But he had not strolled far from the quay, when these newly made
friends vanished from his memory as suddenly as we blow out a candle,
and in their place appeared in most vivid hues, the vision of the
Unknown he had seen at the opera-house. The change was so sudden, that
he fairly started and stood still a moment to calm the beating of his
heart. If he had met her, bodily, on the lonely street, he could not
have been more astonished.
"A bad prospect for amendment," he said to himself, with a half
compassionate, half satisfied smile. He removed his hat and leaned over
the railing. Beneath him, the river flowed noiselessly on. A dead,
half-plucked bird floated past him, near a half-eaten apple. "Poor
thing," said Edwin, "you have endured to the end, and if not to be is
better than to be, you might be congratulated that never more will
bright-hued dainties tempt you, or hunger gnaw at your vitals when you
have naught else with which to satisfy its claims. Yet the sun is so
beautiful, and apples sweet to the taste, and I doubt not that your
worst nest was more comfortable than the filthy nothingness that bears
you away."
He listened. Few persons and no carriages passed this spot, but in the
distance he heard the hum and roar of the streets, through which rolled
the principal stream of traffic. It was pleasant to lose his own
identity in the vague sense of a manifold life, and yet at the same
time to bask in solitude. But, after a time, his enjoyment began to
pall. He turned back into the shade and walked slowly along the river
toward the neighborhood, where by passing through a few short side
streets, the zooelogical gardens may be reached. Here, too, it was
lonely at this noonday hour, and his old habit of strolling here and
there while thinking out a problem, had taught him all the paths in
which there was the least danger of meeting any one. But to-day he had
no desire to philosophize. On reaching his favorite spot, the
peninsula--not far from the marble statue of the king and the Louise
island, where a few weeks before he had developed his best thoughts for
the prize essay, he threw himself upon the grass in the dense shade of
the huge beeches and closed his eyes, that undisturbed he might devote
himself to his hopeless love dream.
Despite his twenty-nine years, his feelings were precisely similar to
those which fall to the lot of every one when attacked by his first
schoolboy love: the sensation of yielding to violence, of quite
forgetting self, and of being borne away on a flood-tide of passion, is
so strong and so delightful, that it swallows up all other emotions and
impulses, and the thought of possession, or even the desire for a
responsive feeling, can scarcely arise,--or, if at all, not in the
first stages, and in such a virgin soul as that of our philosopher. The
very unexpectedness, aimlessness, and unreasonableness of this event,
was to him, o'erwearied with arduous toil over abstruse thoughts, like
bathing in a shoreless sea, where, floating, he suffered the waves to
buoy him above the fathomless depths.
A hoarse hand-organ close by, which suddenly began to play the "Prince
of Arcadia," roused him rudely from the reverie in which time and place
were both forgotten. He sprang to his feet, and sought some escape from
the intrusive, soulless sounds. In a modest restaurant, where only a
few plain citizens were drinking coffee, he hurriedly ate his dinner,
and then as the seats were beginning to fill with afternoon guests, he
hastily departed, whither he did not himself know; he was only vaguely
conscious of a repugnance to appearing in broad daylight, in so
helpless a condition, before the brother to whom the preceding night he
had frankly confessed his state of mind.
So glancing about him, he walked diagonally through the shrubbery,
without any definite purpose, until he entered a broader avenue, when
he suddenly stood still, and with a cry of joyful astonishment gazed at
some distant object. It was at nothing more remarkable than a red and
white striped summer waistcoat, which, as the sun was shining full upon
it, was plainly visible. But it contained a little figure that he
readily recognized; a boy about fourteen years old, who wore a
high collar, a stiff cravat, a leather-colored livery jacket, and
knee-breeches of the same material. The youngster was sitting on a
bench in a droll old-fashioned attitude; he had placed his shining
oil-skin hat beside him, and was engaged in smoothing his light
hair with a little brush, glancing from time to time into a small
hand-glass.
Edwin would have recognized this boy among a crowd of miniature
lackeys, but he had not time to look at him long. Just as he took a few
paces forward, fully determined to question him concerning his
mistress, a slender figure in a light summer dress and broad Florentine
straw hat rose from the next bench, which was concealed by a drooping
branch, glanced over her shoulder at the boy, and then holding in one
hand the book she had been reading, and carrying a parasol lightly over
her shoulder, she walked rapidly toward the main avenue which runs from
the Brandebourg gate directly through the Zooelogical Garden.
