Not to have read “The Initials” was in their day to have left one’s self out of the range of intellectual conversation and almost of human sympathy. Such a one was not authorized even to speculate about the authorship which, then unknown, added the excitement of mystery to the intrinsic charm of the book. Later it came out that “The Initials” was written by the Baroness Tautphoeus, an Englishwoman married and living in Bavaria, but “Quits,” at least, “by the author of ‘The Initials,’” reached them before her identity penetrated to her worshippers.
Neither “Quits,” however, nor “Cyrilla” nor “At Odds,” ever had half the acceptance of “The Initials,” and in fact they had none of the rounded completeness, the entire and perfect fascination of the first story. It remained her best, as it remains one of the best novels written in the century when fiction won the primacy in polite literature which it seems destined to keep.
I
“The Initials” is first of all a love story, and then it is an international love story, and perhaps the earliest of the modem sort, which Americans rather than the English have cultivated. It relates to the loves of a young Englishman and a young German girl, in whose family he becomes an inmate at Munich. Her father is of “civil condition,” but has married a second wife socially beneath him, and in their rather less than moderate fortunes the Rosenbergs are more than willing to take a lodger. The mother is of good soul if not of good family, and like most women of her nation a devoted housekeeper; the family consists of her young sons, and of her step-daughters, Hildegarde and Crescenz, who are hardly of the age to be heroines in England, but at sixteen and fifteen are quite old enough to be thought of in marriage in Germany. I should be ashamed to give these details to people of my own generation, for everybody who was anybody knew them forty or fifty years ago; but I now address them to the later youth, and I feel myself safe if I have not got them quite straight. I believe Herr Rosenberg had married above him when he espoused the mother of his daughters, who, I remember, had some noble cousins bothering about, and complicating matters. But I do not care; the main fact is that the young Englishman, Hamilton, comes to live with the Rosenbergs for the improvement of his German, and that Crescenz falls in love with him, and he falls in love with Hildegarde.
Hildegarde is one of the first proud and angry heroines who since, rather than before, have flourished a good deal in fiction, and she is frankly beautiful, the concession to human weakness being made in the matter of temper. It will be noted that she is therefore of a type at once earlier than the plain, impassioned heroines of Charlotte Brontë and later; and is of that pretty but tempestuous sort of girls whom Emily Brontë brought in the fashion of, and who antedated and outlived their cousins. She contributed a spice of variety to the family of English heroines by her strangeness, for though of English origin through the author who imagined her, she was of such foreign make and manner as at once to catch the eye among them. She was shown, too, in her native environment, and for the first time we had in her affair with Hamilton that piquancy of internationality which the American novelists, oftener than the English, have since invoked. Before her there had been such heavy affairs as that of Sir Charles Grandison and the lovely Italian Lady Clementina; but in “The Initials” the situation had almost the modernity of a case fancied by Mr. Henry James, the greatest of all the masters in that way.
Neither Hamilton at nineteen, nor Hildegarde at sixteen could be of such confirmed and hardened prejudices in favor of their own nation as to make their national difference an obstacle to their passion. The barriers this had to surmount were social and personal, for the well-born Englishman could not help feeling and showing himself superior to the bourgeois family which had received him, and such a girl as Hildegarde could not help promptly hating him for it. They met almost as enemies, and their wooing throughout had often the alarming effect of warring; at the very end, her capture is something like a hostile triumph. The affair is not the less intoxicating to the spectator; the country fought over, though difficult, is picturesque, and the manners and customs of the neutrals as well as the belligerents, are realized as vital elements of the exciting spectacle.
II
In her first presentation Hildegarde is grouped with her sister, and they are both described as “ perfect personifications of German beauty — blue eyes, blooming cheeks, red lips, and a profusion of brown hair, most classically braided and plaited.... They were both tall and very slightly formed, and their dark cotton dresses were made and put on with an exactness which proved that they were not indifferent to the advantages bestowed on them by nature.” At the table d’hôte where he meets them, “the young ladies, to Hamilton’s infinite astonishment, took the chicken bones in their fingers, and detached the meat from them with their teeth. He felt at once convinced that they were immeasurably vulgar... not aware that the mode of eating is in Germany no such exact criterion of manners as in England.”
