"So pass the bottle about, hurrah!
Gaily sing and shout, hurrah!
Jolly artillerymen are we!"
(_Artillery song._)
Sergeant Schumann looked once more round the two rooms and the kitchen;
no, nothing had been left behind. Only his overcoat and hat hung on the
window-bolt, and his stick stood in the corner.
The civilian clothes did not please him at all. Every other minute his
hand was up at his neck, feeling for a collar-band which seemed to be
much too loose, but which, in reality, was not there at all.
His wife came in, busy as ever, in her hat and cloak, a little
leather bag and an umbrella in her hand. She was to start at noon for
the little mountain railway-station, where she would get the house
ready for the furniture, which should arrive during the day. The
sergeant-major, or rather the station-master's assistant, had some
money matters to settle in the garrison town, and would not follow her
until the next morning.
Frau Schumann was quite out of breath. Those stupid gunners had been so
disagreeable when she wished to have her flowers put in the furniture
van. She began excitedly: "Thank God, Schumann, the van is ready. Here
are the keys. It's quite time for me to go to the station, isn't it?"
Schumann looked at his watch and growled: "Certainly, quite!"
"Then I'll be off," said the little woman.
But she remained standing in the middle of the room, seemingly unable
to tear herself away.
"Dear, dear!" she said, "for years I have wished to leave this place,
and now that we are really going I feel quite sad; don't you,
Schumann?"
The sergeant-major muttered something unintelligible. If it had
depended on him the house would not now have been empty and the
furniture-van before the door. It was his wife who had worried him into
it, and yet now probably she would begin to snivel.
Indeed, she had just taken her handkerchief out of her pocket and
raised it to her eyes, when suddenly her face changed: "Good gracious!
our bean-poles are still in the garden! I'm not going to leave them
behind. Fancy it's only occurring to me now!"
She was hurrying out. But the sergeant-major got in the way and held up
his watch in her face.
"Look here!" he said. "If you don't stir your stumps you'll miss your
train."
She was alarmed: "Good heavens, yes, of course! I'm going. Good bye,
Schumann! Look after everything, and--and--good bye."
Standing on tiptoe she reached up for a kiss from her husband and was
quickly out of the door.
Schumann drew a long breath. She was his dear wife, but now that he had
to say farewell to the battery he preferred to be alone, without her.
He stood still in the doorway.
A driver had just brought two horses out of the stable and was
harnessing them to the furniture van.
Schumann had not taken much to do with the horses of late years; he
knew that they were thoroughly well cared for under Heppner's
superintendence, and the deputy sergeant-major was rather apt to resent
any interference with his department. But he would have failed in his
duty if he had not, in spite of this, kept himself informed of all that
concerned the horses; if, in fact, he had not been individually
acquainted with each one of them.
Sergeant Schumann went down the steps. He must begin his
leave-taking--so he would first say good-bye to the horses.
Slowly he passed between the stalls. At that moment the strong smell of
the stable seemed to him more delicious than the most fragrant scent,
more delicious than the resinous forest breeze which blew through the
valley where the little station of the mountain railway lay surrounded
by pine woods.
There stood the beautiful creatures side by side in splendid condition
and with coats like satin. Nearly all of them were dark bay, and
according to temperament they stood stolidly staring before them, or
pawed impatiently at the straw, or playfully bit and teased each other.
Only four stalls were empty. "Sybille" and "Achat" were drawing his
belongings to the station. Another pair had been borrowed by Major
Schrader, who had been invited to a hunting party on a neighbouring
estate.
Last he came to his own riding-horse in the loose box, a pretty
creature with four white fetlocks, who was rather nervous, and
unusually tender-mouthed. Baldwin shrank from the man in the dark brown
suit, and it was only when the sergeant-major spoke that the animal
recognised him. Even then he was shy, and sugar and bread failed to re
assure him. Schumann called him by his pet name, rubbing his cheek
against the velvet nostrils, and then only did the horse become quiet.
The sergeant-major could have shed tears. But he wanted to make an end
of it, and clear out from these barracks, where he no longer had his
place. Lingeringly he quitted the stable, and going out on to the
parade-ground, stood once more before the battery's memorial tablet.
The sixth was one of the oldest batteries; there were therefore a
goodly number of skirmishes and battles engraved upon the tablet. Sedan
was the most disastrous and at the same time the most glorious day--the
day on which the battery had fired nearly eight hundred shots, so that
by evening the gunners had become so deaf that they could hardly
understand the orders which were shrieked into their ears.
Oh yes, it had been an honour to belong to the battery, and it was only
right that in times of peace also the sixth should always have been an
example for others.
"To commemorate the fallen; to inspire the living!" he read softly.
He nodded in earnest assent; then turned round suddenly and re
entered his house.
