A soft singing ushered in the day. Then followed a laughing chatter

with the little maid, accompanied by the rattle of heated

curling-irons and splashing of bath sponges. Occasionally, too, there

was a little dispute on the subject of ribands or curls or such

things. Mary's French, which was derived from the _Histoire de Charles

douze,_ the _Aventures de Télémaque_ and other lofty books, found an

end when it came to these discussions.

About half-past ten the lady slipped from her room. Then one could

hear her tap at her uncle's door, or call a laughing good-morning to

him from the hall.

From now on the maid reigned supreme in the room. She straightened it,

sang, rattled the curling-irons even longer than for her mistress,

tripped up and down, probably in front of the mirror, and received the

kindly attentions of several waiters. From noon on everything was

silent and remained silent until dusk. Then the lady returned. The

little songs she sang were of the very kind that one might well sing

if, with full heart, one gazes out upon the sea, while the

orange-blossoms are fragrant and the boughs of the eucalyptus rustle.

They proved to Mary that in that sunny creature, as in herself, there

dwelt that gentle, virginal yearning that had always been to her a

source of dreamy happiness.

At half-past five o'clock the maid knocked at the door. Then began

giggling and whispering as of two school-girls. Again sounded the

rattle of the curling-irons and the rustling of silken skirts. The

fragrance of unknown perfumes and essences penetrated into Mary's

room, and she absorbed it eagerly.

The dinner-bell rang and the room was left empty.

At ten o'clock there resounded a merry: "_Bonne nuit, mon oncle!_"

Angeline, the maid, received her mistress at the door and performed

the necessary services more quietly than before. Then she went out,

received by the waiters, who were on the stairs.

Then followed, in there, a brief evening prayer, carelessly and half

poutingly gabbled as by a tired child. At eleven the keyhole grew

dark. And during the hours of Mary's heaviest service, there sounded

within the peaceful drawing of uninterrupted breath.

This breathing was a consolation to her during the terrible, creeping

hours, whose paralysing monotony was only interrupted by anxious

crises in the patient's condition.

The breathing seemed to her a greeting from a pure and sisterly

soul--a greeting from that dear land of joy where one can laugh by day

and sing in the dusk and sleep by night.

Nathaniel loved the hymns for the dying.

He asserted that they filled him with true mirth. The more he could

gibe at hell or hear the suffering of the last hours put to scorn, the

more could he master a kind of grim humour. He, the shepherd of souls,

felt it his duty to venture upon the valley of the shadow to which he

had so often led the trembling candidate of death, with the boldness

of a hero in battle.

This poor, timid soul, who had never been able to endure the angry

barking of a dog, played with the terror of death like a bull-necked

gladiator.

"Read me a song of death, but a strengthening one," he would say

repeatedly during the day, but also at night, if he could not sleep.

He needed it as a child needs its cradle song. Often he was angry

when in her confusion and blinded by unshed tears, she chose a wrong

one. Like a literary connoisseur who rolls a Horatian ode or a

Goethean lyric upon his tongue--even thus he enjoyed these

sombre stanzas.

There was one: "I haste to my eternal home," in which the beyond was

likened to a bridal chamber and to a "crystal sea of blessednesses."

There was another: "Greatly rejoice now, O my soul," which would admit

no redeeming feature about this earth, and was really a prayer for

release. And there was one filled with the purest folly of

Christendom: "In peace and joy I fare from hence." And this one

promised a smiling sleep. But they were all overshadowed by that

rejoicing song: "Thank God, the hour has come!" which, like a cry of

victory, points proudly and almost sarcastically to the conquered

miseries of the earth.

The Will to Live of the poor flesh intoxicated itself with these pious

lies as with some hypnotic drug. But at the next moment it recoiled

and gazed yearningly and eager eyed out into the sweet and sinful

world, which didn't tally in the least with that description of it as

a vale of tears, of which the hymns were so full.

Mary read obediently what he demanded. Close to her face she held the

narrow hymn-book, fighting down her sobs. For he did not think of

the tortures he prepared for his anxiously hoping wife.

Why did he thirst for death since he knew that he _must_ not die?

Not yet. Ah, not yet! Now that suddenly a whole, long, unlived life

lay between them--a life they had never even suspected.

She could not name it, this new, rich life, but she felt it

approaching, day by day. It breathed its fragrant breath into her face

and poured an exquisite bridal warmth into her veins.

It was on the fourth day of his imprisonment in his room. The

physician had promised him permission to go out on the morrow.

His recovery was clear.

She sat at the window and inhaled with quivering nostrils the sharp

fragrance of the burning pine cones that floated to her in

bluish waves.

The sun was about to set. An unknown bird sat, far below, in the

orange grove and, as if drunk with light and fragrance, chirped

sleepily and ended with a fluting tone.

Now that the great dread of the last few days was taken from her, that

sweet languor the significance of which she could not guess came over

her again.

Her neighbour had already come home. She opened her window and closed

it, only to open it again. From time to time she sang a few brief

tones, almost like the strange bird in the grove.

Then her door rattled and Angeline's voice cried out with jubilant

laughter: "_Une lettre, Madame, une lettre_!"

"_Une lettre--de qui?_"

"_De lui!_"

Then a silence fell, a long silence.

Who was this "he?" Surely some one at home. It was the hour of the

mail delivery.

But the voice of the maid soon brought enlightenment.

She had managed the affair cleverly. She had met him in the hall and

saluted him so that he had found the courage to address her. And just

now he had pressed the envelope, together with a twenty-franc piece,

into her hand. He asserted that he had an important communication to

make to her mistress, but had never found an opportunity to address

himself to her in person.

"_Tais-toi donc--on nous entend_!"

And from now on nothing was to be heard but whispering and giggling.

Mary felt now a wave of hotness, started from her nape and overflowing

her face.

Listening and with beating heart, she sat there.

What in all the world could he have written? For that it was he, she

could no longer doubt.

Perhaps he had declared his love and begged for the gift of her hand.

A dull feeling of pain, the cause of which was dark to her,

oppressed her heart.

And then she smiled--a smile of renouncement, although there was

surely nothing here for her to renounce!

And anyhow--the thing was impossible. For she, to whom such an offer

is made does not chat with a servant girl. Such an one flees into some

lonely place, kneels down, and prays to God for enlightenment and

grace in face of so important a step.

But indeed she did send the girl away, for the latter's slippers could

he heard trailing along the hall.

Then was heard gentle, intoxicated laughter, full of restrained

jubilation and arch triumph: "_O comme je suis heureuse! Comme je suis

heureuse!"_

Mary felt her eyes grow moist. She felt glad and poignantly sad at the

same time. She would have liked to kiss and bless the other woman, for

now it was clear that he had come to claim her as his bride.

"If she doesn't pray, I will pray for her," she thought, and folded

her hands. Then a voice sounded behind her, hollow as the roll of

falling earth; rasping as coffin cords:

"Read me a song of death, Mary."

A shudder came over her. She jumped up. And she who had hitherto

taken up the hymn-book at his command without hesitation or complaint,

fell down beside his bed and grasped his emaciated arm: "Have pity--I

can't! I can't!"

Three days passed. The sick man preferred to stay in bed, although his

recovery made enormous strides. Mary brewed his teas, gave him his

drops, and read him his songs of death. That one attempt at rebellion

had remained her only one.

She heard but little of her neighbour. It seemed that that letter had

put an end to her talkative merriment. The happiness which she had so

jubilantly confessed seemed to have been of brief duration.

And in those hours when Mary was free to pursue her dreams, she shared

the other's yearning and fear. Probably the old uncle had made

difficulties; had refused his consent, or even demanded the separation

of the lovers.

Perhaps the dark gentleman had gone away. Who could tell?

"What strange eyes he had," she thought at times, and whenever she

thought that, she shivered, for it seemed to her that his hot, veiled

glance was still upon her.

"I wonder whether he is really a good man?" she asked herself. She

would have liked to answer this question in the affirmative, but there

was something that kept her from doing so. And there was another

something in her that took but little note of that aspect, but only

prayed that those two might be happy together, happy as she herself

had never been, happy as--and here lay the secret.

It was a Sunday evening, the last one in January.

Nathaniel lay under the bed-clothes and breathed with difficulty. His

fever was remarkably low, but he was badly smothered.

The lamp burned on the table--a reading lamp had been procured with

difficulty and had been twice carried off in favour of wealthier

guests. Toward the bed Mary had shaded the lamp with a piece of red

blotting paper from her portfolio. A rosy shimmer poured out over the

couch of the ill man, tinted the red covers more red, and caused a

deceptive glow of health to appear on his cheek.

The flasks and vials on the table glittered with an equivocal

friendliness, as though something of the demeanour of him who had

prescribed their contents adhered to them.

Between them lay the narrow old hymnal and the gilt figures, "1795"

shimmered in the middle of the worn and shabby covers.

The hour of retirement had come. The latest of the guests, returning

from the reading room, had said good-night to each other in the

hall. Angeline had been dismissed. Her giggles floated away into

silence along the bannisters and the last of her adorers tiptoed by to

turn out the lights.

