Chapter VI (4)

Rudolf felt as if he were beholding his own youth fade and melt into white cloudlets of mist.

II.

ANOTHER WAY.

"So we have met again, old fellow?" said Wolf Breuning, with heartfelt pleasure, filling his friend Sigmund Friese's glass with wine.

"May it not be so long before the next meeting," cried Sigmund, as he touched glasses and drank.

Wolf Breuning, a tall, handsome man, with bold blue eyes and a long, parted beard, which seemed as though it was woven of threads of red gold, was the manager of a chemical factory in Paris. Sigmund Friese, shorter in stature, with a gentle, somewhat sensitive face, a short, fair, curly beard, and hair aristocratically thin, which already suggested a diplomatic bald head, was teaching mathematics in an American university. Both were natives of South Germany, friends from childhood, and had once plunged into the flood of life from the same spot on the shore, but were afterward washed far apart.

After a long absence, Sigmund had come from Washington to Europe to attend his sister's wedding, and availed himself of the opportunity, on the way from Havre to Mannheim, to visit his friend Wolf in Paris. The latter met him at the station and took him to his pleasant bachelor lodgings in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. Now, scarcely an hour later, the first overflow of mutual confidences had been exchanged, and the friends were seated comfortably at dinner.

"Do you know that it is thirteen years since our last meeting?" asked Wolf.

"Thirteen years!" sighed Sigmund. "How many more times shall we experience such a period?"

"Never again," replied Wolf, "the period from the twenty-fourth to the thirty-seventh year."

"The festal time of life!" said Sigmund; and after a pause, raising the glass to his lips, he added:

"Gone, gone!"

"You have no cause to complain," said Wolf consolingly; "youth is past, but you have used it well. A great name in science, an honourable position, comfortable circumstances----"

Sigmund smiled sorrowfully and pointed to his bald head.

"Yes, my friend," cried Wolf, "we must make no unreasonable demands on life. Luxuriant locks, and a well-paid professorship, teeth and celebrity, youth and orders, prosperity, successes of all kinds, these we cannot have unless we are born to royal rank."

"When we consider how much we strive and how little we attain! What we dream, and to what realities we waken."

"Sigmund, you are unjust. Thirteen years ago did you imagine, in your boldest expectations, more than you have now attained?"

"Perhaps not. But, to have it afford me pleasure, I ought to have attained it immediately after that time."

"Of course we are more weary when we reach the goal than at the start."

"But this weariness very materially diminishes our pleasure in having reached it."

"Ah, I know the one thing wanting for your happiness," cried Wolf.

"Well?"

"A wife."

"Oh! you have no right to preach marriage, since you have remained a bachelor yourself."

"I am three years younger than you."

"But you are thirty-seven."

"True," replied Wolf, and for a time remained silent and thoughtful. Then he continued:

"What would you have? Fate destines us to live in a foreign country, without family intercourse, far from the circle with which one is united by early memories and the first affections of the heart; we do not definitely seek, Fate does not help us find. We adjust our lives to habits which really leave no room for a wife, and so the years flit by till some day we discover that we are bachelors and that it is too late to change."

"That is exactly my case; I did not suppose it was yours also."

"With me," replied Wolf, "something else is added. Recollections which make marriage rather dreaded than desired. We know how we have been loved, and fear that we shall not find such love again. We compare in advance a virtuous wife with the woman whose distant image is somewhat transfigured by the past, and confess that we have been completely spoiled for the part of a husband content to sit phlegmatically in the chimney corner."

"You still think of Helene?" cried Sigmund in surprise.

"Why shouldn't I?" replied Wolf, "you also remember her, as I see."

"True," Sigmund assented. "I have not forgotten her. She was a bewitchingly beautiful and charming woman. What a tempting mouth! What wicked eyes! And her clever talk! Her merry disposition! Wherever she was, she filled everything with life and animation."

Wolf gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, and made no reply.

