A COMPATRIOT
Krumerweg was indeed a crooked way. It formed a dozen elbows and ragged
half-circles as it slunk off from the Adlergasse. Streets have character
even as humans, and the Krumerweg reminded one of a person who was
afraid of being followed. The shadow of the towering bergs lay upon it,
and the few stars that peered down through the narrow crevice of
rambling gables were small, as if the brilliant planets had neither time
nor inclination to watch over such a place. And yet there lived in the
Krumerweg many a kind and loyal heart, stricken with poverty. In old
times the street had had an evil name, now it possessed only a pitiful
one.
It was half after nine when Gretchen and the vintner picked their way
over cobbles pitted here and there with mud-holes. They were arm in arm,
and they laughed when they stumbled, laughed lightly, as youth always
laughs when in love.
"Only a little farther," said Gretchen, for the vintner had never before
passed over this way.
"Long as it is and crooked, Heaven knows it is short enough!" He
encircled her with his arms and kissed her. "I love you! I love you!" he
said.
Gretchen was penetrated with rapture, for her ears, sharp with love and
the eternal doubting of man, knew that falsehood could not lurk in such
music. This handsome boy loved her. Buffeted as she had been, she could
separate the false from the true. Come never so deep a sorrow, there
would always be this--he loved her. Her bosom swelled, her heart
throbbed, and she breathed in ecstasy the sweet chill air that rushed
through the broken street.
"After the vintage," she said, giving his arm a pressure. For this
handsome fellow was to be her husband when the vines were pruned and
freshened against the coming winter.
"Aye, after the vintage," he echoed; but there was tragedy in his heart
as deep and profound as his love.
"My grandmother--I call her that for I haven't any grandmother--is old
and seldom leaves the house. I promised that after work to-night I'd
bring my man home and let her see how handsome he is. She is always
saying that we need a man about; and yet, I can do a man's work as well
as the next one. I love you, too, Leo!" She pulled his hand to her lips
and quickly kissed it, frightened but unashamed.
"Gretchen, Gretchen!"
She stopped. "What is it?" keenly. "There was pain in your voice."
"The thought of how I love you hurts me. There is nothing else, nothing,
neither riches nor crowns, nothing but you, Gretchen. How long ago was
it I met you first?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks? Is it not years? Have I not always known and loved you?"
"And I! What an empty heart and head were mine till that wonderful day!
You were tired and dusty and footsore; you had walked some twenty odd
miles; yet you helped me with the geese. There were almost tears in your
eyes, but I knew that your heart was a man's when you smiled at me."
She stopped again and turned him round to her. "And you love me like
this?"
"Whatever betide, _Lieberherz_, whatever befall." And he embraced her
with a fierce tenderness, and so strong was he in the moment that
Gretchen gave a cry. He kissed her, not on the lips, but on the fine
white forehead, reverently.
They proceeded, Gretchen subdued and the vintner silent, until they came
to the end of their journey at number forty in the Krumerweg. It was a
house of hanging gables, almost as old as the town itself, solid and
grim and taciturn. There are some houses which talk like gossips, noisy,
obtrusive and provocative. Number forty was like an old warrior, gone to
his chair by the fireside, who listens to the small-talk of his
neighbors saturninely. What was it all about? Had he not seen battles
and storms, revolutions and bloodshed? The prattle of children was
preferable.
Gretchen's grandmother, Fräu Schwarz, owned the house; it was all that
barricaded her from poverty's wolves, and, what with sundry taxes and
repairs and tenants who paid infrequently, it was little enough.
Whatever luxuries entered at number forty were procured by Gretchen
herself. At present the two stories were occupied; the second by a
malter and his brood of children, the third by a woman who was partially
bedridden. The lower or ground floor of four rooms she reserved for
herself. As a matter of fact the forward room, with its huge middle-age
fireplace and the great square of beamed and plastered walls and stone
flooring, was sizable for all domestic purposes. Gretchen's pallet stood
in a small alcove and the old woman's bed by the left of the fire.
