Eugene Pickering

Pickering’s unworldly life had not been of a sort to sharpen his perception of the ridiculous, but it seemed to me an unmistakable sign of his being under the charm, that this information was very soberly offered.  He was preoccupied, he was irresponsive to my experimental observations on vulgar topics—the hot weather, the inn, the advent of Adelina Patti.  At last, uttering his thoughts, he announced that Madame Blumenthal had proved to be an extraordinarily interesting woman.  He seemed to have quite forgotten our long talk in the Hartwaldt, and betrayed no sense of this being a confession that he had taken his plunge and was floating with the current.  He only remembered that I had spoken slightingly of the lady, and he now hinted that it behoved me to amend my opinion.  I had received the day before so strong an impression of a sort of spiritual fastidiousness in my friend’s nature, that on hearing now the striking of a new hour, as it were, in his consciousness, and observing how the echoes of the past were immediately quenched in its music, I said to myself that it had certainly taken a delicate hand to wind up that fine machine.  No doubt Madame Blumenthal was a clever woman.  It is a good German custom at Homburg to spend the hour preceding dinner in listening to the orchestra in the Kurgarten; Mozart and Beethoven, for organisms in which the interfusion of soul and sense is peculiarly mysterious, are a vigorous stimulus to the appetite.  Pickering and I conformed, as we had done the day before, to the fashion, and when we were seated under the trees, he began to expatiate on his friend’s merits.

“I don’t know whether she is eccentric or not,” he said; “to me every one seems eccentric, and it’s not for me, yet a while, to measure people by my narrow precedents.  I never saw a gaming table in my life before, and supposed that a gambler was of necessity some dusky villain with an evil eye.  In Germany, says Madame Blumenthal, people play at roulette as they play at billiards, and her own venerable mother originally taught her the rules of the game.  It is a recognised source of subsistence for decent people with small means.  But I confess Madame Blumenthal might do worse things than play at roulette, and yet make them harmonious and beautiful.  I have never been in the habit of thinking positive beauty the most excellent thing in a woman.  I have always said to myself that if my heart were ever to be captured it would be by a sort of general grace—a sweetness of motion and tone—on which one could count for soothing impressions, as one counts on a musical instrument that is perfectly in tune.  Madame Blumenthal has it—this grace that soothes and satisfies; and it seems the more perfect that it keeps order and harmony in a character really passionately ardent and active.  With her eager nature and her innumerable accomplishments nothing would be easier than that she should seem restless and aggressive.  You will know her, and I leave you to judge whether she does seem so!  She has every gift, and culture has done everything for each.  What goes on in her mind I of course can’t say; what reaches the observer—the admirer—is simply a sort of fragrant emanation of intelligence and sympathy.”

“Madame Blumenthal,” I said, smiling, “might be the loveliest woman in the world, and you the object of her choicest favours, and yet what I should most envy you would be, not your peerless friend, but your beautiful imagination.”

“That’s a polite way of calling me a fool,” said Pickering.  “You are a sceptic, a cynic, a satirist!  I hope I shall be a long time coming to that.”

“You will make the journey fast if you travel by express trains.  But pray tell me, have you ventured to intimate to Madame Blumenthal your high opinion of her?”

“I don’t know what I may have said.  She listens even better than she talks, and I think it possible I may have made her listen to a great deal of nonsense.  For after the first few words I exchanged with her I was conscious of an extraordinary evaporation of all my old diffidence.  I have, in truth, I suppose,” he added in a moment, “owing to my peculiar circumstances, a great accumulated fund of unuttered things of all sorts to get rid of.  Last evening, sitting there before that charming woman, they came swarming to my lips.  Very likely I poured them all out.  I have a sense of having enshrouded myself in a sort of mist of talk, and of seeing her lovely eyes shining through it opposite to me, like fog-lamps at sea.”  And here, if I remember rightly, Pickering broke off into an ardent parenthesis, and declared that Madame Blumenthal’s eyes had something in them that he had never seen in any others.  “It was a jumble of crudities and inanities,” he went on; “they must have seemed to her great rubbish; but I felt the wiser and the stronger, somehow, for having fired off all my guns—they could hurt nobody now if they hit—and I imagine I might have gone far without finding another woman in whom such an exhibition would have provoked so little of mere cold amusement.”

“Madame Blumenthal, on the contrary,” I surmised, “entered into your situation with warmth.”

“Exactly so—the greatest!  She has felt and suffered, and now she understands!”

