SOAP BUBBLES
BY
MAX NORDAU
Author of “Degeneration,” “Comedy of Sentiment,”
“The Right to Love,” “How Women Love,” Etc.
TRANSLATED BY MARY J. SAFFORD
F. TENNYSON NEELY
PUBLISHER
114 Fifth Avenue, New York
1896
INDEX TO STORIES.
PAGE
CANT AND HUMBUG. A story of English selfishness and
American thriftiness. 5
WIFE VERSUS NATIVE LAND. This story shows how a man
may quit smoking for spite, but not for love. 38
ALI HADJI EFFENDI. The adventures of a wandering
fanatic of Islam. 59
THE CROSS AT THE CORNER. A story of the religious
devotion of an aged Hungarian. 80
THE ALTAR PAINTING. The love tragedy of an Italian artist. 100
A CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS. A pathetic incident of suffering
in the Franco-Prussian War, during the siege of Paris. 120
THE STEPMOTHER. An ingenious discussion of that
much-abused matron. 139
PAS DE CHANCE (No Chance). The story of a girl found in a
morgue. 158
HOW THE FOX HUNTER FARED IN ENGLAND. A tragic and humorous
denouement, turning upon the Englishman’s code of fox
hunting. 186
WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY. This relates how a prison
physician’s hair turned white in a night, from horror
inflicted on him by two escaped prisoners. 213
CANT AND HUMBUG.
Our train had pulled out of Ostend a few minutes before. The carriage
in which I had my seat contained its regular complement of six
passengers, all of whom, with the exception of myself, belonged to the
Anglo-Saxon race. We had scarcely left the station when tongues were
loosed, and an animated general conversation began, which enabled me to
recognize my companions by their shrill, loud tones and somewhat nasal
accents, as Americans. The only person who took no share in the talk
was a portly gentleman dressed in a traveling suit of conspicuous
style, who had placed his numerous articles of baggage in the net with
small regard for the effects of his fellow mortals, then settled
himself comfortably in a corner by the window and, after a swift,
searching glance at the other inmates of the railway carriage, began to
scan the somewhat monotonous landscape. Remarks which were indirectly
addressed to him were so utterly ignored that it would have been
supposed he did not understand English, had he not said—when one of the
Americans was preparing to light a cigar—in unmistakable English and
very emphatically:
“I object to your smoking, sir; I am not aware that this is a smoking
carriage.”
The Englishman’s bluntness and reserve evidently did not suit the taste
of the Americans, for they began to exchange pointed remarks about the
inhospitable social customs of the “Britishers,” their awkwardness in
their intercourse with others, and their punctilious formality in
social, political and religious matters, of which, however, the
Englishman took no more notice than he had formerly done of the
indirect attempts to draw him into the conversation.
“I heard a story in London which describes the Britisher better than a
whole library could do,” exclaimed one of the Yankees who had been
among the loudest talkers.
“Out with it! Hear! Hear!” cried the others in chorus, casting scornful
glances at the Englishman. The latter did not appear to notice it, he
was gazing very intently at a windmill, whose bizarre outline was
relieved against the horizon.
“I must premise that the story is true, and that I met one of the
heroes only yesterday evening in London—my friend, Mr. Brown, from whom
I had it. This Mr. Brown was obliged, two years ago, to take a business
journey to Chili. He secured passage on one of the boats of the Pacific
Steam Navigation Co., and arrived without incident at Montevideo, where
several more passengers came on board. Beyond Punta Arenas a terrible
storm suddenly burst upon them, which first broke the helm, then swept
the smokestack from the deck, and finally shattered the screw. The
vessel was now a total wreck, the sport of the wind and waves, and,
after drifting aimlessly in the storm for several hours, it was at last
flung upon a reef, where it stuck fast. The captain, who had not lost
his calmness and presence of mind for a moment, ordered the lifeboats
to be lowered, and remained on board until the last passenger and the
last sailor had left the ship. The boats vainly endeavored to make
their way through the surges thundering upon the reef. One after
another was caught beneath the combing surf and overturned, a cry of
despair was heard above the howling of the tempest, then the boat, keel
uppermost, drifted in one direction, while in another faces distorted
by fear and hands clenched convulsively appeared above the foam-flecked
water only to vanish speedily. The boat Mr. Brown entered shared the
fate of the rest, but when it upset, my friend and another passenger
clung to the edge and, with tremendous effort, climbed up so that they
sat astride of the sharp keel. In this horrible situation, one behind
the other, they remained for several hours till the waves, whose
violence had now somewhat subsided, at last flung them on the flat,
sandy shore of a small island. The immediate peril of death was now
over, but Mr. Brown considered his situation a very melancholy one. He
had no taste for literary renown, and did not find the slightest
consolation for the financial loss which he must inevitably meet if he
did not reach Valparaiso at a certain time, in the thought that he
would eventually be celebrated as another Robinson Crusoe. However, he
tried to accommodate himself to the situation as well as he could.