"She loved you very dearly," Sigmund added.

Still Wolf remained silent.

"And you loved her."

"Yes," Wolf answered at last, drawing his fingers slowly through his red beard. "I loved Helene very dearly. So long as I was with her, I did not notice it, and when the child was born, I even felt greatly disturbed by the thought that I should now have her bound to me forever. Not until after we had separated did I discover how large a place she had filled in my life. And the more distant that time becomes, it grows larger instead of less. A reversion of all the laws of perspective."

"But an intelligible phenomenon," observed Sigmund. "Helene has become, in your remembrance, the embodiment of your youth, and the longing with which you think of her concerns your twenty-four years at least as much as she herself."

"It may be so. The fact is that I see Helene in a golden light of youth and careless happiness, and cannot think of her without tears."

"Do you know, friend Wolf, that you perhaps did wrong to leave her?"

"There are hours when I believe it. When we have found a creature whom we love, and who loves us in return, we ought on no account to give her up. We never know whether it will be possible to replace. And, after all, love is the only thing which makes life worth living."

"What would you have, Sigmund? That is the wisdom of mature years. At four and twenty we have not yet reached that knowledge. At that time I perceived only that I had picked Helene up in the Luxembourg gardens, that is, as it were, in the streets. I knew that I was not her first love--"

"But her only one," interposed Sigmund.

"So she said, yes. But I had the feeling that I owed her nothing. Love for love. This I gave her, and she ought to ask nothing more. Yet it was an extremely careless relation, and I fully realized its doubtful character. At that time I should have advised any one else in my situation to release themselves from it kindly, and--well, I gave myself the same counsel.

"Your heart, even then, must have told you that you were wrong, and I think your common sense tells you so now. After all, the reasoning of the heart and that of the intellect does not differ so widely as silly wise folk suppose."

Wolf made no answer.

"Do you remember," Sigmund began again, "when I came from Heidelberg to visit you thirteen years ago? It was my first trip to Paris. The city, its life, the people, everything produced an overpowering impression upon me. And in the midst of this frantic rush was the charming idyl; you and Helene. Your little room in the quiet street seemed like a magic isle in the roaring ocean. What was the name of that street?"

"The Rue St. Dominique."

"Yes. I should like to make a pilgrimage there to see the old house."

"Impossible. The house has been torn down. The street has disappeared. The magnificent Boulevard St. Germain now runs through there."

"So nothing is to be found again! Nothing is left of all the beautiful things which we experience, save the shadow of its memory in our souls! We ought never to return to the scenes of past happiness, unless we are sure of finding them unchanged."

Sigmund was becoming more and more tender and sensitive. It was his nature.

He continued:

"How often I have lived over again the evening when you went to Dr. Amandier's reception, and left me alone with Helene. I was very awkward. I did not know how I ought to treat her, and the more at ease she appeared, the more embarassed I became. I paid her compliments, she laughed. Conversation was difficult, for I had no great knowledge of French. She took pity on me and sat down at the cottage piano. She played very prettily. Very often she turned round and smiled at me. She was extremely bewitching, and my heart glowed. I envied you. I planned all sorts of base things. I paid court to her. I confess it now. You are not angry with me?"

"Don't fear," replied Wolf smilingly, "Helene told me about it as soon as I came home. I was not jealous of you."

"Thank you," replied Sigmund with comical irritability. "Summoning my whole vocabulary, I said all sorts of pretty things to her, but while talking excitedly, with burning cheeks, she took up the little dog our friend Tannemann gave her, and calmly began to hunt for fleas in his curly hair. This made me so furious that I started up and rushed off without a farewell."

"But you were appeased the next day," observed Wolf.

"Of course. When my blood had become cool, her composure in the presence of my love-making inspired respect. Then we became the best friends, and she remarked: 'Since you no longer say that you love me, I love you.' And do you remember the Sunday excursion?"