“She told you, I imagine, that she understood you as if she had made you, and she offered to be your guide, philosopher, and friend.”

“She spoke to me,” Pickering answered, after a pause, “as I had never been spoken to before, and she offered me, formally, all the offices of a woman’s friendship.”

“Which you as formally accepted?”

“To you the scene sounds absurd, I suppose, but allow me to say I don’t care!”  Pickering spoke with an air of genial defiance which was the most inoffensive thing in the world.  “I was very much moved; I was, in fact, very much excited.  I tried to say something, but I couldn’t; I had had plenty to say before, but now I stammered and bungled, and at last I bolted out of the room.”

“Meanwhile she had dropped her tragedy into your pocket!”

“Not at all.  I had seen it on the table before she came in.  Afterwards she kindly offered to read German aloud with me, for the accent, two or three times a week.  ‘What shall we begin with?’ she asked.  ‘With this!’ I said, and held up the book.  And she let me take it to look it over.”

I was neither a cynic nor a satirist, but even if I had been, I might have been disarmed by Pickering’s assurance, before we parted, that Madame Blumenthal wished to know me and expected him to introduce me.  Among the foolish things which, according to his own account, he had uttered, were some generous words in my praise, to which she had civilly replied.  I confess I was curious to see her, but I begged that the introduction should not be immediate, for I wished to let Pickering work out his destiny alone.  For some days I saw little of him, though we met at the Kursaal and strolled occasionally in the park.  I watched, in spite of my desire to let him alone, for the signs and portents of the world’s action upon him—of that portion of the world, in especial, of which Madame Blumenthal had constituted herself the agent.  He seemed very happy, and gave me in a dozen ways an impression of increased self-confidence and maturity.  His mind was admirably active, and always, after a quarter of an hour’s talk with him, I asked myself what experience could really do, that innocence had not done, to make it bright and fine.  I was struck with his deep enjoyment of the whole spectacle of foreign life—its novelty, its picturesqueness, its light and shade—and with the infinite freedom with which he felt he could go and come and rove and linger and observe it all.  It was an expansion, an awakening, a coming to moral manhood.  Each time I met him he spoke a little less of Madame Blumenthal; but he let me know generally that he saw her often, and continued to admire her.  I was forced to admit to myself, in spite of preconceptions, that if she were really the ruling star of this happy season, she must be a very superior woman.  Pickering had the air of an ingenuous young philosopher sitting at the feet of an austere muse, and not of a sentimental spendthrift dangling about some supreme incarnation of levity.

CHAPTER II

Madame Blumenthal seemed, for the time, to have abjured the Kursaal, and I never caught a glimpse of her.  Her young friend, apparently, was an interesting study, and the studious mind prefers seclusion.

She reappeared, however, at last, one evening at the opera, where from my chair I perceived her in a box, looking extremely pretty.  Adelina Patti was singing, and after the rising of the curtain I was occupied with the stage; but on looking round when it fell for the entr’acte, I saw that the authoress of “Cleopatra” had been joined by her young admirer.  He was sitting a little behind her, leaning forward, looking over her shoulder and listening, while she, slowly moving her fan to and fro and letting her eye wander over the house, was apparently talking of this person and that.  No doubt she was saying sharp things; but Pickering was not laughing; his eyes were following her covert indications; his mouth was half open, as it always was when he was interested; he looked intensely serious.  I was glad that, having her back to him, she was unable to see how he looked.  It seemed the proper moment to present myself and make her my bow; but just as I was about to leave my place a gentleman, whom in a moment I perceived to be an old acquaintance, came to occupy the next chair.  Recognition and mutual greetings followed, and I was forced to postpone my visit to Madame Blumenthal.  I was not sorry, for it very soon occurred to me that Niedermeyer would be just the man to give me a fair prose version of Pickering’s lyric tributes to his friend.  He was an Austrian by birth, and had formerly lived about Europe a great deal in a series of small diplomatic posts.  England especially he had often visited, and he spoke the language almost without accent.  I had once spent three rainy days with him in the house of an English friend in the country.  He was a sharp observer, and a good deal of a gossip; he knew a little something about every one, and about some people everything.  His knowledge on social matters generally had the quality of all German science; it was copious, minute, exhaustive.

“Do tell me,” I said, as we stood looking round the house, “who and what is the lady in white, with the young man sitting behind her.”

