[6] The title conferred in Prussia on the candidate who has passed the
first of the two examinations held before appointment as judge.
[7] “Die Bollen,” a term of dislike among the Berlin cadets.
DELIVERANCE
BY MAX SIMON NORDAU
[Illustration]
_The fame of “Degeneration,” that vigorous polemic against
abnormal vice, has so overshadowed Max Nordau’s other literary
accomplishments that it will be a surprise to many American
readers to see his name among the master foreign writers of
short stories. “Degeneration” has only an ethical value and
does not rank by any means with the author’s best literary
work, for he has written, besides short stories of great merit,
novels, essays, satires, critiques--all more or less bold
attacks on existing conventionalities._
_Nordau was born a Jew at Buda-Pesth. For a while he was a
teacher, then he studied medicine, and after six years of
travel returned and practised his profession of medicine, first
at Buda-Pesth and afterward at Paris, where he settled, and is
now a prominent leader in the Zionist movement in Europe._
[Illustration]
DELIVERANCE
BY MAX NORDAU
Translated by Euphemia Johnson.
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
For an hour the first regiment of Dragoons of the Guard had been drawn
up on level ground behind a screen of low bushes, waiting the order to
engage. For some time the fighting appeared to have ceased around them.
Only a shattered gun carriage and the ground, pierced with deep holes
like newly dug graves, heaped about with soft, yellowish earth, gave
the spot the look of a battlefield. But the conflict was evident enough
to the ear. On all sides thundered the cannon, and from the right came
also the rattling of musketry. The roar of battle rose and fell like
the gamut of a great orchestra executing the “Storm Movement” of the
Pastoral Symphony.
In the foreground, on a slight elevation, a group of officers were
attentively examining the French position. One of them, a Major,
stood a little apart smoking a cigarette and gazing dreamily into the
distance. He might not, perhaps, have attracted a feminine observer,
but a masculine eye would certainly have marked him as a man of
striking intellect. He was about thirty, tall, slight, with cold gray
eyes, a pale, thin face and pale, sarcastic lips, just shadowed by a
delicate auburn mustache. This silent, self-contained man had about
him an air of strange listlessness and disenchantment that made him in
every way a contrast to the tanned, sunburnt young fellows who stood
about him, all on fire with the eagerness of battle. Taking off his
helmet, he passed his hand over his forehead. It was an aristocratic,
well-kept hand, with slender, bloodless fingers. The whole appearance
of this officer--which even a uniform could not disguise--was that of
a person of exceptional distinction, and indeed he was a person of
very great distinction, being no other than Prince Louis von Hockstein
Falckenbourg Gerau, the head of what was once a family of reigning
princes.
Early left an orphan, the Prince found himself when he came of age
master of an almost unlimited fortune. From his mother, a musician
of exquisite sensibility, he had inherited an artistic temperament
and keen sense of the beautiful; while from his father, a haughty
and somewhat eccentric noble, he had received a disposition of such
violence and independence that it brooked no control from outside and
recognized no law but its own will.
It will take no great effort of the imagination to see how the world
had treated the young prince. The Court distinguished him with special
attentions; the ladies petted him; the men sought him. In this
hot-house atmosphere of high life he came quickly to maturity, and,
like most children brought up among older persons without companions of
their own age, he was of a thoughtful, even suspicious, temperament.
As, in addition to this, he looked at everything from a critical,
almost skeptical, point of view, insisting on getting to the bottom of
every question, he did not make the mistake of most young men in his
position--the mistake of thinking the attentions paid him homage to his
own talent. Perfectly frank with himself, he recognized that they were
paid to his title and fortune.
“What do these people really know of me?” he often asked himself, on
coming home from some Court festival to the solitude of his magnificent
palace.
“Nothing, and yet they scarcely wait for my mouth to open to applaud
my speech! But if all the words I spoke this evening were written down
and submitted to a man of sense, his honest verdict would have to be:
‘Well, perhaps this fellow isn’t exactly a fool, but he certainly is
mighty little over mediocrity.’ Yet the world persists in treating me
as if I were somebody! But it is not _me_--Louis--that they are really
concerned with, but only Prince von Hockstein,” etc.