He put on his overcoat hastily, and seized his hat and stick. Then he
locked up, and knocked at the deputy sergeant-major's door, in order to
give up the keys.
Frau Heppner was alone.
"Are you just going, Herr Schumann?" she asked softly.
The sergeant-major nodded, and said: "I am putting the keys here, in
front of the looking-glass."
Then he went up to the sofa on which the invalid was lying and took her
hand. "Good-bye, Frau Heppner."
"Good-bye," answered the woman; and whispering softly she added: "And
as we shall not meet again, I must thank both you and your wife."
"But what for?"
The invalid was silent for a moment, then she replied: "Well, when
one's own house has always been a perfect hell, one learns to
appreciate the peace and quiet of others. At least, it helps one to see
there is something better than one's own lot."
The sergeant was silent. What could he say to the unhappy woman?
"So, good-bye, Herr Schumann!" she went on. "I sincerely wish you
well!"
Schumann breathed more freely as the door closed behind him. He felt
deeply for the poor woman, and was relieved to have got over the
parting from her.
With the giving up of the key the last cord was loosened which had
bound him to the battery and to the military life as a whole.
Everything else had already been done.
The evening before there had been a small _fête_, to which the captain
and the two subalterns had invited him and all the non-commissioned
officers of the battery. Then in the morning, in the presence of the
officers, including the colonel, and before all the men of the
regiment, the good-service cross, which the king had granted him, had
been handed him by the commanding officer; he had also received
permission to wear his old uniform at any patriotic festivities.
The colonel had spoken of him warmly as a pattern soldier, and had
concluded with a cheer for the emperor and the king. Then the
sergeant-major had requested that he, on his side, might be allowed to
say a few words; and with a voice which failed many times he led a
cheer for the beloved regiment, and especially for the splendid sixth
battery. Afterwards handsome presents were given him: from Wegstetten
and the two lieutenants a beautiful gold watch; from Major Schrader a
heavy gold chain for it; from the non-commissioned officers an album
with views of the town and the barracks, and with photographic groups
of officers, non-commissioned officers, men, and horses. Finally, the
commanding officer presented to him that service sabre which he had
worn for ten long years, to be now his own private property.
He had only been able to thank them by a silent grasp of the hand, for
fear that if he spoke he would begin to cry like a girl. Afterwards he
had also said farewell to all the men. So now he was ready and could
go.
It was about half an hour before the time for the afternoon drill. As
Schumann entered the parade-ground he heard a voice shout from the
steps: "The sergeant-major is going!" And in a moment all came running
towards him, the drivers and gunners, old stagers and raw recruits, the
entire battery crowding round to shake hands with him once more.
Again the sergeant-major had to clench his teeth; he passed silently
along, shaking the hands that were stretched out to him.
Suddenly he stopped in astonishment, thinking he must be mistaken. But
no, Wolf was there too--Wolf, the social-democrat, whose whole
existence as a soldier was a cynical mask, the revolutionist who was
only waiting for the moment when, free from the green uniform, he might
preach his faith again! And he, Schumann, had never been at any pains
to conceal what he thought of such disgraceful opinions.
Wolf had not exactly run up, but had come with the rake over his
shoulder with which he had been raking the riding-ground, and was at
any rate associating himself with the others.
"What, you too, Wolf?" Schumann involuntarily exclaimed.
"Yes, sir," answered the soldier. "You never were hard on any-one. You
were always just."
Schumann was just a little bit shamefaced at this obviously sincere
praise. Generally speaking, he had honestly tried to deserve it; but
with regard to this social-democrat, he knew quite well he had many
times been lacking in justice. He remembered how often, when Wolf's
turn came, he had ordered him to perform some specially unpleasant
work.
Embarrassed and hesitating, he replied: "Well, well, and you have
always been a good soldier yourself, at any rate in externals. Only
that you--well, there was no getting at you there!"
It was a good thing that after Wolf others came up to grasp his hand in
farewell; or else, notwithstanding order, watch, and sabre, he would
have left the barracks with a bad conscience.
The last, who kept on moving further down in order to be the very last
to say good bye, was Niederlein, a smart little gunner, who had
polished his accoutrements for him during the last year.
The sergeant-major pressed his hand with special heartiness, and
breathed freely: Thank God, Niederlein made up for Wolf! Once when ill,
and left alone in the dormitory, Niederlein had broken open a locker
and appropriated a piece of sausage therefrom. Schumann had caught him
red-handed. Thieving from a comrade was a serious offence, entailing
severe punishment and public disgrace; but Schumann knew Niederlein was
only thoughtless and greedy, and it had been more a stupid prank than a
crime, for the money which lay near the sausage was untouched. So he
had held the boy across the table and given him five-and-twenty strokes
with his leather belt. He was not quite clear in his mind whether this
had been entirely in order--it might have been technically an assault;
at any rate it turned out right. Niederlein was now about the best
soldier in the whole battery, and would have, gone through fire and
water for the sergeant-major.
