A HAPPY EXILE.
Aheavyload was lifted, the air seemed lighter, one could breathe freely. The uprising in Paris was but short-lived, the bloody skirmish had lasted two days and Louis Phillipe was once more safe on his throne, reinforced by a new cabinet. The citizen-king—le roi citoyen—once more made the people believe that he was the same Louis Phillipe who had been in the habit of carrying an umbrella like any plain citizen, with a modest round felt hat on his uncrowned head no different from one worn by the masses. Peace was again restored. The red flag was again replaced by the one of three colors; the shouts of “Long live the Republic” and “Down with Louis Phillipe” had once more been hushed; the vicinity of the Cloister St. Merry, where the zealous One Hundred Republicans had fought and fallen, was quiet and deserted. The French capital always lived from day to day and forgot the past. Barricades and booming cannon one day, gay laughter and resplendent parades the next.
The genial sun of early summer was in the sky and all Paris seemed to have turned out into the streets, into the public gardens, into the parks; God, feeling bored in his celestial abode, “opened the window of heaven and looked down on the Boulevards.” And the Boulevards were amusing enough. The deathly clash of a few days ago was forgotten. There was merriment in every face; smiling eyes beamed above the marble-topped tables along the sidewalks in front of the busy cafés; from side streets came the tremulous gurgling of hurdy-gurdies, the emotional tones of chanting beggars, singing the latest,La Parisienne. Suddenly a frantic, joyous shout rent the air; handkerchiefs waved, canes were brandished—the variegated colors of a crowd in motion. An old man in a phaeton passed. His white hair was covered with a brown wig; his kindly eyes sparkled with youth in spite of his seventy-four years; he raised his hat and bowed with military dignity and yet with the humility of the very great.
“Vive le général LaFayette!”
The appearance of the hero of two hemispheres on the Boulevards always had a soothing effect upon the masses. They felt that with this champion of liberty still among them the rights of the people were preserved.
Amidst the jovial pedestrians that thronged the Grand Boulevards Albert Zorn strolled pensively, his hands in his pockets, his dreamy, though keen, eyes, narrowed inquisitively, his head thrown back, a smile of triumph and joy on his smooth-shaven oval face. He was well dressed, in light colored coat and trousers and a waistcoat of many bright hues, yet his clothes hung on him as if he gave no care to his outward appearance. Though well-built, with a body of medium height and a head proudly set upon a solidly formed neck, he gave one the impression of shortness. It was his legs rather than his body that were short. He walked with the aimlessness of a student, of a dreamer who always seeks life in the street rather than in the drawingroom. There was a touch of melancholy in his eyes even when he smiled and a peculiar light shone from between his narrowed eyelids—a shaft of sunlight emerging from a crevice. At times he whistled as he walked and mumbled rhythmic words to himself. There was the gait of conscious freedom in his step, the freedom regained by a convict after long imprisonment. The gayety of the people about him filled him with secret joy, the saluting ejaculations were music in his ears. He was seeing history in the making and was alive to the events of the day.
He rambled wistfully, as if carried along by the human tide, and not infrequently was jostled by the people about him. He was tempted to get into people’s way and hear the exclamations of apology and see the sunny smiles on their faces. He loved the gleam of those velvety French eyes and the melody of their light-hearted laughter. Though of a bluntly frank nature himself he found the polite urbanity of the Parisians as refreshing as the wafting fragrance from a greenhouse. He was keenly conscious of the foreign atmosphere and fascinated by the people’s manners. Some one had just touched his arm and apologized courteously, and he lapsed into a revery of comparison between the people in his native land and the people here. In his native land people dug each other in the ribs without a suggestion of craving one’s pardon. Many cycles of thought began to revolve in his brain. One led to another. Then came straggling, disjointed fragments of thought—like loose threads—that became snarled and were formed into a knotted coil. . . .
Since the Revolution in Paris the whole tenor in Albert’s life had changed. He had hung up his lyre and gripped the sword. The Revolution had made him forget his resolution to devote the rest of his life to his art. He had thrown himself into the maelstrom of political activities and fought mercilessly. He had decided upon a mission in life. To write sweet songs was not enough, he had determined. He must do his share in the struggle for the liberation of man, mental as well as physical liberation. He was fighting theJunkersand the priests—theAdel und Pfaffenherrschaft—with telling effect. The articles he had written since he fled from Germany stirred the people at home even more than while he was amongst them. Yes, he must fight for the liberation of man!
Instead of the Bible and Homer he was hugging to his breast Jean Jacques Rousseau’s work. He realized that France was at present the cradle of Liberty as Judea of old was the cradle of Faith.
How could he really sing with the rattling of prisoners’ chains in his ears? The course of one’s life is fixed at one’s very birth, and strive as one might the given course must be followed. Albert felt as if an invisible hand was directing his course, a forceful, dominating hand. Free will? There was no free will. He often thought of the allegory of Jonah fleeing to Tarsish. Poor Jonah believed in free will but the whale taught him a different lesson. “Arise, go unto Ninevah, that great city, and preach unto it the preaching that I bid thee.” Everyone must preach the preaching that is bidden him.
However, at times he turned to the Prophets and drank from the ever fresh waters of their deep wells. And the Jesuits in Munich and theJunkersin Berlin were pointing to his blasphemy! So did the ancient priests and the nobles of old Judea call their prophets scoffers and blasphemers. It is ever thus, Albert Zorn mused with sublime contempt in his heart, one must be crucified in order to save the world.
