Ritter's dog-cart was waiting in front of the door. He suggested that
Frederick and Schmidt drive down in it to the railroad station, where
Schmidt was to get the train back to Meriden. The two men squeezed in
beside the Austrian horse-trainer, valet, or whatever Ritter's coachman
was. The trotter went off at a swift gait, and again the wild, noisy
phantasmagoria of the streets of the new Babylon went flashing by
Frederick's eyes.
Ritter had introduced his coachman as Mr. Boabo. He wore a small round
hat of brown felt, brown gloves, and a short brown jockey's overcoat. His
chin was heavy, his nose finely chiselled, and his moustache dark and
downy. He was a handsome man, or lad, since boyish naïveté still
predominated in his expression. He was about the same age as Ritter.
While guiding the magnificent grey through the medley of cabs, trucks,
and street-cars, he smiled faintly, as if delighted by it all.
Notwithstanding the city's excesses of architecture and engineering, its
distinctive characteristic was unimaginativeness. The hurry and bustle,
"business," the chase after the dollar had lashed the technical arts on
to audacious attempts; for example, the skyscrapers, or the elevated
railroad, with its unfenced tracks high overhead, its trains thundering
along incessantly in two directions, winding sharply about the corners
like an illuminated snake, and writhing into streets so narrow that a
person in one of the upper stories of the houses can almost touch the
coaches with his hands.
"Madness, lunacy!" Frederick exclaimed in his amazement.
"Not altogether," said Schmidt. "Back of it all is a very sane,
unscrupulous practicality, riding down every obstacle in its way."
"It would be hideous were it not so tremendous," Frederick shouted above
the din.
The newsboys were still calling the wreck of the _Roland_.
"What is that? What was that?" thought Frederick. "I am wallowing in
life. How does that story concern me?"
A congestion of traffic compelled the grey to come to a halt. He champed
on his bit, tossed his head, sending flecks of foam flying from his
mouth, and looked about as if to try the heart and reins of the young
Austrian officer with his heroic, fiery eyes. During the compulsory
pause, Frederick had a chance to observe how sheafs of newspapers were
being consumed by the pressing, crushing, jostling throngs.
"The cow gobbles grass, and New York gobbles newspapers," Frederick
thought. And heaven be praised! In _The World_ that Schmidt bought of a
boy, who at risk of his life had threaded his way to the cart, there were
fresh sensations taking precedence of the _Roland_--"Explosion in a
Pennsylvania mine. Three hundred miners cut off." "Fire in a factory in
a thirteen-story skyscraper. Four hundred working-girls perish in the
flames."
"After us the deluge," said Frederick. "Coal is dear, wheat is dear, oil
is dear, but men are cheap as dirt. Mr. Boabo, don't you think our
civilisation is a fever of a hundred and six degrees? Isn't New York a
mad-house?"
But the handsome youth, after the fashion of Austrian officers, put his
hand to his cap with inimitable grace, while a decided smile, a smile of
happiness, played about the corners of his mouth, and his answer by no
means expressed assent.
"Well, I love life. Here one really lives. When there is no war in
Europe, then it is wearisome," he said, speaking in English, which most
clearly proved how distant his relation to the old continent was.
At the station, when they were standing on the platform beside the train,
Schmidt said to Frederick, wringing his hand impetuously in his German
way:
"Now, old fellow, you must soon come to see me in Meriden. Meriden is a
small place, and you can recuperate there better than here."
"I'm not altogether a free agent," Frederick replied with a faint,
fatalistic smile.
"Why not?"
"I have obligations. I am tied down."
With the indiscretion of intimacy, Schmidt asked:
"Has it anything to do with the wooden Madonna?"
"Perhaps it is something of the sort," Frederick replied. "The poor
little thing lost her father, her natural protector, and as I had a share
in her rescue--"
"Then there was a girl in a shift, and a rope ladder!"
"Yes and no. I'll tell you more about it some other time. Now just take
my word for it, there are times when all of a sudden in a most surprising
way, one finds oneself saddled with complete responsibility for a
fellow-creature."
Peter Schmidt laughed.
"You mean, if a woman steps up to you in a crowded city street and asks
you to hold her baby a moment, and never comes back for her baby?"
"I'll tell you everything some other time."
The train with its long, elegantly built coaches began to move slowly,
though no signal of any sort had been given, no whistle or bell or word
of command. Without the least to-do, it slipped out of the station wholly
disregarded. Peter and Frederick were the only persons taking leave of
one another in this crowded train bound inland. Peter mounted the steps,
and again shook hands with Frederick.
"I hope to see you soon again," each said to the other warmly.
X
When Frederick returned home, he learned that a number of reporters and
other persons had been there inquiring for him. Webster and Forster's
agent had given his address, Frederick deduced upon seeing among the
reporters' cards one of Arthur Stoss's. There was also a letter from an
impresario, a German of the name of Lehmann, who, failing to find
Frederick in, had left a pencilled note asking whether, and under what
conditions, Frederick would be prepared to deliver a medical lecture in
New York, Boston, Chicago, and later other cities, in which lecture he
was each time to touch upon the sinking of the _Roland_ and weave in some
of his impressions of the event.
"What else?" thought Frederick, disgusted, though he had to admit that he
had actually become famous.
Through Petronilla he sent word to Ingigerd to ask whether it would be
agreeable to her to receive him. Petronilla returned with the message
that Ingigerd would see him in a quarter of an hour. "Signor Pittore
Franck is with her," the housekeeper added; which piece of information
sent the blood rushing to Frederick's head; and though it had been his
intention to wash and change his clothes, he scarcely waited for
Petronilla to conclude her message, and dashed up-stairs three steps at
a time. He knocked on Ingigerd's door loudly. No one said "Come in."
Nevertheless he opened the door and entered and saw the gypsy painter
sitting at Ingigerd's side. On the table under the electric bulbs, lay
a large sheet of paper, on which Franck was sketching with a soft pencil
what Frederick on stepping nearer saw to be hasty designs for costumes.
"I said in a quarter of an hour," said Ingigerd slowly, making a wry
face.
"I'll come whenever I choose to," said Frederick.
Franck, rising without the least air of haste or confusion, greeted
Frederick with perfect cordiality and walked to the door.
"I don't want to disturb you. Good evening, Doctor von Kammacher," he
said with a grin betraying some delight in Frederick's annoyance.
"Rigo!" Ingigerd called after him. "You promised to come again to-morrow
morning."
"What's that boy doing in your room, Ingigerd?" Frederick demanded
somewhat roughly, in evident anger. "And 'Rigo'? What does 'Rigo' mean?
Are both of you out of your wits?"
Though this tone of his must have been new to her, it seemed agreeable to
her, for she said very humbly:
"Well, why did you stay away so long?"
"I'll tell you later. But as matters now stand between us, I forbid your
striking up such friendships. If you want to do something for the fellow,
present him with a comb and a nail brush and a tooth-brush. Besides, his
name isn't Rigo but Max, and he's a seedy sort of chap, absolutely
dependent upon his friends."
In his moments of jealousy, it was easy for Ingigerd to put Frederick to
shame.
"It makes no difference to me," she said, "whether a man is poor or rich,
whether he dresses like a dude or a tramp. Rigo intends to paint my
portrait, and I'm looking forward with pleasure to being his model."
"His model? You won't be his model. I'll see to that," said Frederick.
"But please explain how you hit upon 'Rigo'? Why do you call him 'Rigo'?
Tell me."
"His mother was a gypsy, and when he was a child, some respectable people
took him into their family."
"Do you believe that? Franck's friends say he lies every time he opens
his mouth."
"I'm not a father confessor. He may lie for all I care."
Frederick did not reply.
Ingigerd was still sitting at the table. With gentle ardour he pressed
his lips to her head, loosened the ribbon tying her hair at the nape of
her neck, and plunged his fingers deep into the wave of flowing gold.
"Where were you?" the girl asked. Frederick told her of Peter Schmidt and
the exhilarating afternoon in Ritter's studio.
"I don't like that sort of thing," she said. "How can people drink wine?"
The thought passed through Frederick's mind that the girl's remarks were
rather flat and failed to echo the things he had been telling her.
About an hour later Frederick asked Willy to help him find a boarding
house where he and Ingigerd could live, or Ingigerd could live alone
without his protection.
"You must realise," Frederick explained, "that no matter how unprejudiced
you and your friends may be, it won't do to let a young lady remain
permanently in a bachelors' club-house."
Willy did realise the impropriety of the situation; and that very same
evening he found an excellent place for her with friends on Fifth Avenue.
The next morning, after the men had left the house, Frederick again fell
under the spell of a strange excitement that led him to Ingigerd's room.
This time, however, it was not a wave of passion, but a storm of desire
for self-purification.
"Ingigerd," he said, "fate has brought us together. I am sure you, too,
feel that in spite of all the appalling events we underwent, something
like predestination was at work." Frederick now told her, as he had fully
planned to do, the story of his past. It was a complete confession. He
spoke of his youth and marriage, spoke with all possible forbearance and
love of his wife. "There was no hope for her ever getting well again.
I have nothing to reproach myself with in regard to her, except that I
was a man merely of good intentions and imperfect achievement. But I may
not have been the right husband for her in so far as I could not give
her the repose of spirit that she needed and I myself lacked. When the
collapse finally occurred and other misfortunes--they seldom come
singly--and in addition I suffered disappointments outside my family
life, I had great difficulty in bearing up. I hate to speak of it, but it
is the truth--before I saw you, I picked up a revolver more than once for
a very definite purpose. Life weighed upon me like lead. It had turned
stale and tasteless. The sight of you, Ingigerd, and, strange to say, the
wreck, which I experienced not only symbolically but in actuality, taught
me to value life again. You and bare existence--the two things
I saved from the wreck. Once more I stand on terra firma. I love the
soil. I should like to fondle it. But I am not yet secure, Ingigerd. I am
still sore, without and within, you know. You have suffered a loss, I
have suffered a loss. We have beheld the other side of existence, the
unforgettable gloom. We have looked into the pit. Ingigerd, shall we
cling to each other? Will you come to a man torn and distracted, lashed
by scorpions, to a man who is greedy to-day and surfeited to-morrow, to a
man who longs for peace and repose, and be peace and repose to him? Could
you for my sake give up all that has until now filled your life, if I for
your sake leave behind me everything that has wasted my existence? Shall
we both begin afresh, on a new basis, simply and without any false
glamour, and live and die as plain country persons? I will be tender with
you, Ingigerd." Frederick hollowed his hands and held them as he had done
when speaking of the Madonna. "I will--" He broke off and cried: "Say
something! Just tell me the one thing, Ingigerd! Can you--can you become
my comrade for life?"
Ingigerd was standing at the window looking out into the fog and tapping
the pane with a pencil.
"Perhaps, Doctor von Kammacher," she said finally.
"Perhaps!" Frederick blazed up. "And Doctor von Kammacher!"
Ingigerd turned and said quickly:
"Why do you always fly into such a temper right away? How do I know if I
am suited to your needs and desires?"
"It is merely a question of love," replied Frederick.
"I like you. Yes, I do like you, but whether my feeling for you is love,
how can I tell? I always say that so far I haven't loved anything but
animals."
"Animals!" cried Frederick von Kammacher. He felt mortally ashamed.
Never, it seemed to him, in his whole life had he so degraded himself.