VANITIES OF VANITIES.
A brilliant company filled the Ellrichs' drawing-rooms. These lofty
rooms, thrown open to the guests, were more like the reception-rooms in
a great castle than those of a bourgeois townhouse in Berlin.
The councilor's drawing-rooms occupied the first floor of the largest
house in the Lannestrasse. The carpeted staircase was decorated with
plants and candelabra, and the guests were shown into a well-lighted
anteroom, and on through folding doors into the large square
drawing-room. The walls were covered with gold-framed mirrors
reflecting the great marble stove, with its Chinese bronze ornaments;
the Venetian glass chandelier, the painting on the ceiling representing
Apollo in his sun chariot, while the rows of pretty gilt chairs in red
silk, the palm trees in the corner, and the wax candles in the brass
sconces on the walls were repeated in endless perspective. On the right
was a little room not intended for dancing, thickly carpeted, with old
Gobelin tapestry on all the walls and doors; inlaid tables, ebony
tables, and silk, satin, and tapestry in every conceivable form. A
glass door, half-covered by a portiere, gave a glimpse into a
well-lighted winter garden, full of fantastic plants in beds, bushes
and pots. On the left of the large drawing-room was the dining-room,
with white varnished walls divided into squares by gold beading, and
decorated by a number of bright pictures of symbolic female figures
representing various kinds of wine. A gigantic porcelain stove filled
one end of the room, and a sideboard the other. Through the dining-room
was a smoking-room furnished with Smyrna carpets, low divans, chairs in
mother-of-pearl, and from the ceiling hung a number of colored glass
lanterns. This was intended for old gentlemen who wished to enjoy the
latest scandal, and a card table was arranged for them with an open box
of cigars.
The decoration of these rooms was handsome without being overloaded,
and tasteful without being odd or obtrusive, qualities which one does
not often find in Germany, even in princes' palaces. A fine perception
would perhaps have felt the want of similarity in style in the numerous
rooms, giving them the character of a museum or curiosity shop, rather
than that of the harmonious dwelling of educated people of a particular
period, and in a certain country. Herr Ellrich was, however, quite
innocent of this imperfection. He had not chosen anything himself.
Everything had come from Paris, and was the selection of a Parisian
decorator, and one of the proudest moments in the councilor's life was
on the occasion of the ball he gave on his daughter's return from
England, when Count Benedetti, the French ambassador, said to him: "One
would imagine oneself in an historical house in the Faubourg St.
Germain, c'est tout a fait Parisien, Monsieur, tout a fait Parisien."
The Ellrichs' party was to celebrate the New Tear. Even the richest of
the members of the German bourgeoisie is obliged to be educated
gradually to the cultured usages of society, and are still far from
accomplished in the art of easy familiarity. It finds in its homely
culture no hard-and-fast traditions by which it can regulate its
conduct, and by a deficiency of observation, or by the want of
development of the finer feelings, is only imperfectly helped by
foreign or aristocratic manners. Herr Ellrich, who loved splendor and
expense, felt that the New Year must be celebrated by rejoicings, and
he had therefore invited his whole circle of acquaintances to this New
Year's party to rejoice with him.
In the third room the councilor's wife sat near the fireplace in a
claret-colored silk dress, ostrich feathers in her hair, and
resplendent with diamonds. Nevertheless there was nothing stiff in her
demeanor, and she was friendly and good-natured as ever. Grouped around
her in armchairs were several ladies, who in their own judgment had
passed the age of dancing. Among them were the wives of civil officers,
in whose dresses a practiced and capable eye might detect a simplicity
and old-fashioned taste, while the wives of certain financiers were
gorgeous in then fashionable costumes and the brilliancy of their
ornaments. The former felt compensated by the consciousness of their
rank and worth for any deficiency in mere outward signs of grandeur,
the latter tried by the glitter of their pearls, diamonds, silks, and
laces to appear easy and fearlessly familiar. Among the men, the
soldiers had everything in their favor. The orders which the civilians
wore fastened on the lapels of their dress coats were hopelessly thrown
in the shade by the epaulettes of the officers, and the medals
decorating their colored uniforms.
Herr Ellrich made a good host, passing quickly but quietly from one
group to another. His blight blue eves were cold and tired-looking as
ever, and took no part in the rather banal smile which played over his
lips, as if the accustomed expression of indifference could never be
obliterated. The indolent lines about his mouth were not those of
temperament, because if he spoke to a Finance Minister or other
notability, although there was no arrogance in his manner, it might be
noticed that the instinctive consciousness of his own millions never
left him. He had a naturally honorable disposition, which showed itself
in every line, and made any cringing an impossibility. The guests
praised everything, especially the costly refreshments handed by the
servants in faultless liveries.
The dancing-room was a cheerful sight. Girls and young married women
flew round over the polished floor on the arms of well-dressed men,
mostly officers, spinning and whirling round to Offenbach's dance
music, led with bacchanalian fire by a small but distinguished
conductor from a red covered platform. It was exciting to watch the
rows of couples as they waltzed wildly round, and to the dazzled sight
it seemed like a glimpse in a dream into Mohammed's Paradise; as if in
his wonderful mirror he had reflected the slim figures of the dancers,
with their flashing blue or black eyes, their burning cheeks, their
parted lips, their bosoms rising and falling, the scene moving in
ever-changing perspective; a sight gay and wonderful as the freakish
games of a crowd of elves.
The untiring energy of the dancers was wonderful. During the pauses a
girl could hardly sit for a moment to rest, but a strong arm would
whirl her away again in the vortex of the dance. A few old gentlemen
stood in the recesses of the windows and in the doorways, with the
quiet enjoyment of those who look on, and among them was Wilhelm
Eynhardt. He stood with his back against a window-frame, almost
enveloped in the flowing red silk curtain, so that scarcely any one
noticed him. His curls had been shorn, and his thick dark hair only
just waved, otherwise nothing was changed in his appearance since the
Hornberg days. His black eyes wandered thoughtfully over the changing
picture before him. The expression on his face, now slightly
melancholy, bore more resemblance to that of a young Christian devotee
than to that of the beautiful Antinous, and the intoxication of the
gayety around him appealed so little to him, that not once did he beat
his foot, nod his head, or move a muscle in time to the satanic music
of the Parisian enchanter.
For the first time in his life Wilhelm found himself in fashionable
society, and for the first time he wore evening dress. Certainly to
look at him no one would have guessed it, for there was no awkwardness
in his manner, not a trace of the anxiety and inability to do the right
thing, which in most men placed amid new surroundings and in
unaccustomed dress would have been so apparent. He wore his evening
dress with the same natural self-possession as one of the gray-haired
diplomats. The secret of this demeanor was the sense of equality he
felt toward the others. It never occurred to him to think, "How do I
look? Am I like everyone else?" and so he was as free from constraint
in his dress coat as in his student's jacket. He had even the
gracefulness which every man has in the flower of his age, if he allows
the unconscious impulses of his limbs to assert themselves, and does
not spoil the freedom of their play by confusing efforts to improve
them. The company did not disconcert him either, in spite of their
epaulettes and orders, and titles thick as falling snowflakes. An
impression received in his boyhood came back to him, in which he, among
strange people in a foreign land, had been accustomed by his father to
consider himself as an onlooker. In Moscow he had often met
aristocratic people, with as thick epaulettes, and more orders than
these, but at the sight of them he had always thought, "They are only
barbarous Russians, and I am a German, although I have no gold lace on
my coat." From that time he had always in his mind connected the use of
uniforms, as outward signs of bravery, with the conception of an
ostentatious and showy barbarism which a civilized European might
afford to laugh at. He had gone further; he regarded rank and titles as
only a kind of clothing of circumstances, which the State lends to
certain persons for useful purposes, just as the wardrobe-keeper at a
theater gives out costumes to the supers. He was so convinced on this
point that he felt sure it was only the stupid yokel at the back of the
gallery who could look with any admiration on a human being merely
because he struts about the stage in purple and gold tinsel.
Wilhelm did not give the impression of a man who was enjoying himself.
His discontented gaze persistently followed one dark head adorned with
a yellow rose.
Loulou, for of course it was she, wore a cream-colored silk crepon
dress. Her little feet in pale yellow satin shoes played at
hide-and-seek under her skirt. She looked charming, and seemed very
happy. She danced with a magic lightness and gracefulness, and she
showed an endurance which had elicited applause and acknowledgments
from her partners. People were delighted with her, and she hardly
allowed herself time to breathe, for as the privileged daughter of the
house, she wandered from one partner to another, trying hard to offend
as few of her admirers as possible by a refusal. But Wilhelm had no
cause for jealousy, as her sparkling eyes continually sought his, and
as often as she danced near him she gave him an electrifying glance and
a sweet smile, telling him that he might now hold his head high like a
conqueror, or humble himself with languishing sentiment, that for her
there was only one man in the room, one man in all the mirrors, the
handsome youth in the window recess between the red silk curtains. In
the short pauses she came over to him and spoke a word or two, always
the same sort of thing: "Ah! how So-and-so worries me. What a pity that
you don't dance, it would be so lovely. Oh! if only you knew how
Fraulein S----admires you, and how angry all the ladies are that you
won't be introduced to them." And Wilhelm thanked her with the same
quiet smile, took her fingers when he could and pressed them, and
stayed in his window corner.
Presently Loulou went toward someone in the room, who looked back at
the same time toward Wilhelm. It was his friend Paul Haber, for whom he
had obtained an invitation. Paul looked at him proudly and gayly. His
short hair was beautifully cut and brushed, his thick blonde mustache
curled in the most approved fashion. In his buttonhole he wore the
decoration of the 1866 war medal, and when he saw himself in the glass
he could say with perfect self-satisfaction, that he looked just as
much like an officer as the men in uniform, not even excepting those of
the Guard. Since the campaign of 1866, in which Paul had served in the
same company as Wilhelm, they had been firm friends, and on this
evening he wished to offer his respects before the manifest possessor
of her heart, to one of the greatest heiresses in Berlin, also his
gratitude for his introduction to this splendid house, and his tender
feelings for his comrade. In spite of being occupied with his partners
he had time to observe Wilhelm, and the sight of him standing alone in
the window recess immediately cooled the nervous excitement wrought by
the crowd of strangers. These society gatherings were what he delighted
in, and he thought it his duty to try to model his friend in the same
way. It was not without a struggle with himself that he let a dance go
by and went over to where Wilhelm stood.
"What a great pity it is that you don't dance."
"Fraulein Ellrich has just said the same thing," answered Wilhelm,
smiling a little.
"And she is quite right. You are like a thirsty man beside a delicious
spring, and are not able to drink. It is pure Tantalus."
"Your analogy does not hold good. What I am looking at does not give me
the sensation of a delicious spring, and does not make me thirsty."
Paul looked at him surprised. "Still you are a man of flesh and blood,
and the sight of all these charming girls must give you pleasure."
"You know I am engaged to only one girl here, and her I have seen under
more favorable circumstances."
"Well! She probably does not always wear such beautiful dresses, and if
she were not excited by the music and dancing her eyes might possibly
not sparkle so much; that is what I mean about its being a pity that
you don't dance."
"That is not it. I have seen this beautiful girl on other occasions
engaged in the highest intellectual occupation, and I am sorry to see
her sink to this sort of thing."
"Now the difference is defined. I was silly enough till now to think
that even in a drawing-room one saw something of the highest form of
humanity, and that aristocratic society is the flower of civilization."
"Those are opinions which are spread by clever men of the world to
excuse their shallow behavior in their own eyes and in the eyes of
others. What these people come here for is to satisfy their lower
inclinations--you must see this for yourself; if you do not allow
yourself to be influenced by these pretentious, ceremonious forms, at
least try to discover the reality that lies beneath them. What you call
the height of civilization seems to me the lowest. Do you understand? I
feel that cultured people in their drawing-room society are in the
condition of savages, and even allied to animals."
"Bravo, Wilhelm! go on; this is most edifying."
"You may jeer, but in spite of you I believe that this is so. Try to
discover what is going on in the brains of all these people at this
moment. Their highest power of activity of mind, which makes men of
them, slumbers. They do not think, they only feel. The old gentlemen
enjoy themselves with cigars, ices, the prospect of supper; the young
men seek pleasant sensations in dancing with beautiful girls. The
ladies seek in their partners and admirers to kindle feelings and
desires--vanity, self-seeking, pleasure of the senses, gratification of
the palate, in short, all the grosser tastes. All that is not only like
savages, but like animals. They are merry and contented at the prospect
of a savory meal, and they are fond of playing tricks on each
other--both sexes chaff and tease constantly. I believe that the
development of our larger brain is the intellectual work of man during
hundreds and thousands of years, and it would gratify me to see it
raised to a still greater state of activity."
"I am listening to you so quietly that I don't interrupt you--even when
you talk absurd nonsense. How can one look doleful and disagreeable if
honest, highly constituted men indulge in conversation with each other
for a few hours after hard work? I delight in this harmless enjoyment,
in which people forget all the cares of the day. Here people shake off
the burdens of their vocation and the accidents of their lot. Here am
I, a poor devil enjoying the society of the minister's friends, and
admiring the same beautiful eyes as he does."
"The harmless enjoyments of which you speak are exactly the signs by
which one may recognize the vegetative lives of the savage and the
animal. A serene enjoyment is what naturally appertains to the lower
forms of life when they are satiated, and in no danger of being tracked
for their lives. The oldest drawings on the subject always represent
men with a foolish serene smile. So the privilege of development is to
rejoice in a satisfied stomach and untroubled security, and all through
his life to know no other care or want but comfort of body."
"At last I understand you. The artist's ideal is the 'Penseroso,' and
in order to recognize the highly developed man he must be furnished
with a proof of his identity, so that the meaning of the creature may
not be lost to sight for a moment."
"You may put it in the joking way, but I really mean it. I don't forget
how much of the animal is still in us. Of course one wants relaxation.
But I don't want to look on while animals feed. Recovery after hard
intellectual work means, in your sense, the return for some hours to
animal life. Now I prefer the painful ascent of mankind to the
comfortable, backward slide into animal nature. If I wished to pose as
a statue for you it would have to be 'Penseroso' while eating or
drinking, or with a foolish, smiling mask indicating animal
contentment."
"Very well. Let us also abolish the public announcement of eating,
drinking, dancing and other performances, as the remnants of barbarism
or of original animal nature, and let us introduce the universal duty
of philosophy. A soiree of Berlin bankers--sub specie
oeiernitatis--that would do very well, and you must take out a patent
for it."
"Students' jokes, my friend, are not arguments. I am quite in earnest
in what I say, and I feel melancholy when I see Loulou and the others
playing about like thoughtless animals."
"I am going to speak seriously about the joke now, and show you another
side to the question. Is it not in the highest degree foolish of a
young man without position, to set against him men who carry the sign
of recognition from their king, and the esteem of their
fellow-citizens? Cannot the example of the consideration they enjoy
spur us to endeavors to attain the same? Cannot your acquaintance with
them be made useful?"
Wilhelm shook his head. "No, I prefer all these distinguished men when
they are doing their own work. They do not interest me here, because
they have laid aside all the characteristics which make distinguished
people of them. I think they lower their dignity when I see these
statesmen, heroes of campaign, representatives of the people, laughing,
joking, and playing together like any little shopkeeper after closing
hours."
Paul could not give an immediate answer, and he had not time to think
of one; as the music stopped the dance ended, and many people moved
toward them, making further conversation impossible. The gentlemen came
out of the drawing-room and smoking-rooms and mingled with the dancers.
Paul made his way neatly through the crowd toward a fresh, pretty, but
otherwise insignificant-looking girl, to whom he had paid a great deal
of attention, and with whom he wished to dance again. Wilhelm looked
for Loulou, whom he found near her mother. Frau Ellrich spoke to him in
a friendly way. "Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a kind,
almost tender expression on her melancholy face. Wilhelm would not have
grieved her for worlds, so for all answer he took her soft hand and
kissed it. To keep himself from speaking the truth he was silent. From
the four doors of the room servants now appeared bearing large silver
trays covered with glasses of champagne. Loulou stood by the
chimney-piece and gave several forced and absent-minded answers to the
young man. She followed with her eyes the minute-hand on the clock, and
at a slight sign from her little hand a servant came up to her. She
took the glass in which the wine sparkled, and at the same moment, the
hands of the clock pointing to twelve, she cried loudly like a child,
"Health to the New Year! Health to the New Year!" Every guest took a
glass, crying joyfully, "Health to the New Year!" and clinked his glass
against his neighbor's. Loulou went in search of her father to drink
with him; after he had given her a friendly kiss on her rosy cheek, he
regarded her with fatherly pride. She went to her mother, taking her in
her arms and kissing her on both cheeks. The third person whom she
sought was Wilhelm. They could not exchange words, but her eyes sought
his and they both flashed a mutual and joyous recognition. Her brown
eyes had said to his black ones, "May this be a year of happiness for
us," and the black eyes had understood the brown ones in their flight
and thanked them. The gay tumult lasted for several minutes, the buzz
of talking, the clatter of glasses, and the coming and going of
servants. Then suddenly an invisible hand seemed to lay hold of the
general disorder, ruling and directing it, dissolving groups who had
chanced together, here driving them forward, there arranging them
backward. According to some fixed law, without delaying or waiting, an
orderly procession was formed into the dining-room. The invisible
spirit hand which possessed all this power was thrice-holy etiquette;
the law which brought order out of confusion, and gave to everyone his
place, was that of precedence. Paul and Wilhelm, these strangers to
drawing-room customs, were new to the performance. A smile flitted over
Wilhelm's face, over Paul's came a reverent expression. What he saw
made a distinct impression of wonderment on him. The constraint ceased
immediately the guests had taken their places at the table. The scent
of the flowers vied with the perfumes worn by the women and could not
overcome them. The crystal glasses sparkled in the light of the wax
candles, the jewels, and the bright eyes round the table. The servants
poured out the noble Rhine wine, the celebrated Burgundy, the elegant
Bordeaux, and the mischievous Champagne, whose colored embodiment was
reflected on the white hands of the guests, and carried their
imaginations away in its flight from gray reality to the immortal land
of rosy dreams.
The meal lasted a long time, then a few of the guests rose; the older
ones, who had principally chatted, played, and smoked before midnight,
now withdrew, if they had no daughters to chaperon; the young people,
however, went back to the dancing-room, the musicians fiddled anew as
if they were possessed, and an hour's cotillion was begun, the pretty
quick-moving figures being led by a lieutenant of the Guards, who
seemed as proud of the honor as if he were commanding on a battlefield.
Loulou, who had gone back to the dance, had begged Wilhelm in vain to
take part at least in the cotillion, where he need not dance much. She
had assured him that he would be more decorated than any other man in
the room, and would have more orders, ribbons, and wreaths given him
than all the lieutenants put together; but even the prospect of such a
triumph could not make him ambitious, and for the first time this
evening the beautiful excited girl left him looking out of humor, and
glanced at him in a way which was not merely sorrowful but reproachful.
Paul, on the other hand, was happy. He kept more than ever near the
pretty insignificant girl with whom he had danced so much, and the
good-hearted fellow did not feel in the least jealous when, in the long
pause of the cotillion, his partner went to speak to his friend who had
stood lonely for so long, and had hardly enjoyed himself at all. Paul
was sufficiently decorated; he got a sufficient number of glances from
girls' bright eyes to be quite contented, he paid a sufficient number
of compliments, great and small, for which he was thanked by sweet
smiles, and perhaps with tiny sighs, and he had the feeling that he had
lived in every fiber of his being, and that his time had been
marvelously well employed. He could have stayed for several hours
longer, and was quite astonished when toward four o'clock the tireless
young people's parents put an end to the evening by their departure.
As Wilhelm came up to Loulou she had ceased to look cross. Near her
stood the hero of the cotillion, the lieutenant of the Guards, covered
with the little favors the ladies had given him. But that did not
prevent her saying in quite a tender voice, "I shall see you soon
again, shall I not?" and Wilhelm pressed her little hand warmly.
In the hall Wilhelm and Paul had to distribute gratuities to the
waiting servants, a custom (unknown in France and England) which
dishonors German hospitality, and a minute later they found themselves
outside in the starlit night. It blew icy cold over the Thiergarten;
across the darkness the snow-laden trees and the closely-cropped grass
looked feebly white. Wilhelm, shivering, wrapped himself in his fur
coat. Paul, on the other hand, did not seem to mind the cold; he was
still too hot with the excitement of the evening. The waltz rang so
clearly in his ears that he could have danced over the snow-covered
pavement, and the lights and mirrors of the ballroom shone so clearly
before his eyes, and enveloped the dancers with such reality that the
desert of the silent, faintly-lit Koniggratzer Strasse was alive as if
by ghosts. He recalled to his mind the whole evening, and in the
fullness of his heart exclaimed, "Wilhelm, I hope never to forget this
New Year's Eve." Wilhelm looked at him astonished. "I do not share in
your feelings. How can a glance at such vanity in thinking men give one
any feeling except that of pity?"
"I am not hurt at the hardness of your judgment, because you don't
understand what I am saying. You know very well I am not frivolous, and
that I have learned long ago the seriousness of life. But at the same
time I value the entree into the best society of Berlin for what it is
worth. Now the opportunity has come, and I shall make it useful."
"Paul, you grieve me. A tuft-hunter talks like that."
"What do you call a tuft-hunter?--if you mean a man who does not want
to hide his light under a bushel, I say yes, I am one, and I think that
is entirely honorable. I don't want to get on by means of any false
pretenses, but by honest work. What is the use of capability if no one
notices it? If I can inspire the right people with this conviction, I
am in luck. There is no injustice in that."
"I thought you had more pride."
"Dear Wilhelm, don't speak to me of pride. That is all right for you.
If my father had left me a house in the Kochstrasse, I would snap my
fingers at everyone, and go my own way, as it pleased me best. Or put
it the other way round, if you were the middle son in a Brandenburg
family of nine, I tell you that you would attribute a certain
importance to seeking the favor of influential people. You would become
as frivolous as I," added he after a little pause, in which he gave a
gentle clap on Wilhelm's shoulder.
"You ought not to throw my father's house in my teeth; you know how I
live."
Paul tried to interrupt him.
"Let me finish. A man of your capability can nowadays allow himself the
luxury of independence and manly self-reliance, even if he is one of
the nine children of a poor farmer; if one has few wants, one is rich
whatever one's fortune."
"That is all very well. I know your philosophy of abnegation, and it is
a matter of temperament. I am not in favor of starving myself when
there is a steaming dish before me. The world is full of good things,
and I have a taste for them; why should I not reach out my hand?"
"And so you would dance in the present for what it would win you in the
future."
"Why not? It is a very usual way to gain a usual end."
"And the modern society household is the result."
"What would become of a poor fellow without these merciful arrangements
for introductions to nice girls? Is one to advertise?"
"So you thought of this in the midst of your poetical soiree?"
"Certainly. You are provided for. Don't think ill of me if I follow
your example."
Wilhelm felt the blood flow to his cheeks. He perceived his friend's
evident meaning.
"Paul! A fortune-hunter!"
"You may talk. Luck flew to you without your lifting a finger to
attract it. Other people must help themselves. Fortune-hunter! That
name was invented by hysterical girls whose heads are turned by silly
novels. These absurd creatures wish in their childish vanity to be
married merely for their beautiful eyes. I should like to ask such a
girl whether she would marry a man merely for his beautiful eyes! I
have no patience with such nonsense. Suppose a poor man, who is capable
and clever, acknowledges in a straightforward way that he is trying to
win the hand of a rich woman. He need not upbraid himself about
anything, for he gives as much as he receives. What do people want from
the world? Happiness. That is the aim of my life, just as it is the aim
of the rich woman's. She has money, and for happiness she lacks love; I
have love, and for happiness I lack money. We make an equal exchange of
what we own. It is the most beautiful supplement to a dual
incompleteness."
"It is in this way then that you would offer what you call love to a
rich girl! A love cleverly conducted, carefully mapped out--a love
which one could control, and on no account offer to a poor girl."
"Rubbish! The love of every man who is in his right mind is carefully
planned. Would you be in love with a king's daughter? It is to be hoped
not. You could keep out of the way of the king's daughter. Why can I
not keep out of the way of the poor girl?"
"That means that the princess' rank is as much a hindrance to love as
the poverty of the work-girl."
"I swear to you, Wilhelm, that if I were as rich, or as independent as
you, I would not think of a dowry. But I am a poor devil. If I were so
unfortunate as to fall in love with a poor girl, I would try to get the
better of the feeling. I would say to myself, better endure a short
time of unhappiness and disappointment than that she and I should be
condemned through life to the keenest want, which, with prosaic
certainty, would smother love."
While Paul argued with such ardor and earnestness, he was thinking all
the time of Fraulein Malvine Marker, the pretty girl with whom he had
danced so often, and he fondled tenderly with his right hand the ribbon
and cotillion order hidden under his waistcoat. He did not notice that
Wilhelm's expression of face was painfully distorted, nor that his
words wounded him deeply. They had come to the Brandenburger Thor, and
were walking over the Pariser Platz. Under the lindens they were
surrounded at once by noise and bustle. The streets were full of rowdy
bands of men who sang and shouted all together, now pushing one another
in violent rudeness, now shouting "Health to the New Year," here
knocking off an angry Philistine's hat, there surrounding and embracing
some honest man who was wearily making his way homeward; insulting the
police by imitating their military ways, laying hold of their sticks,
talking pompously to the night-watchman, and otherwise playing the
fool. After the silence of the Koniggratzer Strasse, the drunken
turmoil of this noisy mob was doubly unpleasant, and the two friends
hastened to escape into the Schadowstrasse. At Wilhelm's doorstep they
took leave of each other; Paul went off humming a snatch of Offenbach
up the Friedrichstrasse to his home near the Weidendamme.
Wilhelm was tired, but much too excited to sleep. He lived over again
in thought the last few months, and, as often happened lately, he
lapsed into painful meditation on his relations to Loulou. After her
departure from Hornberg she had not written to him for eight days. Then
came a letter from Ostend, in which she called Wilhelm "Sie." She said
she was very sorry for this, that it would be painful if she called him
"Du" and he did not return it, but it would be safer not to do so, as
his answer would certainly be read by her mother, and perhaps by her
father also, and they would not wish them to say "Du" to each other.
Already this change of tone between them cut Wilhelm to the heart, but
almost more still the contents of Loulou's letter. She spoke a little
of the sea, whose breakers continually sounded in her soul, and her
thoughts, which accompanied them like an orchestra; she seldom
mentioned the delightful time in the mountains of the Black Forest,
which remembrance he carried always with him; but a great deal about
the Promenade, the concerts, the Casino balls, her own charming bathing
and society toilettes, and those of extravagant Parisians, who tried by
incredible mixtures of colors and style to outstrip each other. She
wrote particularly about her acquaintances with celebrated people, and
her personal following, and for the rest she hardly missed expressing
in any of her letters her regret that he was not with her, and enjoying
her varied life. Often in the letter there was a flower, or a piece of
wild thyme, which betrayed an undercurrent of feeling beneath the
shallowness of the words, and once she sent him her photograph with the
words "Loulou to her dearest Wilhelm." So he gathered from her
frivolous letters much that was unspoken, and through signs and
indications believed that her feeling for him was there and gained
strength. His answers were short and rather compressed. The knowledge
that they would be seen by her prosaic parents, and that Loulou herself
would hardly trouble to read anything in the midst of her whirl of
gayety, deprived him of words, stopped the flow of his feelings, and
turned his expressions into mere Philistinisms. But, on the other Land,
Loulou's mother was delighted to have another correspondent, and so she
wrote to him often. These perfumed letters from Ostend refreshed him by
the remembrance of the lovable face with the dimples, bringing back
again the whole charm of the Hornberg days.
At the end of September came the announcement that the Ellrichs had
left Ostend, and were going to pay a visit for a fortnight to friends
in England, and toward the middle of October a letter, bearing the
Berlin postmark, arrived in Loulou's handwriting. It said:
"DEAREST WILHEM: We came home to-day. I cannot sleep until I have
written to you. Come to see me quite soon. Will you not? How glad I am!
Are you glad too? A thousand greetings. LOULOU."
He would like to have gone directly to the Lennestrasse, but etiquette
stood between him and his fiancee, and showed him in its cold fashion
that they were now in the city and not in the forest, that nature had
nothing to do with them here, and had handed them over to the laws of
society. However, as soon as he dared venture, he went and rang at the
door-bell. This first visit was a combination of painful feelings for
Wilhelm, for while his heart beat, that now he was near the dearest one
on earth, he was conscious that here he was a stranger. A servant
dressed in black who opened the door did not seem to expect him, and
asked him whom he wanted. When Wilhelm asked for Frau Ellrich, he said
shortly that she was not at home. In spite of this Wilhelm took out his
card, and holding it out said, "Will you kindly announce me, as I am
expected." The man left him in an anteroom, and after a short pause
took him into the drawing-room. He soon returned, with a manner
entirely changed, and submissively asked Wilhelm to follow him to a
little blue boudoir, where Loulou received him with a joyful
exclamation, but the first greetings, owing to the servant's presence,
were exchanged without an embrace, and when they were alone Wilhelm
only found sufficient courage to kiss her hand.
It was quite different now from the old times at the Scloss hotel, and
in the woodland paths at Hornberg. Wilhelm had to keep to visiting
hours, and was seldom alone with Loulou. He took courage then to say
"Du," but it was forbidden before other people. To kiss her in those
drawing rooms with their betraying mirrors, and their portieres, and
carpets was hardly possible. He was frequently asked to lunch or
dinner, and he often went with Frau Ellrich and Loulou to the opera or
theater, but all these opportunities were not favorable for young
lovers. Loulou wore beautiful frocks, which made her much admired; the
people were formal, and tolerated nothing that was not ultra polite and
polished, in short, it was impossible to be true and natural as things
had been in the forest, where the birds and the happy little squirrels
served for playfellows.
Loulou was the first to have pity on Wilhelm's discomfort, and to find
means to give their intercourse in Berlin at least a little of the
beautiful unconstraint of the old times. Under the pretext that she
wished to improve herself in drawing, she obtained many precious hours
spent in the blue-room or in the winter garden, where their hands often
found opportunities to clasp, and their lips to seek each other's. On
the strength of Loulou's English education, which had made her
independent and self-reliant, and had freed her from any affectation of
shyness, she often walked with Wilhelm to parts of the town which she
did not know, or which she had only seen from the windows of a
carriage. On one of these voyages of discovery, as she called them, she
saw Paul for the first time. He met them in the Konigstrasse, as they
stood on the Konigsmauer, Loulou looking half-fearfully down the narrow
street. Paul looked very much astonished, and seemed as if he were not
going to notice the pair of lovers, but Wilhelm nodded and asked him to
join them. So he went home with them, and as soon as he was alone with
his friend he fell into rapturous admiration of the lovely girl, as
Wilhelm had predicted in his letter from Hornberg. One thing Paul could
not understand, and he said so: why had not Wilhelm formally asked for
Loulou's hand, why he was not properly engaged to her, and how could an
impulsive man bear such a constrained position, which would cease the
instant that he was Fraulein Ellrich's declared fiance?
Wilhelm had at first no explanation to give his friend, but he knew
very well that he delayed, and that he put off from day to day going to
Loulou's parents. His was a sensitive, dreamy nature, and much too
thoughtful to allow himself to act from passion. He was accustomed to
make his impulses subordinate to his reason, and to ask himself severe
questions as to the where, how, and why of things. He was not clear
himself as to the condition of things between him and Loulou. Did she
love him? There were many answers to that. She seemed pleased when she
saw him, and displeased if he appeared to forget her for a day. But
what he could not understand was that her head seemed as full as ever
of her usual acquaintances, and that she was capable of spending some
time in theaters, concerts, and society without looking for him. Full
too of talk of her frocks and neighbors, without wishing to interrupt
the empty gossip with a look or a kiss to let him know that she was
conscious of his presence, and in the middle of her idle talk to say
nevertheless that her heart was with him. On the other hand, she showed
the tenderest sympathy for him. She longed for a picture of his rooms
in the Dorotheenstrasse, where he lived and thought of her. She had
been to see his house in the Kochstrasse from the outside. She was
apparently proud of him, and repeated to him all the flattering remarks
which people made on his appearance and cleverness, with as much
satisfaction, as if she spoke of one of her own people. Still all this
was only on the surface, and he often had the impression that her
feeling for him was weakened at its foundation both by her cold
intelligence, and by her pleasure in worldly things.
And he? Did he love her as he should, before he had the right to bind
her to him for life? His earnestness and exalted morality looked upon
marriage as a rash adventure full of alarming secrets. Was it possible
that their two lives should be so blended together that they should
withstand every accident of fate? He meant to give himself entirely, to
keep nothing back, and to be true in body and soul. Was he sure that he
could keep the vow, and that no sinful wishes should come to break it?
Already he was thinking that he might not be always happy with her.
Certainly her beauty, her wit, the attraction of her fresh, healthy
youth charmed him, and when she spoke to him with her sweet voice, he
had to shut his eyes and hold himself together, not to fall at her feet
and bury his head in her dress. But he feared for himself, for his
honor, that a sensual attraction should hardly outlast possession. His
innermost being was painfully troubled. Never an elevated word from
her! Never a deep and serious thought! Often he reflected that the
faults of her upbringing were the inevitable results of her life in the
midst of idle people, and that it would be possible to deepen and widen
her mind and sensations. If he could only go with her to a desert
island, alone with the loneliness of nature, and could live between the
heavens and the sea! How soon then could he inspire her thoughts and
bring her to his own standpoint. Then the fear would take hold of him
that she could not do without theaters, frocks, soirees, and balls, and
under the recent impression of the New-Year's party he became
despondent, and said to himself, "No. The life of show and appearance
has too great a hold on her, and I shall never be able to give her what
she wants, and what seems necessary to her happiness." Paul's opinion,
which he gave on the way home, struck him sorrowfully. One of the
richest "parties" in Berlin! Would not people say he was marrying her
for her money? What people said was really nothing to him, and he
considered himself free to act as his innermost judgment counseled. But
might not Loulou herself believe that her father's money added
something to her attractions? He recognized that this feeling indicated
a weakness, a want of self-reliance, but the idea that she might be
capable of such a thought made him angry. Her money did not attract
him! On the contrary, it was an obstacle between them. Why was she not
a Moscow gypsy girl? Just as young, and pretty, and charming, but
uncultivated, and therefore ready for cultivation and capable of it;
poor as a beggar, and therefore free from pretensions, but without
knowledge of the world, and therefore without desire for it. How happy
they might both be then! Such thoughts ran riot in his brain, and he
fell asleep only when the late winter sun shone through the curtains on
his tired white face.
The winter went quickly by under amusements of all kinds. Loulou had
never known it so pleasant. The theater season was brilliant, the
weather for skating lasted longer than usual, and balls succeeded each
other in her father's and friends' houses in rapid succession. Wilhelm
only went once or twice, and then he firmly declined any more, to the
great astonishment of Frau Ellrich, and the vexation of Loulou, whose
pretty face always lit up with pleasure when she saw his dark eyes
watching her from the doorways or window recesses while she danced. He
said that the sight of social frivolity bored him, and she thought in
her naive way, "It is always like that. Men must have some fad." Paul
was just the other way. He accepted every invitation, and he had a
great many. He had always some new acquaintances to tell Wilhelm of,
and often spoke of Fraulein Malvine Marker, who appeared to be Loulou's
dearest friend, and no feeling of jealousy prevented him from repeating
to Wilhelm that the pretty girl had often inquired about him, always
regretting his absence from the Ellrichs' dances.
The beautiful time of the year drew near. Outside the gates of the
city, where open places were free to her, the spring triumphed in the
budding trees of the Thiergarten. Arrangement of plans for the summer
was the chief occupation with most people. The Ellrichs talked of
Switzerland, and Wilhelm thought timidly of the charms of the Black
Forest. He longed to be back at Hornberg, and he spoke often of being
there together in the near future. He did not mention marriage,
however, and his formal offer had not yet been made. Loulou thought
this very odd, and one day she spoke to her mother about it. Frau
Ellrich, however, caressed her pretty child, and kissing her on the
forehead said:
"It is nothing but modesty. I think it is very nice of him to leave you
in freedom for the whole season."
"I am not free, however."
"I mean before the world, dear child. You are both so young that it
would not matter if you did not take the cares of marriage upon you for
another year."
And to Loulou that was evident.