Her motions were so rapid that the little fellow in the large gaiters
found it difficult to overtake her, and even Edwin was compelled to
take long strides. As he passed the bench where she had been sitting,
he saw a ribbon lying on the ground, which, in her hasty departure, she
seemed to have lost. He picked it up; it was a white satin book-mark,
the ends trimmed with gold fringe, and somewhat clumsily embroidered in
blue and black beads with the well-known symbols of faith, hope, and
charity. This discovery detained him a moment. Meantime its owner had
already reached an elegant carriage, which had been waiting for her
outside, the little page had opened the door, the lady entered without
his assistance, the horses started, and the light equipage rolled
toward the city at a rapid pace.
But today Edwin had not only better fortune than on the day previous,
but also the presence of mind necessary to seize his opportunity. An
empty droschky was moving lazily down the road; he threw himself into
it and promised the driver a double fare, if he would overtake the
carriage and not lose sight of it.
They drove through the gate, down Unter den Linden, turned to the right
into Friedrichstrasse, and then to the left into the Jaegerstrasse,
where the equipage stopped before a pretty new house. The little
servant climbed down from the box like a monkey, opened the door, and
followed the lady, who had sprung lightly out, into the house, the
carriage driving off at once.
Edwin dismissed his droschky at the corner of the street, and now with
a throbbing heart walked past the house several times on the opposite
side of the street, gazing at the open windows to see whether the
charming face would not appear at one of them. But there was nothing to
be seen, except in one of the rooms on the second story a flower-stand
containing magnificent palms and other broad-leaved plants, and at the
window near by a large bird-cage with glittering gilded wires. Here,
then, was where she lived. He had in his pocket the best possible
excuse for introducing himself, and yet for a long time he could not
summon up courage to enter the house and mount the stairs.
When he at last nerved himself to this, he lingered a few moments at
the door, trying to recall his somewhat rusty French, in case she
really should not understand German. Then he felt ashamed of his boyish
timidity and pulled the bell so vigorously, that it pealed loudly
through the silent house.
The door was instantly opened, the striped waistcoat appeared, and its
owner stared at the noisy visitor, with a disapproving expression in
his round, watery blue eyes.
"Be kind enough, my little fellow," said Edwin, "to inform your
mistress that some one desires to speak to her, and to return something
she has lost."
"Whom have I the honor--?" asked the well-trained dwarf.
"The name is of no consequence. Do as I have told you."
The boy disappeared, but returned in a short time, during which Edwin
heard no French spoken, and said: "The young lady begs you to walk in
here a moment."
As he spoke he opened the door of a small ante-room, furnished only
with a few elegant cane chairs and a dainty marble table, on which lay
a book and fan.
"What is your name, my boy?" Edwin asked the little fellow, as he
seated himself with much apparent self-possession.
"My real name is Hans Jacob, but my mistress calls me Jean."
"Isn't this your first place, little Jean Jacques? You seem to be a
precocious genius."
"My first service was with a baron; then I learned to ride, and I had
the reins to hold when he got out of the cabriolet, for he drove,
himself. Here there is only a hired coachman."
"And how long have you lived with this young lady?"
"Just a fortnight. It's a very easy place, I have every Sunday to
myself; there is a chambermaid too."
"Can you speak French, Jean Jacques?"
The boy blushed. Edwin seemed to have wounded his pride.
"The young lady speaks German," he replied. "But there is her bell. I
must go."
Edwin mechanically took up the book that lay upon the little table.
"Balzac!" said he. "'Pere Goriot.' After all, she is probably a
wandering Pole or Russian; they speak all languages, and drink in
Balzac, with their mother's milk."
He rose and glanced into the adjoining room. The little _salon_, into
which the light struggled, through heavy crimson curtains, was rendered
still darker by the wide spreading leaves of the palms. Before the
mirror a parrot was swinging in a ring, without uttering a sound. The
walls were dark, the ceiling wainscoted with brown wood, and on the
black marble mantlepiece stood a heavy _verde antique_ clock. The
brightness and spaciousness of the next apartment, into which he could
obtain but a partial glimpse through the open door, seemed greatly
enhanced in comparison with this. Tent-like hangings with gilded rods,
a portion of a dainty buffet with glittering silverware, and directly
opposite to the door a little table covered with dishes, but, so far as
he could see, furnished with but one plate. Besides these things, he
noticed the constant chirping and fluttering of the birds in the great
cage.