From the next room there came no sound. She was surely asleep,

although her breathing was inaudible.

Mary sat at the table. Her head was heavy and she stared into the

luminous circle of the lamp. She needed sleep. Yet she was not sleepy.

Every nerve in her body quivered with morbid energy.

A wish of the invalid called her to his side.

"The pillow has a lump," he said, and tried to turn over on his other

side.

Ah, these pillows of sea-grass. She patted, she smoothed, she did her

best, but his head found no repose.

"Here's another night full of the torment and terror of the flesh," he

said with difficulty, mouthing each word.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"The stuff is bitter--but you see--this fear--there's the air and it

fills everything--they say it's ten miles high--and a man like myself

can't--get enough--you see I'm getting greedy." The mild jest upon

his lips was so unwonted that it frightened her.

"I'd like to ask you to open the window."

She opposed him.

"The night air," she urged; "the draught----"

But that upset him.

"If you can't do me so small a favour in my suffering--"

"Forgive me," she said, "it was only my anxiety for you--"

She got up and opened the French window that gave upon a narrow

balcony.

The moonlight flooded the room.

Pressing her hands to her breast, she inhaled the first aromatic

breath of the night air which cooled and caressed her hot face.

"Is it better so?" she asked, turning around.

He nodded. "It is better so."

Then she stepped out on the balcony. She could scarcely drink her fill

of air and moonlight.

But she drew back, affrighted. What she had just seen was like an

apparition.

On the neighbouring balcony stood, clad in white, flowing garments of

lace, a woman's figure, and stared with wide open eyes into the

moonlight.

It was she--her friend.

Softly Mary stepped out again and observed her, full of shy curiosity.

The moonlight shone full upon the delicate slim face, that seemed to

shine with an inner radiance. The eye had a yearning glow. A smile,

ecstatic and fearful at once, made the lips quiver, and the hands that

grasped the iron railing pulsed as if in fear and expectation.

Mary heard her own heart begin to beat. A hot flush rose into her

face?

What was all that? What did it mean?

Such a look, such a smile, she had never seen in her life. And yet

both seemed infinitely familiar to her. Thus a woman must look who--

She had no time to complete the thought, for a fit of coughing

recalled her to Nathaniel.

A motion of his hand directed her to close the window and the

shutters. It would have been better never to have opened them. Better

for her, too, perhaps.

Then she sat down next to him and held his head until the paroxysm was

over.

He sank back, utterly exhausted. His hand groped for hers. With

abstracted caresses she touched his weary fingers.

Her thoughts dwelt with that white picture without. That poignant

feeling of happiness that she had almost lost during the past few

days, arose in her with a hitherto unknown might.

And now the sick man began to speak.

"You have always been good to me, Mary," he said. "You have always

had patience with me."

"Ah, don't speak so," she murmured.

"And I wish I could say as full of assurance as you could before the

throne of God: 'Father, I have been true to the duty which you have

allotted to me.'"

Her hand quivered in his. A feeling of revulsion smothered the

gentleness of their mood. His words had struck her as a reproach.

Fulfillment of duty! That was the great law to which all human kind

was subject for the sake of God. This law had joined her hand to his,

had accompanied her into the chastity of her bridal bed, and had kept

its vigil through the years by her hearth and in her heart. And thus

love itself had not been difficult to her, for it was commanded to her

and consecrated before the face of God.

And he? He wished for nothing more, knew nothing more. Indeed, what

lies beyond duty would probably have seemed burdensome to him, if not

actually sinful.

But there was something more! She knew it now. She had seen it in that

glance, moist with yearning, lost in the light.

There was something great and ecstatic and all-powerful, something

before which she quailed like a child who must go into the dark,

something that she desired with every nerve and fibre.

Her eye fastened itself upon the purple square of blotting paper which

looked, in the light of the lamp, like glowing metal.

She did not know how long she had sat there. It might have been

minutes or hours. Often enough the morning had caught her

brooding thus.

The sick man's breath came with greater difficulty, his fingers

grasped hers more tightly.

"Do you feel worse?" she asked.

"I am a little afraid," he said; "therefore, read me----"

He stopped, for he felt the quiver of her hand.

"You know, if you don't want to--" He was wounded in his wretched

valetudinarian egotism, which was constantly on the scent of neglect.

"Oh, but I do want to; I want to do everything that might----"

She hurried to the table, pushed the glittering bottles aside, grasped

the hymnal and read at random.

But she had to stop, for it was a prayer for rain that she had begun.

Then, as she was turning the leaves of the book, she heard the hall

door of the next room open with infinite caution; she heard flying,

trembling footsteps cross the room from the balcony.

_"Chut!"_ whispered a trembling voice.

And the door closed as with a weary moan.

What was that?

A suspicion arose in her that brought the scarlet of shame into her

cheek. The whispering next door began anew, passionate, hasty,

half-smothered by anxiety and delight. Two voices were to be

distinguished: a lighter voice which she knew, and a duller voice,

broken into, now and then, by sonorous tones.

The letters dislimned before her eyes. The hymn-book slipped from her

hands. In utter confusion she stared toward the door.

_That_ really existed? Such things were possible in the world;

possible among people garbed in distinction, of careful Christian

training, to whom one looks up as to superior beings?

There was a power upon earth that could make the delicate, radiant,

distinguished woman so utterly forget shame and dignity and

womanliness, that she would open her door at midnight to a man who had

not been wedded to her in the sight of God?

If that could happen, what was there left to cling to in this world?

Where was one's faith in honour, fidelity, in God's grace and one's

own human worth? A horror took hold of her so oppressive that she

thought she must cry out aloud.

With a shy glance she looked at her husband. God grant that he hear

nothing.

She was ashamed before him. She desired to call out, to sing, laugh,

only to drown the noise of that whispering which assailed her ear like

the wave of a fiery sea.

But no, he heard nothing.

His sightless eyes stared at the ceiling. He was busied with his

breathing. His chest heaved and fell like a defective machine.

He didn't even expect her to read to him now. She went up to the bed

and asked, listening with every nerve: "Do you want to sleep,

Nathaniel?"

He lowered his eyelids in assent.

"Yes--read," he breathed.

"Shall I read softly?"

Again he assented.

"But read--don't sleep."

Fear flickered in his eyes.

"No, no," she stammered.

He motioned her to go now, and again became absorbed in the problem of

breathing.

Mary took up the hymnal.

"You are to read a song of death," she said to herself, for her

promise must be kept. And as though she had not understood her own

admonition, she repeated: "You are to read a song of death."

But her hearing was morbidly alert, and while the golden figures on

the book danced a ghostly dance before her eyes, she heard again what

she desired to hear. It was like the whispering of the wind against a

forbidden gate. She caught words:

"_Je t'aime--follement--j'en mourrai--je t'adore--mon amour--mon

amour._"

Mary closed her eyes. It seemed to her again as though hot waves

streamed over her. And she had lost shame, too.

For there was something in all that which silenced reproach, which

made this monstrous deed comprehensible, even natural. If one was so

mad with love, if one felt that one could die of it!

So that existed, and was not only the lying babble of romances?

And her spirit returned and compared her own experience of love with

what she witnessed now.

She had shrunk pitifully from his first kiss. When he had gone, she

had embraced her mother's knees, in fear and torment at the thought of

following this strange man. And she remembered how, on the evening of

her wedding, her mother had whispered into her ear, "Endure, my child,

and pray to God, for that is the lot of woman." And it was that

which, until to-day, she had called love.

Oh, those happy ones there, those happy ones!

"Mary," the hollow voice from the bed came.

She jumped up. "What?"

"You--don't read."

"I'll read; I'll read."

Her hands grovelled among the rough, sticky pages. An odour as of

decaying foliage, which she had never noted before, came from the

book. It was such an odour as comes from dark, ill-ventilated rooms,

and early autumn and everyday clothes.

At last she found what she was seeking. "Kyrie eleison! Christe

eleison! Dear God, Father in heaven, have mercy upon us!"

Her lips babbled what her eyes saw, but her heart and her senses

prayed another prayer: "Father in Heaven, who art love and mercy, do

not count for sin to those two that which they are committing against

themselves. Bless their love, even if they do not desire Thy blessing.

Send faithfulness into their hearts that they cleave to one another

and remain grateful for the bliss which Thou givest them. Ah, those

happy ones, those happy ones!"

Tears came into her eyes. She bent her face upon the yellow leaves of

the book to hide her weeping. It seemed to her suddenly as though

she understood the speech spoken in this land of eternal spring by sun

and sea, by hedges of flowers and evergreen trees, by the song of

birds and the laughter of man. The secret which she had sought to

solve by day and by night lay suddenly revealed before her eyes.

In a sudden change of feeling her heart grew cold toward that sinful

pair for which she had but just prayed. Those people became as

strangers to her and sank into the mist. Their whispering died away as

if it came from a great distance.

It was her own life with which she was now concerned. Gray and morose

with its poverty stricken notion of duty, the past lay behind her.

Bright and smiling a new world floated into her ken.

She had sworn to love him. She had cheated him. She had let him know

want at her side.

Now that she knew what love was, she would reward him an hundred-fold.

