life. It is how you make experiences without knowing it, and time
goes on, and suddenly it dawns upon you that such and such an event
was an experience. For instance, you spend an evening out of doors,
because the weather is inviting, and you don’t in the least suspect
the gentle breeze that is caressing you of any evil design, and then
the next day, when the rheumatism sets in, or a toothache, or a stiff
neck, or something or other of a surgical nature, which is best met by
an application of spirits of camphor, then you know for certain that
you were in a draught, and you are the wiser for the experience. You
promise yourself solemnly that you will not be caught that way again,
but the next time maybe it is not the draught, but sour milk, or beer
that was too cold, and instead of a swollen cheek you find yourself in
possession of the native semicolon bacillus, which luckily is unable
to exist in hot punch, as they have discovered at the Imperial Health
Office. This is a great thing, for when Frenchmen raise diseases in
their undrained seaport towns, we in Berlin don’t have to confine
ourselves to drinking carbolic lemonade, as we once feared, when we had
lent Dr. Koch to France, and the papers were so full of cholera that
one hated to touch them.
Hot punch is a scientific discovery, which is efficient against the
very fear of the disease, as I had occasion to observe in the case of
Frau Postlieutenant, who was so moved by reading the papers that she
was once affected in a peculiar manner, and could not find her pulse
when she felt for it, which put her in an indescribable state of mind;
for when the pulse is gone the last stage is approaching, and it is
time to give a thought to one’s funeral. A glass or two of hot punch
allayed the symptoms immediately, and before fifteen minutes were gone
Frau Postlieutenant could feel her pulse all over. She assured us that
it was hammering in her toes quite as strongly as in her temples. She
was saved.
“Frau Buchholz,” said she, “if you had not happened to come in just
now, who knows but the black omnibus would have had to be harnessed for
me by this time?”
“It did look bad enough,” I replied, “but not so bad as all that. It
was enough, though, to frighten a person out of her seven wits.”
“I shan’t read another paper until the fruit season is over,” said the
Frau Postlieutenant.
“There you are right,” said I. “A juicy pear in one hand, and in the
other thrilling accounts of the cholera would be more than Goliath
could stand.”
So this was an experience once more, to the effect that not everything
that the papers bring is good for people, and that there is no better
thing to bring one’s pulse back than a glass of punch, provided it is
good and hot.
The Frau Postlieutenant does not belong to that class of persons who
try to give themselves an air by being ungrateful; who, when they have
visited anywhere, talk about the discomfort of the beds, and, when they
have been asked out, run to tell their neighbour the next day that it
is quite beyond them to understand how any one can venture to offer
such poor refreshments. No, she is not that sort, for when she had
quite recovered she sent around to invite me to take a ride with her
to the Grunewald, and drink coffee at Paulsborn, and then back again
by way of Schildhorn. She had hired a very swell turn-out for the
afternoon, first-class, with a coachman in livery, whose coat-tails,
gorgeous with buttons, hung down from the box like a yard and a half of
starry sky.
It is not to be denied that the further end of the Kurfürstendamm,
where there are no more houses, is pretty sandy, and the dust is given
to flying about at a great rate; but as I had on my potato-coloured
dress, trimmed with light brown satin, I did not suffer perceptibly,
but the Frau Postlieutenant, in her black gown all covered with fine
braiding, soon looked as if she had been done up in packing paper.
Every vigorous breath of air brought some of the landscape between our
teeth, where it gave a horribly rasping sound, but we bore up bravely,
knowing that in Paulsborn the coffee-pot was awaiting us with its
soothing contents.
Our conversation was of a very refined strain, chiefly about the lack
of really cultured society, which naturally led us to talk about the
Bergfeldts. Frau Postlieutenant admitted that Frau Bergfeldt might have
many excellent qualities, but she for her part should certainly never
be willing to ride through the Grunewald with her in an open carriage.
“Do you see, Betty,” I said, “what delicate distinctions the Frau
Postlieutenant makes? This afternoon will be one of our proudest
memories.”
Mila also said that the weather was exquisite, and there were so few
common people on the road. They never went anywhere on Sundays, she
said, because the company was so promiscuous.