The lad watched awhile how Schumann went slowly out through the back
gateway and disappeared into the little wood. Then he hurried off to
his quarters, for the battery was collecting for foot-drill.
Schumann had purposely chosen to go to the town by the lonely way
through the wood, because if he had gone by the high road he would have
met the battery officers again. That would have meant another delay;
and then besides he felt he belonged far more to the men than to the
officers, despite his double stripes.
He paused on the hill and gazed at the well-known landscape beneath
him, where in the foreground lay the great drill-ground at his feet.
With his sharp eyes he could even recognise individual men. The fourth
battery had just brought its six guns up to the gate; the fifth had not
stirred as yet--Captain Mohr was not fond of duty so soon after dinner;
and now his own battery, the sixth, arrived on the ground to perform
foot-drill. The ornaments on the helmets shimmered in the sun, and he
almost fancied he could hear the even tread. Wegstetten and the two
lieutenants were behind.
The drill began, and the breaking up into files, the deployment, and
finally the parade-march, first in file and then in battery column--all
went splendidly. It was a joy to look down upon the smart, well-ordered
straight lines as they moved. Instead of himself, Heppner marched in
the sergeant-major's place, and Keyser, as the senior non-commissioned
officer present, led the file of drivers instead of the deputy
sergeant-major.
All was thoroughly well done, there was not a hitch anywhere.
And he, Schumann, had believed that he was indispensable, he had
thought things could not go on without him!
At supper Julie Heppner said to her husband: "Otto, the money you give
us for housekeeping isn't enough. Ida couldn't pay the milkman to-day."
"No affair of mine," replied the deputy sergeant-major, with his mouth
full. "You must manage things better."
When he had finished eating he put his coat on, buckled on his sabre
and put on his forage cap.
His wife watched him from the sofa with angry eyes as he brushed his
heavy beard and put on his gloves.
Heppner looked her straight in the face, laughed scornfully and said:
"Yes, you are thinking again: 'Now he is going to the public-house and
will spend all the bit of money!' Well, as it happens, it's not so this
time. But you had better believe it all the same, and make yourself
really angry."
This perpetual lack of money was, however, no joke to the sister-in-law
either, as she was always having to put off and conciliate the
creditors, and she joined in angrily: "It's the truth! You squander the
money and we have to manage as best we can."
Heppner went round behind her and mockingly retorted: "So you're
beginning to scold like your dear sister? It seems to be catching. But
I'll tell you how it is: there was a good lot of the farewell beer left
over yesterday, and I saved it up for myself. Now, who's right?"
He tapped his sister-in-law's round shoulder playfully, and added: "Who
knows? Perhaps to-morrow I may give you quite a lot of money."
With that he left the house.
He was in a good temper. It had long been a grievance to him that
Schumann--grumbling old plodder!--instead of packing up his few sticks
and being drafted into the civil service, should have remained so long
stuck fast to the battery, thus preventing his own promotion. Now at
last the old man had disappeared, and he was certain of becoming
sergeant-major.
To-day was a lucky day for him, he felt sure; and this must be taken
advantage of: a little game must be arranged for the evening.
Therefore, he had taken care only to invite men on whom he could
rely to this second instalment of the farewell drinking party: the
sergeant-major of the fifth battery, who imitated his chief in
drinking, and Trumpeter Henke of his own, the sixth battery, two
seasoned gamblers. The two other members of the party were to be the
landlord of the White Horse, and the fat baker, Kühn, who held the
contract for the white bread supplied to the regiment. To the baker in
particular he had allotted the _rôle_ of loser, as he had the most
money.
At the gate it suddenly occurred to Heppner that it would be much
pleasanter to walk the half-mile to the town in company, and he decided
to fetch the trumpeter.
Sergeant Henke was a lively young fellow, with a fresh, rosy face, a
flowing black beard and curly hair, rather beyond the regulation
length. He was of a handsome soldierly appearance, and contrasted well
with his wife, Lisbeth, a beautiful blonde, who with her slender figure
always looked like a young girl.
This fair woman was blindly in love with her husband. She almost
worshipped him, but he did not trouble himself much about her. He
regarded himself as a great artist, because in the choir concerts he
played the cornet solos, and always received much applause from the
female part of the audience, and he considered that his marriage alone
had prevented him from becoming a "celebrity." Once he had received a
passionate love letter, signed by "a lady of high degree, who deplored
with tears of blood" the dividing difference of rank between them. It
was transparently the coarse work of a practical joker; but Henke in
his conceit believed in the high-born heiress, and this dream quite
turned his head. He ever afterwards posed as a fine gentleman, ogled
all the elegant women of the town, and had hardly a glance left for his
wife. She worked and pinched for him in order that he might be able to
enjoy his aristocratic tastes, and thought herself happy because he
bore with her. And he was always urging her to work and earn money, as
he longed to become rich and be the equal of really fashionable people.
