"My ma.n.u.script," he said, writing his name in the mail-book with an unsteady hand.

"There's a gulden and twenty-four kreutzers to pay," said the messenger.

"So much?" growled Herbert, counting out the money carefully by groschen and kreutzers. When the man had left the room, Herbert hastily tore open the envelope, and a letter appeared, which he hurriedly looked through and handed to his wife with a look of despair. The letter was from the manager of the royal court theatre at X----, and ran thus:

"To Herr Professor Herbert, of N----:

"I am greatly concerned, sir, to be obliged to return you your tragedy of 'Penthesilea,' as it presents insurmountable difficulties for scenic representation. The secrecy enjoined upon me shall be inviolably preserved.

"With great respect, etc.,

"W----."

Frau Herbert looked up with a sigh at her husband, who stood pale and trembling beside her.

"There goes my last hope," he said, tearing up the letter. "I forgave all the other managers and directors for sending back the ma.n.u.script, for they are incapable of appreciating the value of such a work. But no one can accuse a man like W---- of not appreciating genuine art, and if he refuses to bring it out he must be actuated by envy. However that may be, in these lines he has written his own death-warrant." He raised his hand containing the crushed letter with something like solemnity, and continued: "I now declare war upon the German stage and its supporters. If I have nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear. I have written six tragedies for the waste-paper basket. I will not write another. Having nothing to fear, I may allow myself the delight of revenge. Criticism is an all-embracing friend, affording a sure refuge for every one who is misunderstood and depreciated. I will throw myself into its arms from this moment. Our public is degenerate. I give up composing for a people who crowd to a farce, shout applause at the commonplace jests of the hero of a modern comedy, and dissolve in tears at a sensation drama from a woman's pen. Shakspeare's, Schiller's, and Goethe's works would be rejected to-day as 'pulpit eloquence,' if past ages had not stamped them as cla.s.sic. This degraded generation must be educated anew by criticism. They sneer and jeer, and jingle the money in their pockets, these traders of the drama, who demoralise the public; but I will so scourge them that I shall be called the Attila of the German stage."

He paused, for breath failed him to continue his philippic, and he began to read over his ma.n.u.script, murmuring to himself, "This is for the future."

Frau Herbert, as was her wont, suffered him to rage on without interruption; but at last she was compelled, out of regard for truth, to attempt to check the outpourings of the angry man. "It is a mournful office," she began, "that of literary executioner, and one I should be sorry to undertake. There is no good done to anybody by it. Many a blossoming genius is destroyed in the bud, and the critic brings upon himself the curses of those who have been striving and labouring honestly, night and day, only to see the offspring of all their pains ruthlessly murdered by the cold steel of his criticism. And the public do not thank you for degrading in its eyes what it had taken pleasure in, and thus robbing it of much enjoyment. Schiller and Goethe never practised criticism after this fashion. They knew how to live and let live, for they were too great to wish to aggrandize themselves at the expense of their contemporaries, and too good to destroy the results of the painful labours of others. Oh, Edmund, how small the man must be who can seek to exalt himself by depreciating others!"

"You are preaching again without sense or reason," Herbert said angrily to his wife. "It was very easy for Schiller and Goethe to play at magnanimity, for they were never misunderstood,--the wiser generation of their day did not refuse them the crowns that belonged to them of right. A king by election would be a fool to make war upon the va.s.sals of his realm. But the nation refuses me my right, and therefore I shall make war upon it."

"Are you so sure of this right?" Frau Herbert asked in a low tone. "Are you so sure that your works are of equal value with Schiller's and Goethe's, and deserve the same applause?"

Herbert stood as if petrified at the presumption of such a speech. "I really think the pain must have gone from your face to your brain. We had better discontinue this conversation."

Frau Herbert went on with her work. A slight flush tinged her bloodless cheek, but she was too used to such attacks to reply to them. She had already said too much of what she thought, and when she looked at Herbert's anxious face she was seized with compa.s.sion. Poorly as he bore it, he had met with misfortune, and she would not add to his pain. "Pray, Edmund," she said, after a pause, occupied by Herbert in seeking and finding consolation in the beauties of his ma.n.u.script, "make up your mind now to read the piece to your friends. There are so many intellectual people here who will give you their opinion honestly,--then you can see what impression your work makes as a whole, and perhaps their criticism may enable you to improve it here and there."

"I desire no one's opinion. I know perfectly well myself what the tragedy is worth. Shall I give occasion to have it said that I needed the a.s.sistance of others to enable me to complete my work? And then to have it reported that I composed dramas that were always rejected! No, I will not acknowledge a work that has met with no applause; neither my brother professors nor my students must hear of it."

The handle of the door was turned, and through the opening smiled another opening,--Elsa's large mouth. When she saw the gloom overspreading her brother's countenance, her snub-nose, too, made its appearance, and, finally, her entire lovely person. She wore a white ap.r.o.n with a bib, calico over-sleeves, and had one pencil in her hand and another behind her right ear.

"Your voices disturbed me at my work. Why contend thus? You know that my exquisite fancies are scared away, like timid birds, by the slightest noise."

"It is a fine time to consider your nonsense, when such a work as my 'Penthesilea' has been returned to its author as 'unserviceable!'"

thundered her brother.

"Heavens!" cried Elsa in dismay. "Penthesilea rejected by W----! Oh, who would have thought it! I so revered that man! My poor brother, this is hard! But, brother, dear Edmund, do not be too much depressed! Oh, I feel with you entirely. Any one who knows as well as I do what it is to have works rejected, can understand your pain. And what says my poor Ulrika? She looks so disappointed."

"Oh, you need not pity her!" observed Herbert bitterly. "Her husband's incapacity alone, not his misfortune, troubles her."

Frau Herbert turned her face towards the window, as if she had not heard him.

"Oh, you must forgive her, brother dear--she has never done anything but translate. She cannot know a poet's finer feeling."

At this disparaging remark, Frau Herbert looked calmly and gravely at Elsa. "And yet my unpretending translations for the periodicals supply us with the only means upon which we can rely, apart from Edmund's salary and the small interest of my property. That is because I never attempt what lies beyond my reach. No undertaking, however humble, that keeps pace with one's ability, can fail to produce some fruit, small though it may be."

Elsa turned away, rather taken aback by this turn of the conversation, and her brother muttered, "Of course this is the sequel to the fine talk about attempting and failing."

Elsa threw herself down upon a cushion at his feet, in Clarchen's att.i.tude before Egmont, patted his smoothly shaven cheeks, and taking the thick ma.n.u.script out of his hand, pressed it to her bosom, saying, "Take comfort, my poet. Your 'Penthesilea' must always live!

Here,--here,--and in the hearts of all. Print it, and publish it as a dramatic poem. It will find readers among the most intellectual people of the country."

"You are a good sister," said Herbert, flattered. "But you know that I have never yet been able to find a publisher enlightened enough to bring out my tragedies. And my own means are not sufficient to enable me to print the work."

"Oh, brother dear, I cannot believe that 'Penthesilea' would not find a publisher. It is the greatest thing you have ever written. The coa.r.s.est of men must be touched by such elevation of thought. There may perhaps be some difficulty in representing fitly upon the stage the conflict between Trojans, Greeks, and Amazons in the presence of the gigantic horse. But I cannot think that any one would refuse to print such a gem,--no--never! Yet, even in case of such incredible obtuseness, do not despair. My cookery-book will bring me in such a large sum that I shall be able to help you. Oh, what a strange freak of destiny, should I be permitted by means of a cookery-book to afford the German nation the knowledge of this immortal work! The ways of genius are inscrutable, and perhaps 'Penthesilea' may one day be born from the steam of a soup-tureen, as Aphrodite was from the foam of the sea.

There, now, you are smiling once more. May not your sister contribute somewhat to her brother's success?"

"You are a dear poetical child. Although I do not share your antic.i.p.ations, your appreciation of my efforts does me good. Thank you!" And darling Edmund laid his hand upon his sister's curly head as it lay tenderly upon his breast.

CHAPTER VI.

EMANc.i.p.aTION OF THE FLESH.

On the evening of this eventful day, Professor Herbert, before going to the Mollners', entered a splendid boudoir in a retired villa on the outskirts of the city. The entire room formed a tent of crimson damask shot with gold and gathered in huge folds to a rosette in the centre of the ceiling. Around the walls were ranged low Turkish divans of the same material. The floor was covered with crimson-plush rugs as thick and soft as mossy turf. Turkish pipes and costly weapons of all kinds,--shields, swords, pistols, and daggers,--adorned the walls. In the background of the apartment slender columns supported a canopy above a lounge, before which was spread a lion's skin, with the head carefully preserved. Upon the floor beside it stood an elegant apparatus for smoking opium. A riding-whip, the handle set with diamonds, lay upon a table of bronze and malachite. A Chinese salver, heaped with cigars, was upon a low stand beside the lounge. Upon a polished marble pedestal in the centre of the room stood a bronze of the Farnese bull, and to the right and left of the lounge were placed bronzes of the horse-tamers of the Monte Cavallo at Rome. The rich hangings of the walls were draped over candelabra holding lamps of ground gla.s.s.

The smoke of a cigar was circling in blue rings around the room, that was far more fit for a Turkish pasha than for a lady. And yet it was the abode of a lady, and it was the smoke from her cigar that encircled Herbert upon his entrance.

At first he only saw, resting on the lion's skin, two beautiful little feet in Russian slippers embroidered with pearls. The drapery of the canopy above the lounge concealed the rest of the figure. He advanced a few steps, and there, stretched comfortably upon the swelling cushions, reclined a woman beside whom all other works of nature were but journey-work,--such a woman as appears in the world now and then to cast utterly into the shade all that men have hitherto deemed beautiful. Herbert stood dazzled and blinded by the apparition before him. He was dressed in his new coat, and had an elegant cane in his hand, that was covered by a glove, upon which his wife had that morning employed her skill. But what was he, in all his elegance, by the side of this woman! He stood there dumb "in the consciousness of his nothingness." What could he be to her, or what could he give her? She was the woman of her race! She must mate with the man of her race, as the last giantess in the Nibelungen Lied could love only the last giant. Was he in his fine new coat this man of men,--the Siegfried to conquer this Brunhilda? Ah, he was but too conscious that he was nothing but a poor weakling, whose only strength lay in his pa.s.sionate admiration of her!

"Aha, here comes our little Philister," said the fair Brunhilda in broken German with a yawn, holding out her soft hand to him and drawing him down upon the lounge beside her like a child. Herbert sank into the luxurious cushions, that almost met, like waves, above him. The position did not at all suit his stiff, erect bearing, which was entirely wanting in the graceful suppleness of the born aristocrat who lolls with ease upon silken cushions. Such a seat would become a man in loose flowing costume, with an opium-pipe between his lips, and ready when wearied to fall asleep with his head pillowed upon the lady's lap.

Poor Herbert was not one of these favourites of Fortune. He sat there stiff and wooden as a broken-jointed doll,--his pointed knees emerging from his downy nest, and his tight-fitting clothes stretched almost to their destruction by his unusual posture. He timidly placed his hat upon the stand beside him, and envied it its loftier position.

"How now, my learned gentleman?" the lady began again. "What! dumb?

What is the matter now?--what ails you?--domestic misery? Pardon! I mean conjugal bliss."

"That is my constant trouble, dearest countess," Herbert replied, "although its dust never cleaves to my wings when I am with you. It is not that that worries me to-day. My Penthesilea----"

The countess laughed loudly, and puffed out a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. "Here it comes! It is either his wife or his Penthesilea that teases him! I hope both may rest in eternal peace before long, for an unhappy husband and a tragedy are as much out of place in this boudoir as the fragrance of eau de Cologne or chamomile-tea--those horrid accompaniments of a sick-room!"

"And yet it was you, fairest countess, that inspired me to embalm in cla.s.sic verse that bold Amazon of antiquity."

"That may be, and yet, my good fellow, believe me, Penthesilea herself would have considered it a terrible bore to have to read of her glory in a German tragedy. Come; don't be offended Have a cigar. Do you want fire to light it? Here; I will give you more than you need." And, with a laugh, she leaned towards him and lighted his cigar by her own.

"You know you can do whatever you please with me," said Herbert, making a feeble attempt to twist his legs into a more comfortable position.

"But take care not to go too far!"

"Oho! my Herr Professor would fain mount his high horse?"

"No, only take a higher seat," said Herbert involuntarily.

"Well, then, sit on this ottoman, you wooden German with no sense of Oriental ease. There! will that do? When you really wish to mount a high horse, I pray you take mine. How often I have placed my Ali at your disposal! Do let me enjoy the delight of once seeing you on horseback! Will you not? Oh, it would be delightful!"