Edwin had had ample opportunity, while teaching the young members of
noble families, to compare the furnishing of the "tun" with the
luxurious arrangements of city houses. Hitherto the contrast had never
been painful to him. To-day, for the first time, he seemed to himself
as he chanced to glance into the mirror, like the shepherd in the fairy
tale, who wandered into a magic castle. Any attempt to improve his
costume he gave up as hopeless, but he was about to draw from his coat
pocket the gloves which he usually carried there, when the opposite
door of the little ante-room unclosed, and the beautiful, bewitching
creature entered, followed by the dwarf.
She paused upon the threshold with an air of indignant surprise, then
turning to the boy she seemed to give utterance to some reproof, from
which he defended himself in a whisper. Thus Edwin had time to look at
her, and to recover from his own embarrassment.
Her beauty was really so remarkable, that she might have unsettled the
brains of a far more discerning admirer of womankind than our
philosopher. He had described her tolerably well to his brother the
preceding night, but here in the broad light of day, she seemed to him
to have assumed an entirely different appearance; her complexion was
more brilliant, her eyes wore a more dreamy expression, and she seemed
to possess a quiet, careless indifference, such as we see in children
who, loving nothing and hating nothing, are troubled at nought.
Moreover the light dress that enwrapped her like a cloud was
particularly becoming, and her hair, with the familiar little curls on
the neck, seemed darker from the contrast.
She greeted the stranger with a scarcely perceptible bend of the head.
"Herr--?" she began, and looked at him inquiringly.
"Pardon me, Fraeulein," he replied in an unconstrained manner, which he
feigned with very tolerable skill, "I have been unable to deny myself
the pleasure of taking advantage of a lucky chance, and of presenting
myself in person as the honest finder of your property. Besides, I
hoped I might not be entirely unknown to you."
"You? To me?"
"I had the pleasure last evening of sitting next you in a box at the
opera-house during the first act of the ballet."
A hasty glance from her wondering eyes scanned his face. "I do not
remember it," she said curtly.
"Well, I must endure the mortification," he replied smiling. He was
really glad that she treated him so coldly. His pride, which had been
intimidated by her beauty, suddenly awoke and aided him to recover his
equanimity.
"You have something to return to me?" she now said in a somewhat
impatient tone. "I have not missed anything, but may I ask you, sir, to
tell me--"
He drew the white satin ribbon from his pocket, and held it out to her.
A sudden change took place in her cold bearing. She approached him, and
her eyes sparkled with childish delight. "Ah! that," she exclaimed,
"yes, indeed, that does belong to me. I must have dropped it scarcely
an hour ago, and so have had no time to miss it. Thanks--a thousand
thanks. It is a keepsake."
She took it from his hand, and in so doing vouchsafed him her first
friendly glance, then with a bow which resembled a sign of dismissal,
she moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless
in the same spot.
"You know, Fraeulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a
suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to
answer a question?"
"What is it?"
"Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"
"Why do you wish to know that?"
"From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from
it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You
know, Fraeulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge
those who do not write books by some piece of handiwork."
She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity
even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.
"This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I
should have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even
pretty. But it is a present from my youngest sister, who put it in my
hymn-book the day I was confirmed."
"Strange!" he said, as if to himself.
"What is strange?"
"That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a
hymn-book to Balzac!"
"Balzac? How to you know--"
"I beg your pardon, Fraeulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened
yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"
Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This
stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or
intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while
meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.
"Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French
literature; he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in
Paris. His books recalled old memories."
"And do you like them? 'Pere Goriot,' for instance?"
"He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and--the style is so
good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters,
who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them--it is
horrible."
"Thank you, Fraeulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your
opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever
author can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should
refuse to associate with them. In books we submit to the most
disagreeable society."
She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a chambermaid
entered and said a few words in a low tone.
"I will come directly," answered her young mistress, and then turned to
Edwin. "Excuse me, sir, I am called away. Accept my best thanks again.
Jean, show the gentleman to the door."
The lad instantly stepped forward, but Edwin did not seem to notice
him.
