"Freundschaft, Liebe, Stein der Weisen,
Diese Dreie hört' ich preisen,
Und ich pries und suchte sie,
Aber ach! ich fand sie nie."--HEINE.
During the next two years there was never a week, and seldom a day,
when I did not see Storm. We lunched together at a much-frequented
restaurant not far from Wall street, and my friend's sarcastic
epigrams would do much to reconcile me to my temperance habits by
supplying in a more ethereal form the stimulants with which others
strove to facilitate or to ruin their digestions.
"Existence is even at best a doubtful boon," he would say while he
dissected his beefsteak with the seriousness of a scientific observer.
"A man's philosophy is regulated by his stomach. No amount of stoicism
can reconcile a man to dyspepsia. If our nationality were not by
nature endowed with the digestion of a boa-constrictor, I should
seriously consider the propriety of vanishing into the Nirvana."
I often wondered what could be the secret of Storm's liking for me;
for that he liked me, in his own lugubrious fashion, there could be no
doubt. As for myself, I never could determine how far I reciprocated
his feeling. I should hardly say that I loved him, but his talk
fascinated me, and it always irritated me to hear any one speak ill of
him. He was the very opposite of what the world calls "a good fellow;"
he did not slap you on the shoulder and salute you with a "Hallo, old
boy!" and I am inclined to think that he would have promptly resented
any undue familiarity. He was a man of the most exact habits,
painfully conscientious in all his dealings, and absolutely devoid of
vices, unless, indeed, his extravagance in the purchase of old
furniture might be classed under that head. To people of slipshod
habits, his painstaking exactness was of course highly exasperating,
and I often myself felt that he was in need of a redeeming vice. If I
could have induced him to smoke, take snuff, or indulge in a little
innocent gambling, I believe it would have given me a good deal of
satisfaction. Once, I remember, I exerted myself to the utmost to
beguile him into taking a humorous view of a mendacious tramp, who,
after having treated us to a highly pathetic autobiography, importuned
us for a quarter. But no, Storm could see nothing but the moral
hideousness of the man, lectured him severely, and would have sent
him away unrewarded, if I had not temporarily suspended my principles.
During our continued intercourse, I naturally learned a good deal
about my friend's previous life and occupation. He was of very good
family, had enjoyed an excellent university education, and had the
finest prospects of a prosperous career at home, when, as far as I
could ascertain, he took a sudden freak to emigrate. He had inherited
a modest fortune, and now maintained himself as cashier in a large tea
importing house in the city. He read the newspapers diligently,
apparently with a view to convincing himself of the universal
wretchedness of mankind in general and the American people in
particular, had a profound contempt for ambition of every sort,
believed nothing that life could offer worthy of an effort,
except--old furniture.
In the autumn of 187- he was taken violently ill with inflammation of
the lungs, and I naturally devoted every evening to him that I could
spare from my work. He suffered acutely, but was perfectly calm and
hardly ever moved a muscle.
"I seldom indulge in the luxury of whining," he said to me once, as I
was seated at his bedside. "But, if I should die, as I believe I
shall, it would be a pity if the lesson of my life should be lost to
humanity. It is the only valuable thing I leave behind me, except,
perhaps, my furniture, which I bequeath to you."
He lay for a while looking with grave criticism at his long, lean
fingers, and then told me the following story, of which I shall give a
brief _resume_.
* * * * *
Some ten years ago, while he was yet in the university, he had made
the acquaintance of a young girl, Emily Gerstad, the daughter of a
widow in whose house he lived. She was a wild unruly thing, full of
coquettish airs, frivolous as a kitten, but for all that, a phenomenon
of most absorbing interest. She was a blonde of the purest Northern
type, with a magnificent wealth of thick curly hair and a pair of blue
eyes, which seemed capable of expressing the very finest things that
God ever deposited in a woman's nature. It was useless to disapprove
of her, and to argue with her on the error of her ways was a waste of
breath: her moral nature was too fatally flexible. She could assume
with astonishing facility a hundred different attitudes on the same
question, and acted the penitent, the indifferent, the defiant, with
such a perfection of art as really to deceive herself. And in spite of
all this, poor Storm soon found that she had wound herself so closely
about his heart, that the process of unwinding, as he expressed it,
would require greater strength and a sterner philosophy than he
believed himself to possess. He had always been shy of women, not
because he distrusted them, but because he was painfully conscious of
being, in point of physical finish, a second-rate article, a bungling
piece of work, and naturally felt his disadvantages more keenly in the
presence of those upon whom Nature had expended all her best art. He
was, according to his own assertion, an idealist by temperament, and
had kept a sacred chamber in his heart where the vestal fire burned
with a pure flame. Now the deepest strata of his being were stirred,
and he loved with an overwhelming fervor and intensity which fairly
frightened him. In a moment of abject despair he proposed to Emily,
and to his surprise was accepted. And what was more, it was no comedy
on her part; he even now believed that she really loved him. All the
turbulent forces of her being were toned down to a beautiful, womanly
tenderness. She clung to him with a passionate devotion which seemed
to be no less of a surprise to herself than it was to him--clung to
his stronger self, perhaps, as a refuge from her own waywardness,
listened with a sweet, shame-faced happiness to his bright plans for
their common future, and shared his pleasures and his light
disappointments with an ardor and an ever ready sympathy, as if her
whole previous life had been an education for this one end--to be a
perfect wife and to be his wife.
But alas, their happiness was of brief duration. At the end of a year
he had finished his legal studies, and passed a brilliant examination.
An excellent situation was obtained for him in a small town on the
sea-coast, whither he removed and began to prepare for the foundation
of his home. It was here he contracted his taste for quaint furniture,
all that was now left to him of his happiness--nay, of his life.
Suddenly, at the end of eight months, she ceased writing to him--a
fact which after all, argued well for her sincerity; full of
apprehension, he hastened to the capital and found her engaged to a
young lieutenant,--a dashing, hare-brained fellow, covered all over
with gilt embroidery, undeniably handsome, but otherwise of very
little worth. At least that was Storm's impression of him; he may have
done him injustice, he added, with his usual conscientiousness. A man
who sees the whole structure of his life tumbling down over his head
is not apt to take a charitable view of the author of the ruin. A week
later, Storm was on his way to America,--that was the end of the
story.
Yes, if my friend had died, according to his promise, the story would
have ended here; but, as for once, he broke his word, I am obliged to
add the sequel. I noticed that for some time after his recovery he
kept shy of me. As he afterward plainly told me, he felt as if I had
purloined a piece of his most precious private property, in sharing a
grief which had hitherto been his own exclusive treasure.