[5] The exact translation of “rachmonni” is “merciful.” It is used as a
name of God, because the Jew does not pronounce the proper name of God
except in his prayers.
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH
[Illustration]
_Baumbach is to-day preeminent in that field of romantic short story
where the earlier German writers loved to dream and weave their
symbolic figures out of the threads of human nature and the colors of
mysticism._
_Baumbach, born in Kranichfeld, Thuringia, in 1840, was for a time
student of natural sciences at Heidelberg and other universities, but
preferring the life of a traveler to that of a student of books, he
spent much of his life abroad before settling down as court councilor
at Meiningen._
_His first literary success was a collection of poetical tales, fresh,
rich in coloring, pictures of South German folk-life, sound, true, and
sympathetic, and not so deep as to submerge the outlines of the plot._
[Illustration]
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH
Translated by Minnie B. Hudson.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
It was on the day of the summer solstice, and the glow of midday lay
on the corn-fields. At times a fresh wind swept over from the mountain
forest near; then the stalks bent low, and the poppies on the edge of
the field scattered their delicate petals. Crickets and grasshoppers
chirped in the grain, and from the blackthorn on the roadside the
goldhammer once in a while let her gentle call be heard.
Through the corn-field, which extended from the valley to the mountain,
walked, in the narrow path, a young woman of slender yet strong figure.
She wore the customary plaited skirt, and, for protection against the
sun’s rays, a red kerchief; on her left arm hung a basket, and in her
right hand she carried a stone jug.
As the goldhammer in the thorn-hedge became aware of her presence he
fluttered to the highest twig and called softly: “Maiden, maiden, how
do you flourish?” But the bird was mistaken. The blond Greta was no
maiden, but a young wife, and now was on her way to her husband, who
felled wood in the forest above.
When the fair one had reached the border of the forest she stood
listening, and soon the strokes of a woodman’s ax told her where to
turn her steps. It was not long before she saw her husband, who felled
a pine tree with mighty strokes, and, with joyful voice, she called to
him.
“Remain standing where thou art,” responded he. “The tree will fall
directly.” And the pine tree gave a deep sigh, bowed itself, and sank
crashing to the earth.
Now Greta came nearer, and the sunburnt woodcutter took his young wife
in his arms and kissed her fondly. Then she sat down on the trunk of
the tree, and took the food from the basket she had brought. Here Hans
laid down the bread from his hand, took his ax, and said: “I have
forgotten something,” stepped in the direction of the fallen pine, and
cut three crosses in the wood.
“Why dost thou that, Hans?” asked the wife.
“That was done on account of the wood-sprites,” explained the husband.
“The poor creatures have a wicked enemy, who is the wild hunter. Day
and night he waylays them and hunts them with his dogs. But if the
pursued little women succeed in escaping to such a tree-trunk, then the
wild huntsman can not harm them, because of the three crosses.”
The young wife’s eyes grew large. “Hast thou ever met a wood-sprite?”
asked she, curious.
“No. They only rarely let themselves be seen. But to-day is the
solstice, when they become visible.” And suddenly he called with a loud
voice into the forest: “Wood-sprite, appear!”
He had only done this in order to tease his wife; but, on the holy
midsummer day, one should not jest about such things.
At once a little woman, a yard high, delicate of form and very
beautiful of face, stood before the pair. She wore a long white
garment, and in her golden hair a spray of mistletoe.
Hans and Greta were very much frightened. They rose up hastily from
their seats, and Greta made a bow, the best she could do.
“You have called me at a good time,” said the wood-sprite, and pointed
with forefinger to the orb of the sun, that stood almost over her
head, “and a good deed”--here the little woman pointed to the marked
tree-stump--“is the other reason. Gold and silver have I not to give
away, but I know of something better. Come with me; it will do you no
harm, and take your jug: you will be able to make use of it.”
So she spoke and led the way. Hans shouldered his woodman’s ax, Greta
took up the stone jug, and both followed the little woman. She had a
walk like a duck, and Greta plucked her husband’s sleeve, pointed to
the waddling little woman, and would have whispered something into his
ear, but Hans laid his forefinger on her mouth. Nothing hurts a sprite
more than to have a person ridicule their gait. They have feet like a
duck, and therefore they wear long, flowing garments to hide them.
