"And behold, though the way was light and the sun did shine, yet my
heart was ill at ease, for a sinister blot did now and again fleck the
sun, and a muttered sound perturbed the air. And he repeated oft 'One
hath told me--thus--or thus.'"
Karl Linders, our old acquaintance, was now our fast friend. Many
changes had taken place in the _personnel_ of our fellow-workmen in the
kapelle, but Eugen, Karl, and I remained stationary in the same places
and holding the same rank as on the day we had first met. He, Karl, had
been from the first more congenial to me than any other of my fellows
(Eugen excepted, of course). Why, I could never exactly tell. There was
about him a contagious cheerfulness, good-humor, and honesty. He was a
sinner, but no rascal; a wild fellow--_Taugenichts_--_wilder Gesell_,
as our phraseology had it, but the furthest thing possible from a
knave.
Since his visits to us and his earnest efforts to curry favor with
Sigmund by means of nondescript wool beasts, domestic or of prey, he had
grown much nearer to us. He was the only intimate we had--the only
person who came in and out of our quarters at any time; the only man who
sat and smoked with us in an evening. At the time when Karl put in his
first appearance in these pages he was a young man not only not
particular, but utterly reckless as to the society he frequented. Any
one, he was wont to say, was good enough to talk with, or to listen
while talked to. Karl's conversation could not be called either affected
or pedantic; his taste was catholic, and comprised within wide bounds;
he considered all subjects that were amusing appropriate matter of
discussion, and to him most subjects were--or were susceptible of being
made--amusing.
Latterly, however, it would seem that a process of growth had been going
on in him. Three years had worked a difference. In some respects he was,
thank Heaven! still the old Karl--the old careless, reckless, aimless
fellow; but in others he was metamorphosed.
Karl Linders, a handsome fellow himself and a slave to beauty, as he was
careful to inform us--susceptible in the highest degree to real
loveliness--so he often told us--and in love on an average, desperately
and forever, once a week, had at last fallen really and actually in
love.
For a long time we did not guess it--or rather, accepting his being in
love as a chronic state of his being--one of the "inseparable
accidents," which may almost be called qualities, we wondered what lay
at the bottom of his sudden intense sobriety of demeanor and propriety
of conduct, and looked for some cause deeper than love, which did not
usually have that effect upon him; we thought it might be debt. We
studied the behavior itself; we remarked that for upward of ten days he
had never lauded the charms of any young woman connected with the choral
or terpsichorean staff of the opera, and wondered.
We saw that he had had his hair very much cut, and we told him frankly
that we did not think it improved him. To our great surprise he told us
that we knew nothing about it, and requested us to mind our own
business, adding testily, after a pause, that he did not see why on
earth a set of men like us should make ourselves conspicuous by the
fashion of our hair, as if we were Absaloms or Samsons.
"Samson had a Delilah, _mein lieber_," said I, eying him. "She shore his
locks for him. Tell us frankly who has acted the part by you."
"Bah! Can a fellow have no sense in his own head to find such things
out? Go and do likewise, and I can tell you you'll be improved."
But we agreed when he was gone that the loose locks, drooping over the
laughing glance, suited him better than that neatly cropped propriety.
Days passed, and Karl was still not his old self. It became matter of
public remark that his easy, short jacket, a mongrel kind of garment to
which he was deeply attached, was discarded, not merely for grand
occasions, but even upon the ordinary Saturday night concert, yea, even
for walking out at midday, and a superior frock-coat substituted for
it--a frock-coat in which, we told him, he looked quite _edel_. At which
he pished and pshawed, but surreptitiously adjusted his collar before
the looking-glass which the propriety and satisfactoriness of our
behavior had induced Frau Schmidt to add to our responsibilities, pulled
his cuffs down, and remarked _en passant_ that "the 'cello was a
horribly ungraceful instrument."
"Not as you use it," said we both, politely, and allowed him to lead the
way to the concert-room.
A few evenings later he strolled into our room, lighted a cigar, and
sighed deeply.
"What ails thee, then, Karl?" I asked.
"I've something on my mind," he replied, uneasily.
"That we know," put in Eugen; "and a pretty big lump it must be, too.
Out with it, man! Has she accepted the bottle-nosed oboist after all?"
"No."
"Have you got into debt? How much? I dare say we can manage it between
us."
"No--oh, no! I am five thalers to the good."
Our countenances grow more serious. Not debt? Then what was it, what
could it be?
