That two men as radically different by nature as Eberhard and Daniel
chanced to meet and be drawn together at the very period of their lives
when both had voluntarily renounced human society was due to one of
those decrees of Providence that contain in them either a law of
crystallisation or the attraction of polar forces, however much they may
seem to be matters of pure chance.
Their coming together took place on the day after Daniel had gone to
Eschenbach. At the break of day, Daniel had decided to return by way of
Schwabach, both for the sake of variety and because this was the shorter
route. The sun was hotter than on the day before; and when it had
reached the height of its ability to dry up the land and scorch a human
being, Daniel lay down in the forests. Late in the afternoon, just as he
was approaching Schwabach, great black clouds began to gather in the
West; a fearful storm was evidently to be expected. Heavy streaks of
lightning flashed across the sky; and although Daniel tried to hasten
his steps, the storm overtook him. Before he could reach the shelter of
a house, he was wet to the skin from head to foot.
The rain came down in torrents. He waited a long while, and then had to
start out in it again, arriving finally at the station shivering with
cold. As he went to buy his ticket he noticed a lean, haggard, unusual
looking individual standing at the ticket window. It is quite probable
that, vexed by his uncomfortable condition, Daniel treated him none too
courteously; he pushed up against him, whereupon the man turned around,
and Daniel recognised the young Baron, Eberhard von Auffenberg. Eberhard
in turn recognised Daniel. It is unlikely that there was at that time
another face in the world which could belong so completely to just one
person as that of Daniel.
The Baron had been attracted to Schwabach by his affection for a certain
person there, an affection he had preserved from the days of his
childhood. There lived in Schwabach at the time a woman who had been his
nurse. Her undivided and resigned love for him was touching. She was as
proud of him as she might have been had she been able to say that in him
she had been responsible for the childhood training of the noblest
specimen of manhood known to human history. And he was fond of her; the
stories she told him he could still recall, and he did recall them
frequently and with pleasure. She had married the foreman of a tin mill,
and had sons and daughters of her own. Eberhard had been planning for
years to visit her. This visit had now been paid. But Eberhard could not
say that he had derived extraordinary pleasure from it: it had taken an
inner figure from his soul. And, on the other hand, whether the nurse
felt, on seeing the tall, lank, stiff, and ill-humoured foster son, that
enraptured charm she so much liked to conjure up before her imagination,
is a question that had better remain unanswered.
When Eberhard became aware of the condition in which Daniel then found
himself, his feelings of chivalry were moved. With the dauntless courage
of which he was capable, he subdued the apathy he had cherished toward
Daniel ever since he first came to know him, and to which actual
detestation and disquieting jealousy had been added a few weeks ago.
"You have been out in the rain," said Eberhard courteously, but with a
reserve that was rigid if not quite forbidding or impenetrable.
"I look like it, don't I?" said Daniel with a scowl.
"You will catch cold if you are not careful. May I offer you my top
coat?" continued Eberhard more courteously. He felt as if he could see
the figure of Eleanore rising up behind Daniel, that she was quite
surrounded by flowers, and that she was smiling at him in joy and
gratitude. He bit his lips and blushed.
Daniel shook his head: "I am accustomed to all kinds of weather. Thank
you."
"Well, then, at least wrap this around your neck; the water is running
down your back." Thereupon Eberhard reached him a white silk kerchief he
drew from the pocket of his coat. Daniel make a wry face, but took the
kerchief, threw it about his neck, and tied it in a knot under his chin.
"You are right," he admitted, and drew his head down between his
shoulders: "It all reminds me of a good warm bed."
Eberhard stared at the locomotive of the in-coming train. "Plebeian," he
thought, with inner contempt.
Nevertheless he joined this same plebeian in the third-class carriage,
though he had bought a ticket for first class. Was it the white silk
kerchief that so suddenly attracted him to the plebeian? What else could
it have been? For during the entire journey they sat opposite each other
in absolute silence. It was a remarkable pair: the one in a shabby, wet
suit with a hat that looked partly as though it belonged to a cheap sign
painter, and partly as though it were the sole head gear of a gypsy
bard, and with a big pair of spectacles from which the eyes flashed
green and unsteady; the other looking as though he had just stepped out
of a bandbox, not a particle of dust on his clothing, in patent
leather slippers, English straw hat, and with an American cigarette in
his mouth.
Next to them sat a peasant woman with a chicken basket on her lap, a
red-headed girl who held the hind part of pig on her knees, and a
workman whose face was bandaged.
At times they looked at each other. If they chanced to catch each
other's eye, the Baron would at once look down, and Daniel, bored as he
was, would gaze out of the window at the rain. But there must have been
something unusually communicative and mutually intelligent in the few
glances with which they involuntarily honoured each other during the
journey; for when the train pulled into the station, they left together,
and walked along the street quite peacefully, side by side, just as if
it were to be taken as a matter of fact that they would remain in each
other's company.
Man is a gregarious animal; given the right conditions, one man will
seek out the company of another. Neither defiance nor reserve is of the
slightest avail; there is something that conquers the strongest man when
he finds another who will yield. Then it is that what was formerly
regarded as contentment with loneliness is unmasked and shown to be
nothing more than ordinary self-deception.
"I presume you wish to go home and change your clothes," said Eberhard,
standing on the street corner.
"I am already dry," said Daniel, "and I really have no desire to go
home. Over there on Schuett Island is a little inn called the Peter
Vischer. I like it because it is frequented only by old people who talk
about old times, and because it is situated on a bridge, so that you
have the feeling you are in a ship floating around on the water."
Eberhard went along. From eight o'clock till midnight they sat there
opposite each other. Their conversation was limited to such remarks as,
"It is really quite comfortable here."--"It seems to have stopped
raining."--"Yes, it has stopped."--"That old white-bearded man over by
the stove who is doing so much talking is a watchmaker from Unschlitt
Place."--"So? He looks pretty husky."--"He is said to have fought in the
battle of Woerth."--And so their remarks ran.
When they separated, Eberhard knew that Daniel would again be at the
Peter Vischer on Wednesday of the following week, and Daniel knew that
he would find the Baron there.
X
Philippina was on her knees by the hearth, cleaning out the ashes;
Eleanore was sitting by the kitchen table, adding up the week's expenses
in a narrow note-book.
"You ought-a git married, Eleanore," said Philippina, as she blew on a
hot coal, "'deed you ought; it's the right time for you."
"Ah, leave me alone," said Eleanore angrily.
Philippina crouched still lower on the hearth: "I mean well by you, I
do," she said. "You're simply killing yourself here. With your white
skin and sugary eyes--uhm, uhm! You bet if I had 'em like yours I'd git
one. Men are all as dumb as shoats outside of a sty."
"Keep quiet," said Eleanore, and went on counting: "Seven from fifteen
leaves eight...."
"An angel has made your bed," interrupted Philippina with a giggle. "I
know a fellow," she went on, her face becoming rather sour, "he's just
the right one. Money? whew! He's stuck on you too, believe me! If I wuz
to go to him and say, Eleanore Jordan is willing, I believe the old
codger would give me a bag of gold. Cross my heart, Eleanore, and he's a
fine man too. He can play the piano just as good as Daniel, if not
better. When he plays you can see the sparks fly."
Eleanore got up, and closed the book. "Do you want me to give you a
present for finding me a man, Philippina?" she asked, with a sympathetic
smile. "And you are trying to sound me? Go on, you fool."
"Come wind and blow my fire hot, so that my soup be not forgot,"
whispered Philippina with a gloomy face.
Eleanore left the kitchen and went upstairs. Her heart was full of
longing; it was in truth almost bursting with longing.