After resting a short time and drying his clothes in the sun, he went
on an investigating tour through the island, which was not more than a
league in circumference. He discovered without difficulty that it was
uninhabited, but contained a sufficient quantity of fruit trees, birds’
nests, shells, springs and caves to sustain the life of a shipwrecked
person. So he immediately prepared a sort of nest for himself of moss
and leaves at the foot of a large tree, and calmly accommodated himself
to the necessity of living here until some lucky accident should
deliver him from his unpleasant position. His companion in misfortune
had pursued precisely the same course as Mr. Brown. He, too, after a
tour of investigation had found a tolerably habitable grotto, in which
he made himself at home.”
“But it would have been far more natural for them to live together,”
remarked one of the listeners.
“It’s evident, Brother Josh, that you have lived in Europe only a week
and don’t understand English customs. How could Mr. Brown speak to the
other shipwrecked passenger, associate with him, or live in the same
cave, when they had not been introduced to each other?”
The Americans laughed, while the Englishman appeared to be more than
ever absorbed in gazing at the landscape.
“Several weeks,” the speaker continued, “elapsed in cheerless monotony.
Every morning the two shipwrecked men left their beds of moss and
washed at the only large spring in the island, during which they looked
coldly at each other, then they went in search of a few eggs, shells
and roots for breakfast, after which, of course, without taking the
slightest notice of each other, they met on the narrow top of a high
rock which projected into the sea and sat there silently for hours,
scanning the horizon with anxious eyes, always hoping to discover a
distant sail. For a long time this hope was unfulfilled. At last, after
they had spent nearly two months and a half on the island, Mr. Brown
had scarcely stationed himself at his usual post of observation when he
thought he saw, at the farthest verge of the horizon, a dark, moving
spot. Starting up, as if he had received an electric shock, he shaded
his eyes with his hand and gazed until he could no longer doubt that
what he beheld was the trail of smoke from a steamer. His companion,
whose attention had been attracted by Mr. Brown’s vehement movements,
followed the direction of his eyes, and a faint ‘Oh!’ which he suddenly
uttered revealed that he, too, had discovered the ship. Both now
transformed all their garments, coats, vests, shirts, flannel jackets,
into flags, which they waved frantically with both hands. But it needed
no special exertions to bring the steamer which was in sight to the
island. As they learned afterward, some of the men shipwrecked on their
own vessel had succeeded in righting one of the overturned boats,
getting into it, and, after unspeakable hardships, reaching the
mainland, where they brought tidings of the catastrophe. A ship was
sent to the scene of the disaster as quickly as possible to search for
any survivors of the wreck, and it was this vessel which Mr. Brown and
his companion had discovered on the morning described. After two hours
of excitement and anxiety, the rescuing steamer came so near that a
boat put off for the two involuntary islanders. They rushed down to the
flat, sandy tongue of land where the boat had touched, and a few
minutes later, comfortably seated in it, were on their way to the
steamer. The captain stood near the man-rope, waiting for them, greeted
them with a silent bow and a clasp of the hand, and requested them to
accompany him to his cabin. Here he placed a register before them and
asked them to write their names and residences. The stranger who had
been Mr. Brown’s companion on the island was the first to comply with
the request, as he happened to be standing nearer to the table. After
making the desired entries he yielded the pen to my friend Brown, who,
before beginning to write himself, glanced mechanically at the lines
which had just been inscribed in the book. Scarcely had he read them
when a strange emotion suddenly overpowered him. ‘Mr. William Lloyd
Jones, Valparaiso!’ he exclaimed aloud in a tremulous voice, then,
turning to the gentleman who stood beside him, he added: ‘Are you Mr.
W. L. Jones?’ ‘Yes,’ replied the other curtly, looking at him with
surprise and disapproval. ‘Oh, in that case,’—and Mr. Brown thrust his
hand into the breast pocket of his coat, whence he drew out a
letter,—‘in that case I have a letter of introduction to you from our
mutual friend, Mr. Smith, in London.’ While speaking, Mr. Brown handed
Mr. Jones his ‘introduction,’ whose address, it is true, was somewhat
effaced by the sea-water, but was still perfectly legible. Mr. Jones
methodically unfolded the paper, read it through attentively, and when
he had reached his friend Smith’s signature his hitherto stern face
suddenly brightened, he turned to Brown with overwhelming cordiality,
shook him vigorously by both hands, and exclaimed again and again:
‘Very happy to make your acquaintance, really very happy!’ Brown struck
himself on the forehead: ‘To think that I could not give you my
introduction on the island!’ ‘It is a pity, certainly,’ observed Jones;
‘we might have spent some very pleasant hours together.’ The
captain—also an Englishman—who had listened all the time in silence,
guessed the connection of affairs without difficulty, and, after this
little scene, was perfectly convinced that he was dealing with thorough
gentlemen. Brown and Jones became the best possible friends, and even
now, though one is living in London and the other in Valparaiso,
maintain a very active correspondence.”
During the last few sentences of the story the American listeners gave
way to noisy mirth, which lasted several minutes after the speaker
stopped. When the outburst of hilarity was at last followed by silence,
we saw the Englishman—who until then had sat in his corner with an
expression of the utmost indifference on his immovable face—suddenly
smile and bow slightly to the narrator of the anecdote. “Sir,” he said,
“you have told a very interesting story, and I congratulate you upon
your acquaintance with the admirable Mr. Brown. But perhaps you will
now permit me also to relate an anecdote which, though less
entertaining, is also true, and whose scene is the United States.”