“Who?” he answered, dropping his glass.  “Madame Blumenthal!  What!  It would take long to say.  Be introduced; it’s easily done; you will find her charming.  Then, after a week, you will tell me what she is.”

“Perhaps I should not.  My friend there has known her a week, and I don’t think he is yet able to give a coherent account of her.”

He raised his glass again, and after looking a while, “I am afraid your friend is a little—what do you call it?—a little ‘soft.’  Poor fellow! he’s not the first.  I have never known this lady that she has not had some eligible youth hovering about in some such attitude as that, undergoing the softening process.  She looks wonderfully well, from here.  It’s extraordinary how those women last!”

“You don’t mean, I take it, when you talk about ‘those women,’ that Madame Blumenthal is not embalmed, for duration, in a certain infusion of respectability?”

“Yes and no.  The atmosphere that surrounds her is entirely of her own making.  There is no reason in her antecedents that people should drop their voice when they speak of her.  But some women are never at their ease till they have given some damnable twist or other to their position before the world.  The attitude of upright virtue is unbecoming, like sitting too straight in a fauteuil.  Don’t ask me for opinions, however; content yourself with a few facts and with an anecdote.  Madame Blumenthal is Prussian, and very well born.  I remember her mother, an old Westphalian Gräfin, with principles marshalled out like Frederick the Great’s grenadiers.  She was poor, however, and her principles were an insufficient dowry for Anastasia, who was married very young to a vicious Jew, twice her own age.  He was supposed to have money, but I am afraid he had less than was nominated in the bond, or else that his pretty young wife spent it very fast.  She has been a widow these six or eight years, and has lived, I imagine, in rather a hand-to-mouth fashion.  I suppose she is some six or eight and thirty years of age.  In winter one hears of her in Berlin, giving little suppers to the artistic rabble there; in summer one often sees her across the green table at Ems and Wiesbaden.  She’s very clever, and her cleverness has spoiled her.  A year after her marriage she published a novel, with her views on matrimony, in the George Sand manner—beating the drum to Madame Sand’s trumpet.  No doubt she was very unhappy; Blumenthal was an old beast.  Since then she has published a lot of literature—novels and poems and pamphlets on every conceivable theme, from the conversion of Lola Montez to the Hegelian philosophy.  Her talk is much better than her writing.  Her conjugophobia—I can’t call it by any other name—made people think lightly of her at a time when her rebellion against marriage was probably only theoretic.  She had a taste for spinning fine phrases, she drove her shuttle, and when she came to the end of her yarn she found that society had turned its back.  She tossed her head, declared that at last she could breathe the sacred air of freedom, and formally announced that she had embraced an ‘intellectual’ life.  This meant unlimited camaraderie with scribblers and daubers, Hegelian philosophers and Hungarian pianists.  But she has been admired also by a great many really clever men; there was a time, in fact, when she turned a head as well set on its shoulders as this one!”  And Niedermeyer tapped his forehead.  “She has a great charm, and, literally, I know no harm of her.  Yet for all that, I am not going to speak to her; I am not going near her box.  I am going to leave her to say, if she does me the honour to observe the omission, that I too have gone over to the Philistines.  It’s not that; it is that there is something sinister about the woman.  I am too old for it to frighten me, but I am good-natured enough for it to pain me.  Her quarrel with society has brought her no happiness, and her outward charm is only the mask of a dangerous discontent.  Her imagination is lodged where her heart should be!  So long as you amuse it, well and good; she’s radiant.  But the moment you let it flag, she is capable of dropping you without a pang.  If you land on your feet you are so much the wiser, simply; but there have been two or three, I believe, who have almost broken their necks in the fall.”

“You are reversing your promise,” I said, “and giving me an opinion, but not an anecdote.”