After a short time the three arrived at a clearing. Very old trees
stood in a circle around the meadow; out of the grass arose lilies and
bluebells, and great butterflies rested thereon, waving their wings
to and fro. And Hans, who thought he knew the whole forest, could not
remember to have ever crossed this place.
On the edge of the meadow stood a small house. The walls were covered
with the bark of trees, and the roof was shingled with the scales of
pine cones, and each scale was fastened down by a rose-thorn. Here the
wood-sprite was at home.
She led her guests behind the house, and pointed to a spring whose
water gushed silently from the black earth. Succulent coltsfoot and
irises grew on its brink, and over its surface danced green and gold
dragon-flies.
“That is the fountain of youth,” said the wood-sprite. “A bath in its
water turns an old man into a boy and an old woman into a girl. But if
one drinks the water then does it ward off old age until death. Fill
your jug and carry it home. But be economical with this precious water;
a drop on each Sunday is enough to keep you young. And yet again: As
soon as thou, Hans, dost cast thy eye on a strange woman, or thou,
Greta, on a strange man, then the water loses its virtue. That mark
you. Now fill your jug and fare you well.”
So spoke the wood-sprite, refusing the thanks of the lucky couple, and
went into the house. Greta filled the jug with the water of youth, and
then they hastened home as quickly as they could to their cottage.
Arrived at home, Hans poured the water into a bottle and sealed it with
fir resin. “For the present,” he remarked, “we do not find the water of
youth necessary, and we can economize. The time will come, indeed, when
we will need it.” And then they placed the bottle in the cupboard where
they kept their treasures: a couple of old coins, a garnet chain on
which hung a golden penny, and two silver spoons. But Greta took great
care that the water lost not its virtue.
And how they did take themselves in hand! When the young forester went
by the garden before the house and exchanged a greeting with Greta,
as indeed had been his custom, then Greta looked not up from her
vegetable-bed. And when Hans sat in the evening in “The White Stag,”
and the pretty Lisi brought him wine, then he made a face like a cat
during a storm; and finally he did not go any more to the inn, but
remained at home with his wife. Thus the water must certainly retain
its magic power.
So there passed for the young couple a year of love and happiness, when
to the two came a third. In the cradle a chubby boy kicked and cried,
so that the father’s heart leaped for joy. “Now,” thought he, “is the
time come for us to open the bottle. What thinkest thou, Greta? A drop
of the water of youth would do thee good.”
The wife agreed to the proposition, and Hans went into the room where
the magic potion was preserved. With hands trembling with joy he loosed
the cork and--Oh, wo, wo!--the bottle slipped from his hands, and the
water of youth poured over the floor. He came near falling to the
floor, he was so frightened over the misfortune. What was he to do now?
His wife must on no account learn what had happened; she might die from
fright.
Perhaps he could tell her later what he had done; perhaps, also, he
might find the fountain of youth again (which he had certainly sought
in vain), and he might replace the loss. He hastily filled a new
bottle, which was just like the first, with well-water, and well-water
it was also that he gave his wife.
“Ah, how it refreshes and strengthens one!” said Greta; “take a drop
also, dear Hans.”
And Hans obeyed and praised the virtue of the magic potion, and from
that time each one took a drop every Sunday when the church-bell was
ringing. And Greta bloomed like a rose, and Hans’s veins swelled with
health and strength. But he postponed the confession of his deed from
day to day, for he hoped in his heart to yet find the water of youth;
but roam through the forest as he would he could not discover the
meadow where the wood-sprite lived.
Thus passed some years. A small maiden joined the little boy, and Frau
Greta’s once round chin had become double. She herself certainly saw it
not, for the mirror was not yet in existence in those days. Hans saw
it, indeed, but avoided speaking of it, and redoubled his love for his
portly wife.
Then there happened a misfortune. At least Greta held it to be such. As
she swept the house one day the small Peter, her eldest, came upon the
cupboard in which stood the bottle with the supposed water of youth and
clumsily overthrew the bottle, so that it broke and the contents were
spilled.
“Oh, thou gracious Heaven!” lamented the mother. “It is lucky, though,
that Hans is not at home.” With trembling hands she gathered up the
fragments from the floor and replaced the bottle by another, which
she filled with ordinary water. “Certainly the deception will soon
be found out, for now is it all over with the everlasting youth.
