But these were the wiles16 with which the devil catches the souls of women, and there were times when she believed that the devil was making an especial struggle to possess himself of her. There were moments in which she almost thought that the devil would succeed, and that, perhaps, it was but of little use for her to carry on any longer the futile17 contest. Would it not be pleasant to give up the contest, and to laugh and talk and shout and be merry, to dance, and wear bright colours, and be gay in company with young men, as did the other girls around her? As for those other girls, their elder friends did not seem on their account to be specially18 in dread19 of Satan. There was Fanny Heisse who lived close to them, who had been Linda's friend when they went to school together. Fanny did just as she pleased, was always talking with young men, wore the brightest ribbons that the shops produced, was always dancing, seemed to be bound by no strict rules on life; and yet everybody spoke20 well of Fanny Heisse, and now Fanny was to be married to a young lawyer from Augsburg. Could it be the fact that the devil had made sure of Fanny Heisse? Linda had been very anxious to ask her aunt a question on that subject, but had been afraid. Whenever she attempted to discuss any point of theology with her aunt, such attempts always ended in renewed assurances of the devil's greediness, and in some harder, more crushing rule by which the devil's greed might be outwitted.
Then there came a time of terrible peril21, and poor Linda was in greater doubt than ever. Fanny Heisse, who was to be married to the Augsburg lawyer, had long been accustomed to talk to young men, to one young man after another, so that young men had come to be almost nothing to her. She had selected one as her husband because it had been suggested to her that she had better settle herself in life; and this special one was well-to-do, and good-looking, and pleasant-mannered, and good-tempered. The whole thing with Fanny Heisse had seemed to go as though flirting22, love, and marriage all came naturally, without danger, without care, and without disappointment. But a young man had now spoken to her, to Linda,—had spoken to her words that she did not dare to repeat to any one,—had spoken to her twice, thrice, and she had not rebuked23 him. She had not, at least, rebuked him with that withering25 scorn which the circumstances had surely required, and which would have made him know that she regarded him as one sent purposely from the Evil One to tempt3 her. Now again had come upon her some terrible half-formed idea that it would be well to give up the battle and let the Evil One make free with his prey26. But, in truth, her heart within her had so palpitated with emotion when these words had been spoken and been repeated, that she had lacked the strength to carry on the battle properly. How send a daring young man from you with withering scorn, when there lacks power to raise the eyes, to open or to close the lips, to think even at the moment whether such scorn is deserved, or something very different from scorn?
The young man had not been seen by Linda's eyes for nearly a month, when Peter Steinmarc and Madam Staubach settled between them that the ice should be broken. On the following morning aunt Charlotte prepared herself for the communication to be made, and, when she came in from her market purchases, went at once to her task. Linda was found by her aunt in their lodger27's sitting-room28, busy with brooms and brushes, while Tetchen on her knees was dry-rubbing the polished board round the broad margin29 of the room. "Linda," said Madame Staubach, "I have that which I wish to say to you; would you come with me for a while?" Then Linda followed her aunt to Madame Staubach's own chamber, and as she went there came over her a guilty fear. Could it be that her aunt had heard of the words which the young man had spoken to her?
"Linda," said Madame Staubach, "sit down,—there, in my chair. I have a proposition to make to you of much importance,—of very great importance. May the Lord grant that the thing that I do shall be right in His sight!"
"To make to me, aunt?" said Linda, now quite astray as to her aunt's intention. She was sure, at least, that there was no danger about the young man. Had it been her aunt's purpose to rebuke24 her for aught that she had done, her aunt's manner and look would have been very different,—would have been hard, severe, and full of denunciation. As it was, Madame Staubach almost hesitated in her words, and certainly had assumed much less than her accustomed austerity.
"I hope, Linda, that you know that I love you."
"I am sure that you love me, aunt Charlotte. But why do you ask me?"
"If there be any one in this world that I do love, it is you, my child. Who else is there left to me? Were it not for you, the world with all its troubles would be nothing to me, and I could prepare myself to go in peace when He should be pleased to take me."
"But why do you say this now, aunt Charlotte?"
"I will tell you why I say it now. Though I am hardly an old woman yet—"
"Of course you are not an old woman."