Gambling was to help him to this; besides, in itself it gave him
intense pleasure.
He was ready dressed to go out, and was only lingering before the
looking-glass, when he heard outside the signal-whistle with which
Heppner, his boon-companion, was accustomed to call him. He soon joined
the deputy sergeant-major in the street, and after a brief greeting the
two walked rapidly towards the town.
A few steps from the White Horse the trumpeter suddenly stopped, felt
in his pocket, and exclaimed, "Damnation! I've left my money behind at
home!"
"Never mind!" said Heppner, in his genial mood. "You shall eat and
drink free to-day, and I'll lend you a thaler into the bargain. There,
catch hold!"
He gave him the piece of money before they reached the door, and the
trumpeter rejoiced: borrowed money brought luck.
The landlord of the Horse had laid the table neatly in the little
parlour. The leavings of the previous evening had been freshly dished
up, and the barrel, which must still contain nearly forty litres of
beer, had been cooled with ice.
But only one of the five banqueters was in the vein--Blechschmidt,
sergeant-major of the fifth battery. He was still eating and drinking
when the four others were already sitting at the half-cleared table
playing cards.
"Something moderate to begin with!" the master baker Kühn had
suggested; so each one put down three marks.
It was a long time before the last fifty-pfennig piece was played out
of the pool; but Heppner triumphed. He had been right in his
premonition; when he counted his money he had won nearly two marks.
After this exertion the players took a little refreshment, and while
eating talked the game over.
Heppner swallowed his bread and meat eagerly, and the last plate had
hardly been cleared before he began, his eyes twinkling craftily, "And
what next, gentlemen?"
The master baker laughed pleasantly and replied, "Well, as we've been
lying low, we may afford to let ourselves go a bit now."
Thereupon the landlord bolted the door and saw that the shutters were
firmly closed. They drew closer together, and even Blechschmidt came
nearer.
The players bent over the table, their eyes followed the dealing of the
cards with eagerness, their faces glowed. They lighted their fresh
cigars on the stumps of the old ones, and when their throats became
parched from excitement, they gulped down rapid draughts of the beer,
which was gradually becoming flat and muddy as it flowed from the tap
into the glasses.
They had lost all thought of time.
Suddenly Blechschmidt, the tireless toper, grumbled, "No, I shan't play
with you any more. Beer's best."
The landlord looked at the clock. "It is nearly five," he said.
None of them could believe it; they thought they had not been playing
above an hour at most.
But late or early they must finish the game, and they all heaved deep
breaths as the last round ended. While playing they had been quite
unconscious of the terrible fatigue, which, now that they had stopped,
utterly overpowered them.
Now they had to calculate the gains and losses of the night. The
trumpeter got through quickest. He tossed Heppner the borrowed thaler,
and laughed contentedly to himself. He had every reason to be cheerful,
he, who had not brought a single red pfennig with him, and who now had
more than a hundred marks--chiefly in silver, but with a few gold
pieces also--clinking in his pocket!
The other four had all lost. The deputy sergeant-major was quite thirty
marks poorer. He glanced darkly at the small sum which still lay before
him. How stupid he had been! He had thrown away his luck with the
thaler which he had lent Henke, that was quite certain. Now, instead of
himself, this fop had hauled in the fat baker's money. That was the
reward of his good nature!
Then suddenly Henke had an idea.
"Gentlemen!" he began, "I see that I have had tremendous luck. I must
really give some of it away."
He dug the sleepy landlord in the ribs, and shouted in his ear, "Now
then, Anton! I want two bottles of champagne."
The landlord was quite alert in a moment. He stood to win by this sort
of play.
"Bring the most expensive!" trumpeted the trumpeter. "Eleven marks the
bottle, Henke!"
"No matter! What our officers can do I can do also. Bring it along!"
Mine host hurried down into his cellar and fetched two bottles of
Pommery from the furthermost corner, a good dry brand with which
horse-dealers sometimes christened a concluded bargain.
There was no more ice to be had; so he opened the bottle as it came out
of the cellar. The cork sprang to the ceiling with a loud pop, and the
wine poured from the neck like a fountain.
The two sergeants had given the word of command, "Fire!" as the cork
flew out, and the trumpeter had blown a fanfare. All five buried their
noses in their glasses and let them be tickled by the rising bubbles.
Then they drank off the wine, which was far too warm, and could not
praise it enough.
The trumpeter, who was always imitating the officers, considered
himself a judge of wine. He smelt the champagne, let it lie on his
tongue, while at the same time his face took on an enraptured
expression, and he shouted enthusiastically, "Gentlemen, gentlemen! in
this bouquet one recognises the true French brand. It is utterly
different from German champagne!"
