THE CONSEQUENCES OF A MAY BOWL
Next morning the garrison--that is, the officers of it--was slower and
later in awakening than usual. That cursed May bowl! It was precisely
as Captain König had said: terrific headaches paid for indulgence in
its seductive potency. Pommer, poor Pommer, although waked by his
servant at the usual time, was still so much under the influence of
the fumes that had mounted to his silly head the night before, that
the only answer he was able to make to the shoutings of his
Masovian[6] man was an unintelligible grunt. Then he turned over on
the other side and settled down to a solid sleep.
[6] Masovians, the population of certain districts in eastern
Prussia; they are of Polish race.--TR.
At eleven he was still peacefully snoring, when his man stepped up to
his bed once more, and undertook such violent and persistent
manipulations with the extremities of his master that the latter
finally opened his eyes far enough to let a little daylight and some
sense into his dazed brain. The bulky lieutenant stretched himself,
yawned, and at last remembered his doings of the night before. With
both mighty fists he hammered his thick skull in disgust and despair.
"Holy smoke--that-- ---- May bowl!" he groaned, and then sat down in
the chair beside his couch to feel of his head, which seemed a
gigantic bass drum, hollow and reverberating. Like a flash his
desperate flirtation with the wife of his own squadron chief came back
to his muddled consciousness.
Vaclav, his man,--whom he, for short, called Watz,--brought in his
morning coffee, and after dressing with a great running commentary of
grunts and groans, he sat down to drink a mouthful of the reviving
decoction. But his brain was still in a whirl, and the scenes of a few
hours ago passed rapidly, but in nebulous form, before his clouded
inner vision.
Dimly he felt ashamed of himself. He knew he had not behaved like a
gentleman, and he thought he remembered that somebody had witnessed
the spectacle he had made of himself. Specht? Meckelburg? Or Müller?
No--he thought not. But Borgert? Yes, he thought it was Borgert. No,
no. But who? He gave it up with another groan, and took a mouthful of
the cold coffee.
Anyway, he had behaved in a beastly fashion. That he did know. But
stop! Had she not told him how badly she was treated by her
husband--how neglected--had she not appealed to his gallantry and
friendship? He felt uncertain. All he knew with certainty was that he
had been a brute.
He buried his head in his brawny hands.
How had it been possible for him so to forget himself?
He knew:--champagne luncheon with that fellow Borgert,--a fellow whose
powers of consumption had never been ascertained. Then, at dinner,
that heavy "Turk's blood"[7] to which Müller had to treat because of a
lost bet. And then, worst of all, that thrice-condemned May bowl! And
hadn't they noticed it, the other fellows, and hadn't they filled him
up notwithstanding, or rather because, they saw that he couldn't carry
any more liquid conveniently? His big fist slammed the table.
[7] "Turk's blood" ("Türkenblut") is the name of a mixture of
English porter, brandy, and French champagne very much in
vogue in the army.--TR.
There was a knock at the door.
The man with the sore conscience and the sorer head bade the unknown
enter.
It was First Lieutenant Borgert, helmet in hand. He pretended
astonishment at the evident condition of his comrade, but eyed him
sharply, and then said:
"Pardon me if I come inopportunely, but a rather delicate matter
induces me to see you this morning."
"Officially or privately?" grunted Pommer.
"Both, if you wish it," answered the other.
"If a private matter I beg you will postpone it," said Pommer. "Let us
talk about it some other day."
"I regret to say that I _must_ insist on discussing the matter now,"
retorted Borgert, stiffly. "You are aware, of course, that as the
elder man in the service I have the right, even the duty, to
remonstrate with you if I see occasion for it."
Pommer reflected a moment. In years he was the other man's senior, and
he had also visited a university for a triennium before joining the
army, while the other had simply completed the easy curriculum of the
military academy. But, true, Borgert was a twelvemonth ahead of him in
actual service. So he silently submitted.
"All right, then; to what matter do you refer, sir?"
Borgert assumed the air of a grand inquisitor.
"Accident made me, last night, witness to a scene which I am sorry to
say, Herr Comrade, I cannot otherwise describe than shocking. It was
in the most secluded spot of the grounds near the Casino. The lady in
question--"
"You need proceed no further, Herr Comrade. I know perfectly well that
I am to blame."
"May I ask you for an explanation?"
"I was intoxicated. That is the sole explanation I can offer."
"A strange one. Why, if you cannot drink without losing your
senses,--why, then, do you drink at all?"
"The fact that I was intoxicated was due in large measure to the very
gentleman I am now addressing, who would not--"
"You need not go into such details," Borgert interrupted him. "You do
not seem to understand the gravity of your offence, and it seems
necessary that I should enlighten you as a younger comrade on that
point."
Pommer felt indignant at this hypocritical lecture, but before he
could reply to it Borgert continued:
"Your offence is the most serious against comradeship which can be
conceived. Really, it would be my duty to call the attention of the
lady's husband to it if I did not trust in your sense of honor to
rectify the matter before any more mischief is done. If you will
promise me to go at once and ask the lady's pardon, and to do all in
your power to avoid any further cause for scandal, I will on my part
forbear to mention what I saw. You must know, of course, that to tell
Captain Kahle would mean a challenge, a duel, your enforced
resignation from the army, and maybe your death,--for he is a good
shot."