"I hope nothing has happened to Gretchen," suggested Eugen, for
Gretchen, his sister, was the one permanently strong love of Karl's
heart.
"Oh, no! _Das Mädel_ is very well, and getting on in her classes."
"Then what is it?"
"I'm--engaged--to be married."
I grieve to say that Eugen and I, after staring at him for some few
minutes, until we had taken in the announcement, both burst into the
most immoderate laughter--till the tears ran down our cheeks, and our
sides ached.
Karl sat quite still, unresponsive, puffing away at his cigar; and when
we had finished, or rather were becoming a little more moderate in the
expression of our amusement, he knocked the ash away from his weed, and
remarked:
"That's blind jealousy. You both know that there isn't a _Mädchen_ in
the place who would look at you, so you try to laugh at people who are
better off than yourselves."
This was so stinging (from the tone more than the words) as coming from
the most sweet-tempered fellow I ever knew, that we stopped. Eugen
apologized, and we asked who the lady was.
"I shouldn't suppose you cared to know," said he, rather sulkily. "And
it's all very fine to laugh, but let me see the man who even smiles at
her--he shall learn who I am."
We assured him, with the strongest expressions that we could call to our
aid, that it was the very idea of his being engaged that made us
laugh--not any disrespect, and begged his pardon again. By degrees he
relented. We still urgently demanded the name of the lady.
"_Als verlobte empfehlen sich_ Karl Linders and--who else?" asked Eugen.
"_Als verlobte empfehlen sich_[D] Karl Linders and Clara Steinmann,"
said Karl, with much dignity.
[Footnote D: The German custom on an engagement taking place is to
announce it with the above words, signifying "M. and N. announce
(recommend) themselves as betrothed." This appears in the newspaper--as
a marriage with us.]
"Clara Steinmann," we repeated, in tones of respectful gravity, "I never
heard of her."
"No, she keeps herself rather reserved and select," said Karl,
impressively. "She lives with her aunt in the Alléestrasse, at number
39."
"Number 39!" we both ejaculated.
"Exactly so! What have you to say against it?" demanded Herr Linders,
glaring round upon us with an awful majesty.
"Nothing--oh, less than nothing. But I know now where you mean. It is a
boarding-house, _nicht wahr?_"
He nodded sedately.
"I have seen the young lady," said I, carefully observing all due
respect. "Eugen, you must have seen her too. Miss Wedderburn used to
come with her to the Instrumental Concerts before she began to sing."
"Right!" said Karl, graciously. "She did. Clara liked Miss Wedderburn
very much."
"Indeed!" said we, respectfully, and fully recognizing that this was
quite a different affair from any of the previous flirtations with
chorus-singers and ballet-girls which had taken up so much of his
attention.
"I don't know her," said I, "I have not that pleasure, but I am sure you
are to be congratulated, old fellow--so I do congratulate you very
heartily."
"Thank you," said he.
"I can't congratulate you, Karl, as I don't know the lady," said Eugen,
"but I do congratulate her," laying his hand upon Karl's shoulder; "I
hope she knows the kind of man she has won, and is worthy of him."
A smile of the Miss Squeers description--"Tilda, I pities your ignorance
and despises you"--crossed Karl's lips as he said:
"Thank you. No one else knows. It only took place--decidedly, you know,
to-night. I said I should tell two friends of mine--she said she had no
objection. I should not have liked to keep it from you two. I wish,"
said Karl, whose eyes had been roving in a seeking manner round the
room, and who now brought his words out with a run; "I wish Sigmund had
been here too. I wish she could have seen him. She loves children; she
has been very good to Gretchen."
Eugen's hand dropped from our friend's shoulder. He walked to the window
without speaking, and looked out into the darkness--as he was then in
more senses than one often wont to do--nor did he break the silence nor
look at us again until some time after Karl and I had resumed the
conversation.
So did the quaint fellow announce his engagement to us. It was quite a
romantic little history, for it turned out that he had loved the girl
for full two years, but for a long time had not been able even to make
her acquaintance, and when that was accomplished, had hardly dared to
speak of his love for her; for though she was sprung from much the same
class as himself, she was in much better circumstances, and accustomed
to a life of ease and plenty, even if she were little better in reality
than a kind of working housekeeper. A second suitor for her hand had,
however, roused Karl into boldness and activity; he declared himself,
and was accepted. Despite the opposition of Frau Steinmann, who thought
the match in every way beneath her niece (why, I never could tell), the
lovers managed to carry their purpose so far as the betrothal or
_verlobung_ went; marriage was a question strictly of the future. It was
during the last weeks of suspense and uncertainty that Karl had been
unable to carry things off in quite his usual light-hearted manner; it
was after finally conquering that he came to make us partners in his
satisfaction.
