Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте
German Fiction
CHAPTER XX
Katherine's first letter was posted in Cologne and reached Berlin the following morning, according to expectations. The accompanying address had been given by Botho himself, who, smiling and good-humored, held in his hand a rather thick-feeling letter. Three cards faintly written on both sides with a pencil had been put in the envelope, and all of them barely legible, so that Rienäcker went out on the balcony, in order better to decipher the indistinct scrawl.
"Now let us see, Catherine."
And he read:
"Brandenburg a. H., 8 o'clock in the morning.
"The train, my dear Botho, stops here only three minutes, but I will make the best use I can of the time, and in case of need I will write, well or ill as it happens, when the train is in motion. I am travelling with a very charming young banker's wife, Madame Salinger, née Saling, from Vienna. When I wondered at the similarity of the names, she said: 'Yes, it looks as if I had married my own comparative.' She talks like that right straight along, and in spite of having a ten-year-old daughter (blonde; the mother is brunette) she too is going to Schlangenbad. And she is going by way of Cologne too, like me, because of a visit that she is to make there. The child has naturally a good disposition, but is not well brought up and has already broken my parasol by her constant climbing about in the railway carriage, a mishap which embarrassed her mother very much. The railroad station, where we are just now stopping (that is to say, the train is starting again this very moment), is swarming with soldiers, among them Brandenburg Cuirassiers with a name in yellow letters on their shoulder straps; apparently it was Nicholas. It looked very well. There were fusiliers there too, from the thirty-fifth, little people, who seemed to me far too small, although Uncle Osten always used to say the best fusilier was one who could not be seen with the naked eye. But I will close. The little girl, alas, is running from one window to the other as before and makes it hard for me to write. And besides she is constantly munching cakes, little pastry tarts with cherries and pistachio nuts on top. She began that long ago, between Potsdam and Werder. The mother is too weak. I would be more severe."
Botho laid the card aside and ran through the second one as well as he could. It ran:
"Hannover, 12-30.
"Goltz was at the Magdeburg station and told me you had written him that I was coming. How very good and kind you were once more. You are always the best and most attentive of men. Goltz has charge of the survey in the Harz Mountains now, that is, he begins July first. The train stops a quarter of an hour in Hannover, and I have made use of the time to see the place immediately around the station: regular hotels and beer-drinking places that have grown up under our government, one of which is built completely in the Gothic style. The Hannoverians call it the 'Prussian beer church,' as a fellow traveller told me, simply because of Guelphish hostility. How painful such things are! But time will mitigate this feeling also. Heaven send that it may. The child still keeps on nibbling, which begins to make me nervous. What will be the upshot of it? But the mother is really charming and has already told me everything. She has also been in Würzburg, with Scanzoni, about whom she is enthusiastic. Her way of confiding in me is embarrassing and almost painful. For the rest, she is, as I can only repeat, perfectly comme il faut. To mention just one thing, what a dressing case! In Vienna they far surpass us in such things; one can notice the older culture."
"Wonderful," laughed Botho. "When Katherine indulges in reflections on the history of civilisation, she surpasses herself. But all good things go by threes. Let us see."
And he picked up the third card.
"Cologne, 8 o'clock in the evening."Headquarters.
"I prefer to mail my cards here rather than to wait until I reach Schlangenbad, where Frau Salinger and I expect to arrive to-morrow noon. All goes well with me. The Schroffensteins are very friendly and pleasant; especially Herr Schroffenstein. By the way, not to omit anything of interest, Frau Salinger was fetched from the station by the Oppenheim's carriage. Our journey, which began so charmingly, grew somewhat burdensome and unattractive from Hamm on. The little girl had a hard time, and moreover it was her mother's fault. 'What more do you want?' as soon as the train had left the Hamm station, whereupon the child answers: 'Drops.' And it was from that very moment that things got so bad… Ah, dear Botho, young or old, our wishes ought to be constantly kept under strict and conscientious control. This thought has been constantly in my mind ever since and the meeting with this charming woman was perhaps no chance occurrence in my life. How often have I heard Kluckhuhn speak in this vein. And he was right More to-morrow. Your
"Katherine."