“This is my anecdote.  A year ago a friend of mine made her acquaintance in Berlin, and though he was no longer a young man, and had never been what is called a susceptible one, he took a great fancy to Madame Blumenthal.  He’s a major in the Prussian artillery—grizzled, grave, a trifle severe, a man every way firm in the faith of his fathers.  It’s a proof of Anastasia’s charm that such a man should have got into the habit of going to see her every day of his life.  But the major was in love, or next door to it!  Every day that he called he found her scribbling away at a little ormolu table on a lot of half-sheets of note-paper.  She used to bid him sit down and hold his tongue for a quarter of an hour, till she had finished her chapter; she was writing a novel, and it was promised to a publisher.  Clorinda, she confided to him, was the name of the injured heroine.  The major, I imagine, had never read a work of fiction in his life, but he knew by hearsay that Madame Blumenthal’s literature, when put forth in pink covers, was subversive of several respectable institutions.  Besides, he didn’t believe in women knowing how to write at all, and it irritated him to see this inky goddess correcting proof-sheets under his nose—irritated him the more that, as I say, he was in love with her and that he ventured to believe she had a kindness for his years and his honours.  And yet she was not such a woman as he could easily ask to marry him.  The result of all this was that he fell into the way of railing at her intellectual pursuits and saying he should like to run his sword through her pile of papers.  A woman was clever enough when she could guess her husband’s wishes, and learned enough when she could read him the newspapers.  At last, one day, Madame Blumenthal flung down her pen and announced in triumph that she had finished her novel.  Clorinda had expired in the arms of—some one else than her husband.  The major, by way of congratulating her, declared that her novel was immoral rubbish, and that her love of vicious paradoxes was only a peculiarly depraved form of coquetry.  He added, however, that he loved her in spite of her follies, and that if she would formally abjure them he would as formally offer her his hand.  They say that women like to be snubbed by military men.  I don’t know, I’m sure; I don’t know how much pleasure, on this occasion, was mingled with Anastasia’s wrath.  But her wrath was very quiet, and the major assured me it made her look uncommonly pretty.  ‘I have told you before,’ she says, ‘that I write from an inner need.  I write to unburden my heart, to satisfy my conscience.  You call my poor efforts coquetry, vanity, the desire to produce a sensation.  I can prove to you that it is the quiet labour itself I care for, and not the world’s more or less flattering attention to it!’  And seizing the history of Clorinda she thrust it into the fire.  The major stands staring, and the first thing he knows she is sweeping him a great curtsey and bidding him farewell for ever.  Left alone and recovering his wits, he fishes out Clorinda from the embers, and then proceeds to thump vigorously at the lady’s door.  But it never opened, and from that day to the day three months ago when he told me the tale, he had not beheld her again.”

“By Jove, it’s a striking story,” I said.  “But the question is, what does it prove?”

“Several things.  First (what I was careful not to tell my friend), that Madame Blumenthal cared for him a trifle more than he supposed; second, that he cares for her more than ever; third, that the performance was a master-stroke, and that her allowing him to force an interview upon her again is only a question of time.”

“And last?” I asked.

“This is another anecdote.  The other day, Unter den Linden, I saw on a bookseller’s counter a little pink-covered romance—‘Sophronia,’ by Madame Blumenthal.  Glancing through it, I observed an extraordinary abuse of asterisks; every two or three pages the narrative was adorned with a portentous blank, crossed with a row of stars.”

“Well, but poor Clorinda?” I objected, as Niedermeyer paused.

“Sophronia, my dear fellow, is simply Clorinda renamed by the baptism of fire.  The fair author came back, of course, and found Clorinda tumbled upon the floor, a good deal scorched, but, on the whole, more frightened than hurt.  She picks her up, brushes her off, and sends her to the printer.  Wherever the flames had burnt a hole she swings a constellation!  But if the major is prepared to drop a penitent tear over the ashes of Clorinda, I shall not whisper to him that the urn is empty.”

Even Adelina Patti’s singing, for the next half-hour, but half availed to divert me from my quickened curiosity to behold Madame Blumenthal face to face.  As soon as the curtain had fallen again I repaired to her box and was ushered in by Pickering with zealous hospitality.  His glowing smile seemed to say to me, “Ay, look for yourself, and adore!”  Nothing could have been more gracious than the lady’s greeting, and I found, somewhat to my surprise, that her prettiness lost nothing on a nearer view.  Her eyes indeed were the finest I have ever seen—the softest, the deepest, the most intensely responsive.  In spite of something faded and jaded in her physiognomy, her movements, her smile, and the tone of her voice, especially when she laughed, had an almost girlish frankness and spontaneity.  She looked at you very hard with her radiant gray eyes, and she indulged while she talked in a superabundance of restless, rather affected little gestures, as if to make you take her meaning in a certain very particular and superfine sense.  I wondered whether after a while this might not fatigue one’s attention; then meeting her charming eyes, I said, Not for a long time.  She was very clever, and, as Pickering had said, she spoke English admirably.  I told her, as I took my seat beside her, of the fine things I had heard about her from my friend, and she listened, letting me go on some time, and exaggerate a little, with her fine eyes fixed full upon me.  “Really?” she suddenly said, turning short round upon Pickering, who stood behind us, and looking at him in the same way.  “Is that the way you talk about me?”

