On one of the hottest days of August, a month by no means the most
delightful of Berlin's moods, there sat in the pleasant, shady garden of
the restaurant "Zum Kapuziner," facing the Schlossplatz, a tall young
man, whose material externals proclaimed him, to the trained eye, either
as an Englishman or an American. It is a safe axiom that all the
well-dressed people in the German capital are either English or
American.
In front of the young man, on the table, were a glass, a bottle of
_Mai-trank_ and an illustrated paper. But the young man was not
regarding any of these things, but kept his eyes to an observance of the
passers-by. This seemed to amuse him, for from time to time he smiled
softly.
It was certainly a pleasant spot. In front there stretched the broad,
paved square that gave to the Old Castle of the first German Emperors on
the left, to the royal stables on the right, and beyond, straight ahead,
gave a glimpse of the quaint, old-fashioned architecture of the "_Alte
Stadt_." For the Schlossplatz marks the limits of the newer portion of
Berlin; beyond the bridge everything is the real Berlin, the Berlin
untouched by the triumphant splendors that came after '71, the Berlin
that knows but little of the passing stranger and the ways to despoil
him. And that was why Dick Lancaster had chosen the spot. The passers-by
were not at all cosmopolitan; there was little of that mixture of all
races, all garbs, all voices, that was to be seen and heard on the
"_Linden_." These were the real Berliners.
In the months that lay between this day and the day on which Lancaster
had first felt the soil of Europe under his foot, there had come to him
many experiences, many amusements. He had accepted all things.
Unfettered by any restraints he had probed all the novelties that
presented themselves. He had lived in alternating fevers of
discriminations and hard work. For all these new aspects of life and
living filled him with the old, dear mania to create. He found himself
inspired by the very overflow of his sensations. From long draughts of
enjoyment he plunged into as long fits of artistic energy.
He found, moreover, that the increased tension of his spiritual being
put a peculiar force into his pencil. Because it was merely one way of
laughter, because he began in a spirit of flippancy, the sketches all
succeeded immensely. Fortune began to favor him in artistic ways. In
Paris he had made a portfolio full of the most admirable sketches of
types. There was a crafty cynicism about his work that gave a
fascination to them; something not caricature, but finer. Now he chose
as his subject the traveling millionaire, now the splendid queen of the
boulevard, now the phantom of the "brasserie," and now the rag-picker.
One day he had showed some sketches to a man that had begged permission
to glance through the portfolio, as they sat, in a crowded café, at the
same table. The man was the manager of a famous illustrated paper. He
bought some of the sketches, and presently there appeared a most
astonishingly eulogistic article, about this young American.
People carefully read the name. They had never heard of him. They looked
at the sketches. That was certainly talent of a significant sort. The
other papers followed suit. The noise of this discovery went across the
channel. There came to this young man orders from London, and the
newspapers of that town began to print the most extraordinary
inventions, by way of personalities, about him. The world, now as ever,
is always glad of a new subject. After that Parisian journal had sounded
the first note, the volume of sound that had as its burden Lancaster's
name, grew and grew. Of course, there were those that dissented, that
took occasion to flay this young man's achievements until there seemed
left only a skeleton of faults. But even that only swelled the flood.
All the while, his sketches grew in force and individuality. For,
whatever else his detractors denied him, they admitted the originality
of his style. It had never been done before. Some called it hideous,
some grotesque; but all called it new. That was the great point.
He became the fad. The representatives of American newspapers, who had
been prompt to cable home reports of the successes of this unheard-of
youth, began to attempt to interview him. Whereupon, having by that time
exhausted the immediate enjoyments of Paris, he fled abruptly.
His success had at first surprised, then amused him. When, presently, he
found that his bank account was swelling most astonishingly, he was more
entertained than ever. He laughed--that unpleasant, mirthless laugh. But
he felt no duties toward his success. When Paris became tiresome, he had
no hesitation about quitting it without leaving an address. For that
matter, he did not, himself, know just whither he would go.
His ticket had been taken for Monaco. The life of that place fascinated
him no less than that of Paris, when Paris was fresh to him. Day after
day he watched the procession that filed to and from the green tables;
the princes of the blood, the newest nabobs, the touring Americans, the
Russians, the worldlings and half-worldlings of all nations and degrees.
He watched the blue of the Mediterranean as a contrast to the
blacknesses of humanity that he saw daily.