Another “Hear! Hear!” even more eager than the former one, echoed from
all sides, and the Englishman began:
“The French captain of cuirassiers, Monsieur Durand, one of my most
intimate friends in Paris, was sent to America by his government during
the last war between France and Germany, to buy horses for the army.
Late in October in the year 1870 he found himself in a little town in
Texas, which was famed only for a roughly built, very spacious circus,
where, shortly before, Mexican bull-fighters had given several
performances. Monsieur Durand, who had arrived in the afternoon and
gone to the only hotel in the place, was sitting in the drawing-room
that evening before an open fire which was extremely comfortable, and
had beside him a little table holding a bottle of claret and a glass.
As he stretched out his limbs, wearied by the long railway journey, and
gazed thoughtfully into the fire, the door opened and a second guest
entered the room. This was Mr. Jonathan Oilking, one of the most
prominent personages in the place, a man who had the reputation of
possessing great wealth and rare urbanity. Oilking, without a word of
greeting, or even touching his soft, broad-brimmed felt hat, went
straight to the fireside, pushed the chair occupied by the captain a
little aside, and, leaning against the mantelpiece with his back to the
fire, directly opposite to Durand, stared him directly in the face.
“The Frenchman was strongly tempted to spring at the newcomer’s throat,
but thought, ‘custom of the country,’ and contented himself with
shrugging his shoulders and gazing at the ceiling instead of the
flames. Oilking warmed himself for some time with great satisfaction,
and then perceived the wine standing on the little table beside the
captain. With the greatest composure he seized the bottle, filled a
glass from it, and emptied it at a single gulp, after which he replaced
it, smacking his lips. Durand’s blood boiled, but he still controlled
himself and continued to scan the ceiling and walls with increased
attention. Oilking now remained motionless for a time, and only
occasional expectorations, which he performed noisily, always aiming at
a certain point, which he hit with great accuracy, proved that life
existed in his long, thin body. At last he interrupted the silence by
turning to Durand, with the question, ‘Stranger, are you the French
officer who has come here to buy horses?’ The Frenchman pretended not
to hear and gazed through the window at the woodland landscape outside.
Oilking laid his hand on the captain’s shoulder, repeating his
question. But the measure was now full to overflowing. Starting up, he
roared, in very doubtful English, ‘You are a boor, do you understand
me?’ Jonathan straightened himself and answered gently: ‘Stranger,
don’t repeat that, or I shall throw you out of the window.’ ‘You must
answer to me for this,’ raved Durand, ‘you shall give me satisfaction
for all the impertinences which you have already committed this
evening.’ ‘If that’s all,’ observed Oilking, still very calmly, ‘you
can be accommodated at once. Here is a bowie knife and here is a
revolver’—he drew both articles from his belt as he spoke—‘if you also
have weapons at hand, I’ll leave the choice to you whether I shall make
a buttonhole in your skin or rip a seam in your body. The room is
convenient, there is nothing to prevent our settling the matter at
once.’ Durand had become somewhat calmer and said to Oilking: ‘It is
not the custom in my country for people to kill themselves in closed
rooms without witnesses. I will try to find two seconds and send them
to you. They will arrange the conditions of the duel with you, and when
that is done you will find me at your disposal.’ With these words he
left the room and went directly to the landlord, to whom he related
what had happened and proposed that he should act as a witness and
provide another second. The landlord said that witnesses were a
superfluous luxury in a duel; but if the captain insisted upon his wish
he would willingly serve him; the head-waiter could act as a second
witness; he would merely add five dollars to the bill for this extra.
Durand, who had already become somewhat accustomed to American
peculiarities, took no offense at this latter remark of the landlord,
but requested him to go with the waiter at once to Oilking and settle
the affair with him. Returning to his room, Durand awaited the result
of the interview. At the end of an hour the landlord returned, and
hastily informed him that the duel could not take place until the
morning of the day after to-morrow; the weapon which Oilking, as the
challenged party, had chosen was the revolver; as to the place, he, the
landlord, would conduct Mr. Durand to it at the proper time. He had
scarcely uttered the last word of his hastily delivered message when
he, too, vanished without awaiting an answer from the captain.
“Durand went quietly to rest and slept well all night. The next day he
spent in his room, wrote letters to his relatives and friends in France
and directions concerning his wishes in case he should be killed or
severely wounded. Toward noon he wanted to speak to the landlord, but
the latter could not be found; the captain was told that his second had
left town the evening before and would not return until that evening.
About twilight he did appear, and with him a number of guests, who
filled the hotel from attic to cellar with noisy life. The streets
which, hitherto, had been very quiet, were now full of bustle, and our
captain, who did not sleep as well as on the preceding night, could
hear the rattle of wheels, the sound of horses’ hoofs, and loud voices
from the street beneath.
“At last the fateful morning dawned. Durand dressed carefully and
awaited what was to come. Toward nine o’clock the landlord and
head-waiter entered unceremoniously, asking, ‘Are you ready, Captain?’.
