The Career of a Rising Man. A novel

Front matter

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Chapter I

Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear, Stern if his heart, still " Man" is graven there. Sir Bulwer Lttton Renown — that bridge which spans the midnight sea, And joins two worlds — Time and Eternity. Ibid. " I am afraid," said the Baron, " that he finds it impossible to get away, he told me not to wait for him." Chevalier von Mohr, the celebrated Geolo gist, heaved a profound sigh. He was some what of an epicure, the Chevalier, and he thought, with a shudder, of fish over boiled, and chickens cooked to rags. " If he has gone to Potsdam," said Count Barbarini, one of the attaches to the Austrian Legation, and an Italian of high rank. " If he has gone to Potsdam, His Majesty is most likely to detain him. Baron von H , dines there to-day, and he may wish him to meet him." " We will wait no longer," said the Baron, " it is his own fault, if he comes so late."

The Baron took the head of his table. Berlin is not famed for its hospitality to strangers, OF but Baron von Kielbach was a man of intellect, and convivial tastes, had travelled much, and not so common an occurrence with a Prussian as with an English nobleman, he had a fortune ample enough to indulge his tastes. The uniform that he wore showed him to belong to a cavalry regiment, but Kielbach, without being a man of pre-eminent abilities, had shaken off the ultra class prejudices that dis tinguish the proud and haughty Prussian officers, of the higher rank. His friends drank his tokay, and regretted his democratic principles, not that he interfered much with politics, art was his passion, and of art, however em bodied, he was one of its tried worshipers. He was particularly fond of England and English people ; a vague rumour said that in early life he had been saved from some great danger by an Englishman ; however that might be, whether from gratitude or preference, his house in the Wilhelm Strasse, was ever open to our countrymen, and was almost as well known as the embassy.

On this day there were two Englishmen present, a Lord Greenway on his tour, and a Mr. Johnson, travelling to make a book ; they waited for a third. " He has not a very pleasant reputation at home," said Mr. Johnson, speaking of the expected guest. " People are. rather afraid of him, I assure you." " Of his great abilities ?" "No, of the stern view that he takes of life — a Cato in modern society ; he would be ridiculous if he were not awe-inspiring." " Is he married?" " He ? No, he has no heart — he bartered it for mind, long ago. He has no weakness — no pity for weakness in others. 1 frankly con fess I have rather a dread of this Roman Stoic in our easy-give-and-take century." Young Lord Greenway looked to the door, as if he dreaded the appearance of solne savage animal, as it was thrown open, Mr. Beaumanoir was announced, and Kielbach rose, smiling from his chair, to welcome his distinguished guest.

The years that had made him famous — had aged him before his time. There were lines of deep thought on his noble forehead, from which the hair was slightly worn and tinged, young as he still was, with grey, but so it had been from the day his sister died. His lips were usually too sternly compressed, his dark, grey eyes, that had once so softened his countenance, seemed to have forgotten their sweetness. It was an earnest, piercing glance, that awed his foes, and too often, perhaps, his oy friends. But many friends, alas, Robert Beaumanoir had not. Respect he had won for himself, but few except Saville Herbert knew how warm a heart lay lifeless beneath his cold and stern exterior. To know him now he should have been seen in public life. Generally, he had contracted a rather stooping gait, but when excited his noble form was reared, his wellshaped head thrown back ; and then his earnest eyes, light ing up with the brilliant or profound thought, his brows unwrinkled, his firm lips apart, he spoke his glorious eloquence ; uot polished, sparkling, as was Saville Herbert's, yet some times his eyes would brighten, and his lips quiver with some keen sarcasm ; but woe to the unhappy wretch who had provoked the shaft — he could not joiu in the laugh — for his arrows were poisoned.

Mr. Beaumanoir is now a good speaker, and, not yet in office, has gained an European reputation — has been clo setted with Prince Metternich and the Emperor of Russia. When he catches the Speaker's eye, sleepy reporters wake up aud grasp their pencils, aud strangers whisper to one another that he is the representative of the new gene ration — the active, hard-working, straightfor ward, honorable gentleman — disdaining alike the trickery and red-tapeism of statesmanship ; but I doubt, for all that, if Robert Beaumanoir is so good a man as when, long ago, he trem bled beneath a glance of pretty Ellinor's, or leaut fondly on the arm of Berkeley Las celles. " For my part," said Baron von Kielbach, " I thank Heaven, that if German sovereigns, may Heaven preserve them, have brought their land to the verge of revolution, if their policy is despised and their sincerity doubted, they are men of taste.