She, too, could love to madness, to adoration, to death. And she must

love so, else she would die of famishment.

Her heart opened. Waves of tenderness, stormy, thunderous, mighty,

broke forth therefrom.

Would he desire all that love? And understand it? Was he worthy

of it? What did that matter?

She must give, give without measure and without reward, without

thought and without will, else she would smother under all her riches.

And though he was broken and famished and mean of mind and wretched, a

weakling in body and a dullard in soul; and though he lay there

emaciated and gasping, a skeleton almost, moveless, half given over to

dust and decay--what did it matter?

She loved him, loved him with that new and great love because he alone

in all the world was her own. He was that portion of life and light

and happiness which fate had given her.

She sprang up and stretched out her arms toward him.

"You my only one, my all," she whispered, folding her hands under her

chin and staring at him.

His chest seemed quieter. He lay there in peace.

Weeping with happiness, she threw herself down beside him and kissed

his hands. And then, as he took no notice of all that, a slow

astonishment came over her. Also, she had an insecure feeling that his

hand was not as usual.

Powerless to cry out, almost to breathe, she looked upon him. She

felt his forehead; she groped for his heart. All was still and cold.

Then she knew.

The bell--the waiters--the physician--to what purpose? There was no

need of help here. She knelt down and wanted to pray, and make up for

her neglect.

A vision arose before her: the widow's house at home; her mother; the

tile oven; her old maidenish sisters rattling their wooden crocheting

hooks--and she herself beside them, her blonde hair smoothed with

water, a little riband at her breast, gazing out upon the frozen

fields, and throttling, throttling with love. For he whom fate had

given her could use her love no longer.

From the next room sounded the whispering, monotonous, broken,

assailing her ears in glowing waves:

"_J'en mourrai--je t'adore--mon amour._"

That was his song of death. She felt that it was her own, too.

THE VICTIM

Madame Nelson, the beautiful American, had come to us from Paris,

equipped with a phenomenal voice and solid Italian technique. She had

immediately sung her way into the hearts of Berlin music-lovers,

provided that you care to call a mixture of snobbishness,

sophisticated impressionableness and goose-like imitativeness--heart.

She had, therefore, been acquired by one of our most distinguished

opera houses at a large salary and with long leaves of absence. I use

the plural of opera house in order that no one may try to scent out

the facts.

Now we had her, more especially our world of Lotharios had her. Not

the younger sons of high finance, who make the boudoirs unsafe with

their tall collars and short breeches; nor the bearers of ancient

names who, having hung up their uniforms in the evening, assume

monocle and bracelet and drag these through second and third-class

drawing-rooms. No, she belonged to those worthy men of middle age, who

have their palaces in the west end, whose wives one treats with

infinite respect, and to whose evenings one gives a final touch of

elegance by singing two or three songs for nothing.

Then she committed her first folly. She went travelling with an

Italian tenor. "For purposes of art," was the official version. But

the time for the trip--the end of August--had been unfortunately

chosen. And, as she returned ornamented with scratches administered by

the tenor's pursuing wife--no one believed her.

Next winter she ruined a counsellor of a legation and magnate's son so

thoroughly that he decamped to an unfrequented equatorial region,

leaving behind him numerous promissory notes of questionable value.

This poor fellow was revenged the following winter by a dark-haired

Roumanian fiddler, who beat her and forced her to carry her jewels to

a pawnshop, where they were redeemed at half price by their original

donour and used to adorn the plump, firm body of a stupid little

ballet dancer.

Of course her social position was now forfeited. But then Berlin

forgets so rapidly. She became proper again and returned to her

earlier inclinations for gentlemen of middle life with extensive

palaces and extensive wives. So there were quite a few houses--none of

the strictest tone, of course--that were very glad to welcome the

radiant blonde with her famous name and fragrant and modest

gowns--from Paquin at ten thousand francs a piece.

At the same time she developed a remarkable business instinct. Her

connections with the stock exchange permitted her to speculate without

the slightest risk. For what gallant broker would let a lovely woman

lose? Thus she laid the foundation of a goodly fortune, which was made

to assume stately proportions by a tour through the United States, and

was given a last touch of solidity by a successful speculation in

Dresden real estate.

Furthermore, it would be unjust to conceal the fact that her most

recent admirer, the wool manufacturer Wormser, had a considerable

share in this hurtling rise of her fortunes.

Wormser guarded his good repute carefully. He insisted that his

illegitimate inclinations never lack the stamp of highest elegance. He

desired that they be given the greatest possible publicity at

race-meets and first nights. He didn't care if people spoke with a

degree of rancour, if only he was connected with the temporary lady of

his heart.

Now, to be sure, there was a Mrs. Wormser. She came of a good

Frankfort family. Dowry: a million and a half. She was modern to the

very tips of her nervous, restless fingers.

This lady was inspired by such lofty social ideals that she would

have considered an inelegant _liaison_ on her husband's part, an

insult not only offered to good taste in general, but to her own in

particular. Such an one she would, never have forgiven. On the other

hand, she approved of Madame Nelson thoroughly. She considered her the

most costly and striking addition to her household. Quite

figuratively, of course. Everything was arranged with the utmost

propriety. At great charity festivals the two ladies exchanged a

friendly glance, and they saw to it that their gowns were never made

after the same model.

Then it happened that the house of Wormser was shaken. It wasn't a

serious breakdown, but among the good things that had to be thrown

overboard belonged--at the demand of the helping Frankforters--Madame

Nelson.

And so she waited, like a virgin, for love, like a man in the weather

bureau, for a given star. She felt that her star was yet to rise.

This was the situation when, one day, Herr von Karlstadt had himself

presented to her. He was a captain of industry; international

reputation; ennobled; the not undistinguished son of a great father.

He had not hitherto been found in the market of love, but it was said

of him that notable women had committed follies for his sake. All in

all, he was a man who commanded the general interest in quite a

different measure from Wormser.

But artistic successes had raised Madame Nelson's name once more, too,

and when news of the accomplished fact circulated, society found it

hard to decide as to which of the two lent the other a more brilliant

light, or which was the more to be envied.

However that was, history was richer by a famous pair of lovers.

But, just as there had been a Mrs. Wormser, so there was a Mrs. von

Karlstadt.

And it is this lady of whom I wish to speak.

Mentally as well as physically Mara von Karlstadt did not belong to

that class of persons which imperatively commands the attention of the

public. She was sensitive to the point of madness, a little sensuous,

something of an enthusiast, coquettish only in so far as good taste

demanded it, and hopelessly in love with her husband. She was in love

with him to the extent that she regarded the conquests which

occasionally came to him, spoiled as he was, as the inevitable

consequences of her fortunate choice. They inspired her with a certain

woeful anger and also with a degree of pride.

The daughter of a great land owner in South Germany, she had been

brought up in seclusion, and had learned only very gradually how to

glide unconcernedly through the drawing-rooms. A tense smile upon her

lips, which many took for irony, was only a remnant of her old

diffidence. Delicate, dark in colouring, with a fine cameo-like

profile, smooth hair and a tawny look in her near-sighted eyes--thus

she glided about in society, and few but friends of the house took any

notice of her.

And this woman who found her most genuine satisfaction in the

peacefulness of life, who was satisfied if she could slip into her

carriage at midnight without the annoyance of one searching glance, of

one inquiring word, saw herself suddenly and without suspecting the

reason, become the centre of a secret and almost insulting curiosity.

She felt a whispering behind her in society; she saw from her box the

lenses of many opera glasses pointing her way.

The conversation of her friends began to teem with hints, and into the

tone of the men whom she knew there crept a kind of tender compassion

which pained her even though she knew not how to interpret it.

For the present no change was to be noted in the demeanour of her

husband. His club and his business had always kept him away from home

a good deal, and if a few extra hours of absence were now added, it

was easy to account for these in harmless ways, or rather, not to

account for them at all, since no one made any inquiry.

Then, however, anonymous letters began to come--thick, fragrant ones

with stamped coronets, and thin ones on ruled paper with the smudges

of soiled fingers.

She burned the first batch; the second she handed to her husband.

The latter, who was not far from forty, and who had trained himself to

an attitude of imperious brusqueness, straightened up, knotted his

bushy Bismarck moustache, and said:

"Well, suppose it is true. What have you to lose?"

She did not burst into tears of despair; she did not indulge in fits

of rage; she didn't even leave the room with quiet dignity; her soul

seemed neither wounded nor broken. She was not even affrighted. She

only thought: "I have forgiven him so much; why not forgive him

this, too?"

And as she had shared him before without feeling herself degraded, so

she would try to share him again.

But she soon observed that this logic of the heart would prove wanting

in this instance.

In former cases she had concealed his weakness under a veil of care

and considerateness. The fear of discovery had made a conscious but

silent accessory of her. When it was all over she breathed deep relief

at the thought; "I am the only one who even suspected."

This time all the world seemed invited to witness the spectacle.

For now she understood all that, in recent days had tortured her like

an unexplained blot, an alien daub in the face which every one sees

but he whom it disfigures. Now she knew what the smiling hints of her

friends and the consoling desires of men had meant. Now she recognised

the reason why she was wounded by the attention of all.

