“Thanks; where do you come from?”
“Bohemia, Prague.”
“And where are you going?”
“To Novorossysk.”
“What for?”
“On business.”
“My name is Heinrich Walter. I am a professor in Munich. With my wife
and nephew I am on my way to the Crimea for _practical study_.”
He said these words in a tone just touched with irony. I meditated for a
moment as just how best to classify the dry example of professorship.
“For geological study?”
“No--_Callobiotic_.”
I looked at him amazed. My glance met his. It rested calmly upon my
face.
“The sound of this word means nothing to you, am I not correct? It is a
new science. It has not yet been properly introduced. I hope to perform
a service to humanity by introducing it to you.”
“Probably I have at least heard of it,” I replied, likewise ironically.
“All that has been done up to now in this science does not deserve a
name. I hope I shall be successful in laying properly the foundation,
upon which, in time, a proud and noble science will be erected.”
He paused a moment, then continued with fervor.
“It is not only a science, but an art--yes, the most exalted of all
arts. It is not a question merely of projecting certain basic formulas,
in accordance with which men--within defined limits--may enjoy the
highest physical and intellectual rewards. It aims at something higher,
namely, that human life instead of being a group of accidental and
disconnected incidents, shall develop into a veritable work of art,
inspired by one dominating idea. Life will become, my good sir, not a
drama, but an epic! You will understand that the developing of such a
science is no child’s undertaking. Just as a bee gathers honey from
various flowers, so must I gather knowledge from all other sciences,
press out their honey for the sweetening and ennobling of the life of
man. I must distribute light and shade with skill, in order to create a
beautiful and harmonious ideal of human existence.”
I confined myself merely to a shrug of the shoulders in reply to this
daring thinking. Walter paid no attention to it and went on:
“As a usual thing man is unhappy because he is dissatisfied with his lot
in life. Imagination pictures happiness always as something in the
distance, but which does not exist in the present. If he ever succeeds
in reaching this dreamed of realization, he finds that it is not what he
thought it was. As a result, he becomes bitter and disillusioned, and
then, in revenge, he begins to run after some fresh phantom of
happiness--some gayer butterfly of joy--which in turn likewise becomes
colorless and dull under the touch of his fingers.
“My object in life, my ambition, is to make dream and reality one. I
have inherited a great fortune, and although wealth is not to be
despised, I live without show or luxury, just as I did when I was poor.
With perfect calmness I could read--in Sevastopol--a telegram announcing
the loss of my fortune.” I permitted myself to doubt--in silence--the
truth of this last report.
“I have just married a young and lovely girl,” the professor went on. “I
love her and she loves me. I am happy and I hope always to remain so.
After due consideration I concluded that it is better for earthly
happiness not to follow the advice of St. Paul, and that is the reason I
married. I did not look for an ideal; I looked for a good, educated
girl, such as are common enough, and then I proposed to her without any
somnambulistic fantasies. My honeymoon was not a sense destroying orgy,
after which comes disillusion. I sought in marriage instead a calm and
even happiness. I am educating my wife to this. Her imagination and
modern methods of education had troubled her outlook in this respect.
All sorts of romantic folly floated in her head. Now I intend to cure
her of this romanticism.”
I imagined right then a tiny rose satin slipper, and under it the neck
of the professor in a none too dignified position. He went on:
“I want her to travel, to see people and the world, and to learn to form
judgments according to my instructions. But--there she comes now!”
Not only I, but the rest of the passengers upon the upper deck--looked
with pleasure at the extremely pretty young woman who was approaching.
With envy in my voice I whispered to Walter:
“You are living neither a play nor an epic, but instead a love song.”
She was following her steamer rug which hung from the arm of a tall,
handsome youth. In the youth there was that commingling of timidity and
boldness which distinguishes the students of German universities. His
face was smooth and fair as a girl’s, and it showed an effort toward
appearance of energy by a black court plaster upon the forehead, and the
first shadow of down upon the upper lip. He was a youth who would be
dangerous to women of a certain age.
Walter introduced me to his wife. A brief conversation convinced me that
she was not one of those adorable statues into which nature has
forgotten to breathe intelligence. I must confess that she was the most
seductive proof possible of the value of his new science.
On a point of the monstrous circle, whose line the green sea marked
sharply from the azure of the sky, a white sail appeared. It is not
necessary to travel long upon the sea to comprehend the lively
impression which the appearance of a distant sail causes. What wonder
that our travelers assembled upon the upper deck, when the white dot
blew up over the horizon!