_Louis_ was actually jealous of _the Prince_. The latter seemed to him
an enemy, bent on thwarting and overshadowing his real self, and the
noble ambition awoke in him to amount to something, in himself, apart
from his rank and fortune.
But this was easier said than done; everywhere the Prince von
Hockstein, etc., barred the way for Louis and would not let him pass.
He enrolled himself at the University--the most aristocratic set among
the students hastened to pay him court. The professors even, men
whose genius until then he had revered, were overcome with joy when
he appeared in their classrooms, and addressed their words markedly
to him. He soon had enough of this, and tried the army. His colonel
thanked him for the honor he did the regiment in joining it; his
superiors paid him flattering attentions; his fellow officers bored
him. Then, too, the pettiness of garrison life was not much to his
taste, so he quitted active service, but not until he had been rapidly
promoted to the rank of major.
Of course, all this time women had played some part in his life. There
were a few trifling affairs with actresses that did not go deep,
and some passing flirtations with women of the world. These last he
quickly found unbearable, for--except in being a thousand times more
exacting--the great ladies amounted to no more than did the ballet
girls.
One experience, however, came near being serious. The Prince, traveling
incognito through the Black Forest to the watering-place of Norderney,
chanced to take a place in the coupé of the diligence next to a lady
also going to Norderney. She was of striking beauty and fascination,
and the Prince was completely bewitched. He exerted himself immensely,
but his attentions were all received with courteous indifference.
Perhaps it was this indifference--a new experience--that charmed him.
After he reached Norderney he continued to pay his court. He kept his
incognito and simply called himself Herr von Gerau.
The lady was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and accepted Louis’s
daily bouquets just as she did those of the others. She treated all
her admirers with indifference, possibly to the Prince her manner was
a shade colder than to the rest. At this critical moment, a certain
great personage, an acquaintance of Louis, arrived at Norderney,
and etiquette required the Prince to pay him a visit of ceremony in
full dress uniform. Of course his name and rank could no longer be
concealed. The fair lady beheld her admirer in his magnificent blue
uniform, and learned who he really was. Immediately she had eyes
for no one else, and seemed by smiles and glances to give him every
encouragement and to ask pardon for her former neglect.
By way of answer, the Prince sent her a package containing his uniform
and jeweled pin in the shape of a crown. These were accompanied by
a note in which he declared he gave her in perpetuity and in sole
proprietorship the only things she had cared for in him.
He was on the point of starting to hunt reindeer in Norway when the war
of 1870 broke out. He immediately asked leave to join his regiment, and
the request, of course, was at once granted. Patriotism and enthusiasm
had very little to do with his action. He rejoined his regiment in
the first place because it was the correct thing to do, and in the
second because he hoped that war might possibly give him some new
sensations. Was he again disappointed? He was inclined to think so. Now
for two weeks he had been in the enemy’s country, and he had had no
extraordinary experience. When you have two good servants and unlimited
money, even in a campaign there are few hardships, especially in a
victorious army. As for heroic deeds, there had simply been no occasion
for them. And the old weariness had come upon him again, as he stood
in front of his regiment, smoking his cigarette.
The French artillery was now advancing upon the ditch, and their balls
struck the German batteries that it defended, making great havoc. Two
regiments of infantry were ordered to the support of the batteries.
Marching first came the Third Westphalians. They passed so near the
group of officers that Prince Louis could distinguish each face, each
expression. The poor fellows had been marching for fourteen hours under
the burning August sun. They were covered with dust and sweat and their
uniforms were soiled with mud. But in no way did these heroes betray
their deadly fatigue. Their eyes, reddened by the heat, flamed with the
enthusiasm of war, their dry throats found strength to shout “Hurrah!”
The whole regiment forgot their fatigue, and seemed, as they marched
under fire, like men refreshed and stimulated by a generous draft.