She was "the wife of the man whom Madame Nelson ..."

And so torturing a shame came upon her as though she herself were the

cause of the disgrace with which the world seemed to overwhelm her.

This feeling had not come upon her suddenly. At first a stabbing

curiosity had awakened in her a self-torturing expectation, not

without its element of morbid attraction. Daily she asked herself:

"What will develope to-day?"

With quivering nerves and cramped heart, she entered evening after

evening, for the season was at its height, the halls of strangers on

her husband's arm.

And it was always the same thing. The same glances that passed from

her to him and from him to her, the same compassionate sarcasm upon

averted faces, the same hypocritical delicacy in conversation, the

same sudden silence as soon as she turned to any group of people to

listen--the same cruel pillory for her evening after evening, night

after night.

And if all this had not been, she would have felt it just the same.

And in these drawing-rooms there were so many women whose husbands'

affairs were the talk of the town. Even her predecessor, Mrs. Wormser,

had passed over the expensive immorality of her husband with a

self-sufficing smile and a condescending jest, and the world had bowed

down to her respectfully, as it always does when scenting a

temperament that it is powerless to wound.

Why had this martyrdom come to her, of all people?

Thus, half against her own will, she began to hide, to refuse this or

that invitation, and to spend the free evenings in the nursery,

watching over the sleep of her boys and weaving dreams of a new

happiness. The illness of her older child gave her an excuse for

withdrawing from society altogether and her husband did not

restrain her.

It had never come to an explanation between them, and as he was always

considerate, even tender, and as sharp speeches were not native to

her temper, the peace of the home was not disturbed.

Soon it seemed to her, too, as though the rude inquisitiveness of the

world were slowly passing away. Either one had abandoned the critical

condition of her wedded happiness for more vivid topics, or else she

had become accustomed to the state of affairs.

She took up a more social life, and the shame which she had felt in

appearing publicly with her husband gradually died out.

What did not die out, however, was a keen desire to know the nature

and appearance of the woman in whose hands lay her own destiny. How

did she administer the dear possession that fate had put in her power?

And when and how would she give it back?

She threw aside the last remnant of reserve and questioned friends.

Then, when she was met by a smile of compassionate ignorance, she

asked women. These were more ready to report. But she would not and

could not believe what she was told. He had surely not degraded

himself into being one of a succession of moneyed rakes. It was clear

to her that, in order to soothe her grief, people slandered the woman

and him with her.

In order to watch her secretly, she veiled heavily and drove to the

theatre where Madame Nelson was singing. Shadowlike she cowered

in the depths of a box which she had rented under an assumed name and

followed with a kind of pained voluptuousness the ecstasies of love

which the other woman, fully conscious of the victorious loveliness of

her body, unfolded for the benefit of the breathless crowd.

With such an abandoned raising of her radiant arms, she threw herself

upon _his_ breast; with that curve of her modelled limbs, she lay

before _his_ knees.

And in her awakened a reverent, renouncing envy of a being who had so

much to give, beside whom she was but a dim and poor shadow, weary

with motherhood, corroded with grief.

At the same time there appeared a California mine owner, a

multi-millionaire, with whom her husband had manifold business

dealings. He introduced his daughters into society and himself gave a

number of luxurious dinners at which he tried to assemble guests of

the most exclusive character.

Just as they were about to enter a carriage to drive to the "Bristol,"

to one of these dinners, a message came which forced Herr von

Karlstadt to take an immediate trip to his factories. He begged his

wife to go instead, and she did not refuse.

The company was almost complete and the daughter of the mine owner

was doing the honours of the occasion with appropriate grace when the

doors of the reception room opened for the last time and through the

open doorway floated rather than walked--Madame Nelson.

The petrified little group turned its glance of inquisitive horror

upon Mrs. von Karlstadt, while the mine owner's daughter adjusted the

necessary introductions with a grand air.

Should she go or not? No one was to be found who would offer her his

arm. Her feet were paralysed. And she remained.

The company sat down at table. And since fate, in such cases, never

does its work by halves, it came to pass that Madame Nelson was

assigned to a seat immediately opposite her.

The people present seemed grateful to her that they had not been

forced to witness a scene, and overwhelmed her with delicate signs of

this gratitude. Slowly her self-control returned to her. She dared to

look about her observantly, and, behold, Madame Nelson appealed

to her.

Her French was faultless, her manners equally so, and when the

Californian drew her into the conversation, she practised the delicate

art of modest considerateness to the extent of talking past Mrs. von

Karlstadt in such a way that those who did not know were not

enlightened and those who knew felt their anxiety depart.

In order to thank her for this alleviation of a fatally painful

situation, Mrs. von Karlstadt occasionally turned perceptibly toward

the singer. For this Madame Nelson was grateful in her turn. Thus

their glances began to meet in friendly fashion, their voices to

cross, the atmosphere became less constrained from minute to minute,

and when the meal was over the astonished assembly had come to the

conclusion that Mrs. von Karlstadt was ignorant of the true state

of affairs.

The news of this peculiar meeting spread like a conflagration. Her

women friends hastened to congratulate her on her strength of mind;

her male friends praised her loftiness of spirit. She went through the

degradation which she had suffered as though it were a triumph. Only

her husband went about for a time with an evil conscience and a

frowning forehead.

Months went by. The quietness of summer intervened, but the memory of

that evening rankled in her and blinded her soul. Slowly the thought

arose in her which was really grounded in vanity, but looked, in its

execution, like suffering love--the thought that she would legitimise

her husband's irregularity in the face of society.

Hence when the season began again she wrote a letter to Madame Nelson

in which she invited her, in a most cordial way, to sing at an

approaching function in her home. She proffered this request, not only

in admiration of the singer's gifts, but also, as she put it, "to

render nugatory a persistent and disagreeable rumour."

Madame Nelson, to whom this chance of repairing her fair fame was very

welcome, had the indiscretion to assent, and even to accept the

condition of entire secrecy in regard to the affair.

The chronicler may pass over the painful evening in question with

suitable delicacy of touch. Nothing obvious or crass took place.

Madame Nelson sang three enchanting songs, accompanied by a first-rate

pianist. A friend of the house of whom the hostess had requested this

favour took Madame Nelson to the _buffet_. A number of guileless

individuals surrounded that lady with hopeful adoration. An ecstatic

mood prevailed. The one regrettable feature of the occasion was that

the host had to withdraw--as quietly as possible, of course--on

account of a splitting head-ache.

Berlin society, which felt wounded in the innermost depth of its

ethics, never forgave the Karlstadts for this evening. I believe that

in certain circles the event is still remembered, although years

have passed.

Its immediate result, however, was a breach between man and wife.

Mara went to the Riviera, where she remained until spring.

An apparent reconciliation was then patched up, but its validity was

purely external.

Socially, too, things readjusted themselves, although people continued

to speak of the Karlstadt house with a smile that asked for

indulgence.

Mara felt this acutely, and while her husband appeared oftener and

more openly with his mistress, she withdrew into the silence of her

inner chambers.

* * * * *

Then she took a lover.

Or, rather, she was taken by him.

A lonely evening ... A fire in the chimney ... A friend who came in by

accident ... The same friend who had taken care of Madame Nelson for

her on that memorable evening ... The fall of snow without ... A burst

of confidence ... A sob ... A nestling against the caressing hand ...

It was done ...

Months passed. She experienced not one hour of intoxication, not one

of that inner absolution which love brings. It was moral slackness and

weariness that made her yield again....

Then the consequences appeared.

Of course, the child could not, must not, be born. And it was not

born. One can imagine the horror of that tragic time: the criminal

flame of sleepless nights, the blood-charged atmosphere of guilty

despair, the moans of agony that had to be throttled behind

closed doors.

What remained to her was lasting invalidism.

The way from her bed to an invalid's chair was long and hard.

Time passed. Improvements came and gave place to lapses in her

condition. Trips to watering-places alternated with visits to

sanatoriums.

In those places sat the pallid, anaemic women who had been tortured

and ruined by their own or alien guilt. There they sat and engaged in

wretched flirtations with flighty neurasthenics.

And gradually things went from bad to worse. The physicians shrugged

their friendly shoulders.

And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of

running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of

passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced

it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to

be counted among the great lovers of all time.

* * * * *

One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat

down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of

everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips:

"Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?"

He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business

lady?"

They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal.

His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth

squandered....

And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their

foreheads against each other, and wept.

AUTUMN

Chapter I.

It was on a sunny afternoon in October. Human masses streamed through

the alleys of the _Tiergarten_. With the desperate passion of an

ageing woman who feels herself about to be deserted, the giant city

received the last caresses of summer. A dotted throng that was not

unlike the chaos of the _Champs Élysées_, filled the broad, gray road

that leads to Charlottenburg.

Berlin, which cannot compete with any other great European city, as

far as the luxury of vehicular traffic is concerned, seemed to have

sent out to-day all it possessed in that kind. The weather was too

beautiful for closed _coupés_, and hence the comfortable family landau

was most in evidence. Only now and then did an elegant victoria glide

along, or an aristocratic four-in-hand demand the respectful yielding

of the crowd.