And then without an accompanying word, he sent a selection of sketches
to that Parisian paper whose discovery, so to say, he was. There came
another salvo of applause from the world of art. It seemed, so they all
said, as if this young man was destined to show such possibilities in
black-and-white as had not yet been dreampt of.
From Monaco the wanderer went to Egypt. A white-sailed fishing-smack,
anchored in the bay below him, had started the thought in his mind one
sunny afternoon, when the attractions of Monte Carlo were beginning to
pall. He could afford extravagances now. The fisherman, when he was
accosted, had smiled. Yes, he might charter the boat. But where would
the gentleman wish to sail to? And it was of Egypt that Dick thought,
suddenly, with a longing for the cold silences of the sands, and the
pyramids, and the quaking waves of heat. And so the bargain was arranged
and to Egypt went the artist.
Thence he swung back to Italy. Then through Switzerland. Everywhere he
roved through the corners that his fancy led him to; nowhere did he
merely echo the footsteps of the millions of tourists. Sometimes he
walked for whole days at a time. Sometimes he went to a petty inn and
astonished the host by staying all day in his room and working. Whenever
he found his purse suffering unduly through the vagaries of his nomadic
fancies, he posted some sketches to such of the Paris or London papers
as had been most clamorous for them.
It was, perhaps, just because he cared so little for it all, that this
luck was come to him. In the old days he had chafed against
misfortunes, against limitations of all sorts; he had declared that
great successes were no longer possible, that everything worth doing had
been done long ago. Now, when he cared not at all, fortune kissed him.
Which also amused him.
Another man would have laid plans for the furtherment of this fame,
would have counted the ways and means of plucking the fruit of success
at it's ripest, would have plotted against the erasure--by caprice, of
the world, or loss of his own skill, of his own name from the list of
the world's favorites. Dick Lancaster did none of these things. He
merely accepted the gifts of the moment, and continued recklessly in
alternate disappearances and bursts of splendid achievement. There was
nothing, he argued bitterly, for which he needed all the fame; so why
should he care to be Fame's courtier? If fame chose to pursue him, that
was another matter, and beyond his heed.
So, carelessly, recklessly eager for novelties and excitements, this
young man adventured over the continent of Europe, gaining everywhere a
reputation for devil-may-care-dom and bitterness.
And over many of these things he was thinking, as he sat in the garden
of the "Kapuziner." He thought, too, with something of amused
wistfulness of the Dick Lancaster that had once been himself,--the boy
that had suffered twinges of conscience at the thought of giving up a
Sunday to enjoyment, and had felt forever stained because of things that
now caused him little save ennui. Was it possible that he had once been
like that? Oh, yes, all things were possible; he had found that out
plainly enough. Indeed, he reflected, if it should happen to him that
the End came tomorrow, he would have the satisfaction of having lived
his life, completely, fully, even to satisfy, in half the time that most
men take for that task. Since that night, after a certain girl had told
him to "forget," he had spared himself in nothing that promised
entertainment. With the old restraints completely cast to the winds,
with nothing but studied recklessness as his Mentor, he had followed all
the promptings of that epicureanism that he now feigned to consider the
only philosophy.
In all things he was fickle. Just as the artistic side of him tired
quickly of one place, one set of types, so his animal nature was
essentially of the dilettante rather than the enthusiast. Wherever he
saw a will-o'-the-wisp he followed; but it was no sooner caught than he
was repentant of his success. The taste of pleasure was of the briefest
to him; it turned to bitterness in a moment.
And yet, he mused, with all his varied experiences, with the feeling of
satiety that sometimes overcame him from sheer excess of sensations, the
fascination of the town was still upon him. It was surely in his blood,
he speculated. He remembered with what passionate eagerness, after the
final shaking off of all the old consciences--all those moral skins
that he had shed, and left to rot, over there, in America--he had come
to the realization of the varied facets of that bewildering jewel, the
town.
He shut his eyes to escape the glare of the noon-day, and evolve, behind
his closed lids, the aspect of the town after lamps are lit. The
constant current of humanity, of the swishing of the women's gowns as
they walked, the rattle of the cabs over the stones,--it all filled him
with a passion of pleasure. His young blood went more quickly at each
sight of that surging sea. The crowds going to the theatres and
music-halls; the shadows that flitted hawk-like about the corners; the
colors of the occasional uniforms; he drank in the picture thirstily.
Both the artist and the man were joined, too, in a passionate eagerness
for beauty; he had been known, in his folly as men may call it, to walk
a mile so that he might the more often meet an attractive face again.