Alas, alas!” But for the present she did not wish to tell her husband
anything about it.
Again considerable time passed, and the couple lived together as on the
day when the priest had joined their hands in marriage.
Each one carefully avoided letting the other know that youth was past,
and each Sunday conscientiously took the magic drop.
Then it happened that one morning a gray hair remained between Hans’s
fingers as he combed his hair. And he thought: “Now is the time for me
to tell the truth to my wife.” With a heavy heart, he began: “Greta, it
seems to me that our water of youth has lost its strength. Look there!
I have found a gray hair. I am getting old.”
Greta was frightened, but composed herself, and, forcing a loud laugh,
cried: “A gray hair! When I was a little girl, ten years old, I had
even then a gray lock amid my hair. The like has frequently happened.
Thou hast lately dressed a badger; perhaps something has happened to
your hair from the fat, for badger’s fat, you know, colors the hair
gray. No, dear Hans, the water has not lost its old virtue, or”--here
she cast an anxious glance on him--“or perhaps thou also findest that I
am growing old?”
Now Hans laughed very loudly. “Thou, old! Thou bloomest, indeed, like a
peony!” And then he threw his arms about her and gave her a kiss. But
when he was alone he said, with quiet thankfulness: “God be thanked!
She knows not that we are getting old. Now it matters not.”
And similarly thought the wife.
On the evening of the same day the young folks of the village danced to
the fiddle of a wandering musician, and no couple wheeled more merrily
under the linden than Hans and Greta.
The peasant women made sarcastic remarks, to be sure; but the two heard
nothing of the ridicule in their happiness.
After that it happened in the fall, as Hans with his family was eating
a Martinmas goose, that Frau Greta broke a tooth. There was great
lamenting, for she was so proud of her white teeth.
And when the couple were alone together the wife said, in an unsteady
voice: “This misfortune would not have occurred if the water--”
But at this Hans blurted out: “You think the water is good for
everything. Has it not often happened before that a child has broken
out a tooth by cracking a nut? What hast thou against the excellent
water? Art thou not fresh and sound as a rose? Or perhaps thou hast
turned thine eyes upon another that thou mistrustest the virtue of the
water?”
Then the wife laughed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and kissed her
husband so that the breath almost left him. But in the afternoon, when
they sat on the stone bench before the house door and sang two-part
songs about true love, the passers-by said: “The silly old people!”
However, the happy ones heard them not.
So passed many years. The house had become too small for the children.
They had gone forth, had married and had children of their own. The two
old people were again alone, and were as dear to each other as on their
wedding day; and every Sunday, when the church-bell rang, each drank a
drop from the flask.
Then once again the day of the summer solstice drew near. On the
evening before, Hans and Greta sat before their door and looked toward
the heights where the St. John’s fire blazed, and from the distance
sounded the mirth of the young fellows and maids, who stirred the fire
and sprang through its flames in couples.
Then the wife said: “Dear Hans, I would like to go once more to the
forest. If thou desirest it also, then will we start early in the
morning. But thou must waken me early, for when the elder blossoms the
young women like to sleep until the sun is high in the heavens.”
Hans agreed. On the next morning he wakened his wife, and they went
together into the forest. They walked like lovers, and each gave a
careful heed to the steps of the other.
When Hans cautiously jumped over the root of a tree, the wife said:
“Ah, Hans, thou leapest indeed like a young kid!” and when Greta
timidly stepped over a little ditch, her husband laughed and cried:
“Tuck up your dress, Greta! Jump!” And then they selected an old pine
tree, feasting in its shade on what Greta had brought with her.
“It was here,” said Hans, “where the wood-sprite appeared to us that
day, and there yonder must lie the forest meadow with the fountain of
youth. But I have never again found the meadow and the spring.”
“And, God be thanked! that has mattered not,” hastily interrupted
Greta. “For our flask is still far from being empty.”
“Certainly, certainly,” nodded Hans. “But yet it would please me if
we could see the good wood-sprite once again, and thank her for our
good fortune. Come--let us go and seek her. Perhaps I will be as lucky
to-day as formerly.”