A dog-cart of dark yellow, drawn by a magnificent trotter, attracted

the attention of experts. The noble animal, which seemed to feel the

security of the guiding hand, leaned, snorting, upon its bit. With far

out-reaching hind legs, it flew along, holding its neck moveless, as

became a scion of its race.

The man who drove was sinewy, tall, about forty, with clear, gray

eyes, sharply cut profile and a close-clipped moustache. In his thin,

brownish cheeks were several deep scars, and between the straight,

narrow brows could be seen two salient furrows.

His attire--an asphalt-gray, thick-seamed overcoat, a coloured shirt

and red gloves--did not deny the sportsman. His legs, which pressed

against the footboard, were clad in tight, yellow riding boots.

Many people saluted him. He returned their salutations with that

careless courtesy which belongs to those who know themselves to have

transcended the judgment of men.

If one of his acquaintances happened to be accompanied by a lady, he

bowed deeply and respectfully, but without giving the ladies in

question a single glance.

People looked after him and mentioned his name: Baron von Stueckrath.

Ah, that fellow ...

And they looked around once more.

At the square of the _Great Star_ he turned to the left, drove along

the river, passed the well-known resort called simply _The Tents_,

and stopped not far from the building of the general staff of the army

and drew up before a large distinguished house with a fenced front

garden and cast-iron gate to the driveway.

He threw the reins to the groom, who sat statuesquely behind him, and

said: "Drive home."

Jumping from the cart, he observed the handle of the scraper sticking

in the top of one of his boots. He drew it out, threw it on the seat,

and entered the house.

The janitor, an old acquaintance, greeted him with the servile

intimacy of the tip-expecting tribe.

On the second floor he stopped and pulled the bell whose glass knob

glittered above a neat brass plate.

"Ludovika Kraissl," was engraved upon it.

A maid, clad with prim propriety in a white apron and white lace cap,

opened the door.

He entered and handed her his hat.

"Is Madame at home?"

"No, sir."

He looked at her through half-closed lids, and observed how her

milk-white little madonna's face flushed to the roots of her

blonde hair.

"Where did she go?"

"Madame meant to go to the dressmaker," the girl stuttered, "and to

make some purchases." She avoided his eyes. She had been in service

only three months and had not yet perfected herself in lying.

He whistled a tune between his set teeth and entered the drawing-room.

A penetrating perfume streamed forth.

"Open the window, Meta."

She passed noiselessly through the room and executed his command.

Frowning, he looked about him. The empty pomp of the light woman

offended his taste. The creature who lived here had a gift for filling

every corner with banal and tasteless trivialities.

When he had turned over the flat to her it had been a charming little

place, full of delicate tints and the simple lines of Louis Seize

furniture. In a few years she had made a junk shop of it.

"Would you care for tea, sir, or anything else?" the girl asked.

"No, thank you. Pull off my boots, Meta. I'll change my dress and then

go out again."

Modestly, almost humbly, she bowed before him and set his spurred foot

gently on her lap. Then she loosened the top straps. He let his glance

rest, well pleased, upon her smooth, silvery blonde hair.

How would it work if he sent his mistress packing and installed this

girl in her place?

But he immediately abandoned the thought. He had seen the thing done

by some of his friends. In a single year the chastest and most modest

servant girl was so thoroughly corrupted that she had to be driven

into the streets.

"We men seem to emit a pestilential air," he reflected, "that corrupts

every woman."

"Or at least men of my kind," he added carefully.

"Have you any other wishes, sir?" asked the girl, daintily wiping her

hands on her apron.

"No, thank you."

She turned to the door.

"One thing more, Meta. When did Madame say she would be back?"

Her face was again mantled with blood.

"She didn't say anything definite. I was to make her excuses. She

intended to return home by evening, at all events."

He nodded and the girl went with a sigh of relief, gently closing the

door behind her.

He continued to whistle, and looked up at a hanging lamp, which

defined itself against the window niche by means of a wreath of gay

artificial flowers.

In this hanging lamp, which hung there unnoticed and unreachable from

the floor, he had, a year ago, quite by accident, discovered a store

of love letters. His mistress had concealed them there since she

evidently did not even consider the secret drawer of her desk a

sufficiently safe repository.

He had carefully kept the secret of the lamp to himself, and had only

fed his grim humour from time to time by observing the changes of her

heart by means of added missives. In this way he had been able to

observe the number of his excellent friends with whom she

deceived him.

Thus his contempt for mankind assumed monstrous proportions, but this

contempt was the one emotional luxury which his egoism was still

capable of.

He grasped a chair and seemed, for a moment about to mount to the lamp

to inspect her latest history. But he let his hand fall. After all, it

was indifferent with whom she was unfaithful to-day....

And he was tired. A bad day's work lay behind him. A three-year-old

full-blooded horse, recently imported from Hull, had proven itself

abnormally sensitive and had brought him to the verge of despair by

its fearfulness and its moods. He had exercised it for hours, and had

only succeeded in making the animal more nervous than before. Great

sums were at stake if the fault should prove constitutional and

not curable.

He felt the impulse to share his worries with some one, but he knew of

no one. From the point of view of Miss Ludi's naïve selfishness, it

was simply his duty to be successful. She didn't care for the

troublesome details. At his club, again, each one was warily guarding

his own interests. Hence it was necessary there to speak carefully,

since an inadvertent expression might affect general opinion.

He almost felt impelled to call in the maid and speak to her of his

worries.

Then his own softness annoyed him.

It was his wont to pass through life in lordly isolation and to

astonish the world by his successes. That was all he needed.

Yawning he stretched himself out on the _chaise longue_. Time dragged.

Three hours would pass until Ludi's probable return. He was so

accustomed to the woman's society that he almost longed for her. Her

idle chatter helped him. Her little tricks refreshed him. But the most

important point was this: she was no trouble. He could caress her or

beat her, call to her and drive her from him like a little dog. He

could let her feel the full measure of his contempt, and she would not

move a muscle. She was used to nothing else.

He passed two or three hours daily in her company, for time had to be

killed somehow. Sometimes, too, he took her to the circus or the

theatre. He had long broken with the families of his acquaintance and

could appear in public with light women.

And yet he felt a sharp revulsion at the atmosphere that surrounded

him. A strange discomfort invaded his soul in her presence. He didn't

feel degraded. He knew her to be a harlot. But that was what he

wanted. None but such an one would permit herself to be so treated. It

was rather a disguised discouragement that held him captive.

Was life to pass thus unto the very end? Was life worth living, if it

offered a favourite of fortune, a master of his will and of his

actions, nothing better than this?

"Surely I have the spleen," he said to himself, sprang up, and went

into the next room to change his clothes. He had a wardrobe in Ludi's

dressing room in order to be able to go out from here in the evening

unrestrainedly.

Chapter II.

It was near four o'clock.

The sun laughed through the window. Its light was deep purple,

changing gradually to violet. Masses of leaves, red as rust, gleamed

over from the _Tiergarten_. The figure of Victory upon the triumphal

column towered toward heaven like a mighty flame.

He felt an impulse to wander through the alleys of the park idly and

aimlessly, at most to give a coin to a begging child.

He left the house and went past the Moltke monument and the winding

ways that lead to the Charlottenburg road.

The ground exhaled the sweetish odour of decaying plants. Rustling

heaps of leaves, which the breezes of noon had swept together, flew

apart under his tread. The westering sun threw red splotches of light

on the faint green of the tree trunks that exuded their moisture in

long streaks.

Here it was lonely. Only beyond the great road, whose many-coloured

pageant passed by him like a kinematograph, did he hear again in the

alleys the sounds of children's voices, song and laughter.

In the neighbourhood of the _Rousseau Island_ he met a gentleman whom

he knew and who had been a friend of his youth. Stout of form, his

round face surrounded by a close-clipped beard, he wandered along,

leading two little girls in red, while a boy in a blue sailor suit

rode ahead, herald-like, on his father's walking-stick.

The two men bowed to each other coolly, but without ill-will. They

were simply estranged. The busy servant of the state and father of a

family was scarcely to be found in those circles were the daily work

consists in riding and betting and gambling.

Stueckrath sat down on a bench and gazed after the group. The little

red frocks gleamed through the bushes, and Papa's admonishing and

restraining voice was to be heard above the noise of the boy who made

a trumpet of his hollow hand.

"Is that the way happiness looks?" he asked himself. "Can a man of

energy and action find satisfaction in these banal domesticities?"

And strangely enough, these fathers of families, men who serve the

state and society, who occupy high offices, make important inventions

and write good books--these men have red cheeks and laughing eyes.

They do not look as though the burden which they carry squeezes the

breath of life out of them. They get ahead, in spite of the childish

hands that cling to their coats, in spite of the trivialities with

which they pass their hours of leisure.

An indeterminate feeling of envy bored into his soul. He fought it

down and went on, right into the throng that filled the footpaths of

the _Tiergarten_. Groups of ladies from the west end went by him in

rustling gowns of black. He did not know them and did not wish to

know them.

Here, too, he recognized fewer of the men. The financiers who have

made this quarter their own appear but rarely at the races.