"Certainly. To St Cloud. With Tannemann."

"It was enough to made one die of laughing. Helene intentionally talked extremely fast, so that Tannemann, who knew little about French, could not understand her. He was terribly provoked because he was continually obliged to ask her to repeat everything two or three times. What a merry breakfast we had on the grass in the midst of the ruins!"

"You carried the two bottles of wine in the pockets of your overcoat."

"And you the ham and the chicken. Helene had the bread and butter and the dishes in a little basket. Tannemann was to furnish the dessert. But when the time came for that, he declared that there was some misunderstanding, nothing had been said to him about it."

"He is still the same skinflint he was then."

"The same old pedant, too? Whenever Helene kissed you, he looked away indignantly."

"Helene was very loving that day. How you blushed when she said that the only thing we needed to be thoroughly comfortable was that you should have brought a little friend too."

Sigmund sighed deeply.

"Yes, we were young then," Wolf said, closing the retrospect.

"And you at least know that you have been young. You possess beautiful memories, of which nothing and no one can deprive you.

"'Who'er has been clasped in the arms of love,
All poverty's ills is for aye raised above;
E'en though he should die afar and alone,
Still would he possess the blissful hour
When kisses upon her lips he did shower,
And, e'en in death, she would yet be his own.'"

"Yours?" asked Wolf.

"Nonsense, that's no mathematician's poetry. Old Storm."

"The feeling is true, though it is somewhat insipidly expressed. Memories are indeed wealth, though it arouses melancholy to rummage amid the treasure."

"Tell me, Wolf--what has become of Helene?"

"I hope she is faring very well."

"You do not know?"

"I will tell you what I know about her. I was going to Spain at that time, as you are aware, about the copper-mining business. But I had to give it up because I would not leave Helene. Our child died when it was six weeks old. What would I give if I had the boy now! Then I considered his death the solving of a problem. I told Helene that I must now go to Huelva. She wanted to accompany me. Of course that would not do. There were passionate scenes, but I released myself. She promised to return to her father in Douai, and she kept her word, because for a time her letters came from there."

"So you wrote to each other?"

"Yes, at first. After some time she suddenly appeared in Paris again. She wrote in apology that she could no longer endure that dull Douai with her morose old father. After that I heard nothing from her for a long time. Then came a letter informing me that she was going to marry a wine-merchant, who cherished no resentment for her past, as her father had made a sacrifice!"

"Shame!"

"You just said yourself that I ought to have bound her permanently to my life."

"Yes, from love, not for a dowry. Besides, you had less to forgive than the wine-merchant."

"What of it--that's the morality of people who are called practical."

"And then?"

"Then the marriage probably took place. I have heard nothing more from Helene."

"Did you not try to learn something about her?"

"To be honest--no. I do not think I have a right to cross her path. And what would have been the object of another advance, since she was married? True--I often feel--but we combat such emotions."

"She has never made the attempt to see you again? Perhaps she thinks that you are still in Spain."

"Or she is dead. For when people have loved each other so ardently in the glorious days of youth, it is impossible to live and become strangers. At least it seems so to me."

"Ah, Sigmund, life is a cruel extinguisher of lights."

"Certainly, but there are flames which life does not extinguish. Only death----"

A few months had passed since the meeting of the two friends. Sigmund Friese was again in Washington, teaching mathematics, when one day he received the following letter from Wolf Breuning.

