MUNICH***


Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                 THE HOUSE OF HEINE BROTHERS, IN MUNICH.


THE house of Heine Brothers, in Munich, was of good repute at the time of
which I am about to tell,—a time not long ago; and is so still, I trust.
It was of good repute in its own way, seeing that no man doubted the word
or solvency of Heine Brothers; but they did not possess, as bankers, what
would in England be considered a large or profitable business.  The
operations of English bankers are bewildering in their magnitude.
Legions of clerks are employed.  The senior book-keepers, though only
salaried servants, are themselves great men; while the real partners are
inscrutable, mysterious, opulent beyond measure, and altogether unknown
to their customers.  Take any firm at random,—Brown, Jones, and Cox, let
us say,—the probability is that Jones has been dead these fifty years,
that Brown is a Cabinet Minister, and that Cox is master of a pack of
hounds in Leicestershire.  But it was by no means so with the house of
Heine Brothers, of Munich.  There they were, the two elderly men, daily
to be seen at their dingy office in the Schrannen Platz; and if any
business was to be transacted requiring the interchange of more than a
word or two, it was the younger brother with whom the customer was, as a
matter of course, brought into contact.  There were three clerks in the
establishment; an old man, namely, who sat with the elder brother and had
no personal dealings with the public; a young Englishman, of whom we
shall anon hear more; and a boy who ran messages, put the wood on to the
stoves, and swept out the bank.  Truly he house of Heine Brothers was of
no great importance; but nevertheless it was of good repute.

The office, I have said, was in the Schrannen Platz, or old Market-place.
Munich, as every one knows, is chiefly to be noted as a new town,—so new
that many of the streets and most of the palaces look as though they had
been sent home last night from the builders, and had only just been taken
out of their bandboxes It is angular, methodical, unfinished, and
palatial.  But there is an old town; and, though the old town be not of
surpassing interest, it is as dingy, crooked, intricate, and dark as
other old towns in Germany.  Here, in the old Market-place, up one long
broad staircase, were situated the two rooms in which was held the bank
of Heine Brothers.

Of the elder member of the firm we shall have something to say before
this story be completed.  He was an old bachelor, and was possessed of a
bachelor’s dwelling somewhere out in the suburbs of the city.  The junior
brother was a married man, with a wife some twenty years younger than
himself, with two daughters, the elder of whom was now one-and-twenty,
and one son.  His name was Ernest Heine, whereas the senior brother was
known as Uncle Hatto.  Ernest Heine and his wife inhabited a portion of
one of those new palatial residences at the further end of the Ludwigs
Strasse; but not because they thus lived must it be considered that they
were palatial people.  By no means let it be so thought, as such an idea
would altogether militate against whatever truth of character painting
there may be in this tale.  They were not palatial people, but the very
reverse, living in homely guise, pursuing homely duties, and satisfied
with homely pleasures.  Up two pairs of stairs, however, in that street
of palaces, they lived, having there a commodious suite of large rooms,
furnished, after the manner of the Germans, somewhat gaudily as regarded
their best salon, and with somewhat meagre comfort as regarded their
other rooms.  But, whether in respect of that which was meagre, or
whether in respect of that which was gaudy, they were as well off as
their neighbours; and this, as I take it, is the point of excellence
which is desirable.

Ernest Heine was at this time over sixty; his wife was past forty; and
his eldest daughter, as I have said, was twenty-one years of age.  His
second child, also a girl, was six years younger; and their third child,
a boy, had not been born till another similar interval had elapsed.  He
was named Hatto after his uncle, and the two girls had been christened
Isa and Agnes.  Such, in number and mode of life, was the family of the
Heines.