Frau Walter let herself be swept along with the rest. Her husband
hurried after her taking the spyglass out of its worn covering. As if
with intention the nephew loitered behind. From an empty place near the
pilot house, his blond curly head resting upon one hand, he observed the
gay confusion of the lower deck. Soon I found that his persistent,
dreamy gaze was riveted upon a young Jewess from the Crimea, whose
slender, graceful body was draped in a black dress, and formed a
pleasant contrast to the bright-hued crowd. We have many beautiful
Jewesses with us, but beside those of the Orient our fairest Esthers are
only field daisies. This particular Jewess was not pronounced in type;
indeed, one could not at a glance be quite sure of her race. I would
have taken her at first for a Greek. The pure pallor of her face, the
black, finely arched brows, and the large dreamy eyes, from which the
poetry of the Orient looked out, made her especially attractive.
Involuntarily I compared the two, the blond youth by the pilot house and
the beautiful Jewess. Both were in the first bloom of youth, and yet
they were so different. They exchanged glances which expressed eagerness
and longing. I recalled Heine’s words of the pine in the North dreaming
of a palm in the South. After watching them a while I sat down beside
William and remarked.
“Just look at that handsome Jewess down there!” He looked at me shyly
and blushed. Then as if conscious of his importance as a student, he
moved his head carelessly and said in an unfriendly manner:
“Black, but beautiful! For such a Rachel I would not mind herding
sheep.”
“But you wouldn’t take Leah along in the bargain, would you?”
“Why not?”
“I suppose you are a student of that new science of your uncle’s, are
you not?”
“He has been boring you with that has he?” was the quick reply, his
features suddenly becoming animated.
“Isn’t that the biggest piece of nonsense? I am genuinely sorry I was
forced to travel with him. That constant school-mastering of his makes
life gall and wormwood. If I am enjoying the wine in a hotel, he lifts
his fingers and measures every drink. If I look at a girl he spoils my
pleasure by a preachment on the subject of sexual impulses. His plan of
travel disgusts me because he has thought it all out to the smallest
detail. All the pleasure of traveling he estimates by that new science
of his, and I rage in my heart. By heaven!--if it were not--” Here he
paused and looked down. I tried to guess what that unfinished sentence
might be. Evidently something chained the hot-headed youth to the uncle
which he would not confide to any human ear. After a moment I said,
looking him directly in the eye:
“And how does Frau Walter get on with her husband’s hobbies?”
He looked at me shyly and blushed. I did not look away.
“With patience,” he replied slowly. “Of course, like all women, she
tries to get her own way, and sometimes she succeeds. But of course
anyone can see that to a sympathetic person like her, that cold,
pedantic treatment is not particularly pleasant.”
“Frau Walter is a woman to be worshiped,” I answered. I said the last
words with emphasis. The young man did not answer; he seemed as if
buried in thought and his silence continued.
The supper bell rang. The sound of this bell, to which Byron devotes a
verse in his “Don Juan,” impresses one, whether it be heard in the
peopled palace of a king, in a silent cloister, or here upon a ship in
the crystal realm of Neptune.
I went down to the little second class salon, while my new acquaintances
ate in the first class salon. At the well set table I drank good Crimean
wine, and listened to the Russian conversation of the other occupants of
the table, who talked of shipwreck and adventures by sea, and tarried at
table until evening. When again I came upon deck, the sky was grey, rain
drizzled down and cooled deck and rigging of our _Juno_, which were
scorched with heat.
Upon deck the professor was walking with an umbrella.
“I have been pondering over our previous conversation, Herr Professor.
We did not end it. I wish to ask you if you would put up as calmly with
the loss of your wife, as you declare you would with loss of your
fortune?”
“Loss of my wife? I should yield to the law of life, and with all my
strength rely upon the healing power of nature, with hope that at length
the painful wound would be healed.”
“But what if her love for you should die? Of course you do not need ever
to fear such a thing, but, for sake of argument--suppose she should be
unfaithful?”
He looked at me sharply. I thought his brow clouded slightly.
In the meantime it had grown dark. We were walking in centre of the
deck, around a little four-cornered light-tower whose glass walls let
light into the salon of the first class. Now it was brightly lighted,
and there I saw a scene which suddenly stopped my steps.
Frau Walter and the nephew were sitting facing each other upon an
upholstered fauteuil, and amusing themselves by playing ball with a
large yellow orange. The pretty woman threw it in dangerous proximity to
the young man’s nose and face. She was delighted with this childish
play. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowed, and teasing laughter
played about her lips.
I looked so persistently at this picture that at length Walter’s eyes
were drawn that way. When at length we took up our promenade, I
observed: “You are certainly giving your nephew an excellent vacation.”
“I do not enjoy the companionship of the little wind-bag, but my wife
insisted upon taking him along.” The last words he said as if to
himself, and slowly.