Then they set out and went deeper into the forest, and after a quarter
of an hour saw there, before their eyes, the sunny forest meadow.
Lilies and bluebells bloomed in the grass, gay-colored butterflies
flew to and fro, and on the edge of the forest stood also the little
house, just as in years before. They went toward the house with beating
hearts, and best of all, there was indeed the fountain of youth at
hand, and dragon-flies, in green and gold, hovered over it.
Hans and Greta stepped to the brim of the spring. They embraced each
other and stooped over the water; and from out the clear surface of the
spring there confronted them two gray heads with friendly, wrinkled
faces.
Then hot tears fell from the eyes of the old couple, and they stood
stammering and sobbing in mutual guilt. It required a long time before
it became clear to them that each had deluded and for long years had
lovingly deceived the other.
“Thou hast also known that we have both grown old?” cried out Hans,
joyfully.
“Of course, of course,” laughed the wife, amid tears.
“And I, also,” rejoiced old Hans. Then he took his wife and kissed her
as on the day she had said “Yes” to him.
Then the forest-sprite suddenly stood before them, as if she had sprung
out of the earth.
“Welcome,” said she. “You have not appeared before me for a long time.
But--but,” continued the little woman, and threatened with her finger,
“you have kept a bad home with the water of youth. Wrinkles and gray
hair! Ah, ah! Now,” continued she again, “that is easy to remedy,
and you are come at a good hour. Quick! Spring into the fountain of
youth; it is not deep; dip your gray heads under; then you shall see a
miracle. The bath will restore to you youthful vigor and beauty. But
quick, before the sun sinks!”
Hans and Greta looked at each other. “Wilt thou?” asked the husband, in
an uncertain voice.
“Never,” answered Greta, quickly. “Oh, if thou only knowest how happy
I am, that at last I may be old! And, also, it would be impossible on
account of our children and grandchildren. No, gracious forest-sprite,
a thousand thanks for your good deed, but we remain as we are. Is it
not so, Hans?”
“Yes,” nodded Hans, “we remain old. If thou couldst but know, Greta,
how well your gray hair becomes you.”
“As you will,” said the wood-sprite, a little vexed. “There is no
ceremony here.” So speaking, she went into the house and locked the
door behind her.
But the old couple kissed each other anew. Then they stepped homeward,
arm in arm, through the forest, and the midsummer sun shed a golden
light upon their gray heads.
GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH
[Illustration]
_“Few stories of cadet or student life,” says General Charles
King, “have impressed me as did ‘Das Edle Blut.’”_
_The author of “Good Blood” was born at Beirut, Syria, in
1845, his father having been Prussian Consul-General there. He
entered the Prussian cadet corps and the Potsdam preparatory
school, and after serving as officer during two wars, he
resigned from the army in 1865, and studied law, became
Referendar at the Frankfort-on-Oder Court of Appeals, Judge at
Berlin, member of the Foreign Office of the German Empire, and
Privy Councilor._
_With his “heroic songs” he was the first to give epic
treatment to the war with France. Through his series of
historical plays for the people, he became enormously popular._
_The more close and personal touch is found in his short
stories, many of which, as in “Good Blood,” deal with a
superior character in rebellion against its surroundings. This
little story, though new, is fast becoming a classic._
[Illustration]
GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH
Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
Is it possible that there are people quite free from curiosity? People
who can pass on behind any one they see gazing earnestly and intently
toward some unknown object without feeling an impulse to stop, to
follow the direction of the other’s eyes, to discover what odd thing he
may be looking at?
For my part, if I were asked whether I counted myself among that class
of cold natures, I do not know that I could honestly answer “Yes.” At
any rate, there was once a moment in my life when I was not only goaded
by such an impulse, but when I actually yielded to the temptation and
fell into the way of any mere curiosity seeker.
The place in which it happened was in a wine-room in the old town where
as Referendar[6] I was practising at court; the time was an afternoon
in summer.
The wine-room, situated on the ground floor of a house in the great
square which from the window one could look out upon in every
direction, was at this hour nearly empty. To me this was all the more
agreeable, for I have ever been a lover of solitude.