They may neglect their people, but look at their pictures ; their arti sans perhaps starve, but in what land are artists so honored ?" " My dear Baron," murmured Barbarini. "Mv dear Count," said Von Kielbach, "I do not complain. If monarchs make use of lcng years of peace in making preparations for war, and so drive their people to revolu tion to afford business for their soldiers, it is nothing to me. As it is, we Germans are the most wretchedly enuuyed people on the lace of the earth, aud if it were not for field days and reviews, we might hang ourselves in ro»vs like the English in November." " Well," said Mr. Johusou, " if we i_ave a constitution, in art we are barbarians — a walk through the Dresden Gallery, or a look upon your architectural and sculptured beauties, makes the ears of an Englishman tingle with shame."

"An observation," said Beaumanoir, quietly, " made so often, that its falsity is forgotten in its triteness. At least, we northerns are so far on a par : to none of us is art an intuition. Will you make me believe that your masses care more for Mendelsshon and Mozart than an English public? But where a monarchy is absolute, the taste of the monarch regulates that of the nation. We educate, or try to educate our people with Cobbett and the political economists ; you give them Rauch and his artist followers ; and after all, tbe people, as a people, understand as little of one as they do of the other. It gives the essayists food for their articles ; it gives subject for controversy inex haustible — that is all." " It is, after all, in Italy," said Barbarini, that art still holds her sovereignty."

" A sovereignty of ruins," said Mohr. " Her new capital is decked out with all the flimsy finery of the Carnival." " Quite true," observed Lord Greenway. " I had heard of the boatmen ehauntincj Tasso on the lagunes of Venice. All I know is that my fellows were singing some absurdity to the air of ' Yankee Doodle.' " "After all," said Mohr, thoughtfully, "art is a great truth, and truth may affect different minds in different ways. Like light — it shines on all the same colors — but a rose reflects only the red, a violet the blue. One nation may be profound, another ingenious, a third spiritual, but they have all one common source of inspi ration ; they worship the same Ideal under different modifications." " Talking of ideals," said Johnson, trembling lest the German should talk himself into the vast deep of metaphysics ; " talking of ideals, some one was telling me that jTour Sterhach — your divine Adrienne — was an English woman."

" English," said Barl arini, opening his eyes ; :' English ! Gott bewahr ! do Englishwomen sing ?" ,kMy dear Count," said Mr. Johnson, almost angrily. " My dear friend," laughed the Count, "your countrywomen walk well, talk w ell, have the loveliest complexions imaginable — but further — " "Imust agree with Barbarini," said Kiel bach, " and it is very natural and proper ; your countrymen, from nobles to mechanics, are, for the' most part, too busily occupied to have time to bestow upon a musical education, and without having in some measure, a VOL. III. G classical knowledge of that essence of art, I defy a man to appreciate its beauties. The Italians will not even give you the credit of comprehending the ravings of a Verdi, but that—" "Pardon me," interrupted Barberini, who Germanised in politics and language, still remained Italian in taste, "that light and easy grace which, seeming nature, is the perfection of art, is the peculiar gift of my countrymen.

Your music shows, by its formality, its heavi ness, the difficulty and pain with wdiich you have acquired it. Ours is inborn — the last inspiration that remains to us from the Genius of our land." The subject dropped, but soon after some one again mentioned the name of Sterbach. " You have not heard her," said Lord Green way to Beaumanoir. " You have really experi enced a loss. On account of the mourning for the Grand Duke of , there have been only oratorios and symphonies at the Opera for the last month. To-night is probably the last night, and as she does not sing in Operas, you may not have the opportunity again during your stay." " Why not go now," said Herr von Kiel bach ; " you would still be in time for the last part." " Come with me," said Barbarini, " to the Ambassador's box." What led Beaumanoir to accept ?