Betty, who had been reading a good deal lately about human rights and
the equality of the classes, was going to reply, but fortunately the
carriage stopped just then before the lodge at Paulsborn. I am sure
there is no class or rank that I despise, and I respect everybody that
gets an honest living; but for all the books in the world, and all the
talk about equality, I don’t feel in the least inclined to give a _thé
dansant_ to the milkman and the chimney-sweep.
_Julius Stinde._
_WOMAN._
IN his relation to women man is always more or less of a fool, whether
he be their husband, lover, counsellor, or friend. He explains the
same thing to them over and over again; he declares, he demonstrates
with a will; he would have it thus and so, because only in this wise,
and at such a time, will it fulfil his purpose; he points the argument
and he grounds it with such explicitness that a very sign-post would
strike root at listening to him; he accents the _casus quæstionis_ with
all possible pantomime, and with all logical emphasis. For a moment
the lady fears the threatening storm; but as for the mental effect,
the effect which the argument should make as such, which truth should
make as truth,--for that her ladyship has no respect; indeed she does
not even respect law and justice with all her heart, but only under
compulsion, and driven thereto by despair.
Man may talk as much as he pleases; the spoken word exerts no potent
influence over a genuine woman. So long as her emotions are strongly
affected, the whole line of argumentation to which the word gives
expression seems to her but a piece of academical man-invented
pedantry--the learned twaddle of the schools. She inclineth not her
ear to _reasons_; she considers them an intolerable imposition, an
encroachment upon the realm of her sentiment and the supremacy of her
feminine intuition. Her logic is passion; she feels but her mood,
her interest; she sees things and relations but as they regard her
personally. Whether there is an injustice to others implied, and what
is the true import of things _per se_, all that is rarely comprehended
and retained by a woman where her interest or her antipathy comes into
play. In the entire course of the clearest and concisest exposition
the fair listener is occupied only with her excitement and opposition,
and never with the subject in question and its importance. The spoken
word, as soon as she is required to acknowledge its office as bearer
and representative of spirit, to value its absolute potency, is to her
but empty sound. At the last she yields to pathos--to emphasis, to
oratory, as she might do in a play. The dialectics affect her possibly
by their eloquence, diction, and plastic qualities, rarely by the force
of conviction. When all his arguments are exhausted, and the speaker
looks forward to the effect for the sake of which he has marshalled
all his rhetorical art and logic, and taken his eloquence into both
hands as it were, Madam comes back to the same fatal point, to the same
nonsense from whence she started; and all the forces of rhetoric, all
the concentrated reasoning goes for nothing.
Now the man’s temper rises, and he waxes indignant; a piece of copper
is finally persuaded by the hammer to become a tea-kettle; words can be
engraved on stone and steel, why not upon the _tabula rasa_, the blank
daguerreotype-plate of a woman’s mind?
The quietest, most serene of men must despair when there is no
appealing to human reason. But Madam _shall_ be convinced. He counts
again the serried syllogisms on trembling fingers, with flashing eyes
and tremulous lips, with a voice half suppressed by rage; every word
is accentuated as if it were to conjure up spirits and wake the dead.
Arguments are applied like thumb-screws, the entire demonstration is
held up menacingly like a pistol with trigger drawn; she is accused of
reason, and in the next moment it is demanded of her, as one demands
the evidence of his five senses from a person suspicious of insanity.
Madam is asked to declare, brief and plain, whether she had understood;
she is not to say what she will do or not do; the matter under
discussion and its fulfilment is to remain secondary; the man wants
naught but the satisfaction of an acknowledgment that he is right,
that his better-half possesses and respects human reason. All material
interest is to be set aside; her ladyship shall have quite her own way;
it is only demanded that there be a declaration in the interest of
truth, of logic, of human dignity; but of this the fair sufferer in the
cause of Reason is not capable, it is asking too much of her feminine
nature, it breaks her heart. She feels herself ill-treated; in her
excitement she has heard nothing but words, and like a tragedy-queen,
she has been occupied only with her grief. She comprehends naught
but her boundless misery, and the axiomatic barbarity of the genus
man. And the tears she has long repressed burst forth, washing away
demonstrations, syllogisms, and all; _that is a woman’s logic_.
Nature will not be forced, and least of all woman-nature. Dosed with
argumentation and logic, it loses appetite, fulness, wit, complexion,
grace, amiability, and vivacity. A platonic friend of the ladies is, as
a rule, an unmanly creature; that is, quite as unreasonable and weakly
constructed as the female to whom he feels sympathetically drawn. Manly
differences and manly reconciliations are quite out of the question
in so unnatural a relation. Especially is there one case which calls
for commiseration--viz., when a genuine man is called upon to be the
dependant, the counsellor, and the gallant friend of a vain old hag
abandoned of all graces; when, for instance, a son-in-law is condemned
to manage the affairs of madam his mother-in-law. Either the lady is
ungently set to rights, or else his unbounded respect for old age
brings the son-in-law to an untimely grave. With the most uncongenial
male one can discuss a question, and there is a possibility of arriving
at an understanding or compromise; with every man some manœuvre will
catch, but never with a woman who thinks her interest and the authority
of her wilfulness endangered. In this desperate case she is destitute
of reason and character, without method and consistency, without
understanding and common justice, an enemy of all business principles
and all promptness, ay, even without conscience and pity.
She would like to make a bargain but not risk anything; yes, she will
risk but not lose anything; yes, she will lose but it must not cost
her anything. All old ladies are parsimonious; they have a passion
for playing cards, but there is always the one condition that their
cavalier, with dutiful politeness, lets them win his money. Dull
are all old ladies, and hard to entertain if they cannot indulge in
weather-worn flirtations, or if they do not perceive themselves to be
the objects of devotion and attention. Ignorant of affairs are all
ladies, the old and the young; but the old never to their disadvantage
where money plays a part. Suspicious are they all by unalterable right,
and curious because they are suspicious, if for no other reason. In
some cases they are compassionate--_i.e._, in cases of illness, of
which they have more innate knowledge and power of subtle diagnosis
than an experienced physician gets to his dying day; but toward their
creditors they are worse than barbaric, they persecute them without
sense or reason.
Women are always mixing up the most insignificant things with the most
important; the details with the principal points, the person, and the
cause.
Neither an old barrister nor a young lawyer can bring them to see the
_punctum juris_, for they have as little sense of right and justice as
a Hottentot, or an Englishman making a bargain.
Of two evils women cannot choose the lesser until the greater is hard
upon them.
They want to build a large house, for instance, but are unwilling to
lay a deep foundation; it is to have three storeys, but without the
inconvenience of stairs, and there must be a cellar in each storey;
else what is the use of having an architect for your lover, or
indulgent husband, or friend? They want to go a-travelling, but at the
same time things must be more comfortable and cheaper than at home;
there is to be no luggage-waggon, but of course they must have twelve
trunks and a half, and by dint of much coaxing they will spare you
the half. Their goal is toward the north, but they wish to drive in a
south-westerly direction, because it blows into the carriage from the
other side.
A woman has leased her farm, and is afterwards indignant at the good
harvest which she might have had instead of her tenant. At last she
has sold the estate, and has the money safe in her pocket, but she is
quite taken by surprise at the thought of moving and giving up the old
homestead. A woman is always greatly disconcerted to hear that she
cannot sell things and keep them at the same time.
_Bogumil Golz_ (1801-1870).
_A CHRISTMAS TALE._
IT is a most charming thing to compose fairy-tales at Christmas-time.
But there are difficulties to contend with, take my word for it, dear
reader. I am an honest sort of fellow, who never makes a murderer’s
den of his heart, as the proverb says. So I will confess that I have
a strong aversion to telling any particularly preposterous lies to
the good people who may chance to read this, by relating wonderful,
supernatural tales, and calling forth an impression as if I had elves
to black my boots every day of my life. Ah no! sooner than do that I
will give up the whole secret as to how the following story came to me,
and at best I cannot swear that it is a pretty one. I said to myself,
“Good friend, you must cultivate a certain mood; conjure up the breath
of the woodlands about you, and all the rest will follow.” This was not
so very difficult. I bought a little fir-tree, and set it up among the
folios of the oaken table in my study.
It was a nice little tree, and I pictured to myself the spot in the
forest where it came from: a snow-covered opening, enclosed by tall
dark pines, the edges thickly set with various young evergreens which
must needs be thinned out. I smelled of the tree until my nose burned
under its prickly needles. Ah, how sweetly aromatic! Like shades out
of the lap of eternity, the Christmas-eves of long ago rose up before
me, with many sweet memories interesting only to myself, with hosts of
fairy-tales which Grimm and Ludwig Bechstein have long since put into
charming books. But soon I perceived that the breath of the fir-tree
would not suffice for my purpose, and that my mood required to be
worked upon by means of other aids. I thereupon pulled down the blinds,
although it was noon, and lit my large lamp, thinking of a well-known
Vienna novelist, who is in the habit of putting himself into the
bloodthirsty and terrible train of thought which serves his purpose by
means of a piece of black cloth and four burning tapers, upon which he
gazes in the pauses between his work. My large lamp sings, moreover,
which is a quality that cannot be prized too highly, for oil-lamps do
not as a general thing feel called upon to yield sweet music. As the
lamp burned and hummed, I took great pains to start up a rousing fire.
It roared and sputtered with a will, for the wood was somewhat damp.
But this was all the better, for a good, noisy fire plays a great part
in literary difficulties. Hereupon I made myself some tea in my little
tea-urn, which puffs and spits like a furious cat, and lit my cigar.
The scene now comprised--
A fragrant fir-tree.
A burning and singing lamp.
A roaring and sputtering fire.
A puffing and spitting tea-urn.
A glowing and smoking cigar.
A meditating poet.
I will not deny the fact that at this point I addressed some words of
stern exhortation to myself.
“Carl Pfründner,” I said, “if you don’t catch hold of a brilliant idea
now, you never will. Such a comfortable state as you are in would
inspire a chimney-sweep to write poetry. Suppose you get up something
about an “Enchanted Sparrow,” or a “Bewitched Harlequin,” or a “Noodle
in Luck””? As I was still pondering, my eye-lids grew heavy, and I
fell asleep. I scorn to make use of the threadbare artifice of telling
you that a brilliant thought came to me in my sleep. On the contrary,
my nap was dreamless, and I awoke only strengthened in my dearth of
ideas. The fir-tree was as fragrant as ever, the lamp and the fire
still burned, and all the other aids to my imagination were still
there. I now lit a second lamp, placing it upon the antique desk, and
gazed thoughtfully into the hollow space between the drawers of the
upper part, which can be shut off by a little sliding door. Thousands
of times before had my eyes rested on that very spot, as if all
possible subjects were contained therein, and my pen had but to choose
before transferring them to paper. But never before had I looked with
such particular interest at the small carved bar running across the
partition.
This bar is removed about a hand’s-breadth from the back of the ancient
desk, which came down to me from the last century. I had always taken
it to be nothing but an ornament to hide the rough board at the back.
This time I suppose I held my head a little lower than usual, for I
suddenly beheld a bolt behind the carved bar, which, when pushed back,
fitted exactly into a groove cut into the upper edge of the bar. It was
this circumstance which drew my attention to the said bar. I pushed the
bolt back and forth, but it was back so far in the dark that I could
not see how it influenced the bar. A couple of matches, used with great
caution near the rotten wood, only showed me that the position of the
bar remained unchanged. While I was pondering the object of the bolt,
I made a second discovery. Far back behind the bar there was a narrow
slit in the wood, like those which one sees on children’s earthen
savings-banks. This was the more curious as the edges of the slit, as
I approached it with a candle, appeared to be whetted off as if, in
times past, they had frequently come in contact with hard objects. The
resemblance to the slit of a savings-bank tempted me to drop in a coin.
Of course I sacrificed only a kreuzer to this experiment, pushing it
slowly through the hole, and then letting it drop.
Heavens! what was that? The kreuzer fell first upon wood, judging by
the sound, then it seemed to roll down some distance, and fell with
a metallic sound. There was no doubt then that the desk contained a
secret drawer, the existence of which I had never even suspected;
and over and above this, it was evident that this secret drawer was
designed especially to harbour coins, as the opening was not suited to
paper-money or documents. The metallic ring gave good reason to suppose
that the kreuzer had not fallen into an empty wooden drawer, but had
joined the society of other coins filling the secret partition up to a
certain height.
