already such Don Juans! You seem entitled to fair hopes, my
young friend, and if you would only accustom yourself to more
self-restraint--"
"Forgive me," said I, "but I must return to the matter in hand. My
friend, as you rightly perceive, has a serious affection for this girl,
and feels himself deeply aggrieved by the disrespectful manner in which
you behaved to her. I believe he might be satisfied by a few lines in
your handwriting, expressing your regret for your conduct to Fraeulein
Lottka. If not--"
He looked askance at me with such amazement, that I felt suddenly
paralysed.
"Are you really in earnest?" he said. "You look too intelligent for me
to believe that you can approve of this commission you have undertaken
for your friend. My conduct to Fraeulein Lottka! That is going a little
too far! No, my good friend, let us make ourselves as little absurd as
we can. Have you considered what you are proposing to me? With all the
respect to the honourable feelings and true-heartedness of a student of
the upper class, can he seriously imagine that I owe him reparation,
because in a public shop I chanced to stroke a girl under the chin." He
burst out laughing, and threw the end of his cigarette out of the
window.
I rose. "I doubt," I said, "that this will satisfy my friend. If you
would at least declare that you know nothing of Fraeulein Lottka, which
casts a shadow on her reputation."
"Just sit down, and hear me out," he broke in.
"Now that I see you are really in earnest, it is my duty to tell you
the truth in the interests of your friend who takes up the case so
tragically, that he is sure to commit himself to some folly. About ten
years ago I was acquainted with a lady of a certain character here in
Berlin. She was a German, but bore a Polish name, that of her first
lover, a Polish nobleman, who had left her, _plantee la_, with one
child. As she was beautiful and not inconsolable, she found plenty of
adorers, and lived in wealth, keeping a small gambling-house too; and I
can well remember the strange impression it made on me when first I
entered it, to see a child of eight years old sitting at the faro
table, looking at the gold heaps with her great sleepy eyes, and then
at her mother and her friends, till the Champagne, of which she seemed
to like a sip, took effect, and she fell asleep on a sofa amidst
laughter, the rattling of money, and very free talk indeed. I was sorry
for the pretty child, and it crossed my mind that she could have little
respect for her mother, who exercised no sort of self-control even in
her presence. After a few years I broke off the connection, which
proved a very expensive one, but I heard in a roundabout way that the
Polish Countess--as we used to call her--went on still in her old
course, except that she relied less on her own attractions, and called
in younger faces to her aid. I enquired casually after her daughter,
but the conversation had turned, and I received no answer.
"Well--yesterday as I chanced to be passing by that miserable
cake-shop, thinking of anything else than of this old story, I saw an
old lady getting into a cab at the door, while the shop-girl put in the
various parcels of purchases. When she turned round to re-enter the
shop, I recognized the child with the weary eyes, now grown up into a
beauty, who might, if she chose, enter into formidable competition with
her mother. As I had nothing particular to do, I followed her into
the shop, reminded her of our old acquaintance, and was not a
little surprised to find her just as rigid and unapproachable
as her lady-mamma was the reverse. With all my long practice in
cross-examination, I was only able to get out from her that she had
parted from her mother three years ago, but as to what she had been
doing since, or through how many hands she had passed, or whether her
icy manners were artificial or natural, that I had not been able to
unravel, when our Orlando Furioso, your excellent friend, suddenly
burst in upon us. And now, after I have given you this explanation, you
may yourself judge, whether the idea of my coming forward to vouch for
the poor child's character or having to fight with an enthusiastic boy
about her virtue is not quite too absurd!
"No, no," he continued, "if you have any influence over your friend, my
dear fellow, do warn him not to go too far. For even if the daughter
were as yet perfectly pure, what good could come of it with such
antecedents, and such a mother? Your friend is the son of respectable
people, tell him that he must not compromise his parents and himself--a
mere passing liason, _a la bonne heure!_ but to stake his very heart's
blood, and to interfere with fire and sword, _allons donc!_--I do hope
you may be able to bring him to reason; and now you must excuse me, I
have a case coming on."