Accompanying carriages kept pace with the promenaders in order to

explain and excuse their unusual exertion. For in this world the

continued absence of one's carriage may well shake one's credit.

The trumpeting motor-cars whirred by with gleaming brasses. Of the

beautiful women in them, little could be seen in the swift gleams. It

was the haste of a new age that does not even find time to display

its vanity.

Upon the windows of the villas and palaces opposite lay the iridescent

glow of the evening sun. The façades took on purple colours, and the

decaying masses of vines that weighed heavily upon the fences seemed

to glow and shine from within with the very phosphorescence of decay.

Flooded by this light, a slender, abnormally tall girl came into

Stueckrath's field of vision. She led by the arm an aged lady, who

hobbled with difficulty along the pebbly path. A closed carriage with

escutcheon and coronet followed the two slowly.

He stopped short. An involuntary movement had passed through his body,

an impulse to turn off into one of the side paths. But he conquered

himself at once, and looked straight at the approaching ladies.

Like a mere line of blackness, thin of limb and waist, attired with

nun-like austerity in garments that hung as if withering upon her, she

stood against the background of autumnal splendour.

Now she recognised him, too. A sudden redness that at once gave way to

lifeless pallor flashed across her delicate, stern face.

They looked straight into each other's eyes.

He bowed deeply. She smiled with an effort at indifference.

"And so she is faded, too," he thought. To be sure, her face still

bore the stamp of a simple and severe beauty, but time and grief had

dealt ungently with it. The lips were pale and anaemic, two or three

folds, sharp as if made with a knife, surrounded them. About the eyes,

whose soft and lambent light of other days had turned into a hard and

troubled sharpness, spread concentric rings, united by a net-work of

veins and wrinkles.

He stood still, lost in thought, and looked after her.

She still trod the earth like a queen, but her outline was detestable.

Only hopelessness bears and attires itself thus.

He calculated. She must be thirty-six. Thirteen years ago he had known

her and--loved her? Perhaps....

At least he had left her the evening before their formal betrothal was

to take place because her father had dared to remark upon his way

of life.

He loved his personal liberty more than his beautiful and wealthy

betrothed who clung to him with every fibre of her delicate and noble

soul. One word from her, had it been but a word of farewell, would

have recalled him. That word remained unspoken.

Thus her life's happiness had been wrecked. Perhaps his, too. What did

it matter?

Since then he had nothing but contempt for the daughters of good

families. Other women were less exacting; they did not attempt to

circumscribe his freedom.

He gazed after her long. Now groups of other pedestrians intervened;

now her form reappeared sharp and narrow against the trees. From time

to time she stooped lovingly toward the old lady, who, as is the wont

of aged people, trod eagerly and fearfully.

This fragile heap of bones, with the dull eyes and the sharp voice--he

remembered the voice well: it had had part in his decision. This

strange, unsympathetic, suspicious old woman, he would have had to

call "Mother."

What madness! What hypocrisy!

And yet his hunger for happiness, which had not yet died, reminded him

of all that might have been.

A sea of warm, tender and unselfish love would have flooded him and

fructified and vivified the desert of his soul. And instead of

becoming withered and embittered, she would have blossomed at his side

more richly from day to day.

Now it was too late. A long, thin, wretched little creature--she went

her way and was soon lost in the distance.

But there clung to his soul the yearning for a woman--one who had more

of womanliness than its name and its body, more than the harlot whom

he kept because he was too slothful to drive her from him.

He sought the depths of his memory. His life had been rich in gallant

adventures. Many a full-blooded young woman had thrown herself at him,

and had again vanished from his life under the compulsion of his

growing coldness.

He loved his liberty. Even an unlawful relation felt like a fetter so

soon as it demanded any sacrifice of time or interests. Also, he did

not like to give less than he received. For, since the passing of his

unscrupulous youth, he had not cared to receive the gift of a human

destiny only to throw it aside as his whim demanded.

And therefore his life had grown quiet during the last few years.

He thought of one of his last loves ... the very last ... and smiled.

The image of a delicately plump brunette little woman, with dreamy

eyes and delicious little curls around her ears, rose up before him.

She dwelt in his memory as she had seemed to him: modest, soulful, all

ecstatic yielding and charming simple-heartedness.

She did not belong to society. He had met her at a dinner given by a

financial magnate. She was the wife of an upper clerk who was well

respected in the business world. With adoring curiosity, she peeped

into the great strange world, whose doors opened to her for the

first time.

He took her to the table, was vastly entertained by the lack of

sophistication with which she received all these new impressions, and

smilingly accepted the undisguised adoration with which she regarded

him in his character of a famous horseman and rake.

He flirted with her a bit and that turned her head completely. In

lonely dreams her yearning for elegant and phantastic sin had grown to

enormity. She was now so wholly and irresistibly intoxicated that he

received next morning a deliciously scribbled note in which she begged

him for a secret meeting--somewhere in the neighbourhood of the

_Arkona Place_ or _Weinmeisterstrasse_, regions as unknown to him as

the North Cape or Yokohama.

Two or three meetings followed. She appeared, modest, anxious and in

love, a bunch of violets for his button-hole in her hand, and some

surprise for her husband in her pocket.

Then the affair began to bore him and he refused an appointment.

One evening, during the last days of November, she appeared, thickly

veiled, in his dwelling, and sank sobbing upon his breast. She could

not live without seeing him; she was half crazed with longing; he was

to do with her what he would. He consoled her, warmed her, and kissed

the melting snow from her hair. But when in his joy at what he

considered the full possession of a jewel his tenderness went beyond

hers, her conscience smote her. She was an honest woman. Horror and

shame would drive her into her grave if she went hence an adulteress.

He must have pity on her and be content with her pure adoration.

He had the requisite pity, dismissed her with a paternal kiss upon her

forehead, but at the same time ordered his servant to admit her

no more.

Then came two or three letters. In her agony over the thought of

losing him, she was willing to break down the last reserve. But he did

not answer the letters.

At the same time the thought came to him of going up the Nile in a

dahabiyeh. He was bored and had a cold.

On the evening of his departure he found her waiting in his rooms.

"What do you want?"

"Take me along."

"How do you know?"

"Take me along."

She said nothing else.

The necessity of comforting her was clear. A thoroughgoing farewell

was celebrated, with the understanding that it was a farewell forever.

The pact had been kept. After his return and for two years more she

had given no sign of life. He now thought of this woman. He felt a

poignant longing for the ripe sweetness of her oval face, the veiled

depth of her voice. He desired once more to be embraced by her firm

arms, to be kissed by her mad, hesitating lips.

Why had he dropped her? How could he have abandoned her so rudely?

The thought came into his head of looking her up now, in this very

hour.

He had a dim recollection of the whereabouts of her dwelling. He could

soon ascertain its exact situation.

Then again the problems of his racing stable came into his head. The

thought of "Maidenhood," the newly purchased horse, worried him. He

had staked much upon one throw. If he lost, it would take time to

repair the damage.

Suddenly he found himself in a tobacconist's shop, looking for her

name in the directory. _Friedrich-Wilhelm Strasse_ was the address.

Quite near, as he had surmised.

He was not at loss for an excuse. Her husband must still be in his

office at this hour. He would not be asked for any very strict

accounting for his action. At worst there was an approaching riding

festival, for which he could request her cooperation.

Perhaps she had forgotten him and would revenge herself for her

humiliation. Perhaps she would be insulted and not even receive him.

At best he must count upon coldness, bitter truths and that appearance

of hatred which injured love assumes.

What did it matter? She was a woman, after all.

The vestibule of the house was supported by pillars; its walls were

ornately stuccoed; the floor was covered with imitation oriental rugs.

It was the rented luxury with which the better middle-class loves to

surround itself.

He ascended three flights of stairs.

An elderly servant in a blue apron regarded the stranger suspiciously.

He asked for her mistress.

She would see. Holding his card gingerly, she disappeared.

Now _he_ would see....

Then, as he bent forward, listening, he heard through the open door a

cry--not of horrified surprise, but of triumph and jubilation, such a

cry of sudden joy as only a long and hopeless and unrestrainable

yearning can send forth.

He thought he had heard wrong, but the smiling face of the returning

servant reassured him.

He was to be made welcome.

Chapter III.

He entered. With outstretched hands, tears in her eyes, her face

a-quiver with a vain attempt at equanimity--thus she came forward

to meet him.

"There you are ... there you are ... you...."

Overwhelmed and put to shame by her forgiveness and her happiness, he

stood before her in silence.

What could he have said to her that would not have sounded either

coarse or trivial?

And she demanded neither explanation nor excuse.

He was here--that was enough for her.

As he let his glance rest upon her, he confessed that his mental image

of her fell short of the present reality.

She had grown in soul and stature. Her features bore signs of power

and restraint, and of a strong inner tension. Her eyes sought him with

a steady light; in her bosom battled the pent-up joy.

She asked him to be seated. "In that corner," she said, and led him to

a tiny sofa covered with glittering, light-green silk, above which

hung a withered palm-leaf fan.

"I have sat there so often," she went on, "so often, and have thought

of you, always--always. You'll drink tea, won't you?"