Gretchen opened the door, which was unlocked. There was no light in the
hall. She pressed her lover in her arms, kissed him lightly, and pushed
him into the living-room. A log smoldered dimly on the irons. Gretchen
ran forward, turned over the log, lighted two candles, then kissed the
old woman seated in the one comfortable chair. The others were simply
three-legged stools. There was little else in the room, save a poor
reproduction of the Virgin Mary.
"Here I am, grandmother!"
"And who is here with you?" sharply but not unkindly.
"My man!" cried Gretchen gaily, her eyes bright as the candle flames.
"Bring him near me."
Gretchen gathered up two stools and placed them on either side of her
grandmother and motioned to the vintner to sit down. He did so, easily
and without visible embarrassment, even though the black eyes plunged a
glance into his.
Her hair was white and thin, her nose aquiline, her lips fallen in, a
cobweb of wrinkles round her eyes, down her cheeks, under her chin. But
her sight was undimmed.
"Where are you from? You are not a Dreiberger."
"From the north, grandmother," forcing a smile to his lips.
The reply rather gratified her.
"Your name."
"Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade."
"You speak like a Hanoverian or a Prussian."
"I have passed some time in both countries. I have wandered about a good
deal."
"Give me your hand."
The vintner looked surprised for a moment. Gretchen approved. So he gave
the old woman his left hand. The grandmother smoothed it out upon her
own and bent her shrewd eyes. Silence. Gretchen could hear the malter
stirring above; the log cracked and burst into flame. A frown began to
gather on the vintner's brow and a sweat in his palm.
"I see many strange things here," said the palmist, in a brooding tone.
"And what do you see?" asked Gretchen eagerly.
"I see very little of vineyards. I see riches, pomp; I see vast armies
moving against each other; there is the smell of powder and fire;
devastation. I do not see you, young man, among those who tramp with
guns on their shoulders. You ride; there is gold on your arms. You will
become great; but I do not understand. I do not understand," closing her
eyes for a moment.
The vintner sat upright, his chin truculent, his arm tense.
"War!" he murmured.
Gretchen's heart sank; there was joy in his voice.
"Go on, grandmother," she whispered.
"Shall I live?" asked the vintner, whose belief in prescience till this
hour had been of a negative quality.
"There is nothing here save death in old age, vintner." Her gnarled hand
seized his in a vise. "Do you mean well by my girl?"
"Grandmother!" Gretchen remonstrated.
"Silence!"
The vintner withdrew his hand slowly.
"Is this the hand of a liar and a cheat? Is it the hand of a dishonest
man?"
"There is no dishonesty there; but there are lines I do not understand.
Oh, I can not see everything; it is like seeing people in a mist. They
pass instantly and disappear. But I repeat, do you mean well by my
girl?"
"Before God and His angels I love her; before all mankind I would gladly
declare it. Gretchen shall never come to harm at these hands. I swear
it."
"I believe you." The old woman's form relaxed its tenseness.
"Thanks, grandmother," said Gretchen. "Now, read what my hand says."
The old woman took the hand. She loved Gretchen.
"I read that you are gentle and brave and cheerful, that you have a
loyal heart and a pure mind. I read that you are in love and that some
day you will be happy." A smile went over her face, a kind of winter
sunset.
"You are not looking at my hand at all, grandmother," said Gretchen in
reproach.
"I do not need, my child. Your life is written in your face." The
grandmother spoke again to the vintner. "So you will take her away from
me?"
"Will it be necessary?" he returned quietly. "Have you any objection to
my becoming your foster grandchild, such as Gretchen is?"
The old woman made no answer. She closed her eyes and did not open them.
Gretchen motioned that this was a sign that the interview was ended. But
as he rose to his feet there was a sound outside. A carriage had
stopped. Some one opened the door and began to climb the stairs. The
noise ceased only when the visitor reached the top landing. Then all
became still again.
"There is something strange going on up there," said Gretchen in a
whisper.
"In what way?" asked the vintner in like undertones.
"Three times a veiled lady has called at night, three times a man
muffled up so one could not see his face."
"Let us not question our twenty-crowns rent, Gretchen," interrupted the
grandmother, waking. "So long as no one is disturbed, so long as the
police are not brought to our door, it is not our affair. Leopold,
Gretchen, give me your hands." She placed them one upon the other, then
spread out her hands above their heads. "The Holy Mother bring happiness
and good luck to you, Gretchen."
"And to me?" said the youth.
"I could not wish you better luck than to give you Gretchen. Now, leave
me."
The vintner picked up his hat and Gretchen led him to the street.
He hurried away, giving no glance at the closed carriage, the sleepy
driver, the weary horse. Neither did he heed the man dressed as a carter
who, when he saw the vintner, turned and followed. Finally, when the
vintner veered into the Adlergasse, he stopped, his hands clenched, his
teeth hard upon each other. He even leaned against the wall of a house,
his face for the moment hidden in his arm.
"Wretch that I am! Damnable wretch! Krumerweg, Krumerweg! Crooked way,
indeed!" He flung down his arm passionately. "There will be a God up
yonder," looking at the stars. "He will see into my heart and know that
it is not bad, only young. Oh, Gretchen!"
"Gretchen?" The carter stepped into a shadow and waited.
* * * * *
Carmichael did not enjoy the opera that night. He had missed the first
acts, and the last was gruesome, and the royal box was vacant. Outside
he sat down on one of the benches near the fountains in the Platz. His
prolific imagination took the boundaries. Ah! That morning's ride, down
the southern path of the mountains, the black squirrels in the branches,
the red fox in the bushes, the clear spring, and the drink out of the
tin cup which hung there for the thirsty! How prettily she had wrapped a
leaf over the rusted edge of the cup! The leaf lay in his pocket. He had
kissed a dozen times the spot where her lips had pressed it. Blind
fool! Deeper and deeper; he knew that he never could go back to that
safe ledge of the heart-free. Time could not change his heart, not if
given the thousand years of the wandering Jew.
Bah! He would walk round the fountain and cool his crazy pulse. He was
Irish, Irish to the core. Would any one, save an Irishman, give way, day
after day, to those insane maunderings? His mood was savage; he was at
odds with the world, and most of all, with himself. If only some one
would come along and shoulder him rudely! He laughed ruefully. He was in
a fine mood to make an ass of himself.
He left the bench and strolled round the fountain, his cane behind his
back, his chin in his collar. He had made the circle several times, then
he blundered into some one. The fighting mood was gone now, the walk
having calmed him. He murmured a short apology for his clumsiness and
started on, without even looking at the animated obstacle.
"Just a moment, my studious friend."
"Wallenstein? I didn't see you." Carmichael halted.
"That was evident," replied the colonel jestingly. "Heavens! Have you
really cares of state, that you walk five times round this fountain,
bump into me, and start to go on without so much as a how-do-you-do?"
"I'm absent-minded," Carmichael admitted.
"Not always, my friend."
"No, not always. You have some other meaning?"
"That is possible. Now, I do not believe that it was absent-mindedness
which made you step in between me and that pretty goose-girl, the other
night."
"Ah!" Carmichael was all alertness.
"It was not, I believe?"
"It was coldly premeditated," said Carmichael, folding his arms over his
cane which he still held behind his back. His attitude and voice were
pleasant.
"It was not friendly."
"Not to you, perhaps. But that happens to be an innocent girl, Colonel.
You're no Herod. There was nothing selfish in my act. You really annoyed
her."
"Pretense; they always begin that way."
"I confess I know little about that kind of hunting, but I'm sure
you've started the wrong quarry this time."
"You are positive that you were disinterested?"
"Come, come, Colonel, this sounds like the beginning of a quarrel; and a
quarrel should never come into life between you and me. I taught you
draw-poker; you ought to be grateful for that, and to accept my word
regarding my disinterestedness."
"I do not wish any quarrel, my Captain; but that girl's face has
fascinated me. I propose to see her as often as I like."
"I have no objection to offer; but I told Gretchen that if any one, no
matter who, ever offers her disrespect, to report the matter to me at
the consulate."
"That is meddling."
"Call it what you like, my Colonel."
"Well, in case she is what you consider insulted, what will you do?" a
challenge in his tones.
"Report the matter to the police."
Wallenstein laughed.
"And if the girl finds no redress there," tranquilly, "to the
chancellor."
"You would go so far?"
"Even further," unruffled.
"It looks as though you had drawn your saber," with irony.
"Oh, I can draw it, Colonel, and when I do I guarantee you'll find no
rust on it. Come," and Carmichael held out his hand amicably, "Gretchen
is already in love with one of her kind. Let the child be in peace.
What! Is not the new ballerina enough conquest? They are all talking
about it."
"Good night, Herr Carmichael!" The colonel, ignoring the friendly hand,
saluted stiffly, wheeled abruptly, and left Carmichael staring rather
stupidly at his empty hand.
"Well, I'm hanged! All right," with a tilt of the shoulders. "One enemy
more or less doesn't matter. I'm not afraid of anything save this fool
heart of mine. If he says an ill word to Gretchen, and I hear of it,
I'll cane the blackguard, for that's what he is at bottom. Well, I was
looking for trouble, and here it is, sure enough."
He saw a carriage coming along. He recognized the white horse as it
passed the lamps. He stood still for a space, undecided. Then he sped
rapidly toward the side gates of the royal gardens. The vehicle stopped
there. But this time no woman came out. Carmichael would have recognized
that lank form anywhere. It was the chancellor. Well, what of it?
Couldn't the chancellor go out in a common hack if he wanted to? But who
was the lady in the veil?
"I've an idea!"
As soon as the chancellor disappeared, Carmichael hailed the coachman.
"Drive me through the gardens."
"It is too late, Herr."
"Well, drive me up and down the Strasse while I finish this cigar."
"Two crowns."
"Three, if your horse behaves well."
"He's as gentle as a lamb, Herr."
"And doubtless will be served as one before long. Can't you throw back
the top?"
"In one minute!" Five crowns and three made eight crowns; not a bad
business these dull times.
Carmichael lolled in the worn cushions, wondering whether or not to
question his man. But it was so unusual for a person of such particular
habits as the chancellor to ride in an ordinary carriage. Carmichael
slid over to the forward seat and touched the jehu on the back.
"Where did you take the chancellor to-night?" he asked.
"_Du lieber Gott!_ Was that his excellency? He said he was the chief
steward."
"So he is, my friend. I was only jesting. Where did you take him?"
"I took him to the Krumerweg. He was there half an hour. Number forty."
"Where did you take the veiled lady?"
The coachman drew in suddenly and apprehensively. "Herr, are you from
the police?"
"Thousand thunders, no! It was by accident that I stood near the gate
when she got out. Who was she?"
"That is better. They both told me that they were giving charity. I did
not see the lady's face, but she went into number forty, the same as the
steward. You won't forget the extra crown, Herr?"
"No; I'll make it five. Turn back and leave me at the Grand Hotel."
Then he muttered: "Krumerweg, crooked way, number forty. If I see this
old side-paddler stopping at the palace steps again, I'll take a look at
number forty myself."
On the return to the hotel the station omnibus had arrived with a
solitary guest. A steamer trunk and a couple of bags were being trundled
in by the porter, while the concierge was helping a short, stocky man to
the ground. He hurried into the hotel, signed the police slips, and
asked for his room. He seemed to be afraid of the dark. He was gone when
Carmichael went into the office.
"Your Excellency," said the concierge, rubbing his hands and smiling
after the manner of concierges born in Switzerland, "a compatriot of
yours arrived this evening."
"What name?" indifferently. Compatriots were always asking impossible
things of Carmichael, introductions to the grand duke, invitations to
balls, and so forth, and swearing to have him recalled if he refused to
perform these offices.
The concierge picked up the slips which were to be forwarded to the
police.
"He is Hans Grumbach, of New York."
"An adopted compatriot, it would seem. He'll probably be over to the
consulate to-morrow to have his passports looked into. Good night."
So Hans Grumbach passed out of his mind; but for all that, fortune and
opportunity were about to knock on Carmichael's door. For there was a
great place in history ready for Hans Grumbach.