I.

Hüt' dich vor Mägdelein,

Söhnelein, Söhnelein.--HEINE.

I do not know why people always spoke of my friend Edmund Storm as a

confirmed bachelor, considering the fact that he was not far on the

shady side of thirty. It is true, he looked considerably older, and

had to all appearances entered that bloomless and sapless period which

with women is called "uncertain age." Nevertheless, I had a private

conviction that Storm might some fine day shed this dry and shrunken

chrysalis, and emerge in some brilliant and unexpected form. I cannot

imagine what ground I had for such a belief; I only know that I always

felt called upon to combat the common illusion that he was by nature

and temperament set apart for eternal celibacy, or even that he had

ceased to be agitated by matrimonial aspirations. I dimly felt that

there was a sort of refined cruelty in thus excluding a man from the

common lot of the race; men often have pity but seldom love for those

who either from eccentricity or peculiar excellence separate

themselves from the broad, warm current of human life, having no part

in the errors, ideals, and aspirations of their more commonplace

brethren. Even a slight deviation from the physical type of common

manhood and womanhood, as for instance, the possession of a sixth toe

or finger, would in the eyes of the multitude go far toward making a

man morally objectionable. It was, perhaps, because I wished to save

my friend Storm from this unenviable lot that I always contended that

he was yet a promising candidate for matrimony.

Edmund Storm was a Norseman by birth, but had emigrated some five or

six years before I made his acquaintance. Our first meeting was

brought about in rather a singular manner. I had written an article in

one of our leading newspapers, commenting upon the characteristics of

our Scandinavian immigrants and indulging some fine theories, highly

eulogistic of the women of my native land. A few days after the

publication of this article, my pride was seriously shocked by the

receipt of a letter which told me in almost so many words that I was a

conceited fool, with opinions worthy of a bedlam. The writer, who

professed to be better informed, added his name and address, and

invited me to call upon him at a specified hour, promising to furnish

me with valuable material for future treatises on the same subject.

My curiosity naturally piqued, and, swallowing my humiliation I

determined to obey the summons. I found some satisfaction in the

thought that my unknown critic resided in a very unfashionable

neighborhood, and mentally put him down as one of those half-civilized

boors whom the first breath of our republican air had inflated a good

deal beyond their natural dimensions. I was therefore somewhat

disconcerted when, after having climbed half a dozen long staircases,

I was confronted with a pale, thin man, of calm, gentlemanly bearing,

with the unmistakable stamp of culture upon his brow. He shook my hand

with grave politeness, and pointing to a huge arm-chair of

antediluvian make, invited me to be seated. The large, low-ceiled room

was filled with furniture of the most fantastic styles;--tables and

chairs with twisted legs and scrolls of tarnished gilt; a

solid-looking, elaborately carved _chiffonier_, exhibiting Adam and

Eve in airy dishabille, sowing the seeds of mischief for an unborn

world; a long mirror in broad gilt frame of the most deliciously

quaint rococo, calling up the images of slim, long-waisted ladies and

powdered gentlemen with wristbands of ancient lace, silk stockings,

and gorgeous coats, _a la_ Louis XV. The very air seemed to be filled

with the vague musty odor of by-gone times, and the impression grew

upon me that I had unawares stepped into a lumber-room, where the

eighteenth century was stowed away for safe-keeping.

"You see I have a weakness for old furniture," explained my host,

while his rigid features labored for an instant to adjust themselves

into something resembling a smile. I imagined I could hear them

creaking faintly in the effort like tissue-paper when crumpled by an

unwary hand. I almost regretted my rudeness in having subjected him to

the effort. I noticed that he spoke with a slow, laborious

enunciation, as if he were fashioning the words carefully in his mouth

before making up his mind to emit them. His thin, flexible lips seemed

admirably adapted for this purpose.

"It is the only luxury I allow myself," he continued, seeing that I

was yet ill at ease. "My assortment, as you will observe, is as yet a

very miscellaneous one, and I do not know that I ever shall be able to

complete it."

"You are a fortunate man," remarked I, "who can afford to indulge such

expensive tastes."

"Expensive," he repeated musingly, as if that idea had never until

then occurred to him. "You are quite mistaken. Expensive, as I

understand the term, is not that which has a high intrinsic worth, but

that which can only be procured at a price considerably above its real

value. In this sense, a hobby is not an expensive thing. It is, as I

regard it, one of the safest investments life has to offer. An

unambitious man like myself, without a hobby, would necessarily be

either an idler or a knave. And I am neither the one nor the other.

The truth is, my life was very poorly furnished at the start, and I

have been laboring ever since to supply the deficiency. I am one of

those crude colorless, superfluous products which Nature throws off

with listless ease in her leisure moments when her thoughts are

wandering and her strength has been exhausted by some great and noble

effort."

Mr. Storm uttered these extraordinary sentiments, not with a careless

toss of the head, and loud demonstrative ardor, but with a grave,

measured intonation, as if he were reciting from some tedious moral

book recommended by ministers of the gospel and fathers of families.

His long, dry face, with its perpendicular wrinkles, and the whole

absurd proportion between his longitude and latitude, suggested to me

the idea that Nature had originally made him short and stout, and

then, having suddenly changed her mind, had subjected him to a

prolonged process of stretching in order to adapt him to the altered

type. I had no doubt that if I could see those parts of his body which

were now covered, they would show by longitudinal wrinkles the effects

of this hypothetical stretching. His features in their original shape

may have been handsome, although I am inclined to doubt it; there were

glimpses of fine intentions in them, but, as a whole, he was right in

pronouncing them rather a second-rate piece of workmanship. His nose

was thin, sharp, and aquiline, and the bone seemed to exert a severe

strain upon the epidermis, which was stretched over the projecting

bridge with the tensity of a drum-head. I will not reveal what an

unpleasant possibility this niggardliness on Nature's part suggested

to me. His eyes (the only feature in him which was distinctly Norse)

were of a warm gray tint, and expressed frank severity. You saw at

once that, whatever his eccentricities might be, here was a Norseman

in whom there was no guile. It was these fine Norse eyes which at once

prepossessed me in Storm's favor. They furnished me approximately with

the key-note to his character; I knew that God did not expend such

eyes upon any but the rarest natures. Storm's taste for old furniture

was no longer a mystery; in fact, I began to suspect that there lurked

a fantastic streak of some warm, deep-tinged hue somewhere in his bony

composition, and my fingers began to itch with the desire to make a

psychological autopsy.

"Apropos of crude workmanship," began my host after a pause, during

which he had been examining his long fingers with an air of criticism

and doubtful approbation. "You know why I wrote to you?"