He was about to refuse, but she interrupted him.

"Oh, but you must, you must. You can't refuse! It has been my dream

all this time to drink tea with you here just once--just once. To

serve you on this little table and hand you the basket with cakes! Do

you see this little lacquer table, with the lovely birds of inlaid

mother-of-pearl? I had that given to me last Christmas for the

especial purpose of serving you tea on it. For I said to myself: 'He

is accustomed to the highest elegance.' And you are here and are going

to refuse? No, no, that's impossible. I couldn't bear that."

And she flew to the door and called out her orders to the servant.

He regarded her in happy astonishment. In all her movements there was

a rhythm of unconscious loveliness, such as he had rarely seen in any

woman. With simple, unconscious elegance, her dress flowed about her

taller figure, whose severe lines were softened by the womanly curves

of her limbs. And all that belonged to him.

He could command this radiant young body and this radiant young soul.

All that was one hunger to be possessed by him.

"Bind her to yourself," cried his soul, "and build yourself a new

happiness!"

Then she returned. She stopped a few paces from him, folded her hands

under her chin, gazed at him wide-eyed and whispered: "There he is!

There he is!"

He grew uncomfortable under this expense of passion.

"I should wager that I sit here with a foolish face," he thought.

"But now I'm going to be sensible," she went on, sitting down on a low

stool that stood next to the sofa. "And while the tea is steeping you

must tell me how things have gone with you all this long time. For it

is a very long time since ... Ah, a long time...."

It seemed to him that there was a reproach behind these words. He gave

but a dry answer to her question, but threw the more warmth into his

inquiries concerning her life.

She laughed and waved her hand.

"Oh, I!" she cried. "I have fared admirably. Why should I not? Life

makes me as happy as though I were a child. Oh, I can always be

happy.... That's characteristic of me. Nearly every day brings

something new and usually something delightful.... And since I've been

in love with you.... You mustn't take that for a banal declaration of

passion, dear friend.... Just imagine you are merely my confidant, and

that I'm telling you of my distant lover who takes little notice of a

foolish woman like myself. But then, that doesn't matter so long as I

know that he is alive and can fear and pray for him; so long as the

same morning sun shines on us both. Why, do you know, it's a most

delicious feeling, when the morning is fair and the sun golden and one

may stand at the window and say: 'Thank God, it is a beautiful day

for him.'"

He passed his hand over his forehead.

"It isn't possible," he thought. "Such things don't exist in this

world."

And she went on, not thinking that perhaps he, too, would want to

speak.

"I don't know whether many people have the good fortune to be as happy

as I. But I am, thank God. And do you know, the best part of it all

and the sunniest, I owe to you. For instance: Summer before last we

went to Heligoland, last summer to Schwarzburg.... Do you know it?

Isn't it beautiful? Well, for instance: I wake up; I open my eyes to

the dawn. I get up softly, so as not to disturb my husband, and go on

my bare feet to the window. Without, the wooded mountains lie dark and

peaceful. There is a peace over it all that draws one's tears ... it

is so beautiful ... and behind, on the horizon, there shines a broad

path of gold. And the fir-trees upon the highest peaks are sharply

defined against the gold, like little men with many outstretched arms.

And already the early piping of a few birds is heard. And I fold my

hands and think: I wonder where he is.... And if he is asleep, has he

fair dreams? Ah, if he were here and could see all this loveliness.

And I think of _him_ with such impassioned intensity that it is not

hard to believe him here and able to see it all. And at last a chill

comes up, for it is always cool in the mountains, as you know.... And

then one slips back into bed, and is annoyed to think that one must

sleep four hours more instead of being up and thinking of him. And

when one wakes up for a second time, the sun throws its golden light

into the windows, and the breakfast table is set on the balcony. And

one's husband has been up quite a while, but waits patiently. And his

dear, peaceful face is seen through the glass door. At such moments

one's heart expands in gratitude to God who has made life so beautiful

and one can hardly bear one's own happiness--and--there is the tea."

The elderly maid came in with a salver, which she placed on the piano,

in order to set the little table properly. A beautiful napkin of

damask silk lay ready. The lady of the house scolded jestingly. It

would injure the polish of the piano, and what was her guest to think

of such shiftlessness.

The maid went out.

She took up the tea-kettle, and asked in a voice full of bliss.

"Strong or weak, dear master?"

"Strong, please."

"One or two lumps of sugar?"

"Two lumps, please."

She passed him the cup with a certain solemnity.

"So this is the great moment, the pinnacle of all happiness as I have

dreamed of it! Now, tell me yourself: Am I not to be envied? Whatever

I wish is fulfilled. And, do you know, last year in Heligoland I had a

curious experience. We capsised by the dunes and I fell into the

water. As I lost consciousness, I thought that you were there and were

saving me. Later when I lay on the beach, I saw, of course, that it

had been only a stupid old fisherman. But the feeling was so wonderful

while it lasted that I almost felt like jumping into the water again.

Speaking of water, do you take rum in your tea?"

He shook his head. Her chatter, which at first had enraptured him,

began to fill him with sadness. He did not know how to respond. His

youthfulness and flexibility of mind had passed from him long ago: he

had long lost any inner cheerfulness.

And while she continued to chat, his thoughts wandered, like a horse,

on their accustomed path on the road of his daily worries. He thought

of an unsatisfactory jockey, of the nervous horse.

What was this woman to him, after all?

"By the way," he heard her say, "I wanted to ask you whether

'Maidenhood' has arrived?"

He sat up sharply and stared at her. Surely he had heard wrong.

"What do you know about 'Maidenhood'?"

"But, my dear friend, do you suppose I haven't heard of your beautiful

horse, by 'Blue Devil' out of 'Nina'? Now, do you see? I believe I

know the grandparents, too. Anyhow, you are to be congratulated on

your purchase. The English trackmen are bursting with envy. To judge

by that, you ought to have an immense success."

"But, for heaven's sake, how do you know all this?"

"Dear me, didn't your purchase appear in all the sporting papers?"

"Do you read those papers?"

"Surely. You see, here is the last number of the _Spur_, and yonder is

the bound copy of the _German Sporting News_."

"I see; but to what purpose?"

"Oh, I'm a sporting lady, dear master. I look upon the world of

horses--is that the right expression?--with benevolent interest. I

hope that isn't forbidden?"

"But you never told me a word about that before!"

She blushed a little and cast her eyes down.

"Oh, before, before.... That interest didn't come until later."

He understood and dared not understand.

"Don't look at me so," she besought him; there's nothing very

remarkable about it. I just said to myself: "Well, if he doesn't want

you, at least you can share his life from afar. That isn't immodest,

is it? And then the race meets were the only occasions on which I

could see you from afar. And whenever you yourself rode--oh, how my

heart beat--fit to burst. And when you won, oh, how proud I was! I

could have cried out my secret for all the world to hear. And my poor

husband's arm was always black and blue. I pinched him first in my

anxiety and then in my joy."

"So your husband happily shares your enthusiasm?"

"Oh, at first he wasn't very willing. But then, he is so good, so

good. And as I couldn't go to the races alone, why he just had to go

with me! And in the end he has become as great an enthusiast as I am.

We can sit together for hours and discuss the tips. And he just

admires you so--almost more than I. Oh, how happy he'd be to meet you

here. You mustn't refuse him that pleasure. And now you're laughing at

me. Shame on you!"

"I give you my word that nothing--"

"Oh, but you smiled. I saw you smile."

"Perhaps. But assuredly with no evil intention. And now you'll permit

me to ask a serious question, won't you?"

"But surely!"

"Do you love your husband?"

"Why, of course I love him. You don't know him, or you wouldn't ask.

How could I help it? We're like two children together. And I don't

mean anything silly. We're like that in hours of grief, too. Sometimes

when I look at him in his sleep--the kind, careworn forehead, the

silent serious mouth--and when I think how faithfully and carefully he

guides me, how his one dreaming and waking thought is for my

happiness--why, then I kneel down and kiss his hands till he wakes up.

Once he thought it was our little dog, and murmured 'Shoo, shoo!' Oh,

how we laughed! And if you imagine that such a state of affairs can't

be reconciled with my feeling for you, why, then you're quite wrong.

_That_ is upon an entirely different plane."

"And your life is happy?"

"Perfectly, perfectly."

Radiantly she folded her hands.

She did not suspect her position on the fearful edge of an abyss. She

had not yet realised what his coming meant, nor how defenceless

she was.

He had but to stretch out his arms and she would fly to him, ready to

sacrifice her fate to his mood. And this time there would be no

returning to that well-ordered content.

A dull feeling of responsibility arose in him and paralysed his will.

Here was all that he needed in order to conquer a few years of new

freshness and joy for the arid desert of his life. Here was the spring

of life for which he was athirst. And he had not the courage to touch

it with his lips.

Chapter IV.

A silence ensued in which their mood threatened to darken and grow

turbid.

Then he pulled himself together.

"You don't ask me why I came, dear friend."

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

"A moment's impulse--or loneliness. That's all."

"And a bit of remorse, don't you think so?"

"Remorse? For what? You have nothing with which to reproach yourself.