Borgert was very dramatic as he said this. The rôle of an austere
prophet, calling a sinner to repentance and amends, had all the spice
of novelty for him. Inwardly he smiled at himself, but outwardly he
drew up his tall, sinewy frame to its full height, and cast a
hypnotizing stare at the man before him, now slowly recovering his
usual sober frame of mind. And as the sense of his wrong-doing began
to overpower poor Pommer, he bowed his towzled head in misery. Two big
tears crept slowly down his tanned cheeks.
Borgert went on:
"It is, of course, your duty to go at once to the outraged husband as
well, and to confess your guilt. As I know Captain Kahle, he is not
the man to withstand a direct appeal to his clemency if couched in
appropriately contrite terms. If you will pledge me your word of honor
to do as requested and to obtain the pardon of husband and wife, you
may count on my silence."
Pommer glanced up. Tumultuous feelings were surging in his breast, and
so rapid had been the revulsion from his first sentiments when Borgert
had opened the conversation, that what was now uppermost in his mind
was gratitude for this discreet and wise friend. He rose, and with a
pathetic gesture stretched forth his great paw.
"Here is my hand," he said, with a hitch in his voice. "I promise."
Borgert clasped it a moment.
"Thanks, many thanks, for your sympathy and aid in this sorry
business," the junior mumbled, and surreptitiously wiped a briny drop
out of the corner of his eye.
Borgert left, very much satisfied with himself. He had now among the
younger officers of the regiment another one who would henceforth
swear by him. He noisily clanked down the shaky wooden stairs of the
humble house wherein Pommer occupied narrow quarters. And Frau Kahle,
too, was now in his power, he gleefully reflected. Besides all that,
there was something positively piquant about the little
adventure,--something which would frequently hereafter furnish him
with pleasant innuendoes and hints, understood only by those
immediately concerned, and which would supply him, Borgert, with an
endless fund of amusement. He intensely enjoyed this propitious ending
to his machinations.
Humming a tune, and feeling in the best of spirits, he went home, gave
his servant sabre, cloak, and helmet, and mounted the stairs leading
up to Frau Leimann's apartments.
She was not alone. The adjutant was present. Müller, in fact, had
shirked his duties to-day, the colonel being off on a hunting trip in
the adjacent extensive forest, having been invited thereto by the
royal head forester commanding that district. Frau Leimann greeted
Borgert warmly, and while the latter and the adjutant stepped to the
window, looking at the wife of Captain König and Lieutenant Bleibtreu,
who were riding past the house on horseback, Borgert seized the
opportunity and deftly appropriated the pretty woman's hands, which he
kissed passionately.
Then he told them of his interview with Pommer,--told it in such droll
terms and with such an abundance of mimicry, that his two hearers
could not help laughing immoderately. The picture of ungainly, rough
Pommer being in the sentimental stage and a prey to a lacerated
conscience was too exquisitely ludicrous.
Meanwhile Pommer sat at his desk, laboriously inditing a letter to
his mother, to whom he opened his whole heart, as in duty bound.
Several of the strongest passages in his letter were panegyrics on his
new-won friend, Borgert, whom he limned in colors so brilliant that
the original would indeed have had great trouble in recognizing
himself in the portrait.
The lieutenant had by this time calmed down a good deal, and the
blurred images of the past evening resolved themselves, one after
another, into sane recollections. He now distinctly recalled the part
in the ugly intrigue played by the woman; how she had skilfully led
him on to make advances; how she had smiled encouragingly at his terms
of endearment; how she had "fished" for dubious compliments, and how
she had, above all, so alluringly made the most intimate confidences
to him as to her marital troubles and as to her status of a _femme
incomprise_. Really, he thought after quiet reflection, he himself was
not so much to blame in this affair, disgraceful as it doubtless was
when all was said and done. For the woman herself, a change of feeling
took place simultaneously. The tender pity he had felt for her in his
maudlin condition made room for something akin to contempt and
dislike. She certainly could not be a pure woman, a faithful wife and
mother, he thought, thus to invite, almost provoke, the passionate
regard of a man much younger and less experienced than herself,--a
man, too, whom she had known but slightly and conventionally hitherto.
In his inmost consciousness he had almost absolved himself from guilt
in the matter. And as to writing to her husband, or confronting him
with the raw tale of her and his indiscretion, as Borgert had
suggested, why, the more he thought of it, the less advisable a step
it seemed to him, from every point of view. However, a promise was a
promise, and he would keep it.
He donned his full regimentals, and issued forth at the right time for
a visit of the kind.