He had risen, while I still sat petrified by such a revelation; then he
called his servant, and after reciprocal assurances of high esteem, had
me shewn out. I tottered down the steps like a drunkard.
* * * * *
It was not for an hour afterwards--I needed a long circumbendibus
before I could take heart to bring this melancholy business to an
end--that I found myself knocking at Sebastian's door. A faint voice
bade me come in, and then I found the unhappy fellow lying dressed upon
his bed, and one glance at his disordered hair and attire shewed that
he had spent the night in that fashion. Before I could say a word, he
held out a letter that was open beside him on the pillow. A boy had
brought it very early in the morning, but had not waited for an answer.
Of course I do not pretend to give the exact words in which it was
couched, but their purport was as follows:
"You had scarcely left me when the idea struck me that the dispute of
which I was the miserable cause, might have fearful consequences. I
write to you to entreat and beseech you, if there were any earnestness
in the feelings you professed for me, to let the matter drop, and to
believe that in reality _I am not worthy_" (these words were doubly
scored) "that you should sacrifice yourself for me. Promise me that you
will try to forget me utterly. I am a poor lost creature, and only
death can deliver me. But I shall not die yet, so have no anxiety on
that head. I will try whether it be possible for me to live without my
misfortune dogging every step I take. I thank you for all your love and
kindness, and I never shall forget you. But do not attempt to find me
out. I am firmly resolved never to see you again, and you will only
increase my misery if you do not obey my wishes, but attempt to force a
meeting."
The letter had neither address nor signature, it was firmly written,
and there was not a mistake throughout.
I silently returned him the letter, not liking at that moment to tell
him that under the circumstances nothing could be more propitious than
such a decided step on her part. But I gradually discovered that
nothing in the letter impressed him so much as the pretty clear
confession of her own liking for him. This it was he dwelt on; their
separation seemed to him comparatively unimportant, probably not
seriously resolved upon, and practically impossible.
I therefore felt myself bound no longer to keep back my information,
and gave him an exact account of my interview with his enemy. To my
surprise it did not seem to produce on him the overwhelming effect I
had dreaded. He told me he had himself conjectured something of the
kind, and much as he regretted it, it could in no way change his
feelings, rather it could only increase his love to positive worship to
find that she had worked herself free from such degrading relations,
and was high-hearted enough to wish to bear alone a sorrow she had
never deserved. He knew indeed, that he should have some obstacles to
confront, as regarded his parents, friends, home, &c. But since she had
plainly told him that he was dear to her, no cowardly scruples would
prevent his making up to her for the sufferings brought on her by a
cruel fate. If the world bespattered her pure life, he would wash it
all away in his heart's blood.
He ran on in this half-feverish way, and his high-wrought enthusiasm,
his innocent brave spirit so carried me along, that not only did I keep
all objections to myself, but actually became of opinion that this was
all exactly as it should be, and the one important matter now was to
find out the young girl, and induce her to change her mind. I threw
myself into a cab, and drove to the shop, hoping to get upon her track
there. Sebastian remained at home; he did not venture contrary to her
expressed command, to take any part in the search. We had settled to
meet again at noon. Alas! I came back as ignorant as I went. The
mistress of the confectionery business had only been apprised of the
departure of her young shopwoman early that morning by an open note
found on her table. None of the neighbours had seen her go away. Most
of her effects were left behind, she had only taken with her some linen
and a travelling-bag which the good woman knew her to possess, and
could not now find. She had instantly given information to the police.
But all in vain as yet--the poor child had utterly disappeared.