Botho put the three cards back in the envelope and said: "Exactly like Katherine. What gift she has for small talk! And I ought to be glad that she writes as she does. But there is something lacking. It is all so trivial and comes so easily, like a mere echo of society talk. But she will change when she has duties of her own. Or perhaps she will. In any case, I will not give up the hope."
The next day there came a short letter from Schlangenbad, in which there was far, far less than in the three cards, and from this time on she wrote only twice a week and gossiped about Anna Grävenitz and Elly Winterfeld, who had actually put in an appearance, but most of all about Madame Salinger and her charming little Sarah. There were always the same asseverations and only at the close of the third week did some lessening of enthusiasm appear:
"I now think the little girl more charming than her mother. Frau Salinger indulges in such luxurious toilettes as I find scarcely appropriate, especially as there are practically no men here. And then too, I see now that her complexion is artificial; her eyebrows are certainly painted and perhaps her lips too, for they are cherry-red. But the child is perfectly natural. Whenever she sees me, she rushes up to me and kisses my hand and makes her excuses for the hundredth time about the drops, 'but it was Mamma's fault," in which I fully agree with the child. And yet, on the other hand, there must be a mysterious streak of greediness in Sarah's nature, I might almost say something like a besetting sin (do you believe in besetting sins? I do, my dear Botho), for she cannot let sweet things alone and constantly buys wafers, not the Berlin kind that taste like buns with meringue on top, but the Karlsbad land with sugar sprinkled over. But I will not write any more about all this. When I see you, which may be very soon-for I should like to travel with Anna Grävenitz, we should be so much more by ourselves-we will talk about it and about a great many other things too. Ah, how glad I shall be to see you and to sit on the balcony with you. After all, Berlin is the most beautiful place, and when the sun goes down behind Charlottenburg and the Grünewald, and one grows so tired and dreamy, how lovely it is! Don't you think so? And do you know what Frau Salinger told me yesterday? She said that I had grown still blonder. Well, you will see for yourself.
As always, your"Katherine."
Rienäcker nodded and smiled. "Charming little woman. She writes nothing at all about her health or the effects of the cure; I will wager that she goes out to drive and has hardly taken ten baths yet." And after saying this to himself, he gave some orders to his man servant who had just come in and then walked through the Zoological Garden and the Brandenburg gate, then under the Lindens and then to the barracks, where he was on duty until noon.
Soon after twelve o'clock, when he was at home again, and had had something to eat, and was about to make himself comfortable for a little, the servant announced "that a gentleman … a man (he hesitated over the word) was outside, and wished to speak with the Herr Baron."
"Who is it?"
"Gideon Franke … so he said."
"Franke? Strange. I never heard of him. Bring him in."
The servant went out again, while Botho repeated: "Franke … Gideon Franke … Never heard of him. I don't know him."
In a moment the visitor entered the room and bowed somewhat stiffly at the door. He wore a dark-brown coat closely buttoned up, highly polished boots and shiny black hair, which lay very thick on both temples. He wore black gloves and a spotlessly white high collar.
Botho met him with his usual courteous amiability and said: "Herr Franke?"
The latter nodded.
"How can I serve you? Let me beg you to be seated… Here … or perhaps here. Stuffed chairs are always uncomfortable."
Franke smiled in assent and took a cane-seated chair, which Rienäcker had indicated.
"How can I serve you?" repeated Rienäcker.
"I have come to ask you a question, Herr Baron."
"It will give me pleasure to answer it, provided that I am able."
"No one could answer me better than you, Herr von Rienäcker … I have come, in fact, about Lena Nimptsch …"
Botho started back a little.
"And I want to add at once," Franke went on, "that it is nothing troublesome that has brought me here. What I wish to say, or if you will permit me, Herr Baron, to ask, will cause no inconvenience to you or to your family. I already know that your gracious lady, the Frau Baroness is away, and I carefully waited until you should be alone, or, if I may say so, until you should be a grass widower."
