was holiday-time. I had nothing to do, and I had in my purse a hundred
hardly earned dollars, or thereabout. The wish seized me to revisit the
scene of my joys and my sorrows. I had not set foot in the place for
more than seven years. I was so changed that nobody could know me
again; nor would I have cared much if they had. After visiting the town
and looking at my old school, and the house where Ellen had lived, I
bent my steps towards the park, which is situated in the environs--a
place where I used often to walk in company of my youthful dreams. It
was September, and evening was closing in. The oblique rays of the
setting sun sent a reddish gleam the leafy branches of the old oaks. I
seated on a bench beneath a tree on one side of the path. As I drew
near I recognized Ellen. I remained rooted to the spot where I stood,
not daring to move a step. She was stooping forward with her head bent
down, while with the end of her parasol she traced lines upon the
gravel. She had not seen me. I turned back instantly, and retired
without making any noise. When I had gone a little distance, I left the
path and struck into the wood. Once there, I looked back cautiously.
Ellen was still at the same place and in the same attitude. Heaven
knows what thoughts passed through my brain! I longed to see her
closer. What danger was there? I was sure she would not know me again.
I walked towards her with the careless step of a casual passer-by, and
in a few minutes passed before her. When my shadow fell on the path,
she looked up, and our eyes met. My heart was beating fast. Her look
was cold and indifferent; but suddenly a strange light shot into her
eyes, and she made a quick movement, as if to rise. I saw no more, and
went on without turning round. Before I could get out of the park her
carriage drove past me, and I saw her once more as I had seen her five
years before in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and her
anxious looks fixed upon me. Why did I not bow to her? I cannot say; my
courage failed me. I saw the light die out of her eyes. I almost
fancied that I saw her heave a sigh of relief as she threw herself back
carelessly in the carriage; and she disappeared. I was then thirty-six,
and I am almost ashamed to relate the schoolboy's trick of which I was
guilty. I sent her the following lines: 'A devoted friend, whom you
obliged in former days, and who met you yesterday in the park without
your recognizing him, sends you his remembrances.' I posted this letter
a few minutes before getting into the train which was to take me to New
York; and, as I did so, my heart beat as violently as though I had
performed a heroic deed. Great adventures, forsooth! And to think that
my life presents none more striking, and that trifles such as these are
the only food for my memory!
"A twelvemonth later I met Francis Gilmore in Broadway. The world is
small--so small that it is really difficult to keep out of the way of
people one has once known. The likeness of my former pupil to his
sister struck me, and I spoke to him. He looked at me at first with a
puzzled expression, but after a few moments of hesitation he recognized
me, a bright smile lighted up his pleasant face, and he shook hands
warmly.
"'Mr. Warren,' he exclaimed, 'how glad I am to see you! Ellen and I
have often talked of you, and wondered what could have become of you.
Why did we never hear from you?'
"'I did not suppose it would interest you.' I spoke timidly; and yet I
owed nothing to the young fellow, and wanted nothing of him.
"'You wrong us by saying that,' replied Francis; 'do you think me
ungrateful? Do you fancy I have forgotten our pleasant walks in former
days, and the long conversations we used to have? You alone ever taught
me anything, and it is to you I owe the principles that have guided me
through life. Many a day I have thought of you, and regretted you
sincerely. As regards Ellen, no one has ever filled your place with
her; she plays to this day the same pieces of music you taught her, and
follows all your directions with a fidelity that would touch you.'
"'How are your father and mother, and how is your sister?' I inquired,
feeling more deeply moved than I can express.
"'My poor mother died three years ago. It is Ellen who keeps house now.'
"'Your brother-in-law lives with you, then?'
"'My brother-in-law!' replied Francis, with surprise; 'did you not know
that he was on board the Atlantic, which was lost last year in the
passage from Liverpool to New York?'
"I could find no words to reply.
"'As to that,' added Francis, with great composure--'between you and
me, he was no great loss. My dear brother-in-law was not by any means
what my father fancied he was when he gave him my sister as a wife. The
whole family has often regretted the marriage. Ellen lived apart from
her husband for many years before his death.'
"I nodded so as to express my interest in his communications, but I
could not for worlds have uttered a syllable.
"'You will come and see us soon, I hope,' added Francis, without
noticing my emotion. 'We are still at the same place; but to make sure,
here is my card. Come, Mr. Warren--name your own day to come and dine
with us. I promise you a hearty welcome.'