The others imitated his action and were in complete agreement with him.
Only Kühn remarked discontentedly, "The hog-wash tastes like bitter
almonds!"
At which the landlord took offence. "Don't you know then, baker," he
snarled, "that that is just the way to know genuine French champagne?"
And he looked lovingly at the two corks which he had placed carefully
in a corner.
When Captain von Wegstetten entered the orderly-room on the morning of
April 1st, he at once said to the deputy sergeant-major, "What is the
matter with you? You look quite green."
Heppner answered, "Excuse me, sir, my wife has had a very bad night."
"Indeed!" drawled Wegstetten. "I am sorry to hear it."
But to himself he thought: "If that is at all true, the man must have
been consoling himself with whisky; one can smell it five paces away
from him."
However, the captain offered to let him dispense with riding; but
Heppner objected, and begged to be allowed to take part in the drill.
He felt that would help him to shake off his unpleasant sensations; an
hour's ride and he would be fresh again. A fine thing if a night's
dissipation could really upset a man like himself!
His commanding officer was pleased at such enthusiasm; and as during
the drill the deputy sergeant-major managed his horse--the most
troublesome of all the remounts--exceedingly well, he remarked to him,
"Heppner, I think I shall be able to bring you some good news at noon."
Afterwards it occurred to him that he had intended to raise objections
to the colonel with regard to Heppner's elevation to the rank of
sergeant-major, but now that he had committed himself to the man this
was no longer possible.
He did just mention his doubts in the colloquy with Falkenhein, but he
made no impression, and in the end the colonel himself covered the
retreat.
"What do you expect, my dear Wegstetten?" he said. "I ask you, just
take all your non-commissioned officers. Who is there you cannot accuse
of gambling? It is a fatal characteristic of these mongrels that they
will copy the officers, and unfortunately only in what is stupid or
bad. The fine gentlemen all play, drink, fool with women, gamble; it's
only a question of the one a little more, the other a little less."
Wegstetten objected modestly. "Pardon me, sir, not all. My old
sergeant-major----"
He got no further. Falkenhein interrupted quickly: "You mean Schumann?
Yes; there you are quite correct. But then he was the last of another
generation, one of the old type--steady, quiet, discreet, honest, and
trustworthy to the last fibre. But they are dying out, my dear
Wegstetten. Such perfect specimens of non-commissioned officers, that
used to be the rule, are now more and more the exception. I ask you for
the truth: since you entered the army, have our non-coms. become
better, or--well, less good? What do you say?"
"Less good, sir, unfortunately," replied the captain.
"Yes, unfortunately. Exactly my opinion."
The colonel rummaged among the papers lying on his desk, and selected
two.
"Now, my dear Wegstetten," he said, "here are the appointments. I can't
settle such details. That is not my business. I put it to you,
therefore; will you try with Heppner?"
"As you wish, sir."
"Good; I think you are right."
Falkenhein signed the document and gave it to the captain.
"There! now he is sergeant-major!" he said, and continued: "What I most
regret is, that you should partially lose him in the active work. That
was his real field. But a younger man cannot be promoted over his
head."
He took the second document and handed it to Wegstetten. "And here, at
the same time, is the other promotion. I have followed your advice.
Sergeant Heimert is to-day appointed deputy sergeant-major and relieved
of his present duty. He will report himself to you to-morrow.
"Thank you, sir," replied the captain.
Wegstetten stuck the documents into his sleeve and took leave. The
colonel accompanied him to the door and shook hands with him very
cordially.
The captain reflected, however, as he went down the steps, that every
one must have at least one fault. He, like the whole contingent, was of
opinion that Falkenhein was one of the finest officers in the army,
certain to become a major-general, if not a full general. And with an
artilleryman this was of double significance. But why, because a man
had had the good fortune to work under the sainted Moltke on the
general staff, he should, therefore, always describe anything that had
occurred since that time as "less good,"--that he could never
understand.
That evening after roll-call Heppner read out his own promotion to the
rank of sergeant-major, and that of Sergeant Heimert to the post of
deputy sergeant-major.
Everybody was surprised. Heimert? Who was Heimert? No one could say.
Ah! It went on: "Deputy sergeant-major Heimert will therefore be
relieved from his management of the forage department of the infantry
and artillery ammunition columns and will return to his battery."
So it really was that fellow with the gigantic nose, who was always
slouching about the coach-houses and baggage sheds!
Heppner returned to the orderly-room and sat down at his table, on
which lay a mass of unfinished writing. Now the wakeful night was
making itself felt. The sergeant yawned and took up his work
unwillingly. Evidently the post of sergeant-major had some drawbacks!