‘Yes.’ ‘Then come.’ Both led the way at a rapid pace, he followed. They
took him through the principal street and several side ones to a large
open square, in whose center stood the circus building previously
mentioned. The second went to a little door, opened it, and entered a
dark, narrow passage, into which Durand followed them with some little
hesitation. They evidently noticed his reluctance, for they seized the
astonished captain by the arms, hurried him swiftly along for several
paces, opened another little door, and ere the captain could prevent it
they were standing in the ring of the circus, which was packed from top
to bottom with a crowd numbering many hundreds of human beings, who, at
the appearance of Durand and his seconds, burst into a thunder of
applause and exultant cheers.
“Durand stood as if a thunderbolt had struck him, not knowing what to
make of all this. ‘What does this ridiculous farce mean?’ he stammered,
turning to the landlord; but the latter did not hear, he was motioning
with both hands to the spectators to keep silence and, when the tumult
had partly subsided, he shouted with all the strength of his lungs:
‘Gentlemen, I have the honor to introduce the brave and famous French
captain of cuirassiers, Monsieur Durand, the sole survivor of the
glorious cuirassier charge at Reichshoffen. He will have the honor of
exchanging shots in your presence with an esteemed citizen of this
town, Mr. Jonathan Oilking.’ Again the audience began to applaud and
cheer and, at the same moment, a little door opposite to the one
through which Durand had entered, opened, and in came Jonathan in a
fantastic Indian costume, accompanied by two friends.
“Durand now guessed what was in store. Half stifled with rage and
excitement, he dealt the landlord, who was standing by his side, a
violent blow in the breast and darted with the speed of lightning to
the little door, through which, an instant after, he vanished.
“You can guess, gentlemen, what had happened. The appearance of the
landlord whom Durand sent to him gave Oilking a brilliant idea. He
agreed with him to make the duel a business matter. That very evening
they sent several workmen to the circus, who, by torchlight, repaired
the somewhat dilapidated building and mended the rows of seats. They
themselves went at once to the neighboring town, called Rome or Paris,
I don’t remember which, ordered placards to be printed, in which the
public was offered on the following day, for a payment of two dollars,
the spectacle of a public duel ‘with the brave and famous Captain
Durand, of Paris, the sole survivor of the charge of the cuirassiers at
Reichshoffen,’ inserted advertisements in the two local papers, induced
one to publish a leading article upon the battle of Reichshoffen, the
other an account of the heroic deeds of Captain Durand in this battle,
personally diffused the expectation that Durand would appear in the
uniform worn on the day of Reichshoffen, and by all these expedients
achieved so great a success that in the evening a special train left
Rome—or Paris—to convey the curious spectators, and the next morning,
an hour before the time appointed on the placards, every seat in the
circus was sold at two dollars.
“Durand made his way out of the place as speedily as possible, and
after this adventure gave up his plan of buying horses in Texas. As for
Oilking and the landlord, they had some very unpleasant minutes to
experience after Durand’s departure from the ring. Part of the audience
laughed, others grumbled, some demanded the return of their money,
others wanted to have a duel at any rate, and said that they would be
satisfied with one between the landlord and Oilking; in short, there
was a great uproar, and I have been told that the special
correspondents who had hastened here from the neighboring cities did
not return without having to report the exchange of several bullets and
blows.”
The Englishman paused. At the same moment the train stopped and the
guard shouted loudly: “Brussels!” The Americans, who had listened to
the speaker with great amusement, left the carriage, but not without
first shaking hands with the Englishman, exclaiming merrily: “Well
parried, Cousin Britisher!”
WIFE VERSUS NATIVE LAND.
A STORY FOR SMOKERS.
The L. drawing-room is not large, but it is uncommonly pleasant. The
tastefully furnished apartment, heated by a tall white porcelain stove,
is very comfortable. A pretty hanging lamp of antique form diffuses a
subdued light, which is far more adapted to promote innocent chat than
a strong, brilliant illumination.
Eight or ten of us formed a merry party in this drawing-room, as we
leaned comfortably back in the velvet armchairs, while tea, in Chinese
cups, sent forth its fragrance before us. The round table consisted
principally of ladies, and the time was just after the first
fashionable balls, yet our conversation did not turn upon the carnival
and its pleasures. It is almost incredible that a tea party in the
carnival season could occupy itself with so abstract a question, but we
were actually discussing which would probably be the stronger, love or
patriotism? Since there was not a single blue-stocking in the group, it
is still perfectly incomprehensible how we could have reached this
serious subject; but the fact is that, without perceiving how the topic
came on the carpet, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of the
most animated interchange of thought.
Opinions were greatly divided. Some ascribed larger powers and more
mighty influence over the human mind to patriotism, others to love.
“Oh,” murmured a slender girl with fair hair and pale blue eyes, the
happy bride of a fortnight, “I am firmly convinced that love is a
stronger feeling than patriotism, nay, that no other can equal it in
might. How many more human beings love has inspired to heroic deeds,
nay, to self-sacrifice, than patriotism!” While thus declaiming in a
sentimental tone, she cast at her husband, who was sitting by her side,
a tender, languishing glance, which was probably intended to be an
eloquent commentary on her words.