There were three of us: the fat waiter, who from a gray, dust-covered
bottle was pouring out the golden-yellow Muscatel into my glass; then
myself, who sat in a nook of the cozy, odd-cornered room and smacked
the fragrant wine; and still another guest, who had taken his place at
one of the two open windows, a tumbler of red wine lying before him on
the window-sill, in his mouth a long brown, smoke-seasoned meerschaum
cigar-holder, out of which he wrapped himself in a cloud of smoke.
This man, who had a long gray beard framing a ruddy face tinged bluish
in places, was an old retired colonel, whom every one in town knew. He
belonged to that colony of the Superannuated who had settled down in
this pleasant place to wearily drag out the end of their days.
Toward noon they could be seen strolling deliberately in groups of twos
or threes down the street, shortly to disappear into the wine-room,
where between twelve and one they assembled at the round table to
gossip. On the table stood pint bottles of sourish Moselle, over the
table floated a thick mist of cigar smoke, and through the mist came
voices, peevish, grating, discussing the latest event in the Army
Register.
The old colonel, too, was a regular patron of the wine-room, but he
never came at the hour of general assembly, but later, in the afternoon.
[Illustration: =Ernst von Wildenbruch=]
He was a man of lonely disposition. Rarely was he seen in the company
of others; his lodging was in the suburbs on the other side of the
river, and from the window of his room one could look out over a wide
stretch of meadow land which the river regularly inundated every
spring, when it overflowed its banks. Many a time I have passed by his
lodging and seen him standing at the window, his bloodshot eyes, rimmed
with deep bags beneath, thoughtfully gazing out toward the gray waste
of water beyond the embankment.
And now he sits there at the window of the wine-room and gazes out upon
the square, over whose surface the wind sweeps along in a whirl of dust.
But what is he looking at, I wonder?
The fat waiter, bored to death over his two silent fees, had his
attention already drawn toward the colonel’s behavior; he stood in the
middle of the room, his hands clasped behind the tail of his coat, and
was gazing through the other window out on to the square.
Something must surely be going on there.
Quietly as possible, so as not to break the interest of the other
two, I rose from my seat. But there was really nothing to be seen.
The square was nearly empty; only in the centre, under the great
street lamps, I noticed two schoolboys who were facing each other
in threatening attitude. Could it be this, then, that so fixed the
attention of the old colonel?
But having once begun, such is the nature of man, I could not withdraw
my attention before knowing whether this threat of a fight would
really swell to an outbreak. The boys had just come from afternoon
school session; they were still carrying their portfolios under their
arms. They may have been of equal age, but one was a head taller than
the other. This bigger one, a tall, lank, overgrown schoolboy, with
an unpleasant look in his freckled face, was blocking the way of the
other, who was short and plump and had an honest face with chubby, red
cheeks. The bigger boy seemed to be nagging at the other with taunting
words, but by reason of the distance it was impossible to understand
what he said. After this had been going on for a while, the quarrel
suddenly broke out. Both boys dropped their portfolios to the ground;
the little chubby boy lowered his head, as though to ram his opponent
in the stomach, and then rushed at him.
“The big fellow there will soon have him in a fix,” now said the
colonel, who was earnestly following the movements of the enemy, and
who seemed not to approve the tactics of the little chubby boy.
For whom he intended these words it would be hard to say; he spoke them
to himself without addressing any one of us.
His prediction was at once justified.
The big fellow dodged the onset of his enemy; the next moment he
had his left arm squeezed around the other’s neck, so that the head
of the latter was caught as in a noose; he had him, as they say,
“in chancery.” With his right hand he gripped the right fist of his
opponent, who was trying to pummel him with it on the back, and when he
had regularly trapped him and brought him completely under his power he
dragged him again and again round and about the lamp-post.
“Clumsy lad,” muttered the old colonel, continuing his monologue,
“always to let himself get caught in that way.” He was plainly
disappointed in the little chubby boy, and could not endure the long,
lanky one.
“They fight that way every day,” he explained, noticing the waiter, to
whom he seemed willing to account for his interest in the matter.
Then he turned his face again toward the window.
“Wonder if the little one will turn up!”
Scarcely had he mumbled this to the end when there came rushing from
the city park that adjoined the square a slender little slip of a lad.
“There he is,” said the old colonel. He swallowed a mouthful of red
wine and stroked his beard.