In time we had the honor of an introduction to Fräulein Steinmann, and
our amazement and amusement were equally great. Karl was a tall,
handsome, well-knit fellow, with an exceptionally graceful figure and
what I call a typical German face (typical, I mean, in one line of
development)--open, frank, handsome, with the broad traits, smiling
lips, clear and direct guileless eyes, waving hair and aptitude for
geniality which are the chief characteristics of that type--not the
highest, perhaps, but a good one, nevertheless--honest, loyal, brave--a
kind which makes good fathers and good soldiers--how many a hundred are
mourned since 1870-71!
He had fallen in love with a little stout dumpy _Mädchen_, honest and
open as himself, but stupid in all outside domestic matters. She was
evidently desperately in love with him, and could understand a good
waltz or a sentimental song, so that his musical talents were not
altogether thrown away. I liked her better after a time. There was
something touching in the way in which she said to me once:
"He might have done so much better. I am such an ugly, stupid thing, but
when he said did I love him or could I love him, or something like that,
_um Gotteswillen_, Herr Helfen, what could I say?"
"I am sure you did the best possible thing both for him and for you," I
was able to say, with emphasis and conviction.
Karl had now become a completely reformed and domesticated member of
society; now he wore the frock-coat several times a week, and confided
to me that he thought he must have a new one soon. Now too did other
strange results appear of his engagement to Fräulein Clara (he got
sentimental and called her Clärchen sometimes). He had now the _entrée_
of Frau Steinmann's house and there met feminine society several degrees
above that to which he had been accustomed. He was obliged to wear a
permanently polite and polished manner (which, let me hasten to say, was
not the least trouble to him). No chaffing of these young ladies--no
offering to take them to places of amusement of any but the very
sternest and severest respectability.
He took Fräulein Clara out for walks. They jogged along arm in arm, Karl
radiant, Clara no less so, and sometimes they were accompanied by
another inmate of Frau Steinmann's house--a contrast to them both. She
lived _en famille_ with her hostess, not having an income large enough
to admit of indulging in quite separate quarters, and her name was Anna
Sartorius.
It was very shortly after his engagement that Karl began to talk to me
about Anna Sartorius. She was a clever young woman, it seemed--or as he
called her, a _gescheidtes Mädchen_. She could talk most wonderfully.
She had traveled--she had been in England and France, and seen the
world, said Karl. They all passed very delightful evenings together
sometimes, diversified with music and song and the racy jest--at which
times Frau Steinmann became quite another person, and he, Karl, felt
himself in heaven.
The substance of all this was told me by him one day at a probe, where
Eugen had been conspicuous by his absence. Perhaps the circumstance
reminded Karl of some previous conversation, for he said:
"She must have seen Courvoisier before somewhere. She asks a good many
questions about him, and when I said I knew him she laughed."
"Look here, Karl, don't go talking to outsiders about Eugen--or any of
us. His affairs are no business of Fräulein Sartorius, or any other
busybody."
"I talk about him! What do you mean? Upon my word I don't know how the
conversation took that turn; but I am sure she knows something about
him. She said 'Eugen Courvoisier indeed!' and laughed in a very peculiar
way."
"She is a fool. So are you if you let her talk to you about him."
"She is no fool, and I want to talk to no one but my own _Mädchen_,"
said he, easily; "but when a woman is talking one can't stop one's
ears."
Time passed. The concert with the Choral Symphony followed. Karl had had
the happiness of presenting tickets to Fräulein Clara and her aunt, and
of seeing them, in company with Miss Sartorius, enjoying looking at the
dresses, and saying how loud the music was. His visits to Frau Steinmann
continued.
"Friedel," he remarked abruptly one day to me, as we paced down the
Casernenstrasse, "I wonder who Courvoisier is!"
"You have managed to exist very comfortably for three or four years
without knowing."
"There is something behind all his secrecy about himself."
"Fräulein Sartorius says so, I suppose," I remarked, dryly.
"N--no; she never said so; but I think she knows it is so."
"And what if it be so?"
"Oh, nothing! But I wonder what can have driven him here."