"I got off by promising to write the next day, and we parted.
"Fortunately my mind had lost its former liveliness. The pendulum, far
from being urged to unruly motion, continued to swing slowly in the
narrow space where it had oscillated for so many years. I said to
myself that to renew my intimacy with the Gilmores would be to run the
almost certain risk of reviving the sorrows and the disappointments of
the past. I was then calm and rational. It would be madness in me, I
felt, to aspire to the hand of a young, wealthy, and much admired
widow. To venture to see Ellen again was to incur the risk of seeing my
reason once more wrecked, and the fatal chimera which had been the
source of all my misery start into life again. If we are to believe
what poets say, love ennobles man and exalts him into a demigod. It may
be so, but it turns him likewise into a fool and a madman. That was my
case. At any cost I was to guard against that fatal passion. I argued
seriously with myself, and I determined to let the past be, and to
reject every opportunity of bringing it to life again.
"A few days before my meeting with Francis, I had received tidings of
the death of an old relative, whom I scarcely knew. In my childhood I
had, on one or two occasions, spent my holidays at his house. He was
gloomy and taciturn, but nevertheless he had always welcomed me kindly.
I have a vague remembrance of having been told that he had been in love
with my mother once upon a time, and that on hearing of her marriage he
had retired into the solitude which he never left till the day of his
death. Be that as it may, I had not lost my place in his affections, it
seems: he had continued to feel an interest in me; and on his deathbed
he had remembered me, and left me the greater part of his not very
considerable fortune. I inherited little money; but there was a small,
comfortably-furnished country-house, and an adjoining farm let on a
long lease for two hundred and forty pounds per annum. This was wealth
for me, and more than enough to satisfy all my wants. Since I had heard
of this legacy I had been doubtful as to my movements. My chance
meeting with Francis settled the matter. I resolved at once to leave
America, and to return to live in my native country. I knew your
address, and wrote to you at once. I trusted that the sight of my old
and only friend would console me for the disappointments that life has
inflicted on me--and I have not been deceived. At last I have been able
to open my heart to a fellow-creature, and relieve myself of the heavy
burden which I have borne alone ever since our separation. Now I feel
lighter. You are not a severe judge. Doubtless you deplore my weakness,
but you do not condemn me. If, as I have already said, I have done no
good, neither have I committed any wicked action. I have been a
nonentity--an utterly useless being; 'one too many,' like the sad hero
of Tourgueneff's sad story. Before leaving, I wrote to Francis
informing him that the death of a relative obliged me to return to
Europe, and giving him your address, so as not to seem to be running
away from him. Then I went on board, and at last reached your home.
Dixi!"
Warren, who during this long story had taken care to keep his pipe
alight, and had, moreover, nearly drained the bottle of port placed
before him, now declared himself ready to listen to his friend's
confession. But Hermann had been saddened by all he had heard, and was
in no humor for talking. He remarked that it was getting late, and
proposed to postpone any further conversation till the morrow.
Warren merely answered, "Very well," knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
shared out the remainder of the wine between his host and himself, and,
raising his glass, said, in a somewhat solemn tone, "To our youth,
Hermann!" After emptying his glass at one draught, he replaced it on
the table, and said complacently, "It is long since I have drunk with
so much pleasure; for this time I have not drunk to forgetfulness, but
to memory."
II.
Warren spent another week in Leipzig with his friend. No man was easier
to live with: to every suggestion of Hermann's he invariably answered,
"Very well;" and if Hermann proposed nothing, he was quite content to
remain seated in a comfortable arm-chair by the fireside, holding a
book which he scarcely looked at, and watching the long rolls of smoke
from his pipe. He disliked new acquaintances; nevertheless, the friends
to whom Hermann introduced him found in him a quiet, unobtrusive, and
well-informed companion. He pleased everybody. There was something
strange and yet attractive in his person; there was a "charm" about
him, people said. Hermann felt the attraction without being able to
define in what it consisted. Their former friendship had been renewed
unreservedly. The kind of fascination that Warren exercised over all
those who approached him often led Hermann to think that it was not
unlikely that in his youth he had inspired a real love in Ellen Gilmore.