I beg the reader to put himself in my position. Here I have a desk
dating from the last century, my rightful property, and containing a
secret drawer, which harbours, in all probability, a treasure of gold
coins. I had often wondered at the tremendous weight of the old desk,
and sometimes the motion of writing at it seemed to call forth a softly
ringing sound. And now in this prosaic age my hand was destined to come
upon a hoarded treasure, a treasure of gold and mayhap some other rare
valuables! I trembled with excitement, and would have knocked down any
one who in this supreme moment had asked me to think of that confounded
fairy tale, not to mention writing it. My one thought was how to open
the secret drawer.
At first I tested the carved bar. It was immovable. I threw in another
kreuzer, and, aided by the sense of hearing, tried to locate the secret
drawer. Plainly I heard the metallic ring once more. It seemed to come
from behind the carved bar, but the latter would not budge.
I will not tire the reader, as I did myself, with my labours of
research. For two hours I worked in the sweat of my brow, taking the
old desk to pieces, so far as that was possible, without coming any
nearer to the solution of the mystery. Furious at last, I ran out to
get a hatchet, and swung it with might to crush all obstacles, when
once more my eyes fell upon the left-hand set of drawers that I had
put upon the floor during my search, and I laid the axe aside. Both
of the drawers showed grooves along the sides, which were evidently
there for some purpose, probably in order that they might be fastened
from the side, frustrating any attempt to draw them out. Mastering
my excitement, I put the drawers back in place, and saw now that the
carved bar exactly corresponded to the position of the grooves. I
tried to push it to the left, a thing I had of course not thought of
before--it moved, and fitted as snugly as need be. Now, treasure,
your last hour is come; that’s what I call a Christmas present worth
having! Two seconds later the drawers were out, I pushed the carved
bar around further, and behold, two small, dust-stained drawers were
revealed. I put out my trembling hand----
* * * * *
I would say here that there must have been infamous rascals in the past
century, who, not content with wantonly causing great excitement to
honest people of these modern times, steal away their time, which they
might have spent in writing a tolerable fairy-tale. Is there any one
that can tell me why in the world one of those ancient fellows should
have put the key of his street-door into a secret drawer? I wish it
were the key to paradise which he had forgotten! The vicious old sinner
might roast in purgatory so long as I lived, for of course I left the
rusty key, together with my two kreuzers in the secret drawer, adding
my curse.
Every sympathetic Christian soul will understand that after this
heavy disappointment I was not in the mood to spin out the graceful
fairy-tale I promised. Indeed the holidays were quite spoiled for me
that year!
_Eduard Pötzl._
_THE CASE OF MINCKWITZ._
IN the course of the past month I have been called upon to bear the
most acute sorrow, dear friend, of which a fine-strung soul like mine
is capable. Indeed, my friend, terrible things have occurred! I am
_misunderstood_! And misunderstood by whom? You will scarce believe
me when I tell you, but it is even so: misunderstood by Professor
Johannes Minckwitz,[8] of Leipsic, the great epic poet and literary
connoisseur, for whom I feel the deepest reverence and the most tender
affection.
Hear the sad news. One morning as I was innocently turning the leaves
of my “Neuhochdeutschen Parnass,”[9] my thoughts naturally enough
wandering somewhat, my faithful maid-of-all-work stepped over the
threshold of my door with weeping eyes.
“What in the world has happened to you?” I asked in great
consternation. “Has your lover proved faithless, Thrine?”
“I shall have to leave this place, sir,” sobbed the honest creature.
“I don’t understand you, Thrine; express yourself more explicitly.”
“You are dishonoured! And sooner will I starve than serve a dishonoured
master, for folks do say that ‘a servant is no better than his master,’
and I am a respectable woman. Here is the paper, you’d better read and
see for yourself!” Thrine sobbed bitterly, and handed me a number of
the Leipsic local paper, containing an article heavily marked with a
red pencil, and thereby recommending itself specially to my attention.
No sooner had I glanced over the first lines of the terrible article
than I grew dizzy, and therewith began to tremble convulsively. Thrine
fainted away. Picture the scene to yourself, dear friend. Without raged
the storm. Ah, the situation was dramatic. From the paper I gathered
that Professor Johannes Minckwitz, in just indignation over the last of
my harmless letters, had sued the editor of the _Salon_ for misuse of
his name, and for literary forgery, and had entrusted Dr. Coccius, a
lawyer in Leipsic, with the impeachment.