“Poor devils,” thought the Prince, “they are running to death as if
it were a kermess dance. What are they thinking about?--nothing,
probably. They are driven on by a blind desire of conquest. What good
will victory do them? How will it better their lot--if they have the
luck to escape death? Glory for Germany? Perhaps for me that might be
worth something, hardly for them. Victory might add to the splendor of
my uniform. Still, I don’t know, I wear it so seldom. Perhaps if I go
to Japan next year, the Mikado will receive me better if I belong to a
victorious nation, but whether we beat the French or they beat us, I
suspect I will always get the same welcome at the Jockey Club in Paris
and the Mediterranean Club in Nice. But those nobodies over there, what
will their glorious and victorious country do for them? They won’t
get much of it in their village. All they know of the ‘Fatherland’
is the taxgatherers and the police, and they will be what they have
always been. And yet there they are full of enthusiasm, I can’t deny
it--it shakes even me. Well, we ought to thank the poets who sing
about patriotism and military glory, and the schoolmasters who teach
the people’s hearts the poets’ words. Marvelous power of a word that
can lead a prosaic peasant to give his life for an abstraction, an
imagination!”
But even as with the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed
through his mind, the Prince felt a sensation that amazed him. It was
a feeling of confusion, of shame. It seemed as if he had been speaking
his thoughts aloud and as if a group of grave and noble figures had
listened to his words, and were now looking at him in a silence full
of pity and disdain. Down in the depths of his soul, where the mocking
light of his skeptical spirit failed to penetrate, he seemed to hear an
imperial voice rebuking him and silencing his doubt.
“I am right,” his mind said.
“You are wrong,” declared the voice.
“Well, anyway, I shall not deceive _myself_ with romantic dreams,”
cried Reason; but already it seemed to the Prince that the words were
spoken by a stranger, and he shrank back from them indignantly.
By this time the Third Westphalians had covered the entire slope of the
ditch, the sharpshooters were already at the top. There was a moment’s
hesitation, for the first heads that appeared above the ditch called
forth a deadly fire from the enemy. Several men fell, but those behind
pressed on, and in spite of their terrible fatigue, tried with hands
and feet to make the ascent that would have been play to men in good
condition. As they marched on, all on fire with noble ardor, Heine’s
words came back to the Prince: “How I love the dear, good Westphalians!
They are so sure, so firm, so faithful. It is magnificent to see them
on the field of battle, those heroes, with their lion hearts.”
Pushed on by their “lion hearts,” the Westphalians continued to
scramble up the slope, expending their last breath in the effort to go
forward. But the French, maddened by this outburst, forced them, after
a terrible combat man to man, to recoil to the bottom of the ditch,
which began to fill up with heaps of dead and wounded. The survivors
tried to retreat up the other slope, and now the spectators above
beheld a heart-rending sight. The men were so completely exhausted that
they could not make the easy ascent. The muskets fell from their hands,
and the French made many prisoners.
Above there was the greatest excitement. The Eighth Westphalians
arrived, commanded by the General in person, and started immediately to
the aid of its comrades. The French were forced back and many prisoners
were recaptured. But the advantage was of short duration. New masses of
the enemy’s infantry were coming up, and in the distance the cavalry
were seen approaching.
Prince Louis had followed the combat with increasing emotion--he felt
his heart beat alternately with joy and fear. It seemed to him now that
the critical moment had come, and he read the same impression in the
faces of the other officers. The Colonel called his orderly and sprang
into the saddle. The trumpets sounded, and a sudden movement passed
through the regiment. In a moment every one was on horseback, sabres
clinked against the spurs, the horses neighed. Again the trumpets
sounded and the whole troop began the march.
Prince Louis glanced at his watch--it was half-past six in the evening.