One evening Hermann took his friend to the theatre, where a comic piece
was being performed. In his young days Warren had been very partial to
plays of that kind, and his joyous peals of laughter on such occasions
still rang in the ears of his friend. But the attempt was a complete
failure. Warren watched the performance without showing the slightest
interest, and never even smiled. During the opening scenes he listened
with attention, as though he were assisting at some performance of the
legitimate drama; then, as if he could not understand what was going on
before his eyes, he turned away with a wearied air and began looking at
the audience. When, at the close of the second act, Hermann proposed
that they should leave the house, he answered readily:
"Yes, let us go; all this seems very stupid--we will be much better at
home. There is a time for all things, and buffoonery suits me no
longer."
There was nothing left in Warren of the friend that Hermann had known
fifteen years before. He loved him none the less; on the contrary, to
his affection for him had been superadded a feeling of deep compassion.
He would have made great sacrifices to secure his friend's happiness,
and to see a smile light up the immovable features and the sorrowful
dulness of the eye. His friendly anxiety had not been lost upon Warren;
and when the latter took his leave, he said with emotion:
"You wish me well, my old friend, I see it and feel it; and, believe
me, I am grateful. We must not lose sight of each other again--I will
write regularly."
A few days later, Hermann received a letter for his friend. It was an
American letter, and the envelope was stamped with the initials "E. H."
They were those of Ellen Howard, the heroine of Warren's sad history.
He forwarded the letter immediately, and wrote at the same time to his
friend: "I hope the inclosed brings you good news from America." But in
his reply Warren took no notice of this passage, and made no allusion
to Ellen. He only spoke of the new house in which he had just settled
himself--"to end," as he said, "his days;" and he pressed Hermann to
come and join him. The two friends at last agreed to pass Christmas and
New Year's Day together; but when December came, Warren urged his
friend to hasten his arrival.
"I do not feel well," he wrote, "and am often so weary that I stay at
home all day. I have made no new acquaintances, and, most likely, will
make none. I am alone. Your society would give me great pleasure. Come;
your room is ready, and will be, I trust, to your liking. There is a
large writing table and tolerably well-filled book-shelves; you can
write there quite at your ease, without fear of disturbance. Come as
soon as possible, my dear friend. I am expecting you impatiently."
Hermann happened to be at leisure, and was able to comply with his
friend's wish, and to go to him in the first week of December. He found
Warren looking worn and depressed. It was in vain he sought to induce
him to consult a physician. Warren would reply:
"Doctors can do nothing for my complaint. I know where the shoe
pinches. A physician would order me probably to seek relaxation and
amusement, just as he would advise a poor devil whose blood is
impoverished by bad food to strengthen himself with a generous diet and
good wine. The poor man could not afford to get the good living, and I
do not know what could enliven or divert me. Travel? I like nothing so
well as sitting quietly in my arm-chair. New faces? They would not
interest me--yours is the only company I prefer to solitude. Books? I
am too old to take pleasure in learning new things, and what I have
learned has ceased to interest me. It is not always easy to get what
might do one good, and we must take things as they are."
Hermann noticed, as before, that his friend ate little, but that, on
the other hand, he drank a great deal. The sincere friendship he felt
for him emboldened him to make a remark on the subject.
"It is true," said Warren, "I drink too much; but what can I do? Food
is distasteful to me, and I must keep up my strength somehow. I am in a
wretched state; my health is ruined."
One evening, as the two friends were seated together in Warren's room,
while the wind and sleet were beating against the window-panes, the
invalid began of his own accord to speak about Ellen.
"We now correspond regularly," he said. "She tells me in her last
letter that she hopes soon to see me. Do you know, Hermann, that she is
becoming an enigma for me? It is very evident that she does not treat
me like other people, and I often wonder and ask myself what I am in
her eyes? What does she feel towards me? Love? That is inadmissible.
Pity, perhaps? This then, is the end of my grand dreams--to be an
object of pity? I have just answered her letter to say that I am
settled here with the fixed intention of ending my useless existence in
quiet and idleness. Do you remember a scene in Henry Heine's
'Reisebilder,' when a young student kisses a pretty girl, who lets him
have his own way and makes no great resistance, because he has told
her, 'I will be gone to-morrow at dawn, and I will never see you
again'? The certainty of never seeing a person again gives a man the
courage to say things that otherwise he would have kept hidden in the
most secret depths of his being. I feel that my life is drawing to a
close. Do not say no, my dear friend; my presentiments are certain. I
have written it to Ellen. I have told her other things besides. What
folly! All I have ever done has been folly or chimera. I end my life
logically, in strict accordance with my whole Past, by making my first
avowal of love on my deathbed. Is not that as useless a thing as can
be?"