Was not our agreement made to be kept?"

"And yet I couldn't wholly avoid the feeling as if my unbroken silence

must have left a sting in your soul which would embitter your

memory of me."

Thoughtfully she stirred her tea.

"No," she said at last, "I'm not so foolish. The memory of you is a

sacred one. If that were not so, how could I have gone on living? That

time, to be sure, I wanted to take my life. I had determined on that

before I came to you. For that one can leave the man with whom.... I

never thought that possible.... But one learns a good deal--a good

deal.... And now I'll tell you how it came to pass that I didn't take

my life that night. When everything was over, and I stood in the

street before your house, I said to myself: 'Now the river is all that

is left.' In spite of rain and storm, I took an open cab and drove out

to the _Tiergarten_. Wasn't the weather horrible! At the _Great Star_

I left the cab and ran about in the muddy ways, weeping, weeping. I

was blind with tears, and lost my way. I said to myself that I would

die at six. There were still four minutes left. I asked a policeman

the way to _Bellevue_, for I did remember that the river flows hard

behind the castle. The policeman said: 'There it is. The hour is

striking in the tower now.' And when I heard the clock strike, the

thought came to me: 'Now my husband is coming home, tired and hungry,

and I'm not there. If at least he wouldn't let his dinner get cold.

But of course he will wait. He'd rather starve than eat without me.

And he'll be frightened more and more as the hours pass. Then he'll

run to the police. And next morning he'll be summoned by telegram to

the morgue. There he'll break down helplessly and hopelessly and I

won't be able to console him.' And when I saw that scene in my mind, I

called out: 'Cab! cab!' But there was no cab. So I ran back to the

_Great Star_, and jumped into the street-car, and rode home and rushed

into his arms and cried my fill."

"And had your husband no questions to ask? Did he entertain no

suspicion?"

"Oh, no, he knows me, I am taken that way sometimes. If anything moves

or delights me deeply--a lovely child on the street--you see, I

haven't any--or some glorious music, or sometimes only the park in

spring and some white statue in the midst of the greenery. Oh,

sometimes I seem to feel my very soul melt, and then he lays his cool,

firm hand on my forehead and I am healed."

"And were you healed on that occasion, too?"

"Yes. I was calmed at once. 'Here,' I said to myself, 'is this dear,

good man, to whom you can be kind. And as far as the other is

concerned, why it was mere mad egoism to hope to have a share in his

life. For to give love means, after all, to demand love. And what can

a poor, supersensitive thing like you mean to him? He has others. He

need but stretch forth his hand, and the hearts of countesses and

princesses are his!'"

"Dear God," he thought, and saw the image of the purchasable harlot,

who was supposed to satisfy his heart's needs.

But she chatted on, and bit by bit built up for him the image of him

which she had cherished during these two years. All the heroes of

Byron, Poushkine, Spielhagen and Scott melted into one glittering

figure. There was no splendour of earth with which her generous

imagination had not dowered him.

He listened with a melancholy smile, and thought: "Thank God, she

doesn't know me. If I didn't take a bit of pleasure in my stable, the

contrast would be too terrible to contemplate."

And there was nothing forward, nothing immodest, in this joyous

enthusiasm. It was, in fact, as if he were a mere confidant, and she

were singing a hymn in praise of her beloved.

And thus she spared him any feeling of shame.

But what was to happen now?

It went without saying that this visit must have consequences of some

sort. It was her right to demand that he do not, for a second time,

take her up and then fling her aside at the convenience of a

given hour.

Almost timidly he asked after her thoughts of the future.

"Let's not speak of it. You won't come back, anyhow."

"How can you think...."

"Oh, no, you won't come back. And what is there here for you? Do you

want to be adored by me? You spoiled gentlemen soon tire of that sort

of thing.... Or would you like to converse with my husband? That

wouldn't amuse you. He's a very silent man and his reserve thaws only

when he is alone with me.... But it doesn't matter.... You have been

here. And the memory of this hour will always be dear and precious to

me. Now, I have something more in which my soul can take pleasure."

A muffled pain stirred in him. He felt impelled to throw himself at

her feet and bury his head in her lap. But he respected the majesty of

her happiness.

"And if I myself desired...."

That was all he said; all he dared to say. The sudden glory in her

face commanded his silence. Under the prudence which his long

experience dictated, his mood grew calmer.

But she had understood him.

In silent blessedness, she leaned her head against the wall. Then she

whispered, with closed eyes: "It is well that you said no more. I

might grow bold and revive hopes that are dead. But if you...."

She raised her eyes to his. A complete surrender to his will lay in

her glance.

Then she raised her head with a listening gesture.

"My husband," she said, after she had fought down a slight involuntary

fright, and said it with sincere joy.

Three glowing fingers barely touched his. Then she hastened to the

door.

"Guess who is here," she called out; "guess!"

On the threshold appeared a sturdy man of middle size and middle age.

His round, blonde beard came to a grayish point beneath the chin. His

thin cheeks were yellow, but with no unhealthful hue. His quiet,

friendly eyes gleamed behind glasses that sat a trifle too far down

his nose, so that in speaking his head was slightly thrown back and

his lids drawn.

With quiet astonishment he regarded the elegant stranger. Coming

nearer, however, he recognised him at once in spite of the twilight,

and, a little confused with pleasure, stretched out his hand.

Upon his tired, peaceful features, there was no sign of any sense of

strangeness, any desire for an explanation.

Stueckrath realized that toward so simple a nature craft would have

been out of place, and simply declared that he had desired to renew an

acquaintance which he had always remembered with much pleasure.

"I don't want to speak of myself, Baron," the man replied, "but you

probably scarcely realise what pleasure you are giving my wife." And

he nodded down at her who stood beside him, apparently unconcerned

except for her wifely joy.

A few friendly words were exchanged. Further speech was really

superfluous, since the man's unassailable innocence demanded no

caution. But Stueckrath was too much pleased with him to let him feel

his insignificance by an immediate departure.

Hence he sat a little longer, told of his latest purchases, and was

shamed by the satisfaction with which the man rehearsed the history of

his stable.

He did not neglect the courtesy of asking them both to call on him,

and took his leave, accompanied by the couple to the door. He could

not decide which of the two pressed his hand more warmly.

When in the darkness of the lower hall he looked upward, he saw two

faces which gazed after him with genuine feeling.

* * * * *

Out amid the common noises of the street he had the feeling as though

he had returned from some far island of alien seas into the wonted

current of life.

He shuddered at the thought of what lay before him.

Then he went toward the _Tiergarten_. A red afterglow eddied amid the

trees. In the sky gleamed a harmony of delicate blue tints, shading

into green. Great white clouds towered above, but rested upon the

redness of the sunset.

The human stream flooded as always between the flickering, starry

street-lamps of the _Tiergartenstrasse_. Each man and woman sought to

wrest a last hour of radiance from the dying day.

Dreaming, estranged, Stueckrath made his way through the crowd, and

hurriedly sought a lonely footpath that disappeared in the darkness of

the foliage.

Again for a moment the thought seared him: "Take her and rebuild the

structure of your life."

But when he sought to hold the thought and the accompanying emotion,

it was gone. Nothing remained but a flat after taste--the dregs of a

weary intoxication.

The withered leaves rustled beneath his tread. Beside the path

glimmered the leaf-flecked surface of a pool.

"It would be a crime, to be sure," he said to himself, "to shatter the

peace of those two poor souls. But, after all, life is made up of such

crimes. The life of one is the other's death; one's happiness the

other's wretchedness. If only I could be sure that some happiness

would result, that the sacrifice of their idyl would bring

some profit."

But he had too often had the discouraging and disappointing experience

that he had become incapable of any strong and enduring emotion. What

had he to offer that woman, who, in a mixture of passion, and naïve

unmorality of soul, had thrown herself at his breast? The shallow

dregs of a draught, a power to love that had been wasted in sensual

trifling--emptiness, weariness, a longing for sensation and a longing

for repose. That was all the gift he could bring her.

And how soon would he be satiated!

Any sign of remorse or of fear in her would suffice to make her a

burden, even a hated burden!

"Be her good angel," he said to himself, "and let her be." He whistled

and the sound was echoed by the trees.

He sought a bench on which to sit down, and lit a cigarette. As the

match flared up, he became conscious of the fact that night

had fallen.

A great quietude rested upon the dying forest. Like the strains of a

beautifully perishing harmony the sound of the world's distant strife

floated into this solitude.

Attentively Stueckrath observed the little point of glowing fire in

his hand, from which eddied upward a wreath of fragrant smoke.

"Thank God," he said, "that at least remains--one's cigarette."

Then he arose and wandered thoughtfully onward.

Without knowing how he had come there, he found himself suddenly in

front of his mistress's dwelling.

Light shimmered in her windows--the raspberry coloured light of red

curtains which loose women delight in.

"Pah!" he said and shuddered.

But, after all, up there a supper table was set for him; there was

laughter and society, warmth and a pair of slippers.

He opened the gate.

A chill wind rattled in the twigs of the trees and blew the dead

leaves about in conical whirls. They fluttered along like wandering

shadows, only to end in some puddle ...

Autumn ...