Botho's discriminating ear perceived that, in spite of his rather ordinary middle-class clothes, the man was frank and high-minded. This soon helped him to get over his embarrassment and he had recovered his usual calmness of manner, as he asked, across the table: "Are you a relative of Lena's? Pardon me, Herr Franke, for calling my old friend by the old name of which I am so fond."
Franke bowed and replied: "No, Herr Baron, no relative; I have not that right to speak. But my right is perhaps quite as good: I have known Lena for a year and more and I intend to marry her. She has given her consent, but on that occasion she told me of her previous life and spoke of you so affectionately, that I at once determined to ask you yourself, Herr Baron, freely and openly, what you can tell me about Lena. When I told Lena of my intention, she at first encouraged me gladly, but immediately afterwards she added, that I might as well not ask you, as you would be sure to speak too well of her."
Botho looked straight before him and found it difficult to control the beating of his heart. Finally, however, he mastered himself and said: "You are an excellent man, Herr Franke, and you want to make Lena happy. So much I can see at once, and that gives you a perfect right to an answer. I have no doubt at all as to what I ought to tell you, and I only hesitate as to how I shall tell it. The best way will be to tell you how it all began and continued and then how it came to an end."
Franke bowed once more, to show that he too agreed to this plan.
"Very well then," began Rienäcker, "it is about three years or perhaps a couple of months more, since on a boating excursion around the Liebesinsel near Treptow I had the opportunity of doing two young girls a service by preventing their boat from capsizing. One of these two young girls was Lena, and from her manner of thanking me, I saw at once that she was different from others. She was wholly free from affectation, both then and later, a fact which I specially wish to emphasise. For no matter how merry and at times almost boisterous she may be, yet she is naturally thoughtful, serious and simple."
Botho mechanically pushed aside the tray, which was still standing on the table, smoothed the cloth and then went on: "I asked leave to escort her home, and she consented without more ado, which at that time surprised me for a moment. For I did not yet know her. But I soon saw what it meant; from her youth on she had been accustomed to act according to her own judgment, without much regard for others, and in any case without fearing their opinion."
Franke nodded.
"So we went all the long distance together and I escorted her home and was delighted with all that I saw there, with the old mother, with the fireplace by which she sat, with the garden in which the house stood, and with the modest seclusion and stillness of the place. A quarter of an hour later I took my leave, and as I was saying good-bye to Lena at the garden gate, I asked whether I might come again, and she answered the question with a simple 'Yes.' She showed no false modesty, and yet was not unwomanly. On the contrary, there was something touching in her voice and manner."
As all this came so vividly before his mind once more, Rienäcker rose, in manifest excitement and opened both halves of the balcony door, as if the room were growing too hot. Then, as he walked back and forth, he went on more rapidly: "I have scarcely anything more to add. That was about Easter and we had a whole long happy summer. Ought I to tell you about it? No. And then came life with all its serious claims. And that was what separated us."
Meanwhile Botho had sat down again and Franke, who had been busily stroking his hat all the time, said quietly to himself: "Yes, that is just how she told me about it."
"And it could not be any other way, Herr Franke. For Lena-I rejoice with all my heart to be able to say so once more-Lena does not lie, and would sooner bite her tongue off than to boast or speak falsely. She has two kinds of pride; one is to live by the work of her own hands, the other is to speak right out freely and make no false pretences and not to represent anything as more or less than it really is. 'I do not need to do it and I will not do it,' I have often heard her say. She certainly has a will of her own, perhaps rather more than she should have, and one who wanted to criticise her, might reproach her with being obstinate. But she only persists in what she thinks she can take the responsibility for, and she really can too, and that sort of strength of will is, I think, rather character than self-righteousness. I see by your nodding your head that we are of the same opinion, and that pleases me greatly. And now just one word more, Herr Franke. What has been, has been. If you cannot pass over it, I must respect your feeling. But if you can, I want to tell you, you will have an exceptionally good wife. For her heart is in the right place and she has a strong sense of duty and right and order."
