She laid her cheek in the palm of her hand and gave him a searching
look. Reinhard raised his glass to his mouth.
"Here's to your beautiful, wicked eyes!" he said, and drank.
She laughed and tossed her head.
"Give it here," she said, and fastening her black eyes on his, she
slowly drank what was left in the glass. Then she struck a chord and
sang in a deep, passionate voice:
To-day, to-day thou think'st me
Fairest maid of all;
To-morrow, ah! then beauty
Fadeth past recall.
While the hour remaineth,
Thou art yet mine own;
Then when death shall claim me,
I must die alone.
While the fiddler struck up an allegro finale, a new arrival joined
the group.
"I went to call for you, Reinhard," he said, "You had already gone
out, but Santa Claus had paid you a visit."
"Santa Claus?" said Reinhard. "Santa Claus never comes to me now."
"Oh, yes, he does! The whole of your room smelt of Christmas tree and
ginger cakes."
Reinhard dropped the glass out of his hand and seized his cap.
"Well, what are you going to do now?" asked the girl.
"I'll be back in a minute."
She frowned. "Stay," she said gently, casting an amorous glance at
him.
Reinhard hesitated. "I can't," he said.
She laughingly gave him a tap with the toe of her shoe and said: "Go
away, then, you good-for-nothing; you are one as bad as the other, all
good-for-nothings." And as she turned away from him, Reinhard went
slowly up the steps of the Ratskeller.
Outside in the street deep twilight had set in; he felt the cool
winter air blowing on his heated brow. From some window every here and
there fell the bright gleam of a Christmas tree all lighted up, now
and then was heard from within some room the sound of little pipes and
tin trumpets mingled with the merry din of children's voices.
Crowds of beggar children were going from house to house or climbing
up on to the railings of the front steps, trying to catch a glimpse
through the window of a splendour that was denied to them. Sometimes
too a door would suddenly be flung open, and scolding voices would
drive a whole swarm of these little visitors away out into the dark
street. In the vestibule of yet another house they were singing an old
Christmas carol, and little girls' clear voices were heard among the
rest.
But Reinhard heard not; he passed quickly by them all, out of one
street into another. When he reached his lodging it had grown almost
quite dark; he stumbled up the stairs and so gained his apartment.
A sweet fragrance greeted him; it reminded him of home; it was the
smell of the parlour in his mother's house at Christmas time. With
trembling hand he lit his lamp; and there lay a mighty parcel on the
table. When he opened it, out fell the familiar ginger cakes. On some
of them were the initial letters of his name written in sprinkles of
sugar; no one but Elisabeth could have done that.
Next came to view a little parcel containing neatly embroidered linen,
handkerchiefs and cuffs; and finally letters from his mother and
Elisabeth. Reinhard opened Elisabeth's letter first, and this is what
she wrote:
"The pretty sugared letters will no doubt tell you who helped with the
cakes. The same person also embroidered the cuffs for you. We shall
have a very quiet time at home this Christmas Eve. Mother always puts
her spinning-wheel away in the corner as early as half-past nine. It
is so very lonesome this winter now that you are not here.
"And now, too, the linnet you made me a present of died last Sunday.
It made me cry a good deal, though I am sure I looked after it well.
"It always used to sing of an afternoon when the sun shone on its
cage. You remember how often mother would hang a piece of cloth over
the cage in order to keep it quiet when it sang so lustily.
"Thus our room is now quieter than ever, except that your old friend
Eric now drops in to see us occasionally. You told us once that he was
just like his brown top-coat. I can't help thinking of it every time
he comes in at the door, and it is really too funny; but don't tell
mother, it might easily make her angry.
"Guess what I am giving your mother for a Christmas present! You can't
guess? Well, it is myself! Eric is making a drawing of me in black
chalk; I have had to give him three sittings, each time for a whole
hour.
"I simply loathed the idea of a stranger getting to know my face so
well. Nor did I wish it, but mother pressed me, and said it would very
much please dear Frau Werner.
"But you are not keeping your word, Reinhard. You haven't sent me any
stories. I have often complained to your mother about it, but she
always says you now have more to do than to attend to such childish
things. But I don't believe it; there's something else perhaps."
After this Reinhard read his mother's letter, and when he had read
them both and slowly folded them up again and put them away, he was
overcome with an irresistible feeling of home-sickness. For a long
while he walked up and down his room, talking softly to himself, and
then, under his breath, he murmured:
I have err'd from the straight path,
Bewildered I roam;
By the roadside the child stands
And beckons me home.
Then he went to his desk, took out some money, and stepped down into
the street again. During all this while it had become quieter out
there; the lights on the Christmas trees had burnt out, the
processions of children had come to an end. The wind was sweeping
through the deserted streets; old and young alike were sitting
together at home in family parties; the second period of Christmas Eve
celebrations had begun.
As Reinhard drew near the Ratskeller he heard from below the scraping
of the fiddle and the singing of the zither girl. The restaurant door
bell tinkled and a dark form staggered up the broad dimly-lighted
stair.
Reinhard drew aside into the shadow of the houses and then passed
swiftly by. After a while he reached the well-lighted shop of a
jeweller, and after buying a little cross studded with red corals, he
returned by the same way he had come.
Not far from his lodgings he caught sight of a little girl, dressed in
miserable rags, standing before a tall door, in a vain attempt to open
it.
"Shall I help you?" he said.
The child gave no answer, but let go the massive door-handle. Reinhard
had soon opened the door.
"No," he said; "they might drive you out again. Come along with me,
and I'll give you some Christmas cake."
He then closed the door again and gave his hand to the little girl,
who walked along with him in silence to his lodgings.
On going out he had left the light burning.
"Here are some cakes for you," he said, pouring half of his whole
stock into her apron, though he gave none that bore the sugar letters.
"Now, off you go home, and give your mother some of them too."
The child cast a shy look up at him; she seemed unaccustomed to such
kindness and unable to say anything in reply. Reinhard opened the
door, and lighted her way, and then the little thing like a bird flew
downstairs with her cakes and out of the house.
Reinhard poked the fire in the stove, set the dusty ink-stand on the
table, and then sat down and wrote and wrote letters the whole night
long to his mother and Elisabeth.
The remainder of the Christmas cakes lay untouched by his side, but he
had buttoned on Elisabeth's cuffs, and odd they looked on his shaggy
coat of undyed wool. And there he was still sitting when the winter
sun cast its light on the frosted window-panes, and showed him a pale,
grave face reflected in the looking-glass.
* * * * *