As he rode along at the head of the first squadron, a short distance
from the Colonel and adjutants, he felt himself seized by a sensation
he had never in his life experienced. The madness, the feverish
impatience of a moment before had melted away with the consciousness
of acting for a given purpose. The knowledge of activity, of seeking
a definite end, brought him rest. He stopped looking for reasons; he
thought no more of criticizing. The spirit of doubt was driven out of
him. He obeyed with the ardor, the belief, the simple obedience of
a child, the irresistible command that was pushing his entire being
forward. This man, so proud of his _ego_, he, who had always sought
happiness by the unlimited activity of his personal will, now found
that will so crushed and bound that it was scarcely perceptible. A
Power, call it Natural Law, call it the Divine Will, that is ever
manifesting itself by the course of history, had entered into him and
taken possession of him. He was no longer master of his destiny, he
was taken out of himself by a stranger--was it a supernatural vision,
a great genius, a Delivering Christ?--Louis felt himself only a screw,
a rivet in the machinery of the world’s history, and strange to say
this dissolving of his individuality in a great whole, as complete as
the melting of a piece of sugar in a glass of water, caused him neither
sorrow nor regret. On the contrary, a strange pleasure penetrated his
entire being and made him tremble with joy. He felt himself very small,
yet at the same time he saw in himself something great that transcended
the limit of his own personality. In a word, he had found at last that
sensation he had always desired. He was delivered from his prison of
egotism and at large among great generalities.
The regiment was now descending the slope, avoiding the heaps of dead
and wounded. The horses quickly ascended the opposite side and, the
trumpets sounding, the regiment separated into two lines and advanced.
What followed might have been taken for a representation of the
conflict of the gods in Valhalla. The French cuirassiers, riding toward
the sun, were illumined with an unearthly light, their shining sabres
seemed like tongues of flame, their cuirasses and helmets shone like
white-hot steel. The German dragoons had their backs to the sun, and
the long black shadows of horses and horsemen galloping ahead along
the ground made it look as if sombre ghosts were leading the living
to the attack. The two troops met with a terrible shock. The sublime
vision of the moment before was gone, and in its stead was a horrible,
confused mêlée. Men fought hand to hand, plunging their sabres into the
bodies of their enemies, without knowing exactly what they did. The
French were forced to retreat, still fighting. The Germans pursued,
hurrahing with joy, their horses dripping with blood.
The pursuit stopped near a little brook. Prince Louis felt as if he
were awaking from a dream; he caressed his noble horse and looked about
him. The enemy’s artillery was being drawn off; the survivors of the
cuirassiers followed the artillery. In the distance the columns of
infantry were also retreating, keeping up an irregular, ineffectual
fire.
“It is strange,” observed a young lieutenant near the Prince, showing
him his sabre, “my sabre is covered with blood up to the hilt, and yet
I have not the least idea how it happened.”
The Prince was about to answer, when he felt a terrible blow on his
chest, as if he had been struck by the hand of an invisible giant, or
by the horn of a bull. He put his hand to his breast. It was covered
with blood. He just realized that he must have been struck by a ball,
when he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, he was lying on the trampled ground, his head
resting against a saddle. His tunic was unfastened and his comrades
were standing about him. He felt no pain, only a sensation of great
fatigue, hard to describe, a little like that of a man who is drowning.
“How do you feel, Prince?” asked the lieutenant-colonel, who was
bending over him.
“It seems to me,” he answered, in a voice that could scarcely be heard,
a slight smile on his lips, “as if I must cry: ‘Long live the King,
long live the Fatherland’.”
These were his last words.
A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
[Illustration]
_Sudermann, born in Prussia, in 1857, began as druggist’s
clerk, then tutor, then journalist, until finally he wrote
“Honor,” a social satire that now places him, with Hauptmann,
leader of the German naturalistic dramatists, as “Dame Care”
places him among German novelists._
_The particular merit of Sudermann, as playwright, lies in his
ability to seize upon the most convincing traits of character,
and in describing familiar things, with a vein of dry humor.
He has surprising invention of plot, and skill in working it
out, but his art is often marred by cheap theatrical devices,
brutalities, and concessions to public taste. His language is
flexible, clear, rich in coloring._
_The short story here given is the most satisfactory of a
collection called “In Twilight,” published in 1890--familiar,
colloquial, fireside monologues with a woman of the world._
_Since 1894, sickness has withdrawn Sudermann from close
contact with the world, and weakened his powers of dealing with
life._
[Illustration]
A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
Thanks be to God, dear lady, that I may once more sit beside you for
a peaceful chat. The holiday tumult is past, and you have a little
leisure for me again.