Would he ever be understood? He did not preach any definite doctrine to attract adherents. He was no Börne, with set rules and formulas for the emancipation of mankind; no self-centered Goethe to inspire romantic cults. He was carrying on guerilla warfare, shooting at whosoever was hostile to human progress. He understood the course of human progress better than that fanatical Börne who dreamt of bringing about a millennium with one leap. Human progress is gained by taking a leap forward, then half a step backward, then forward again, until the goal is reached. Reaction is as much a part of human progress as revolution. Revolution is only a link in the chain of evolution. He dreaded Communism, he despised Absolutism, he detested the mediocrity of Republicanism, even more than Philistinism. He was concerned with the freedom of the spirit even more than with the freedom of the body. Must he go on being misunderstood? He did not care for the opinion of his enemies—it did not matter to him that they charged him with want of character—but it grieved him to learn that even his friends and admirers failed to understand him. Only a few days before he had bared his heart in a letter to a friend. Would any one ever understand his inner struggles and strife? “We do not expect our friends to agree with us but we expect them to understand the motives of our actions,” he pleaded.
He could not deny that he had sipped from the sweetness of life since his arrival in Paris. A new world was opened to him. At last he had found himself free, breathing freely, moving about without restraint, without the conscious restraint that Prussian tyranny had imposed upon him. Not only the tangible shackles but even the invisible fetters—those that make one’s inner consciousness cower—had fallen away.
From the first day he stepped upon French soil no one reminded him, by look or gesture or remotest insinuations, of the virtues, or vices, of his forefathers. Having brought with him only a few letters of introduction, and as yet wholly unknown to the reading public in France, his poems and ready wit had quickly won him a large circle of friends and admirers. He had already met Victor Hugo, George Sand, Adolph Thiers, General LaFayette, and formed friendships with Balzac and Gautier and Alexandre Dumas; and, as in Berlin, he had found here an admirer who wished to be his patroness. She was a princess, who, while she did not possess the brilliancy and depth of Frau Varnhagen, was a woman of culture and had an innate appreciation of poetry. At hersoiréesone met not only the literary and artistic celebrities of the day but also renowned statesmen and diplomats.
He was as famous here as in his native land. TheRevue des Deux Mondeswas running a translation of his works, laudatory articles were written about him, his correspondence from Paris had made a stir in Germany and Austria, and his publishers were issuing new editions of his books. Though he was spending freely, sufficient money was coming in to meet his obligations. Indeed, fortune smiled upon him.
“Vive le général LaFayette!” the throngs around him roared again.
He had reached the Madaleine, which was then still under construction, and crossing the street he walked back along the Grands Boulevards. Only the day before he had talked with Balzac about the charm of wandering through the crowded streets of Paris, watching the people and listening to their talk. Albert found that he could think best as he wandered along the crowded sidewalks.
He soon found himself again thinking of his Fatherland. He was always thinking of his Fatherland. The soil of Germany was sacred to him, her language was music to his ears. He loved Paris, loved the French, but his heart beat for the land of the Rhine. He recalled a recent attack on him in a German newspaper. He was attacked on all sides. The radicals called him a traitor, theJunkerscalled him a revolutionist. But he did not mind. He was a little David with more than one smooth stone in his pouch. He would yet slay the blustering Goliath. He would fight for Young Germany in his own way!
However, the knowledge that he was being attacked by the radicals and theJunkersstirred his blood. At last the poorMichelhad stopped snoring. He was stretching his clumsy arms. No more sweet lullabies for the drowsyMichel, no more love songs, no dream ballads, no subtle epigrams. He must speak to him more directly, in language he could not misunderstand. He had scarcely more than unsheathed his sword. They shall see!
MARGUERITE.
Albertfound time passing pleasantly and swiftly. Two more years had passed and he was still living the life of a literary journalist—visiting cafés, art galleries, places of amusement; dining at the homes of the elite, visiting notables, frequenting fashionable circles. He was trying to persuade himself that his was a happy existence—fame in Germany and even greater renown in Paris, his health fairly good save for an occasional headache, and his earnings considerable—but he could not shut his ears to the small voice calling from the very depth of his heart. It was a rebuking, reproachful voice, which he could silence neither with a witty epigram nor with convincing preachment. It was the voice of mocking Satan, with whom the more one expostulates the more it mocks. He was already in his thirty-sixth year and none of his great literary plans had come to fruition. He had been bartering his talents for ducats. Had his fire gone out? He trembled. He had hardly written a poem worthy of the name in the past two years. True, he had not been idle and had fought for the liberation of his compatriots, and studied and worked very industriously on criticism of literature, religion, philosophy; but that, he said to himself, was not his life work. Yes, even love was dead in his heart. Was he growing old? Fear seized him. Goethe at thirty-six had only begun to love, and only begun to live. His heart was beating with the rapidity of fear. When one ceases to feel the lure of love one is nearing his grave, he mused. And one morning he awakened to find two fingers of his left hand benumbed. Alarmed he ran to a physician, a friend of his. The diagnosis was terrifying. The two fingers were paralyzed. But he only emitted a bitter laugh. “What a beneficent deity we have! God is reducing the strength of my left hand that I may strike the harder with my right.”
He jested about his deformity but it struck terror at his heart. It was not the fear of death but the fear of dying. He had seen death in all its grimness, when the cholera raged in Paris the year before. No, it was not death he feared but the approach of death. Indeed, he was getting old and dying. Perspiration burst over him. He recalled that theWeltschmerzwhich had gripped him so mercilessly in his youth had relaxed its hold on him since his arrival in Paris. And theWeltschmerzis the elixir of youth. Want of restlessness is want of life-force.
He wanted no sympathy. He had promised Princess Pampini to call on her that morning but he could not force himself to go to her. It was not vanity because his fingers were crippled but he would not listen to condolence.
As he thought of the princess a smile passed over his face. People were gossiping about his being in love with her. He could no more be in love with her than he could have been in love with Rahel. No, he could not be in love with anybody any more . . . He sighed disconsolately. No wonder the heights of Parnassus had been denied him in the past two years. Love and song were no longer for him. . .