We English folk are apt to imagine that we are nearer akin to Germans
than to our other continental neighbours.  This may be so in blood, but,
nevertheless, the difference in manners is so striking, that it could
hardly be enhanced.  An Englishman moving himself off to a city in the
middle of Central America will find the customs to which he must adapt
himself less strange to him there, than he would in many a German town.
But in no degree of life is the difference more remarkable than among
unmarried but marriageable young women.  It is not my purpose at the
present moment to attribute a superiority in this matter to either
nationality.  Each has its own charm, its own excellence, its own
Heaven-given grace, whereby men are led up to purer thoughts and sweet
desires; and each may possibly have its own defect.  I will not here
describe the excellence or defect of either; but will, if it be in my
power, say a word as to this difference.  The German girl of
one-and-twenty,—our Isa’s age,—is more sedate, more womanly, more
meditative than her English sister.  The world’s work is more in her
thoughts, and the world’s amusements less so.  She probably knows less of
those things which women learn than the English girl, but that which she
does know is nearer to her hand for use.  She is not so much accustomed
to society, but nevertheless she is more mistress of her own manner.  She
is not taught to think so much of those things which flurry and disturb
the mind, and therefore she is seldom flurried and disturbed.  To both of
them, love,—the idea of love,—must be the thought of all the most
absorbing; for is it not fated for them that the joys and sorrows of
their future life must depend upon it?  But the idea of the German girl
is the more realistic, and the less romantic.  Poetry and fiction she may
have read, though of the latter sparingly; but they will not have imbued
her with that hope for some transcendental paradise of affection which so
often fills and exalts the hearts of our daughters here at home.  She is
moderate in her aspirations, requiring less excitement than an English
girl; and never forgetting the solid necessities of life,—as they are so
often forgotten here in England.  In associating with young men, an
English girl will always remember that in each one she so meets she may
find an admirer whom she may possibly love, or an admirer whom she may
probably be called on to repel.  She is ever conscious of the fact of
this position; and a romance is thus engendered which, if it may at times
be dangerous, is at any rate always charming.  But the German girl, in
her simplicity, has no such consciousness.  As you and I, my reader,
might probably become dear friends were we to meet and know each other,
so may the German girl learn to love the fair-haired youth with whom
chance has for a time associated her; but to her mind there occurs no
suggestive reason why it should be so,—no probability that the youth may
regard her in such light, because that chance has come to pass.  She can
therefore give him her hand without trepidation, and talk with him for
half an hour, when called on to do so, as calmly as she might do with his
sister.

Such a one was Isa Heine at the time of which I am writing.  We English,
in our passion for daily excitement, might call her phlegmatic, but we
should call her so unjustly.  Life to her was a serious matter, of which
the daily duties and daily wants were sufficient to occupy her thoughts.
She was her mother’s companion, the instructress of both her brother and
her sister, and the charm of her father’s vacant hours.  With such calls
upon her time, and so many realities around her, her imagination did not
teach her to look for joys beyond those of her present life and home.
When love and marriage should come to her, as come they probably might,
she would endeavour to attune herself to a new happiness and a new sphere
of duties.  In the meantime she was contented to keep her mother’s
accounts, and look after her brother and sister up two pair of stairs in
the Ludwigs Strasse.  But change would certainly come, we may prophesy;
for Isa Heine was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful, comely to the eye,
and fit in every way to be loved and cherished as the partner of a man’s
home.

I have said that an English clerk made a part of that small establishment
in the dingy banking-office in the Schrannen Platz, and I must say a word
or two of Herbert Onslow.  In his early career he had not been fortunate.
His father, with means sufficiently moderate, and with a family more than
sufficiently large, had sent him to a public school at which he had been
very idle, and then to one of the universities, at which he had run into
debt, and had therefore left without a degree.  When this occurred, a
family council of war had been held among the Onslows, and it was decided
that Herbert should be sent off to the banking-house of Heines, at
Munich, there being a cousinship between the families, and some existing
connections of business.

It was, therefore, so settled; and Herbert, willing enough to see the
world,—as he considered he should do by going to Munich,—started for his
German home, with injunctions, very tender from his mother, and very
solemn from his aggrieved father.  But there was nothing bad at the heart
about young Onslow, and if the solemn father had well considered it, he
might perhaps have felt that those debts at Cambridge reflected more
fault on him than on his son.  When Herbert arrived at Munich, his
cousins, the Heines,—far-away cousins though they were,—behaved kindly to
him.  They established him at first in lodgings, where he was boarded
with many others, having heard somewhat of his early youth.  But when
Madame Heine, at the end of twelve months, perceived that he was punctual
at the bank, and that his allowances, which, though moderate in England,
were handsome in Munich, carried him on without debt, she opened her
motherly arms and suggested to his mother and to himself, that he should
live with them.  In this way he also was domiciled up two pairs of stairs
in the palatial residence in the Ludwigs Strasse.