The enviable bridegroom did not entirely agree with the being of his
choice, but thought that in youth love, in mature years, on the
contrary, patriotism would exert the greater power.
“As for me,” quoth the doctor, a somewhat pedantic man, who, even at
tea parties, can neither think nor speak except according to
Aristotelian categories, “I think that here national and race
characteristics have the strongest influence. The cold Northerner can
be roused to more intense enthusiasm by the abstract idea of the native
land than the hot-blooded Southron, who would be fired more speedily by
a creature of flesh and blood. The German stock of the Swiss Alemanni
could produce a Winkelried, but the Indian who, for love of the invalid
daughter of the Spanish governor, betrayed the secret of the chinchona
tree, known only to the native, and thereby broke the power of the
fever, which was on the point of ridding America of the foreign
oppressor, was a Southerner, and more accessible to the suggestions of
love than to those of patriotism. A Swede or an Englishman may be able
to sacrifice more for his native land than for the woman whom he loves,
but I doubt if this is true of a Spaniard or an Italian.”
The most noticeable woman in our circle was Frau von G. She was a
somewhat stout but remarkably well-preserved person, whose forty years
would scarcely be noticed even by an eye which did not look through the
glasses of gallantry. Shining black hair framed a face of noble mould;
sparkling black eyes, a classically moulded nose, a delicately curved
upper lip, slightly shaded by an almost imperceptible velvety down, and
a full, firm, round chin, combined with a delicate brunette complexion
to produce a countenance whose Southern type was unmistakable. Had not
her appearance and manner betrayed it, her accent would have revealed
that she was a foreigner.
Frau von G. had listened silently and attentively, but the doctor’s
last remark called a smile to her lips, and induced her to mingle in
the conversation.
“I cannot fully assent to what you have just said of the Spaniards and
Italians, Doctor,” she remarked. “If you will allow me, I’ll relate a
little episode from my own life which will prove that, under certain
circumstances, patriotism can influence even an Italian more powerfully
than love.”
The interest with which every face turned toward the fair speaker
contained the most flattering invitation to tell her story.
“You know that I am a native of Milan, and did not leave my birthplace
until ten years ago, when my husband’s business summoned him here. I
was a girl of eighteen when the insurrection in Lombardy was quelled.
Marshal Radetzky entered Milan at the head of a victorious army, the
‘sword of Italy’ was broken, and every patriot, with bleeding heart,
was forced to renounce the hopes which he had seen on the verge of
realization. Oh, you who have not experienced those days can have no
idea of their sorrow and discouragement. The state of siege, to which
city and country were condemned, exerted a disturbing influence upon
every detail of our daily lives. We avoided the Scala, for there we
beheld the hateful spectacle of two soldiers, standing with their guns
in the proscenium at the right and left of the stage, and constantly
reminding us of the humiliation and misfortune of our native land; we
omitted our usual walks on the Corso, for there we were continually
insulted by Austrian officers. Every family was restricted to its own
circle. We lived within our own four walls, and you can scarcely
imagine how much weariness and melancholy this means to us Italians.
“During this terrible period I made the acquaintance of Albert v. G.,
who afterwards became my husband. He was my brother’s classmate at
college, and afterward, like him, became an engineer. Albert was
handsome and agreeable, and his visits were doubly welcome in that
dull, wearisome time. That I was not indifferent to him, I soon
discovered. At first he came with my brother, and left the house with
him. Later he came alone, but soon went away if he was not at home.
Finally, he became our daily guest, and as my parents, too, did not
object to his visits, he remained longer and longer with me, and at
last entertained me for hours with his clever, pleasant chat.
“We were very well acquainted and already on familiar terms, when one
day—he had been sitting all the morning reading aloud to me—he suddenly
asked permission to light a cigar.
“‘What,’ I exclaimed, almost terrified, ‘are you a smoker, Albert?’
“You must know that at that time I had a great aversion to men who
smoked. I could not praise my brother enough for not having acquired
the unpleasant habit, and declared a hundred times that I would rather
endure anything than to kiss a man who sullied his lips with the
disagreeable weed.
“Until then I had not known that Albert was a smoker, for, of course,
there was no smoking in my drawing-room, and I had no opportunity to
discover his vice elsewhere.
“The vehemence of my question confused him.
“‘Yes, I smoke,’ he answered hesitatingly, ‘but what is there
extraordinary about that?’
“‘True,’ I cried, ‘unfortunately there is nothing extraordinary about
it, but I will tell you this that I will never marry a man who takes a
cigar into his mouth. I cannot endure such a person, he is utterly
detestable in my eyes.’
“Albert looked at me in surprise, but said nothing and merely slipped
the cigar he had already taken out back into his pocket. Then he
remained with me a short time in a depressed, silent mood, and soon
took his leave.
“The next day he came again and tried to assume a cheerful,
unembarrassed manner. Without any introduction he seized the first
opportunity to turn the conversation upon smoking, and said jestingly
that yesterday he had been fairly frightened out of his wits, probably
I did not mean what I said so seriously, he hoped I should become
accustomed to his habit, etc. But I understood no jesting on this
subject, and again, with the utmost earnestness, protested that I could
not endure a man who smoked and never would accustom myself to the
habit. On the contrary, I expected that a man who loved me would make
the sacrifice of renouncing the unpleasant vice.