Now we stood on the lookout bridge. The scene had changed. The fauteuils
were side by side, and their two heads were bent so close together over
the table, that the blond curls and brown curls touched. In front of
them upon the table lay an illustrated weekly journal. They were looking
at some pictures which showed the rendezvous of a pretty Signora and a
slender youthful page, in an old forgotten park.
The professor murmured good night and left me. I, too, sought my cabin,
which they tried to make comfortable with a hard mattress and a pillow,
and soon the sea cradled me to sleep.
When I came upon the upper deck in the morning, I saw a narrow strip of
land, upon it some little white houses, a richly decorated mosque, two
slender minarets, a Russian Church, and a number of wind-mills. Our
steamer was anchoring at Eupatoria. Upon the emerald green water about
us numberless little boats of different shapes and sizes, filled with
gayly dressed Greeks and Tartars, were offering their services. But our
ears and purses remained closed to their enticements; the time of our
stay at Zozlov, which has been officially changed to classic Eupatoria,
was limited. We had to content ourselves with a glance at the white
city, and the multitude of craft anchored in front, whose tall swaying
masts and many-hued sails presented an interesting picture.
From Eupatoria we sailed on past low bare shore land. In the distance
towered mighty Tschaterdagh (Tent Mountain), whose outlines really
suggested a giant tent.
I walked about the deck for some time without catching glimpse of my
interesting friends. At length the nephew appeared, took me confidingly
by the arm, and drew me toward an empty seat by the pilot house!
“Imagine,” he began merrily, “the old man pulled us out at _day break_.
I suppose you think he wanted us to observe a sunrise at sea. He wanted
to tell us the story of the Crimean War before we reached Sevastopol.
For this purpose he unpacked a lot of books and photographs, a map
adorned with bright flags, and I think, also, a globe. He arranged this
collection upon the table, placed one of us on his right, the other on
his left, and began his lecture. He recited in order the Crimean Khans,
reached the Russian occupation, and was just ready for the Crimean war.
Just at the moment when the hero Kozarsky succeeded with unparalleled
skill in freeing his ship _Mercury_ from the enemy ships of three
nations, I managed to slip away. I pity my poor aunt, who by this time,
probably, is right in front of the harbor of Sevastopol, and exposed to
the guns of the English, French, and Turkish fleets.”
The poor youth could not rejoice in his freedom long. Hardly had he
ended his confidence when he saw the green umbrella coming up the
stairs, and looking out from under it, two sharp eyes.
“Now it’s all over with me,” whispered the nephew. “But I will not
surrender without resistance.”
He got up and slipped away toward the stairs which led to the
ethnographical display on the lower deck. My eyes rested upon the place
where he had disappeared. There upon the deck I saw a folded paper. I
picked it up. Upon it was writing in German without address or
subscription. The writing was as follows:
“I do not live, I dream. Always I see you before me; your sweet dark
eyes look at me reproachfully. You are so near me--so near! I breathe
the fragrance of the fresh flowers in your hair. My arm can reach
you--and yet what an abyss separates us!”
Upon the same paper, written in a woman’s hand were the words: “Vain
longing!” Just at this moment some one touched my arm. I looked up and
saw Walter. The grieved, angry expression upon his usually placid face
surprised me. He was pale; his forehead was scowling.
“I see you have had the same experience that I have had. I have found a
lost love letter too,” he said in a voice very different from the
jesting manner he tried to assume. “Look here--yesterday evening I found
two. Let us compare the writing.”
He drew from his pocket book two little notes, which were just like the
one I held in my hand. With a peculiar smile he handed them to me. At a
glance I saw that the writing was the same. Upon these likewise a
woman’s hand had written. Upon one--
“_Old friends_,” and upon the other “_not enough_.”
“Give me your letter,” demanded Walter after hesitating; “I will make a
collection of them. Perhaps before I reach the end of the trip I shall
have a novel.”
The bitter tone of voice provided explanation. I did not wish such a
gloomy suspicion to grow in his heart, so I said:
“There’s nothing of importance in them.”
“No. It has not reached the climax. We’ll wait for the chapters to
follow. Thank you.”
He took my note and put it carefully away with the others, nodded his
head and walked away. I remained, meditating, where he left me, until I
was disturbed by voice of the nephew.
“My uncle wasn’t looking for me, was he?”
“He did not mention your name.”
“Out of gratitude I’ll go back and expose myself to the cross fire of
the allied fleets in front of Sevastopol. Anyway, this being bossed
about by my uncle is not going to last much longer. Then--_you’ll see_!”
With these words he glanced up at me with a merry laugh.