To be kept shut up in this room! It was not pleasant to retire from
drill, riding remounts, giving riding-lessons, and leading a line in
driving exercises--all that had been so much after his own heart. And
this eternal scribbling would be altogether against the grain.
If only he had a clever clerk, like Blechschmidt of the fifth battery,
who did not over-exert himself! But Käppchen was a lazy fellow; and yet
on Käppchen he must rely, asking his advice about all kinds of things,
because he himself did not know the routine yet.
It was very late before he locked his desk and went home.
His sister-in-law greeted him with news which did not improve his
temper. "The tailor has been here," she said, "and wanted the money for
your uniform, which you have owed for a month. He will come again
to-morrow."
Heppner grumbled: "The fellow must wait!" He had no more money. It had
nearly all vanished yesterday, and to-day he had been obliged to give
the greater part of what remained to the women for housekeeping.
With a surly face he sat down to his supper.
"Have you been made sergeant-major?" his wife asked.
He saw his sister-in-law's eyes too fixed on him questioningly. He
muttered, "Yes," to her, and then turned roughly on his wife: "What
business is it of yours?"
She lay back, and answered gently: "I am so glad." "Really?" he
sneered. He cast a sharp glance at her and snarled between his teeth:
"Don't gush!"
Then he pushed his plate away, tossed off two glasses of beer, and lay
down to rest in the bedroom.
The two sisters remained together, the invalid stretched on the sofa,
the other sewing near the lamp. They heard Heppner snoring.
His wife's face was in shadow, but her eyes blazed at her sister
and rested with an uncanny expression of hatred on the strong,
well-developed beauty of the young girl.
There was a knock at the door. The battery tailor had brought the
sergeant-major's tunic, on the sleeve of which he had stitched the
double stripes. Ida took it from him and hung it up silently.
The invalid watched her indifferently. A short time before she had been
mildly excited with joy at her husband's promotion; he had quite spoilt
this feeling for her. Now she was callous to everything.
Suddenly she pressed her lips together and clenched her hands
feverishly.
Had not her sister just handled his tunic lingeringly with a kind of
furtive tenderness?
Had the scandal already gone so far?
Julie Heppner believed that she would die betrayed and forsaken by all;
but during her last days she gained a sympathetic friend in the newly
appointed deputy sergeant-major Heimert.
Heimert had taken possession of the Schumanns' empty house. True that
at the time he was still single; but as his marriage was to take place
in a few weeks, the captain had at once allotted married quarters to
him. Now the deputy sergeant-major was furnishing the rooms and decking
the bare walls and windows with touching care. He would arrange and
rearrange the furniture, and would drape a curtain a thousand different
ways, and yet nothing was ever beautiful enough for him.
On holidays he was seldom able to visit his sweetheart, Albina Worzuba.
At other times he devoted every spare hour to her; but she was the
barmaid of a small tavern in the town, and had no time to spare for him
on holidays. Besides, Heimert did not like watching how the guests
would go up to the counter for glasses of beer, and joke with Albina,
or even dare to pinch her cheeks. He had on several occasions made
scenes about this till the landlord had almost forbidden him the place.
Albina herself, too, advised him to come as seldom as possible. She
considered that as long as she was a barmaid she must be friendly, and
not too sensitive to the chaff of the guests; and if it pained him to
see this, it was better that he should remain away. And with an ardent
glance she added that when she was his wife he would have her all to
himself. Heimert had constrained himself to agree to this.
On one of these Sundays it befell that Heimert was startled from his
carpentering by the sound of a groan. He went outside and listened; the
moaning sounds came from Heppner's quarters. He burst the door open and
entered.
The sick woman had been left alone. Her sister had gone for a walk, and
the sergeant-major was doubtless at a public-house. Such neglect of her
had often occurred before; but this time she had suddenly been seized
by an attack of pain so severe that she thought she was dying.
To die alone! With no one even to hold her hand; without a ray of light
from a living eye to brighten the dark porch of death!
Between the attacks of pain she called feverishly and breathlessly for
her husband: "Otto! Otto! Otto!!"
Heimert ran to her anxiously. He gave her his hand, which she seized
and held convulsively, spoke to her soothingly, and wiped the drops of
sweat from her brow with his handkerchief.
He quietly gave her time to recover from her exhaustion, then said to
her gently: "Frau Heppner, would you like me to send to find your own
people?"
She shook her head energetically: "No, no!" and whispered wearily: "But
if you would only stay just a little while, Herr Heimert!"
The sergeant nodded, and remained sitting silently beside her.
It was some time before Julie Heppner had the strength to explain to
him what had happened to her. While so doing she looked at him more
attentively, and was almost frightened by his ugliness. The coarse face
with the outstanding ears was made half grotesque, half repellent, by
an enormous nose, which was always red. What did it matter that two
beautiful, kindly child-like eyes shone from this countenance? Would
any one trouble to look for them in the midst of such hideousness?
