Chapter VII (6)

The top of the table resounded as the old colonel struck it with his fist.

“How long the others kept him in Coventry,” said he, “I know not. I sat in class with him for a whole year longer and spoke never a single word more to him. We entered the army at the same time as ensigns; I did not give him my hand at parting; do not know whether he has become an officer; have never looked for his name in the army register; don’t know whether he has fallen in one of the wars, whether he still lives or is dead--for me he was no more, is no more---the only thing I regret is that the person ever came into my life at all and that I can not root out the remembrance of him, forever, like a weed one flings into the oven!

“The next morning came bad news from the infirmary. Little L was lying unconscious in a burning, nervous fever. In the afternoon his older brother was called in, but the little fellow no longer recognized him.

“And in the evening, as we all sat at supper in the big common dining-hall, a rumor came--like a great black bird with muffled beat of wings it passed through the hall--that Little L was dead.

“As we came back from the dining-hall into company quarters, our captain was standing at the door of the company hall; we were made to go in, and there the captain announced to us that our little comrade, L No. II, had fallen asleep that night, never to wake again.

“The captain was a very good man--he fell in 1866, a brave hero--he loved his cadets, and as he gave us the news, he had to wipe the tears from his beard. Then he ordered us all to fold our hands; one of us had to step forward and before all say ‘Our Father’ out loud--”

The colonel bowed his head.

“Then for the first time,” said he, “I felt how really beautiful is the Lord’s Prayer.

“And so, the next afternoon, the door that led from the infirmary to the outdoor gymnasium opened, the hateful, ominous door.

“We were made to step down into the court of the infirmary; we were to see once more our dead comrade.

“Our steps shuffled with a dull and heavy sound as we were marched over there; no one spoke a word; one heard only a heavy breathing.

“And there lay little L, poor little L!

“In his white little shirt he lay there, his hands folded on his breast, his golden locks curled about his forehead, which was white like wax; the cheeks so sunken that the beautiful, delicate little nose projected quite far--and in his face--the expression--”

The old colonel was silent, the breath came choking from his bosom.

“I have grown to be an old man,” he went on falteringly--“I have seen men lying on the field of battle--men on whose faces stood written distress and despair--such heart sorrow as I saw in the face of this child I have never seen before or since--never--never--”

A deep stillness took possession of the wine-room where we were sitting. As the old colonel became silent and spoke no word more, the waiter rose softly from his corner and lit the gas-jet that hung over our heads; it had grown quite dark.

I took up the wine bottle once more, but it was now almost empty--just one tear still crept slowly out--one last drop of the good blood.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] The title conferred in Prussia on the candidate who has passed the first of the two examinations held before appointment as judge.

[7] “Die Bollen,” a term of dislike among the Berlin cadets.

DELIVERANCE
BY MAX SIMON NORDAU

_The fame of “Degeneration,” that vigorous polemic against
abnormal vice, has so overshadowed Max Nordau’s other literary
accomplishments that it will be a surprise to many American
readers to see his name among the master foreign writers of
short stories. “Degeneration” has only an ethical value and
does not rank by any means with the author’s best literary
work, for he has written, besides short stories of great merit,
novels, essays, satires, critiques--all more or less bold
attacks on existing conventionalities._

_Nordau was born a Jew at Buda-Pesth. For a while he was a
teacher, then he studied medicine, and after six years of
travel returned and practised his profession of medicine, first
at Buda-Pesth and afterward at Paris, where he settled, and is
now a prominent leader in the Zionist movement in Europe._

DELIVERANCE
BY MAX NORDAU

Translated by Euphemia Johnson.
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

For an hour the first regiment of Dragoons of the Guard had been drawn up on level ground behind a screen of low bushes, waiting the order to engage. For some time the fighting appeared to have ceased around them. Only a shattered gun carriage and the ground, pierced with deep holes like newly dug graves, heaped about with soft, yellowish earth, gave the spot the look of a battlefield. But the conflict was evident enough to the ear. On all sides thundered the cannon, and from the right came also the rattling of musketry. The roar of battle rose and fell like the gamut of a great orchestra executing the “Storm Movement” of the Pastoral Symphony.

In the foreground, on a slight elevation, a group of officers were attentively examining the French position. One of them, a Major, stood a little apart smoking a cigarette and gazing dreamily into the distance. He might not, perhaps, have attracted a feminine observer, but a masculine eye would certainly have marked him as a man of striking intellect. He was about thirty, tall, slight, with cold gray eyes, a pale, thin face and pale, sarcastic lips, just shadowed by a delicate auburn mustache. This silent, self-contained man had about him an air of strange listlessness and disenchantment that made him in every way a contrast to the tanned, sunburnt young fellows who stood about him, all on fire with the eagerness of battle. Taking off his helmet, he passed his hand over his forehead. It was an aristocratic, well-kept hand, with slender, bloodless fingers. The whole appearance of this officer--which even a uniform could not disguise--was that of a person of exceptional distinction, and indeed he was a person of very great distinction, being no other than Prince Louis von Hockstein Falckenbourg Gerau, the head of what was once a family of reigning princes.

Early left an orphan, the Prince found himself when he came of age master of an almost unlimited fortune. From his mother, a musician of exquisite sensibility, he had inherited an artistic temperament and keen sense of the beautiful; while from his father, a haughty and somewhat eccentric noble, he had received a disposition of such violence and independence that it brooked no control from outside and recognized no law but its own will.

It will take no great effort of the imagination to see how the world had treated the young prince. The Court distinguished him with special attentions; the ladies petted him; the men sought him. In this hot-house atmosphere of high life he came quickly to maturity, and, like most children brought up among older persons without companions of their own age, he was of a thoughtful, even suspicious, temperament. As, in addition to this, he looked at everything from a critical, almost skeptical, point of view, insisting on getting to the bottom of every question, he did not make the mistake of most young men in his position--the mistake of thinking the attentions paid him homage to his own talent. Perfectly frank with himself, he recognized that they were paid to his title and fortune.

“What do these people really know of me?” he often asked himself, on coming home from some Court festival to the solitude of his magnificent palace.

“Nothing, and yet they scarcely wait for my mouth to open to applaud my speech! But if all the words I spoke this evening were written down and submitted to a man of sense, his honest verdict would have to be: ‘Well, perhaps this fellow isn’t exactly a fool, but he certainly is mighty little over mediocrity.’ Yet the world persists in treating me as if I were somebody! But it is not _me_--Louis--that they are really concerned with, but only Prince von Hockstein,” etc.

_Louis_ was actually jealous of _the Prince_. The latter seemed to him an enemy, bent on thwarting and overshadowing his real self, and the noble ambition awoke in him to amount to something, in himself, apart from his rank and fortune.

But this was easier said than done; everywhere the Prince von Hockstein, etc., barred the way for Louis and would not let him pass. He enrolled himself at the University--the most aristocratic set among the students hastened to pay him court. The professors even, men whose genius until then he had revered, were overcome with joy when he appeared in their classrooms, and addressed their words markedly to him. He soon had enough of this, and tried the army. His colonel thanked him for the honor he did the regiment in joining it; his superiors paid him flattering attentions; his fellow officers bored him. Then, too, the pettiness of garrison life was not much to his taste, so he quitted active service, but not until he had been rapidly promoted to the rank of major.

Of course, all this time women had played some part in his life. There were a few trifling affairs with actresses that did not go deep, and some passing flirtations with women of the world. These last he quickly found unbearable, for--except in being a thousand times more exacting--the great ladies amounted to no more than did the ballet girls.

One experience, however, came near being serious. The Prince, traveling incognito through the Black Forest to the watering-place of Norderney, chanced to take a place in the coupé of the diligence next to a lady also going to Norderney. She was of striking beauty and fascination, and the Prince was completely bewitched. He exerted himself immensely, but his attentions were all received with courteous indifference. Perhaps it was this indifference--a new experience--that charmed him. After he reached Norderney he continued to pay his court. He kept his incognito and simply called himself Herr von Gerau.

The lady was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and accepted Louis’s daily bouquets just as she did those of the others. She treated all her admirers with indifference, possibly to the Prince her manner was a shade colder than to the rest. At this critical moment, a certain great personage, an acquaintance of Louis, arrived at Norderney, and etiquette required the Prince to pay him a visit of ceremony in full dress uniform. Of course his name and rank could no longer be concealed. The fair lady beheld her admirer in his magnificent blue uniform, and learned who he really was. Immediately she had eyes for no one else, and seemed by smiles and glances to give him every encouragement and to ask pardon for her former neglect.

By way of answer, the Prince sent her a package containing his uniform and jeweled pin in the shape of a crown. These were accompanied by a note in which he declared he gave her in perpetuity and in sole proprietorship the only things she had cared for in him.

He was on the point of starting to hunt reindeer in Norway when the war of 1870 broke out. He immediately asked leave to join his regiment, and the request, of course, was at once granted. Patriotism and enthusiasm had very little to do with his action. He rejoined his regiment in the first place because it was the correct thing to do, and in the second because he hoped that war might possibly give him some new sensations. Was he again disappointed? He was inclined to think so. Now for two weeks he had been in the enemy’s country, and he had had no extraordinary experience. When you have two good servants and unlimited money, even in a campaign there are few hardships, especially in a victorious army. As for heroic deeds, there had simply been no occasion for them. And the old weariness had come upon him again, as he stood in front of his regiment, smoking his cigarette.

The French artillery was now advancing upon the ditch, and their balls struck the German batteries that it defended, making great havoc. Two regiments of infantry were ordered to the support of the batteries.

Marching first came the Third Westphalians. They passed so near the group of officers that Prince Louis could distinguish each face, each expression. The poor fellows had been marching for fourteen hours under the burning August sun. They were covered with dust and sweat and their uniforms were soiled with mud. But in no way did these heroes betray their deadly fatigue. Their eyes, reddened by the heat, flamed with the enthusiasm of war, their dry throats found strength to shout “Hurrah!” The whole regiment forgot their fatigue, and seemed, as they marched under fire, like men refreshed and stimulated by a generous draft.

“Poor devils,” thought the Prince, “they are running to death as if it were a kermess dance. What are they thinking about?--nothing, probably. They are driven on by a blind desire of conquest. What good will victory do them? How will it better their lot--if they have the luck to escape death? Glory for Germany? Perhaps for me that might be worth something, hardly for them. Victory might add to the splendor of my uniform. Still, I don’t know, I wear it so seldom. Perhaps if I go to Japan next year, the Mikado will receive me better if I belong to a victorious nation, but whether we beat the French or they beat us, I suspect I will always get the same welcome at the Jockey Club in Paris and the Mediterranean Club in Nice. But those nobodies over there, what will their glorious and victorious country do for them? They won’t get much of it in their village. All they know of the ‘Fatherland’ is the taxgatherers and the police, and they will be what they have always been. And yet there they are full of enthusiasm, I can’t deny it--it shakes even me. Well, we ought to thank the poets who sing about patriotism and military glory, and the schoolmasters who teach the people’s hearts the poets’ words. Marvelous power of a word that can lead a prosaic peasant to give his life for an abstraction, an imagination!”

But even as with the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed through his mind, the Prince felt a sensation that amazed him. It was a feeling of confusion, of shame. It seemed as if he had been speaking his thoughts aloud and as if a group of grave and noble figures had listened to his words, and were now looking at him in a silence full of pity and disdain. Down in the depths of his soul, where the mocking light of his skeptical spirit failed to penetrate, he seemed to hear an imperial voice rebuking him and silencing his doubt.

“I am right,” his mind said.

“You are wrong,” declared the voice.

“Well, anyway, I shall not deceive _myself_ with romantic dreams,” cried Reason; but already it seemed to the Prince that the words were spoken by a stranger, and he shrank back from them indignantly.

By this time the Third Westphalians had covered the entire slope of the ditch, the sharpshooters were already at the top. There was a moment’s hesitation, for the first heads that appeared above the ditch called forth a deadly fire from the enemy. Several men fell, but those behind pressed on, and in spite of their terrible fatigue, tried with hands and feet to make the ascent that would have been play to men in good condition. As they marched on, all on fire with noble ardor, Heine’s words came back to the Prince: “How I love the dear, good Westphalians! They are so sure, so firm, so faithful. It is magnificent to see them on the field of battle, those heroes, with their lion hearts.”

Pushed on by their “lion hearts,” the Westphalians continued to scramble up the slope, expending their last breath in the effort to go forward. But the French, maddened by this outburst, forced them, after a terrible combat man to man, to recoil to the bottom of the ditch, which began to fill up with heaps of dead and wounded. The survivors tried to retreat up the other slope, and now the spectators above beheld a heart-rending sight. The men were so completely exhausted that they could not make the easy ascent. The muskets fell from their hands, and the French made many prisoners.

Above there was the greatest excitement. The Eighth Westphalians arrived, commanded by the General in person, and started immediately to the aid of its comrades. The French were forced back and many prisoners were recaptured. But the advantage was of short duration. New masses of the enemy’s infantry were coming up, and in the distance the cavalry were seen approaching.

Prince Louis had followed the combat with increasing emotion--he felt his heart beat alternately with joy and fear. It seemed to him now that the critical moment had come, and he read the same impression in the faces of the other officers. The Colonel called his orderly and sprang into the saddle. The trumpets sounded, and a sudden movement passed through the regiment. In a moment every one was on horseback, sabres clinked against the spurs, the horses neighed. Again the trumpets sounded and the whole troop began the march.

Prince Louis glanced at his watch--it was half-past six in the evening. As he rode along at the head of the first squadron, a short distance from the Colonel and adjutants, he felt himself seized by a sensation he had never in his life experienced. The madness, the feverish impatience of a moment before had melted away with the consciousness of acting for a given purpose. The knowledge of activity, of seeking a definite end, brought him rest. He stopped looking for reasons; he thought no more of criticizing. The spirit of doubt was driven out of him. He obeyed with the ardor, the belief, the simple obedience of a child, the irresistible command that was pushing his entire being forward. This man, so proud of his _ego_, he, who had always sought happiness by the unlimited activity of his personal will, now found that will so crushed and bound that it was scarcely perceptible. A Power, call it Natural Law, call it the Divine Will, that is ever manifesting itself by the course of history, had entered into him and taken possession of him. He was no longer master of his destiny, he was taken out of himself by a stranger--was it a supernatural vision, a great genius, a Delivering Christ?--Louis felt himself only a screw, a rivet in the machinery of the world’s history, and strange to say this dissolving of his individuality in a great whole, as complete as the melting of a piece of sugar in a glass of water, caused him neither sorrow nor regret. On the contrary, a strange pleasure penetrated his entire being and made him tremble with joy. He felt himself very small, yet at the same time he saw in himself something great that transcended the limit of his own personality. In a word, he had found at last that sensation he had always desired. He was delivered from his prison of egotism and at large among great generalities.

The regiment was now descending the slope, avoiding the heaps of dead and wounded. The horses quickly ascended the opposite side and, the trumpets sounding, the regiment separated into two lines and advanced.

What followed might have been taken for a representation of the conflict of the gods in Valhalla. The French cuirassiers, riding toward the sun, were illumined with an unearthly light, their shining sabres seemed like tongues of flame, their cuirasses and helmets shone like white-hot steel. The German dragoons had their backs to the sun, and the long black shadows of horses and horsemen galloping ahead along the ground made it look as if sombre ghosts were leading the living to the attack. The two troops met with a terrible shock. The sublime vision of the moment before was gone, and in its stead was a horrible, confused mêlée. Men fought hand to hand, plunging their sabres into the bodies of their enemies, without knowing exactly what they did. The French were forced to retreat, still fighting. The Germans pursued, hurrahing with joy, their horses dripping with blood.

The pursuit stopped near a little brook. Prince Louis felt as if he were awaking from a dream; he caressed his noble horse and looked about him. The enemy’s artillery was being drawn off; the survivors of the cuirassiers followed the artillery. In the distance the columns of infantry were also retreating, keeping up an irregular, ineffectual fire.

“It is strange,” observed a young lieutenant near the Prince, showing him his sabre, “my sabre is covered with blood up to the hilt, and yet I have not the least idea how it happened.”

The Prince was about to answer, when he felt a terrible blow on his chest, as if he had been struck by the hand of an invisible giant, or by the horn of a bull. He put his hand to his breast. It was covered with blood. He just realized that he must have been struck by a ball, when he lost consciousness.

When he came to himself, he was lying on the trampled ground, his head resting against a saddle. His tunic was unfastened and his comrades were standing about him. He felt no pain, only a sensation of great fatigue, hard to describe, a little like that of a man who is drowning.

“How do you feel, Prince?” asked the lieutenant-colonel, who was bending over him.

“It seems to me,” he answered, in a voice that could scarcely be heard, a slight smile on his lips, “as if I must cry: ‘Long live the King, long live the Fatherland’.”

These were his last words.

A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN

_Sudermann, born in Prussia, in 1857, began as druggist’s
clerk, then tutor, then journalist, until finally he wrote
“Honor,” a social satire that now places him, with Hauptmann,
leader of the German naturalistic dramatists, as “Dame Care”
places him among German novelists._

_The particular merit of Sudermann, as playwright, lies in his
ability to seize upon the most convincing traits of character,
and in describing familiar things, with a vein of dry humor.
He has surprising invention of plot, and skill in working it
out, but his art is often marred by cheap theatrical devices,
brutalities, and concessions to public taste. His language is
flexible, clear, rich in coloring._

_The short story here given is the most satisfactory of a
collection called “In Twilight,” published in 1890--familiar,
colloquial, fireside monologues with a woman of the world._

_Since 1894, sickness has withdrawn Sudermann from close
contact with the world, and weakened his powers of dealing with
life._

A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN

Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

Thanks be to God, dear lady, that I may once more sit beside you for a peaceful chat. The holiday tumult is past, and you have a little leisure for me again.

Oh, this Christmas season! I believe that it was invented by some evil demon expressly to annoy us poor bachelors, to show us the more clearly all the desolation of our homeless existence. For others a source of joy, it is for us a torture. Of course, I know, we are not all entirely lonely--for us also the joy of making others happy may blossom, that joy upon which rests the whole secret of the blessed holiday mood. But the pleasure of joining in the happiness of others is tainted for us by a touch of self-irony partly, and also by that bitter longing to which--in contrast to homesickness--I would give the name of “marriage sickness.”

Why didn’t I come to pour out my heart to you? you ask, you pitying soul, you--you that can give of your sympathy in the same rich measure that others of your sex save for their dainty malices. There’s a reason. You remember what Speidel says in his delightful “Lonely Sparrows,” which you sent me the day after Christmas, with a true perception of my state of mind? “The bachelor by instinct,” he says, “does not desire comfort. Once he is unhappy, he wishes to have the full enjoyment of his unhappiness.”

Beside the “lonely sparrow” whom Speidel portrays, there is another sort of bachelor, the so-called “friend of the family.” By this I do not mean those professional wreckers of homes, in whose eyes the serpent glitters as they settle down comfortably at the hospitable hearthstone. I mean the good uncle, papa’s former school friend, who rocks the baby on his knee while he reads the magazine essays to mama, carefully omitting all the doubtful portions.

I know men who give up their entire lives to the service of some family whose friendship they have won--men who live on without desire by the side of a beautiful woman whom in their hearts they secretly adore.

You doubt me? Oh, it is the words “without desire” that disturb you? You are right, perhaps. In the depth of even the tamest heart some wild desire lies, but--understand me here--it lies bound in chains.

As an instance I would like to tell you about a conversation which took place day before yesterday, on New Year’s Eve, between two old, two very old, gentlemen. It is my secret how I came to know of this conversation, and I ask you not to let it go any further. May I begin, then?

Picture to yourself, as a setting for my story, a high-ceilinged room, old-fashioned in furnishings, lighted by a green-shaded, impertinently bright hanging-lamp of the sort our parents had in use before the era of petroleum. The cone of light that goes out from the flame falls upon a round, white-clothed table, upon which stands the various ingredients for a New-Year’s punch, while several drops of oil show out broadly in the centre of the table.

My two old gentlemen sat half in the shadow of the green lamp-shade, moldering ruins both, from long-past days, bowed and trembling, gazing before them with the dull glance of the dimming eyes of age. One, the host, is evidently an old officer, as you would recognize at once from his carefully wound cravat, his pointed, sharply-cut mustache, and his martial eyebrows. He sits holding the handle of his roller-chair like a crutch tightly clasped in both hands. He is motionless except for his jaws, which move up and down ceaselessly with the motion of chewing. The other, who sits near him on the sofa, a tall, spare figure, his narrow shoulders crowned by the high-domed head of a thinker, draws occasional thin puffs of smoke from a long pipe which is just about to go out. Among the myriad wrinkles of his smooth-shaven, dried-up face, framed in a wreath of snow-white curls, there lurked a quiet, gentle smile, a smile which the peace of resignation alone can bring to the face of age.

The two were silent. In the perfect stillness of the room the soft bubbling of the burning oil, mingled with the soft bubbling of the tobacco juice. Then, from the darkness of the background, the hanging clock began to announce hoarsely the eleventh hour. “This is the hour when she would begin to make the punch,” said the man with the domed forehead. His voice was soft, with a slight vibration.

“Yes, this is the time,” repeated the other. The sound of his speech was hard, as if the rattle of command still lingered in it.

“I did not think it would be so desolate without her,” said the first speaker again.

The host nodded, his jaws moving.

“She made the New Year’s punch for us four-and-forty times,” continued his friend.

“Yes, it’s as long as that since we moved to Berlin, and you became our friend,” said the old soldier.

“Last year at this time we were all so jolly together,” said the other. “She sat in the armchair there, knitting socks for Paul’s eldest. She worked busily, saying she must finish it by twelve o’clock. And she did finish it. Then we drank our punch and spoke quite calmly of death. And two months later they carried her away. As you know, I have written a fat book on the ‘Immortality of the Idea.’ You never cared much about it--I don’t care for it myself now that your wife is dead. The entire Idea of the Universe means nothing to me now.”

“Yes, she was a good wife,” said the husband of the dead woman; “she cared for me well. When I had to go out for service at five o’clock in the morning, she was always up before me to look after my coffee. Of course she had her faults. When she got into philosophizing with you--h’m.”

“You never understood her,” murmured the other, the corners of his mouth trembling in controlled resentment. But the glance that rested long on his friend’s face was gentle and sad, as if a secret guilt pressed upon his soul.

After a renewed pause, he began:

“Franz, there is something I want to tell you, something that has long troubled me, something that I do not want to carry with me to my grave.”

“Well, fire away,” said the host, taking up the long pipe that stood beside his chair.

“There was once--something--between your wife and me.”

The host let his pipe fall back again, and stared at his friend with wide-opened eyes.

“No jokes please, doctor,” he said finally.

“It is bitter earnest, Franz,” replied the other. “I have carried it about with me these forty years, but now it is high time to have it out with you.”

“Do you mean to say that the dead woman was untrue to me?” cried the husband angrily.

“For shame, Franz,” said his friend with a soft, sad smile.

The old soldier murmured something and lit his pipe.

“No, she was as pure as God’s angels,” continued the other. “It is you and I who are the guilty ones. Listen to me. It is now forty-three years ago; you had just been ordered here as captain to Berlin, and I was teaching at the University. You were a gay bird then, as you know.”

“H’m,” remarked the host, raising his trembling old hand to his mustache.

“There was a beautiful actress with great black eyes and little white teeth--do you remember?”

“_Do_ I? Bianca was her name,” answered the other as a faded smile flashed over his weather-beaten, self-indulgent face. “Those little white teeth could bite, I can tell you.”

“You deceived your wife, and she suspected it. But she said nothing and suffered in silence. She was the first woman who had come into my life since my mother’s death. She came into it like a shining star, and I gazed up to her in adoration as one might adore a star. I found the courage to ask her about her trouble. She smiled and said that she was not feeling quite strong yet--you remember it was shortly after the birth of your Paul. Then came New-Year’s Eve--forty-three years ago to-night. I came in at eight o’clock as usual. She sat over her embroidery and I read aloud to her while we waited for you. One hour after another passed and still you did not come. I saw that she grew more and more uneasy, and began to tremble. I trembled with her. I knew where you were, and I feared you might forget the hour of midnight in the arms of that woman. She had dropped her work, I read no longer. A terrible silence weighed upon us. Then I saw a tear gather under her eyelid and drop slowly down upon the embroidery in her lap. I sprang up to go out and look for you. I felt myself capable of tearing you away from that woman by force. But at the same moment she sprang up also from her seat--this very same place where I am sitting now.

“‘Where are you going?’ she cried, terror in every feature. ‘I am going to fetch Franz,’ I said. And then she screamed aloud: ‘For God’s sake, _you_ stay with me at least--don’t _you_ forsake me also.’

“And she hurried to me, laid both hands on my shoulders and buried her tear-bedewed face on my breast. I trembled in every fibre, no woman had ever stood so near me before. But I controlled myself, and soothed and comforted her--she was so sadly in need of comfort. You came in soon after. You did not notice my emotion, your cheeks were burning, your eyes heavy with the fatigue of love. Since that evening a change had come over me, a change that frightened me. When I had felt her soft arms around my neck, when I had felt the fragrance of her hair, the shining star fell from its heaven, and--a woman stood before me, beautiful, breathing love. I called myself a villain, a betrayer, and to sooth my conscience somewhat I set about separating you from your mistress. Fortunately I had some money at my disposal. She was satisfied with the sum I offered her, and--”

“The devil!” exclaimed the old soldier in surprise; “then you were the cause of that touching farewell letter that Bianca sent me--in which she declared that she must give me up--although her heart would break?”

“Yes, I was the cause of it,” said his friend. “But listen, there is more to tell. I had thought to purchase peace with that money, but the peace did not come. The wild thoughts ran riot all the more madly in my brain. I buried myself in my work--it was just about that time that I was working out the plan of my book on the ‘Immortality of the Idea’--but still could not find peace. And thus the year passed and New-Year’s Eve came round again. Again we sat together here, she and I. You were at home this time, but you lay sleeping on the sofa in the next room. A merry Casino dinner had tired you. And as I sat beside her, and my eyes rested on her pale face, then memory came over me with irresistible power. Once more I would feel her head on my breast, once more I would kiss her--and then--the end, if need be. Our eyes meet for an instant; I seemed to see a secret understanding, an answer in her glance. I could control myself no longer; I fell at her feet and buried my burning face in her lap.

“I lay there motionless for two seconds perhaps, then I felt her soft hand rest cool upon my head, and her voice, soft and gentle, spoke the words: ‘Be brave, dear friend; yes, be brave--do not deceive the man sleeping so trustfully in the next room.’ I sprang up and gazed about, bewildered. She took a book from the table and handed it to me. I understood, opened it at random, and began to read aloud. I do not know what it was I read, the letters danced before my eyes. But the storm within my soul began to abate, and when twelve o’clock struck, and you came in sleepily for the New-Year’s wishes, it was as if that moment of sin lay far, far behind me, in days that had long passed.

“Since that day I have been calmer. I knew that she did not return my love, and that I had only pity to hope from her. Years passed, your children grew up and married, we three grew old together. You gave up your wild life, forgot the other women, and lived for one alone, as I did. It was not possible that I should ever cease to love her, but my love took on another shape; earthly desires faded, and a bond of the spirit grew up between us. You have often laughed when you heard us philosophizing together. But if you had known how close were our souls at such moments you would have been very jealous. And now she is dead, and before the next New-Year’s Eve comes round we two may follow her. It is, therefore, high time that I rid myself of this secret and say to you, ‘Franz, I sinned against you once, forgive me.’”

He held out an imploring hand toward his friend; but the other answered, grumbling: “Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. What you told me there, I knew it long ago. She confessed it herself forty years ago. And now I will tell you why I ran after other women until I was an old man--because she told me then that you were the one and only love of her life.”

The friend stared at him without speaking, and the hoarse clock began to strike--midnight.

BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER

_Not long ago, in 1895, Gabriele Reuter published a book
called, in the translation, “Of Good Family.” It was very
popular, for it was not only well written, in an up-to-date,
realistic style, softened by imagination, but it dealt with the
position of the modern woman--it was full of moving pictures
of family life and manners. Since then the author has stood
in Germany as the woman-weaver of questions and problems
concerning her own sex, in realistic but sober colors._

_Gabriele Reuter was born in 1859, at Alexandria, Egypt. She
was educated in Germany, however, and now lives at Berlin.
Since 1878 she has devoted herself to literature, writing
articles, novels, and stories for the journals and reviews._

BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER

Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

The temptation to wait over a train and visit my old friend in his new home was very strong. I decided to do it.

I found his name on the door of a pretty little villa in an attractive street.

“Would you wait a little? The doctor is expected home at any moment,” the servant told me, as she ushered me into the drawing-room.

“Will you give my card to Mrs. Hartens?” I said.

I was rather curious to see the woman he had chosen, this dear, queer old chap, this enthusiast for Hellenic ideals and the cult of free natural beauty.

When the servant had left me alone I looked curiously around the room. I saw curtains of expensive plush, carved mahogany furniture, a clean-washed palm, heavy bronze lamps--the usual sort of things that are given for wedding presents among well-to-do people. There was nothing that could be called ugly--and yet--and this was where he lived now? This was the result of all his dreams?

But why didn’t she come?

Probably the young wife could not make up her mind whether she ought to receive her husband’s old friend in his absence.

I yawned a little. Time was flying, and I did not know when I might ever pass through this town again. I looked absent-mindedly over the table beside which I sat. On it there stood a majolica plate holding visiting cards, surrounded by large, handsomely bound books. To the right of the plate there stood a vase with fresh flowers. To the left, slightly to one side, there was a little mother-of-pearl bowl, in which lay an amulet with an engraved stone and a tiny smelling bottle of Venetian glass, the sort of thing that looks expensive and probably costs but a few soldi.

I heard a noise in the room adjoining, listened impatiently, and then took the amulet in my hand and examined the stone. It bore a finely worked head of Apollo.

A carriage stopped before the house. A carriage? Then Philip must have a good practise. Strange--I could imagine that he would be more apt to explain to his patients that all medical theory was a swindle anyhow--

A shout of rejoicing came from the corridor: “Oh, but that’s great! But, dearest, why didn’t you--”

“I did not think it was right--without you.”

“Little goosie! Dearest little goosie!”

Then followed a storm of kisses, interrupted by a reproach: “Oh, Philip, she can hear everything.”

“Of course she can! Let her!” he cried happily, tore the door open, and pushed a pretty little blond, doll-like creature before him into the room.

“There--there you are! You must love each other, you two!”

His delicate, scholarly face shone in purest joy. The young wife held out her hand to me and told me that she was very happy to make my acquaintance, Philip had told her so much about me.

And yet she kept me waiting for half an hour!

When she left us to order another plate for the dinner-table, Philip’s eyes followed her, shining with love. And then he explained to me that his choice had been dictated mainly by common sense, because he believed it necessary for his restless experimenting nature to have some one at his side whose character was calm and decided. And his little wife was very firm and decided.

* * * * *

Four years had passed before I again found an opportunity to hear anything from the young couple.

Philip never wrote letters, on principle. I therefore should hardly have felt that I had a right to call him my friend. And yet I made a detour that I might visit him and his wife.

The silence in the house was noticeable. And the undisturbed order everywhere was almost distressing. It was as if the furniture were never used. A door opened cautiously and was shut again equally carefully. A carefully deadened step approached the room, and Philip entered, alone.

“This _is_ nice! It’s awfully good of you,” he said cordially, giving me both his hands.

But after the first greeting I noticed an embarrassment in his manner, a something which had never been part of his character before. With a certain formal politeness, he explained to me that his wife was ill, but that he would go and see if she would not feel equal to a word with me.

After some time he returned, alone, as before. “Theresa asks that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us to-morrow.”

Then he suggested that he and I should spend the evening in a concert garden.

Several hours passed happily under the green trees, cheered with the sound of pleasantly distant music, and enlivened by one of our old-time conversations. Philip became quite himself again. He had the nature of a poet, who can form anew for himself the ancient dreams of all mankind. And he was something of a reformer also. As he described to me what his ideal of life would be, an existence without family ties, without exacting sentimentality and excitement, a life of pure calm beauty, I could not avoid the question: “But what in the world can you do with all this part of your nature in your present existence?” A second later I was sorry for what I had said; his smile was like an expression of pain.

Toward noon the following day Philip called on me at the hotel.

His eyes were dull, his spiritual, mobile features were dead and set in heavy lines.

“I must ask your pardon,” he murmured. “Theresa does not feel well enough yet to see anybody. I thought as much yesterday.”

I inquired sympathetically as to the trouble.

“She could pull herself together perfectly well. But she won’t. She won’t do it, just because it would please me,” he murmured in suppressed anger, throwing back his head impatiently, with a moan as of pain. “And I--I need joy and merriment--and brightness-- And--you saw what it was yesterday. That’s the way it always is now--always.”

“But you are a physician,” I exclaimed. “Can you not give orders? This shutting herself up is all wrong for a young woman like that.”

He burst out into a loud, bitter laugh. “A physician?-- Why, she thinks I’m ill and she is well-- And that isn’t all-- She never can forgive me for our child’s death--” He stared out ahead of him as if he were looking into a world of misery.

“But how dare she?” I whispered. “A thing like that--is fate.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a physician--I should have helped.”

And then he told me the story in a dull and weary tone. An epidemic of scarlet fever had broken out in the city. His wife had demanded that he should refuse to treat severe cases, in consideration for herself and the child. He would not comply with her wish and brought the infection into the house. “From her point of view, Theresa is quite right in hating me,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she acts and talks as if it were only her child--it was _my_ son also.”

We set out for a restaurant that he had recommended. He was quiet and absent-minded. Suddenly he looked at his watch and said: “You’re an independent woman. You don’t mind going there alone, do you? I have a patient to visit and will meet you there later. Will this suit you?”

I assented, understanding that he had already repented of his confession and wished to be alone. I waited the rest of the afternoon, but without the hope of seeing him again. He did not come, and I left the town that evening.

* * * * *

It was in quite another city, in another corner of Germany, where I was visiting relatives, when one day some one asked me: “Aren’t you a friend of Dr. Philip Hartens? According to the directory he lives here now, quite near us. Would you want to look him up?”

“Of course I would.”

An hour later I might have believed that the six years which had passed between that day and my first visit to the young couple had been a dream only. For I sat beside the very same table at which I had waited before. The friendly spring sunshine shone on the gold lettering of the large books that surrounded the majolica plate, mirrored itself in the vase with fresh flowers, and awoke a delicate play of color from the little mother-of-pearl bowl. There were also the amulet with the head of Apollo and the little glass bottle. The sight of these old friends caused me to smile, just as Theresa entered. The delicate outlines of her figure had not changed, she had become frozen into them, as it were. There was something of the old maid about her, and the stubbornness, which had been a piquant touch in her soft young face, was now hardened into the chief quality of its expression. She took my hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear that Philip is away.”

“My husband has left me,” was her short, sharp answer.

I looked at her, dazed. “Why--?”

“Yes. I suppose you did not imagine that he would forget himself to that extent?” She smoothed her little black silk apron and looked at me with an expression that was almost scorn.

“No--I certainly should not have believed that,” I answered candidly. “How could it have happened?”

Naturally, I did not expect an explanation. But Theresa began of herself to tell me the story of her unhappy marriage; began to tell it with a self-possession which showed that she felt assured of a tribute of sympathy from every one. She told me of her fruitless attempts to make of her husband a sensible, useful, practical husband and citizen. For a time everything seemed to go right--until the child died. But from then on his guilty conscience had drawn him more and more away from her and from her influence. He neglected his practise more and more, he spoke quite openly in terms of scorn about his profession, he fell into bad company, began to go about with people who let their hair grow and didn’t wear shoes--and with them he appeared to have entirely lost all sense of what was decent and sensible.

I listened in silence, shocked in my inmost heart to see how her hatred seemed to have robbed this woman of all sense of shame.

“But Philip is a noble and true character,” I said finally. “He goes his own way perhaps-- But, believe me, he will come to himself again in solitude.”

“In solitude?” she queried, with a scornful dropping of the corners of her mouth. “Philip is utterly ruined, I tell you. Because I refused to become a pupil to his immoral theories of life, he sought and found a more credulous companion. He is with her now, in Greece, I believe, or God knows where--”

The faded eyes in the embittered little face gazed angrily into the distance, as if her spirit followed her husband and the other woman.

Then her glance fell slowly back to the table, and she noticed that during her narrative I had mechanically taken the amulet from the little pearl bowl and had let it fall upon one of the books.

Crushing her moistened handkerchief in her left hand, with the right she took up the amulet, laid it back in its place beside the little glass bottle, and pushed the little bowl until it stood just as it had before, to the left side of the majolica plate.

Then I understood my poor friend, and my heart forgave him.

THE FUR COAT
BY LUDWIG FULDA

_Fulda’s greatest achievement, perhaps, is his translation into
German of Molière’s masterpieces, the success of which probably
led him to also translate De Rostand’s “Cyrano de Bergerac.”
But his popularity rests chiefly on his dramas, the best known
of which is “The Talisman,” and on his short stories. When
Fulda went to Munich in 1884, he came for a short time under
the influence of Paul Heyse, evident in his short stories of
the period, but soon fell into the inevitable realism of the
present age in fiction. Later still he applied himself closely
to the study of the language and artistic form of poetry. It
is not surprising, then, to find his style so graceful and
elegant._

_Fulda was born in 1862 at Frankfort-on-Main. His early studies
at Heidelberg, Berlin, and Leipzig were chiefly in German
philology, history of literature, and philosophy. For his book
on Christian Science he received a university degree._

THE FUR COAT
THE STORY OF A MATRIMONIAL DIFFERENCE

BY LUDWIG FULDA

Translated by Mrs. J. M. Lancaster.
Copyright, 1903, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.

BERLIN, November 20.

Dear Gustav--I have some news to tell you to-day which will certainly surprise you. I have separated from my wife, or rather we have separated from each other. We have come to an amicable agreement henceforth to live entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone to her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain. I am for the present in our old house; perhaps in the spring I may look for a smaller house--perhaps not, for I can hardly hope to find so quiet a workroom as I now have, and the idea of moving appals me, especially when I think of my large library. You will, of course, want to know what has happened, though, to tell the truth, nothing has happened. The world will seek for all possible and impossible reasons why two people who married for love and who have for eleven years lived what is called happily together should now have decided to part. Yes, this world which thinks itself so wise, but whose judgments are nevertheless so petty, so superficial, will doubtless be of the opinion that there is something hidden--will include this case too in one of the two great categories prepared for such affairs, because it can not conceive of the fact that life in its inexhaustible variety never repeats itself and that the same circumstances may assume different aspects according to the character and disposition of those interested. I need not tell you this, my dear Gustav. You will understand how two finely organized natures should rebel against a tie which binds them together after they have once become fully convinced that in all matters of real importance a mutual understanding was impossible.