He cared little to hear a new singer, or a new composi tion, but accept he did, and the two men entered the house as the third part was about to begin. Two gentlemen were already in the box — one a Royal Prince, the other one of the Ministers. Prince Friedrich of Esel, a slight, fair, aristo cratic young man, was a passionate worshipper of music, and report hinted, a still more pas sionate worshipper of fair Adrienne Sterbach. He greeted Beaumanoir good-humouredly. " I hardly expected to see you in the house," he said. " I thought you impervious even to the charms of our queen of song." Beaumanoir took a chair immediately behind him, and finding that he was doomed, listened with as much patience as he could to the eloquent enthusiasm of the Prince. " This is quite a new thing," said the Prince ; " a vocal symphony written expressly for her by a young musician, who has bravely earned his laurels by this first essay."

" Has your Highness heard," said Barbarini, bending over and addressing him, " Von Grohl won ten thousand louis at Baden the other night." 11 Mon Dieu J what luck," said the Prince, g THE CAR RE R OF with an envious sigh. " Is not that Count Mauberg and his wife in that box? They celebrated their silver wedding yesterday. She hardly looks as if she had been married five and-twenty years." " He in revanche," said Barbarini, " looks as if he had been married fifty. Norlungen says they should have waited five years longer, and then, instead of their silver wed ding, they could have celebrated the thirty years' war." " Very good," laughed the Prince. There was a lull in the orchestra, then the composer tapped his baton on the desk, and the opening chorus of the last part began. The Prince leaned back and addressed Beau manoir.

"The leader to-night is the composer himself, Leinder." Beaumanoir started, and in spite of long years of self-command, a change came over his features. With that name so carelessly pro nounced, what memories were not linked. The young Prince, his opera glass fixed intently on the stage, did not notice him. Robert's eyes were bent upon the ground. He heard no note of the music ; lost in thought he sat, until after a few minor chords, there stole upon his ear a voice so full, so soft, so marvellously sweet. Again he started — again that voice, echo of days long past, smote to his inmost heart. Every fibre in his frame trembled with strong emotion ; forgetting time and place, he leant forward ; the Prince turned — " Take my glass, Herr Beaumanoir ; is she not divine." His hands clutched the glass convulsively ; then, with one effort, calming himself, he raised them, and looked at her steadily; changed so that few would have recognised her — beautiful still, but with a subdued and more intel lectual beauty — with that look in the eyes that betrays to a close observer years of suffering and pain, dressed plainly in black velvet, and her dark hair simply braided, there before him stood the daughter of his enemy, the child of the ruined gamester — Adrienne Steinheim.

For the next half hour he sat lost in his own thoughts. He heard the conversation in the box as in a dream. At length the door opened, another gentleman entered, and seizing the opportunity, he rose from his chair, and bowing to the Prince, said something of a remembered engagement, and in a moment more stood alone in the calm, fresh evening air. There were some not very charitable remarks made by those he left behind on the apathy of Englishmen ; while that apathetic Englishman paced backwards and forwards the square in which stands the Opera House, with hands clenched tight, and steps hnrried and uneven. A proud man, he thought the wounds healed that had but scarified, he recoiled from the tempest of pas sion that the sight of that sad, calm beauty had awakened in his breast. It was a bright moonlight night, and the somewhat solemn beauty of Berlin looks so well as the noble architecture of the public edifices stand out grimly7 still in the quiet night.

The bright stars floating above, the moon shedding its pale, chaste light on the noble facade of the Royal Palace, on the classic elegance of the Museum, on sculpture that may almost rival the antique, on bronzes of inestimable value. The dark, sullen Spree rolling at your feet — in the distance the long avenue of the Linden — its black, solemn shadow forming a fitting background. On such a night, E , have we stood upon the bridge, and leaning against the stone balustrade, thought, with longing, wistful hearts, of home ; wondering if the moon were giving them so clear a light, and if, with the thousand miles between, they too looked up to the glittering stars, to read a prophecy of the future in their mystic light. A singer ! the only child of the proud Stein heim — the child that he had thought worthy to mate with the noblest blood in Englaud.

A singer ! Does he think of the sorrow and the shame caused him by that man — does he think of his days and nights of agony — of his wild despair and more wretched stupor of grief — of his thwarted ambition, of his toilsome career ; and, deadliest wrong, of the share he had had, unconsciously it is true, in his young sister's early grave ? No ! the first passion has passed — another image rises before his mind ; of him self — a despairing, penniless boy, sauntering hopeless in the Great Babylon ; of himself, the fainting, beggar stranger, held to that same man's breast, while the sad eyes he had seen to night smiled kindly on him, and that sweet voice breathed hope to his despair. There was a crowd at the private entrance to the theatre, a carriage was at the door — she came out wrapped closely in a large cloak.

With hat drawn low over his brows he drew near. Her hand lightly rested on the arm of a young man, but her grave, quiet manner seemed to check the words of gallantry rising to his lips. An elderly woman followed closely behind with Wilhelm Leinder. Suddenly she started ; it seemed to her that a low, deep voice said " Adrienne !" Paler than marble, with wild, staring eyes, she looked round for the speaker " What has alarmed you ?" said her cavalier. It was Prince Frederick of Esel. " Nothing — that is, I thought I heard — " " No one has spoken," said the Prince ; " I believe, Leinder, that no one has spoken ?" " No one, Highness." She sprang into the carriage, her attendant followed, the Prince stepped back and raised his hat — she bent forward, not to return his salutation, but again to watch each figure in the group, and not finding the one she sought, murmured it was a dream, and sank back pressing her hand to her flushed and troubled brow.

Chapter II

Sprezia il grande, ed obblia, ma il vil si gode Nell 'odio. II Conte de Carmagnola. A Manzoni. " Follow that carriage," said Beaumanoir, springing into one of the crazy droschkies stand ing on the place. " Do not lose sight of it 1" " Gut" said the tranquil German, leisurely removing his pipe from his mouth and placing it in some mysterious recess of his pocket. Then he gathered up the reins, with a pre caution that made Beaumanoir stamp his foot with impatience, and which assuredly was not necessary for the poor half-starved brute, that after a due amount of cajoling and tr — r — ring jolted him up the Linden. I am very partial to Germans myself, but I am afraid, entre nous, that they are a little bit egotistical. Make allowance for the sand and heat, or failing that, the cold and mud, the execrable roads, bad drainage, and wretched trottoirs ; the poor aristocracy, and melancholy citizens ; the general annoyance of a city too large to be sociable, and small enough for every one to know every one else, and Berlin is a very G pleasant place to live in ; but I enter my pro test against the Prussians' fond fallacy, that it is the finest built capital in Europe.

I think that a city built at right angles is intolerable ; that the Linden is not to be compared to the Boulevard — that gas was meant to eclipse, as well as replace, rushlights — that there is not that tremendous rush of business in the Konig Strasse sufficient to strike awe into the beholder — and most shocking heresy, that their Opera will not rival that of London and Paris, and cast them both into the shade. It is ull a matter of taste. Beaumanoir lounged on a seat in the Thier Garten, smoking a cigar very thoughtfully. He had followed her home — he had seen her enter a small house in the Thier Garten — he had even followed her up the garden, but at the door he paused — "Steinheim — what could he say to Stein heim ? What the deuce had he to say to him ? He — he could not shake hands witli that man even if he would have accepted the preliminary.

And then they were in reduced circumstances. As he came up the garden a glance in at the window had showed him rooms humbly furnished ; and they might resent the intrusion— besides — " In tine, his English reserve gained the vietory — he turned back/and into the first alley of the wood, or park, or garden, or whatever you like to call it, sat down on a bench, and drew out his cigar-case. He wondered himself at the tenderness of his feelings as he thought of her. " Poor girl — poor girl !" he muttered to himself a thousand times — for the melancholy eyes haunted him, and the worn look on the pure, white brow. The first cigar smoked out, he took a second, and still sat — listlessly watch ing the glowing end in the still night. This sudden romance, so unusual in the cold, grave Beaumanoir — was it only caused by a pitying memory — only a moralising thought oa the evanescent nature of all sublunary things that caused him, all alone in the gloom and darkness, to lean his forehead ou the arm of the bench with something like a groan ?

The clocks chimed out midnight, and Mr. Beaumanoir started up — he had sat there two hours — he paused for a moment to collect him self. It was done ; he walked on with that firm and haughty tread — that grave, quiet dignity, before which many an opponent quailed as he moved to his seat in the House. The trees, and stars, and my pale Lady Moon, will not betray the vigil of the last two hoars. He was within a few houses of the house where they lived. A carriage' was standing in the road, and a gentleman came out of a handsome villa, the footman let down the steps. Beau manoir did not recognise him, until hearing his name called, he looked round and saw the Baron von Kielbach. " You here, so late !" he cried, gaily ; " for give me, if I have disturbed you in the com position of a sonnet. Come with me, I pray you — recompense me for the sufferings of the last hour.