Oh, this Christmas season! I believe that it was invented by some evil
demon expressly to annoy us poor bachelors, to show us the more clearly
all the desolation of our homeless existence. For others a source of
joy, it is for us a torture. Of course, I know, we are not all entirely
lonely--for us also the joy of making others happy may blossom, that
joy upon which rests the whole secret of the blessed holiday mood. But
the pleasure of joining in the happiness of others is tainted for us
by a touch of self-irony partly, and also by that bitter longing to
which--in contrast to homesickness--I would give the name of “marriage
sickness.”
Why didn’t I come to pour out my heart to you? you ask, you pitying
soul, you--you that can give of your sympathy in the same rich measure
that others of your sex save for their dainty malices. There’s a
reason. You remember what Speidel says in his delightful “Lonely
Sparrows,” which you sent me the day after Christmas, with a true
perception of my state of mind? “The bachelor by instinct,” he says,
“does not desire comfort. Once he is unhappy, he wishes to have the
full enjoyment of his unhappiness.”
Beside the “lonely sparrow” whom Speidel portrays, there is another
sort of bachelor, the so-called “friend of the family.” By this I
do not mean those professional wreckers of homes, in whose eyes the
serpent glitters as they settle down comfortably at the hospitable
hearthstone. I mean the good uncle, papa’s former school friend, who
rocks the baby on his knee while he reads the magazine essays to mama,
carefully omitting all the doubtful portions.
I know men who give up their entire lives to the service of some family
whose friendship they have won--men who live on without desire by the
side of a beautiful woman whom in their hearts they secretly adore.
You doubt me? Oh, it is the words “without desire” that disturb you?
You are right, perhaps. In the depth of even the tamest heart some wild
desire lies, but--understand me here--it lies bound in chains.
As an instance I would like to tell you about a conversation which
took place day before yesterday, on New Year’s Eve, between two old,
two very old, gentlemen. It is my secret how I came to know of this
conversation, and I ask you not to let it go any further. May I begin,
then?
Picture to yourself, as a setting for my story, a high-ceilinged room,
old-fashioned in furnishings, lighted by a green-shaded, impertinently
bright hanging-lamp of the sort our parents had in use before the era
of petroleum. The cone of light that goes out from the flame falls upon
a round, white-clothed table, upon which stands the various ingredients
for a New-Year’s punch, while several drops of oil show out broadly in
the centre of the table.
My two old gentlemen sat half in the shadow of the green lamp-shade,
moldering ruins both, from long-past days, bowed and trembling, gazing
before them with the dull glance of the dimming eyes of age. One, the
host, is evidently an old officer, as you would recognize at once from
his carefully wound cravat, his pointed, sharply-cut mustache, and his
martial eyebrows. He sits holding the handle of his roller-chair like a
crutch tightly clasped in both hands. He is motionless except for his
jaws, which move up and down ceaselessly with the motion of chewing.
The other, who sits near him on the sofa, a tall, spare figure, his
narrow shoulders crowned by the high-domed head of a thinker, draws
occasional thin puffs of smoke from a long pipe which is just about to
go out. Among the myriad wrinkles of his smooth-shaven, dried-up face,
framed in a wreath of snow-white curls, there lurked a quiet, gentle
smile, a smile which the peace of resignation alone can bring to the
face of age.
The two were silent. In the perfect stillness of the room the soft
bubbling of the burning oil, mingled with the soft bubbling of the
tobacco juice. Then, from the darkness of the background, the hanging
clock began to announce hoarsely the eleventh hour. “This is the hour
when she would begin to make the punch,” said the man with the domed
forehead. His voice was soft, with a slight vibration.
“Yes, this is the time,” repeated the other. The sound of his speech
was hard, as if the rattle of command still lingered in it.
“I did not think it would be so desolate without her,” said the first
speaker again.
The host nodded, his jaws moving.
“She made the New Year’s punch for us four-and-forty times,” continued
his friend.
“Yes, it’s as long as that since we moved to Berlin, and you became our
friend,” said the old soldier.
“Last year at this time we were all so jolly together,” said the other.
“She sat in the armchair there, knitting socks for Paul’s eldest. She
worked busily, saying she must finish it by twelve o’clock. And she did
finish it. Then we drank our punch and spoke quite calmly of death. And
two months later they carried her away. As you know, I have written a
fat book on the ‘Immortality of the Idea.’ You never cared much about
it--I don’t care for it myself now that your wife is dead. The entire
Idea of the Universe means nothing to me now.”
“Yes, she was a good wife,” said the husband of the dead woman; “she
cared for me well. When I had to go out for service at five o’clock
in the morning, she was always up before me to look after my coffee.
Of course she had her faults. When she got into philosophizing with
you--h’m.”
“You never understood her,” murmured the other, the corners of his
mouth trembling in controlled resentment. But the glance that rested
long on his friend’s face was gentle and sad, as if a secret guilt
pressed upon his soul.
After a renewed pause, he began:
“Franz, there is something I want to tell you, something that has long
troubled me, something that I do not want to carry with me to my
grave.”
“Well, fire away,” said the host, taking up the long pipe that stood
beside his chair.
“There was once--something--between your wife and me.”
The host let his pipe fall back again, and stared at his friend with
wide-opened eyes.
“No jokes please, doctor,” he said finally.
“It is bitter earnest, Franz,” replied the other. “I have carried it
about with me these forty years, but now it is high time to have it out
with you.”
“Do you mean to say that the dead woman was untrue to me?” cried the
husband angrily.
“For shame, Franz,” said his friend with a soft, sad smile.
The old soldier murmured something and lit his pipe.
“No, she was as pure as God’s angels,” continued the other. “It is you
and I who are the guilty ones. Listen to me. It is now forty-three
years ago; you had just been ordered here as captain to Berlin, and I
was teaching at the University. You were a gay bird then, as you know.”
“H’m,” remarked the host, raising his trembling old hand to his
mustache.
“There was a beautiful actress with great black eyes and little white
teeth--do you remember?”
“_Do_ I? Bianca was her name,” answered the other as a faded smile
flashed over his weather-beaten, self-indulgent face. “Those little
white teeth could bite, I can tell you.”
“You deceived your wife, and she suspected it. But she said nothing
and suffered in silence. She was the first woman who had come into my
life since my mother’s death. She came into it like a shining star,
and I gazed up to her in adoration as one might adore a star. I found
the courage to ask her about her trouble. She smiled and said that she
was not feeling quite strong yet--you remember it was shortly after
the birth of your Paul. Then came New-Year’s Eve--forty-three years
ago to-night. I came in at eight o’clock as usual. She sat over her
embroidery and I read aloud to her while we waited for you. One hour
after another passed and still you did not come. I saw that she grew
more and more uneasy, and began to tremble. I trembled with her. I knew
where you were, and I feared you might forget the hour of midnight in
the arms of that woman. She had dropped her work, I read no longer. A
terrible silence weighed upon us. Then I saw a tear gather under her
eyelid and drop slowly down upon the embroidery in her lap. I sprang up
to go out and look for you. I felt myself capable of tearing you away
from that woman by force. But at the same moment she sprang up also
from her seat--this very same place where I am sitting now.
“‘Where are you going?’ she cried, terror in every feature. ‘I am going
to fetch Franz,’ I said. And then she screamed aloud: ‘For God’s sake,
_you_ stay with me at least--don’t _you_ forsake me also.’
“And she hurried to me, laid both hands on my shoulders and buried her
tear-bedewed face on my breast. I trembled in every fibre, no woman
had ever stood so near me before. But I controlled myself, and soothed
and comforted her--she was so sadly in need of comfort. You came in
soon after. You did not notice my emotion, your cheeks were burning,
your eyes heavy with the fatigue of love. Since that evening a change
had come over me, a change that frightened me. When I had felt her
soft arms around my neck, when I had felt the fragrance of her hair,
the shining star fell from its heaven, and--a woman stood before me,
beautiful, breathing love. I called myself a villain, a betrayer,
and to sooth my conscience somewhat I set about separating you from
your mistress. Fortunately I had some money at my disposal. She was
satisfied with the sum I offered her, and--”
“The devil!” exclaimed the old soldier in surprise; “then you were the
cause of that touching farewell letter that Bianca sent me--in which
she declared that she must give me up--although her heart would break?”
“Yes, I was the cause of it,” said his friend. “But listen, there is
more to tell. I had thought to purchase peace with that money, but
the peace did not come. The wild thoughts ran riot all the more madly
in my brain. I buried myself in my work--it was just about that time
that I was working out the plan of my book on the ‘Immortality of the
Idea’--but still could not find peace. And thus the year passed and
New-Year’s Eve came round again. Again we sat together here, she and
I. You were at home this time, but you lay sleeping on the sofa in the
next room. A merry Casino dinner had tired you. And as I sat beside
her, and my eyes rested on her pale face, then memory came over me with
irresistible power. Once more I would feel her head on my breast, once
more I would kiss her--and then--the end, if need be. Our eyes meet for
an instant; I seemed to see a secret understanding, an answer in her
glance. I could control myself no longer; I fell at her feet and buried
my burning face in her lap.
“I lay there motionless for two seconds perhaps, then I felt her soft
hand rest cool upon my head, and her voice, soft and gentle, spoke the
words: ‘Be brave, dear friend; yes, be brave--do not deceive the man
sleeping so trustfully in the next room.’ I sprang up and gazed about,
bewildered. She took a book from the table and handed it to me. I
understood, opened it at random, and began to read aloud. I do not know
what it was I read, the letters danced before my eyes. But the storm
within my soul began to abate, and when twelve o’clock struck, and you
came in sleepily for the New-Year’s wishes, it was as if that moment of
sin lay far, far behind me, in days that had long passed.
“Since that day I have been calmer. I knew that she did not return my
love, and that I had only pity to hope from her. Years passed, your
children grew up and married, we three grew old together. You gave up
your wild life, forgot the other women, and lived for one alone, as I
did. It was not possible that I should ever cease to love her, but my
love took on another shape; earthly desires faded, and a bond of the
spirit grew up between us. You have often laughed when you heard us
philosophizing together. But if you had known how close were our souls
at such moments you would have been very jealous. And now she is dead,
and before the next New-Year’s Eve comes round we two may follow her.
It is, therefore, high time that I rid myself of this secret and say to
you, ‘Franz, I sinned against you once, forgive me.’”
He held out an imploring hand toward his friend; but the other
answered, grumbling: “Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. What you
told me there, I knew it long ago. She confessed it herself forty years
ago. And now I will tell you why I ran after other women until I was an
old man--because she told me then that you were the one and only love
of her life.”
The friend stared at him without speaking, and the hoarse clock began
to strike--midnight.
BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER
[Illustration]
_Not long ago, in 1895, Gabriele Reuter published a book
called, in the translation, “Of Good Family.” It was very
popular, for it was not only well written, in an up-to-date,
realistic style, softened by imagination, but it dealt with the
position of the modern woman--it was full of moving pictures
of family life and manners. Since then the author has stood
in Germany as the woman-weaver of questions and problems
concerning her own sex, in realistic but sober colors._
_Gabriele Reuter was born in 1859, at Alexandria, Egypt. She
was educated in Germany, however, and now lives at Berlin.
Since 1878 she has devoted herself to literature, writing
articles, novels, and stories for the journals and reviews._
[Illustration]
BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
The temptation to wait over a train and visit my old friend in his new
home was very strong. I decided to do it.
I found his name on the door of a pretty little villa in an attractive
street.
“Would you wait a little? The doctor is expected home at any moment,”
the servant told me, as she ushered me into the drawing-room.
“Will you give my card to Mrs. Hartens?” I said.