"DEAREST SIGMUND:--

"What wonderful things chance can bring to pass in the capital! I am writing to you under the fresh impression of the incident. You will open your eyes! I was walking through the Rue Rochechouart about two o'clock this afternoon when an elegantly dressed lady, coming from the opposite direction, suddenly stopped just in front of me. As I was absorbed in thought, at first I took no notice but passed on. After a few steps the fleeting perception became a distinct consciousness, and I involuntarily turned. There the lady still stood, as if rooted to the spot, looking after me. I went back somewhat hesitatingly, though curious, she hastily advanced to meet me and, ere I could distinguish her features through the thick veil, she cried in a stifled voice: 'I was not mistaken! It is really you! What good luck! What good luck!' As she spoke she stretched out both hands, clasped mine, pressed them, and continued to hold them. You have guessed it: Helene. What shall I say to you, my friend? I felt as if I were in a dream. Before me stood the woman of whom I so often thought, since your visit more frequently and more tenderly than ever, the personification of my happiest moments, the love of my youth, transfigured by memory, for whom I had longed twelve years, whom I had never expected to see again! You know that I am not usually sentimental, but my eyes grew dim. I could say only: 'Helene!' Then we had embraced and kissed each other--through the veil--as if we were mad, in the public street, and in the presence of the passers-by, who looked at us curiously. Helene took my arm and drew me quickly forward in silence. A hack was passing. Helene stopped it, sprang in hastily, and then asked: 'Can we go to your home?' 'Certainly,' I cried. 'Then give the driver your address.' Now we again sat hand clasped in hand, gazing into each other's eyes, it was a moment full of mingled bliss and pain, such as I have scarcely ever experienced. Then came another shower of kisses and caresses, this time with the veil thrown back and even the hat laid aside--the twelve years of course have not passed over her leaving no trace, but she is still a beautiful, stylish woman--then followed questions. I was obliged to relate first how I had fared and what I had experienced. She rejoiced that I was unmarried, she pressed my hand when I told her that I had not ceased to think of her. Then she began to tell her story. She was married. Happily? She really had no cause to complain. Her husband, of course, was not I, but she made no comparisons. He treated her kindly. He made a great deal of money. Only she was bored. Besides, he was jealous. It was absurd, since he did not love her. On account of this jealousy she had been obliged to cease writing to me. She was stupid at that time and did not know for what the 'to be kept till called for' had been invented--

"Then we reached my lodgings. I was as soft-hearted and imbecile as a student at his first love-tryst. I did not wish to degrade this meeting to the level of a commonplace bachelor adventure. I wanted to keep the bloom and the fragrance of the flower.

"I began to speak of the past."

Alas, dear Sigmund!

"She first said that our meeting occurred in the year 1878. When I clasped my hands and mournfully exclaimed: 'Then you have forgotten that it was in 1874,' she was a little confused, but recovered with the swift remark: 'A date is of no importance, the main thing is that we were happy, oh, very happy!' I asked if she remembered our little nest.

"'Certainly!' she cried, clapping her hands in delight. She remembered that it was in the Rue St. Dominique, but when I attempted to win from her a description of the furniture, the view from our two windows, she evaded it. I turned the conversation to you--I don't mention it to offend you--but there was not the faintest recollection! Completely forgotten! I spoke of Tannemann--nothing, nothing! Not until I recalled the little dog could she remember him, but it was especially the animal, the giver very dimly. I alluded to our excursion--her eyes sparkled, all the details, even the most minute incidents came back to her, and she related with the utmost fluency, in a rapture of delight, a picnic with breakfast in a hut built of branches and an extravagant quantity of wine--which we had never had together.

"What a shower-bath! My teeth fairly chattered from it. She noticed my coldness, asked if I had any other love, became irritated when I pretended not to hear the question, finally said that she must go, and was thoroughly offended when I did not detain her. She went away without mentioning another meeting and I let her go, without even asking where she lived.

"I shall hardly see her again. I regret that I met her. To-day is the first time that I have wholly lost Helene, and the loss gives me pain. It was a beautiful self-delusion, and I would gladly have treasured it to my life's end.

"You were right when you said that we ought not return to the scenes of former happiness unless we were sure of finding them unchanged.

"A thousand kind remembrances from your strangely agitated

"WOLF.

"_Postscript_. Shall I tell you all I think? I believe that Helene has mistaken me for some one else----"

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.