The little fellow, who one felt sure by the resemblance must be a
brother of little Chubby Cheeks, but a finer and improved edition, ran
up, lifted high his portfolio with both hands and gave Long-Shanks a
blow on the back that resounded away over to where we sat.
“Bravo!” said the old colonel.
Long-Shanks kicked like a horse at this new assailant. Little-Boy
dodged, and the same instant Long-Shanks got a second blow, this time
on the head, that sent his cap flying.
Nevertheless, he still kept his prisoner held in the trap and fast by
the right hand.
Then Little-Boy tore open his portfolio with frantic haste; from the
portfolio he drew out a pen-case, from the pen-case a pen-holder, which
all at once he began jabbing into the hand of Long-Shanks that held his
brother prisoner.
“Clever lad!” said the colonel to himself. “Fine lad!” His red eyes
fairly gleamed with delight.
The affair was now becoming too hot for Long-Shanks. Stung with pain,
he released his first opponent to throw himself with furious blows on
Little-Boy.
But the latter was now transformed into a veritable little wildcat.
His hat had flown from his head, his curly hair clung round his fine,
deathly pale face, out of which his eyes fairly burned; the portfolio
with all its contents was lying on the ground--over cap, portfolio and
all he went for the anatomy of Long-Shanks.
He threw himself on the enemy, and with little, clenched, convulsive
fists belabored him so on stomach and body that Long-Shanks began to
retreat step by step.
In the meanwhile Chubby-Cheeks had recovered himself, snatched up
his portfolio, and with blow after blow on the sides and back of his
oppressor, pushed into the fight again.
Long-Shanks at last threw off Little-Boy, took two steps backward and
picked up his cap from the ground. The fight was drawing to a finish.
Panting and out of breath, the three stood looking at one another.
Long-Shanks showed an ugly grin, behind which he tried to hide the
shame of his defeat; Little-Boy, with fists still doubled, followed
every one of his movements with blazing eyes, ready at a moment to
spring once more upon the enemy should the latter renew the attack.
But Long-Shanks did not advance again; he had had enough. Sneering and
shrugging his shoulders, he kept drawing away farther and farther until
he had reached a safe distance, when he began to call out names.
The two brothers now collected the belongings of Little-Boy that lay
scattered about, stuffed them into the portfolio, picked up their caps,
whipped the dust from them, and turned homeward. On the way they passed
the windows of our wine-room. I could now plainly see the brave little
fellow; he was a thoroughbred, every inch of him. Long-Shanks was again
approaching from behind and bawling after them through the length of
the square. Little-Boy shrugged his shoulders with fine contempt. “You
great, cowardly bully,” said he, and stopping suddenly, turned right
about and faced the enemy. At once Long-Shanks stopped too, and the two
brothers broke out into derisive laughter.
They were now standing directly under the window at which the old
colonel was sitting. He leaned out.
“Bravo, youngster!” said he, “you are a plucky one--here--drink this
on the strength of it.” He had taken up the tumbler and was holding it
out of the window toward Little-Boy. The boy looked up, surprised, then
whispered something to his older brother, gave him his portfolio to
hold, and gripped the big glass in his two little hands.
When he had drank all he wanted, with one hand he held the glass by
its stem, with the other took back the portfolio from his brother, and
without asking by your leave, handed the glass over to him.
Chubby-Cheeks then took a long swallow.
“The blessed boy,” muttered the colonel to himself. “I give him my
glass, and without further ado he makes his _cher frère_ drink out of
it, too.”
But by the face of Little-Boy, who now reached the glass up to the
window again, one could see that he had only been doing something which
seemed to him quite a matter of course.
“Do you like the bouquet?” asked the old colonel.
“Yes, thanks, very well,” said the boy, who snatched at his cap
politely, and went on his way with his brother.
The colonel looked after them until they had turned a corner of the
street and disappeared from his sight.
“With boys like that”--then said the colonel, returning to his
soliloquizing--“it is often an odd thing about boys like that.”
“That they should fight so in the public streets!” said the fat waiter
with disapproval, still standing at his post. “One wonders how the
teacher can allow it; and they seem to belong to good family, too.”