It was now that grief and the after effects of the excitement of weeks,
began to tell severely upon my poor friend. He was in such utter
despair that I at first feared for his reason; not because of his
frantic outbursts, or delirious grief, but from a certain suppressed
wildness that tried to smile while the teeth chattered, a quite aimless
way now of walking, now standing still; speaking to himself and
laughing loud, while the tears, of which he seemed unconscious, rolled
down his cheeks. It was the first time that I had ever seen the
elemental throes of a true and deep passion, and I was so shocked that
I forgot all besides, and at all events never presumed to attempt
consoling the poor fellow by commonplaces.
I remained with him the whole day and a good part of the night. It was
only about midnight, when I saw that he was quite exhausted (he had not
closed his eyes the previous night), that I yielded to his entreaties,
and consented to leave him alone, after exacting a solemn promise from
his landlady to listen how he went on, for that he was very ill. I knew
he had no weapons of any kind, and I hoped that sleep would do him some
good.
The next morning, however, I could not rest, reproached myself for
having left him, and anxiously hurried to his lodgings. But there he
was no longer to be found. His landlady gave me a note of two lines, in
which he bade me farewell for the present. He could not rest till he
had found her, but he would do nothing rash, for he was not unmindful
of his other duties, and so I might confidently expect his return.
He had packed his knapsack, and taken his walking-stick with him. And
the landlady told me he seemed to have had two or three hours sleep,
for that his eyes looked clearer.
This was but meagre information, but I had to content myself with it.
And moreover I was about to accompany my parents on a tour which kept
me absent for several weeks. To the letters I wrote--for I was always
thinking of him--no answers ever came, so on my return when my first
walk led me to his lodgings, I was fully prepared to find an empty
nest. I was the more rejoiced, therefore, when he himself opened the
door, and I met a sad face, it is true, but free from the morbidly
strained expression which had so much pained me.
That he had failed to meet with any traces of the lost one I guessed
rather than actually heard from him. A melancholy indifference seemed
to pervade him; he set about whatever was proposed, as one who took no
part in it, whether for or against,--and what to me was most striking
of all, his passion for music seemed completely over. He never sang a
single note, never alluded to any composition, and would willingly have
given up his music-lessons, had he been able to live without them. The
mainspring of his nature seemed hopelessly broken, something had got
wrong which there was no repairing.
In the following spring, when we both went to the University, I used to
see him almost daily. He regularly attended law lectures, and had
become member of a society in which his admirable fencing and his now
proverbial taciturnity rendered him prominent, and I was hoping that
the incident which had so deeply affected him would after all leave no
bad results in his healthy nature, when something occurred that tore
open every wound anew.
I will for the sake of brevity relate the sad tale consecutively, and
not as I learned it from him, bit by bit, and at long intervals.
* * * * *
It was the Christmas of 1847. He had resolved upon spending the
holidays--not as usual, in paying a visit to his parents, but in the
strenuous study of his law-books, a long indisposition having thrown
him back considerably. I had in vain attempted to coax him to come to
us for this Christmas Eve. Indeed as a rule he avoided parties, and if
he ever did appear at a social gathering, he usually made an
unfavourable impression, especially on ladies, because of his silence
and his obstinate refusal to sing.
On this particular 24th of December, he spent the whole day hard at
work in his own room, got his landlady to give him something to eat,
and only went out at five o'clock when it had grown too dark to write,
leaving instructions to keep up his fire, as he should only spend an
hour or so looking at the Christmas market, and then return, and go on
writing late into the night. When he got into the street, he felt the
winter breeze refresh him. The intense cold of the last few days had
somewhat abated, snow was falling lightly in large flakes, which he did
not shake off, but liked to feel melting on his flushed face. His
beard, which had grown into a very handsome one during the last year,
and much improved his looks, was white with them.