"That is how I have always found Lena, and I believe that she will make me an uncommonly good wife, precisely as the Herr Baron says. Yes, one ought to keep the Commandments, one ought to keep them all, but yet there is a distinction, according to which commandments they are, and he who fails to keep one of them, may yet be good for something, but he who fails to keep another, even if it stands the very next one in the catechism, he is worthless and is condemned from the beginning and stands beyond the hope of grace."
Botho gazed at him in surprise and evidently did not know what to make of this solemn address. Gideon Franke, however, who for his part had now gotten well started, had no longer any sense of the impression produced by his homemade opinions, and so went on in a tone that more and more suggested that of a preacher: "And he who, because of the weakness of the flesh sins against the sixth commandment, he may be forgiven if he repents and turns to better ways, but he who breaks the seventh, sins not merely through the weakness of the flesh but through the corruption of the soul, and he who lies and deceives, or slanders and bears false witness, he is rotten to the core and is a child of darkness, and for him there is no salvation, And he is like a field in which the nettles have grown so tall that the weeds always come uppermost, no matter how much good corn may be sown. And I will live and die by that and have always found it true. Yes, Herr Baron, the important things are neatness and honesty and practicality. And in marriage it is the same. For 'honesty is the best policy,' and one's word is his word and one must be able to have confidence. But what has been, has been, and that is in the hands of God. And if I think otherwise about it, which I too respect, exactly as the Herr Baron does, then it is my place to keep away and not allow my love and inclination to get a foothold. I was in the United States for a long time, and although over there just the same as here, all is not gold that glitters, yet it is true, that there one learns to see differently and not always through the same glass. And one learns also that there are many ways to salvation and many ways to happiness. Yes, Herr Baron, there are many roads that lead to God, and there are many roads that lead to happiness, of that I feel sure in my very heart. And the one road is good and the other road is good. But every good road must be straight and open, and lie in the sun, without swamps or quicksands or will-o'-the-wisps. Truth is the main thing, and trustworthiness and honor."
With these words Franke had risen and Botho, who had politely gone to the door with him, gave him his hand.
"And now, Herr Franke, as we are bidding good-bye I will ask just one thing more: Please greet Frau Dörr from me, if you see her, and if the old friendship with her still continues, and above all give my greetings to good old Frau Nimptsch. Does she still have her gout and her days of suffering, of which she used to complain so constantly?"
"That is all over now."
"How so?" asked Botho.
"We buried her three weeks ago, Herr Baron. Just three weeks ago to-day."
"Buried her?" repeated Botho. "And where?"
"Over behind the Rollkrug, in the new Jacob's churchyard… She was a good old woman. And how she did love Lena! Yes, Herr Baron, Mother Nimptsch is dead. But Frau Dörr is still living (and he laughed), and she will live a long time yet. And if she comes-it is a long way-I will give her your greeting. And I can see already how pleased she will be. You know her, Herr Baron. Oh yes, Frau Dörr …"
And Gideon Franke took off his hat once more and the door closed.
CHAPTER XXI
When Rienäcker was alone again, he was as if benumbed by this meeting and by all that he had heard toward the close of the interview. Whenever, since his marriage, he had recalled the little house in the garden and its inmates, he had as a matter of course pictured everything in his mind just as it had been formerly, and now everything was changed and he must find his way in a completely new world: there were strangers living in the little house, if indeed it was occupied at all; there was no fire burning in the fireplace any more, at least not day in and day out, and Frau Nimptsch, who had kept up the fire, was dead and buried in the new Jacob's churchyard. All this whirled round and round in his head, and suddenly he also recalled the day when, half seriously, half in jest, he had promised the good old woman to lay a wreath of immortelles on her grave. In the restlessness that had come over him, he was very glad that he had remembered the promise and decided to fulfil it at once. "To the Rollkrug at noon and the sun reflected from the ground-a regular journey to central Africa. But the good old woman shall have her wreath."
And he took his cap and sword at once and left the house.