"I wish I were older, that I might be nearer to my rest. But you are young, and it is necessary that your future life should be regarded. Whether I go hence or remain here it will be proper that some settlement should be made for you." Then Madame Staubach paused, and Linda began to think that her aunt had on her mind some scheme about the house. When her aunt had spoken of going hence or remaining here, Linda had not been quite sure whether the goings and remainings spoken of were wholly spiritual or whether there was any reference to things worldly and temporal. Could it be that Tetchen was after all right in her surmise30? Was it possible that her aunt was about to be married to Peter Steinmarc? But she said nothing; and after a while her aunt went on very slowly with her proposition. "Yes, Linda, some settlement for your future life should be made. You know that the house in which we live is your own."
"It is yours and mine together, aunt."
"No, Linda; the house is your own. And the furniture in it is yours too; so that Herr Steinmarc is your lodger. It is right that you should understand all this; but I think too well of my own child to believe that she will ever on that account be disobedient or unruly."
"That will never make a difference."
"No, Linda; I am sure it will not. Providence31 has been pleased to put me in the place of both father and mother to you. I will not say that I have done my duty by you—"
"You have, aunt, always," said Linda, taking her aunt's hand and pressing it affectionately.
"But I have found, and I expect to find, a child's obedience32. It is good that the young should obey their elders, and should understand that those in authority over them should know better than they can do themselves what is good for them." Linda was now altogether astray in her thoughts and anticipations33. Her aunt had very frequently spoken to her in this strain; nay34, a week did not often pass by without such a speech. But then the speeches would come without the solemn prelude35 which had been made on this occasion, and would be caused generally by some act or word or look or movement on the part of Linda of which Madame Staubach had found herself obliged to express disapprobation. On the present occasion the conversation had been commenced without any such expression. Her aunt had even deigned36 to commend the general tenor37 of her life. She had dropped the hand as soon as her aunt began to talk of those in authority, and waited with patience till the gist38 of the lecture should be revealed to her. "I hope you will understand this now, Linda. That which I shall propose to you is for your welfare, here and hereafter, even though it may not at first seem to you to be agreeable."
"What is it, aunt?" said Linda, jumping up quickly from her seat.
"Sit down, my child, and I will tell you." But Linda did not reseat herself at once. Some terrible fear had come upon her,—some fear of she knew not what,—and she found it to be almost impossible to remain quiet at her aunt's knee. "Sit down, Linda, when I ask you." Then Linda did sit down; but she had altogether lost that look of quiet, passive endurance which her face and figure had borne when she was first asked to listen to her aunt's words. "The time in your life has come, my dear, when I as your guardian39 have to think whether it is not well that you should be—married."
"But I do not want to be married," said Linda, jumping up again.
"My dearest child, it would be better that you should listen to me. Marriage, you know, is an honourable40 state."
"Yes, I know, of course. But, aunt Charlotte—"
"Hush41, my dear."
"A girl need not be married unless she likes."
"If I were dead, with whom would you live? Who would there be to guard you and guide you?"
"But you are not going to die."
"Linda, that is very wicked."
"And why can I not guide myself?"
"Because you are young, and weak, and foolish. Because it is right that they who are frail42, and timid, and spiritless, should be made subject to those who are strong and able to hold dominion44 and to exact obedience." Linda did not at all like being told that she was spiritless. She thought that she might be able to show spirit enough were it not for the duty that she owed to her aunt. And as for obedience, though she were willing to obey her aunt, she felt that her aunt had no right to transfer her privilege in that respect to another. But she said nothing, and her aunt went on with her proposition.
"Our lodger, Peter Steinmarc, has spoken to me, and he is anxious to make you his wife."
"Peter Steinmarc!"
"Yes, Linda; Peter Steinmarc."
"Old Peter Steinmarc!"
"He is not old. What has his being old to do with it?"
"I will never marry Peter Steinmarc, aunt Charlotte."