Slowly he went through Koenigsstrasse to the Elector's Bridge. There
were crowds of well-wrapped figures flitting about, who having made
their purchases at the last moment, were now hurrying home fast, for
already the windows were beginning to shine with Christmas candles. The
solitary student worked his way through the throng, without that
melancholy yearning for home which would, on this particular evening,
have oppressed most youths, if compelled to spend it away from their
own people. He had sent off presents to his parents and sisters two
days ago, and this very evening expected a Christmas box from them,
which, however, he felt no impatience about. No one could care less for
any addition to his possessions than he did; indeed, since he had lost
the one thing to which he had passionately clung, he had grown
indifferent to all besides.
He stood for a while before the equestrian statue of the great elector,
who in his snow mantle looked even more majestic and spectral than
usual against the pale winter sky. Below, the stream, hemmed in by ice
on either side, flowed darkly and silently on, and in one of the barges
the bargeman had already lighted up a small Christmas tree, which sent
out a radiance through the open door. A couple of red-cheeked children
were standing by the lowly table, one blowing a penny trumpet, the
other eating an apple, and the solitary observer on the bridge might
have stood there long in contemplation of this humble idyll but that
the human stream swept him along with it, and landed him in the very
centre of the busy noisy Christmas market going on in the Schlossplatz.
He walked awhile up and down the chief passages between the booths,
looking at the cheerful traffic of buyers and sellers, listening to the
chattering of the monkeys, and the shrill screams of boys advertising
their various wares; and silently he sighed, reflecting that he had
positively no connection with the world in which the festival was so
joyously kept, that it would be all one to him if he were suddenly
transported to Sirius, amongst whose inhabitants he could not feel more
alone than here. Then he suddenly resolved to cheer up, and actually
hummed the tune "I think in the olden days." A garrulous saleswoman in
a booth of fancy-goods now interrupted him, entreating him to look out
some pretty trifle for his "lady-wife." At that he hurriedly turned
off, and made for one of the less frequented alleys where small dealers
were offering their penny-worths as bargains.
He had not proceeded far when a singular spectacle caught his eye.
Before a booth of cheap toys stood a lady in an elegant fur-trimmed
polonaise, such as were then worn, a square Polish hat on her head, and
a thick veil drawn over her face to protect her from the snow, so that
there was no seeing her features. She had put down her large muff on
the counter before her, and with tiny hands in daintiest gloves was
busy picking out various toys, and dividing them amongst a number of
street-children who crowded closely about her, and struggled for these
unexpected gifts in a very tumult of delight. A few expressive words on
the part of the seller in the booth reduced them to something like
order, and at length they all dispersed, their treasures tightly
clutched in their little fists, but it was only a minority that said
"thank you" to the giver.
"And now what have I to pay you for them all?" said the lady.
Her voice ran like an electric shock through the youth, who had
approached unobserved.
"Lottka," he said in a whisper.
The lady turned round quickly, and her first impulse was to draw her
veil closer about her face. Then, however, by the light of the booth
lamps and the glare from the snow, she was able to recognize the figure
that only stood two paces off. She hurriedly paid the sum required,
turned to Sebastian, and held out her hand.
"It is you," she said, without showing any special excitement. "I had
not expected ever to see you again. But I am only the more glad of it.
Have you any engagement? Are you expected anywhere this evening? No?
Then give me your arm. I too am free--quite free," she added with a
singular expression. "It is so pleasant to walk about in the snow, and
see so many happy faces. It seems to me sometimes as though it could
not be necessary to take any great pains to be happy since so many are
so, and so cheaply too. Do you not agree with me?"
He did not reply. The utterly unexpected meeting had positively
stupefied him, and the quick way in which she spoke and moved was
perplexing. She had at once hung upon his arm, whereas formerly she
carefully avoided every touch, and now she walked on beside him,
daintily putting down her little feet in the snow, her head bent, with
a bright thoughtful expression, as though planning some mysterious
surprise. He only dared to steal glances at her now and then. She had
evidently grown, her features were rather more marked, but that added
to her beauty, and her fur cap was wonderfully becoming.