It is the good, sweet, stupid Crescenz that Hamilton first becomes acquainted with, and who in her tenderness for him confesses her wretchedness at being obliged to marry the kindly but elderly and bald-headed Major Stultz. “‘Why... before I left Seon, he seemed much more inclined to marry your sister than you,’ ‘Oh, of course, he would rather have married Hildegarde, because she is so much handsomer and cleverer than I am; but she would not listen to him, and called him an old fool.’ ‘I admire her candor,’ said Hamilton. ‘And then she got into a passion when he persevered; and slapped him on the mouth!... Yes, when he attempted to kiss her hand; at least he says so; and Hildegarde thinks it may be true, as she was angry, and struggled very hard to release her hand!’... ‘She seems of rather a passionate temperament.’ ‘Passionate! Yes, she sometimes gets into a passion, but it is soon over, and then she can be so kind to those she loves!... With me she is never in a passion!’”
In due time Hamilton himself experiences her temper, notably, once, just after he has been waltzing with Crescenz, and holding her rather closely embraced. ‘“Your sister’s personal dislike seems to influence her conduct on all occasions,’ said Hamilton, glancing towards Hildegarde.... Hildegarde rose; as she passed Hamilton she said, in a low voice, ‘For personal dislike you may say detestation, when you refer to yourself in future.’ ‘Most willingly, most gladly,’ said Hamilton, laughing. ‘I wish you to hate me with all your heart.’ ‘Then your wish is gratified. I feel the greatest contempt—’ ‘Halt!’ cried Hamilton, laughing, for her anger amused him. ‘I did not give you leave to feel contempt; I only said you might hate.’”
One day Madame Rosenberg bids the girl carry Hamilton his coffee to him in his room.—’”But — but—’ hesitated Hildegarde, ‘Mr. Hamilton is not alone!’ ‘Count Zedwitz is in his room, but he won’t bite you; so go at once.’... Half an hour later Hamilton was out in the corridor. Madame Rosenberg... hoped his coffee was not too cold.
‘Coffee? No — yes! When, where did I drink it?’ ‘In your own room,’ replied Madame Rosenberg, laughing.... ‘I sent it to you by Hildegarde,’ He looked inquiringly at Hildegarde; she raised her eyes slowly from her work, and looking at him steadily and gravely, said, in French, ‘I threw it out of the window rather than take it to you,’ ‘Next time, I advise you to drink it,’ said Hamilton, laughing.”
Hildegarde’s anger towards Hamilton is kindled not only from her unconscious love of him, but from her more generous indignation of what she believes his trifling with poor, pretty Crescenz. At last she can bear it no longer, and she brings him to book for it, and there is a fine scene between them, which the lovers of the lovers will not have forgotten. She reproaches him, and then implores him to leave their house. He temporizes, and teases her till it comes to her saying, “‘Ungenerous, unfeeling Englishman!... I — I see you are trying to put me into a passion — but I am not angry,’ she said, seating herself in the chair he had before placed for her. ‘You said you were able to convince me—’—’ You have convinced me that you are a consummate actress,’ cried Hamil
ton, contemptuously. ‘I am no actress!’ she exclaimed, starting from her chair with such a violence that it fell to the ground with a loud crash.... ‘You are even more thoroughly selfish than I imagined. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you,’ ‘Don’t make rash vows,’ said Hamilton, coolly. ‘I dare say you will often speak to me in time — perhaps condescend to like me,’ ‘Never! I do not think there exists in the world a more unamiable being than you are!... You are vindictive, too, cruelly vindictive. It is because you dislike me, it is in order to make me unhappy that you trifle with my sister’s feelings.... No matter; I see now that these conferences and quarrels are worse than useless, and—’ ‘I quite agree with you,’ said Hamilton, quickly.... ‘Suppose I promise never by word or deed to disparage Major Stultz in future, and totally to abstain from all further attentions to your sister?’ ‘That — is — better — than — nothing,’ said Hildegarde, slowly. ‘If you promise,’ she added, hesitatingly, ‘I — I think I may trust you.’”
III
It cannot go so far as this without going farther both in warring and wooing, with two young people brought together under the same roof, and meeting daily, almost hourly, almost momently. The love-making and the hate-making between Hildegarde and Hamilton advance equally, and it is only a question of time when the hate-making shall be altogether lost in the lovemaking.