Madame Staubach had not expected to meet with immediate45 and positive obedience. She had thought it probable that there might be some opposition46 shown to her plan when it was first brought forward. Indeed, how could it be otherwise, when marriage was suggested abruptly47 to such a girl as Linda Tressel, even though the suggested husband had been an Apollo? What young woman could have said, "Oh, certainly; whenever you please, aunt Charlotte," to such a proposition? Feeling this, Madame Staubach would have gone to work by degrees,—would have opened her siege by gradual trenches48, and have approached the citadel49 by parallels, before she attempted to take it by storm, had she known anything of the ways and forms of such strategy. But though she knew that there were such ways and forms of strategy among the ungodly, out in the world with the worldly, she had practised none such herself, and knew nothing of the mode in which they should be conducted. On this subject, if on any, her niece owed to her obedience, and she would claim that obedience as hers of right. Though Linda would at first be startled, she would probably be not the less willing to obey at last, if she found her guardian stern and resolute50 in her demand. "My dear," she said, "you have probably not yet had time to think of the marriage which I have proposed to you."
"I want no time to think of it."
"Nothing in life should be accepted or rejected without thinking, Linda,—nothing except sin; and thinking cannot be done without time."
"This would be sin—a great sin!"
"Linda, you are very wicked."
"Of course, I am wicked."
"Herr Steinmarc is a most respectable man. There is no man in all Nuremberg more respected than Herr Steinmarc." This was doubtless Madame Staubach's opinion of Peter Steinmarc, but it may be that Madame Staubach was not qualified51 to express the opinion of the city in general on that subject. "He holds the office which your father held before him, and for many years has inhabited the best rooms in your father's house."
"He is welcome to the rooms if he wants them," said Linda. "He is welcome to the whole house if you choose to give it to him."
"That is nonsense, Linda. Herr Steinmarc wants nothing that is not his of right."
"I am not his of right," said Linda.
"Will you listen to me? You are much mistaken if you think that it is because of your trumpery52 house that this honest man wishes to make you his wife." We must suppose that Madame Staubach suffered some qualm of conscience as she proffered53 this assurance, and that she repented54 afterwards of the sin she committed in making a statement which she could hardly herself have believed to be exactly true. "He knew your father before you were born, and your mother; and he has known me for many years. Has he not lived with us ever since you can remember?"
"Yes," said Linda; "I remember him ever since I was a very little girl,—as long as I can remember anything,—and he seemed to be as old then as he is now."
"And why should he not be old? Why should you want a husband to be young and foolish and headstrong as you are yourself;—perhaps some one who would drink and gamble and go about after strange women?"
"I don't want any man for a husband," said Linda.
"There can be nothing more proper than that Herr Steinmarc should make you his wife. He has spoken to me and he is willing to undertake the charge."
"The charge!" almost screamed Linda, in terrible disgust.
"He is willing to undertake the charge, I say. We shall then still live together, and may hope to be able to maintain a God-fearing household, in which there may be as little opening to the temptations of the world as may be found in any well-ordered house."
"I do not believe that Peter Steinmarc is a God-fearing man."
"Linda, you are very wicked to say so."
"But if he were, it would make no difference."
"Linda!"
"I only know that he loves his money better than anything in the world, and that he never gives a kreutzer to any one, and that he won't subscribe55 to the hospital, and he always thinks that Tetchen takes his wine, though Tetchen never touches a drop."
"When he has a wife she will look after these things."
"I will never look after them," said Linda.
The conversation was brought to an end as soon after this as Madame Staubach was able to close it. She had done all that she had intended to do, and had done it with as much of good result as she had expected. She had probably not thought that Linda would be quite so fierce as she had shown herself; but she had expected tears, and more of despair, and a clearer protestation of abject56 misery57 in the proposed marriage. Linda's mind would now be filled with the idea, and probably she might by degrees reconcile herself to it, and learn to think that Peter was not so very old a man. At any rate it would now be for Peter himself to carry on the battle.