“My avowal threw Albert into a state of melancholy, which would now
seem to me very comical, but then grieved me to the heart. He was very
sorrowful, and left me with the air of a most miserable man. From that
time his cheerfulness deserted him, he sighed constantly in the most
heartrending manner, and his eyes always had a sorrowful expression.
This mood lasted about a week and caused me much suffering, but I could
not and would not change it; Albert must give up smoking, or we would
separate.
“One day my brother came to me, and took me to task for my folly.
Albert was stealing about like a shadow, and no longer dared to visit
me; I ought not to torment him any longer with my foolish obstinacy,
but, in Heaven’s name, let him have his cigar; he had already made the
attempt to give up smoking, but the habit was stronger than his will,
and he would really fall sick from it. Here I could no longer refrain
from interrupting him bitterly: ‘So I am to have a husband who is not
strong enough to give up a ridiculous habit? If he loves me he must do
it for my sake; now I really insist upon it, for I shall see in it a
test of his love.’
“My brother scolded and raged, but all was useless, and I clung to my
resolve. I should weary you if I were to tell you all the details of
this quarrel, whose memory has a peculiar charm for me. Suffice it to
say that at last Albert came to me, and, with tears in his eyes, begged
me not to be cruel any longer, and, as usually happens, I wept, too,
and said: ‘Very well, I will show you that my love is stronger than
yours. You would not give up your habit for my sake, I will try, for
yours, to conquer my repugnance.’
“Shortly after we were married Alfred smoked as before. In spite of his
cigars I felt very, very happy with him, and had entirely forgotten the
sorrowful weeks of sulking, when I was reminded of it in a very
peculiar way.
“We had been wedded about six months when I noticed, one evening, that
Albert did not light a cigar after supper, as usual. I secretly
wondered, but thought it mere accident. The next day there was the same
abstinence, which I remarked, and which engaged my attention
completely. When, on the third evening, it was repeated, I was
extremely curious and much excited. ‘What,’ I thought, ‘is Albert
voluntarily making the sacrifice for the wife which he would not yield
to the entreaties of the betrothed bride?’ My heart exulted over this
proof of love, and I considered myself—don’t laugh—the happiest of
mortals. I set about a careful inspection and made the most delightful
discoveries. The cigar box on Albert’s desk was empty; his beautiful
amber mouthpiece, which he usually had with him, lay on some papers as
a paper-weight—there was no doubt of it, Albert had given up smoking.
“I could no longer help expressing my joy. ‘Albert,’ I said one
evening, ‘you are an angel, you not only relinquish smoking for my
sake, but you are too delicate to say a single word about it, or to
betray, by the slightest sign, what a painful effort it costs you.’
While speaking, I embraced and kissed him with genuine enthusiasm.
“But, to my great astonishment, this outburst of tenderness embarrassed
him. He escaped from my arms and lowered his eyes before my questioning
gaze. After a sorrowful pause, he said at last, in a hesitating,
uncertain voice: ‘My sweet, little wife, I might play the part of being
generous and self-sacrificing, but I think it is more manly to confess
the truth. So learn that I have not given up my cigar for your sake,
but—for that of my native land! You know that the tobacco monopoly has
been introduced by the Austrian government; we have now agreed that
every patriot will give up smoking, in order, so far as lies in his
power, to lessen the receipts of the treasury. This may seem to you
trivial, but we must deal the foe needle-pricks, if we cannot attack
him with the sword.’
“To tell you the truth, I sulked for several days; but at last I
considered the matter, and resolved to show that an Italian woman can
be no less patriotic than an Italian man. I forgave my husband, and
even praised him for his resolution, which I could not help thinking
heroic. ‘The idea that you love anything better than you do me,’ I said
to him, ‘becomes endurable only by remembering that this something
is—our native land.’
“So you see,” added Frau von G., as she concluded her story, turning to
the doctor with a smile, “that, even in an Italian, patriotism is more
powerful than love, and the hot-blooded Italian sacrificed to the
abstract idea of his native land the cigar which he had not been
willing to give up for the sake of a creature of flesh and blood.”
MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.
I.
ALT HADJI EFFENDI.
The inhabitants of Pesth are very ungrateful people. Venice bestowed a
thousand ducats upon a poet who glorified the splendor of the city of
the Doges in two mediocre distiches; Rome gladdened her historian,
Gregorovius, with the offer of publishing his work at her own expense;
even Belgrade knew how to honor Laboulaye, because he had written a few
friendly essays about the metropolis of Servia; the people of Pesth
alone did nothing for a writer who had striven unweariedly to bring the
beauties of the Hungarian capital near the distant East in the most
musical Persian ghasels and quatrains. He lived in their midst, the
enthusiastic bard of their renown, but no one troubled himself about
poor Ali Hadji Effendi, and the only attention which the authorities
showed him consisted in having him occasionally locked up by the
policemen for unauthorized peddling.