"I should like to ask one more question," said he.
"Sir--?"
"I obtained a glimpse of your charming rooms through the open doors.
Everything that the most capricious fancy can desire seems to be
supplied, with the exception of what is to me a necessity of life."
"You mean--?"
"A small library. Even the copy of Balzac, I see you have ordered from
a circulating library. Pardon my frankness, Fraeulein, but I do not
understand how such beautiful fingers can touch a book which has
already been on so many tables and passed through so many hands of
doubtful cleanliness."
He saw her blush and cast an almost startled glance at the book on the
little marble table.
"I have not been here long," she replied, "and as yet have given no
thought to procuring books."
"Then permit me to put my little stock at your disposal. True, it is
not very rich in French literature, but if you have no aversion to
German books--"
"I know so little about them," she replied with evident embarrassment,
which lent to her features a still greater charm than their former
aristocratic indifference. "There was not much conversation on
literature in my parents' house. Just think, I have scarcely read
anything by G[oe]the."
"So much the better, for great pleasures are then in store for you. If
you have no objection, I will take the liberty of bringing you a few
volumes to-morrow." She seemed to reflect upon the proposal. "I cannot
possibly permit you to take so much trouble for a total stranger. I
will send to a bookseller."
"Are you afraid that I shall again intrude upon you in person?" he
asked, pausing at the door. "I promise, Fraeulein, that I will only
consider myself your messenger, and deliver the books at the outer
door. Or have you no confidence in my discretion, because I honestly
confessed my curiosity?"
She looked at him intently a moment, and then said: "very well, bring
me what you please; I shall be grateful. Adieu!"
With these words, she slightly bent her head and disappeared in the
adjoining room. No choice was left Edwin but to retire also.
When he reached the entrance-hall of the house and the door had closed
behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, as if to collect his
thoughts. Again he saw her standing before him in her beauty and with
her haughty ease of manner, and a great sorrow, he knew not why,
overpowered him. Little as he knew of life in the great world, or the
_demi monde_, he was convinced that all was not right with this
enchanted princess, since she merely dwelt like a rare bird in a gilded
cage, no longer her own mistress. Then again when he thought of her
calm, wondering, childish eyes, and of the little proud mouth and the
full lips, which quivered slightly when she was considering an answer
to one of his questions, it seemed impossible to attach a thought of
guilt or depravity to this mysterious life.
His own passion at the moment was completely forgotten in his unselfish
interest in her fate. And yet he did not know much more about her than
he knew an hour before. Not even her name, for it was not on the door.
And from whom could he inquire about her, even if he had not an
instinctive aversion to all underhanded measures?
Just at that moment fortune again befriended him.
A stout middle-aged woman in a bonnet and shawl, with a little basket
on her arm, slowly descended the stairs; it was with evident surprise
that she saw a stranger lingering in the hall, and, with the air of one
responsible for the order of the house, she asked whom he wished to
see. He replied that he had only brought back an article belonging to
the young lady within, which he had found, and that he was just
leaving; then pausing a few steps before her, as she followed him on
foot, he murmured absently: "What a pity!"
At this the woman stopped also, standing with one arm akimbo. "What is
a pity?" she asked. "What do you know about my lodgers, sir, that you
dare to make use of such a sympathizing expression. I beg, sir, to
inform you that there is no one in my house who stands in need of
pity."
"Well," he said frankly, "I meant no harm. But, judging from her
surroundings, the young lady seems to belong to an aristocratic family,
and yet she lives so secludedly; who knows what sad reasons--"
As he spoke he began to descend the steps; the woman, however, stood
still, leaned against the banister, seemingly unable to resist the
temptation to display her superior knowledge of the world.
"Aristocratic?" she said with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Gracious me! It's all in her clothes, and Heaven knows how long the
finery will last. I suppose you think the silk curtains, and the
elegant furniture, and the silver all belong to her! Only hired, my
dear sir! They don't even belong to me, for I have never rented
furnished rooms; one can easily lose one's good name through people who
don't even own their own beds. My name is Sturzmueller, and I've had
this house these ten years; I'm a widow I'd have you know, and no man
can breathe a word against me, and as for the aristocratic young lady
up stairs, if I don't soon find out all about her, I'll ask her a price
that will astonish her. I want no lodgers over whom people shake their
heads and say 'it is a pity'!"