“It isn’t that that does the harm,” grunted the old colonel. “Young
people must have their liberty, teachers can’t always be keeping an eye
on them. Boys all fight--must fight.”
He rose heavily from his place so that the chair creaked beneath him,
scraped the cigar butt out of its holder into the ash-tray, and walked
stiffly over to the wall where his hat hung on a nail. At the same time
he continued his reverie.
“In young blood like that nature will show itself--everything, just
as it _really_ is--afterward, when older, things look all much
alike--then one is able to study more carefully--young blood like that.”
The waiter had put his hat into his hand; the colonel took up his
tumbler again, in which there were still a few drops of the red wine.
“God bless the youngsters,” he murmured; “they have hardly left me a
drop.” He looked, almost sadly, into what remained of the wine, then
set the tumbler down again without drinking.
The fat waiter became suddenly alive.
“Will the colonel, perhaps, have another glass?”
The old man, standing at the table, had opened the wine list and was
mumbling to himself.
“H’m--another sort, maybe--but one can’t buy it by the glass--only by
the bottle--somewhat too much.”
Slowly his gaze wandered over in my direction; I read in his eyes the
dumb inquiry a man sometimes throws his neighbor when he wants to go
halves with him over a bottle of wine.
“If the colonel will allow me,” I said, “it would give me great
pleasure to drink a bottle with him.”
He agreed, plainly not unwilling. He pushed the wine list over to
the waiter, lining with his finger the sort he wanted, and said in a
commanding tone: “A bottle of that.”
“That is a brand I know well,” he said, turning to me, while he threw
his hat on a chair and sat down at one of the tables--“it’s good blood.”
I had placed myself at a table with him so that I could see his face in
profile. His look was again turned toward the window, and as he gazed
past me up into the heavens, the glow of the sunset was reflected in
his eyes.
It was the first time I had seen him at such close quarters.
By the look of his eyes he was lost in dreams, and as his hand played
mechanically through his long beard, there seemed to rise before him
out of the flood of the years that had rushed behind, forms that were
once young when he was young, and which were now--who can say where?
The bottle which the waiter had brought and placed at a table before us
contained a rare wine. An old Bordeaux, brown and oily, poured into our
glasses. I recalled the expression which the old man had used a short
time before.
“I must admit, colonel, that this is indeed ‘good blood.’”
His flushed eyes came slowly back from the far away, turned upon me,
and remained fixed there, as if he would say: “What do you know about
it?”
He took a deep draft, wiped his beard, and gazed at his glass.
“Strange,” he said, “when a man grows old--he recalls the earliest days
far easier than those that come later.”
I was silent; I felt that I ought neither to speak nor question. When
a man is lost in recollections he is making poetry, and one must not
question a poet.
A long pause followed.
“What an assortment of people one has to meet with,” he continued.
“When one thinks of it--many who live on and on--it were often better
they did not live at all--and others have to go so much too early.”
He passed the palm of his hand over the surface of the table. “Beneath
that lies much.”
It seemed as if the table had become to him as the surface of the
earth, and that he was thinking of those lying beneath the ground.
“Had to keep thinking of this a little while ago”--his voice sounded
hollow--“when I saw that little fellow. With a boy like that nature
comes right out, fairly gushes out--thick as your arm. You can see
blood in it. Pity, though, that good blood flows so freely--more freely
than the other. I once knew a little chap like that.”
And there it was.
The waiter had seated himself in a back corner of the room; I kept
perfectly quiet; the heavy voice of the old colonel went laboring
through the stillness of the room like a gust of wind that precedes a
storm or some serious outbreak in nature.
His eyes turned toward me as if to search me, whether I could bear to
listen. He did not ask, I did not speak, but I looked at him, and my
look eagerly replied: “Go on.”
But not yet did he begin; first he drew from the breast pocket of his
coat a large cigar-case of hard, brown leather, took out a cigar and
slowly lighted it.
“You know Berlin, of course,” said he, as he blew out the match and
puffed the first cloud of smoke over the table. “No doubt you have
traveled before this on the street railway--”
“Oh, yes; often.”
“H’m--well, then, as you go along behind the new Friedrich Street from
Alexander Square to the Jannowiz Bridge, there stands there on the
right-hand side in new Friedrich Street, a great ugly old building; it
is the old military school.”