In despair he wandered through the streets, frequently touching and fondling the numb fingers of his left hand with those of his right. He sought to dissipate his sorrow in motion. Pretty women walked past him but he glanced at them with trepidation. He saw their beauty but could feel no inner thrill. Yes, the glow of life was fast ebbing away from him. Youth and love and song were all dead in his heart.
He had reached the Porte St. Martin and turned into a side street. He wished to be alone, in a street less frequented by the young and gay. The sight of the young and gay around him was too tantalizing. He was brooding. Such was the irony of life. No sooner had he begun to enjoy life than life began to flee. Was not that the allegory of Moses on Mount Nebo?
Like another Faust—nay, like anotherKoheleth, the Preacher—Albert mused on the vanities and uselessness of life. It is only he whose eyes penetrate behind the scenes of life that can scoff and cryHavel havolim, vanity of vanities; and one’s eyes scarcely ever penetrate the mystery of life until one is about ready to relinquish it. In the heart of a forest one does not see the forest. “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
Ah, indeed, every man must write his own Faust as he must brood over his own Ecclesiastes! Albert had often said this to himself and friends, and he now understood the full import of his saying. Like all true humorists, he passed quickly from mirth to sadness. There was nothing in life for him any longer, and it did not matter if he could only go to his lodging, fall asleep, and never wake again.
He was making his way blindly through the quiet street, oblivious to everything about him, when his ears caught the humming of a street song, the snatch of a song which was then popular in Paris and played by every hurdy-gurdy. He raised his eyes and beheld a young girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, standing in the doorway of a little shop, her hands stuck in the pockets of a white apron over her black skirt. There was the gleam of a cheerful smile on her comely countenance, and as he raised his eyes she stopped humming the song and looked at him with the candor and shyness of a child.
He was about to continue his walk when he remembered that he needed a pair of shoes, which were less costly on the side streets than on the Boulevards. He halted, hesitated, took a step back, and entered the shoe shop; the girl turned on her heel and followed him in.
Suddenly all his sadness fled, all his brooding thoughts vanished. He was conscious of a thrill in his heart and of the sweetness of living. The face before him was one mirroring youth and the ignorance of youth, eyes that sparkled, seeing only the surface of life. And in every line of her figure, in every movement of hers, was immaturity.
While he was examining a pair of shoes a heavy-set woman, with purple cheeks, stuck her head through a door in the rear, and said something about showing the gentleman the new style of footwear they had received the day before. What was there in the girl’s voice that made something within him vibrate?
He began to take off his left shoe.
“Not the left but the right,monsieur;” and she emitted a little laugh with the unrestraint of a child.
He did as he was bidden, and felt a peculiar intimacy as the girl bent down to help him slip on the new shoe. As she bent forward his eyes rested on her lustrous black hair—wavy without being curly—combed back from her low forehead.
He was thinking of Miriam, the girl of Gnesen. There was a striking resemblance between the two, except that the girl before him had somnolent black eyes while the iris in Miriam’s eyes were of a deep dark-blue. There was the same lack of artifice in her speech, the same touch of tenderness in her voice. Likewise was her face a book with blank pages.
He lingered in the little shop even after he had made his purchase. Was the woman who had spoken through the doorway her mother? No, she was an aunt, for whom she was working. Her mother lived in the country, in a little village near Nantes, and her mother had sent her to Paris to earn her living. Was her mother poor? Yes, very, very poor.
“Where do you come from?” she presently questioned him with equal candor, and looked up into his face without the least embarrassment.
“Where do you think?”
The deep corners of his large mouth drooped and there was a faint smile on his oval face.
She straightened up, her hands now behind her, her eyes resting on his light-brown hair, on his thoughtful face.
“From—from Normandy—all the men in Normandy are blond and have bluish eyes——”
He laughed with frank amusement, the amusement a child’s talk provokes, and told her his eyes only seemed blue but they were greenish.
“But a thing is only what it seems,” she said, with naive protest.
“I grant you it is good philosophy but not all philosophy is truth.”
There was a comical expression on his face as he uttered the last, and she looked puzzled. A bit of shyness came over her.
“So you can’t guess where I come from,” he said, looking tenderly at her. Then he added, as if speaking to himself, “I come from a country where they wish I had come from another country, and if I had come from another country they would have wished the same.”
He threw his head back and laughed but not without a touch of bitterness in his tone.
She did not understand him. There was perplexity in the girl’s face. No one had ever looked at her in this manner. There was something beseeching in his half-closed eyes, something eloquently covetous, and he gazed at her as if she were an inanimate thing, a picture or statue of the masters in the Louvre.
His next question sounded still more puzzling. Was she always in the shop? What a question! She was either in the shop or in the rear helping with the housework. Her employer was not boarding her and paying her mother ten francs a month for nothing!
As he was leaving he suddenly turned around and asked her name. “Marguerite,” she told him. He said he would like to be her Faust.
She looked at him incomprehensively and said, “Vous êtes drôle.”
“You are not the only one who thinks me funny,” he replied.
She laughed.
He walked away with drooping head and lagging step.
He was soon on Boulevard Strassbourg, a mere drop of spray in the human tide. People were coming and going, chatting and laughing, the zest of life everywhere. He, too, now felt the zest of life. He was no longer feeling that the marrow of his life had dried up. There was spring in his heart, the sap of renewed life was flowing through his veins; no, he was not dying. He was humming to himself a few verses of an old song of his, which had been set to music by an admirer.
Yes, sadness was creeping into his heart and enveloping his whole being, but it was not the sadness that possessed him earlier in the day. It was the sadness of longing, of woeful longing, the sadness of music in a minor key, which thrilled him even as it kept tugging at his heartstrings. Suddenly, oblivious of the people that were passing, he paused, and, clenching his fists with joy vibrating through the whole being, his face beaming with a strange light, he uttered, almost loud enough to be heard by passersby, “I am myself again—love has returned!”
And love had returned. He was his old self again. Youth had come back. His features had almost changed. There came a new softness in his eyes, languor in his face, the dreaminess of his student days. He had not been in love since Miriam had gone back to marry the drover’s son. He had known friendship but not love.
He was not trying to argue himself out of his sudden passion for the girl in the shoe shop; he was only explaining himself to himself. What did it matter so long as love had again entered his heart, so long as he was restless with the yearnings and longings of his student days, so long as he felt the ache of blossoming youth! Indeed, what else mattered!
He went to his room and wrote a poem. He had not been in the mood for writing verse since his arrival in Paris, but now melody flowed from his soul. He could think of nothing, of nobody, but Marguerite. And he lost himself in reverie about her sweetly pouting lips, her well-formed nose, her glistening white teeth, the faint dimples in her cheeks. There was child-like beauty and sweetness in her face and speech, and it was that child-like quality in her that had captivated his imagination and passion.
He was too impetuous to lay plans. He could not lay siege to his citadel. He would either win it by storm or go down to defeat in the assault.
The next day he was again at the shoe shop without even the subtle subterfuge of the lover. He offered no excuses, invented no pretences to account for his call. He sat down and gazed at her rapturously and called her Marguerite, and repeated the name again and again, lisping it, murmuring it, echoing it as if it were a melodious term.
Marguerite at first laughed and told him he was foolish but by and by new tints came into the pink of her cheeks and she smiled confusedly—with the confusion of a child who does not know why it is confused—and there came a shimmering heat in the lustrous pupils of her eyes. Her heart beat tumultuously when he looked at her, and his words seemed so caressing. Sometimes he gazed at her as if he did not see her at all and then he would say, “How beautiful your voice sounds!” and when he caught hold of an edge of her apron he fondled it as if he had passed his hand over her bare skin.
One day he took hold of her fingers and kissed the tips of every one of them. She never forgot that day. She thought she ought not to let him kiss her fingers but she liked the sensation and yielded.
And when a few days later she found herself in his arms she feigned no resistance. She craved the touch of his lips and of his tender embraces and the endearing names he called her and had no objections to being his Marguerite.
At last the longing of his youth—the longing which he had dissipated in dreams and song—were gratified. Marguerite was his. In her he saw the fulfillment of the promises of Hedwiga, of Hilda, of Eugenie, of Miriam. His soul was steeped in dreams, in imaginary romances, and he would not part with his dreams even when love had become a reality. He had brought to Marguerite all the pent-up passion that lay slumbering in his soul, all which he would have lavished on Hedwiga, on Hilda, on Eugenie, on Miriam. Realities are dreams to the poet as dreams are realities to him. What was wanting in the guileless country girl his romantic imagination supplied. What he had found especially fascinating about his beloved was her want of sophistication. When he proposed that she come and live with him in his two-room apartment she readily consented despite the protests of her relatives.
Nor was he disillusioned after she had gone to live with him. He had no illusions about her save her physical charms. He was sick at heart of the artifice of the chatter of the women of the drawingroom, and enjoyed the sweet naturalness of this woman child. And she obeyed his mandates. She sat for hours knitting or eating bonbons without uttering a syllable while he was absorbed in his writing. She did not know what he was writing about, nor did she have sufficient curiosity to find out, and he loved her for her silence. He thought the price of a woman who could keep still for hours “far above rubies and precious ointment.”
His life would have been perfect could he have impressed the wisdom of silence on Marguerite’s pet parrot, but he was soon reconciled to his chatter since that was the parrot’s business. At least the parrot prattled the only things he knew. Albert wished some of the savants of his day would emulate the parrot’s example.
The love of Albert and Marguerite did not run smoothly, however. They quarreled, and quarreled frequently, but then Albert knew he had an uncontrollable temper and that she was sometimes unreasonable. And she did not like those queer countrymen of his to intrude upon him so often. But after each tilt he became more tender, more solicitous, and called her a thousand more endearing names, and she nestled closer to him and loved her Albert more than ever.
In the early stages of their love they had two serious ruptures. Each time they parted she went back to her relatives and he went to the seashore to mend his shattered nerves, but no sooner had he returned to Paris than he went to the Philistines and demanded his wife, and, unlike the people of Timnath, Marguerite’s aunt at once complied with his demand and nothing disastrous happened. Lover and beloved went back to their two room apartment, he to write and she to knit and eat bonbons and to quarrel as of yore.
He was supremely happy—Wie ein Fisch im Wasser—in spite of his slight deformity. He was industrious, had finished another volume of poems and was making mental notes for a dramatic poem.
He was not fond of the German refugees in Paris. Now and then there came a refugee of real worth—but most of them were without talent, without any well defined idea of what they wanted, and only plumed themselves with the title of revolutionaries. Paris in those days was a hotbed of revolutionists; Mazzini with his carbonari, plotters from Portugal, insurgents from Poland, assassins from Spain. Prussian spies were abundant and very active, and the French government was secretly lending a helping hand to rid Paris of these stirring elements. Louis Phillipe had enough to contend with without foreign intriguers.
Albert was living quietly in a district inhabited by the genteel poor—clerks, journalists, small shop-keepers, artists—and kept aloof from his compatriots. But the news he was receiving from “home”—for he never ceased thinking of Germany as his home—was disquieting. The news came to him from various sources, but chiefly from pilgrims who were coming to worship at his shrine. Every aspiring poet, every young writer with an idea in his head, every agitator, came either to pay homage to his genius or to see the poet in exile in order to give first-hand information to their friends at home. Albert had the misfortune of having had woven around him myths and legends that reflected upon his morality. To the Germans he was a Don Juan. His flippant speech (often only the flash of the moment), his witty epigrams (at times uttered for the sheer love of wit), his blasphemy (rarely intended), gave credence to all the shocking things his enemies told about him. Furthermore, his imaginary love affairs narrated, and hinted at, in his poems were taken too literally. His countrymen failed to realize that one actually given to licentiousness rarely writes about it, never glorifies it in song and rhapsodies; that one who yields to dissipation rarely indulges in sweet day dreams about it. The Germans have always been too stolid, too ponderous, too matter of fact to comprehend the subtlety of fine humor. While an elephant can easily lift a log with his trunk he is quite helpless with a feather.
One day he was at work in his room, Marguerite and the parrot in the other room, the door between them shut. Marguerite had found a way of keeping the parrot quiet when Albert was at work. A family with small children had recently moved in on the floor below and their noises were irritating Albert beyond endurance, so Marguerite was taking pains to keep the parrot quiet. She was feeding him bonbons and carrying on a deaf-and-dumb conversation with the hook-nosed chatterer.
“You mustn’t make a sound,” she whispered in a soft lisp, as if talking to a babe, and waved an admonishing finger. “Not the least bit of sound, for we don’t want Albert to be angry, do we?”
The parrot buried his beak in the down under his left wing and muffled his suppressed laughter.
“There goes the postman! That fool, he rings the doorbell as if the house were on fire! Albert has told him a thousand times not to do it in the morning as it disturbs his thoughts——”
The door soon opened with an abrupt jerk and Albert, in a longSchlafrock(lounging robe) appeared in the doorway. His hair dishevelled, a look of unendurable annoyance on his face, his eyes contracted and intense, he clenched his fists and almost shouted—“Can’t you tell that fool to stop ringing? I can hear every bell in the neighborhood when that imbecile makes his rounds. I was in the midst of a sentence and, bah!—that fool comes along with his clamor and I forget what I was going to say—my whole drift of thought is lost—just when my writing was coming along so easily he comes along and kills my morning’s work—that idiot!”
“I told him a number of times not to ring so loud,” Marguerite struck in.
“You told him! You don’t think he is doing it to spite me! That postman and the parrot are a pair!”
“The parrot! He never opened his month. He was as quiet as a mouse all morning. You blame him for everything.—” Marguerite’s voice was becoming lachrymose. “You hate him because I love him so. Poor dear!” She nestled close to the parrot’s cage. “It is about time that both you and I go—Albert loves neither of us any longer——”
Marguerite’s chin began to quiver, the dimples in her cheeks appeared and disappeared, and presently the deluge. She dropped into a chair and the tears soon flowed through her fingers, with which she covered her eyes.
He rushed up to her with a gesture of helplessness.
“What are you crying about? It’s I who ought to cry—a fine morning’s work gone because that stupid postman rings the doorbell as if he were a Prussian officer. Am I blaming you?”
“If—you—loved—me—you—wouldn’t—talk—that—way—” Her words came between sobs.
He strode across the room and waved his arms in despair. He gnashed his teeth but said nothing.
“You see, you wouldn’t even deny it—you know you don’t love me any longer. I know, I know, yesterday at theCafé des Ambassadeurswith those funny Germans of yours you sat at the table and talked of nothing but the Princess Pompani. You think because I don’t understand German you can talk of your other loves with impunity—but I understand whatPrinzessinmeans—every minute it wasPrinzessinthis andPrinzessinthat—”
She lapsed into convulsive sobbing.
Suddenly he burst out laughing.
“Yes, you laugh because you have no heart and because you make me suffer——”
The next moment he walked up to her, gently passed his hand over her hair and tried to embrace her but she pushed him away——
“Don’t touch me—I know when you touch me you are thinking you are passing your hands over the Princess—”
Albert was still laughing softly and trying to remove her hands from her face.
“Don’t you come near me—don’t——”
He had succeeded in pulling her hands away from her face and in giving her a grazing kiss on her lips.
“Aren’t you silly, my sweet little Nonette (one of his endearing nicknames)”. “Look at me!” He was holding her face between his hands, trying to make her look at him, but she tightened her eyelids and pulled away from him.
“No, I won’t look at you until you stop loving that Princess——”
He laughed indulgently.
“What a child you are. You know I don’t love anybody but my sweet little kitten with those dear little dimples”—he kissed her on both cheeks, and catching her unawares, pressed a kiss on her mouth.
“Aren’t you silly?” he continued as he wiped her gathered tears. “Here I am working so hard to get a little more money so that we may be able to move away from this clattering neighborhood to a cozy little apartment on Rue St. Honoré and you blame me for getting angry at that stupid postman!”
“I told theconciergeonly yesterday that unless she made the children behave we would have to move.” Her voice sounded half reconciled but her eyes were still averted from him.
“You sweet little monkey!”
He embraced her affectionately and she rested on his arms without resistance.
“Ha—ha! Ha—ha!—Ha—ha!”
“Shut up, you fool!” she turned angrily upon the laughing parrot.
“No one is a fool who can laugh,” Albert said wistfully, with a sad smile on his face. “Come on, let’s all laugh—Ha—ha! Ha—ha!” he mimicked the parrot, and Marguerite presently joined in the laughter.
“I am nearly through with my book” he presently consoled her, “and I think I can make that miserly publisher in Berlin advance me five thousand francs on my royalties, and I have my eye on a beautiful apartment on Rue St. Honoré overlooking a garden. I think I’ll be able to buy you the earrings you saw in the display window the other day and——”
There was a knock on the door and they both jumped up, Albert went to the door.
Theconciergewas standing with a packet of letters and newspapers.
Albert thanked theconciergeprofusely, tipped her liberally, and scanned the envelopes.
“Here is a letter from the publisher,” he exclaimed jubilantly. “I’ll bet the rascal offers me only three thousand francs as an advance for my next volume. He always likes to bargain. If I had asked for three thousand he would have offered me one——”
“Why didn’t you ask him for ten, he might have then offered you five,” she counselled.
“I didn’t want him to get apoplexy—” he laughed.
He tore the envelope and while removing the contents continued talking half to himself, half to Marguerite.
“What a long letter—I know—he is telling me, I suppose, how much he has lost on my other books. That rogue! He has grown rich on my sweat and blood and is always whining how little there is in the publishing business and throws me a pittance! Huh! What’s that!” His eyelids came close together as he continued turning the pages and there was a deep dent between his eyes. “The dogs!——”
“What’s the matter, my dear?” she looked up anxiously at Albert’s agitated countenance.
For a moment he did not answer her. Then, with the loose sheets of the letter in one hand, the large square envelope in the other, he paced up and down the room, frowning, uncontrollable rage in his eyes.
“Those vultures are trying to wrest the very bread from my mouth, but they shall see, I won’t sit idle either.” He still talked half to himself, half to the puzzled Marguerite.
He suddenly remained standing stock still in the middle of the room, his eyes barely open. Then, without saying a word, he rushed to the adjoining room, put the sheets of manuscript in order and stowed them safely into a drawer, exchanged hisSchlafrockfor a more fitting coat for the street, and was presently ready to leave, Marguerite following him attentively, almost mutely, and helping him with his toilet. She knew that something was irritating her Albert but he had often told her she could not understand his inner disturbances so she did not press him with further questions. But presently he volunteered enlightenment.
“They have forbidden my books in Prussia, and not only those I have published but even those I might publish. The publisher says he can’t send me asouunder the circumstances, and that he, too, will be ruined.”
The want of money was quite intelligible to Marguerite. She knew that without money they could not move to the cozy little apartment on Rue St. Honoré and she wouldn’t be able to get those coveted earrings.
“What’s the difference?” she soon consoled him, “you can write for the French papers. The Germans are queer anyhow.”
For a bare second Marguerite’s stupidity and simplicity irritated him but before his anger had gathered he glanced at her child-like face, her doting eyes, clasped her in his arms and dashed out of the house.
“Yes, I’ll be back in time for dinner. We’ll go to theAmbassadeurstonight,” he comforted her as he closed the door.
The information that the GermanDiethad prohibited the publication of his books had so upset him that he could not think clearly. It seemed to him that some sinister fate was always interfering with his work. At first it was the parrot, who chattered volubly, and when he had trained him to keep still in the morning, a whole brood of children moved in on the floor below and insisted on doing all their crying during the hours he had set aside for writing; and when by chance everyone was quiet it usually happened that just then he was not in the mood for writing. He thought it strange that all noises came when he was in the best of moods. Yes, it must be the fates who were always pursuing him. This morning everything had moved so smoothly. He had felt as if he had been on wings, his thoughts came flying, and the expressions he wanted were coming so spontaneously that he could scarcely write fast enough when that idiot of a postman began his clamorous ringing! Well, the bad news could have waited until his morning’s work was done! Ah! fate, cruel fate, had been tormenting him from his very cradle!
He was walking down the street rather rapidly, his inner agitation gaining momentum. It was early in December and the air was cold and refreshing. He could not understand why theDietshould have decreed against his writings, especially now when he was preaching moderation. Goethe’s and Lessing’s works had never been forbidden! Goethe had always been anti-Christian, quite pagan, and Lessing was a veritable iconoclast, and yet the government had never taken measures against them! An unpleasant thought was intruding upon him. He tried to force this unpleasant thought away. In the past six years he had banished this unpleasant thought by sheer force whenever it sought admission into his brain. His life in Paris would not permit him to dwell upon this unpleasant thought. But now it took hold of him in spite of himself. The Prussians would not forgive his Jewish blood! The mark of Cain was on his brow! Genius or no genius, it did not matter. Ah, those narrow minded tyrants! They shall see—the whole pack of them—he would smite those Philistines hip and thigh!
As he proceeded on his walk he was mentally wording a reply to the PrussianDiet. He felt himself a Luther standing before the King. Indeed, like the man of Worms, he would not recant. He was smiting the Philistines. He was not sparing them. His words were molten lead. He would pour it red hot upon their stupid heads. He would avenge himself on all of them—on the Aristocrats and the Democrats. They had both combined to annihilate him but he would pull the temple down upon them.
Under the heat of composition his face brightened, his eyes were aglow, his step became more elastic and rapid He was almost glad that this had happened. His fire was kindled with greater fury.
But he soon remembered that his funds were exhausted. His uncle Leopold’s quarter-annual stipend was two months away, theRevue des Deux Mondeshad already advanced him for his next contribution, his publisher would certainly not send him asouat present, and the four hundredThalerhe had borrowed from a friend were nearly gone. His gait slackened, his countenance fell, the light was out of his eyes. Yes, he must seek counsel. He must not act too rashly. His left hand was troubling him and he was afraid the paralysis of his two fingers was spreading. He must seek counsel.
He thought of a few influential friends, who were then in Paris. They were admirers of his and, he was sure, would be glad to intercede for him. But, no, he would ask no assistance from a Prussian. He would—the thought of Princess Pampini came to him like a ray of light. She could give him the right advice. If influence was needed she could use it. She had powerful friends in Paris, men close to King Louis Philippe. Thiers and Guizot were frequent callers at her home. And he soon remembered that he had received a note from her, reproaching him for his absence from hersoirées. The thought of the princess cheered him. He directed his steps toward Rue de Courcelles, her present dwelling.
On his way home from the visit with the Princess a flitting thought disturbed him. Yes, the fates did combine against him. Why was he always falling in love with stupid women? If only he had a life-companion like the Princess! He needed some one to counsel him, to guide him.
Presently he was passing the jewelry shop where Marguerite had seen those coveted earrings. He visualized her with those earrings. He could see a hundred eyes gazing at her as she entered theCafé des Ambassadeurson his arm, with her beautiful flushed cheeks, vivacious black eyes, and her exquisite little figure. She was beautiful—that child! The next moment he was in the shop, before the jewelry counter, holding the earrings on the palm of his hand, turning them this way and that. Would the gentleman behind the counter lay them aside for a week? He was sure he would have the money by that time. Yes, the gentleman behind the counter was very affable and accommodating. “You see,monsieur, I am putting them aside and will hold them for you until a week from tomorrow—thank you,monsieur.”
Albert sped home exultantly. He was optimistic. He did not see clearly how such a miracle could happen, how the money for the earrings would come to him—a thousand francs!—but he had hopes. He was glad he had talked with Princess Pampini. He would follow her advice and instead of protesting just request the German government to reconsider the decree against him; and then his publisher would advance him the five thousand francs—three thousand, at least.
He ran up the three flights of stairs to his apartment with boyish glee and, embracing Marguerite, whispered in her sweet little ear that he had a great surprise in store for her. No; he could not tell her what it was, but she must wait patiently a week, and tonight they would dine at theCafé des Ambassadeurs. He would order the samemenuthey had been served a week ago.
“Wasn’t that a fine meal, hein? A feast to be eaten on one’s knees!” Albert’s eyes glowed with ecstasy as he recalled that dinner.
“You are the most wonderful lover in the world, my Albert,” Marguerite threw her round warm arms around his neck and pressed him to her breast.
Presently he was seated at his desk writing his address to theHigh Diet. He was checking his propensity to be bitter, cynical, satirical. He repeated the words under his breath as he put them on paper, thinking of Princess Pampini’s counsel.
When he had finished his long letter he felt as if a great burden had been lifted. He read, and translated it, to Marguerite, who, with arms folded and eyes staring blankly in front of her, listened attentively but without hearing a word of it. She was wondering what surprise Albert had in store for her next week.
The miracle had happened. A week later Albert had the thousand francs with which to purchase the earrings so much desired by his dimple-cheeked Nonette. Though very rational in his beliefs, and having scoffed so frequently at Biblical miracles, he experienced a secret sense of awe and wonderment as he thought of the unexpected source of this bounty. And it had come to him in the mysterious manner that invariably ushers in miraculous events.
Six days after he had last visited the Princess Pampini a document, bearing the government seal of the reign of King Louis Philippe, was delivered to him in person. Albert’s heart was quivering with fright when the official-looking paper was handed him. He had an innate dread of official papers. He unfolded the contents of the sealed envelope with trembling hands and to his amazement found an endorsed order for twelve hundred francs. A brief note, signed by the Minister of Public Instruction, accompanied the money order. The Minister expressed his personal friendship and admiration for the poet.
“Marguerite! Marguerite! A letter from the king!” he cried jubilantly, as he rushed to Marguerite who was trimming a hat.
She looked up incredulously. Albert was such a jester; one never knew when to take him seriously.
He showed her the money order, pointing to the numerals, 1200.
“The king has sent this to me from his own treasury,” he added. “He read my writings and likes them. And every three months he will send me an additional twelve hundred francs.”
He threw his arms around her and kissed her.
“Now we’ll be able to move to Rue St. Honoré,” she reminded him.
“No, not yet. We must wait a little while. We must wait until I get the remittance from my publisher. His heart will soften as soon as theDietcancels its decree.”
“What will you do with the twelve hundred?”
“Don’t worry—I’ll know what to do with it——”
“I know, you’ll put it in the bank, you miser——”
Her countenance fell. Albert had been complaining of late of his extravagances and regretting that he had saved nothing from his large earnings during the past five years. He had told her that from now on he would be very economical and lay something aside for a rainy day.
He was wistful. He was thinking of the earrings and wished to guard his surprise.
“Will you put away all of it?”
Anger was gathering in her pretty face. Since the king had become his friend she could not see why Albert should want to save any money after this. She had hoped he would at least take her that evening to one of the cafés.
“No, no, I won’t put it all away,” he said joyfully, fondling her.
“You are becoming stingy,” she said sullenly, and tried to disengage herself from his embrace.
“You don’t call a man who tries to lay aside a few francs for a rainy day, stingy—do you?”
Presently he was fully dressed and he dashed out of the house, the happiest of mortals. He ran down the three flights of steps like a little boy speeding to join his waiting playmates. And he kept running thru the streets, seeing no one until he reached the jewelry shop.
He was soon back, with flushed face and panting, a nice little box in his breast pocket. Marguerite was addressing the parrot when Albert opened the door. She was telling the parrot that Albert was a greatpoète allemandand the sweetest lover in the world, even though he was stingy at times. And the parrot laughed—“Ha—ha! Ha—ha! Ha—ha!”
“Close your eyes, my sweet monkey,” Albert commanded.
“You did not spend any money on a present for me, you extravagant boy!”
“Close your eyes and keep them closed until I count three!”
He kissed her and closed her eyes with the tips of his fingers.
“One—two—three!”
She opened her eyes upon a pair of sparkling earrings.
“Albert! You spendthrift!”
At seven-thirty the following evening the people seated against the mirrored walls of theCafé des Ambassadeurscast glances of unconcealed admiration at the pretty woman on the arm of the renownedpoète allemand. There was pride in his keen eyes as he caught the admiring glances and nodded almost triumphantly to his acquaintances. He was quite exultant and carefree, with all the melody of the Song of Songs in his heart.
Albert Zorn now found himself attacking, and attacked by, the reactionaries in the Fatherland and the extreme radicals in Paris. At last theJunkersand theJacobinesjoined hands to down him, their common foe. The pension granted by the king was the peg on which they hung their calumnies. And helped by the PrussianHigh Diethe was even denied the right to defend himself against this fabricated charge of disloyalty. However, this did not muzzle the valiant fighter. Screened by a pseudonym he returned blow for blow. Before the censor had become aware of his identity, his devastating irony was again felt in Germany.
And in spite of the growing paralysis of his left hand he worked indefatigably. He penned poems, critical essays, satires, political tracts, with the same spirit running through them all; the emancipation of the enslaved Prussian mind from the influence of theJunkers.
One day a compatriot challenged him to a duel. His compatriot had taken exception to an insinuation against a close friend of his in one of Albert Zorn’s recent books. True, Albert did not believe in the barbaric custom of duelling but he would not have any one charge him with cowardice, moral or physical. Indeed, he was ready to meet his adversary with any weapons he might choose.
The only thing that distressed him was Marguerite’s condition, should the duel prove fatal to him.
“Marguerite!—Marguerite!——”
Albert was calling her from the adjoining room. It was twilight, the dim twilight of a summer day. His voice sounded softer, more kindly than ever.
Albert was in the living-room. It was a small room, with a white marble mantle over the fireplace and a large mirror above it. The open windows opposite were reflected in the mirror. He was seated, an elbow on the arm of his chair, his cheek against the palm of his left hand, his legs outstretched, wistfully thinking, a strange melancholy in his half-closed eyes. His usual impatience was lacking.
Presently Marguerite appeared. She seemed unusually pretty. Her plump figure had never looked so comely and her eyes never sparkled with more vivacity. She paused for a moment coquettishly, inviting inspection. Should she make a light? No, he did not care for a light. He could see how beautiful she was even in the dim light of the setting sun.
He languidly stretched out his right hand and she came closer to him and placed her hand in his. Ah! she knew how to humor her Albert when he was in a melancholy mood, and her Albert was never more amiable and kind than when in this mood. Though jocular he could not hide his melancholy the past few days, and though he might think her a fool, and without much brains, she understood every passing mood of his. No, indeed, all his friends were telling her what a great man Albert was, and how subtle and profound he was, but she knew better than any of them. She knew he was as simple minded as a child. Albert often called her his child—a lot he knew! It was he who needed mothering from his Marguerite.
The next moment she was on his knees, her lips against his forehead, a hand through his soft hair. He responded quickly to tenderness and pressed his lips against her fingers. There was mist in his eyes. He had been thinking very much of her the past few days; in fact, all his thoughts were of her. He had just come from a notary and made his will, leaving everything he possessed to her.
They were seated in silence for a short space, the clock on the mantle ticking strange melodies. Albert often heard this French clock tick German folk songs. He often wondered why Marguerite could not hear these songs—the only one she could make out wasLa Parisienne, and even this one only when Albert hummed it and used his hand as a baton.
“We are going to get married, Marguerite,” he suddenly announced.
Her hand gripped his involuntarily and for a few seconds she made no sound. Her brain could not quite comprehend his statement. She had never asked him to marry her legally and he had never spoken of it.
“Are you ill—What is troubling you?” she was almost breathless with anxiety.
“No, my kitten,” he made an effort to talk in a light tone and encircled her waist with his arm. “It has just occurred to me that in case anything should happen to me—in case I die—you understand——”
“But what put dying into your head all of a sudden?” There was terror in her voice.
“Nothing—nothing particularly—” he was forcing an indifferent tone—“the thought occurred to me today as I was passing the Boulevard. A horse slipped and fell and hurt a pedestrian. One thought brought another—don’t you see, I was thinking an accident might happen to me—what would become of you?”
Her eyes quickly filled with tears and there were tears in her voice. She did not want her Albert to die and if he died she might as well die, too. Marriage or no marriage, it made no difference to her. Many men had flirted with her and tried to win her away from him—yes, even a few of his friends—yes, all men were alike. Whenever they saw a pretty young woman, they wanted to appropriate her, be she a friend’s wife or mistress. No, indeed, it made no difference to her. She had gone to live with him because she loved him and would never leave him, marriage or no marriage.
“Apprends donc,” she was saying, “que jamais je ne te quitterai, que tu m’aimes on non, que tu m’epouses ou non, que tu me maltraites ou non, jamais je ne te quitterai. Entends-tu bien? Jamais! jamais!”
No, indeed, it made no difference to her, marriage or no marriage, whether or not he loved her, whether or not he’d ever ill-treat her, she’d never leave him—never! never! never! If he was proposing marriage to her because perchance he was jealous for a moment and thought some one might wean her away from him he need have no fear on that score.
He kissed her fingers in silence; there was ecstasy in his soul. He remembered the speech of Ruth when Naomi counselled her return to her people.
Presently Marguerite was sobbing on his breast. Her Albert was speaking and acting strangely. Had he been to see a physician, who had told him he could not live long? What did physicians know—indeed, what did they know? Her Albert would outlive them all. And she would take care of her Albert better than all the nurses in Paris and she would always be faithful to him. Oh, her poor Albert! What had put such foolish thoughts into his brain?
He cleared his throat, wiped the tears out of the corners of his eyes, and spoke light-heartedly. No, he had seen no physician and his health was good and he did not expect to die. He wanted to marry her for her own sake; he wanted no one ever to cast reflections upon her relationship with him. How would she be married—would she like to have a religious marriage? Yes, indeed, he would marry her in any manner it pleased her.
Since Albert insisted upon a legal bond, she wondered if he would mind going with her to the priest at the church of St. Sulpice. She had been “confessing” to him since she came to Paris.
“No, indeed, my kitten!” Albert’s voice was almost jubilant. “By all means let us be married by a Catholic priest. When the Church of Rome binds no one can tear asunder,” he added with a mysterious twinkle in his eyes.
Eight days later Albert was brought home slightly wounded. The duel had taken place in the Valley of St. Germain.
During his convalescence a friend dropped in.
“You have made thousands and thousands of friends,” the visitor was saying enthusiastically.
“Ah, yes, I understand,” jested Albert, “Drawing blood—especially an enemy’s blood—always relieves one’s pain. If I had been killed the kind Jesuits would have named the day of the duel a Saint’s Day.”
Marguerite, who sat by his bedside, begged him to stop laughing, as the physician had told her his constant laughing and joking irritated his wound.
“The doctor is mistaken,” Albert retorted. “My joking and laughing irritates the wounds of my enemies.”