But all this happened long ago.  Isa Heine had been only seventeen when
her cousin had first come to Munich, and had made acquaintance with him
rather as a child than as a woman.  And when, as she ripened into
womanhood, this young man came more closely among them, it did not strike
her that the change would affect her more powerfully than it would the
others.  Her uncle and father, she knew, had approved of Herbert at the
bank; and Herbert had shown that he could be steady; therefore he was to
be taken into their family, paying his annual subsidy, instead of being
left with strangers at the boarding-house.  All this was very simple to
her.  She assisted in mending his linen, as she did her father’s; she
visited his room daily, as she visited all the others; she took notice of
his likings and dislikings as touching their table arrangement,—but by no
means such notice as she did of her father’s; and without any flutter,
inwardly in her imagination or outwardly as regarded the world, she made
him one of the family.  So things went on for a year,—nay, so things went
on for two years with her, after Herbert Onslow had come to the Ludwigs
Strasse.

But the matter had been regarded in a very different light by Herbert
himself.  When the proposition had been made to him, his first idea had
been that so close a connection with, a girl so very pretty would be
delightful.  He had blushed as he had given in his adhesion; but Madame
Heine, when she saw the blush, had attributed it to anything but the true
cause.  When Isa had asked him as to his wants and wishes, he had blushed
again, but she had been as ignorant as her mother.  The father had merely
stipulated that, as the young Englishman paid for his board, he should
have the full value of his money, so that Isa and Agnes gave up their
pretty front room, going into one that was inferior, and Hatto was put to
sleep in the little closet that had been papa’s own peculiar property.
But nobody complained of this, for it was understood that the money was
of service.

For the first year Herbert found that nothing especial happened.  He
always fancied that he was in love with Isa, and wrote some poetry about
her.  But the poetry was in English, and Isa could not read it, even had
he dared to show it to her.  During the second year he went home to
England for three months, and by confessing a passion to one of his
sisters, really brought himself to feel one.  He returned to Munich
resolved to tell Isa that the possibility of his remaining there depended
upon her acceptance of his heart; but for months he did not find himself
able to put his resolution in force.  She was so sedate, so womanly, so
attentive as regarded cousinly friendship, and so cold as regarded
everything else, that he did not know how to speak to her.  With an
English girl whom he had met three times at a ball, he might have been
much more able to make progress.  He was alone with Isa frequently, for
neither father, mother, nor Isa herself objected to such communion; but
yet things so went between them that he could not take her by the hand
and tell her that he loved her.  And thus the third year of his life in
Munich, and the second of his residence in the Ludwigs Strasse, went by
him.  So the years went by, and Isa was now past twenty.  To Herbert, in
his reveries, it seemed as though life, and the joys of life, were
slipping away from him.  But no such feeling disturbed any of the Heines.
Life of course, was slipping away; but then is it not the destiny of man
that life should slip away?  Their wants were all satisfied, and for
them, that, together with their close family affection, was happiness
enough.

At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa and her
mother saw that his heart was touched.  He still declared to himself that he
had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward, in that he
had not done so.  But he had made some sign, and the sign had been read.
There was no secret,—no necessity for a secret on the subject between the
mother and daughter, but yet it was not spoken of all at once.  There was
some little increase of caution between them as Herbert’s name was
mentioned, so that gradually each knew what the other thought; but for
weeks, that was all.  Then at last the mother spoke out.

“Isa,” she said, “I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attached to
you.”

“He has never said so, mamma.”

“No; I am sure he has not.  Had he done so, you would have told me.
Nevertheless, is it not true?”

“Well, mamma, I cannot say.  It may be so.  Such an idea has occurred to
me, but I have abandoned it as needless.  If he has anything to say he
will say it.”

“And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?”

“I should take time to think.  I do not at all know what means he has for
a separate establishment.”  Then the subject was dropped between them for
that time, and Isa, in her communications with her cousin, was somewhat
more reserved than she had been.

“Isa, are you in love with Herbert?” Agnes asked her, as they were
together in their room one night.

“In love with him?  No; why should I be in love with him?”

“I think he is in love with you,” said Agnes.

“That is quite another thing,” said Isa, laughing.  “But if so, he has
not taken me into his confidence.  Perhaps he has you.”

“Oh no.  He would not do that, I think.  Not but what we are great
friends, and I love him dearly.  Would it not be nice for you and him to
be betrothed?”

“That depends on many things, my dear.”

“Oh yes, I know.  Perhaps he has not got money enough.  But you could
live here, you know, and he has got some money, because he so often rides
on horseback.”  And then the matter was dropped between the two sisters.

Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessons had
been found tedious, and had dwindled away.  Isa, nevertheless, had kept
up her exercises, duly translating German into English, and English into
German; and occasionally she had shown them to her cousin.  Now, however,
she altogether gave over such showing of them, but, nevertheless, worked
at the task with more energy than before.

“Isa,” he said to her one day,—having with some difficulty found her
alone in the parlour, “Isa, why should not we go on with our English?”

“Because it is troublesome,—to you I mean.”

“Troublesome.  Well; yes; it is troublesome.  Nothing good is to be had
without trouble.  But I should like it if you would not mind.”

“You know how sick you were of it before;—besides, I shall never be able
to speak it.”

“I shall not get sick of it now, Isa.”

“Oh yes you would;—in two days.”

“And I want you to speak it.  I desire it especially.”

“Why especially?” asked Isa.  And even she, with all her tranquillity of
demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone and quiet look, as she
asked the necessary question.

“I will tell you why,” said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up from his
seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she was sitting near
the window.  Isa, as she saw him, still continued her work, and strove
hard to give to the stitches all that attention which they required.  “I
will tell you why I would wish you to talk my language.  Because I love
you, Isa, and would have you for my wife,—if that be possible.”

She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite as perfect
as usual, sufficed for their purpose.

“That is why I wish it.  Now will you consent to learn from me again?”

“If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another.”

“Yes; certainly it would.  That is what I intend.  And now will you learn
from me again?”

“That is,—you mean to ask, will I marry you?”

“Will you love me?  Can you learn to love me?  Oh, Isa, I have thought of
this so long!  But you have seemed so cold that I have not dared to
speak.  Isa, can you love me?”  And he sat himself close beside her.  Now
that the ice was broken, he was quite prepared to become an ardent
lover,—if she would allow of such ardour.  But as he sat down she rose.

“I cannot answer such a question on the sudden,” she said.  “Give me till
to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;” whereupon she left
him, and he stood alone in the room, having done the deed on which he had
been meditating for the last two years.  About half an hour afterwards he
met her on the stairs as he was going to his chamber.  “May I speak to
your father about this,” he said, hardly stopping her as he asked the
question.  “Oh yes; surely,” she answered; and then again they parted.
To him this last-accorded permission sounded as though it carried with it
more weight than it in truth possessed.  In his own country a reference
to the lady’s father is taken as indicating a full consent on the lady’s
part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no objection.  But Isa had no
such meaning.  She had told him that she could not give her answer till
the morrow.  If, however, he chose to consult her father on the subject,
she had no objection.  It would probably be necessary that she should
discuss the whole matter in family conclave, before she could bring
herself to give any reply.

On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her father; and Isa
also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother.  It was singular to
him that there should appear to be so little privacy on the subject; that
there should be held to be so little necessity for a secret.  Had he made
a suggestion that an extra room should be allotted to him at so much per
annum, the proposition could not have been discussed with simpler ease.
At last, after a three days’ debate, the matter ended thus,—with by no
means a sufficiency of romance for his taste.  Isa had agreed to become
his betrothed if certain pecuniary conditions should or could be
fulfilled.  It appeared now that Herbert’s father had promised that some
small modicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of years, and
that Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should have a
proportionate share in the bank when that promise should be brought to
bear.  Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become a
millionaire.  If all went well, the best would be that some three hundred
a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of the quarter of that
income which he at present received.  But three hundred a year goes a
long way at Munich, and Isa’s parents were willing that she should be
Herbert’s wife if such an income should be forthcoming.

But even of this there was much doubt.  Application to Herbert’s father
could not be judiciously made for some months.  The earliest period at
which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine’s agreement, young Onslow might
be admitted to the bank, was still distant by four years; and the present
moment was thought to be inopportune for applying to him for any act of
grace.  Let them wait, said papa and mamma Heine,—at any rate till New
Year’s Day, then ten months distant.  Isa quietly said that she would
wait till New Year’s Day.  Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared that he
was ill-treated.  But in the end he also agreed to wait.  What else could
he do?

“But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other,” he said
to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes.  “Yes,” she replied, “we shall
see each other daily—of course.  But, Herbert—”

Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on.

“I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,—in our
manner to each other, I mean.  We are not betrothed as yet, you know, and
perhaps we may never be so.”

“Isa!”

“It may not be possible, you know.  And therefore we will go on as
before.  Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shall be
friends.”

Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not have his
way.  He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover’s life, but very
few of those ecstasies were awarded to him.  He rarely found himself
alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldness overawed him.  He
could