Hermann would have wished to know some particulars about this letter;
but Warren replied, somewhat vaguely, "If I had a copy of my letter, I
would show it to you willingly. You know my whole story, and I would
not be ashamed to lay before you my last act of folly. I wrote about a
fortnight ago, when I felt sure that death was drawing near. I was in a
fever, not from fear--Death gains but little by taking my life--but
from a singular species of excitement. I do not remember what were the
words I used. Who knows? Perhaps this last product of my brain may have
been quite a poetical performance. Never mind! I do not repent of what
I have done; I am glad that Ellen should know at last that I have loved
her silently and hopelessly. If that is not disinterested, what is?" he
added with a bitter smile.
Christmas went by sadly. Warren was now so weak that he could scarcely
leave his bed for two or three hours each day. Hermann had taken upon
himself to send for a doctor, but this latter had scarcely known what
to prescribe. Warren was suffering from no special malady; he was dying
of exhaustion. Now and then, during a few moments, which became daily
more rare and more brief, his vivacity would return; but the shadow of
Death was already darkening his mind.
On New Year's Eve he got up very late. "We will welcome in the New
Year," he said to Hermann. "I hope it may bring you happiness; I know
it will bring me rest." A few minutes before midnight he opened the
piano, and played with solemnity, and as if it had been a chorale, a
song of Schumann's, entitled "To the Drinking-cup of a Departed
Friend." Then, on the first stroke of midnight, he filled two glasses
with some old Rhenish wine, and raised his own glass slowly. He was
very pale, and his eyes were shining with feverish light. He was in a
state of strange and fearful excitement. He looked at the glass which
he held, and repeated deliberately a verse of the song which he had
just been playing. "The vulgar cannot understand what I see at the
bottom of this cup." Then, at one draught, he drained the full glass.
While he was thus speaking and drinking, he had taken no notice of
Hermann, who was watching him with consternation. Recovering himself at
length, he exclaimed, "Another glass, Hermann! To friendship!" He
drained this second glass, like the first, to the very last drop; and
then, exhausted by the effort he had made, he sank heavily on a chair.
Soon after, Hermann led him, like a sleepy child, to his bed.
During the days that followed, he was unable to leave his room; and the
doctor thought it right to warn Hermann that all the symptoms seemed to
point to a fatal issue.
On the 8th of January a servant from the hotel in the little
neighboring town brought a letter, which, he said, required an
immediate answer. The sick man was then lying almost unconscious.
Hermann broke the seal without hesitation, and read as follows:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--A visit to Europe which my father had long planned
has at last been undertaken. I did not mention it to you, in order to
have the pleasure of surprising you. On reaching this place, I learn
that the illness of which you spoke in your last letter has not yet
left you. Under these circumstances, I will not venture to present
myself without warning you of my arrival, and making sure that you are
able to receive me. I am here with my brother, who, like myself, would
not come so near to you without seeing you. My father has gone on to
Paris, where Francis and I will join him in a few days.
ELLEN."
Hermann, after one instant's thought, took up his hat and dismissed the
messenger, saying he would give the answer himself. At the hotel he
sent in his card, with the words, "From Mr. Warren," and was
immediately ushered into Ellen's presence.
She was alone. Hermann examined her rapidly. He saw an extremely
beautiful woman, whose frank and fearless eyes were fixed on him with a
questioning look.
Hermann had not frequented the society of women much, and was usually
rather embarrassed in their presence. But on this occasion he thought
only of his friend, and found no difficulty in explaining the motive of
his visit. He told her his friend was ill--very ill--dying--and that he
had opened the letter addressed to Warren. Ellen did not answer for
some time; she seemed not to have understood what she had heard. After
a while her eyes filled with tears, and she asked whether she could see
Mr. Warren. On Hermann answering in the affirmative, she further
inquired whether her brother might accompany her.
"Two visitors might fatigue the invalid too much," said Hermann; "your
brother may come later."
"Are you not afraid that my visit may tire him?"
"I do not think so; it will make him very happy."
Ellen only took a few minutes to put on her hat and cloak, and they
started. The short journey was accomplished in silence. When they
reached the house, Hermann went in first to see how the dying man was.