At the corner there was a cab stand, a small one, indeed, and so it happened that in spite of the sign: "Standing room for three cabs" there was usually nothing there but standing room or, very seldom, one cab. It was so to-day also, which in consideration of the noon hour (when all cabs are in the habit of disappearing as if the earth had swallowed them) was not particularly surprising at this cab stand which was one merely in name. Therefore Botho went further along, until, near the Von der Heydt Bridge, he met a somewhat rickety vehicle, painted light green, with a red plush seat and drawn by a white horse. The horse seemed barely able to trot and Rienäcker could not keep from smiling rather pitifully when he thought of the "tour" that was in store for the poor beast. But as far as his eye could see, nothing better was in sight, and so he stepped up to the driver and said: "To the Rollkrug. Jacob's churchyard."
"Very good, Herr Baron."
"But we must stop somewhere on the way. I shall want to buy a wreath."
"Very good, Herr Baron."
Botho was somewhat surprised at the prompt and repeated use of his title and so he said: "Do you know me?"
"Yes, Herr Baron. Baron Rienäcker of Landgrafenstrasse. Close by the cab stand. I have often driven you before."
During this conversation Botho had got in, meaning to make himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of the plush cushioned seat, but he soon gave up that idea, for the corner was as hot as an oven.
Rienäcker had, in common with all Brandenburg noblemen, the pleasing and good-hearted trait that he preferred to talk with plain people rather than with more "cultivated" folk, and so he began at once, while they were in the half shade of the young trees along the canal: "How hot it is! Your horse cannot have been much pleased when he heard me say Rollkrug."
"Oh, Rollkrug is well enough; Rollkrug is well enough because of the woods. When he gets there and smells the pines, he is always pleased. You see, he is from the country… Or perhaps it is the music too. At any rate, he always pricks up his ears."
"Indeed," said Botho. "He doesn't look to me much like dancing… But where can we get the wreath then? I do not want to get to the churchyard without a wreath."
"Oh, there is plenty of time for that, Herr Baron. As soon as we get into the neighborhood of the churchyard, from the Halle Gate on and the whole length of the Pioneerstrasse."
"Yes, yes, you are quite right. I was forgetting…"
"And after that, until you are close to the churchyard, there are plenty more places."
Botho smiled. "You are perhaps a Silesian?"
"Yes," said the driver. "Most of us are. But I have been here a long time now, and so I am half a true Berliner."
"And are you doing pretty well?"
"There is no use talking about 'pretty well.' Everything costs too much and one has to have always the best quality. And hay is dear. But I should do well enough, if only nothing would happen. But something is always sure to happen-to-day an axle breaks and to-morrow a horse falls down. I have another horse at home, a light bay, that used to be with the Fürstenwald Uhlans; a good horse, only he has no wind and he will not last much longer. And all of a sudden he will be gone… And then the traffic police; never satisfied, you mustn't go here and you mustn't go there. And one is always having to repaint. And red plush is not to be had for nothing."
While they were chatting together, they had driven along by the canal, as far as the Halle Gate. And now a battalion of infantry with the band playing spiritedly was coming straight toward them from the Kreuzberg, and Botho, who did not wish to meet acquaintances, urged the coachman to drive faster. And they passed rapidly over the Belle-Alliance Bridge, but on the further side, Botho asked the driver to stop, because he had seen a sign on one of the first houses that read: "Artistic and Practical Florist." Three or four steps led into a shop, in the show window of which were all kinds of wreaths.
Rienäcker stepped out and went up the steps. As he entered the door, bell rang sharply. "May I ask you to be so kind as to show me a pretty wreath?"
"A funeral wreath?"
"Yes."
The young woman in black, who, perhaps because she sold mostly funeral wreaths, looked ridiculously like one of the Fates (even the shears were not lacking), came back quickly with an evergreen wreath with white roses among the green. She apologised at once for having only white roses. White camellias were far more expensive. Botho, for his part, was satisfied, declined to have more flowers shown him and only asked whether he could not have a wreath of immortelles in addition to the wreath of fresh flowers.