Linda, as soon as she was alone, sat down with her hands before her and with her eyes fixed58, gazing on vacancy59, in order that she might realise to herself the thing proposed to her. She had said very little to her aunt of the nature of the misery which such a marriage seemed to offer to her,—not because her imagination made for her no clear picture on the subject, not because she did not foresee unutterable wretchedness in such a union. The picture of such wretchedness had been very palpable to her. She thought that no consideration on earth would induce her to take that mean-faced old man to her breast as her husband, her lord—as the one being whom she was to love beyond everybody else in this world. The picture was clear enough, but she had argued to herself, unconsciously, that any description of that picture to her aunt would seem to suppose that the consummation of the picture was possible. She preferred therefore to declare that the thing was impossible,—an affair the completion of which would be quite out of the question. Instead of assuring her aunt that it would have made her miserable60 to have to look after Peter Steinmarc's wine, she at once protested that she never would take upon herself that duty. "I am not his of right," she had said; and as she said it, she resolved that she would adhere to that protest. But when she was alone she remembered her aunt's demand, her own submissiveness, her old habits of obedience, and above all she remembered the fear that would come over her that she was giving herself to the devil in casting from her her obedience on such a subject, and then she became very wretched. She told herself that sooner or later her aunt would conquer her, that sooner or later that mean-faced old man, with his snuffy fingers, and his few straggling hairs brushed over his bald pate61, with his big shoes spreading here and there because of his corns, and his ugly, loose, square, snuffy coat, and his old hat which he had worn so long that she never liked to touch it, would become her husband, and that it would be her duty to look after his wine, and his old shoes, and his old hat, and to have her own little possessions doled62 out to her by his penuriousness63. Though she continued to swear to herself that heaven and earth together should never make her become Herr Steinmarc's wife, yet at the same time she continued to bemoan64 the certainty of her coming fate. If they were both against her—both, with the Lord on their sides—how could she stand against them with nothing to aid her,—nothing, but the devil, and a few words spoken to her by one whom hitherto she had never dared to answer?
The house in which Linda and Madame Staubach lived, of which the three gables faced towards the river, and which came so close upon the stream that there was but a margin six feet broad between the wall and the edge of the water, was approached by a narrow street or passage, which reached as far as the end of the house, where there was a small gravelled court or open place, perhaps thirty feet square. Opposite to the door of the red house was the door of that in which lived Fanny Heisse with her father and mother. They indeed had another opening into one of the streets of the town, which was necessary, as Jacob Heisse was an upholsterer, and required an exit from his premises65 for chairs and tables. But to the red house with the three gables there was no other approach than by the narrow passage which ran between the river and the back of Heisse's workshop. Thus the little courtyard was very private, and Linda could stand leaning on the wicket-gate which divided the little garden from the court, without being subject to the charge of making herself public to the passers-by. Not but what she might be seen when so standing66 by those in the Ruden Platz on the other side of the river, as had often been pointed67 out to her by her aunt. But it was a habit with her to stand there, perhaps because while so standing she would often hear the gay laugh of her old friend Fanny, and would thus, at second hand, receive some impress from the gaiety of the world without. Now, in her musing68, without thinking much of whither she was going, she went slowly down the stairs and out of the door, and stood leaning upon the gate looking over the river at the men who were working in the front of the warehouses69. She had not been there long when Fanny ran across to her from the door of her father's house. Fanny Heisse was a bright broad-faced girl, with light hair, and laughing eyes, and a dimple on her chin, freckled70 somewhat, with a pug nose, and a large mouth. But for all this Fanny Heisse was known throughout Nuremberg as a pretty girl.
"Linda, what do you think?" said Fanny. "Papa was at Augsburg yesterday, and has just come home, and it is all to come off the week after next."
"And you are happy?"
"Of course I'm happy. Why shouldn't a girl be happy? He's a good fellow and deserves it all, and I mean to be such a wife to him! Only he is to let me dance. But you don't care for dancing?"
"I have never tried it—much."
"No; your people think it wicked. I am so glad mine don't. But, Linda, you'll be let come to my marriage—will you not? I do so want you to come. I was making up the party just now with mother and his sister Marie. Father brought Marie home with him. And we have put you down for one. But, Linda, what ails71 you? Does anything ail43 you?" Fanny might well ask, for the tears were running down Linda's face.
"It is nothing particular."
"Nay, but it is something particular—something very particular. Linda, you mope too much."
"I have not been moping now. But, Fanny, I cannot talk to you about it. I cannot indeed—not now. Do not be angry with me if I go in and leave you." Then Linda ran in, and went up to her bedroom and bolted the door.
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1
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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52
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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56
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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57
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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59
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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60
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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62
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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63
penuriousness
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64
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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66
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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69
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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70
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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