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 {1} I was practising at court; the time was an afternoon
in summer.
1 The title conferred in Prussia on the candidate who has
passed the first of the two examinations held before
appointment as judge.
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.
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 have I 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 center, 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 wild-cat.
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 mean while 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 home ward. 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 drunk 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.”