I, on the contrary, had lost all inclination to merriment. Deeply
meditative I watched the fine, vigorous young fellow walk away.
When I considered, in cold blood, what I had seen in this short time,
the individual peculiarity of each member of the Walter family, their
relations to each other, the senseless lack of tact of the husband, the
youth and beauty of the wife, the handsome nephew, the scene of the day
before in the salon, the mysterious letters, and the last words of the
youth, I could not put aside the fear that all was not as it should be.
Then excitement upon the upper deck drew my attention. The travelers
were leaning excitedly over the railing; joy and interest were upon
their faces. From mouth to mouth flew the word: “_Sevastopol!
Sevastopol!_”
We were just entering the great Gulf of Sevastopol, which, with one or
two other indentations, is cut out of the solid rock.
The hills on all sides, and the space of level land, gleamed brightly
now under the mid-day sun, showed the ruins of those fortifications that
had once been so formidable. Walls, redoubts, towers, houses. Across the
Gulf the remains of the gigantic dock stared back at us from long rows
of empty windows. Right beside upon a declivity, beside the ruins of
numberless houses, stood the Russian Church, rejoicing in its imposing
outlook. In the upper part of the harbor a magnificent stone archway
attracted our attention, the remains evidently of some prince’s harbor.
On the other side the steep, hanging Garden of Kozarsky charmed the
eye.
We sailed close to shore and landed. The landing place was a merry
sight. There were crowds of people; important and unimportant figures in
trim uniforms, long caftans, richly colored skirts with turbans, a
woolly cap, a fez, a low hat, wide or tight trousers, in high black
boots, or low, yellow slippers. From moment to moment this
kaleidoscopic, bright-hued scene changed. Some heads carried baskets or
boards upon which pastry was displayed for sale. Oranges, melons, fish
of all colors, resembling the rainbow, enticed to eat. Some merchants
sat behind a little improvised counter where they sold pickles, garlic,
cabbage; others offered rose-sherbet in cheap glasses. This picture was
enriched when the passengers upon the lower deck of our steamer went
ashore. We, the passengers of the first and second class, waited for the
confusion to subside, before going ashore to make use of the three hours
given us to see the ruins of Sevastopol. The passengers hired the light,
comfortable vehicle of the Russian _isvochtschik_, and the little bells
of the curved _duga_ chimed merrily as we drove away.
The Walter family and I determined to walk to the Boulevard Kozarsky.
After we had passed the memorial of this hero of the sea, we remained
standing by a little Kiosk. Our eyes traveled delightedly over the
picturesque landscape outspread beneath us. Calmly the marvelous Gulf
shone at our feet, a glittering blue sapphire set in sun-burnished
shores.
After we had looked long enough we went down into the city. The
Professor worked himself up into such furors of Ciceronian eloquence,
that his brow cleared and he became happy. The nephew appeared nervous
and impatient. He looked about shyly, and from time to time his eyes
rested upon the form of Frau Walter, who was fluttering along beside her
husband, in unalloyed delight.
In front of a ruin, whose half-fallen wall the enthusiastic professor
began to climb, the nephew suddenly felt in his breast pocket, and after
he had pulled his hand out empty, he went up to his aunt and began to
whisper to her. She took from her dress a pretty little notebook, tore a
leaf out and handed it to him, along with a handsome pencil.
The youth sat down hurriedly near the ruins and wrote a few lines. When
the zealous and inspired uncle fell down exactly at his nephew’s feet,
the latter had already written the note, and returned the pencil to its
owner.
We went on. Presently the pretty woman became faint, said that she had a
headache, and felt so ill that she must return to the steamer. The
professor was so absorbed in his study of the ruins that he let her go
away unobserved.
After a while he asked me where she had gone, but he paid no attention
to my answer. He signalled an _isvochtschik_ and invited me to drive
with him. We visited the Malakaf-Kurhan, the graveyards, and heaven
knows what else we should have seen, had I not called his attention to
the fact that it was high time for us to return to the steamer. And it
was in fact high time. When our _troika_ reached the harbor, the sailors
were loosening the ropes that made it fast. We jumped out and hastened
toward the ship. Just then, from among the gaping crowd a figure stepped
forth and handed Walter a folded letter. He opened and read it. His face
turned white; his hands trembled. When he turned the paper over and read
the words on the other side, it fluttered from his hands. He stood there
as if he had been struck by lightning, his eyes wide, his face white.
Then he groaned and covered his face with his hands. A Greek standing
near picked the paper up and handed it to him. Walter dropped his hands
from his face and looked at me despairingly.
“Read that! _Deceived! Deserted!_”
I took the paper. It was the one Frau Walter had torn from her notebook
and read: