Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
gutcheck/gutspell/jeebes/ and spell check run
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/childrenworld00heysgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: Portrait of Paul Heyse.]
THE CHILDREN OF
THE WORLD
BY
PAUL HEYSE
"The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the
children of light."
NEW YORK
WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY
1890
Copyright, 1889, By
WORTHINGTON CO.
Barr-Dinwiddie
Printing and Book-Binding Co.,
Jersey City, N. J.
THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
A few years ago, in the Dorotheen-strasse, in the midst of the Latin
Quarter of Berlin, whose quiet, student-like appearance threatens to
become effaced by the growing elegance of the capital, a small, narrow,
unpretending two-story house, stood humbly, as if intimidated, between
its broad-shouldered neighbors, though every year it received a washing
of a delicate pink hue, and recently had even had a new lightning-rod
affixed to its ancient gable roof. The owner, an honest master
shoemaker, had in the course of time accumulated money enough to have
comfortably established himself in a new and far more elegant dwelling,
but he had experienced beneath this sharply sloping roof, all the
blessings of his life and though a man by no means given to sentimental
weaknesses, he would have thought it base ingratitude to turn his back,
without good reason, upon the old witnesses and protectors of his
happiness. He had, at one time or another, laid his head in almost
every corner, from the little attic chamber, where, as a poor dunce of
an apprentice, he had, many a night, been unable to close his eyes on
account of the pattering raindrops, to the best room on the first
story, where stood his nuptial couch, when, after a long and faithful
apprenticeship, he brought home, as head journeyman, the daughter of
his dead master. But he was far too economical to permit himself to
occupy these aristocratic quarters longer than six months, preferring
to live in the second story, unassuming as it was--the little house
having a front of but three windows--and there, two children had grown
up about him. These first-floor apartments were rented to a childless
old couple, to whom the owner would not have given notice to quit on
any account; for in the white-haired old man he honored a once famous
tenor, whom in his youth, he had heard and admired; while the little
withered old woman, his wife, had, in her time, been a no less
celebrated actress. They had already been pensioned twelve years, and,
without song or noise of any kind, spent their quiet days in their tiny
rooms, adorned with faded laurel-wreaths and pictures of their famous
colleagues. These celebrities, according to the ideas of the
proprietor, gave to his little house a certain artistic reputation, and
if there were customers in the shop at noon when the old couple
returned from their walk, he never failed to direct attention to them
and with boastful assurance to revive the fame of the two forgotten and
very shrivelled great personages.
On the ground floor was the shop, over which a black sign bore the
inscription in gilt letters: "Boot & Shoe Making Done by Gottfried
Feyertag." The shoemaker had ordered the large brown boot and red
slipper, which had originally been painted on the right and left side,
to be effaced, because it annoyed him to see them, when they no longer
represented the fashion. He kept up with the times in his trade, and
could not possibly alter his sign at every change of style. The shop,
he generally left to the management of his wife he himself spending
most of the day in the workroom, where he kept a sharp eye on his four
or five journeymen. A narrow entry led past the shop into a small,
well-kept courtyard, in whose centre stood a tall acacia-tree, three
quarters of which had died for want of air and sunlight, so that only
its topmost branches were still adorned with a few pale green,
consumptive-looking leaves, which every autumn turned yellow some weeks
before any other foliage. Here, in one corner, beside the pump, an
arbor had been erected by the head journeyman, for the daughter of the
house, when a school-girl; it consisted of a few small poles roughly
nailed together, and now overgrown with bean-vines, which bloomed most
dutifully every summer, but in the best years never produced more than
a handful of stunted pods. A little bed along the so-called sunny side
of the house contained all sorts of plants that seek the shade, and
thrive luxuriantly around cisterns and cellars; and in midsummer, when
the sun actually sent a few rays into the courtyard at noonday, the
little spot really looked quite gay, especially if the fair-haired
Reginchen, now a young girl of seventeen, were seated there reading--if
it chanced to be a Sunday--some tale of robbers from a book obtained at
a circulating library.
A grey, neglected back building, only united to the front house by the
bare adjoining walls, had also two stories, with three windows looking
out upon this courtyard; and a steep, ruinous staircase, which creaked
and groaned at every step, led past the ground floor, where the
workshop and journeymen's sleeping-rooms were situated, to the rooms
above. On the night when our story begins, this place was suffocatingly
hot. It was one of those evenings late in summer, when not a breath of
air was stirring no dew was falling, and when only the dust, which had
risen during the day, floated down in light invisible clouds,
oppressing with mountainous weight every breathing creature. A slender
young man, in a straw hat and grey summer clothes, softly opened the
door of the house, walked along the narrow entry on tip-toe, and then
crossed the stones with which the courtyard was paved. He could not
help seizing the pump-handle and cooling his burning face and hands
with the water, which to be sure was none of the freshest. But the
noise did not disturb any one; at least nothing stirred below or above.
He stood still a few moments and allowed the air to dry the moisture,
gazing meantime at the windows of the upper story, which reflected the
bright moonlight. Only one was open, and a large white cat lay on the
sill, apparently asleep. The windows in the first story were all open,
and a faint light stole out and illumined part of the trunk of the
acacia with a pale red glow.
There was nothing remarkable in all this. Moreover, the thoughts of the
lonely watcher beside the pump seemed to be far away from the narrow,
oppressive courtyard, in some fairy garden, for, with a happy smile he
sat down on a little stool in the bean arbor, and pulled to pieces a
withered leaf, upon which he had first pressed his lips. From the open
windows of the workshop in front of him he heard the loud snoring of
one of the journeymen, who had found the room in the rear too close,
and another seemed to be talking in his sleep. A smell of fresh
leather, cobbler's thread, and varnish, penetrated to his retreat, and
these odors, in connection with those coarse natural sounds, would have
disgusted any one else with this Midsummer Night's Dream. But the youth
in the straw hat could not seem to make up his mind to exchange the
hard seat under the scanty foliage for his usual bed. He had removed
his hat and leaned back against the wall, whose damp surface was
pleasant to his burning head. He gazed through the roof of poles at the
small patch of sky visible between the walls, and began to count the
stars. The topmost branches of the acacia gleamed in the moonlight, as
if coated with silver, and the opposite wall, as far as it was touched
by the pale light, glittered as if covered with thin ice or hoarfrost.
"Ah!" said the lonely man in the arbor, "life is still worth the
trouble! True, its brightest gift, fair as yonder stars, is as
unattainable as they--but what does that matter? Does not what we are
permitted to admire, what we can not forget, belong to us as much,
nay more, than if we had it in a chest and had lost the key?" The
striking of a clock in a neighboring steeple roused him from this
half-conscious, dreamy soliloquy. "One!" he said to himself. "It is
time to think of going to sleep. If Balder should have kept awake to
watch for me, though I expressly forbade it--"
He rose hastily and entered the house. When he had groped his way
cautiously up the rickety stairs and reached the landing on the first
story, he perceived to his astonishment that the door which led into
the rooms stood half open. A small dark ante-chamber led into a larger
apartment, lighted by a sleepy little lamp. On the sofa behind the
table lay a female figure, still completely dressed, absorbed in a
book. The light fell upon a sharply cut, sullen face, past its first
youth, with very dark hair and heavy brows, to which an expression of
power and defiance lent a certain charm. The reader's thick locks had
become unbound, and she wore a plain summer dress of calico, which left
her shoulders and arms bare. Not the slightest change of countenance
betrayed that she had heard the sound of the loiterer's footsteps, and
when he paused a moment in the entry and looked through the door, she
did not even raise her eyes from her book, or push back the hair which
had fallen over her forehead.
"Are you still up, Fraeulein Christiane?" he said at last, advancing to
the threshold of the ante-room.
"As you see, Herr Doctor," she replied in a deep voice, without being
in the least disturbed. "The heat--and perhaps also this book--will not
permit me to sleep. I was so absorbed that I did not even hear you come
in. Besides, it is quite time to go to sleep. Good night."
"May I be permitted to ask, Fraeulein, what book it is that will not let
you sleep?" he said, still in the dark entry.
"Why not?" was the reply, after some little hesitation. "Besides, you
have a special right to do so, for it is your book. The proprietor of
the house, Meister Feyertag, borrowed it of you several weeks ago, and
yesterday told me so much about it, that I begged it of him for a day.
Now I can not leave it."
He laughed, and stepped within the room. "So the wicked rat-catcher, to
whose pipe all the men and women now dance, even though they often
declare his tunes horrible, has seized upon you also. You have
certainly just read the chapter on women, whose most striking portions
our worthy host daily quotes to his wife; and though it makes you
angry, you can not drive it out of your mind. The old sinner knows how
to begin: he hasn't read Goethe for nothing.
"'Doch wem gar nichts dran gelegen
Scheinet ob er reizt und ruehrt,
Der beleidigt, der verfuehrt!"
"You are mistaken," she replied, now sitting erect, so that her face
was shaded by the green screen on the lamp. "True, I have read the
chapter, but it made no _special_ impression upon me, either favorable
or otherwise It is a caricature, very like, and yet utterly false. He
seems to have known only the portion of our sex called 'females': 'tell
me with whom you associate,' etc. Well, we are used to that. But where
I have become inspired with a great respect for him, is from the
chapter entitled 'The Sorrows of the World.' I could, at almost every
sentence, make a note or quote an example from what I have myself
experienced or witnessed in others. And I also know why,
notwithstanding this, we like to read it; because he relates it without
a murmur, so calmly and in such a matter-of-course manner, that we see
it would be foolish to complain of it, or to hope for anything better
for our poor miserable selves, than is bestowed upon a whole world. You
must lend me his other books."
"My dear Fraeulein," he replied, "we will discuss the question further
some other time. You must not suppose that I am one of the professors
of philosophy who wish to silence this singular man. It is a pity that
he is not still alive to be asked the various and numerous questions,
from which he carefully retired to his sybarite seclusion in the Swan,
at Frankfort-on-the-Main. But be that as it may, it is too warm
to-night to philosophize. Throw Schopenhauer aside, Fraeulein, and play
something for me,--the Moonlight Sonata, or any sweet, pensive harmony.
I should like to cleanse my ears from the ballet-music to which I have
been compelled to listen."
"You! listen to ballet-music?"
"Yes; it sounds ridiculous, but nevertheless it is true. How did it
come about? You know, at least by sight, our tyrant, the so-called
medical counsellor, my university friend and physician in ordinary. He
comes up to our hen-roost every day. Well, I have overworked myself a
little this summer, finishing a prize essay,--a haste that was most
unnecessary, since with my heresies I am safe from academical honors.
However, I gained the _second_ premium,--a heavy head, with such
rebellious nerves that my state almost borders on a disordered brain,
or one of the mild forms of lunacy. A journey, or a few weeks on the
Rhigi, would be the best cure. But our physician in ordinary, for
excellent reasons, prescribed no such luxurious remedy. It would be
much cheaper, he thought, to let the manufactory of thought rest for a
while. He proposed to me to play cards, make a collection of beetles,
train a poodle, or fall in love. Unfortunately I had neither
inclination nor talent for any of these very simple and undoubtedly
efficacious remedies. So, early this morning, he brought me a ticket to
the opera-house: he always has acquaintances before and behind the
scenes. A new ballet was to be performed, to hear and see which would
repay even an old habitue, let alone a whimsical fellow like myself,
who had not entered a theatre for ten years. Well, I could not escape
the experiment. He who has a doctor for a friend must occasionally
submit to try new remedies, and a ballet is better than a silver tube
in one's stomach."
He smiled,--a half-satisfied, half-mysterious smile.
"Play me the Moonlight Sonata," he asked again. "Life is beautiful,
Fraeulein Christiane, in spite of all the sorrows of the world. What
lovely roses you have in that vase! Permit me--"
He took a small bouquet, which was standing on the table, and pressed
it against his face. The full-blown flowers suddenly fell apart, and
the leaves covered the book.
"Oh! dear," said he, coloring with embarrassment, "I have done a fine
thing now. Will you forgive me, dear Fraeulein?"
"Certainly, Herr Doctor, if you will be reasonable now, and go up
stairs to sleep off your intoxication. For you are in a condition--You
must know how it happened."
"I? I did not know--"
"Any better than to ask me to play for you at half-past two o'clock in
the morning! We shall wake the people in the house, and others can see
us,--me from the opposite windows. And besides--"
She had risen, and now repressed the rest of the words that were on her
lips. After pacing several times up and down the heated room, which
contained little furniture except her bed, her piano, and a bookcase,
she pushed back her hair from her brow and shoulders, and folding her
bare arms across her chest, stood quietly at the window. A sigh heaved
the breast which had learned to keep a strict guard over its thoughts
and feelings. In this attitude she waited, with apparent calmness, for
him to take his leave.
"I must really seem a very singular person," he said, in a frank,
honest tone. "We have lived in the same house for months, and the only
use I have made of this vicinity, was by my first and only visit, when
I begged you not to play during certain hours, which I had selected for
study. Now I enter your room in the middle of the night, and take the
liberties of an old acquaintance. Forgive me, on account of my
disordered brain, dear Fraeulein, and--may you have a good night's
rest."
He bent his head slightly, and left the room.
As soon as she heard him go up stairs, she hurried into the little
ante-chamber, closed the outer door, bolted it, and then stood still a
short time, listening, with her trembling body pressed close against
the door, and her hands clenched on the latch. He walked slowly up a
few steps, and then paused again, as if he had suddenly become absorbed
in some dreamy thought. She shuddered, sighed heavily, and tottered
back into the sitting-room. Her dress seemed too tight for her, for she
slipped out of it like a butterfly from its chrysalis, and then in the
airiest night costume, sat down at the open piano. It was an old,
much-worn instrument, of very poor tone, and as she ran her slender
fingers lightly over the keys, it sounded in the entry outside like the
distant music of a harp.
The young man had just reached the topmost stair when he heard it.
"There! she is playing the sonata, after all," he said to himself. "A
strange, obstinate person. What can she have suffered from fate?
To-morrow I will take more notice of her. It's a pity she is so ugly,
and yet--what does it matter? There is a charm in her finger-tips. What
wonderful music!"
He stood still a moment listening to the familiar tones, which seemed
to express all the familiar thoughts that had been wandering in a
confused chaos through his mind. Suddenly he heard a voice from within.
"Is that you, Edwin?"
"Of course it is I," he replied.
The next instant he had opened the door and entered the room which was
brightly lighted by the moonbeams.