I was rather curious to see the woman he had chosen, this dear, queer
old chap, this enthusiast for Hellenic ideals and the cult of free
natural beauty.
When the servant had left me alone I looked curiously around the
room. I saw curtains of expensive plush, carved mahogany furniture, a
clean-washed palm, heavy bronze lamps--the usual sort of things that
are given for wedding presents among well-to-do people. There was
nothing that could be called ugly--and yet--and this was where he lived
now? This was the result of all his dreams?
But why didn’t she come?
Probably the young wife could not make up her mind whether she ought to
receive her husband’s old friend in his absence.
I yawned a little. Time was flying, and I did not know when I might
ever pass through this town again. I looked absent-mindedly over the
table beside which I sat. On it there stood a majolica plate holding
visiting cards, surrounded by large, handsomely bound books. To the
right of the plate there stood a vase with fresh flowers. To the left,
slightly to one side, there was a little mother-of-pearl bowl, in which
lay an amulet with an engraved stone and a tiny smelling bottle of
Venetian glass, the sort of thing that looks expensive and probably
costs but a few soldi.
I heard a noise in the room adjoining, listened impatiently, and then
took the amulet in my hand and examined the stone. It bore a finely
worked head of Apollo.
A carriage stopped before the house. A carriage? Then Philip must have
a good practise. Strange--I could imagine that he would be more apt to
explain to his patients that all medical theory was a swindle anyhow--
A shout of rejoicing came from the corridor: “Oh, but that’s great!
But, dearest, why didn’t you--”
“I did not think it was right--without you.”
“Little goosie! Dearest little goosie!”
Then followed a storm of kisses, interrupted by a reproach: “Oh,
Philip, she can hear everything.”
“Of course she can! Let her!” he cried happily, tore the door open, and
pushed a pretty little blond, doll-like creature before him into the
room.
“There--there you are! You must love each other, you two!”
His delicate, scholarly face shone in purest joy. The young wife held
out her hand to me and told me that she was very happy to make my
acquaintance, Philip had told her so much about me.
And yet she kept me waiting for half an hour!
When she left us to order another plate for the dinner-table, Philip’s
eyes followed her, shining with love. And then he explained to me
that his choice had been dictated mainly by common sense, because he
believed it necessary for his restless experimenting nature to have
some one at his side whose character was calm and decided. And his
little wife was very firm and decided.
* * * * *
Four years had passed before I again found an opportunity to hear
anything from the young couple.
Philip never wrote letters, on principle. I therefore should hardly
have felt that I had a right to call him my friend. And yet I made a
detour that I might visit him and his wife.
The silence in the house was noticeable. And the undisturbed order
everywhere was almost distressing. It was as if the furniture were
never used. A door opened cautiously and was shut again equally
carefully. A carefully deadened step approached the room, and Philip
entered, alone.
“This _is_ nice! It’s awfully good of you,” he said cordially, giving
me both his hands.
But after the first greeting I noticed an embarrassment in his manner,
a something which had never been part of his character before. With a
certain formal politeness, he explained to me that his wife was ill,
but that he would go and see if she would not feel equal to a word with
me.
After some time he returned, alone, as before. “Theresa asks that you
will do us the pleasure of dining with us to-morrow.”
Then he suggested that he and I should spend the evening in a concert
garden.
Several hours passed happily under the green trees, cheered with the
sound of pleasantly distant music, and enlivened by one of our old-time
conversations. Philip became quite himself again. He had the nature
of a poet, who can form anew for himself the ancient dreams of all
mankind. And he was something of a reformer also. As he described to
me what his ideal of life would be, an existence without family ties,
without exacting sentimentality and excitement, a life of pure calm
beauty, I could not avoid the question: “But what in the world can
you do with all this part of your nature in your present existence?”
A second later I was sorry for what I had said; his smile was like an
expression of pain.
Toward noon the following day Philip called on me at the hotel.
His eyes were dull, his spiritual, mobile features were dead and set in
heavy lines.
“I must ask your pardon,” he murmured. “Theresa does not feel well
enough yet to see anybody. I thought as much yesterday.”