The vision of a beautiful female figure, of a well-fitting gown, gave
him an almost painful joy; he felt that charm of mere feminity most
acutely and covetously.
And yet, with all, he had been a lonely creature. His pleasures were
evanescent and he was ever constrained to browse upon fresh pastures.
From this novel experience, that colorful scene, and that delightful
companion he extracted the essence all too soon; and the dregs he ever
avoided. In his mind there was a gallery of places, faces and
voices--all loves of a moment.
It was a cheerless train of thought that he found himself in. But, as he
sipped the pale _Mai-trank_, the glad reflection occurred that the world
was very large and that he had seen very little of it so far; there were
still plenty of things left that were new to him. Surprise would not die
for him just yet.
He was watching the rainbows that glimpsed in and out of the streams of
cool water that the fountain, in the square, was sending up into the
sun-light. And as he was so engaged, there came to his ear the sound of
men's voices, speaking English with an unmistakable American accent.
He turned about.
One of the men was Wooton. As they came nearer, he recognized the other
as Laurence Stanley. They were coming directly toward the garden, and in
another instant they had seen him. Stanley put on his pince-nez. Then
they hurried up to him with a flourish of hands.
"Why, God bless our home," laughed Wooton, "if here isn't our famous
young friend, Dick Lancaster, the talk of two continents! I'm glad to
see you, mighty glad."
"Stanley," said Dick, after they had all shaken hands, "what are you
doing here? Where's Mrs. Stanley."
"My boy, I'm enjoying myself. I presume Mrs. Stanley is doing the same.
For reasons not necessary of explanation to the mind capable in
deduction we are not, at this moment, breathing the air of the same
hemisphere."
"Will you fellows take a bit of lunch? We ought to celebrate this
meeting with the famous, etcetera, etcetera," said Wooton.
"Look here," said Lancaster, a trifle coldly, "I'd just as soon you'd
drop that adjective business. Here's the bill of the play, Stanley." He
handed the carte-du-jour over.
While they were discussing their luncheon, chatting of the various
causes that had brought them together, and recounting stories, and
adventures, Wooton rose solemnly, after a few moments of reflection, and
held out his hand to Lancaster. "I want to shake hands with you," he
declared, "as with a genuine thoroughbred. I've been listening to you,
watching you, and--but that was a long time ago,--hearing about you.
You're not the Lancaster I knew."
But, for some strange reason, Lancaster did not hold out his hand. He
pretended to be engaged in lifting his glass to his lips. Then he said,
"I don't consider that a compliment."
Wooton scowled a little to himself, but passed the matter off lightly
enough. "Well," he continued, "at any rate it does me good to see you.
How are they all? I've not been back in years, you know." The reason
for, and occasion of his exodus did not seem to touch him with the least
shade of annoyance.
Lancaster looked at Stanley. "I'm not the man to say. I left there
almost a year ago. Stanley was still there then. Stanley, tell us the
news from home."
"Yes," was Stanley's reply, "and a nice lot of speculation there was
about your sudden disappearance, Dick. There were all sorts of rumors.
Some of them hinted at affairs of the heart." He caught the look on
Dick's face, and stopped. "However, that's not to the point, I suppose
you're thinking? Well, now let me see: they're all about as usual, I
think, except, of course, Mrs. Stewart."
The others both started a little.
"Yes. Her husband died in January. She gave up the 'salon' of course; in
fact, I think she went abroad."
Lancaster wondered what she would say to him, were they ever to meet.
She must have heard about his sudden leap into public notice, his
vagabondian ways, his reckless career. He became moody, abstracted. The
others were not slow to observe the change in him.
"Stanley," said Wooton, "its time we left the great man to his thoughts.
He is evolving a new and fearful sketch. Hope we've not intruded." They
got up and were for leaving him, but he protested, and they all strolled
away together. He accompanied them to their hotel, and then sauntered
off for a stroll in the _Thiergarten_. He found a bench that gave him a
view of the sandy ditch wherein the children played all day long in the
sun-light, while their nurses sat placidly knitting or reading. It
attracted him immediately, this picture of the little bare-legged
youngsters in their quaint German attire, digging about in the sand,
shouting and laughing and fighting, and all living in the evergreen
country of make-believe.
He began to draw some rough sketches. So engrossed was he that the sun
had sunk behind the trees before he remembered that he had promised his
two townsmen to go to the "Linden" theatre with them. He got up, looked
at his watch, and hailed a passing Taxometer.