The invalid remembered she had heard that Heimert was going to be
married. In the light of her own unhappiness she thought to herself
that this marriage could only turn out well if the man had chosen a
woman as ugly as himself, so that in their common misfortune the pair
could comfort each other.
As she gradually became able to talk to him she inquired about his
bride, and the enamoured swain raved to her unceasingly of Albina's
beauty and charm.
Heimert now appeared to her as a fellow-sufferer; only she was about to
lay down the heavy burden, and he was but just going to take the load
upon his back.
The two talked together as if they had known each other for years; they
were nearly always of the same opinion. Finally, the invalid invited
the deputy sergeant-major to come over often when she was alone; she
would always give him a sign, and he could bring his carpenter's bench
with him, the hammering would not disturb her in the least.
After this, Heimert always appeared directly Julie Heppner called him.
He gained distraction from his jealous fits in this way, and he thought
the sergeant-major's wife a really good woman, who had been unfortunate
enough to marry the wrong man, when with another she would perhaps have
been happy. The brutality with which Heppner treated the dying woman
was revolting to him, and his sympathy with the injured wife gradually
inspired him with a positive hatred for the sergeant-major.
The sergeant-major laughed at Heimert. "The Prince with the Nose" he
called him, and sneered at his wife about this "lover."
"You two would have suited each other well!" he jeered. "You would have
nothing to reproach each other with in the way of beauty!"
One day in passing he looked into the neighbouring quarters, and found
the deputy sergeant-major gazing at a cabinet photograph of his
betrothed. Heimert, startled, tried quickly to hide the portrait; but
Heppner begged to see it.
He had expected to see a girl,--well, something like his wife, or
perhaps uglier, for surely it would be impossible for any one else to
fall in love with Heimert; but as he took the picture in his hand an
involuntary expression of surprise escaped him: "By Jove! Isn't she
beautiful!"
From that moment he was always asking Heimert to take him with him to
see his sweetheart.
"Why?" Heimert asked suspiciously. "Do you want to cut me out with
her?"
Heppner laughed at him. "The devil!" he said. "I have two women in the
house myself, and that's more than enough. Surely one may make the
acquaintance of a comrade's sweetheart?"
"And," he added craftily, "have you so little confidence in her, then?"
Heimert burst out: "Oh, that's not the reason!"
"Well then," said the other, "you know you won't be able to lock her up
and hide her when she is your wife. Where's the harm in my just saying
good-day to her?"
The deputy sergeant-major was forced to agree that there was really
nothing against it. Moreover he was rather proud of having won such a
beautiful girl; he enjoyed seeing the sergeant-major's envious eyes;
and finally he said he would take him to Grundmann's the following
Monday. Grundmann was the name of the landlord of the tavern in which
Albina was barmaid; and as on Monday business there was at its
slackest, they might hope to exchange a few quiet words with the
girl.
On the Monday evening appointed he met Heppner on the parade-ground.
Heimert had made himself as smart as possible. He had put on his new
extra uniform, which he had meant to keep for his wedding, and had
forced his big hands into shiny white kid gloves. The collar of his
tunic was very high, and so tight that he could hardly turn his head.
Heppner, on the other hand, had only put on his best undress uniform.
He was in a very good temper and very talkative, whereas Heimert walked
beside him depressed and silent.
They arrived at Grundmann's very opportunely. They were the only
guests, and the landlord had no objection to Albina's sitting at their
table with them.
Heppner chose a place from which he could gaze undisturbed at the
girl's profile. She pleased him. She was just to his taste, this
full-bosomed girl with salient hips and rounded arms. In his opinion
her face was more than pretty; her eager, passionate eyes, and her
mouth with the full, rather pouting lips, on which one longed to plant
a big kiss, seemed to him quite beautiful. She wore her dark hair,
which was as coarse as a horse's tail, dressed in a new-fashioned way
which gave her a certain "individuality"; and, above all, she had some
scent about her of a kind that was only used by the most distinguished
ladies.
Heppner was annoyed that she noticed him so little. She was quite taken
up with her betrothed, who was telling her of the progress made in the
preparation of the house, and she only gave Heppner a glance at rare
intervals.
At first she did not talk much; but when, in order to say something, he
asked her where her home was, she immediately began to relate her whole
history.
She came from Prague, and was the daughter of a shoe-maker--or, rather,
of a boot and shoe manufacturer--and, moreover, not of an ordinary boot
and shoe manufacturer, but of a Court boot and shoe manufacturer by
Royal and Imperial appointment, who did not work for just any one, but
only for the Archdukes and for the high Bohemian nobility. And she,
Albina, had always to write down the figures when her father was taking
measures, and so it had come about that a Count Colloredo had fallen in
love with her. He had wished to educate and marry her; but she had at
last refused because the noble relations of her beloved had threatened
to disinherit him if he married the "shoemaker's daughter." She could
never have endured causing him to discard his beautiful Thurn and Taxis
dragoon's uniform.