He blushed to his eyes, and I repented.  She suddenly began to laugh; it was then I observed how sweet her voice was in laughter.  We talked after this of various matters, and in a little while I complimented her on her excellent English, and asked if she had learnt it in England.

“Heaven forbid!” she cried.  “I have never been there and wish never to go.  I should never get on with the—” I wondered what she was going to say; the fogs, the smoke, or whist with sixpenny stakes?—“I should never get on,” she said, “with the aristocracy!  I am a fierce democrat—I am not ashamed of it.  I hold opinions which would make my ancestors turn in their graves.  I was born in the lap of feudalism.  I am a daughter of the crusaders.  But I am a revolutionist!  I have a passion for freedom—my idea of happiness is to die on a great barricade!  It’s to your great country I should like to go.  I should like to see the wonderful spectacle of a great people free to do everything it chooses, and yet never doing anything wrong!”

I replied, modestly, that, after all, both our freedom and our good conduct had their limits, and she turned quickly about and shook her fan with a dramatic gesture at Pickering.  “No matter, no matter!” she cried; “I should like to see the country which produced that wonderful young man.  I think of it as a sort of Arcadia—a land of the golden age.  He’s so delightfully innocent!  In this stupid old Germany, if a young man is innocent he’s a fool; he has no brains; he’s not a bit interesting.  But Mr. Pickering says the freshest things, and after I have laughed five minutes at their freshness it suddenly occurs to me that they are very wise, and I think them over for a week.”  “True!” she went on, nodding at him.  “I call them inspired solecisms, and I treasure them up.  Remember that when I next laugh at you!”

Glancing at Pickering, I was prompted to believe that he was in a state of beatific exaltation which weighed Madame Blumenthal’s smiles and frowns in an equal balance.  They were equally hers; they were links alike in the golden chain.  He looked at me with eyes that seemed to say, “Did you ever hear such wit?  Did you ever see such grace?”  It seemed to me that he was but vaguely conscious of the meaning of her words; her gestures, her voice and glance, made an absorbing harmony.  There is something painful in the spectacle of absolute enthralment, even to an excellent cause.  I gave no response to Pickering’s challenge, but made some remark upon the charm of Adelina Patti’s singing.  Madame Blumenthal, as became a “revolutionist,” was obliged to confess that she could see no charm in it; it was meagre, it was trivial, it lacked soul.  “You must know that in music, too,” she said, “I think for myself!”  And she began with a great many flourishes of her fan to explain what it was she thought.  Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it, for in the midst of the explanation the curtain rose again.  “You can’t be a great artist without a great passion!”  Madame Blumenthal was affirming.  Before I had time to assent Madame Patti’s voice rose wheeling like a skylark, and rained down its silver notes.  “Ah, give me that art,” I whispered, “and I will leave you your passion!”  And I departed for my own place in the orchestra.  I wondered afterwards whether the speech had seemed rude, and inferred that it had not on receiving a friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was emptying itself.  She was on Pickering’s arm, and he was taking her to her carriage.  Distances are short in Homburg, but the night was rainy, and Madame Blumenthal exhibited a very pretty satin-shod foot as a reason why, though but a penniless widow, she should not walk home.  Pickering left us together a moment while he went to hail the vehicle, and my companion seized the opportunity, as she said, to beg me to be so very kind as to come and see her.  It was for a particular reason!  It was reason enough for me, of course, I answered, that she had given me leave.  She looked at me a moment with that extraordinary gaze of hers which seemed so absolutely audacious in its candour, and rejoined that I paid more compliments than our young friend there, but that she was sure I was not half so sincere.  “But it’s about him I want to talk,” she said.  “I want to ask you many things; I want you to tell me all about him.  He interests me; but you see my sympathies are so intense, my imagination is so lively, that I don’t trust my own impressions.  They have misled me more than once!”  And she gave a little tragic shudder.