Worthy Ali Hadji Effendi was not blessed with worldly goods; for
reasons which Schiller has explained in his “Division of the Earth,” he
had not succeeded in obtaining a place in the temple service of the
golden calf, and since, in consequence of the defective school system
of Hungary, the Persian language is still far too little diffused among
the people of Pesth for him to hope to be able to maintain himself
respectably by the sale of his poems, he had determined to carry on a
little retail business, whose flourishing development was often checked
by an act of official rigor.
He was an interesting figure, this slender, black-bearded, dreamy-eyed,
sunburnt Oriental, who, years ago, established his perambulating wares,
sometimes on one street corner of Pesth, sometimes on another and with
quiet satisfaction awaited purchasers behind them. A dense throng of
school children, maid-servants, and apprentices constantly surrounded
him, eyeing with great interest the treasures he displayed. Real glass
diamonds glittered in polished brass rings, Turkish and Christian
rosaries of amber and coral lay side by side in a tolerance worthy of
imitation, small knives, toothpicks, and needle-books completed the
stock of wares, with the exception of one evidently unpurchasable
show-piece, an exquisitely wrought halberd—which he had to show.
Customers were allowed to rummage among the articles at will, and only
when some boy, with insolvency written upon his—nose, created too much
disorder, did Ali raise his voice, ordering him, in deep, guttural
tones, to desist from his mischief. He could support his Persian words
with such expressive gestures of the hands that even the most ignorant
cobbler’s apprentice instantly understood them.
How had Ali Hadji Effendi come to Pesth? The question is not difficult
to answer. In the Mohammedan world there is an order of dervishes whose
members have all taken upon themselves the vow of a life of constant
wandering. The adherents of this order are called Hadjis. The Hadji has
no home, or rather his home is the great world of Islam. And Islam
never gives up a province which it has once possessed. So, as kings
bear the title of provinces which their forefathers lost centuries ago,
Islam regards as its own countries where, for a long time, no mosque
has raised its slender minaret and airy dome toward the sky. As the
seas of former geological periods have everywhere left their shell
fish, which are now found on lofty mountain peaks in the midst of
continents, the Turkish flood which submerged Europe a century and a
half ago has also, after subsiding, everywhere left a trace, the grave
of a Mohammedan saint. Ofen cherishes the resting-place of such a
saint; Gül Baba, the Father of Roses, sleeps his eternal sleep there,
and an ancient, half ruined mosque, which rises above his grave, is the
last monument in this neighborhood of the former greatness and power of
the Turkish Empire. From the frontiers of China, from India to the
Ofner Mountains, stretches an unbroken chain of the graves of saints,
and many formerly in Mohammedan soil are now surrounded by unbelievers.
But an army of Hadjis is constantly in motion, passing from one saint’s
grave to another, and there is no resting-place of a pious Moslem so
remote, or so hidden, that some Hadjis do not annually visit it, to
throw themselves upon their faces, murmur proverbs from the Koran,
humbly praise the goodness and wisdom of Allah, and then continue their
aimless pilgrimage. The Orientals have the devout belief that the dead
whose graves are now in the land of the infidels would throw themselves
over the bridge of hell, in sheer anguish, if they should learn that
the crescent had been driven from these regions. Therefore, from time
to time, Moslems must visit these graves, in order to maintain their
belief that everything remained as it was during their lives, and that
the crescent still shone with undimmed radiance.
The Hadjis do not beg; in the sunny lands of the East, where the sky
and the earth provide for the poor as loving parents care for their
infant children, where the shade of the roof above a well, or of a
mosque, affords hospitable shelter, and the fig tree by the wayside
sweet food, they can spend the whole day in pious, contemplative
idleness, but when they enter the inhospitable country of the Giaours,
where the sky is as harsh as the manners of the people, and the prison
is the only place which affords shelter gratis, they carry on a trade
in all sorts of trifles, and thus obtain the means to satisfy their few
needs.
Ali Hadji Effendi was one of these wandering dervishes; he had seen
many lands and peoples; had washed the dust of the roads from his feet
in the rivers of three-quarters of the globe; he had listened to the
dashing of the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Nile, and the Danube, and was
versed in the languages of all the nations that dwell in the wide
region between the Himalaya and the Caucasus. In his Persian home he
had been renowned as a poet, and the street singers still chant his
love songs in the squares of Bagdad. One spring, in his journeying, he
came to Pesth, where he instantly sought out several well-known
Orientalists—Vámbéry, Goldziher, and others—and asked them to write in
Persian characters the Hungarian words which would be indispensable for
daily use, for instance, reckoning, the names of coins, of his goods,
etc.
It would scarcely be believed that the Persian dervish knew the Pesth
Orientalists, yet it was so. Somewhere in Roumelia, at the foot of the
Balkans, or still farther away in Anatolia, a Hadji journeying westward
meets such men on their way to the East. They sit silently side by side
on the divan or the rush-mat, their fingers play with the beads of the
rosary, and their lips softly murmur passages from the Koran. Suddenly
one raises his voice and says: “Brother! You are going toward the West,
to the land of the unbelievers. If you reach the city of the Magyars,
Pesth, go to the great palace on the bank of the Danube. It is called
the Academy. Mention the names of Vámbéry and Goldziher Effendi, and
you will be taken to men who fear God and are kind to strangers.” The
other answers: “Brother, you are directing your steps eastward and will
reach Benares. Walk through the bazaar there, and where you see the
shop of a dealer in weapons, between two silk merchants, enter and
greet him; you will be well treated.” So the Hadjis bear the fame of
hospitable men to distant quarters of the world, and wherever they meet
one another they exchange addresses.