He did not find Kahle himself in, he being still away at squadron
drill. But his wife flew to meet him as soon as the parlor door had
closed behind the announcing servant, and her reception was indeed
such an affectionate and even enthusiastic one that the words of
penitence perforce died on his lips. She drew him toward her on the
low lounge, and exuberantly babbled on about the comfort, the delight
his confidence had brought her. There was not the slightest word said
by her to show that she had disapproved his approaches now that the
glamour of the moment, the enervating effects of close communion in
the warm air of a spring night, were gone. Coquettishly she plied all
her wiles to captivate poor Pommer anew. His pulses hammered, his
senses were aflame; but he remained master of himself, and sternly he
resolved to sever these equivocal relations with a woman whom he could
no longer respect. The weak, purblind man had been steeled against
further temptation by seeing a few hours ago the abyss yawning at his
feet, in which an illicit love had threatened to engulf him forever.
The image of his mother, noble type of womanhood, rose before his
mind, and he remained strong.
Frau Kahle, on her part, at last becoming convinced that all her arts
were thrown away on this iceberg, suddenly changed her tactics, and
dismissed her visitor in somewhat abrupt fashion. She swept from the
room, leaving him to find his way out. Only the intoxicating perfume
which she used by preference lingered a moment longer in the close air
of the room as the lieutenant sought his way out; but despite a
curious feeling of defeat which he could not help instinctively
feeling, there was subdued exultation in his heart. His brow was
serene as, at the next crossing of the street, he encountered Borgert,
who hailed him:
"Well, Pommer," he shouted satirically, "how is your headache? And how
did you find things at Kahle's?--everything forgiven?"
"Oh, yes, everything forgiven," answered Pommer, demurely, without
going into any further details.
"Excellent. Was a wise thing for you to do to take counsel with an
elder comrade, my dear fellow. Well, I am glad for your sake
everything ended well."
"Yes, thanks to you," said Pommer; and the two shook hands and parted.
Pommer went home, well satisfied with himself.
He fancied that all was now over between him and Frau Kahle. His
acquaintance with women of her stamp had never been extensive, and to
read the soul of one so utterly false and grossly sensual as this
inveterate coquette, was quite beyond the ability of Lieutenant
Pommer, analysis of his own or anybody else's character not being his
strong point.
He had, however, miscalculated Frau Kahle's fascinations over his
unsophisticated self, and decidedly underestimated her craving for
admiration. He was made aware of this when he next met her, on the day
following. She greeted him with a smile so bewitching and a
half-expressed sense of intimacy so flattering to his _amour propre_,
that he was unable to resist. Soon these two became the talk of the
little town. No matter if Pommer, looking at his inner self within the
quiet retreat of his own bachelor quarters, bitterly bewailed his
renewed fall from grace, her influence over the coarser fibre in his
being easily triumphed over his qualms of conscience.
He frequently met Borgert during this period, but the latter, far from
training once more on him the battery of his eloquence, contented
himself with some facetious remark or with a Mephistophelian grin.
And for Kahle himself, he was probably the only one in the
garrison--as is the fate of husbands too often in such cases--who was
not in the slightest aware of the "goings-on" of his nominal partner
in the joys and sorrows of life. And, besides, his tasks as chairman
of the Casino's house committee kept him, together with his official
duties, practically away from home all day long, and frequently far
into the night.
Pommer was, as we have seen, not precisely of delicate stuff, either
bodily or in his psychic makeup. But the chains he was wearing
nevertheless galled him, and he not seldom manoeuvred with his charmer
to obtain release; but all in vain. More than once he thought
seriously of writing to Captain Kahle himself, confessing his guilt,
glossing over her own share of it, and offering all the reparation in
his power. That would mean, of course, exposing his own precious life
to the unerring bullet of the captain; but even that outlook appeared
to him preferable to his present life of deceit. He now regretted that
he had not followed, the morning after the Casino hop, his first
impulse of making a clean breast of it to Captain Kahle. Thus weeks
dragged on, and there was no prospect of a change in a situation which
gradually became intolerable to him.
But suddenly, without his having done anything to bring it about, the
day came that granted him escape from his degrading entanglement. The
imperial order arrived, promoting him to the grade of First Lieutenant
and transferring him to another garrison, far in the interior of the
country.
She was the first person he informed of it.
"Farewell! We shall not see each other again!" He spoke quite coolly,
almost callously, and he left her cowering on the sofa and weeping
hysterically. He felt a free man again. The abominable shackles had
fallen from him.
If he had seen Frau Kahle five minutes after he had left her he would
not even have retained for her a vestige of that first tenderness that
had swept over him that night in the Casino garden. For when he had
retired, and she had heard his step on the flagging of the hall below,
she had quickly risen and peered, from behind the lace curtains, into
the street after his vanishing figure. Then she had sat down at the
piano and intoned a merry Strauss waltz.
But then she reflected that they might call her heartless. So she had
indited a long, passionate farewell letter to him. He showed it, the
night before his going, to Borgert at the Casino. They were all his
guests that night. Borgert had screamed with laughter.
"What a devilish smart little woman she is, after all," he had
exclaimed. And then, poising in mid-air his champagne glass, he said,
nodding to Pommer:
"Here's to her and her simpleton!"
He spoke from experience.