"Fraeulein Lottka," said he at length, "that I should find you here! You
do not know--you would not believe how I have sought for you--how ever
since--"
"Why should I not believe it?" she hastily replied. "Do you suppose I
have not known that you were the only human being in the world who ever
really loved me? That was the very reason why I was obliged to part
from you. Your love and goodness deserved something better than to be
made unhappy for my sake. It is enough that one wretched life should be
destroyed, and even that is not very intelligible when one thinks that
there is a Providence--but why should we talk of such melancholy
subjects? Tell me what you have been doing all this while. Do you know
that you are much better looking than you were? Your beard becomes you
so well, and with it you have the same innocent eyes that would better
suit a girl's face, and yet they can look brave and resolute enough too
when they flash out at a villain.
"Forgive me," she went on, "for being so talkative, but you cannot
guess how long I have been silent--almost _always_, since we parted. I
had too much to think about. But now I have arranged it all, and since
then I am quite happy. It is not very long ago that I have done so.
Last night even I had quite too horrible thoughts; they actually
pierced my brain like needles of ice. So I said to myself, 'there must
be an end to this.' Neither man nor God can require any one to live on
with thoughts like these. And after becoming quite clear about that, my
spirits returned, and even my tongue is loosed again. But you are all
the more silent. What is the matter with you? Are not you a little tiny
bit glad that we can wander about together so confidentially, and feel
the snow on our faces, and see so many poor men enjoying their
Christmas Eve? I too wanted to make a festival for myself, and so I
spent my last two dollars in an improvised Christmas gift. But it did
not answer so very well either: unless one loves the person one gives
to, there is not much pleasure in giving. Now I am sorry that I have no
more money. You and I might so well have made presents to each other."
"O Lottka," said he, "now that I have found you again--that you are so
kind to me--that you know how I love you--"
"Hush!" interposed she, "this may be felt, but not spoken of. For
to-day everything is as sad as it ever was, and as utterly hopeless."
He stopped suddenly and looked full at her. "Hopeless," he groaned.
"But are you aware that I know everything, and no more heed it than if
it were some story going on in the moon. That I have no one in the
world to consult but myself, and if my own father and my own mother--"
"For God's sake do not go on," she cried, with a look of distress, and
placing her hand on his lips. "You do not know what you are saying, how
horrible it is, and how you would one day repent it. You have a mother
whom you can love and revere, and who loves nothing on earth better
than you, and who is proud of you, and you would bring sorrow and shame
on her? If you had rightly considered what that means--but we will say
no more about it. Come--I will confess to you that I am hungry; since
yesterday evening I have eaten nothing out of sheer disgust. I thought,
indeed, I should never have a pure taste in my mouth any more, but
since I have chatted so pleasantly with you, I feel much better. Take
me where there is something to eat. And then we can still go on
chatting away for a couple of hours, and you really must treat me, for
as I said I have spent the last money I had in those toys."
At once he turned off into a side street, and rapidly led her to a
small eating-house that he knew, which was generally empty at this
hour. They were both lost in thought, and he was wondering, half in
terror, half in rapture, at the way things had come about, and asking
himself what turn they would take now. For although her dark allusions
made him very anxious, yet on the other hand he found comfort in her
free and frank manner towards him, and her clear recognition of his
feelings for her.
"Here," said he, throwing open a small door over which a blue lamp was
burning.
They entered a bright comfortable dining-room in which was only an
elderly waiter with a green apron of the good old fashion, sitting
half-asleep in a corner. He looked at the pair with some surprise, and
then hastened off to bring what Sebastian had ordered.
"He takes us for brother and sister," whispered the young girl.
"Or for a newly-married pair on their travels. Ah, Lottka!" and he
seized one of her little hands which she had just ungloved.
She heartily but without any embarrassment returned his passionate
pressure. "It is charming here," said she, beginning to free herself
from her warm wraps. "I do so rejoice to be for once with you thus
before I--" She stopped short.
"What are you thinking of?" he enquired in great agitation. "This is
not _really_ to be the last time--"