I, too, have had my sins ; but I am punished in this world. I have an old aunt, rich as a queen, and from her I am wretched enough to have expectations. She lives here," he said, jerking his head towards the villa ; " she is old — she is ill — she has been dying the last ten yrears ; and whenever they make her bariey water a little too strong, the poor old soul sends down express for me — I tore myself away from a supper of brave spirits. In every groan I heard the pop of the ohampag.e corks — in every sigh, the ghost of a beccaficco. C.ime back with me — no, at least let me put you down at your hotel." It was late in the autumn aud very cold, Beaumanoir was half-frozen, and glad to accept. His foot was on ti e step, he turned — " What was that ? Baron, did you not hear a cry ?" 1O0 " Cry !

I heard nothing — only your fancy stirred by the recital of my misfortunes." " I thought — perhaps it was fancy. Ha ! another ; let us see — that sharp cry, there must be mischief somewhere." " Donnerwetter ! but you are right," said Kielbach, throwing off the cloak he had been folding round him, and bringing the hilt of his sword within reach. " Perhaps we may be of assistance." They hurried on in the direction of the sound. All was silent ; a cloud had passed over the moon, and obscured its light. They paused — " After all," said Kielbach, " we must have been deceived. My aunt's venerable parrot has perhaps led us this dance." " Hush !" said Beaumanoir ; he seemed strongly excited. " liush, again, my God, here !" The cry this time was more faintly repeated, it came from the small house before which they were standing.

Before Kielbach could look round, his companion had leaped the palings, and throwing himself against the door, it burst open and he sprang in. Three men masked were in the room — an old man had been thrown to the ground, and one man held him down by the throat ; a woman THE CAR1ER OF was tied to the bed, and from her came the cries he had heard. A second ruffian had opened the bureau, and was coolly rifling its contents — the third was struggling with a younger woman, who appeared to make frantic efforts to reach the old man on the ground. In one moment he was seized by the throat and hurled against the wall — and Kielbach following closely, the robbers, aghast, paused in their work, and made for the window. The old woman, animated by the sight, screamed " murder," with all her might. The younger ran to the old man and raised him in her arms.

One of the men sprang from the window. The second made for the door, but was stopped by Kielbach. The third, confronted by Beau manoir, tried to thrust him aside and follow his companion. The noise aud confusion in the house had at last attracted the attention of the neighbours, other voices were heard approaching. " Bei Gott in Ilimmcl," cried the robber, between his teeth, " stand back man, or there will be mischief done." He wrestled with his captor so fiercely that he almost broke from him ; his hand was on the window sill to jump out, when Robert again seized him by tlie tliroat — his eyes glared through his mask — he stooped for one moment, as if to collect his strength for a final effort, at the same moment several people rushed in. " Help friends," cried Beaumano:r, loudly, " help, or this ruffian will escape."

As he spoke he recoiled, for he felt a cold steel enter his shoulder — his hold relaxed, and the man throwing him back, leaped out. Kielbach, with several others, ran out in pursuit. Paus ing to tie his handkerchief round his arm, Beaumanoir gave to the two or three who sur rounded him, an account of the business as far as he was witness to it. The lady still busied herself with the old man, who seemed much shaken by the fright; the woman, released from her bonds, rushed to Beaumanoir, and vehe mently kissing his hand, vowed that he had saved them from being murdered. The only light in the room was from one of the lanterns that the thieves had dropped ; the Englishman still wore his cap low over his eyes, and spoke in German, aud in a subdued voice, standing on oue side away from the father and child.

The room gradually emptied, the people went all over the house to see if it was safe, and headed by the old woman, examined the back door where the men had forced their entrance. Somewhat recovering himself, the master of the house approached Beaumanoir and thanked him as he deserved, for the service he had done — she too drew near —she too thanked him in that well-known and sweet voice. " Surely," said she, " I do not mistake your accent, Mein Herr is an Englishman." He bowed silently, and as if remembering that he wore his cap, he raised it, and moving nearer, the light streamed full upon his face. No vision could have startled them more ; father and daughter recoiled ; she, pale and breathless, he flushed and breathing hard. He turned from him to her. " Miss Steinheim, have you forgotten me — have you no word of welcome after so nnny years."