She has to bear a great deal, poor, proud girl, but she proves strong enough for her burden, even to accepting in Hamilton’s presence her step-mother’s rebuke of her pride, and her advice to forget that the Countess Raimund was her mother. She suffers, but she takes it all in good part; and in fact she is a good girl, for all her temper and hauteur, doing her part in the family and the housekeeping, and not forgetting that she is a daughter to her father as well as her mother, and has duties to her step-brothers as well as her sister.
From her mother’s family she has only trouble, and there is one worthless cousin whose unworthy and irreverent love pursues her and persecutes her, and all but effects her separation from Hamilton, who is himself not too considerate of her helplessness. In fact, the Englishman’s best excuse, in certain crises of conduct, is the sincerity of his passion, and not his unselfishness, as will appear to the reader who first acquaints himself with that famous chapter of their lives called “The Struggle.” It is perhaps the climax of the story, and it shows Hildegarde in her limitations as well as her potentialities with respect to both Hamilton and Oscar Raimund; certainly the scene of her warring and wooing with Hamilton is a résumé of all in that kind which characterizes the book, and is one of high novelty and originality as such scenes go. The family have apparently all gone out when Hamilton returns from a Sunday morning ride, after having the night before had an uncommonly amicable talk with Hildegarde, and prevailed with her, as he thought, not to read a certain unfit book, but read only those he had given her a list of.
“He entered the house by the back staircase, visited all the rooms and even the kitchen, but found all deserted. Madame Rosenberg’s room was also unoccupied, but through the partly open door of it he saw Hildegarde sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, reading so intently that she was perfectly unconscious of his presence. The deep folds of her dark blue merino dress, with its closely fitting body, gave a more than usual elegance to her tall, slight figure as she bent in profile over her book, and Hamilton stood in silent admiration, unconsciously twisting his riding-whip round his wrist, until his eyes rested for the second time on the book which she held in her hand. He started, hesitated, then hastily strode forward and stood before her; doubt and uncertainty were still depicted on his countenance as Hildegarde looked up, but her dismay, her deep blush, and the childish action of placing the hand containing the volume behind her, were a confirmation of his fears that she was reading the forbidden work. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you,’ he said, with a forced smile, “but I really cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, and must request you to let me look at that book for a moment.’ ‘No, you shall not,’ she answered, leaning back on the sofa, and becoming very pale while she added, ‘It is very disagreeable being startled and interrupted in this manner. I thought you told mamma you would meether at Neuberghausen.’ ‘Very true; perhaps I may meet her there; but, before I go, I must and will see that book. On it depends my future opinion of you.’ ‘You shall not see it,’ cried Hildegarde, the color again returning to her face. ‘The book,’ said Hamilton, seizing firmly her disengaged hand. ‘The book, or the name of it!’ ‘Neither; let me go!’ cried Hildegarde, struggling to disengage her hand. Like most usually quiet-tempered persons, Hamilton, when once actually aroused, lost all command of himself: he held one of her hands as in a vise, and, when she brought forward the other to accelerate its release, he bent down to read the title of the book, which was immediately thrown on the ground, and the then free hand descended with such violence on his cheek and ear that for a moment he was perfectly stunned; and, even after he stood upright, he looked at her for a few seconds in unfeigned astonishment. ‘Do you think,’ at length he exclaimed, vehemently— ‘do you think that I will allow you to treat me as you did Major Stultz with impunity?’ And then, catching her in his arms, he kissed her repeatedly and with a violence which seemed to terrify her beyond measure. ‘I gave you fair warning more than once,’ he added, when at length he had released her. ‘I gave you fair warning, and you knew what you had to expect,’ She covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. ‘I cannot imagine,’ he continued, impetuously walking up and down the room— ‘I cannot imagine why you did not, with your usual courage, tell me at once the name of the book and prevent this scene,’ Hildegarde shook her head, and wept still more bitterly. ‘After all,’ he said, seating himself with affected calmness opposite to her, leaning his arms on the table, and drumming upon the book, which now lay undisputed between them— ‘after all, you are not better than other people! Not more to be trusted than other girls, and I fancied you such perfection! I could have forgiven anything but the — the untruth!’ he exclaimed, starting up. ‘Anything but that! Pshaw! yesterday, when you told me that the books had been sent back to the library, I believed you without a moment’s hesitation. I thanked you for your deference to my opinion — ha, ha, ha! What a fool you must have thought me!’ Hildegarde looked up. All expression of humility had left her features, her tears ceased to flow, and, as she rose to leave the room, she turned almost haughtily towards him, while saying: ‘I really do not know what right you have to speak to me in this manner. I consider it very great presumption on your part, and desire it may never occur again.’ ‘You may be quite sure I shall never offend you in this way again,’ he said, holding the book towards her. ‘What a mere farce the writing of that list of books was!’ ‘No, for I had intended to have read all you recommended.’ ‘And all I recommended you to avoid, too! This — this, which you tacitly promised not to finish—’ He stopped; for, while she took the book in silence, she blushed so deeply, and seemed so embarrassed, that he added, sorrowfully: ‘Oh, how I regret having come home! How I wish I had not discovered that you could deceive me!’ ‘I have not deceived you,’ said Hildegarde.... ‘Appearances are against me, and yet I repeat I have not deceived you. The books were sent to the library yesterday evening — but too late to be changed. Old Hans brought them back again, and I found them in my room when I went to bed. I did not read them last night.’ ‘But you staid at home for the purpose to-day,’ observed Hamilton, reproachfully. ‘No; my mother gave the servants leave to go out for the whole day, and, as she did not like to leave the house quite unoccupied, she asked me to remain at home. I, of course, agreed to do so; without I assure you, thinking of those hateful books. I do not mean to — I cannot justify what I have done. I can only say in extenuation that the temptation was great I have been alone for more than two hours — my father’s books are locked up. I never enter your room when you are absent, and I wished to know the end of the story, which still interests and haunts me in
spite of all my endeavors to forget it The book lay before me; I resisted long, but at last I opened it; and so — and so—’ ‘And so, I suppose, I must acknowledge that I have judged you too harshly,’ said Hamilton. ‘I do not care about your judgment. I have fallen in my own esteem since I find that I cannot resist temptation,’ ‘And is my good opinion of no value to you?’ ‘It was, perhaps; but it has lost all worth within the last half-hour.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘I have seen you in the course of that time suspicious, rough, and what you would yourself call ungentlemanlike.... You were the last per son from whom I should have expected such treatment,’ continued Hildegarde, while the tears started to her eyes and her voice faltered, ‘the very last; and though I did get into a passion and give you a blow, it was not until you had hurt my wrist and provoked me beyond endurance,’ She left the room, and walked quickly down the passage. ‘Stay,’ cried Hamilton, following her— ‘stay, and hear my excuses,’ ‘Excuses! You have not even one to offer,’ said Hildegarde, laying her hand on the lock of her door. ‘Hear me at least,’ he said, eagerly. ‘I could not endure the thought of your being one jot less perfect than I had imagined you — that made me suspicious; the wish for proof made me rough; and though I cannot exactly justify my subsequent conduct, I plead in extenuation your own words, “The temptation was great.” Hildegarde’s dimples showed that a smile was with difficulty repressed, and Hamilton, taking courage, whispered hurriedly: ‘But one word more — hear my last and best excuse; it is that I love you, deeply, passionately; but I need not tell you this, for you must have known it long, long ago. Hildegarde, say only that our perpetual quarrels have not made you absolutely hate me!’ Hildegarde, without uttering a word more, impetuously drew back her hand, sprang into her room, and locked the door. He waited for a minute or two, and then knocked, but received no answer. ‘Hildegarde,’ he cried, reproachfully, ‘is this right — is this kind? Even if you dislike me, I have a right to expect an answer,’ ‘Go,’ she said, in a very low voice; ‘go away. You ought not to be here when I am alone,’ “ Why did you not think of that before?’ ‘I don’t know. I had not time. I—’ ‘Nonsense. Open the door, and let me speak to you for a moment’ No answer, but he thought he heard her walking up and down the room. ‘Only one moment,’ he repeated. ‘I cannot, indeed, I cannot. Pray go away. ‘“
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1579