He was lying in his bed, in the delirium of fever, muttering incoherent
sentences. Nevertheless he recognized Hermann, and asked for something
to drink. After having allayed his thirst, he closed his eyes, as if to
sleep.
"I have brought you a friend," said Hermann; "will you see him?"
"Hermann? He is always welcome."
"No; it is a friend from America."
"From America?...I lived there many years...How desolate and monotonous
were the shores I visited!..."
"Will you see your friend?"
"I am carried away by the current of the river. In the distance I see
dark and shadowy forms; there are hills full of shade and
coolness...but I will never rest there."
Hermann retired noiselessly, and returned almost immediately with Ellen.
Warren, who had taken no notice of him, continued to follow the course
of his wandering thoughts.
"The river is drawing near to the sea. Already I can hear the roar of
the waves...The banks are beginning to be clothed with verdure...The
hills are drawing nearer....It is dark now. Here are the big trees
beneath which I have dreamed so often. A radiant apparition shines
through their foliage....It comes towards me... Ellen!"
She was standing beside the bed. The dying man saw her, and without
showing the least surprise, said with a smile, "Thank God! you have
come in time. I knew you were coming."
He murmured a few unintelligible words, and then remained silent for a
long while. His eyes were wide open. Suddenly he cried, "Hermann!"
Hermann came and stood beside Ellen.
"The pendulum...You know what I mean?" A frank childish smile--the
smile of his student days--lighted up his pallid face. He raised his
right hand, and tracing in the air with his forefinger a wide
semicircle, to imitate the oscillation of a pendulum, he said, "Then."
He then figured in the same manner a more limited and slower movement,
and after repeating it several times, said, "Now." Lastly, he pointed
straight before him with a motionless and almost menacing finger, and
said with a weak voice, "Soon."
He spoke no more, and closed his eyes. The breathing was becoming very
difficult.
Ellen bent, over him, and called him softly, "Henry, Henry!" He opened
his eyes. She brought her mouth close to his ear, and said, with a sob,
"I have always loved you."
"I knew it from the first," he said, quietly and with confidence.
A gentle expression stole over his countenance, and life seemed to
return. Once more he had the confident look of youth. A sad and
beautiful smile played on his lips; he took the hand of Ellen in his,
and kissed it gently.
"How do you feel now?" inquired Hermann.
The old answer, "Very well."
His hands were plucking at the bedclothes, as if he strove to cover his
face with them. Then his arms stiffened and the fingers remained
motionless.
"Very well," he repeated.
He appeared to fall into deep thought. There was a long pause. At last
he turned a dying look, fraught with tender pity and sadness, towards
Ellen, and in a low voice, which was scarcely audible, he said these
two words, with a slight emphasis on the first--"PERFECTLY well."
THE BOOKBINDER OF HORT
BY
LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH
From "Jewish Tales," published by A.C. McClurg & Co.
Copyright, 1894, by A.C. McClurg & Co.
Looking abroad from the table-land of Esced, over the Hungarian plain
that stretches from the foot of Mount Matra to Szolnok, and finally
merges into the horizon where the silver thread of the Theiss winds its
way, the eye is attracted by a smiling section of country whose
vineyards and cornfields gleam brightly in the sun. This fair spot is
neither a park nor grove nor pleasant woodland, but the imposing
village of Hort, its pretty white houses half concealed by a wealth of
trees and shrubbery.
In this village lived a Jewish bookbinder, Simcha Kalimann, a wit and
bel esprit, the oracle of the entire province, the living chronicle of
his times and people.
Reviewing in reverie the procession of events in his own life, Kalimann
could see, as in a mirror, the phases through which his co-religionists
in Hungary had passed in their efforts toward liberty. He had lived
during that dark period when the Jew dared claim no rights among his
fellow-countrymen. He had suffered evil, he had endured disgrace, and
the storehouse of his memory held many a tragi-comic picture of the
days that were no more. But he had also lived in times when the spirit
of tolerance took possession of men's minds, and he had been swept
along on that tidal movement inaugurated by Count Szechenyi, the
greatest of Hungarians, through his celebrated book, "Light."
The revolution of 1848 brought about the new Hungarian Constitution,
and put an end to feudal government. Light penetrated into the darksome
streets of the Ghetto, and through the windows opened to receive the
Messiah, a saviour entered proclaiming liberty and equality to the
downtrodden and oppressed.
Crushed and forsaken, as all Israel was, it gratefully responded to
this message of universal brotherhood.