So saying she walked sturdily down stairs past Edwin, and seemed to
have finished all that she had to say.
But now it was his turn to pause.
"So you, too, do not know what to make of this wonderful vision?" he
asked in feigned surprise, while his heart beat violently from
excitement. "Surely she has not concealed her name!"
The woman turned and looked again at her interrogator, as if to judge
from his appearance if he was really as innocent as his questions would
imply, or some cunning spy who wanted to draw her out. But his honest
face, as well as his plain yet respectable attire, appeared to allay
her suspicions.
"Her name!" she muttered. "What do I care for a name? Toinette
Marchand--can't anybody call herself that and yet in reality bear a
name quite unlike it? Besides, it's none of my business what my lodgers
call themselves, provided I know where they come from and what they
are. But this one, why, would you believe it! during all this fortnight
I am not a whit the wiser as to whether she is really a respectable
person, or a bit of plated ware; you understand? The truth is, I rented
the rooms in the second story to Count ----, --but I must not mention
his name--who had them furnished in this way, for a cousin, he said.
What he meant by a 'cousin' one can easily guess, but we can't reform
the world, sir, and if I were to play conscience-keeper to my lodgers,
I should have enough to do. So at last everything was finished, as
pretty as a doll's house; it must have cost the count a pile of money!
and, after all, the cousin snapped her fingers at him and gave him the
slip. It was some one belonging to the opera-house, the valet
afterwards told me; a light-minded creature, who ran away one fine day
with a Russian. Well, it was all the same to me. I received my rent
regularly every quarter, could walk over the beautiful carpets in the
empty rooms if I chose, and was not even obliged to connive at a breach
of morality. But one fine morning--I was just watering the palms on the
flower-stand--the count came marching in with a beautiful Frenchwoman,
not the cousin, but--who? Ah, that is the question. He treated her very
respectfully, but while she was looking around he told me, in a
whisper, to represent that the furniture would be rented with the
apartments, but to charge no more than twelve thalers a month. Well, I
was ready enough to have my rent increased if she wanted to pay that
amount, and besides that price is very low for five such rooms, with a
kitchen and cellar. The young lady was charmed with them, took
possession at once, and ordered her trunks to be brought from the
railway station, I was to provide a servant to bring her meals from the
restaurant, the maid and the little footman she hired herself. Well,
since then though I've often asked whether I could be of any service, I
have never exchanged twenty words with her. Did you ever hear of such a
thing? So haughty and hardened at her age?"
"And the count?" said Edwin.
"That is the strangest part of all. Since that first day, when he went
away directly, he hasn't set his foot across her threshold. I haven't
even caught a glimpse of the valet, from whom I might have learned
something. Heaven knows what has happened--perhaps they quarreled at
the very beginning. However, it seems to trouble her very little; she
certainly lacks nothing,--horses and carriages, the most elegant
dresses, tickets to the theatre,--well, my good sir, you and I don't
pay for it, so it's no concern of ours. But something's wrong, that's
certain. Nothing times nothing is nothing, and I've never had anything
of the kind happen to me. You won't believe me, but she never permits a
living soul in the shape of man to cross her threshold. Not at any hour
of the day or night, I tell you, for though I live on the third story,
I know every cat that goes in and out, and besides her maid is by no
means close-mouthed. Now I put it to you, would one so young, as
handsome as a picture, and with so much money, be so much alone if
there wasn't something to conceal, something for the new 'Pitaval,' you
understand,--no, no, I won't have such proceedings in my house;
'everything open and above-board,' that's my motto, for what would be
the use of a good character, if some fine day the police should come in
upon me! But you will make no bad use of what I have said; I could not
help speaking out, and my words and acts needn't shun the light. Yes,
yes, dear sir, there is much to be learned from God's word."
While uttering these sentences, broken by numerous pauses, she had
reached the street door; here, taking a friendly farewell of Edwin, she
crossed the street to a shop.
He, too, turned away. He had not the courage to look back at the second
story windows from the other side of the street; the fair occupant
might think it strange that he was still hanging about the house. And
yet how much he would have given, for even a fleeting glance which
might dispel the dense cloud of suspicion and sorrow, which during the
loquacious gossip of the landlady had fallen more and more heavily on
his heart.