"Driven him here? His own choice, of course."
Karl laughed.
"_Nee_, _nee_, Friedel, not quite."
"I should advise you to let him and his affairs alone, unless you want a
row with him. I would no more think of asking him than of cutting off my
right hand."
"Asking him--_lieber Himmel!_ no; but one may wonder--It was a very
queer thing his sending poor Sigmund off in that style. I wonder where
he is."
"I don't know."
"Did he never tell you?"
"No."
"Queer!" said Karl, reflectively. "I think there is something odd behind
it all."
"Now listen, Karl. Do you want to have a row with Eugen? Are you anxious
for him never to speak to you again?"
"_Herrgott_, no!"
"Then take my advice, and just keep your mouth shut. Don't listen to
tales, and don't repeat them."
"But, my dear fellow, when there is a mystery about a man--"
"Mystery! Nonsense! What mystery is there in a man's choosing to have
private affairs? We didn't behave in this idiotic manner when you were
going on like a lunatic about Fräulein Clara. We simply assumed that as
you didn't speak you had affairs which you chose to keep to yourself.
Just apply the rule, or it may be worse for you."
"For all that, there is something queer," he said, as we turned into the
restauration for dinner.
Yet again, some days later, just before the last concert came off, Karl,
talking to me, said, in a tone and with a look as if the idea troubled
and haunted him:
"I say, Friedel, do you think Courvoisier's being here is all square?"
"All square?" I repeated, scornfully.
He nodded.
"Yes. Of course all has been right since he came here; but don't you
think there may be something shady in the background?"
"What do you mean by 'shady'?" I asked, more annoyed than I cared to
confess at his repeated returning to the subject.
"Well, you know, there must be a reason for his being here--"
I burst into a fit of laughter, which was not so mirthful as it might
seem.
"I should rather think there must. Isn't there a reason for every one
being somewhere? Why am I here? Why are you here?"
"Yes; but this is quite a different thing. We are all agreed that
whatever he may be now, he has not always been one of us, and I like
things to be clear about people."
"It is a most extraordinary thing that you should only have felt the
anxiety lately," said I, witheringly, and then, after a moment's
reflection, I said:
"Look here, Karl; no one could be more unwilling than I to pick a
quarrel with you, but quarrel we must if this talking of Eugen behind
his back goes on. It is nothing to either of us what his past has been.
I want no references. If you want to gossip about him or any one else,
go to the old women who are the natural exchangers of that commodity.
Only if you mention it again to me it comes to a quarrel--_verstehst
du?_"
"I meant no harm, and I can see no harm in it," said he.
"Very well; but I do. I hate it. So shake hands, and let there be an end
of it. I wish now that I had spoken out at first. There's a dirtiness,
to my mind, in the idea of speculating about a person with whom you are
intimate, in a way that you wouldn't like him to hear."
"Well, if you will have it so," said he; but there was not the usual
look of open satisfaction upon his face. He did not mention the subject
to me again, but I caught him looking now and then earnestly at Eugen,
as if he wished to ask him something. Then I knew that in my anxiety to
avoid gossiping about the friend whose secrets were sacred to me, I had
made a mistake. I ought to have made Karl tell me whether he had heard
anything specific about him or against him, and so judge the extent of
the mischief done.
It needed but little thought on my part to refer Karl's suspicions and
vague rumors to the agency of Anna Sartorius. Lately I had begun to
observe this young lady more closely. She was a tall, dark, plain girl,
with large, defiant-looking eyes, and a bitter mouth; when she smiled
there was nothing genial in the smile. When she spoke, her voice had a
certain harsh flavor; her laugh was hard and mocking--as if she laughed
at, not with, people. There was something rather striking in her
appearance, but little pleasing. She looked at odds with the world, or
with her lot in it, or with her present circumstances, or something. I
was satisfied that she knew something of Eugen, though, when I once
pointed her out to him and asked if he knew her, he looked at her, and
after a moment's look, as if he remembered, shook his head, saying:
"There is something a little familiar to me in her face, but I am sure
that I have never seen her--most assuredly never spoken to her."
Yet I had often seen her look at him long and earnestly, usually with a
certain peculiar smile, and with her head a little to one side as if she
examined some curiosity or _lusus naturæ_. I was too little curious
myself to know Eugen's past to speculate much about it; but I was quite
sure that there was some link between him and that dark, bitter,
sarcastic-looking girl, Anna Sartorius.