The young woman seemed rather surprised at the old-fashioned notions that this question seemed to imply, but assented and immediately brought a box containing five or six wreaths of yellow, red and white immortelles.
"Which color would you advise me to take?"
The young woman smiled: "Immortelle wreaths are quite out of fashion. Possibly in winter… And then only in case …"
"I think I had better decide on this one at once." And Botho took the yellow wreath that lay nearest him, hung it on his arm, put the wreath of white roses with it and got quickly into his cab. Both wreaths were rather large and took up so much room on the red plush seat that Botho thought of handing them over to the driver. But he soon decided against this change, saying to himself: "If one wants to carry a wreath to old Frau Nimptsch, one must be willing to own up to the wreath. And if one is ashamed of it, he should not have promised it."
So he let the wreaths lie where they were, and almost forgot them, as the carriage immediately turned into a part of the road whose varied and here and there grotesque scenes led him aside from his former thoughts. On the right, at a distance of about five hundred paces, was a board fence, above which could be seen all sorts of booths, pavilions, and doorways decorated with lamps, and all covered with a wealth of inscriptions. Most of these were of rather recent, or even extremely recent, date, but a few of the biggest and brightest dated further back, and, although in a weather-beaten state, they had lasted over from the previous year. Among these pleasure resorts, and alternating with them, various artisans had set up their workshops, especially sculptors and stone cutters, who mostly exhibited crosses, pillars, and obelisks hereabouts, because of the numerous cemeteries. All this could not fail to strike whoever passed this way, and Rienäcker too was strangely impressed, as he read from the cab, with growing curiosity, the endless and strongly contrasted announcements and looked at the accompanying pictures. "Fräulein Rosella, the living wonder maiden"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Quick Photography, American Style"; "Russian Ball throwing, six shots for tern pfennig"; "Swedish Punch with Waffles"; "Figaro's Finest Opportunity, or the First Hairdressing Parlor in the World"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Swiss Shooting Gallery":
"Shoot right quick and shoot right well,
Shoot and hit like William Tell."
And beneath this Tell himself with his son, his cross bow and the apple.
Finally the cab reached the end of the long board fence and at this point the road made a sharp turn toward the wood and now, breaking the stillness of noon, the rattle of guns could be heard from the shooting stands. Otherwise everything was much the same on this continuation of the street: Blondin, clad only in his tights and his medals, was balancing on the tightrope, with fireworks flashing around him, while near him various small placards announced balloon ascensions as well as the pleasures of the dance. One read: "A Sicilian Night. At two o'clock Vienna Bonbon Waltzes."
Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these placards with real interest, until after he had passed through the "wood," where he found the shade very refreshing for a few minutes, and beyond which he turned into the principal street of a populous suburb that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast, were passing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill and the traffic was blocked. "What are we stopping for?" he asked, but before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people, and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him, if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in front of him had not impressed him painfully. "Broken glass bought and sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf" was painted in big letters on the high tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of glass was piled up in the body of the wagon. "Luck goes with glass" … And he looked at the load with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger tips.
But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed upright.
"What is that?" asked Botho.
"The Rollkrug."
"Very well. Then we are nearly there. We only have to turn up hill here. I am sorry for the horse, but there is no help for it."
The driver gave the horse a cut with the whip and they began to go up a rather steep, hilly street, on one side of which lay the old Jacob's cemetery, which was half closed up because of being over full, while across the street from the cemetery fence rose some high tenement houses.
In front of the last house stood some wandering musicians, apparently man and wife, with a horn and a harp. The woman was singing too, but the wind, which was rather strong here, blew the sound away up hill and only when Botho had gone more than ten steps beyond the poor old couple, was he able to distinguish the words and melody. It was the same song that they had sung so happily long ago on the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he sat up and looked out as if the music had called him back to the musicians. They, however, were facing another way and did not see him, but a pretty maid, who was washing windows on the gable side of the house, and who might have thought that the young officer was looking back at her, waved her chamois skin gayly at him and joined vigorously in the chorus:
