German Fiction

"And what do you mean by that?"

"A union without formal sanction."

"You mean a marriage without marriage."

"If you like, yes. The mere word means nothing to me, just as little as legalisation, sanctification, or whatever else such things may be called; I am a bit touched with nihilism and have no real faith in the blessing of the church. But, to cut a long story short, I am in favor of monogamy, not on moral grounds, but because I cannot help it, and because of my own inborn nature. All relations are repugnant to me, where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour, so to speak. And if I just now called myself a nihilist, I may with still more justice call myself a Philistine. I long for simple forms, for a quiet, natural way of living, where heart speaks to heart and where one has the best that there is, faithfulness, love and freedom."

"Freedom!" repeated Botho.

"Yes, Rienäcker. But since I well know that dangers may lurk here too and that the joy of freedom, perhaps all freedom, is a two-edged sword, that can wound, one never knows how, I wanted to ask you."

"And I will answer you," said Rienäcker, who was growing more and more serious, as these confidences recalled his own life, both past and present, to his mind. "Yes, Rexin, I will answer you as well as I can, and I believe that I am able to answer you. And so I implore you, keep out of all that. In such a relation as you are planning for, only two things are possible, and the one is fully as bad as the other. If you play the true and faithful lover, or what amounts to the same thing, if you break entirely with your position and birth and the customs of your class, sooner or later, if you do not go to pieces altogether, you will become a horror and a burden to yourself; but if things do not go that way, and if, as is more common, you make your peace, after a year or more, with your family and with the social order, then there is sorrow, for the tie must be loosened which has been knit and strengthened by happiness, and alas, what means still more, by unhappiness and pain and distress. And that hurts dreadfully."

Rexin looked as if he were about to answer, but Botho did not notice him and went on: "My dear Rexin, a short time ago you were speaking, in a way that might serve as a model of decorous expression, of relations 'where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour,' but these relations, which are really none at all, are not the worst. The worst are those, to quote you once more, which keep to the 'middle course.' I warn you, beware of this middle course, beware of half-way measures. What you think is gain is bankruptcy, and what seems to you a harbor means shipwreck. That way leads to no good, even if to outward appearances all runs smoothly and no curse is pronounced and scarcely a gentle reproach is uttered. And there is no other way. For everything brings its own natural consequences, we must remember that. Nothing that has happened can be undone, and an image that has once been engraved in the soul, never wholly fades out again, never completely disappears. Memory remains and comparisons will arise in the mind. And so once more, my friend, give up your intention or else the whole course of your life will be disturbed and you will never again win your way through to clearness and light. Many things may be permitted, but not those that involve the soul, not those that entangle the heart, even if it is only your own."

CHAPTER XXIV

A telegram sent just as Katherine was on the point of departure arrived on the third day: "I shall arrive this evening. K."

And she actually arrived. Botho was at the station and was presented to Frau Salinger, who declined all thanks for her good companionship during the journey, and kept repeating how fortunate she had been, and above all how fortunate he must be in having such a charming young wife. "Look here, Herr Baron, if I were so fortunate as to be her husband, I would never part from such a wife even for three days." And then she began to complain of men in general, but in the same breath she added an urgent invitation to Vienna. "We have a nice little house less than an hour from Vienna, and a couple of saddle horses and a good table. In Prussia you have schools and in Vienna we have cooking. And I don't know which I prefer."

"I know," said Katherine, "and I think Botho does too."

Hereupon they separated and our young couple got into an open carriage, after having given orders for sending the baggage home.

Katherine leaned back and put her little feet up on the back seat, on which lay a gigantic bouquet, a parting attention from the Schlangenbad landlady who was perfectly delighted with the charming lady from Berlin. Katherine took Botho's arm and clung to him caressingly, but only for a few moments, then she sat up again and said, as she held the great bouquet in place with her parasol: "It is really charming here, so many people and the river so crowded with boats that they can scarcely find their way in or out. And so little dust. I think it is really a blessing that they sprinkle now and everything is drenched with water; of course one had better not wear long dresses. And only look at the baker's wagon with the dog harnessed in. Isn't he too comical? Only the canal… I don't know, it is still just about the same…"

"Yes," laughed Botho, "it is just about the same. Four weeks of July heat have not managed to improve it."

As they were passing under some young trees, Katherine plucked a linden leaf, placed it over the hollow of her hand and struck it so that it made a popping sound. "We always used to do that at home. And at Schlangenbad, when we had nothing better to do, we would pop leaves and do all sorts of little tricks that we used to do when we were children. Can you imagine it, I really care a great deal for such foolish little things and yet I am quite old and have finished with them."

"But, Katherine…"

"Yes, yes, a regular matron, you will see… But just look, Botho, there is the rail fence again and the old alehouse with the comical and rather improper name, that we used to laugh at so heartily at boarding-school. I thought the place was gone long ago. But the Berliners will not let anything of that sort go, a place like that will always keep on; all that is needed is a queer name, that amuses people."

Botho vacillated between pleasure over Katherine's return and fleeting moments of discontent. "I find you a good deal changed, Katherine."

"Certainly I am. And why should I be changed? I was not sent to Schlangenbad to change, at least not my character and conversation. And whether I have changed in some other ways, mon cher ami, nous verrons."

"Quite matronly now?"

She held her hand over his mouth and pushed back her veil, which had fallen half over her face, and directly afterwards they passed the Potsdam railway viaduct, over the iron framework of which an express train was just rushing. It made both a thundering and a trembling and when they had left the bridge behind, Katherine said: "It is always disagreeable to me to be directly under it."

"But it is no better for those who are up there."

"Perhaps not. But it is all in the idea. Ideas always have so much influence. Don't you think so too?" And she sighed, as if some dreadful thing that had taken a terrible hold upon her life had suddenly come before her mind. But then she went on: "In England, so Mr. Armstrong, an acquaintance at the baths, told me (I must tell you more about him, besides he married an Alvensleben) – in England, he said, they bury the dead fifteen feet deep. Now fifteen feet deep is no worse than five feet, but I felt distinctly, while he was telling me about it, how the clay, for that is the correct English word, must weigh like a ton on the breast. For in England they have a very heavy clay soil."

"Did you say Armstrong… There was an Armstrong in the Baden Dragoons."

"A cousin of his. They are all cousins, the same as with us. I am glad that I can describe him to you with all his little peculiarities. A regular cavalier with his mustache turned up, and he really went a little too far with that. He looked very comical, with those twisted ends, which he was always twisting more."

In about ten minutes the carriage drew up before the door and Botho gave her his arm and led her in. A garland hung over the large door of the corridor and a tablet with the inscription "Willkommen" ("Welcome"), from which, alas, one "l" was wanting, hung somewhat crookedly from the garland. Katherine looked up, read it and laughed.

"Willkommen! But only with one 'l,' that is to say, only half. Dear me. An 'L' is the letter for Love, too. Well then, you too shall have only half of everything."

And so she walked through the door into the corridor, where the cook and housemaid were already standing waiting to kiss her hand.

"Good day, Bertha; good day, Minette. Yes, children, here I am again. Well, how do you think I look? Have I improved?" And before the maids could answer, which indeed she was not expecting, she went on: "But you have both improved. Especially you, Minette, you have really grown quite stout."

Minette was embarrassed and looked straight before her, and Katherine added good-naturedly: "I mean only here around your chin and neck."

Meantime the man servant came in also. "Why, Orth, I was growing anxious about you. The Lord be praised, there was no need; you are none the worse for wear, only a trifle pale. But the heat causes that. And still the same freckles."

"Yes, gracious lady, they stay."

"Well, that is right. Always fast color."

While this talk was in progress she had reached her bedroom, where Botho and Minette followed her, while the other two retired to their kitchen.

"Now, Minette, help me. My cloak first. And now take my hat. But be careful, or else we shall never know how to get rid of the dust. And now tell Orth to set the table out on the balcony. I have not eaten a bite all day, because I wanted everything to taste good here at home. And now go, my dear girl; go Minette."

Minette hastened to leave the room, while Katherine remained standing before the tall glass and arranged her hair which was in some disorder. At the same time she looked at Botho in the glass, for he was standing near her and looking at his pretty young wife.

"Now, Botho," said she with playful coquetry and without turning around to look at him.

And her affectionate coquetry was cleverly enough calculated so that he embraced her while she gave herself up to his caresses. He put his arms around her waist and lifted her up in the air. "Katherine, my little doll, my dear little doll."

"A doll, a dear little doll. I ought to be angry at that, Botho. For one plays with dolls. But I am not angry, on the contrary. Dolls are usually loved best and treated best. And that is what I like."

CHAPTER XXV

It was a glorious morning, the sky was half clouded and in the gentle west wind the young couple sat on the balcony, while Minette was clearing the coffee table, and looked over toward the Zoological Garden where the gay cupolas of the elephant houses shone softly in the dim morning light.

"I really know nothing yet about your experiences," said Botho. "You went right to sleep, and sleep is sacred to me. But now I want to hear all about it. Tell me."

"Oh yes, tell you; what shall I tell you? I wrote you so many letters that you must know Anna Grävenitz and Frau Salinger quite as well as I do, or perhaps still better, for among other things I wrote more than I knew myself."

"Perhaps. But you always said, 'More about this when we meet.' And that time has now come, or do you want me to think you are keeping something from me? I know actually nothing at all about your excursions and yet you were in Wiesbaden. You said indeed that there were only colonels and old generals in Wiesbaden, but there are Englishmen there too. And speaking of Englishmen reminds me of your Scotchman, about whom you were going to tell me. Let me see, what was his name?"

"Armstrong; Mr. Armstrong. He certainly was a delightful man, and I cannot understand his wife, an Alvensleben, as I think I told you before, who was always embarrassed whenever he spoke. And yet he was a perfect gentleman, who always respected himself, even when he let himself go and showed a certain nonchalance. At such moments, gentlemen are always the most easily recognised. Don't you agree with me? He wore a blue necktie and a yellow summer suit, and he looked as if he had been sewed into it, and Anna Grävenitz always used to say: 'There comes the penholder.' And he always carried a big, open umbrella, a habit he had formed in India. For he was an officer in a Scotch regiment, that had been stationed a long time in Madras or Bombay, or perhaps it may have been Delhi. But any way it is all the same. And what had he not been through! His conversation was charming, even if sometimes one hardly knew how to take it."

"So he was too forward? Insolent?"

"I beg your pardon, Botho, how can you speak so? Such a man as he; a cavalier comme il faut. I will give you an example of his style of conversation. Opposite us sat an old lady, the wife of General von Wedell, and Anna Grävenitz asked her (I believe it was the anniversary of Königgratz), whether it was true that thirty-three Wedells fell in the seven years' war? Old Frau von Wedell said that it was quite true, and added that there had really been more. All who were present, were astonished at so great a number, excepting Mr. Armstrong, and when I playfully took him to task, he said that he could not get excited over such small numbers. 'Small numbers!' I interrupted him, but he laughed and added, for the sake of refuting me, that one hundred and thirty-three of the Armstrongs had perished in the various wars and feuds of their clan. And when Frau von Wedell at first refused to believe this, but finally (as Mr. A. stuck to his story) asked eagerly, whether the whole hundred and thirty-three had really 'fallen'? he replied 'No, my dear lady, not exactly fallen. Most of them were hung as horse thieves by the English, who were then our enemies.' And when everybody was horrified over this unsuitable, one might almost say embarrassing tale of hanging, he swore that 'we were wrong to be offended by any such a thing, for times and opinions had changed and as far as his own immediate family were concerned, they regarded their heroic forbears with pride. The Scottish method of warfare for three hundred years had consisted of cattle lifting and horse stealing. Different lands, different customs,' and he could not see any great difference between stealing land and stealing cattle."

"He is a Guelph in disguise," said Botho, "but there is a good deal to say for his view."

"Surely. And I was always on his side, when he made such statements. Oh, he would make you die of laughter. He used to say that one should not take anything seriously, it did not pay, and fishing was the only serious occupation. He would occasionally go fishing for a fortnight on Loch Ness or Loch Lochy-only think what funny names they have in Scotland-and he would sleep in the boat, and when the sun rose, there he was again; and when the fortnight was ended, he would moult and his whole sunburnt skin would come off and then he would have a skin like a baby. And he did all this through vanity, for a smooth, even color is really the best thing that one can have. And as he said this, he looked at me in such a way, that I did not know how to answer for a moment. Oh, you men! But yet from the beginning I really had a warm attachment for him and took no offence at his way of talking, which sometimes pursued one subject for some time, but far, far oftener shifted constantly here and there. One of his favorite sayings was: 'I cannot bear to have one dish stay on the table a whole hour; if only it is not always the same, I am much better pleased when the courses are changed rapidly.' And so he was always jumping from the hundreds into the thousands."