“She is my wife in soul and feeling.  No one, thank God, can help that.  If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine Stromberg.  Do not speak of her again, Louis.  The poor innocent child!  God bless her!” And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation.

In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style of extravagant splendor.  People wondered and exclaimed at Christine’s reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their suggestions.  She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a wretched spectre.

They rarely or never spoke.  Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no recognition.  The world held her name above reproach, and considered that she had done very well to herself.

Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the world regards as natural and inevitable.  Christine’s mother died and her father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter.  Franz watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy coldness of her manners.  Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched passion.  “If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?” he asked himself; “and these little ones, what have they done?” So at last he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to regard them as part and portion of his love.

But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected.  Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis came to tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, for he had found out that the beaten track is the safest.

“Franz,” he said, “have you heard about Clarke?  His affairs are frightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago.”

“And Christine?  Does she know?  Who has gone to her?”

“My wife is with her.  Clarke shot himself in his own room.  Christine was the first to reach him.  He left a letter saying he was absolutely ruined.”

“Where will Christine and the children go?”

“I suppose to her father’s.  Not a pleasant place for her now.  Christine’s step-mother dislikes both her and the children.”

Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling of disappointment.  “I thought he would have done something for her,” he said to his wife.  “Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent.”

Ten days after he came home with a different story.  “There never was a woman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine,” he said.  “Hardy & Hall sent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on her before her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal.  It seems the old gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and in order to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy’s charge two beautifully furnished cottages.  There is something like an accumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one is luckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once.  I always thought the property was Hardy’s own before.  Very thoughtful in Clarke.”

“It is not Clarke one bit.  I don’t believe he ever did it.  It is some arrangement of Franz Müller’s.”

“For goodness’ sake don’t hint such a thing, Lizzie!  Christine would not go, and we should have her here very soon.  Besides, I don’t believe it.  Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since.”

The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife’s opinion.  “What do you think, Lizzie?” he said.  “Franz came to me to-day and asked if Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars.  I told him Clarke gave me two thousand about the time we were married.”

“‘Say loaned, Louis,’ he answered, ’to oblige me.  Here is two thousand and the interest for six years.  Go and pay it to Christine; she must need money.’  So I went.”

“Is she settled comfortably?”

“Oh, very.  Go and see her often.  Franz is sure to marry her, and he is growing richer every day.”

It seemed as if Louis’s prediction would come true.  Franz began to drive out every afternoon to Ryebeach.  At first he contented himself with just passing Christine’s gate.  But he soon began to stop for the children, and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea.

For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others noticed:  he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left him weary and breathless.  She knew in her heart that it was, the last summer he would be with her.  Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first one!  It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into her face.

One day his physician met Louis on Broadway.  “Mr. Curtin,” he said, “your friend Müller is very ill.  I consider his life measured by days, perhaps hours.  He has long had organic disease of the heart.  It is near the last.”

“Does he know it?”

“Yes, he has known it long.  Better see him at once.”

So Louis went at once.  He found Franz calmly making his last preparations for the great event.  “I am glad you are come, Louis,” he said; “I was going to send for you.  See this cabinet full of letters.  I have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when—­when I am gone.

“This small packet is Christine’s dear little notes:  bury them with me:  there are ten of them, every one ten years old.”

“Is that all, dear Franz?”

“Yes; my will has long been made.  Except a legacy to yourself, all goes to Christine—­dear, dear Christine!”

“You love her yet, then, Franz?”

“What do you mean?  I have loved her for ages.  I shall love her forever.  She is the other half of my soul.  In some lives I have missed her altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one.”

“Do you know what you are saying, Franz?”

“Very clearly, Louis.  I have always believed with the oldest philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permitted them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to meet and comfort each other.  Do you think I saw Christine for the first time in your uncle’s parlor?  Louis, I have fairer and grander memories of her than any linked to this life.  I must leave her now for a little.  God knows when and where we meet again; but He does know; that is my hope and consolation.”

Whatever were Louis’s private opinions about Franz’s theology it was impossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend’s last instructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had long been strange to his-heart.

In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine’s.  It was the last physical effort he was capable of.  No one saw the parting of those two souls.  He went with Christine’s arms around him, and her lips whispering tender, hopeful farewells.  It was noticed however, that after Franz’s death a strange change came over Christine—­a beautiful nobility and calmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiest aims.

Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left.  The ten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went to the grave with him, but the rest were of such an extraordinary nature that Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and then at her request leaving them for her to dispose of.  They were indeed letters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, and directed to every place in which she had sojourned.  In all of them she was addressed as “Beloved Wife of my Soul,” and in this way the poor fellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart.

To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these all referred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned in Christine’s and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he had written only for his own comfort.  But it was perhaps well they fell into Christine’s hands:  she could not but be a better woman for reading the simple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness and child-like submission as the goal of its duties.

Seven years after Franz’s death Christine and her daughter died together of the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left sole inheritor of Franz’s wealth.

“A German dreamer!”

Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers.  And perchance he that seeks fame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life “as a dream when one awaketh.”