I promised to come and compare notes with her, and we bade her farewell at her carriage door.  Pickering and I remained a while, walking up and down the long glazed gallery of the Kursaal.  I had not taken many steps before I became aware that I was beside a man in the very extremity of love.  “Isn’t she wonderful?” he asked, with an implicit confidence in my sympathy which it cost me some ingenuity to elude.  If he were really in love, well and good!  For although, now that I had seen her, I stood ready to confess to large possibilities of fascination on Madame Blumenthal’s part, and even to certain possibilities of sincerity of which my appreciation was vague, yet it seemed to me less ominous that he should be simply smitten than that his admiration should pique itself on being discriminating.  It was on his fundamental simplicity that I counted for a happy termination of his experiment, and the former of these alternatives seemed to me the simpler.  I resolved to hold my tongue and let him run his course.  He had a great deal to say about his happiness, about the days passing like hours, the hours like minutes, and about Madame Blumenthal being a “revelation.”  “She was nothing to-night,” he said; “nothing to what she sometimes is in the way of brilliancy—in the way of repartee.  If you could only hear her when she tells her adventures!”

“Adventures?” I inquired.  “Has she had adventures?”

“Of the most wonderful sort!” cried Pickering, with rapture. “She hasn’t vegetated, like me!  She has lived in the tumult of life.  When I listen to her reminiscences, it’s like hearing the opening tumult of one of Beethoven’s symphonies as it loses itself in a triumphant harmony of beauty and faith!”

I could only lift my eyebrows, but I desired to know before we separated what he had done with that troublesome conscience of his.  “I suppose you know, my dear fellow,” I said, “that you are simply in love.  That’s what they happen to call your state of mind.”

He replied with a brightening eye, as if he were delighted to hear it—“So Madame Blumenthal told me only this morning!”  And seeing, I suppose, that I was slightly puzzled, “I went to drive with her,” he continued; “we drove to Königstein, to see the old castle.  We scrambled up into the heart of the ruin and sat for an hour in one of the crumbling old courts.  Something in the solemn stillness of the place unloosed my tongue; and while she sat on an ivied stone, on the edge of the plunging wall, I stood there and made a speech.  She listened to me, looking at me, breaking off little bits of stone and letting them drop down into the valley.  At last she got up and nodded at me two or three times silently, with a smile, as if she were applauding me for a solo on the violin.  ‘You are in love,’ she said.  ‘It’s a perfect case!’  And for some time she said nothing more.  But before we left the place she told me that she owed me an answer to my speech.  She thanked me heartily, but she was afraid that if she took me at my word she would be taking advantage of my inexperience.  I had known few women; I was too easily pleased; I thought her better than she really was.  She had great faults; I must know her longer and find them out; I must compare her with other women—women younger, simpler, more innocent, more ignorant; and then if I still did her the honour to think well of her, she would listen to me again.  I told her that I was not afraid of preferring any woman in the world to her, and then she repeated, ‘Happy man, happy man! you are in love, you are in love!’”

I called upon Madame Blumenthal a couple of days later, in some agitation of thought.  It has been proved that there are, here and there, in the world, such people as sincere impostors; certain characters who cultivate fictitious emotions in perfect good faith.  Even if this clever lady enjoyed poor Pickering’s bedazzlement, it was conceivable that, taking vanity and charity together, she should care more for his welfare than for her own entertainment; and her offer to abide by the result of hazardous comparison with other women was a finer stroke than her reputation had led me to expect.  She received me in a shabby little sitting-room littered with uncut books and newspapers, many of which I saw at a glance were French.  One side of it was occupied by an open piano, surmounted by a jar full of white roses.  They perfumed the air; they seemed to me to exhale the pure aroma of Pickering’s devotion.  Buried in an arm-chair, the object of this devotion was reading the Revue des Deux Mondes.  The purpose of my visit was not to admire Madame Blumenthal on my own account, but to ascertain how far I might safely leave her to work her will upon my friend.  She had impugned my sincerity the evening of the opera, and I was careful on this occasion to abstain from compliments, and not to place her on her guard against my penetration.  It is needless to narrate our interview in detail; indeed, to tell the perfect truth, I was punished for my rash attempt to surprise her by a temporary eclipse of my own perspicacity.  She sat there so questioning, so perceptive, so genial, so generous, and so pretty withal, that I was quite ready at the end of half an hour to subscribe to the most comprehensive of Pickering’s rhapsodies.  She was certainly a wonderful woman.  I have never liked to linger, in memory, on that half-hour.  The result of it was to prove that there were many more things in the composition of a woman who, as Niedermeyer said, had lodged her imagination in the place of her heart than were dreamt of in my philosophy.  Yet, as I sat there stroking my hat and balancing the account between nature and art in my affable hostess, I felt like a very competent philosopher.  She had said she wished me to tell her everything about our friend, and she questioned me as to his family, his fortune, his antecedents, and his character.  All this was natural in a woman who had received a passionate declaration of love, and it was expressed with an air of charmed solicitude, a radiant confidence that there was really no mistake about his being a most distinguished young man, and that if I chose to be explicit, I might deepen her conviction to disinterested ecstasy, which might have almost provoked me to invent a good opinion, if I had not had one ready made.  I told her that she really knew Pickering better than I did, and that until we met at Homburg I had not seen him since he was a boy.

