Franz Müller's Wife

"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."