Ali Hadji Effendi was soon at home in Pesth. What great trouble was
necessary for the purpose? His patrons obtained from the authorities
permission for him to remain, and he could pursue his business. Every
morning he came from his night quarters with his wares, and wandered
through the streets. Wherever he found shade and a clean spot he
unfolded his rug, sat down with crossed legs, arranged his goods, and,
with Oriental patience, awaited customers. Nothing could disturb his
equanimity. If the children teased him, he smilingly shook his finger
at them. To a boy who once thrust a pin through his turban from behind,
he addressed a very edifying and moral lecture in the Persian language,
summing up the instruction at the close in the two words “Nem szip”
(not right), which he uttered with a grave shake of the head. He could
not be roused to anger; it was impossible to irritate him.
If a soldier came, who wanted to give his sweetheart, usually one of
the Slavonic race, a surprise, and wished to buy a brass ring with
glass, or even a silver one, set with turquoise, Ali waited quietly
till he had selected something, and then named the price, about
twenty-three kreuzers. The purchaser, usually in a shout, as if the
Persian could understand German better if spoken in a loud than in a
low tone, made his offer, but Ali did not say another word and would
not have accepted twenty-two kreuzers and a half for the ring. Not
until the sum which he had named was paid in full did he deliver the
article and receive the money, which, without counting, he thrust into
his belt. He never allowed any haggling, this was a principle of his
business, and it may readily be supposed that, under such
circumstances, his receipts were not large from customers who mainly
belonged to the servant class.
If he thought he had made enough, or if the time seemed long, he spread
an old piece of sack cloth over his wares and lay down on his carpet to
sleep. He had no fear of thieves, and the kindness and honesty of the
public had never disappointed him. Often, too, the poetic inspiration
seized him, and then he drew from his girdle a small yellow book and
wrote Persian verses in it. If, at such a time, customers attempted to
interrupt him, he waved them off with a gesture of the hand, and
remained for hours utterly oblivious of his surroundings. When the poem
was finally finished, he beckoned to the bystanders until they formed a
dense circle around him, and declaimed his verse in a half song. His
ears feasted on the melody of his own creation. In the zeal of reading
aloud he rose, his eyes flashed, his voice trembled, he explained
single verses, described to his listeners the beauty of an image, the
wit of a turn of speech, and when he had finished and his glance
wandered over the spectators, who were staring at him in astonishment,
he smilingly protested, “Szip, szip!” (Fine, fine!), pointing to the
little book with his finger.
On the very first day of his sojourn in Pesth he composed a ghasel of
four lines, a literal translation of which would run as follows:
“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand,
Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band,
Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace,
Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”
One day a hard-hearted policeman arrested him and drove him to the
town-hall. There he cleared himself and was released in a few hours. He
avenged himself on the rude fellow with the following sarcastic ghasel:
“As the laden camel through the streets of Samarcand men drive,
So here, mistaking a command, to urge me on they strive.
The armed policeman, swearing, doth press me toward the gaol,
Yet he, too, is also driven: for folly drives his soul.”
Daily he composed a song in praise of the city of Pesth and of Hungary.
He described the beauty of the Ofner Mountains, the majesty of the
giant river, the splendor of the palatial buildings, the proud men, the
fair women; and when he had a series of ghasels he went to his patrons
and read them aloud to them. Often, too, he carried his goods home at
midday and paid a visit to Vámbéry or Goldziher. Removing his slippers
outside the door, he silently entered the room, mutely greeted the
occupant by touching his brow, lips, and breast with his hand, then
went to the book-case, took from the place he knew so well the heroic
verse of Firdusi, the divine poems of Hâfiz, or the mocking ones of
Omar Khayyám, sat down on the floor with crossed legs, read the Persian
writers for an hour, then closed the volume, restored it to its place
and, with another silent greeting, went away.
Thus one whole summer passed, autumn came, the leaves began to fall
from the trees, and the swallows were preparing to depart. Our Hadji
Ali Effendi soon felt too cold in his blue calico caftan, and one day
he was no longer seen in the streets of Pesth.
He had drawn his girdle closer, wound his turban anew, taken in his
hand the knotted staff which had been his companion from Küenlün to the
Blocksberg, and set forth again on his pilgrimage. Outside the city he
had paused, raised his hand to his brow, his lips, and his breast, and
then silently continued his way eastward without another backward
glance.
But perhaps, years later, some beautiful almeh will sing in the bazaar
of Bassora, to the music of the mandolin, the song which the traveling
dervish composed in praise of the hospitable city in the distant West,
and the visitors to the market, seated in a circle around, will nod
their heads approvingly to the rhythm of the verse:
“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand,
Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band,
Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace,
Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”
MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.
II.
THE CROSS AT THE CORNER.