“But he talks to you freely,” she answered; “I know you are his confidant.  He has told me certainly a great many things, but I always feel as if he were keeping something back; as if he were holding something behind him, and showing me only one hand at once.  He seems often to be hovering on the edge of a secret.  I have had several friendships in my life—thank Heaven! but I have had none more dear to me than this one.  Yet in the midst of it I have the painful sense of my friend being half afraid of me; of his thinking me terrible, strange, perhaps a trifle out of my wits.  Poor me!  If he only knew what a plain good soul I am, and how I only want to know him and befriend him!”

These words were full of a plaintive magnanimity which made mistrust seem cruel.  How much better I might play providence over Pickering’s experiments with life if I could engage the fine instincts of this charming woman on the providential side!  Pickering’s secret was, of course, his engagement to Miss Vernor; it was natural enough that he should have been unable to bring himself to talk of it to Madame Blumenthal.  The simple sweetness of this young girl’s face had not faded from my memory; I could not rid myself of the suspicion that in going further Pickering might fare much worse.  Madame Blumenthal’s professions seemed a virtual promise to agree with me, and, after some hesitation, I said that my friend had, in fact, a substantial secret, and that perhaps I might do him a good turn by putting her in possession of it.  In as few words as possible I told her that Pickering stood pledged by filial piety to marry a young lady at Smyrna.  She listened intently to my story; when I had finished it there was a faint flush of excitement in each of her cheeks.  She broke out into a dozen exclamations of admiration and compassion.  “What a wonderful tale—what a romantic situation!  No wonder poor Mr. Pickering seemed restless and unsatisfied; no wonder he wished to put off the day of submission.  And the poor little girl at Smyrna, waiting there for the young Western prince like the heroine of an Eastern tale!  She would give the world to see her photograph; did I think Mr. Pickering would show it to her?  But never fear; she would ask nothing indiscreet!  Yes, it was a marvellous story, and if she had invented it herself, people would have said it was absurdly improbable.”  She left her seat and took several turns about the room, smiling to herself, and uttering little German cries of wonderment.  Suddenly she stopped before the piano and broke into a little laugh; the next moment she buried her face in the great bouquet of roses.  It was time I should go, but I was indisposed to leave her without obtaining some definite assurance that, as far as pity was concerned, she pitied the young girl at Smyrna more than the young man at Homburg.

“Of course you know what I wished in telling you this,” I said, rising.  “She is evidently a charming creature, and the best thing he can do is to marry her.  I wished to interest you in that view of it.”

She had taken one of the roses from the vase and was arranging it in the front of her dress.  Suddenly, looking up, “Leave it to me, leave it to me!” she cried.  “I am interested!”  And with her little blue-gemmed hand she tapped her forehead.  “I am deeply interested!”

And with this I had to content myself.  But more than once the next day I repented of my zeal, and wondered whether a providence with a white rose in her bosom might not turn out a trifle too human.  In the evening, at the Kursaal, I looked for Pickering, but he was not visible, and I reflected that my revelation had not as yet, at any rate, seemed to Madame Blumenthal a reason for prescribing a cooling-term to his passion.  Very late, as I was turning away, I saw him arrive—with no small satisfaction, for I had determined to let him know immediately in what way I had attempted to serve him.  But he straightway passed his arm through my own and led me off towards the gardens.  I saw that he was too excited to allow me to speak first.

“I have burnt my ships!” he cried, when we were out of earshot of the crowd.  “I have told her everything.  I have insisted that it’s simple torture for me to wait with this idle view of loving her less.  It’s well enough for her to ask it, but I feel strong enough now to override her reluctance.  I have cast off the millstone from round my neck.  I care for nothing, I know nothing, but that I love her with every pulse of my being—and that everything else has been a hideous dream, from which she may wake me into blissful morning with a single word!”

I held him off at arm’s-length and looked at him gravely.  “You have told her, you mean, of your engagement to Miss Vernor?”