Now came a pause in Albina's narrative, which however did not last
long. Next, she had fled from her father's house. Why? She kept that a
secret. And finally, after many vicissitudes she had found a refuge
here, where she was safe from her father. For he had wished later to
marry her to a master chimney-sweep, and although the latter was a
millionaire she would have none of him.
In reality she was the child of a miserably poor cobbler; and after a
stormy youth she had brought her somewhat damaged little ship of life
to anchor in the small garrison town at the bar of Grundmann's
alehouse.
Heimert waited impatiently for the conclusion of her romance, which he
had heard many times before. But if Albina had a chance of telling the
story of her life, she became like a freshly wound-up clock, which
ticks on inexorably until it runs down.
She simply left unanswered the questions her lover interposed now and
then; and when he interrupted her to say that Count Colloredo had been
in the Palatine hussars, and not in the Thurn and Taxis dragoons, she
said crossly that he had better pay more attention the next time she
told him anything. Heppner, on the contrary, who appeared to listen
with interest, rose in her favour, and in answer to his questions she
launched still further into detail.
And now she looked at him more closely, and took his measure with those
bright eyes of hers. But having brought her story up to the present
date, she turned once more to Heimert, regarded him tenderly, and said,
"Shall I not be happy with him, after having had such hard times in the
past?"
A few newly-arrived guests now called her to her duties at the bar, and
the two non-commissioned officers remained behind alone at the table.
Heimert felt the sergeant-major looking at him, as he thought, with a
sneering, incredulous sort of expression. He was embarrassed, and began
describing figures on the table with a little beer that had been spilt.
"Well, well," he began at last, "women are always like that. She draws
the long bow, of course--as to her origin and so forth."
"Yes," answered Heppner; "girls love doing that."
"But," Heimert continued, "there is some truth in it. Her father is a
shoemaker--was, at least, for he is dead now--even if he wasn't a Court
shoemaker. And he must have been wealthy. He only left her what he was
obliged to, and yet she receives fifty crowns interest monthly. I know
that for certain."
"By Jove! that is over forty marks. You certainly are a lucky dog! Why,
she's almost rich."
"Well, not quite that. But it is very pleasant, naturally. However, I
didn't choose her for that reason. I first heard of it quite
indirectly, long after I had proposed."
Heppner was almost overcome with envy as he saw sitting opposite
to him this picture of hideousness, this perfect monster, who had
succeeded--how, Heaven alone knew!--in winning a beautiful and also a
rich woman. For he was obliged to believe that about her income. It was
plain that Heimert was not lying.
As a matter of fact the barmaid did receive fifty crowns every month.
The money, however, did not come as interest on capital inherited from
her father, but was an annuity which a former lover had settled on her:
a good-natured, fat tallow-chandler, who had been with great regret
obliged to give the youthful Albina Worzuba the go-by, as his wife had
caught him tripping. He had sweetened the farewell for Albina with this
annuity.
Albina was careful not to reveal this to her future husband. Why should
she? She argued that ignorance was bliss, and beyond everything she was
weary of the unsettled life she had been leading, now as waitress, now
as barmaid, or as something quite different, and she wanted to find
rest in an honest marriage. She could attract most men as lovers, but
as a husband she could only hope for one who was as simple and as much
in love as Heimert. So she had fastened upon him, and she had no
intention of endangering her plans by any unpleasant communications.
Prague was a long way off; and, moreover, many years had passed since
those days, and the money itself could tell no tales as to its source.
Apparently the barmaid would have no more free moments. So at last the
two non-commissioned officers rose, paid their bill, and then went up
to the bar to say good-night to her.
Now it was that Albina first noticed the full difference between her
future husband and the sergeant-major. As the men stood side by side,
Heppner was more than a head taller than Heimert. He was strongly
built, and, despite a certain fulness, he was well-proportioned;
strength, however, untrammelled, powerful, raw strength was his salient
characteristic. Heimert's frame, too broad and too short, and crowned
by its mask of a comic clown, looked almost deformed by the side of the
other.
The girl's eyes rested with unfeigned admiration on Heppner's
appearance; and when she finally turned towards her lover, a scornful
smile played about her coarse mouth. But in an instant she changed it
to a tender expression.
To Heppner she said: "I am glad to have made the acquaintance of one of
my future husband's comrades."
"When you are married, Fräulein, we shall be living in the same
building," replied Heppner eagerly. "We shall be great friends, shall
we not?"
And the beauty raised her eyes to his with a peculiar glance as she
answered softly: "Oh yes, I think so."