Martin \ 
 
 ochulcr 
 
 
 
 Romer Wilson ij 
 
 i ? 
 
MARTIN SCHULER 
 
MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 BY 
 
 ROMER WILSON.p^ewd, . 
 
 // 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1919 
 
HEIDELBERG 
 
 483512 
 
MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 HEIDELBERG 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THERE were in old times, before Europe was 
 divided amongst the children of Asia, nine 
 peahens. These peahens were in reality nine 
 spellbound damsels of surpassing loveliness. Eight 
 of them were fit brides for the princes of the earth, 
 but the ninth was far lovelier than any queen or prin- 
 cess man has ever imagined. The ninth peahen, who 
 was a queen in her own right, fell in love nevertheless 
 with an ordinary prince, the youngest son of a king — 
 antiquaries suspect that this prince was Joseph, son of 
 Jacob — and therefore she came every evening to perch 
 in the branches of a golden apple-tree that grew in the 
 garden of his father's palace. This tree blossomed, 
 bore fruit, and yielded it all in the same night. The 
 peahen, by perseverance, decoyed the young prince 
 into the garden and, after revealing to him her true 
 nature, disappeared. After many adventures and in 
 spite of the powers of evil, the prince recovered her 
 
 3 
 
4 MARTIN SCHtJLER 
 
 and they were married. They had several children 
 who became kings and princes. 
 
 Martin Schiiler read this tale carefully in a more 
 elaborate edition than the above, namely, in the pleas- 
 ant translation made from the Serbian by Madame 
 Elodie Mejatovitch. He was searching for some tale 
 upon which to erect an opera, and there lay around 
 him English, French, and German books of fairy- 
 lore, ancient legends and ghost stories. Martin Schii- 
 ler was very ambitious and very young. At twenty 
 years old he was a hot Wagnerite and hoped, if pos- 
 sible, to create a counter-type of Tristan and Isolde 
 and one or two Gotterdammerungs ; his heart was full 
 of the passionate fire that results in magnificent if 
 somewhat commonplace noise; his mind yearned to 
 stretch itself in wide orchestration; the nerves of his 
 ears strained to balance themselves upon flute-arias 
 played perfectly, even a little too perfectly, in tune. 
 His musical temperature was a little too '^harp, 
 whereas that of most people is decidedly too flat, as 
 we say. He was mad for perfection, he was without 
 experience, he was swamped by the master-writer of 
 Europe, he was insane for precocity. He determined 
 that at twenty-three he would shake the world. In 
 his immense hurry he bought several books of fable 
 and mythology because operatic music seems a misfit 
 on the back of truth. Having decided at all costs to be 
 original he read three or four books on Slav legendary, 
 
HEIDELBERG 5 
 
 but the only one he could comprehend or fasten down 
 to any Teutonic idea of an opera was that which con- 
 tained the story of the nine peahens. Being in a hurry, 
 as soon as he discovered anything at all suitable he 
 stopped searching and began to dream with the book 
 in his hand. 
 
 Martin Schiiler lived in Heidelberg with his parents, 
 who gave him an attic with a piano in it where he could 
 be both noisy and untidy. The late afternoon sun 
 came in from the west and filled the attic with brown 
 light. It had a dormer window and a sloping ceiling, 
 and what upright wall there was was papered with 
 a shiny yellow wall-paper of an acanthus leaf design 
 that at the time of the accession of the third Frederick 
 had been new and mustard-colored. It was now mel- 
 lowed with years and mildewed with damp, and ought 
 long ago to have suffered the fate of its larger portion 
 that lay obscured beneath a newer design in the sitting- 
 room downstaiis. This wall-paper shone in the sun- 
 shine like a halo about Martin and his piano, and his 
 table and chairs and books and ink-pots and music 
 paper. He sat with his feet on the table, and in the 
 middle of his dreams began to think of his sister, who 
 wore a blouse cut square at the neck and played the 
 piano beautifully. He had his theories of inspiration 
 like everybody else, and one of these was that music 
 inspired music, so he used to get his sister to play to 
 him. As a matter of fact, the music he heard sug- 
 
6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 gested similar music, and in many of his earlier efforts 
 Chopin and the others would have recognized varia- 
 tions of airs that had been discarded by them for bet- 
 ter variations. Youth is a period of disappointment. 
 Young men find when they first begin serious work 
 that there is nothing new under the sun and that it is 
 impossible not to create platitudes. 
 
 Soon Martin began to want his sister to play for 
 him, and remained in this condition for about ten 
 minutes before he got up enough energy to rouse 
 himself to call her. Presently, throwing the book 
 aside, he got out of his comfortable position and went 
 to the door, calling in a guttural voice, " Bertah ! 
 Bertah ! Come up here ! " 
 
 Bertha, who was mending socks in the sitting-room, 
 called out, " I am coming," and after carefully rolling 
 up the gray pair which she was darning in such a way 
 that the darn did not show, she went upstairs singing. 
 
 " The wife indeed to her good-man." 
 
 Like her brother she had smooth fawn skin, soft 
 dark eyes with scarcely any iris, abundant, rather 
 coarse dark hair, a marked chin with a cleft in it, a 
 firm Teutonic mouth and a round head, rather forced 
 forward above the brows. Martin Schiller's eves 
 were a little deeper set, his mouth was more mobile; 
 besides, he had a shock of unkempt hair, whereas his 
 
HEIDELBERG 7 
 
 sister's tresses were glossy with much brushing and 
 lay round her head in smooth shining plaits. 
 
 " Come play," said Martin, as his sister's plaits ap- 
 peared above the stairs. Then her body emerged in 
 its cotton house-frock, and he went to the piano and 
 kicked two chairs into position. Bertha never refused 
 to play. She sat down immediately and set off into 
 a cascade of Chopin. Martin sat by her like a music- 
 master and said, "Piano!" "Allegro!" "Forte!" 
 and occasionally tapped high C to emphasize his mur- 
 murs, but she took no notice of him. 
 
 In the middle of a Schumann intermezzo he put 
 his big hands on hers and stopped her sentimen- 
 tally. 
 
 " Sweetest sister," he said, " I wish I could play 
 as you do." Bertha smiled with delight. Her brother 
 was the apple of her eye. 
 
 " Martische," she said, " you would if you had not 
 been such a bad little boy." 
 
 " Never," he said. 
 
 He did play very badly. Bertha had invented the 
 fable that the fairies had stiffened his finger tendons 
 because he was once so naughty as to disbelieve in 
 them. She liked teasing him about it. She liked being 
 able in one thing to excel him, to excel everybody in 
 the house. When she played the piano everybody in 
 the house looked up to her and she liked it. She 
 played so well that all her friends thought she was ex- 
 
8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ceedingly virtuous and clever, and Martin played so 
 badly that all her friends thought him good for 
 nothing and stupid. Her father shared this idea, and 
 was for ever goading at him and accusing him of cow- 
 like dullness, but he indulged him to a certain extent 
 because the military authorities let him off service 
 and he was considered delicate. He was not in the 
 least delicate, but, like many young people, he had 
 shown slight symptoms of heart weakness at the age 
 of examination. 
 
 Martin kept his hands over Bertha's for a moment 
 or two, and went on talking. " I have had to-day a 
 glorious inspiration," he said. He let the announce- 
 ment sink in, and seeing a sympathetic look of ex- 
 pectancy in her eyes, leaned over the back of his chair 
 and twitched Madame Mejatovitch's book off the 
 table into his hands. 
 
 He read her the story of the peahens. 
 
 " That won't make an opera," she said. 
 
 He was disappointed. He thought her slightly 
 cruel, as a small boy thinks his brother is cruel when 
 the brother assures him that the rock he is standing 
 on is not a mountain. 
 
 "What shall I do?" he said. Though neither of 
 them knew it, her opinion was his criterion of judg- 
 ment. In those days his critical faculty did not ex- 
 tend to his own productions; he depended upon his 
 untrained instinct, and it depended upon the opinion 
 
HEIDELBERG 9 
 
 of those around him, and, because Bertha was ob- 
 viously sane, chiefly upon Bertha. An instinct before 
 it is sure clings to sanity. Thus young instincts often 
 regulate themselves by the works of acknowledged 
 masters. 
 
 " What shall I do ? " repeated Martin sadly. 
 
 " You must mix it with something more soHd," she 
 said ; " allegorical, I think, or human. You will never 
 rise to deep passions on that." She too admired 
 Wagner. 
 
 Martin put up a defense. " You are right. Bertha," 
 he said, "but I could make something very beautiful 
 and lovely out of it." 
 
 "You will never get the desired deep passion out 
 of fairy stories." 
 
 " I could make the prince have a human sweetheart 
 also." He opened the book and made the pages run 
 like a little cascade between his finger and thumb. " Or 
 could I not imagine passion into the princess ? " 
 
 " It would be very difficult," said Bertha ; " an opera 
 ought to touch some vital string of the heart to vibrate 
 in us very deeply. Now I must go and mend your all- 
 too-many socks." 
 
 She rose, but Martin took hold of the skirt of her 
 cotton dress. " Stay," he said, " play again. You 
 have caused a downfall in me; it is only right you 
 should help me to rise. Play to me while I look out 
 of the window at the evening which will presently 
 
10 MARTIN SGHULER 
 
 creep over Heidelberg. Perhaps I shall recover my- 
 self and have a heavenly thought." 
 ; Bertha teased him. " Your socks have real holes 
 that must be filled in. Your dreams are castles in 
 the air; no one will live in them so they need never 
 be built." 
 
 "I have heard Mama talk like that," he said; "it 
 is very silly. No one can estimate the value of a beau- 
 tiful opera; socks cost at most three or four marks." 
 
 " Don't begin to be philosophical," said Bertha ; " I 
 know all about that. I can tell you everything you are 
 about to say, including even * starvation is a beautiful 
 and noble death if it produce a wonderful work of 
 art.* " Nevertheless, she was obedient by nature, and 
 before any more was said upon this controversial sub- 
 ject she began to play. She began with a tinkling 
 melody of old Rubinstein's, which is certainly worth 
 less than a pair of socks; then she played a comic song 
 which Martin, who had begun to think, thought was 
 worth writing because of the disproportionate riches 
 it brought to the composer. For a minute he was 
 guilty of wishing to write a comic song, but he purged 
 himself quickly of the desire. She played a waltz — 
 not a dance waltz, a concert waltz — and Martin felt 
 an appropriate and lively pleasure creep up to his 
 head where it turned into the obvious question, was 
 such a production worth all the strain and labor and 
 bad temper that had brought it to perfection. He 
 
HEIDELBERG ii 
 
 began to be moral and to balance relative worth until 
 she annihilated his feelings with a passionate grand 
 opera, and left him cold and chill upon an early work 
 of Claude Debussy. He got up and shouted, " Not 
 that! Not that inventor of seductive titles." She 
 played on, however, as she chose until she fell into the 
 most stirring music. 
 
 Meanwhile Martin had gone to the window and 
 looked out over the river. The house of the Schiilers 
 was up one of the steep streets of the town below the 
 castle. It was high enough up to see a long way from 
 the attic window. Martin stood in the window quite 
 alone because the sloping roof and the walls made it 
 into a little box where one could isolate oneself even 
 if the room were full of people. He gazed out over 
 the river towards the north-west, where the sun had 
 already sunk from view. The window faced west, 
 but the side panes looked north and south; thus he 
 could see if he chose the overmantling darkness of the 
 castle, the whole town, the new western part of the 
 town, the broad river gliding away to the west to 
 fold itself into the Rhine, the broad Rhine plain be- 
 yond stretching west and north-west, and, close in 
 again, due north, just across the river, the vine hills 
 with the ruined tower and the philosopher's way creep- 
 ing down to the pretty suburb of Neunheim, where 
 the richer people built their houses. The Elector's 
 Bridge was just out of sight beyond the roof. Directly 
 
12 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 below him the old town lay in a tumbled heap. It 
 seemed that if one house fell or moved the whole lot 
 would rattle like bricks into the river. Splash! what 
 a splash if the whole town fell into the river! 
 
 " The whole town has fallen into the river ! The 
 whole town has fallen into the river ! '* somebody 
 seemed to sing in clear, tragic notes. Martin's gaze 
 was fixed on the far horizon, and his imagination 
 seemed to see, as if at the end of a very long telescope 
 that reduced objects to microscopic dimensions, a little 
 highly-colored facsimile of the old town falling into 
 a little river. What a downfall! How the people 
 cried like a thousand souls in a sinking ship, " God, 
 have mercy upon us ! " The houses toppled forward 
 and crashed into the river, crushing in the bridges. 
 " The bridges have been crushed in: the town has 
 fallen into the river." The people wailed; the noise 
 of their lamentations rose from the falling ruins like 
 flames from a fire. " How shall we cross ? The 
 bridges are crushed in. Our dear ones are drowned. 
 Let us climb up to the castle. That too falls. Our 
 dear ones are drowned in the river. Lord, have mercy 
 upon us! It is the end of the world — down on your 
 knees — it is the end of the world. Say the Litany." 
 What an end for an opera with the deep, sonorous 
 music of the Litany! Martin's thoughts culminated 
 in this thought. His spirits had revived. He cried 
 out joyously to his sister: "Little sister, play no 
 
HEIDELBERG 13 
 
 more/* and pushing her off the chair played out the 
 music he had heard. 
 
 " The whole town has fallen into the river! " He 
 thumped, and strummed a good deal more besides, in- 
 cluding a motif for the Litany. 
 
 "That is better," said his sister; "but you must 
 begin." 
 
 " I shall begin with the peahens," he said ; " they 
 shall entrance the princes of the town; all the people 
 will go to the bad because of them, and then God 
 with one kick of His foot will send all the town roll- 
 ing into the river." Martin smiled and almost licked 
 his lips at the magnificent thought of the Deity pro- 
 pelling Heidelberg into the Neckar with His foot. 
 
 Bertha was practical. " Who will write the poem, 
 brother? " she said. 
 
 Martin was a little irritated to discover that she 
 never imagined he would do the whole thing alone, 
 but he answered, " Werner and I together. Fll sketch 
 it out and run to Werner at once. He will see eye 
 to eye with me." 
 
 " How ill poor Werner looks," said Bertha. " I*d 
 like to buy him a good dinner every day till he gets 
 fat." 
 
 "He*s diseased. He*ll never get fat — ^besides, he 
 never has an appetite." 
 
 " I expect he's trained himself to starve because it 
 is more convenient," said Bertha, getting up from her 
 
14 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 chair. "Poor Werner! Mother and I were grieved 
 last time you brought him to supper. We pressed 
 sausage and chicken and soup and cakes upon him, 
 and father urged him to take beer, but he only drank 
 a little wine and sat there amusing us all with his 
 clever remarks, and eating nothing, like an unbidden 
 guest. Mother likes Werner, and so do I. He looks 
 old, doesn't he? I should say he was thirty-six or 
 seven. I wonder why he doesn't make any money 
 with his clever brains." 
 
 " He's a little bit queer," said Martin. " He needs 
 a publisher, you know ; he lets his works lie in a 
 drawer and forgets them directly they are finished, 
 and if I or any of his friends urge him to publish 
 something, he says, * Yes, perhaps,' and puts it back 
 into the drawer and forgets it again. I don't believe 
 he's so old as you think. He can't be more than 
 twenty-seven, because he passed his examinations when 
 I was thirteen or so." 
 
 " He looks so clever," said Bertha again ; " he re- 
 minds me a little bit of Dante." 
 
 " Oh, come," said Martin, lighting his lamp, " he 
 is not at all like Dante. He hasn't Dante's nobility 
 of feature, nor his nose; that's because he is so thin. 
 Don't compare moles to mice because they are small 
 and have fur." 
 
 " I must go," said Bertha. " I hope Werner will 
 agree to do it." 
 
HEIDELBERG 15 
 
 " There's no doubt," said Martin, who, nevertheless, 
 had a sHght qualm of doubt. " He's very obliging." 
 
 Bertha went to the door. " Good luck," she said 
 as she opened it and went out. She stuck her head 
 in again to ask if he were going that night. 
 
 " Immediately," said Martin ; " I shan't sleep unless 
 I do." 
 
 Bertha went down the dark stairs to the kitchen, 
 where her mother was making herb soup for supper, 
 and set about to prepare a ragout of mutton and 
 chicken's legs. She cut up a terrible lot of onions, 
 until the tears ran out of her eyes and the pungent 
 odor of bruised onions rose through the house to the 
 attic where Martin sat. The Schiilers owned the top 
 part of the house; the two lower floors belonged to 
 somebody else. As Bertha cut onions she thought of 
 Martin and his opera and his aspirations. It seemed 
 very unlikely a Wagner would emanate from their 
 house, but what of that? Musicians had to be born 
 and brought up somewhere. She removed the coarse 
 skin from another onion. It seemed to her that an 
 immense time must elapse before Martin completed 
 an opera, and that a gulf must be crossed before he 
 became famous. He must surely lose his boyhood, 
 change the aspect of his countenance, vanish, and re- 
 turn a stranger related to nobody, before he could 
 take a place among that group of creatures called rich 
 and famous men. She bent to the onion basket for 
 
i6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 yet another onion, and something pricked her breast. 
 She knew what it was : it was the corner of her lover's 
 last letter. Her lover's name was Herman Mark- 
 heim, and he was surely the most wonderful young 
 man on earth. He had a small government position, 
 and Bertha had secured his affections by giving him 
 sweet glances and " thank yous " every time he turned 
 over her music for her at soirees. She moved herself 
 inside her clothes until the letter was comfortable 
 without putting down the onion or the onion knife, 
 but her thoughts turned to marriage and dowries, bed- 
 linen and the slow progress of time. All Bertha's 
 family were very fond of her and valued her. She 
 accepted their valuation, though it was too low. No- 
 body but Markheim ever saw her true worth, and he 
 forgot that two years after their marriage, but she 
 was happy and uninjured because she always saw her- 
 self as others saw her, and not as she was. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MARTIN made a rough draft of the opera, 
 with the words and tune that came to him 
 at the window fully inserted. He was anxious, 
 agitated, and delighted ; his heart leaped continually in 
 long beats, his eyes strained, his fingers hastened, his 
 hands shook. He wanted to capture his memories ; he 
 wanted to complete his idea; he knew that if he com- 
 pleted the idea the opera would follow in due time. He 
 put down all he could — the destruction of the city, the 
 counter-motif of constructive love : 
 
 "Ah, beautiful love why adornest thou only the apple-tree?" 
 
 He emptied his mind; he drained his imagination; he 
 exhausted the forces that he had acquired from the 
 sunset and his sister's piano-playing; but instead of 
 falling into despair when he could think no more, he 
 rose up happy because he was satisfied in his emptiness 
 that he had taken out something vital, something which 
 to-morrow or the next day would be added to, some- 
 thing which would act upon his mind and stimulate in 
 him ideas, desires, and thoughts, and so force itself 
 to its own completion. 
 
 Martin got his soft hat off the floor and paused 
 
 17 
 
i8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 before he put it on his head to gaze again at the perfec- 
 tion of the peahens. He seemed to hear actors and 
 actresses singing the beautiful unwritten tunes. He 
 saw himself applauded as he took a curtain on the 
 first night. All the usual dreams of future fame came 
 into his head. He put on his hat, took up the manu- 
 script and read portions of it again as he stood by the 
 lamp. He smiled because it was so good. He held it 
 very close to the lamp, and the light on the white paper 
 dazzled his eyes so that when he looked up he saw 
 green and yellow blurs. He put the manuscript into 
 his coat and walked downstairs as young men do — 
 clamp, clamp, straight on his heels. The yellow and 
 green blurs swam before him down to the street door, 
 where they were dispelled by the light from the street 
 lamp just above it. He lit his pipe and sauntered round 
 to see Werner. 
 
 The street in which Werner lived was dark and the 
 houses were old and shabby. Sentimental Britons 
 would have considered it vandalism to rebuild them 
 because they were ancient and picturesque, though 
 millions of generations of house-fleas and worse pests 
 had seen the light there, and mice abounded. It was 
 unlikely they would be rebuilt for many years, for the 
 rich people of the town were moving to the west end, 
 and the landlords had a sufficient stream of low-class 
 lodgers to make optimistic hopes of long leases still 
 worth holding. Landlords will allow bad and worth- 
 
HEIDELBERG '9 
 
 less houses to stand for ever all on the chance that some 
 day some one will offer a fabulous rent for an unending 
 term of years. " I am sure to get an offer next year," 
 they say; " I'll let it stand a year longer." " This is 
 no time for building. House property is the devil " ; 
 and thus old houses get older, and poor districts get 
 poverty-stricken, until some enterprising man with 
 pyramids of red-brick at his command commits those 
 abhorred acts of vandalism which ruin the town, de- 
 stroy the taste and individuality of the working man, 
 provide good and clean homes and ensure, as far as a 
 mere bricklayer can ensure, the health of a future 
 generation. When the red brick begins to mellow and 
 the roof to leak, the landlord comes into his own again 
 — those pleasant years of procrastination — and one can 
 annoy him by quoting apt proverbs all containing the 
 word " time." 
 
 Martin got to the door of the house where Werner 
 dwelt. A carved face with an evil leer grinned from 
 over the lintel. The door itself was sparsely decorated 
 with ancient and inferior patterns and the door latch 
 was an example in wrought iron of the bad taste that 
 was considered good taste in Heidelberg two or three 
 hundred years ago. Martin pushed open the door and 
 entered the house. He shut it behind him and found 
 himself in total darkness. Werner provided no lamp 
 for chance visitors, nor did the other tenants, because 
 there were no other tenants. He lived alone there, and 
 
20 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 he only rented one room at the top. Martin stumbled 
 up the bare wooden stairs, cursing softly. By the time 
 he reached Werner's door his hands were begrimed 
 with feehng along walls coated with damp dust, and 
 he was out of breath with the long struggle upwards 
 and the fear of hitting his head against some beam or 
 corner. He knocked on Werner's door with his 
 knuckles, and as the door seemed cleaner than the 
 walls he rubbed off what dirt he could on it. A voice 
 growled for him to enter. He went in. The feeble 
 light of two candles almost dazzled him. He blinked, 
 and stretched out grimy paws to Werner, who actually 
 got up to welcome him, but refused his outstretched 
 hands. Werner was quite fond of Schiiler, and thought 
 that perhaps he might make a name for himself some 
 day. He never said so or accorded him any familiarity 
 on that ground; but he was quite fond of Schiiler and 
 thought better of him than he did of most people, and 
 Schiiler thought well of him. He made Schiiler sit 
 down, adjusted the candles so that he could see his face, 
 and then sat down himself in a chair that nobody had 
 ever known him to yield to anybody. He wore a ragged 
 red cotton dressing-gown bordered with a bad Paisley 
 design, a pair of check trousers made in France in the 
 year 1890, and an unclean cotton shirt. These clothes 
 had been his father*s, and for eight years, since that 
 gentleman's decease, their inheritor had worn them as 
 a boudoir suit to save his cloth clothes. Werner was 
 
HEIDELBERG 21 
 
 twenty-eight years old; he was ugly and diseased. 
 Bertha's remark that he was like Dante probably meant 
 he was thin and foreign looking; his nationality was 
 not to be guessed from his face, for when his beard 
 was long he resembled a cadaverous Frenchman, and 
 in those periods when, as at present, he was clean 
 shaven, he resembled only himself, or, as one of his 
 friends said, all the thin men in the world. 
 
 Some beer was produced, and Martin began to open 
 out his opera. Werner pretended to be bored, and 
 Martin prevented himself from becoming chilled with 
 the greatest difficulty. When the panegyric was over, 
 Werner muttered " Wagneresque " between his teeth. 
 In Werner's company Martin felt a little ashamed of 
 admiring Wagner, so he said, " No, not the idea : it 
 is heartfelt." Werner still appeared to be bored, and 
 showed no signs of longing to write the poem about 
 which Martin had hinted very broadly, for now he was 
 in the Presence, and the Presence was so unsympa- 
 thetic Martin found it impossible to say outright, 
 " Look, my friend, here is your chance for fame. 
 Compose the verse for my future opera ! " 
 
 Werner sat and looked at Martin, and Martin sat 
 and blinked at Werner, and decided that he must take 
 him out and give him some more beer, so he invited 
 him to rouse, change his clothes, and come and have 
 supper with him up by the castle. Werner acceded, 
 and shortly got up and put on respectable garments, 
 
=22 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 drew water from a tap outside his door, and threatened 
 to go to hell before he'd go out with such a dirty- 
 pawed dog as Martin. Martin washed gladly, and said 
 he too would go to hell before he'd negotiate Werner's 
 stairs again without a light. Thus they became quite 
 moderately gay and jolly — Martin in spite of the bur- 
 den of immediate fame, and Werner in spite of his poor 
 and miserable circumstances. 
 
 There was no moon that night, and the stars were 
 brilliant. Martin commented on this as they walked 
 up the exceedingly steep hill to the castle. 
 
 " It is always so without a moon," he said. " The 
 moon makes the stars pale, does it not? And puts 
 some of them out. I like these cloudless dark nights. 
 Look at the Great Bear. I only know her and the 
 Plough by sight." 
 
 "That is the Belt," said Werner, as Martin called 
 it the Plough ; " and over there are the twins, Gemini, 
 Lovely Children. I believe so, at least, but I am not 
 an astronomer." 
 
 " Sometimes I wish," continued Martin, " that the 
 stars were all planets, and sometimes that they were 
 all fixed." 
 
 " I dream of collisions in space when Martin 
 Schiiler says let all the stars be planets ! " Werner 
 actually began to laugh. 
 
 As they ascended the hill the last red light of sunset 
 was fading into purple in the west. 
 
HEIDELBERG 23 
 
 " The sun takes so long to go these summer nights," 
 said Martin. 
 
 "Spring," said Werner. "May surely is spring; 
 call it spring. Why do you hurry the year over so 
 quickly ? " 
 
 " Summer begins for me," said Martin, " when the 
 trees are green." 
 
 " And for me when the heat stenches. The smell 
 of the heat in the street is horrible." 
 
 " I generally take a walking expedition with a few 
 friends," said Martin. " Dark forests, the Schwarz- 
 wald, and the little lakes up there are cool and full of 
 dreams and also of amusements for swimmers and 
 fishers and stone-throwers. We take rucksacks and 
 sleep under the trees. On some days the girls come by 
 train and we have fun." 
 
 "Fun with girls," said Werner; "that sounds nice. 
 You like girls, of course. You are young, and have 
 desires. Which is it you like best — the girls or the 
 desires ? " 
 
 Martin laughed. " Oh, the girls ; quite frankly, 
 the girls," he said. " We have great fun, of course — • 
 games — and they scream and we are all jolly." 
 
 " You all like showing off your arms and legs and 
 your wits, and your naughty stories, and immediately 
 you see a sign of the moon you become sentimental 
 and pair off each one with the girl who has chosen him, 
 and kiss perhaps." 
 
24 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " Perhaps," said Martin. " It's fun, I can tell you." 
 He blushed, because he remembered the first experi- 
 ences of love, and they were not very far away; they 
 had hardly receded behind the veil of shame to that 
 far place where they arouse no feeling. 
 
 They were nearing the Restoration-place up by the 
 Castle, and could see each other by the glow of its 
 many little lights, which shone out, making a multi- 
 colored blaze. 
 
 " Red, white, and blue is an ugly combination of 
 colors," said Martin, who seemed bound to make ordi- 
 nary conversation. 
 
 " Yes," said Werner, " especially when the light 
 inside is yellow. Why, can you tell me, do places of 
 public entertainment always oppress themselves with 
 jewels like a Dowager Grand Duchess ? " He said this 
 mincingly. 
 
 Martin laughed. " I am boring you with silly con- 
 versation," he said. " I am very hot and excited inside. 
 Here, Tve given myself away. You would take the 
 meat out of a live crab, Werner." 
 
 " There are worse occupations," said Werner, 
 meaningly. 
 
 " I don't see the point," said Martin, but Werner 
 forced it in with his eyes, and Martin blushed and 
 almost said aloud, " Better, you mean, than taking 
 poetry out of live poets," but he covered his thoughts 
 with an exclamation about their proximity to the 
 
HEIDELBERG 25 
 
 restaurant. They talked no more, and Martin ordered 
 a table quite close to the parapet, whence the best view 
 can be had. This especial supper-place was not his 
 haphazard choice. He chose it because of its height 
 above the city, and because one could watch the wind- 
 ing of the river; in a word, because of its noble sur- 
 roundings, for he was aware that in noble surround- 
 ings a man often hears better. 
 
 Presently they were seated face to face at a white 
 table, and Martin ordered sausage and ham, sauer- 
 kraut, and beer for two, and then, in the last faint 
 glow of the May twilight, set himself the task of 
 warming Werner up. 
 
 The beautiful night had stolen over the town, and 
 far below on the black river lights sparkled. Lights 
 shone in the houses and at the theater and in the 
 streets, a universe of stars fallen to earth. It was 
 easy to pick out the constellations of the Bahnhof, of 
 the market-place, and of the principal wharves. Mar- 
 tin felt like a dweller in Uranus, remote and yet a 
 companion of the planets, as he sat with Werner in 
 the multicolored star of the Restoration-place. He 
 said so to Werner, who said he was far-fetched, and 
 rather taken up with the stars that evening. Martin 
 ignored him and pointed out the theater, and what he 
 imagined was the fencing schools, and what he thought 
 were the streets in which he and Werner lived respec- 
 tively, and finally made a general remark about the 
 
26 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 equality of all places after dark when they were lit by 
 municipal gas, which was the same for all. Werner 
 told him that if his opera was as unoriginal as his 
 remarks it would be practically worthless. Werner 
 was in a tedious mood. The minor poets often assume, 
 and sometimes suffer, tedious moods; they are a part 
 of the divine uneasiness that afflicts genius. One is 
 tempted to believe that great poets are always in a 
 state of uneasiness and unrest, always unhappy, un- 
 bearable, and morose, always top heavy, with no sense 
 of balance, with eyes straining into heaven unmindful 
 of the lesser things of life. Great poets should be 
 selfish and exacting, should have strange habits and 
 wear strange clothes, should have an excess of one 
 virtue or one vice, should thrill the lucky individuals 
 who hear them on those rare occasions when they 
 speak. They have no familiar friends and no rela- 
 tions ; nobody calls them " Dick," or " Toto," or 
 "Willie"; they address nobody as "old boy," "old 
 girl," or "kiddy." As all poets are the same to the 
 crowd, all poets are great poets, more or less readable, 
 more or less comprehensible. Some people are so 
 clever that they read Goethe and Browning and Dante 
 — at least so people say. One has to be clever to un- 
 derstand the incomprehensibles. Anybody can under- 
 stand Shakespeare: they teach it in all the schools; 
 they teach Goethe too, but only clever people care for 
 him and keep up with him afterwards. Nobody ever 
 
HEIDELBERG vj 
 
 met a poet in the flesh. There are not grades of poets 
 but those we understand we like, and as time goes on 
 and we like the more difficult and at last the most 
 difficult, those left behind fall from grace and become 
 bad poets, poor poets, minor poets. Such things do 
 not really exist: they are creatures of the minds of 
 clever men — men who only understand higher mathe- 
 matics, invent morse-codes, read Arabic, and know 
 exactly without the aid of a dictionary what the Bible 
 means in the original, and what German expressions 
 Homer intended when he wrote Greek. 
 
 Looked at from the point of view of clever men, 
 Werner was a minor poet. He had to work uncom- 
 monly hard to produce anything worth reading. He 
 had an acute sense of rhythm, and would sweat for 
 hours to produce lines to satisfy his sensitive nerves. 
 Sometimes he had remarkable successes, which few 
 people appreciated because passion and ideas are chiefly 
 sought for in poetry. His efforts mostly resulted in a 
 tour de force, but after exerting his intellect like a 
 mathematician for several hours to complete some ode, 
 he would suddenly sigh, relax, and scribble in half- 
 consciousness a really good lyric. He wrote twelve 
 lyrics worth reading, but these were the fruit of im- 
 mense toil, though they dropped off the branches of his 
 labor like ripe peaches, for they only came into being 
 after long hours of conscious work upon something 
 entirely different. His works after his death were 
 
28 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 admired by philologists, musicians of the better class, 
 who got a good many rhythmic ideas out of him, and 
 schoolmasters, who found him pure enough to read to 
 their pupils as an example of modern poetry. His 
 lyrics appeared in anthologies, and thus misquotations 
 of them spread to tombstones, Christmas greeting 
 cards, and birthday books, for they had the misfor- 
 tune to be clear and easy to understand if one did not 
 care to see what they really meant. While he was 
 alive he never published anything, partly because he 
 was too busy and partly because he was too idle to 
 struggle with publishers; thus he remained poor and 
 unknown till he died. He was also a snob, because he 
 enjoyed privately all the posthumous appreciation that 
 his creditors got. 
 
 Werner drank out of a mug adorned with the arms 
 of Bavaria, and looked at Martin through the angle 
 formed by the lid and the top of the mug. His gray 
 eyes were summing up Martin Schiiler; he was in a 
 contrary mood and prepared to resist Martin's enthu- 
 siasm, but he was a little flattered because a young 
 man desired to associate him with a dreamed-of master- 
 piece. He continued to assume boredom and to drink 
 measured drinks out of his mug and to say very little. 
 He watched Martin finish his sauerkraut and sausage; 
 he watched him open his mouth to insert the beer mug ; 
 he watched him put the empty beer mug down and 
 turn on his seat away from the table ; he watched him 
 
HEIDELBERG 29 
 
 adopt towards the night the attitude of a night- 
 enchanted young man, and then pause and dream a lit- 
 tle before he spoke. 
 
 " On such a uight/' said Martin at length, sweeping 
 his arms wide to indicate it, " the beautiful peahen 
 first disclosed herself to the amazed prince. He lay 
 on his couch beneath the golden apple-tree, and, lo! 
 in the branches appeared a shining light. O whence 
 dost thou, thou bright illumination, shall be the note 
 for the prince. O whence dost thou, thou bright illu- 
 mination. Do you hear the movement ? It came into 
 my mind just this moment as the moon came over 
 yonder hill. The peahen was as beautiful as the moon. 
 I feel the enchantment; I feel the movement. Don't 
 you feel it also ? " 
 
 " Not very clearly," said Werner, in a voice of clay; 
 but, nevertheless, the extreme beauty of the night over 
 the river and the silence of the May moon and the 
 darkness of the vine-clad hill that had just slid from 
 before her face and the youth of Martin and the age 
 of Heidelberg were beginning to enter his mind and 
 steal away his cynicism. For all that he remained un- 
 gracious in manner ; he was not the one to give himself 
 away when he felt a little romantic. 
 
 Martin shifted his chair round the table till he faced 
 the moon and could at the same time rest his arms 
 on the table. The moon stood opaque and unluminous 
 in the deep purple of the lower heavens, roimd, orange, 
 
30 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 and immense, seen through the smell of new leaves and 
 May flowers that rose in mist from the hills. The 
 hills stretched like a bow in the darkness along the 
 river as it flowed under them from the east. The 
 heavy moon cast no shadows upon them and sent no 
 shafts of light between their trees. Heavy and silent 
 she stood, while the horizon sank slowly beneath her, 
 sank as slowly as time. Slowly the veils fell from her 
 — ^the veil of mist, the veil of heat, the veil of the 
 work of the day that floats up from the world at sun- 
 set and is dispelled by the night breezes. Slowly she 
 became bright, swift, and cold : a light giver, a shadow 
 maker, diminished in size, the naked spirit of the red 
 veiled disk. The two men at the little glittering res- 
 taurant watched her slow transformation, and one 
 saw in his mind a lovely garden with green grass and 
 jewelled flowers, and in the garden a golden tree, and 
 in the tree a moon shining upon a bewildered prince 
 clothed in mediaeval clothing; the other saw nothing 
 but what was before his eyes. He became aware of it 
 and lost himself in it and went away from his body 
 across the river, and for one short instant held the 
 moon in his hands. He fell to earth in a distant place 
 where the moon shone white upon white mountains in 
 an indigo sky, he stood one instant in the antithesis of 
 gold and purple, and returned in the wink of an eye to 
 gaze from where he sat with brooding memory upon 
 the wide expanse that seemed large enough to be the 
 
HEIDELBERG 31 
 
 world, and the ascending moon that now seemed dis- 
 tant as the remotest star. 
 
 Martin continued to talk, and Werner awoke from 
 his moon-memories to the sound of a well-fed young 
 man's voice. Dreams were rare with him, and he felt 
 peevish with the voice for dispelling them. 
 
 " The princess descends from the tree, and then of 
 course there is a love scene," said Martin. 
 
 " That is very banal," said Werner, but all the same, 
 directly he became aware of what Martin's words 
 meant, he received an idea for a love song, or rather, 
 saw an opportunity for introducing an idea that had 
 long vaguely haunted his mind. 
 
 "If you prefer," said Martin, who felt suddenly 
 angry, " there shall be a quarrel with swears and 
 curses." 
 
 "No," said Werner; "don't be stupid. It is a 
 very nice idea. The descent from the tree, and love to 
 follow, quite after the classical example. I'll do my 
 best for you, but Christ Himself knows all love scenes 
 are dull." 
 
 "I'll ask Monk," growled Martin; "he'll do it." 
 
 " No, no," said Werner, " don't do that." 
 
 Martin remembered he was only twenty, and saw 
 in Werner's attitude some sort of patronage, which 
 did not really exist. He felt resentful. 
 
 " You are a superior animal " — he muttered 
 *' superior," 
 
32 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Werner; "I want to write this 
 poem for you." Martin had made his point without 
 actually making a demand, but he did not feel victor- 
 ious. Werner went on : " It is not a bad idea ; might 
 be quite pretty, though I see you are going to make 
 common pitfalls. I'll sweat them out of the poetic 
 part even though you are too young to sweat them 
 out of the music, and my efforts will probably be 
 wasted. You ought to drop the whole thing like a 
 penny, and pick it up tail first to get a new point of 
 view, or you ought to walk all round it till it looks 
 absurd and then begin. The apple-tree is a charming 
 notion. I wish youth and experience could be given 
 to us at once. I am in such a high state of technical 
 perfection that I cannot write a really bad piece of 
 verse without an effort, and yet, my dear boy — ^lassi- 
 tude " — ^he paused and looked Martin in the face — ** I 
 am so bored that I feel convinced my first youth is 
 over." 
 
 Martin became sympathetic. 
 
 " You're only young, Werner," he said, " only 
 young yet." 
 
 "Yes, but I came into existence long before my 
 mother sent me forth into the world. What happens 
 to the prince after embracing his peahen? " 
 
 "They lead the city to destruction, and there is a 
 final calamity through the interference of God." 
 
 " A tragedy. Very dreadful." 
 
HEIDELBERG 33 
 
 "An idea runs through it of the relationship of 
 love to facts." Martin invented ideas as he spoke. 
 ** Love, though beautiful, begets disaster. Disaster is 
 the beautiful and right climax of love. Nothing great 
 can be anything but disastrous." 
 
 " Sad truths," said Werner. " Go on." 
 
 " Always, always, love brings disaster. Great things 
 and noble things are incautious and reckless, so they 
 make omissions, and do acts that turn to their destruc- 
 tion, or they disregard some principle. Don*t you 
 think so? Jealousy and unhappiness always exist 
 ready to destroy great things. Werner, you and I can 
 make something out of this. Werner, Werner! My 
 youth and your experience! And what words when 
 the city crashes into the river, and what praises of 
 love!" 
 
 Werner could not help an habitual lifting of the 
 lip. " What unrestraint," he murmured, " and what 
 banging on the drum and squeezing of air through 
 bassoons ! " 
 
 "Go to hell!" said Martin. 
 
 " Give me your notes then," said Werner, " and 
 some more beer. Perhaps another mug will send me 
 slobbering into Paradise." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WERNER returned home with the manuscript 
 to his house, where the mice made merry 
 with cheese crumbs among his boots, where 
 they built their nests and laid their young in the cup- 
 board of his clothes press, the contents of which had 
 long been pawned. The mice scurried away as he 
 entered, and he swore for the thousandth time to im- 
 port a cat, but the mice looked upon this oath as part 
 of the noise a door made in shutting. Werner was 
 careless where he lived and how, and had no particu- 
 lar but rather a conventional dislike of mice. He had 
 no philosophy of life either, and no opinion to offer 
 about morality, war, religion, or any other topic; he 
 thought deeply without coming to any conclusion, and 
 lived pretty consistently without making any rule. He 
 was one of those men to whom acquaintances attach 
 themselves, whose remarks are valued, and whose 
 actions are outside the pale of comment : a man about 
 whom scandal is silent, who is credited with no vice 
 and no virtues, who influences the thoughts of these 
 he comes in contact with, and, though opinionless, 
 sometimes sows the seed of definite opinions. He 
 never put himself about for his friends or indulged in 
 any practice of unselfishness. 
 
 f34 
 
HEIDELBERG 35 
 
 Werner came into his room and lit the candles upon 
 his desk, and the light revealed the anxious eyes of the 
 mice peering from their holes, also the broken state of 
 his sparse furniture, the cracked stove that even in 
 winter was never filled with fire, the uncurtained win- 
 dow, some panes of which were replaced with paper, 
 and the bed, rough from many nights of broken sleep, 
 heaped with soiled and ragged bedclothes. The irregu- 
 larities of the glass in the window sparkled where they 
 caught the candle-light and recalled the sparkling lights 
 on the dark blackness of the river. Werner sat down 
 and wept, wept for possibly half an hour; his nerves 
 were in a very bad state. Then he addressed the mice 
 and summoned them to sit about him, but the mice, 
 who had come out of hiding again, fled, and he pre- 
 tended to be disappointed. He wept again, because 
 he wept habitually ; it was a part of the mortal illness 
 which consumed him. He also wept because to-night 
 he had been reminded that he had reached his zenith 
 and fulfilled the promise of his youth, and that what- 
 ever more he did was only at the stingy charity of 
 fate. 
 
 The tears dried in his eyes, he groaned within him- 
 self and wrung his hands, miserable, miserable because 
 he was at an end, jealous of youth, jealous of the 
 future, jealous of joy. Then suddenly his gaze became 
 fixed on the glitters in the window and in his mind 
 they began to take rhythmic form, and the form became 
 
36 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 words, and the words a far-off version of what Martin 
 had said to him up at the castle. Soon, infused with 
 youth, he began to write. He wrote steadily, without 
 exertion, and without physical discomfort. The pea- 
 hens were being born. He wrote until dawn, until 
 his false youth ebbed away. When the candles gut- 
 tered and went out he rose, pulled off his boots, took 
 a draft from a black bottle, and fell upon the bed; 
 then he pulled the clothes over his head and went to 
 sleep, but he tossed for some hours in spite of the 
 drink from the black bottle. 
 
 All this time Martin was walking about the castle 
 yard. To Martin the success of this new venture 
 seemed sure, and he was so happy that he could not 
 return to bed. He walked up and down the castle 
 court-yard and up and down the terrace among 
 the ghostly shadows of the ruins. He grinned to 
 himself with wet, glistening eyes because of the happy 
 vision of his future happiness. The wonderful bliss 
 of premeditation upon the seeming certainties of the 
 future is only to be compared with the bliss of the dis- 
 covery of love. Waves of sensation passed from his 
 head, the seat of the imagination, to his abdomen, the 
 seat of the knowledge of pleasure. He quivered, he 
 yawned, he smiled, he stretched his arms, he struck 
 the parapet of the terrace with his flat hands and leereci 
 at the view, he threw a little stone into the woods 
 below the castle and then sprang up on to a dangerous 
 
HEIDELBERG 37 
 
 spot and recklessly flung back his head and laughed 
 without making a sound. He struck his chest and 
 shook his head from side to side, and blinked his eyes 
 from which tears fell. Then he took to prowling again 
 in and out of the shadows, mad with youth and hope 
 and dreams of success and the May moon. Soon, need- 
 ing exertion, he climbed over the parapet of the ter- 
 race and made a perilous descent into the woods, and 
 then wandered far, roaming away in the beautiful 
 woods till dawn. He rested now and then upon the 
 ground amongst lilies of the valley and violets and 
 Solomon-seal, somnolent among green leaves that 
 seemed white and immobile as wax in the moonlight. 
 He crushed them down with his body as he lay, lost, 
 and in paradise, half awake, half asleep, without know- 
 ledge of anything save beauty and happiness. He slept 
 among them and awoke soon, to rise and pass on to 
 some other dell or grove under the lightly leaved 
 beeches. He walked ankle deep in young grass and 
 knee-deep in blue flowers, through blue groves where 
 the moon did not pierce, and at early dawn, when 
 moon and morning struggled to make wan each other's 
 light, he slept under tall cherry-trees that grew among 
 the larches. Day broke and birds sang; the nightin- 
 gale redoubled her endeavors that had ceased in the 
 last hour of night, a blackbird called in the gray 
 branches of a cherry-tree, and Martin awoke again 
 refreshed, an ordinary young man, sane and joyful. 
 
38 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 He lay and watched the cherry blossom become tinged 
 with pink and recommence its business of falling that 
 had ceased during the night. He called to the black- 
 bird until it flew away, then arose and wandered to- 
 wards the river. Soon he emerged into the vineyards, 
 where the young leaves of the vine were spreading out 
 their hands. The vine stalks were red in the rising 
 sun, and the leaves were of the most delicate green in 
 the morning air, and the shadows of the hills upon the 
 vineyard were deep blue. The sky was azure and the air 
 white, thin and pure, and so clear that trees and dwell- 
 ings could be distinguished in the far-off Rhine plain. 
 All was clear, fresh, and lovely: pale green, golden, 
 golden-red, and blue. All the world was these four 
 colors in the morning sun. There was no smell save 
 the smell of the dew, and no noise save the deep run- 
 ning of the wide river far below and the noise of the 
 birds. 
 
 Martin stared and stared, and thought how strange 
 day and night were, how empty day-break was, how 
 crowded evening. How could one be responsible in 
 this new land for deeds and thoughts of last night's old 
 one. There was no link between the days. Only a 
 stupid man or a priest could bind himself by the van- 
 ished day before. Freedom! To-day! This morning! 
 Birth! Rejuvenation! The past is dead. We pluck 
 from the past, but it is dead. We thrust back a hand to 
 take from out of the coffin. To-day there is no yester- 
 
HEIDELBERG 39 
 
 day, only to-day. Even in war we can say to-day is 
 to-day. Enmity died in the night. 
 
 Martin felt clean and free as he stood at the top of 
 the vineyard on the hill, but by the time he had got to 
 the bottom he perceived that he was partially covered 
 already with the flies of memory and thought. He 
 said, bowing to necessity, that this could not be helped. 
 He also felt hungry, and this, and the magnetism of 
 human life, drew him back towards the town. He 
 walked by the river, where many flowers grew, and 
 when in the course of time he remembered Bertha he 
 gathered her a bouquet of these to please her. He 
 walked back to Heidelberg picking flowers, the embryo 
 of a famous man, with full intuitions, crystallized 
 ambitions, and a temporary loss of youth. 
 
CHAPTER ly 
 
 THE spring passed into summer, and Martin be- 
 gan to assume the behavior of a young genius. 
 All that he wrote, whether it was suitable or 
 not, he labelled " Peahens," and shut up in a black port- 
 folio. He wrote a great deal; his imagination ran 
 wild. Werner called the peahens the rabbits, because 
 they bred so often in so short a time. He became 
 imperious towards his family, particularly towards 
 his mother; he became silly and superior in female 
 society. He changed his mode of dressing and wore 
 check ties, and had his hair cut in a different fashion. 
 He began to quiz girls in tea-shops and to take an in- 
 terest in the fair performers at the theater ; he changed 
 from a simple, dull boy into a conceited, flashy young 
 man, absurd, and yet charming, who made girls giggle 
 and chatter and nudge one another and become hys- 
 teirical because they couldn't keep their animal feelings 
 in order. He was a young animal himself, infatuated 
 with the idea of himself as something godlike. The 
 human element in him was reduced to a minimum, was 
 reduced to his attitude about himself. It is human to 
 be godlike and animal-like at the same time; the 
 result is human because it is absurd. Martin's godli- 
 
 40 
 
HEIDELBERG 41 
 
 ness was symbolized by check ties and straighter 
 shoulders, tremendous energy and noisy rushing from 
 place to place; but his godliness itself was symbol of 
 the awakened animal just as the girls' giggles were 
 symbols of the corresponding animals in them. Phy- 
 sical excitement and dull contemplation produce artistic 
 work. Some artists are hermits, some are rakes. Some 
 men produce beautiful things from the sparks that 
 excitement clashes out of them, particularly from the 
 sparks of sexual excitement, passion, and the rest of 
 it; others by deep thought drag wonders from the 
 dark unknown. 
 
 Martin began a series of more or less serious love 
 affairs. The first began upon the first of June, when 
 he reached the age of twenty-one. All that he did 
 before with a feeling of daring he now did naturally 
 and as a matter of course. The first result of this new 
 attitude was the Romance of Lili. Lili was fair, 
 sweet, and round, and so far influenced him that he 
 threw into the peahen portfolio what afterwards be- 
 came a ballad. The affair began upon one of those 
 pleasant expeditions which the English call "excur- 
 sions " to the small town of Eberbach. 
 
 Early in the morning of the first of June a party of 
 friends arrived, according to pre-arrangement, at the 
 Schiilers' house. Markheim came, Lili and Max 
 Bauer, Frau and Fraulein Offenbach, Herr Karl Fink 
 • — a. placid, fair young man — George Fink, his solid 
 
42 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 elder brother, Peter Flettner, and Mimi Adler, two 
 young and detached people. Of all this company, Lili 
 Bauer was the queen and her brother Max the death's 
 head. Frau Offenbach paired off with Papa Schiiler 
 and Frau Schiiler with George Fink, two suitable and 
 heavy couples of chaperons. Martin at once pounced 
 upon Lili and Markheim upon Bertha. Peter Flettner 
 got the ugly, but good-natured, daughter Offenbach, 
 and young Fink got Mimi. Max Bauer was offended 
 because Martin had forgotten when counting the men 
 to count himself, so there were too few girls. Every- 
 body tried to think of a remedy, but Max refused to 
 call for any of the girls suggested, or to share any of 
 those there, and took upon himself bearishly all the 
 railway ticket-buying and cab-ordering. The party 
 left the house at seven, dressed in expedition clothes. 
 Everybody had a sandwich box suspended from a strap 
 passed over the shoulder, all had walking sticks with 
 points, and stout boots. Some of the men wore Tyro- 
 lean shirts and round felt hats, and Martin wore a 
 loose black suit and a red silk tie. The ladies were 
 clothed regardless of years in cotton dresses with full 
 skirts and collarless, square-cut bodices with elbow 
 sleeves, and each carried a jacket of some dark color 
 in case the temperature fell. Soon the men were carry- 
 ing the jackets, also the parasols that some girls 
 thought fit to bring as well as walking sticks, but Max 
 collected these sunshades and threw them overboard 
 
HEIDELBERG 43 
 
 when they were on the steamer, because he found they 
 would ultimately devolve upon him. 
 
 At seven-thirty they all boarded the little steamer 
 that goes a few times a day up and down a short 
 distance of the Neckar; and once aboard Max dis- 
 carded the sunshades and the party threw off the cloud 
 his grumbles had spread over them, and all at once 
 began to be very merry. 
 
 At first Martin was shy and stiff with Lili, and had 
 nothing to say, but at breakfast, which as they were 
 a large party was served for them at a table in the 
 stern, Lili began to thaw him. She thawed him with 
 honey. There was honey for breakfast, a kind of 
 sweet glue, of which Martin, who was greedy, took so 
 much that it ran all over his plate. 
 
 "You must be a bee," said Lili; "how fond you 
 are of honey." 
 
 " He loves honey, he has a sweet tooth," explained 
 Frau Schiller; "he always did love honey." 
 
 " I hated honey," said Martin. 
 
 " Hated honey ! oh, Herr Schiiler ! " cried Lili. 
 
 " I don't now," said Martin, whose face suddenly 
 relaxed; "I like all sweet things," he said this in a 
 lower voice. " My name is Martin, Lili." 
 
 Lili blushed and said, " Don't, don't ! " making be- 
 lieve he was pinching her. 
 
 Throughout breakfast they carried on a slight flirta- 
 tious warfare, and after breakfast Herr Schiiler 
 
44 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 recommended them all to watch the fine scenery and 
 not to miss any of the noble castles because it would be 
 dark when they returned. Lili and Martin, however, 
 hung over the stern, and Martin told Lili all about 
 himself, and squeezed her hand until they wondered 
 why they both felt a little sick. 
 
 " I feel sick," said Martin, suddenly and quite 
 candidly. 
 
 "Don't look at the water,'* said Lili; "it comes 
 so endlessly from under the boat, so wriggly and 
 streaky, I feel as if my own eyes were looking 
 backwards." 
 
 "When we walk up the Weg after dinner," said 
 Martin, " will you walk with me ? " He said this 
 seriously. They leaned on the stern rail, looking at one 
 another. 
 
 Lili gave him her hand behind her dress. " Of 
 course," she said; "I am your day-friend." 
 
 " My life friend," said Martin, whose heart jerked 
 suddenly. 
 
 Then they joined the others, and Martin became 
 facetious and witty, and in due time they arrived at 
 the landing for Eberbach, where, amongst much hilar- 
 ity and jokes about the size of Frau Schuler and Frau 
 Offenbach, all of which were deeply appreciated by the 
 crew, they got off the boat and into rickety pair-horse 
 carriages, which dragged them through the little streets, 
 an extremely short distance, to the best restaurant. 
 
HEIDELBERG 45 
 
 Here they all got out amongst many more similar 
 jokes, some of which were vulgar, and crowded, laugh- 
 ing and giggling, into the restaurant All things had 
 been ordered beforehand, and the proprietor showed 
 them into a pleasant garden where tables were ready 
 set for dinner. Soon, under wistaria boughs and lilac 
 blossom, they devoured a large and substantial meal, 
 in the middle of which Frau Offenbach exclaimed to 
 Herr Schiiler by pre-arrangement : 
 
 "Why, to-day, of all days! It is dear Martin's 
 birthday!'^ 
 
 Everybody remembered what they had known all 
 along, and amidst general confusion, which Martin 
 enjoyed, the lost jackets were called for, found and 
 rifled, and simultaneously everybody presented him 
 with mementoes. Martin accepted them suitably and 
 thought " What will all these people say a few years 
 hence! Little do they think that soon it will be kind 
 of me to speak to them." His left hand was pinching 
 Lili's little finger. 
 
 In the course of time dinner and wine-drinking 
 came to an end, and the ladies went indoors to rest 
 and the men lounged in the garden smoking cigars. 
 
 Max spoke to Martin. 
 
 "How old?" he said. 
 
 "Twenty-one," said Martin. 
 
 " Not really," said Max, " I would not have thought 
 
46 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Which way?" said Martin, and laughed when 
 Max allowed himself to be scored off. 
 
 " My sister is nineteen/' said Max. 
 
 "Oh! "said Martin. 
 
 " She is a pretty girl ; she ought to have a mother. 
 I have had her on my hands four years." 
 
 " Get her a husband/' said old Schiiler, and young 
 Fink said : 
 
 "Martin, aren't you sweet on her?" 
 
 " Who knows ? " said Martin, looking at Fink, with 
 the eye that Max could not see half shut. 
 
 Fink went into roars of laughter and came over 
 to Martin. He talked into Martin's ear, chuckling. 
 
 " You are walking up the Weg with Lili ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Walking?" 
 
 "Yes; so so." 
 
 " We are all going to the tower." 
 
 " One needn't hurry." 
 
 " Better not hurry back ; one can miss the boat." 
 
 "Yes," said Martin, "perhaps. What are you 
 talking for?" 
 
 " Mimi and I intend to be lost ; do you get lost 
 also, it will look better." 
 
 Martin grinned. " Very well, then. Where will 
 you be lost ? " He felt like a benevolent uncle. 
 
 " On the way from the tower. We will take the 
 first wrong turning on the way down. Do not de- 
 
HEIDELBERG 47 
 
 ceive us, Martin. Mimi and I can rely on you?" 
 
 " Perhaps," said Martin. 
 
 " Can you manage Lili ? " 
 
 "Women!" said Martin. "I cannot answer for 
 Lili." 
 
 " Then I will answer for her myself." 
 
 Soon they all came together again and set off in grim 
 earnest to make the two hours' walk to the tower on 
 the top of the Katzenbuckle. The girls felt they were 
 going a walking tour, and looked it; the men felt the 
 same, but said in answer to their cries : 
 
 "The Katzenbuckle! Only a step! Dear girls, 
 what an outcry about a mere stroll." 
 
 The walk began briskly, but degenerated into an 
 amble, which became slower as the paths became 
 steeper. The party spread out further and further, 
 until Max, who found it impossible to be genial with 
 any of the pairs, had arrived at the tower, and Mimi 
 and young Fink, who were deeply in love, were half 
 a mile behind. 
 
 Martin sauntered with his Lili, pausing every now 
 and then to gather wild flowers and make silly speeches. 
 
 As they neared the tower Martin said : 
 
 " Lili." 
 
 "Yes, what is it you want? Another kiss?" said 
 Lili softly. 
 
 " I want you to love me." 
 
 " Love you! '* Lili was serious. 
 
48 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " Yes, to love me." 
 
 " I shall always love you," said Lili sentimentally, 
 *' but you will only love me a short time." 
 
 Martin ought to have protested, but he said : 
 
 " Why? Why do you say that? " 
 
 " I do not know," said Lili. " It is true." 
 
 He ought to have protested again, but again he did 
 not. 
 
 " Love is not to be calculated in lengths," he said ; 
 " only in depth." 
 
 ** Oh, no, no ! " said Lili ; " the noblest quality of 
 love is endurance." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Martin; "but we don't calculate 
 by endurance, any more than if you live long we shall 
 honor you any more than if you die young." He was 
 not feeling inclined to argue clearly. " Love is deep," 
 he went on, " or shallow. A long shallow love is worth 
 less than a deep short one." 
 
 " A long deep one is best," said Lili. 
 
 " Well, will you love me ? " said Martin. 
 
 "How?" said Lili. 
 
 "Let us say short and deep." Martin embraced 
 her and gazed into her eyes. " I love you to-day, 
 Lili," he said; "who knows if I shall love you to- 
 morrow. Love me in return to-day." 
 
 " How beautiful," said Lili, whose eyes had tears 
 in them ; " how beautiful your voice sounds ; what cruel 
 things it says." 
 
HEIDELBERG 49 
 
 " Love me to-day," said Martin, drawing her into 
 the woods aside from the path. " My birthday 1 On 
 the return from the tower, surrender your sweet little 
 hands into mine and let me lead you. Lili ! look at me. 
 In the eyes — no, in the eyes. Don't you love me ? Ah, 
 yes, you love me, I can see. Lili, I adore you ! Kiss 
 my lips ! Dear little girl, yours are as sweet as honey. 
 * Lili Lara ' I shall call you. 
 
 "Lili Lara,, listen to your lo-o-ver. 
 Lili Lara, give him all your heart. 
 Lili Lara, give him all he asks you, 
 
 Lest he leave you, lest he should depart 
 After other maidens, Lili Lara! 
 Lili Lara, Lili of my heart. 
 
 " Hush, don't sob. I made that up. The tune too." 
 
 " What does it mean, Martin ? Do you love me, 
 or are you just pretending? I've loved you for so 
 long." 
 
 " I mean it, Lili. Come, we must walk on, I mean 
 it. Promise me — after the tower — to love me. My 
 birthday, on my birthday. Walk on, we must catch 
 up, Lili!" 
 
 " But We must walk on. I will think ! 
 
 Oh, we must not do anything silly. Libet, you 
 know " 
 
 " Yes, hush ; I know about Libet — ^her lover was a 
 cad," Martin took her arm and led her slowly on- 
 ward till they regained the path higher up, and neither 
 
50 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 of them spoke again until they got to the tower. In 
 Lili's mind consent and refusal were alternating 
 mechanically. No, yes; no, yes; no, yes. Her reason 
 had left her; she left that if No was top when next 
 Martin spoke to her she would refuse, if Yes she would 
 consent. Her heart was beating tjeavily, but she did 
 not recognize it ; she felt as if some rhythmical machine 
 were swinging in her. She did not anticipate love 
 recklessly and gayly ; she was numb, cold, and terrified, 
 but she felt only the swing in her body and the regular 
 beat — no, yes; no, yes; no, yes. 
 
 Martin walked beside her with a sense of control 
 in his mind like an expert contortionist on the tight- 
 rope, like an expert engineer with a delicate machine 
 ready to give the slightest touch with his hand, to 
 exercise exact judgment in his mind. He advanced 
 beyond his years to the expert age of thirty or so, and 
 the next musical composition he wrote benefited by it, 
 gaining sureness and finer balance. 
 
 The situation was not in Lili's hands. 
 
 At the tower were several excursionists, many from 
 Heidelberg, who had taken advantage of the Friday 
 facilities and of the fine weather. Old Herr Schiiler 
 met several friends, and soon the chaperons, who were 
 all tired, settled down with other old gossips and began 
 even there on that summer afternoon to pull to bits 
 their absent friends and enemies, and to discuss trade, 
 crochet, cookery, and babies, according to their sex and 
 
HEIDELBERG 51 
 
 taste. Fraulein Offenbach and Bertha, who were tired, 
 also sat near them with their fiances. They sat near 
 enough to hear what was said upon certain interesting 
 subjects, because they were both soon to be married 
 and lost no opportunity of collecting evidence upon cer- 
 tain events of married life. They both hoped Flettner 
 and Markheim could not hear; but Flettner and Mark- 
 heim did hear, and felt hot and happy inside. Soon 
 they definitely joined their elders, and the young ones 
 — the boys and girls, the children as they were thought 
 of — went up to the top of the tower, and, straining 
 their eyes to see the Swabian Mountains, the Black 
 Forest, and what not, saw nothing but the human being 
 next to them, and heard nothing but one voice. 
 
 There below the old tower sat the old men and 
 women like mushrooms, gossiping of life, and round 
 the top like birds hung the young ones, chattering 
 of love. The old ones, unmoved, impervious to the 
 weather, blind to green trees and blue distances and 
 the romantic far-off presence of the mountains, sat like 
 besiegers who bide their time at the base of an im- 
 pregnable fortress, and the young ones, sensitive to 
 light and darkness, and to the black name of Schwarz- 
 wald, flew free in their minds across rivers and across 
 plains, even to the sea, even to that same forest, free 
 tmtil the inevitable return, the moment of capitulation, 
 of humiliation, and descent. 
 
 At five o'clock the sandwich boxes were opened and 
 
52 MARTIN SCHtfLER 
 
 their contents eaten, and at six the cavalcade, which 
 had been joined by many acquaintances and friends, 
 began the long descent. 
 
 It was easy to stray, easy to get lost, and at seven 
 o'clock young Fink and Martin and their girls were 
 far away, unmissed from that straggling stream. Fink 
 winked at Martin when he was going to disappear, 
 and Martin gave him ten minutes' start, after which he 
 himself went off with Lili ; but he did not tell Lili about 
 Fink, nor did Fink tell Mimi about Martin. Men are 
 keepers of secrets. 
 
 The four returned home late by the last train that 
 night. Lili and Mimi were silent and white. Fink was 
 pale, but deeper than ever in love; passion had filled 
 him and was not yet exhausted, and Mimi knew even 
 in her tired mind that he would marry her. But Mar- 
 tin was calm; he had no love feelings one way or the 
 other; he was possessed by a thought which after- 
 wards became a long ballade. He felt simple, and 
 was simple in the midst of complexity, straightforward 
 and sure, honest in his dishonesty, momentarily com- 
 plete, perfectly wedded, perfectly divorced. Love and 
 fancy had vanished, and his thought, fitting perfectly 
 to the rhythm of the clanking train, found him pure, 
 virgin as white snow, master of himself, isolated, a 
 monk, above his companions in virtue and in everything 
 else, alone in their midst, inhuman, silent, and remote. 
 
HEIDELBERG 53 
 
 Beside him sat his girl, begetter of his thought, but he 
 had forgotten her; she was dead to him. There she 
 sat — used, inferior, and dismissed, he had no further 
 need of her. She was inferior, she felt inferior — 
 inferior and feminine, until she looked across at Fink. 
 He too looked puny, microbe-souled, even less than 
 herself. She at least was associated. All of them were 
 but the ether round the planet, but Lili, perhaps, was 
 a little moon. " Oh, dear/' she sighed to herself, 
 "how clever he looks, and how stern! I suppose I 
 ought to be proud. Oh, oh ! I hope nothing will happen 
 — why was I such a fool ! I hope nothing disgraceful 
 will happen." 
 
 Thus they came into Heidelberg and were greeted 
 by frantic friends, but Martin, who with perfect self- 
 possession helped Lili, almost fainting, to the ground, 
 said ," We are late, yes. The gods be damned : in the 
 tv/ilight we took the turning down to Zwingenberg/' 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 AFTER the Eberbach expedition Martin thought 
 more of himself than ever. He had long 
 stretches of manhood when he forgot that he 
 had recently been a boy. He became for days together 
 a stranger in his family, and Bertha and his mother 
 sighed to one another over the change that had come 
 upon him. Now and then he relapsed, wore his old 
 clothes, and was gay and affectionate with Bertha, 
 imperious and gentle with his mother, dull and sulky 
 with his father, until he met Fink, or saw a new piece 
 at the theater, or got a girl to kiss him at the cafe 
 again. In his mannish moods he would talk of earn- 
 ing money and living away from home ; he would look 
 upon Werner as a rusty old chap; he would say to 
 his friends, " Fm getting that chap Werner to do the 
 dirty work for my opera " ; and to Werner he would 
 say, if he met him in the street, "Hello! how*s the 
 work going? " as if he was a master-builder, too rich 
 to worry, and Werner were a very young foreman. 
 He seemed to think Werner had only one object in 
 life, and so Werner had ; but that was to live until he 
 died, not to slave at Martin's peahens. 
 
 In one of these moods he went to see Werner. 
 
 54 
 
HEIDELBERG 55 
 
 *' Hello, Werner ! " he said, " I've come to see how 
 the brood is.'' 
 
 " What brood ? " said Werner, desisting from writ- 
 ing an address to the spirit of the age. 
 
 " My hens." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " said Wernew, " they have gone to 
 roost." 
 
 " Where ? Can I have a look at them ? '' 
 
 "If you like," said Werner; "they are in that 
 drawer." 
 
 Martin pulled out the drawer hastily, and found a 
 few sheets of paper in it. 
 
 " What! " he cried, " four sheets! In two months 
 only four sheets ! " 
 
 " Well," said Werner, " you don't want me to hurry 
 your life's work. Masterpieces are the blood of the 
 spirit. The condensation is a slow business." He 
 did not tell Martin this was the beginning of the fair 
 copy and that several sheets of unintelligible hiero- 
 glyphics lay in the drawer above. 
 
 " I'm damned ! " said Martin. 
 
 " To disappointment," said Werner. " Slow, slow, 
 slow ; life's slow, isn't it ? Why don't you and I wake 
 up famous one morning instead of having to creep 
 slowly up the old mountain to the tower. When 
 we've been to the tower we can enjoy ourselves." 
 
 "You old beast," said Martin, patting Werner's 
 shoulders roughly ; " who told you ? " 
 
56 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Max Bauer and I do talk when we meet," said 
 Werner. 
 
 "Max!" 
 
 " Yes/' said Werner ; " he is a shrewd man, and 
 terrified lest his sister should do anything foolish." 
 
 " Lili is a little ass." 
 
 " His dying mother handed her over to him," said 
 Werner ; " he's sentimental about her." 
 
 " Well, I say," said Martin, " there is no harm in 
 it, you old crow, you old Puritan crow. Nobody 
 knows." 
 
 Werner laughed. " You are irresistible. People 
 cannot refuse you ! " 
 
 "They can if they want," said Martin; "we are 
 all human beings." 
 
 " You seem to think yourself a little divine now and 
 then, all the same," said Werner. " I think you think 
 yourself superior to the world in general." 
 
 " What if I do? " said Martin; " what if I am? " 
 
 " It's of no consequence," said Werner, and settled 
 down to write. 
 
 " You are a bear," said Martin. 
 
 "Well," said Werner, after a silence, "sit down; 
 don't raise the dust with your feet. My mice will lose 
 their way if you obliterate their tracks, and perhaps 
 miss even the last train." 
 
 ** Oh, stop! " said Martin, sitting on a stool with his 
 hands in his pockets. 
 
HEIDELBERG 57 
 
 "Listen," said Werner, "to a dying man. You 
 cannot have life both ways. You are either superior 
 or equal. If you are superior you must not expect 
 in others the strength and virtue which you find in 
 yourself; if you are equal you must not act like a 
 superior." 
 
 " Wise, wise words ! " said Martin. 
 
 " Yes," said Werner, " beyond your comprehension." 
 
 Martin lost his temper. 
 
 " See here," he said, " give me those peahens. Vm 
 going." 
 
 " No," said Werner, " they are incomplete." 
 
 " Give me them, I say," he said, stamping his 
 foot. 
 
 " The manuscript is mine, unfortunately," said 
 ^Werner. 
 
 Martin went out of the door and cried, " Keep it ! 
 keep it, destroyer of my idea ! " and began to run home 
 in a rage ; but before he got half-way his rage turned 
 into a thought which he put down directly he got 
 back. 
 
 All his emotions that summer became converted half- 
 way through into music; the music generally was good, 
 so there was some excuse for his grotesque superior 
 airs, and the evaporation of his constancy. 
 
 He returned to Werner that evening in a boyish 
 mood and brought some of his tunes. Werner dis- 
 closed the hidden manuscript and they talked amicably. 
 
58 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Werner told him he had improved in originality and 
 quality, and Martin professed in turn to admire the 
 peahens. 
 
 Martin became human and sentimental. 
 
 "You're my only true friend," he said, grasping 
 Werner's hand. " Life is difficult." 
 
 " It is," said Werner, " for all." 
 
 " I wish I could love deeply and truly," said Martin. 
 ** The fact is, all my feelings change into tunes after a 
 little. What am I to do?" 
 
 ** Your constancy becomes immortal," said Werner, 
 putting both hands on his arm. " Dear Martin, I love 
 you — a declaration of passion from a dying man. 
 Immortalize that." 
 
 "Unfortunate, but I cannot," said Martin; "when 
 I don't want to I must, and when I want to I can't. 
 It's all chance — all chance. I've no will in the 
 matter." 
 
 " Some day, after long practice," said Werner, " one 
 gets the will in the matter." 
 
 "Why can't I go straight ahead like plain sewing 
 women do, like a steamer ? I don't believe I shall ever 
 arrive at anything. I'm over twenty-one, and yet there 
 is nothing in sight." 
 
 "You've developed late," said Werner; "but that 
 will not hurt you." 
 
 " It's all such a mess," said Martin, picking up a 
 poem Werner had just completed, and tearing it absent- 
 
HEIDELBERG 59 
 
 mindedly into little bits. " Nothing definite, all a mess 
 — such a mess." 
 
 " Perhaps your first ambition is beyond you," said 
 Werner, making a slight grimace, and sweeping the 
 bits of torn paper off his desk on to the floor. 
 
 " Perhaps so, damn it ! " said Martin sullenly. " I 
 must write songs — bah! songs! chansons d'amour! 
 waltzes, pooh! The gods be damned; why don't I 
 obey myself, why don't I do what I wish? I've not 
 the strength of character. I'm not a genius, that's it. 
 Why don't I produce operas instead of portfolios of 
 silly tunes? My head swells. I think I am being 
 magnificent, writing wonders ! It draws together, I've 
 written a fragment after Chopin! Look at all this! 
 To-morrow I'll begin again. Only that bit is worth 
 anything " — he began sorting through his portfolio — 
 " and that, perhaps, and perhaps that, and those two 
 also. That's all there is out of the peahens." 
 
 He sighed and dropped the portfolio on the floor. 
 
 " Do you want to make money ? " said Werner. 
 
 " I should not mind," said Martin ; " then I could 
 live alone. I believe the atmosphere of our house pre- 
 vents me writing." 
 
 " Finish that ballade," said Werner. " It is good, 
 almost very good, but quite public taste. Finish sev- 
 eral of these tunes, publish them, get assurance, get a 
 grip, make money. Then look at the peahens, and if 
 you don't fancy them, invent something else.'' 
 
6o MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Thanks," said Martin, freezing for a moment; 
 " I want your advice, don't I ? " 
 
 ** I don't know," said Werner, " perhaps not. Your 
 instinct will guide you. It is dangerous to interfere 
 with genius." 
 
 Martin became hot again. 
 
 " I found that only women were ever able to deal 
 with genius," said Werner; "they know all about 
 sacrifice and hero-worship. Cherchez la femme, that is 
 my advice. Yes, that is the best advice — Cherches la 
 femme," 
 
 " It is curious," said Martin, " but that seems true. 
 All great men " 
 
 ** Yes, yes," said Werner, " have picked the brains 
 and hearts of a few women. Beautiful things and 
 clever things all originate in a woman. The paradox : 
 the greater are the lesser; the lesser, greater. Out of 
 sweetness came forth strength. Out of meat came 
 forth the eater." 
 
 " We excel," said Martin, meaning men. 
 
 " Until the day of judgment," said Werner. 
 
 " We are strong and ' do ' after all," said Martin. 
 
 "The women have not the women," said Werner, 
 "but only the men." 
 
 " Are you a feminist ? " said Martin surprised. " A 
 believer in equality? " 
 
 " Yes," said Werner, "I am ; but, as the world is, 
 things will always appear unequal. I believe in the 
 
HEIDELBERG 6i 
 
 appearance of unequality. That perhaps is fact. Such 
 an unequality is perhaps a real unequality, however. 
 We are beginning to get philosophical. Do not lead 
 me to discuss fact and fancy, spirit and matter. I get 
 cold shivers." 
 
 At that moment Max Bauer came in at the door. 
 
 " Hello ! " he said softly, in a gentle voice ; " is that 
 Martin Schiiler with you, Werner?" 
 
 "Yes," said Martin, "it is me." 
 
 " Shall I go, Werner ? " Bauer continued ; " are 
 you discussing business ? " 
 
 " No, no," said Werner. " Max, we have decided 
 that women are inferior and equal." 
 
 " Platonism. I am not clever. Are you going to 
 argue to a conclusion ? " Max was quite sociable and 
 not at all bearish. Evidently daylight did not suit 
 him and nightlight did. 
 
 Martin felt eager to argue. He had a superficial 
 intellect quite apart from his musical intellect, and he 
 liked indulging it. 
 
 "I don't think so," said Werner ; " that is the con- 
 clusion : women are inferior and equal." 
 
 Max stayed a few minutes, but he became over- 
 whelmed with shyness in the presence of Martin and 
 felt his gruff mood creeping upon him again, so 
 he said good night as politely as possible, and went 
 away. 
 
 " He dislikes me," said Martin. 
 
62 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " He is fond of Lili," said Werner. 
 
 " Ah, well/' said Martin, " I seem to make a mess 
 of everything/' 
 
 " Do not begin all over again,'' said Werner. 
 
 "No," said Martin; "let's finish about women." 
 
 "We had," said Werner, "everything is finished. 
 Finis ! I am about to die. I hope I shall finish your 
 peahens." 
 
 " Don't ! " said Martin, " you can't possibly die." 
 
 " It is quite easy," said Werner. 
 , " Oh, my God, don't die ! " said Martin, who had 
 never met death. 
 
 " The consumption of my vitals is almost complete," 
 said Werner. 
 
 " What you need is to go out," said Martin; " you're 
 pale. You must eat, sleep, and take exercise." 
 
 " I cannot walk, unfortunately," said Werner. 
 
 "Can't walk!" 
 
 " No, I gave up walking last week." 
 
 "God! What do you do?" 
 
 " I crawl on my hands and knees." 
 
 " God ! how horrible ! God in Heaven, how horri- 
 ble!" 
 
 "It is horrible. Martin! is the door shut? — 
 Martin!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " T'm at mv end — T must talk. I feel rejuvenated 
 —I feel your age. I must tell you — what it means — 
 
HEIDELBERG 63 
 
 to me — to die/' Werner jerked out the phrases. " I 
 am cynical. I am sour. You know me. I know 
 myself, I know all, I know everything — I am wise, 
 wiser than Pallas. I write well. I am jealous — I am 
 jealous of genius, of youth — oh, of youth, of youth, 
 of youth ! Now I am ruining the personality I created 
 before you — I am disclosing my weaknesses. I want 
 to tell you — it means a lot — for me — to die. Coward 
 I am." He smiled and blinked his eyes. " I'm going 
 out. Quite dark — black — soon. Contemplation does 
 not harden me to that fact." 
 
 *' Oh, Werner ! " said Martin ; " Felix, my friend, 
 my friend ! " He grasped both Werner's hands. 
 "Shall I die with you?" 
 
 Werner's face looked suddenly overjoyed. 
 
 "No," he said; "I can manage by myself"; and 
 held Martin's hands very hard and drew in his breath 
 whistling through his teeth. 
 
 He suddenly relaxed. " Sentimental," he said ; 
 " are we not? Good night." 
 
 " Am I to go ? " said Martin. 
 
 " If you please," said Werner. " Don't talk about 
 me to your friends." 
 
 " Well, good night," said Martin. " Shall I come 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 " As you wish," said Werner. 
 
 Martin went away feeling cold and creepy, but 
 during that night he remembered that Werner had 
 
64 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 indirectly called him a genius, and with the help of this 
 he got back his confidence and his self-esteem. After 
 that he had another bout of manliness, during which 
 he took Werner's advice and completed a few things 
 for the publishers. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 DURING the next few weeks Martin spent 
 much of his time with Werner, and became 
 so accustomed to the sight of Man succumb- 
 ing to Death, that when Werner actually died he was 
 not shocked nor did it seem abnormal and peculiar to 
 discover that that which was was not. It seemed to 
 him that Werner had been sinking slowly into a hole, 
 and he would have been more startled if Werner had 
 suddenly sprung out of it than if he had suddenly shot 
 underground. Werner died very slowly; day by day 
 he became a little worse ; day by day his man's charac- 
 ter slipped off him, till at the end he was naked as it 
 were, his real self, inexperienced, gentle, and affection- 
 ate. As his body died his mind discarded the clothing 
 it had pulled on itself. He threw off his knowledge 
 of the world and was left a believer in the simplicity 
 and honesty of the human race. He threw off his hard, 
 useful, intellectual, critical faculty, and was left in- 
 genuous. He threw off his inexorable attitude towards 
 smallness of mind and weakness and was left weak 
 himself. A delicious feeling came over him of soft 
 May winds and incapacity and convalescence, when 
 the bouts of pain, which were infernal torture, sank 
 
 65 
 
66 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 to soft, pleasant currents under morphic influence. He 
 lay dying in his bed, cleansed and sweet-sheeted by 
 Martin and Bertha.'' The dust had gone from the 
 floor, many mice had died in traps, his desk was pushed 
 against the wall with the lid shut over straightened 
 papers. Nothing of this interested him, nothing he 
 could not see without raising his head existed. He 
 could see the sky out of the window, he could see the 
 ancient cobwebs under the ceiling, he could see people 
 from the knees up when they stood by his bed. 
 
 Max Bauer used to come. He could see more of 
 Max than anybody. Max had such long thighs. He 
 was tall in consequence. Max sympathized with him 
 in the right way, agreed with him that to be dead 
 would be unpleasant and that the greatest catastrophe 
 of existence was very near, quite near enough to be 
 alarming. Death was horribly alarming when near; 
 it made one cry in the night, and want to catch hold of 
 a human being's hand. Surely a man could not die if 
 he held a living man's hand. Such things do not 
 happen. A living hand does not clasp a dead one. The 
 life would run through it out of the finger tips and 
 bring the dead life back. 
 
 Werner wondf ed what death was. Max thought it 
 was being extinguished. 
 
 " It must be," said Werner, childishly. " I feel as 
 if I were going out. Out and out and out." 
 
 " It is very queer," said Max, " to see you slowly 
 
HEIDELBERG 67 
 
 passing away. I feel as if the surplus, what has gone, 
 was floating about like a fog in the room. Do you 
 feel that you are going out of the open window into a 
 distant country ? *' 
 
 "No," said Werner; "I am getting slower and 
 slower. I feel I cover less and less space. I cover now 
 less space than my body. When I have shrunk to a 
 point in my mind I shall die ! " 
 
 " Lili is ill," said Max. 
 
 Werner was not interested ; he was immensely selfish 
 just before his death; his own affairs alone interested 
 him. He said lazily, however : 
 
 "Perhaps she will die!" 
 
 " She is making herself lovesick over that fool." 
 
 " Oh," said Werner softly, " Martin ! Love is a 
 wild business, Max. I remember," he went on, drow- 
 sily, " I used to fall in love when I was young. 
 Always in love. My digestion got out of order, I 
 used to be so violently in love. I cannot remember 
 all their names now — Marie is the only one. She 
 was pretty — I cannot tell you how pretty — with soft 
 pink cheeks and curly hair. She married her cousin 
 because of family affairs. I believe I am dying because 
 I let myself go to ruin for a short time when she got 
 married. I am dying of love. Max, old boy. Perhaps 
 Lili will." 
 
 Max looked tenderly at Werner, and Martin came 
 in. 
 
68 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "You look better to-day/' said Martin. 
 
 " He is worse,'* said Max ; " one day nearer his 
 death." 
 
 " You look certainly better," said Martin. " Bauer, 
 you are a gloomy beast with your depressing rubbish." 
 
 " I am worse," said Werner ; " I think I am para- 
 lyzed in my legs. They do not seem to be there. I 
 feel like a pool of blood on the mattress." 
 
 Martin put his hand under Werner's back. 
 
 "No blood; that wound is quite clean and 
 bandaged." 
 
 " I did not mean that," said Werner with a sigh. 
 
 " No," said Max, " he meant he felt as if he himself 
 were reduced to blood and lay in an oval patch on the 
 mattress." 
 
 " Yes," said Werner. 
 
 Martin blushed dark red, and said ; 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " Play," said Werner. 
 
 "There is no piano," said Martin. 
 
 " What did he say? " said Werner to Max. 
 
 " No piano," said Max, softly. 
 
 " I cannot hear them when they talk loudly," said 
 Werner, who was evidently beginning to dream again. 
 
 Martin stood uneasily by the bed. 
 
 " He'll probably die in a day or two," said Max. 
 
 Werner woke up at the mention of his one topic 
 of conversation. 
 
HEIDELBERG 69 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I am nearly done for.*' 
 
 " Bertha sent these," said Martin, producing a pair 
 of bed-socks and an enamelled tin of soup. 
 
 Nobody laughed. The situation was one which 
 only men can achieve without humor. Martin put the 
 objects down on the floor and said, after another 
 pause : 
 
 " Well, good-by. You certainly look better." 
 
 When he was gone, Werner said, "Do I look 
 better?" 
 
 " You look restful," said Max, " and the afternoon 
 has flushed your cheeks." 
 
 " Perhaps I am better," said Werner. " What did 
 Doctor Kapp say to-day? Perhaps I shall recover. 
 Max, if I recover, I'll lead a totally different life. How 
 stupid I have been; what a lot of important things I 
 have ignored. The things I put first! At one time 
 I put enjoyment, and then love of women, and then 
 work, and then my health. That was too late. If I 
 recover I will walk about amongst men and women 
 treating them all as human beings. I fly from one 
 extreme to the other — Oh, goddess! Oh, slut! Oh, 
 harlot! Oh, virgin! Oh, saint! Oh, villain! Oh, 
 genius ! Oh, idiot ! " He began to ramble on about 
 women. " I have so much to say. I must talk, Max, 
 about men and women. Be a happy man. Max. I 
 think I am spreading out a little. I feel a little better, 
 perhaps." He lay silent and as still as a corpse. Then 
 
70 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 he said, "I like morphia. The sky is blue to-day. 
 Could the window be covered? Those blue squares 
 in the window come so close to my eyes and then re- 
 treat into little specks — ^beads running up and down 
 strings. The world used to be — Ah ! " He suddenly 
 groaned and screamed and the pain began again. Max 
 let it rage a little while until he began to look like a 
 wild beast possessed of a devil, and then gave him 
 another dose out of a little bottle. 
 
 Somebody knocked at the door, and Lili came in. 
 
 " How is the poor man ? " she whispered to Max, 
 
 "It is only a question of time, according to the 
 doctor," said Max. "He is unpleasant just now; he 
 has been in pain. He is so full of morphia, I had to 
 give him a very large dose. I shouldn't look at him.** 
 
 " I would like to,** said Lili. 
 
 "Well,** said Max, " I would not look at him; you 
 might feel sick." 
 
 " You are becoming a doctor, Maxishe.** 
 
 " Yes,** he said ; " they are all fools.** 
 
 They stood at the bottom of the bed. Werner was 
 laboring under the morphia. He did not look a man. 
 
 "Terrible!" said Lili. "Poor creature! If I 
 were a doctor I should overdose him. Isn*t it queer, 
 he doesn't look real, Max. He looks like a dog.*' 
 
 "Terrible!" said Max; "he was himself a little 
 time ago." 
 
 " He looks savage." 
 
HEIDELBERG 71 
 
 "Yes," said Max. 
 
 " I feel he dwindles every time I come to see him — 
 a little and a little less. Can he hear us ? '* 
 
 " No," said Max ; " he is fighting with dreams." 
 
 "Oh, Max, isn't it horrible? Dear, dear Max!" 
 Lili began to cry a little. " We used to like him, and 
 talk to him. It is quite incredible. I brought him 
 some flowers and some eggs. I can't give them to 
 him, can I ? I feel ashamed of having brought flowers 
 and eggs.'* 
 
 "He'll die soon," said Max; "he says himself his 
 soul is dwindling to a point." 
 
 "How dreadful!" 
 
 " He is quite interested in it," said Max ; " he raves 
 now and then of course, when it bores him, and he 
 realizes he really is about to die." 
 
 " Poor man 1 Max, does Martin come here ? " She 
 put her hand on her brother's arm. 
 
 " He has been," said Max dryly. 
 
 Things seemed bare to Lili, and raw, standing 
 there before Werner's half-dead body. She felt at 
 the place in creation where we have our bodies opened 
 and their workings displayed together with the work- 
 ings of our souls. She was not aware that those 
 were her precise feelings, but she went on talking in 
 a manner which showed that they were. 
 
 " Max," she said, " I cannot seem to think Martin 
 and I were very wicked in that wood." 
 
72 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " It was not your fault," said Max. 
 
 "He seems somehow a special sort of man/* 'said 
 Lili ; " I can't blame him either. I feel if any one 
 ought to be blamed it is me. I have been thinking 
 a lot, Max. Max, it isn't a very simple world, 
 is it?" 
 
 " No," said Max. 
 
 "It seems so mixed. I can't quite understand," 
 said Lili ; " and in the middle there seems to be some- 
 thing beautiful and powerful, and that sometimes, 
 very often — oh, I can't explain — seems, it seems as 
 if, well, it was a kind of Martin." 
 
 " You have him on the brain, that's all ! " said Max. 
 " He is an ordinary sort of young fool." 
 
 "No, no!" said Lili, "he's not!" She forgot 
 Werner and leaned her hands on the footrail of the 
 bed, gazing into space. " He's not. He's above all 
 this — Heidelberg and us. I can't explain. It seems 
 a bit as if he was lent to us, like God lent Christ to 
 Mary." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Max; "he isn't divine." 
 
 Lili went on talking, as if to nobody. " Divine, 
 that's it; yes, that is what it is. If the Kaiser's son 
 came to your school, Max, and sat in your class, you'd 
 know what I mean." 
 
 " He won't, thank God ! " said Max, looking at her. 
 "You have got him on the brain." 
 
 "Yes, and in my heart," said Lili. "Oh, Max! 
 
HEIDELBERG 73 
 
 Vm pulled to bits, and 111 never have him. Oh! I 
 feel like wanting to be his house servant." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Max. "Don't be so silly, Lili; 
 he's a rotten character." 
 
 Lili flashed round at him. " He's not ! " she said ; 
 " he's a genius ! " Her voice was so deep that Max 
 started. " Oh, Max ! " she said, " I am so lonely." 
 She threw herself in his arms. 
 
 " My pet," he said, " don't cry ; be brave, sweet girl. 
 Werner was just as unhappy when he was a young 
 fellow." 
 
 At the mention of Werner, Lili recollected herself. 
 
 " Oh, how wicked of me to talk like this and forget 
 that poor man ! Poor man ! I'm not the unhappiest, 
 but I'd rather die. Max, if you knew, oh, if you 
 knew!" 
 
 Max was bending over Werner. He came round to 
 Lili after fidgeting with the sheet in some manner in 
 the dusk. 
 
 "He's asleep," said Max, who knew that Werner 
 had just died; " let us go." 
 
 "Where shall I put the eggs and flowers?" said 
 Lili ; " where shall I put them ? " Max took the eggs 
 and put them in his pocket. " The flowers — put them 
 
 " he caught his breath because he had been very 
 
 fond of Werner — " put them — on the sheet." She 
 put them on the sheet, and knew by the stillness that 
 crept through the silence what had happened, but she 
 
74 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 said nothing, and was not shocked because she had no 
 direct evidence of touch or announcement. She was 
 hardly aware in her mind of the fact : it pervaded her 
 senses, her body. Max drew her away ; he was trem- 
 bling. She gripped his arm to comfort him. Now 
 she knew for certain that Werner was dead, but her 
 tact kept her from speaking. She led Max to the door 
 and they went out of the room together in silence. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WERNER was a Roman Catholic, not by be- 
 lief but by accident. At the age of nineteen 
 he had been very religious and had become 
 a convert. Since that age he had remained a Roman 
 Catholic, but it was a mere superscripture, a label di- 
 recting in which cemetery he should enjoy his last 
 repose, and what ought to be done and said when he 
 was consigned again to the dust. The Church never 
 forgets her children, and soon after his death, which 
 Max made officially known, a Sister and Father came 
 to do what they could for his stray soul, and the 
 Sister remained to watch and pray all night. It was 
 a privilege to sit by the beautiful dead; and besides, 
 sleep is easy in a chair with arms. 
 
 Directly Martin heard of Werner*s death he seemed 
 pleased; he sighed with relief, and if we always said 
 exactly what we felt, would have ejaculated, " Thank 
 God, no more going up those horrible stairs ! " 
 
 Martin was not cynical; he thought he was sorry 
 |Werner was dead, and said so. Bertha was very 
 sorry, and cried a little over his " happy release," as 
 her mother called it. Martin said, " Poor chap ! poor 
 chap ! " a few times, and then " Poor chap 1 " Hke a 
 
 75 
 
76 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 machine that makes one last revolution before it grad- 
 ually stops. Werner belonged to the past, to-morrow 
 he would be quite past. Martin spent that evening 
 alone in his room meditating; his meditations strayed 
 from love, from Lili whom he no longer loved, to 
 burials and after death. He paused a moment to re- 
 member Werner's great kindness to him in not moral- 
 izing over his little affair with Lili, and suspected 
 Werner of arguing Max into quiet anger. He won- 
 dered if Max would ever murder him in a temper; he 
 seemed so fond of Lili, seemed to guard her like a 
 father-brother-husband. Short of that, a man like 
 Max, a mere schoolmaster, could do him little or no 
 harm. He dismissed the thought; it was too trivial. 
 He was right in dismissing it; Max was too sane and 
 gentle to do anything violent, and too fond of Lili. 
 What gossip originates in meditation! After a time 
 he began to conjecture what influence Werner had had 
 upon himself. It seemed little or none; Werner was 
 an admirable person ; he left one alone, yet made one 
 realize the value of endeavor and attainment without 
 ever talking about them. But, of course, he had abom- 
 inable faults and deficiencies; he was so excessively 
 private, that was his worst fault: private was written 
 all over him. He began to die when he began to give 
 away his privacy. He was conceited and had no end 
 of an idea of himself, and was terribly contemptuous 
 of less brilliant people. Martin was glad he would no 
 
HEIDELBERG 77 
 
 longer be made to feel small, and yet he felt lonely. 
 He seemed to have become, without his own consent, 
 an independent man with his own future upon his 
 hands. There was no one to complain to, no one to 
 give him sincere praise. He felt hurt. Poor Werner ! 
 A lump came in his throat. He thought he was sorry 
 for Werner. Poor Werner, he did not even live to 
 finish " the Peahens." Martin began to wonder where 
 " the Peahens '* was. He had lost acute interest in it 
 for the time being, though he still looked upon it as his 
 coming masterpiece, a kind of life-work. " It must 
 be in his room,'' he said to himself. "The devil! 
 I'd like to have a look at it." He began remembering 
 his former thoughts about it, and the memory roused 
 in him a new burst of ambition. He thought what a 
 little he had written for it, and then what a lot ; what 
 a lot if he counted arias, what a little if he compared 
 part and bulk. The delicious, rapturous harmonies 
 were still behind the beyond. The astonishing modula- 
 tions still bridged the gulf of unknown heavens. The 
 brilliant variations, the broad and deep basis of the 
 whole, still rose a pyramid in an ethereal desert. 
 There was good and strong music in his black port- 
 folio, and he was only twenty-one. The beyond, the 
 heavens, the desert, were in his mind. He was not yet 
 able to see them; but every month, every emotion, 
 every piece of knowledge, every attempt, he came 
 nearer to them. Some day he would be able to visual- 
 
78 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ize them, some day to realize them. Realization for 
 him meant to be able to turn into sound. He felt 
 proud of himself and a little sure. Some things he 
 could never forget, some things caught in his mind 
 like the cogs of a mountain train. He could not slip. 
 Suddenly it dawned upon him that all Werner's 
 manuscripts would sooner or later be seized by his 
 creditors. He was known to be in debt. He would 
 be buried to-morrow; to-morrow morning somebody 
 would go and seal everything with red seals. That 
 would be a catastrophe for the peahens. The creditors 
 would either publish it, or require large royalties for 
 its loan from him, Martin. Martin Schuler became 
 very agitated. There seemed no chance of doing any- 
 thing. He wished he had made Werner give it to him 
 that day. He hated the thought, but gradually it 
 seemed to him essential to pay the corpse a farewell 
 visit, and, if possible, to steal the manuscript at the 
 same time. When he had formulated it, he put it 
 away from him, but it recurred. 'He tossed up, but 
 forgot to remember the result, which was against 
 going, because he knew he must go. Soon he put on 
 his best black clothes to pay his last respects to the 
 dead, and told his mother as he went out of the house 
 that he was going to have a last look at Werner. He 
 looked agitated, and his mother said sentimentally to 
 Bertha, as he went out, " Poor Martische is deeply 
 moved for his friend." Certainly his intentions were 
 
HEIDELBERG 79 
 
 hateful to him, but it seemed absolutely necessary to 
 get hold of the peahens that night. Several times, 
 however, on the way to Werner's house, Schiller 
 stopped and hesitated; once he stopped because his 
 deed seemed sacrilegious, and because he did not want 
 to go where Max Bauer and others probably were; 
 once because he might be caught in felony, and once 
 because he was afraid of spirits and devils; but all the 
 time the fact was he could hardly bring himself to 
 go near a dead body. At last he came to Werner's 
 house. It was nearly midnight and very dark. He 
 had a covered lamp in his hand. 
 
 The door was shut and locked, the bell wire was 
 rusted. Upstairs Werner lay dead on his bed, and 
 the Sister with the dead, old Sister Eulalie, had fallen 
 asleep, so Martin, even if he had wished, could not 
 have got any one to open the door for him. He tried 
 the door softly; it wheezed on rusty hinges, but re- 
 mained closed, so he was forced to get in at a window. 
 The felonious nature of his entrance led him to be- 
 lieve he was a criminal. He took off his boots in the 
 deserted lower room and prowled upstairs. He 
 prowled past uninhabited rooms, up the narrow old 
 stairs — a stranger in a strange house, a stranger to 
 himself. He almost stopped and cried out to him- 
 self, "Who's that? What do you want? Don't you 
 dare to rob the dead ! " Then he remembered that 
 the ghoulish prowler was himself, and thought of 
 
8o MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 battlefields and fingers cut off hands with rings still 
 on them, widows hoping for mementoes, and prison. 
 
 Werner's door was open. Martin shaded his lamp 
 and went in. The fat old Sister snored in her chair, 
 her beads in her hand. Beside her lay a long white 
 object on a bed, and on the top of it reposed a bunch 
 of mixed autumn flowers. Probably Werner's breast 
 was under the flowers. Martin moved softly round 
 past the old Sister, and took a hasty look at the man 
 under the sheet. He had a very faint resemblance to 
 Werner — like a bad drawing by an amateur. Martin 
 knew he was Werner only because he knew that 
 Werner had died, and lay dead under that sheet on 
 that bed. He put back the sheet reverently and mum- 
 bled something about God, and then went to the bureau 
 where the manuscript usually reposed. The bureau 
 had been reversed and pushed with its face to the wall 
 in order to give the dying man more room. This was 
 awkward. Martin did not want in the least to wake 
 the old dead-watcher by dragging the bureau about 
 on the bare boards of the floor. He began to be 
 frightened again, and almost thought of abandoning 
 the manuscript. He wished there had been other ten- 
 ants in the house, then Werner would have been put 
 in the Morgue. After a moment's hesitation he in- 
 spected the bureau and found that it could be got into 
 without moving it, for it had a sloping front which 
 let down. He prayed that the poem was not in any of 
 
HEIDELBERG 8i 
 
 the drawers. It was not in the top. He cursed. Fear, 
 desire, and rage made him strong and resourceful. 
 He became a maniac for possession. He lifted the 
 whole bureau bodily by its top and turned it. He did 
 it quietly. It was a marvellous feat of strength be- 
 cause the bureau was quite large and also full of 
 papers. The manuscript was not in any of the 
 drawers. He put things in order; but not daring to 
 repeat his feat, which had strained him a little, he 
 merely put the bureau on a line with the wall, and 
 left it. 
 
 Maddening! In rage one has queer ideas. Martin 
 became certain that the manuscript was somewhere 
 about the dead body. Horrified with himself, he 
 searched everywhere else, but the idea followed him 
 about the room, pointing to the corpse. At length he 
 forced himself to approach it, and turned back the 
 death sheet a little. The eyes seemed eternally shut, 
 stuck down with glue. He drew the sheet further 
 back, and with his eyes fixed in fear upon the dead 
 features ran his hand under the cold body and felt 
 along between it and the bed. He expected to feel 
 a pool of blood, just as earlier in the day he had ex- 
 pected to feel a pool of blood. 
 
 In the mattress was a lump. Joy bounded in his 
 heart. He knelt down, and, careless of the corpse, 
 pushed the mattress up. There was what he sought! 
 He dragged the papers out, crushed them into his 
 
82 MARTIN SCHtJLER 
 
 pocket, straightened up the dead as well as he could, 
 and scurried out of the house. 
 
 He had become a thief ! 
 
 For several nights afterwards he dreamed of that 
 most ugly, cold, unrecognizable piece of flesh that had 
 been his friend; and his distaste for the name and 
 manuscript of the peahens lasted a whole year. 
 
LEIPSIC 
 
LEIPSIC 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A S an oyster covers a pearl with scales, so Martin 
 r\ covered Werner's death, and Lili and the pea- 
 hens, with days and months of forgetfulness. 
 Twenty-eight months lay smooth over the past, and 
 only those with long memories and awkward imagina- 
 tions thought less well of him than he did of himself, 
 and saw the little piece of grit that had got into his 
 shell. Martin was now in the first fullness of man- 
 hood. His father was dead, therefore he had a re- 
 spectable income, and his mother lived with her daugh- 
 ter and son-in-law, the Schuler-Markheims. He had 
 been to Paris for a year to study the Modern Move- 
 ment, and considered himself therefore a man of the 
 world. The municipal band played from time to time 
 one or two of his lighter compositions, the theater had 
 produced one of his sentimental operettas, he had set 
 one or two bad songs, by bad local poets, to indifferent 
 tunes; for these reasons persons began to point him 
 out to one another, and being well-off and good-look- 
 ing the best people in the town invited him to their 
 parties. Some people thought he took his elevation in 
 
 85 
 
86 MARTIN SCHXJLER 
 
 society a little too much for granted, and his sister held 
 her breath when she heard him for the first time joke 
 with Frau Professor Kort. His sister was not invited 
 to those houses which he frequented, but the great 
 cannot monopolize an art exhibition, and it was there 
 Bertha heard him make the joke that finally pointed 
 out to her that indeed her brother was lost to her for 
 ever, and had sailed out of the dim light of her own 
 social life. The joke caused her to hold her breath, 
 but looking down his body instinctively to his feet, she 
 saw how classically they stood upon the floor and how 
 his elegant body was perfectly poised upon them. She 
 blamed him because he was level-headed and at home 
 where she was modest and nervous, but she admired 
 him because he was liked, and because she had had a 
 great deal to do with his upbringing. 
 
 Bertha's friends were astonished that she did not 
 devote her conversation to this family marvel, pray 
 her prayers to it, and spread her husband, her house, 
 and her children, born and unborn, upon the back- 
 ground of the canvas of its life, or, to use a prettier 
 simile, throw her love, her babes, her happiness like 
 roses on her brother's path. Frau Schiller, her mother, 
 joined with her in her reserved and decent attitude, 
 and people said they had quarreled with Martin, and, 
 because he was hardly ever with them, that Herman, 
 Bertha's husband, had forbidden him to come to the 
 house. This gave rise to the opinion that some people 
 
LEIPSIC 87 
 
 were cutting off their noses to spite their faces. Her- 
 man Markheim had been heard to say, it is true, that 
 Martin was not his sort ; and people added, because he, 
 Markheim, didn't care for young fools who painted 
 the town red, even if they were Wagners. All this 
 did not affect Martin. He was unconscious of Ber- 
 tha's pride and of what people said about his affairs. 
 He lived alone in a good part of the town. He had 
 few worries. His love affairs were amiable and a 
 little sordid; he had no serious friend like Werner, 
 and the delicate, too-familiar relationships of home- 
 life no longer existed to trouble him. 
 
 When his last piece of band-music had been played 
 so often that the brain was sore with hearing it, and 
 people began to ask themselves what he would do 
 next to delight them, he condescended to try an experi- 
 ment upon them: he produced, with the aid of the 
 graduates and undergraduates of the Heidelberg Uni- 
 versity, a short musical drama, entitled, " The Poverty 
 of Croesus." The production took place at the theater 
 about midsummer and astonished Heidelberg, though 
 it depressed the actors, that is to say until the full 
 report was published in the newspaper. The news- 
 paper was so eulogistic, and the parents, aunts, and 
 lovers of the actors so Hithyrambic, that Heidelberg 
 was full of swelled heads for several weeks. This, 
 again, did not affect Martin. 
 
 There was at the University of Heidelberg at that 
 
88 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 time a young man of the name of Steinbach, an ugly 
 and thick young man who had come to Heidelberg for 
 a summer course to fill in the time between the end 
 of his career at Leipsic University and the beginning 
 of his career at he knew not what. Like many other 
 brilliant young men who are too rich and not scholarly 
 enough to enclose themselves for life in a classical or 
 philosophical world, he was lost when his terms at 
 college came to an end. He had a strong desire to do 
 something, particularly something that would entail 
 notoriety, so he went to Heidelberg University in order 
 to get to an out-of -the- world place where youth was 
 rife and where he could think. In a fortnight, owing 
 to having assimilated its spirit, he decided that to re- 
 main was waste of time. He thought of going to 
 Cambridge in England. The day that he was in- 
 troduced to Martin Schiiler by von der Gorst he 
 changed his mind. This was before the performance 
 of " Croesus." Von der Gorst was to be " Croesus." 
 He was chief classic of his year, and had a fine bari- 
 tone. When he introduced Steinbach to Martin, Stein- 
 bach shook hands, and said he was extremely pleased 
 to make the acquaintance of one with such a future 
 before him. He eyed Martin steadily, and determined 
 not to decide then and there if he really had a future 
 before him, but to wait. That same spring after- 
 noon, after the departure of Martin, von der Gorst 
 told him about the approaching performance. When 
 
LEIPSIC 89 
 
 he was tired of Gorst's florid optimism about the af- 
 fair, he went home. He sauntered under the budding 
 linden-trees along the river road with a feeling of 
 joyful interest in his mind. The houses across the 
 way, and the river on his right, and the dusty, sun- 
 flecked road, and the dry, dusty gutter pleased him. 
 He liked them for the first time. This morning they 
 had tired and bored him, now he liked them. The 
 soft spring breeze blowing in gentle puffs from the 
 river, the quiet, slow-moving water, and the gentle 
 shivers of the little leaves on the trees, soothed him 
 deliciously; he sauntered along, noticing the summer- 
 like quality of the dust, the summer-like rattle of the 
 carts and cabs along the road; the houses across the 
 way no longer showed naked through the bare boughs ; 
 green leaves partially hid them, and soft air permeated 
 with sunshine, with the scent of trees and particles of 
 dust from the road, focused them, so that they did not 
 appear, as in wet and cold weather, to be starting for- 
 ward into the road upon passersby. Steinbach had 
 taken a fancy to Martin, and one is always happy 
 when one has just taken a fancy to somebody. He 
 was not thinking, like most people, " I must see that 
 chap again; shall I ask him to the theater, shall I ^o 
 to his rooms, shall I write ? " He was thinking, " I 
 shall not make his acquaintance just yet. I will notice 
 him and glean facts about him, and when I know him, 
 perhaps after he has produced his opera, 1*11 get him 
 
90 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 to know me." He paused and looked over the river. 
 " When IVe heard his opera," he decided, " it will be 
 time to get him to know me." 
 
 Not for a moment did he think that any one else, 
 or any number of any one elses, would crowd him 
 out; he was quite certain that at his own time he 
 would be able to get what he wanted. Of what he 
 wanted he had no clear idea, but a thought not ex- 
 pressed in words began to haunt his mind. He walked 
 on for five minutes, then turned down a narrow street 
 to the left and disappeared from the public on the 
 river road. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 STEINBACH sat amongst the audience at the 
 students' performance of Martin's " The Poverty 
 of Croesus." He sat solidly and silently, with 
 wide open blue eyes behind powerful pince-nez that 
 magnified them to imbecility and made them bulge. 
 His round, pink head seemed stuck with glue into his 
 tight, shining collar. His nose rose into a snub above 
 a short golden crop of hairs that he wore as a mus- 
 tache. His mouth was large and full of admirable 
 white teeth, and his hair, which was sandy, was parted 
 and brushed in the English fashion. He kept his eyes 
 fixed on Martin, who conducted his own composition, 
 and his mind became concentrated critical faculty and 
 power of judgment. Martin looked imposing in the 
 conductor's chair. His black hair was thick and oily, 
 and brushed back in the solid wave set in fashion by 
 Beethoven. He had a small, dark, square mustache 
 clipped along the line of his upper lip, and down the 
 lines from his nose to the corner of his mouth. He 
 might have been twenty-eight years old, but he was 
 barely twenty-four. He wore pince-nez, but rather 
 from affectation than from necessity. His head, arms, 
 and shoulders looked fine and able against the light 
 
 91 
 
92 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 background of the stage, and Bertha, who was amongst 
 the audience, sighed with relief because he showed no 
 signs of physical decadence. He wore a fine black 
 doth coat and dress trousers, the coat cut like a dinner 
 jacket, no waistcoat, a soft white shirt, a high double 
 collar, and a small black tie of the day variety that 
 resembled his mustache and repeated its design. 
 Upon his hands he had white kid gloves with black 
 markings. Frau.von Arnim, who at that time had a 
 sentimental attachment for him, thought this was a 
 pity because it hid the fascinating way his fingers 
 turned up at the ends. He looked conceited and 
 prosperous, and, from the back, impressive. From 
 the stage he was terrifying; one could see him bite 
 his lips and swear when response was not forthcom- 
 ing. His manner assured one of failure before one had 
 failed, and frightened the last vestige of confidence 
 out of the performers. Von der Gorst, who acted 
 Croesus, alone saved the situation from fiasco. From 
 the outbursts of applause, however, one would have 
 concluded that a masterpiece had been most magni- 
 ficently exhibited. 
 
 When the affair was over, and von der Gorst was 
 in the dressing-room with his wig in his hand, Martin 
 sulked in and burst into self -condemnatory rage. 
 
 " The gods be damned ! " he cried ; " I have made 
 a fool of myself. What acting! What apes, what 
 cows! They could not put their tights on decently. 
 
LEIPSIC 93 
 
 Can one conduct when one is distracted by crooked 
 leggings ! Damnation ! " 
 
 " The acting was awful," said von der Gorst, dis- 
 interring his young mustache from grease paint; 
 " that was not your fault, old chap. You pulled hor- 
 rible faces ! " 
 
 " Did I? " said Martin; " what has that to do with 
 it?" 
 
 " There was a man in the audience," went on von 
 der Gorst, " with ghastly eyes. When I first came on 
 I could not see anything else. They bulged and shone 
 in that beastly dark cavern." 
 
 "What has that got to do with it?" said Martin. 
 *' People from other towns were there. I might have 
 made a hit. It was a fiasco." 
 
 " No," said von der Gorst ; " nearly, but not quite. 
 The music was all right. You cannot help the sheep- 
 ishness of the students." 
 
 "Whatever failure there was," growled Martin, 
 ** my fault or not, will be put down to me. I tell you 
 I will never produce another cursed thing in this hell 
 of a town." 
 
 " Don't pull faces next time," said Gorst, laughing. 
 " Really, the audience thought the whole affair 
 Wonderful, and, for a citizen of this town, rather 
 magical." 
 
 " Oh, yes, say straight off it was good for an ama- 
 teur!" Martin scowled ferociously, and snapped his 
 
94 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 pince-nez, which he held in his hand, in half with his 
 fingers. 
 
 Steinbach sauntered in. 
 
 " You are not an amateur," he said quietly; " may I 
 compliment you, Herr von Schiiler?" 
 
 Martin was not called von Schiiler as a rule. Stein- 
 bach thus paid him a delicate compliment. 
 
 " Those were your eyes, then," said von der Gorst 
 and laughed. 
 
 Steinbach smiled and showed all his beautiful white 
 teeth. " Windows which not only admit but also shed 
 the light ! " he exclaimed, and sat down on a packing 
 case marked " Manskoff & Sohne." 
 
 There was a pause in which nobody said anything. 
 Von der Gorst went on with his operations, which 
 seemed to be rather painful; Martin fitted and refit- 
 ted his broken glasses together. 
 
 " You have broken your glasses," said Steinbach. 
 " The glass is broken, and the play is done." Martin 
 took no notice, and Steinbach looked at his watch and 
 said very politely, " May I call upon you to-morrow? " 
 
 Martin felt pleased. He answered cordially, " Any 
 time. You may walk home with me to supper if you 
 care to." The truth was he wanted to hear somebody 
 criticize his music, particularly somebody who was not 
 stupid. He wanted to say then and there, "Tell 
 me what did you think of the thing? " but von der 
 Gorst was present, and he also felt averse to open the 
 
LEIPSIC 95 
 
 subject although he longed to do so. If he was shy- 
 it was a new sensation. He would not have felt shy if 
 he could have thought of a good roundabout sen- 
 tence to begin with. He was too tired to go straight 
 to the point and afraid, because he was tired, of hear- 
 ing something not to his liking. He thought he would 
 be sick if in answer to a plain question Steinbach had 
 said his play was bad, or might have been better, or 
 that he had flown too high, or that he, Steinbach, 
 would like to hear something else before thinking him 
 a genius, or even that it was quite good. 
 
 Steinbach looked at his watch again, and answered, 
 " Thank you, I will." Von der Gorst was exposing 
 a tender fencing wound on his cheek; he looked at 
 Steinbach out of the corner of his eye, who stared^ 
 solemnly back at him. "That looks very painful," 
 said Steinbach ; then turned to Martin and asked when 
 and where he was to meet him, or if they were going 
 now. 
 
 "Meet me in half an hour by the church in the 
 Markt Platz, if that is not too late," he answered. 
 He wanted to find out what Gorst thought of Stein- 
 bach, though he really did not care. He was sensi- 
 tive and silly that evening. 
 
 "Very well," said Steinbach, and turned to go. 
 "We shall meet again." When he was out of the 
 room, von der Gorst said : 
 
 "That's a queer fish." 
 
qS MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Yes," said Martin; "his appearance is unprepos- 
 sessing." 
 
 " Look here," said von der Gorst, through whistles 
 of pain, " come to lunch to-morrow. Damn this 
 plaster ! " Blood was trickling down his cheek. 
 
 " I cannot," said Martin, for no reason but that he 
 felt inexpressibly bored with him at that moment. He 
 was pressing a towel to his face, and Martin thought 
 he looked second-rate ; he smelt second-rate now Stein- 
 bach had been in the room, and Martin wondered why 
 he had remained to hear any of his opinions about any- 
 thing. It is rather difficult not to appear at a dis- 
 advantage in clothes semi-classical and semi-modern, 
 with a towel round one's neck and a sore cheek, es- 
 pecially when one is very tired. Martin made no al- 
 lowances. Von der Gorst thought, " I shall not see 
 much of this young man any more," but added aloud, 
 " We are both tired." It is easy to come to the end 
 of a friendship when tired, but he hoped, like every- 
 body else, that when they were themselves again every- 
 thing would be as before. 
 
 Martin watched him uneasily for a few minutes 
 and longed to go away. Soon he said, " I must go." 
 
 "You have plenty of time," said von der Gorst, 
 rather sourly. 
 
 " Not too much," said Martin ; " good night." 
 
 " Good night," growled von der Gorst. He had a 
 grievance. Martin had neither thanked him nor com- 
 
LEIPSIC 97 
 
 plimented him. With this grievance he consoled him- 
 self, and pretended that he had ceased to think him- 
 self a friend of Martin's, and said so the next day to 
 some of his acquaintances. 
 
 Martin met Steinbach at the church. They were 
 both early, but Steinbach was there first. 
 
 ** I am afraid I am late," said Martin ; but Stein- 
 bach replied, " No, no, I am early." It was a light 
 night. The full summer moon shone down into the 
 Market Place, and in the light darkness the roofs of 
 the houses showed reddish, and the leaves of the trees 
 greenish, and the brown woodwork of the windows 
 and doors brownish, like a photograph faintly washed 
 with pure color. There were clouds of thin, filmy 
 white in a sky that was almost blue, and through and 
 between the clouds a few pale sulphurous stars showed. 
 The two men walked out of the indigo shadow of the 
 church across the light gray open space, around which 
 stood white and gray and dark-colored houses. An 
 open cab rattled across the square, making a stony 
 noise. One of the men said something to the other, 
 then the cab stopped and they both got in it. The 
 cab turned round and the unwilling horse was again 
 driven away from his stable. He reared up his head 
 at the end of his long, straight neck, and, pulling the 
 cab by his shoulders, clattered with his heavy hoofs 
 and sloping haunches out of the Market Place towards 
 the New Bridge. He could hear everything, partly be- 
 
98 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 cause of the still night and partly because he was tired. 
 He stretched back his ears to listen, because when he 
 listened he forgot he was pulling a cab. He could 
 hear the rattle of the cab wheels and the unoiled sigh 
 of the springs, and the driver's sleepy, " Tchk, tchk," 
 and the voices of the two men in the cab talking about 
 plays and theaters. Above these sounds he heard a 
 buzzing noise in his head, a buzz in which the noises 
 of the trams and shouts and footsteps and wheels of 
 the past day were all combined, and again above that 
 he could hear the river moving — the sound of water. 
 Perhaps that was the reason why he stretched his neck 
 and kept his head up. 
 
 "This is nineteen-three,'* said Steinbach, in the 
 middle of the bridge; "let us produce something at 
 Leipsic in nineteen- four." 
 
 "Us?" said Martin. 
 
 Steinbach looked at the moonlight on the water, and 
 let it sink into his mind. It was sinking into Martin's 
 soul, as all such things did without him making any 
 effort. Steinbach answered as he looked at the water, 
 " I can write better stuff than those Croesus words." 
 He went on, " We can live in Leipsic. My father will 
 back Croesus for you for a week at one of the theaters." 
 
 " It is very kind," said Martin dreamily. 
 
 " Not at alL" Steinbach's face beamed in a radiant 
 smile, which immediately woke Martin out of his short 
 
LEIPSIC 99 
 
 dreaming fit, " My father has nothing to do with his 
 money. What a queer little place this is," he said as 
 they turned over the bridge into the new part of the 
 town. 
 
 "A queer little place/* assented Martin. 
 
 " Why do you live here ? " 
 
 *' Force of habit,'* said Martin. 
 
 " You do not look a native." 
 
 " I was born and bred here." 
 
 " Aha," said Steinbach, as other people say " Yes," 
 " and bedazzled." 
 
 " I was more bedazzled in Paris," Martin laughed. 
 
 " Were you bom in the house we are going to ? " 
 
 "No," answered Martin, "down near the Markt 
 Platz." 
 
 "Of the people — quite so," said Steinbach; "the 
 upper classes are too well fed to breed a genius. They 
 say over-feeding and idleness produces women and 
 inferior men. I am the product of luxury." 
 
 "When I was in Paris," said Martin, "everybody 
 was very effeminate." 
 
 "Women are the children of civilization," said 
 Steinbach. " All the primitive, horrid, grand states 
 of being, such as war and savagery, produce men, and 
 silly women." He laughed then, and said, " You did 
 not become effeminate in Paris ? " 
 
 "No," said Martin; "but it civilized me." 
 
 Steinbach did not expect him to be capable of mak- 
 
100 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ing a confession about himself. What he said was 
 perfectly true. Paris had had an immense influence 
 over him. He was quite incapable at present of mid- 
 night rambles or ecstasies under the moon. He had 
 forgotten the unchained feeling of his twenty-first 
 year. His ability to call the past the past made him 
 appear to be a new kind of man to those who knew him 
 intimately. He had given up worshiping nature with 
 the passionate abandonment of his youth, and his 
 vitality, stimulated enormously by the new things of 
 Paris, was expended upon technical rather than pas- 
 sionate art, and amongst drawing-rooms and clubs 
 rather than amongst hills and valleys. His work 
 gained in suavity and brilliance, but it was not pro- 
 found. " The Poverty of Croesus," the outcome of his 
 Parisian year, had bouquet rather than depth, and 
 was more original than inspired. 
 
 They arrived at Martin's door. The horse no sooner 
 heard the chink of money than he strode round and 
 was off in a hurry to his stable. He hoped there 
 would be no one in that fateful Markt Platz. Late 
 diners-out always hailed his cab in that wretched 
 place. 
 
 Martin opened the door with a key and they went in. 
 
 "I wait on myself at this time of the night," he 
 said, taking his companion into a room where an elab- 
 orate cold supper was put in easy reach of a chair 
 drawn up to the table. Steinbach thought of an illus- 
 
LEIPSIC loi 
 
 tration in a romantic tale which he liked when a child, 
 of a young musician supping alone at a table covered 
 with a lace-edged cloth and spread with delicious 
 viands. Martin lit the candelabra and turned off the 
 electric light. 
 
 Steinbach told Martin of the illustration, who did 
 not know it, never having cared much for books. 
 
 They ate a great deal, and drank a great deal of 
 white wine, and Martin at last said, "What is your 
 opinion of my opera?" 
 
 " I thought," answered Steinbach, looking down 
 into his glass, from which he extracted a little bit of 
 cork with his little finger, " that your music was very 
 good and original. I should like to have a share in 
 your fate. I listened very carefully to your music 
 because I intended you to ask me my opinion. You 
 should never conduct your own things. You see what 
 they are meant to represent rather than what they do 
 represent. Composers usually misinterpret their own 
 works of art. An outsider would have marked those 
 interesting subtleties which doubtless you know 
 nothing about. There was an hiatus or two where 
 you found yourself over-interpreting. Do you object 
 to my criticism ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," said Martin ; " go on." 
 
 Steinbach smiled broadly. " IVe nothing more to 
 say. If you will live with me in Leipsic I shall be 
 delighted. I will marry you to some good woman." 
 
102 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " No," said Martin; " I will not marry yet." 
 
 "A loose character, are you?" grinned Steinbach. 
 
 " Not more so than others," said Martin. 
 
 " I do not approve of moral looseness nor atheism," 
 said Steinbach in a slow, humorous voice. 
 
 " You sound tolerant," Martin answered smiling. 
 
 " Quite so," answered Steinbach, " but I am not." 
 He smiled again. " I am a prig but not a prude." It 
 was impossible to tell if he meant what he said, or 
 whether he were the loosest man on earth. " I want 
 to give you an impression of myself. See? That is 
 done." 
 
 Martin had received no impression whatever of 
 Steinbach. He seemed to assume a kind of green vir- 
 tue. He seemed very easy. He made statements 
 about their partnership as if that were easy, and about 
 producing Croesus in Leipsic for a week as if that 
 were easy. 
 
 " Show me your works of art, Schiiler," he said 
 after a pause, and Martin showed him all his better 
 and more recent productions, and played, after a 
 fashion, all that he thought would redound to his 
 credit. Steinbach murmured, " Yes ! Good ! Quite 
 so ! Gk) on ! " at intervals, and listened with calcula- 
 ting, critical ears, but gave no opinion on any partic- 
 ular fragment. At last he said he must go, and with- 
 out any further talk departed. When he had gone 
 Martin felt pleased, praised, and happy. He smiled 
 
LEIPSIC 103 
 
 at himself in the glass before he went to bed; for he 
 often looked at himself in the glass when he lived alone 
 for companionship. After that he got into bed and 
 fell asleep remembering non-existent beauties of his 
 Croesus. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 STEINBACH came round very early the next 
 morning, before breakfast even. Martin was 
 still in bed, but when he heard his unmistakable, 
 pleasant voice arguing with the servant, he shouted 
 to him to come up. Steinbach stood in the doorway 
 opposite the bed, with a grin on his cheery face. 
 
 " Good morning," he said, making an idiotic bow 
 with his head and neck only. He looked as if he wore 
 a buckram waistcoat to keep his fatness within bounds. 
 He was very stiff in the body. 
 
 " I came to say — er — thanks." He interrupted him- 
 self to come into the room and sit squarely on the bed. 
 " I came to say," he went on, " what day, when, now, 
 soon, or never, when shall we go to Leipsic? " 
 
 " Any time will do for me," said Martin. 
 
 " Very well, then, Friday of next week. Very good. 
 You will come and live with me in Leipsic next Fri- 
 day." 
 
 Martin laughed. " God ! you do amuse me ! You 
 don*t seem to think about anything before you 
 do it." 
 
 "Don't I? It is all luck anyway, whatever hap- 
 pens; why spend too long thinking? Perhaps I have 
 
 104 
 
LEIPSIC 105 
 
 thought of this for weeks. Will this logic please you? 
 I like your music, I take a fancy to you, I want to 
 launch you. Why not adopt you? See? If you have 
 no objection, it is all serene." 
 
 "You amuse me," said Martin. 
 
 " There you get amusement : amusement is pleasure, 
 pleasure is the aim of life. What more can a man 
 want? My name is Bernard Christian Steinbach, at 
 your service." He smiled all the while, and turned 
 his smile on Martin from time to time like a search- 
 light. 
 
 " ril get up if you will stay to breakfast," said 
 Martin. " I feel too idle to dress this morning." 
 
 " Here is your vest," said Steinbach, leaning over 
 from where he sat and picking up an object off the 
 floor. " As a commencement of friendship I will 
 valet you." 
 
 Martin laughed and put his arms behind his head, 
 but did not attempt to get up. " You do amuse me," 
 he said again. 
 
 " Leipsic is a nice place," said Steinbach. " I have 
 a lot of friends." 
 
 "Your father is rich?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, quite well off. We have three houses. 
 I will get the little town house." 
 
 " The prospects you hold out excite me," said Mar- 
 tin, sitting up. 
 
 "I am excited myself," Steinbach answered. 
 
166 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " Directly I saw you I was fascinated. I am clever 
 to detect your genius." 
 
 Martin's excitement reached a high enough pitch 
 to get him out of bed. He stood up in the middle of 
 the room in his pajamas and stretched. 
 
 " You have a good figure," said Steinbach ; " I am 
 disgustingly fat. You are handsome in a way. Did 
 you ever see any one as ugly as I ? " 
 
 Martin did not reply, but took a tin case of ciga- 
 rettes from among the jumble of rubbish on the table. 
 He offered them to Steinbach. 
 
 " Have a cigarette." 
 
 " It is these horrible specs," said Steinbach, taking 
 one. " I don't put my lights under bushels, do I ? " 
 He stopped talking to light his cigarette, and as he 
 lit it his hand trembled a little. 
 
 *' You have a shaky hand," said Martin. 
 
 " Quite so," he answered, " emotional excitement 
 and no breakfast." 
 
 Martin struggled into his shirt and emerged rather 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "If you get a dislike to me any time," his patron 
 continued from the bed, "walk out of my house. 
 Neither you nor I are to have any debts to one another. 
 It is always wise to start with an understanding." 
 
 " Yes," said Martin, " it is always desirable to be 
 definite." He was feeling that he did not care for 
 Steinbach very much at that moment . 
 
LEIPSIC 107 
 
 " You sound curt," said Steinbach in a gentle voice 
 as he got off the bed. " I do not think I will stay to 
 breakfast after all." Then he almost simpered, " Nine 
 a.m. is not conducive to emotional crises. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by." Martin opened the bedroom door. 
 
 " May I come this evening ? " 
 
 "Certainly," said Martin, as Steinbach passed 
 through. "I shall be delighted;" but he was think- 
 ing, " I can still refuse ! I can still refuse ! The way 
 of success is up strange ladders." 
 
 For financial reasons alone Martin decided to ac- 
 cept Steinbach's proposal, and when he arrived that 
 night and walked lovingly into the lamp-lit room, 
 Martin said solemnly : 
 
 " I have been thinking over your proposal. I wish 
 to thank you and to say how much I appreciate 
 your interest in me. I accept your offer with 
 gratitude." 
 
 " Just so," said Steinbach. " It is a queer world." 
 He sat down opposite Martin in an easy chair. Like 
 him he wore dress clothes, as if on a formal occasion. 
 "We shall be sitting together like this in Leipsic, in 
 neither your house nor mine, drinking neither your 
 nor my wine." 
 
 Martin laughed. " It is impossible to be solemn 
 with you." 
 
 " Quite so," said Steinbach; " we shall become fami- 
 
io8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 liar, we shall be rude and quarrel and get on each 
 other's nerves." 
 
 " Help yourself to the cigars and wine,'* said Mar- 
 tin, pushing a box and a glass across the little table. 
 The room was warm and pleasant, the lamp cast a 
 comfortable light, the wineglasses and the bottles 
 on the table sparkled like jewels. Smoke accumulated 
 in the top of the room, and red shadows of it fell on 
 the faces and hands of the two men. Beyond the 
 circle of light cast by the lamp was a deep brown 
 gloom. The walls of the room sank back into the 
 darkness, and the floor fell away into deep pits at the 
 sides; the two men sat like giants on the hump of the 
 world with their heads near the sun and their shoul- 
 ders in the clouds. Bright corners of frames and orna- 
 ments on the walls gleamed like distant stars. What 
 would come to them out of the abyss? When Stein- 
 bach received the burden of Martin upon his mind 
 he felt the floor revolve quickly under his feet, and 
 his chair move half a pace ; a lump came into his throat 
 and he felt happy. After a silence he said : 
 
 ** I have pushed my way into your life. I have 
 been meditating it for several weeks. This was a 
 good opportunity." 
 
 " You seem to run on wheels," said Martin, " and 
 to glide through brick and mortar." 
 
 " I am quite concrete. Feel my hand." 
 
 Martin felt his extended hand, and Steinbach 
 
LEIPSIC 109 
 
 grasped Martinis with it. "Do I feel genuine?" he 
 said, looking at Martin seriously, who threw off his 
 embarrassment with an effort. 
 
 " Yes/' he said, " I believe you are." 
 
 "You don't like me." 
 
 " How can I tell? " Martin evaded his assertion. 
 
 " It doesn't matter," murmured Steinbach. 
 
 With an effort Martin looked him in the eyes. 
 
 " I believe you are genuine," he said. 
 
 " Thank you." Steinbach dropped his hand. " Love 
 is a peculiar thing. All attractions are peculiar." He 
 smiled. " Aren't they ? " 
 
 "Yes. That is easily said about anything. Help 
 yourself to wine." 
 
 Steinbach poured out a glass and held it up to the 
 light. " My father always looks through his wine," 
 he said. " I gather nothing from the performance." 
 He turned and held up his glass to Martin. " * There 
 is comradeship ; may there be friendship ! ' " 
 
 Martin answered with another quotation : 
 
 " * I and me are always too earnestly in conversa- 
 tion; how could it be endured if there were not a 
 friend?'" 
 
 " I thought you did not read ? " said Steinbach with 
 a benign smile on his face. He sipped his Sflass, then 
 took it from his left hand bv the top with the outspread 
 finsfers of his right and put it on the table, after which 
 he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his 
 
no MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 fat hands hanging loosely from the ends of his arms. 
 " You have read Nietzsche? *' he asked. 
 
 " No," said Martin, " not Nietzsche, only the first 
 part of the * Superman ' and the tirade against Wagner. 
 I like the first part of the * Superman ' ; I can under- 
 stand it — my God ! how humble you make me — and I 
 agree with his ideas about women and about stupidity. 
 Perhaps I am an incarnation of the * Superman,' I 
 say to myself, to balance my humility. I suppose I 
 read Wagner because I think myself his Elisha." 
 
 " I have been to Silvaplana, have you ? '* 
 
 " No," answered Martin ; " I have been to France 
 and Heidelberg!" He laughed. "The world- 
 shaking genius will soon have added Leipsic to 
 that list." 
 
 " Do you believe in palmistry ? " said Steinbach, 
 leaning a little further forward. 
 
 "The ministers of the dark science are always 
 obscure and uncomplimentary to me," replied Martin 
 laughing. " I am my own prophet. A woman once 
 told me I was the most selfish brute imaginable." 
 
 " Tell me," said Steinbach, " what you thought of 
 Nietzsche upon Wagner." 
 
 " There, I cannot do so," said Martin ; *' I have 
 forgotten everything in it. I remember I thought that 
 if Wagner could stir the passions of the body very 
 deeply, and desired to do so, he was to be commended. 
 He probably never set out to be an intellectualist. I 
 
LEIPSIC III 
 
 am not sure that I like transcendental intellectualism." 
 
 "I do," said Steinbach. "That is the height of 
 creation ! " 
 
 " But Wagner was a humanitarian and a spirit- 
 ualist." 
 
 " I should like to know/* said Steinbach very slowly, 
 " whether you have any kindred feeling for other 
 musicians." 
 
 " I do when I see, remember, or hear their music, 
 particularly when I hear it." 
 
 " And what do you feel ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell you. Perhaps I think how clever 
 they are to write this passage thus." 
 
 " Do you weep over Tristan and Isolde ? " 
 
 " I am sick of it. I have heard it ten times in order 
 to try and discover the secret of its power. I feel now 
 as if Saint Saens had written it, but there is some 
 remarkable work in it." 
 
 " Then you despise Tannhauser? " 
 
 " Oh, my God ! Oh, my God ! " Martin pretended 
 to be horror-struck. " I love that beautiful piece of 
 hackneyed melancholy as if it were my own bad 
 temper," 
 
 "You think Wagner was a humanitarian and a 
 SDiritualist : you don't think he was an artist and an 
 economist ? " 
 
 " A money-maker? " said Martin. " Perhaps. Per- 
 haps we all are." 
 
112 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " I don't think any of you have ideals/' said Stein- 
 bach. **I don't think artists have." 
 
 " I have an ideal of fame," said Martin. " Once I 
 believed I could clap nature into music by letting 
 myself go mad on the hills and writing it down at 
 home. Wagner can represent a storm, Debussy the 
 wind in the trees. I can do better than that. I shall 
 one day stir that question in your minds that has never 
 been answered, and I will answer it." 
 
 "What is God?" 
 
 " It has never been properly put into words," said 
 Martin ; " the answer can never be in words. When 
 you hear me speak in my fashion you will know the 
 answer." 
 
 " That is what you call transcendental intellect- 
 ualism." 
 
 "I do not call it anything," said Martin. "Oh, 
 my mind, my mind! It bursts sometimes for the 
 experience it has not got. I am not such a fool as to 
 believe my first opera will reach the goal. I am a 
 perfectionist. I brought a great many * ists ' and 
 ' isms ' from Paris. I can tell you a great man has a 
 long way to go to be his greatest. Like Napoleon, I 
 sacrifice humanity to myself. When my conscience 
 pricks me I say, * Do not listen ; these peccadilloes are 
 incommensurate with the necessity of your greatness.' " 
 
 "You will sacrifice me? " asked Steinbach. 
 
 "What are you, after all, to me?" said Martin, 
 
LEIPSIC 113 
 
 *' but a man who has made me a good offer ? I think 
 you are very kind. I hope I shall always behave hon- 
 orably with you. I hope there will be no necessity for 
 me to make myself the symbol of ingratitude.** 
 
 " I have my aims," said Steinbach, good-humoredly. 
 
 " Nobody's aims but my own are anything to me," 
 said Martin, also pleasantly. 
 
 " Perhaps yours are nothing to me ! " Steinbach 
 reached for his glass and drank once more. " Perhaps 
 I do not care a rap for anything but the picture of 
 myself twenty years hence that I keep here.'' He hit 
 the front of his head. 
 
 " * One ought to honor the enemy in one's friend/ " 
 quoted Martin again. 
 
 " ' Thou shalt be closest unto him when thou with- 
 standest him,' " said Steinbach, but he had his doubts 
 in his heart. 
 
 " I like you," said Martin ; " we shall be able to be 
 antagonists." 
 
 " I did hope we should have been friends." 
 
 " My antagonist is my friend, as you said yours 
 was your friend just now," answered Martin. 
 
 " I had my doubts," Steinbach muttered. 
 
 " T could like for my friend," said Martin, standing 
 up and going over to a portfolio, " a man whom I 
 could trust with my bad temper and my selfishness, 
 and who would demand nothing from me but the post 
 of keeper of my unpleasant self. A friend that I 
 
1 141 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 have to consider and cosset I do not want. I am 
 enough burden to myself without duplicating it. I 
 would be faithful to that man; he would be the recip- 
 ient of my bad temper until the end of my days. For 
 kisses he could take my trust, for embraces my music, 
 and for a reward those good days when I chose to be 
 to him my other self. I would put his name on some 
 of my music — on my masterpiece — unless in my stu- 
 pidity I had made my heart captive to some wretched 
 woman. Now you know what my ideal friend is ; all 
 others are my antagonists. I will have no friend that 
 is not ideal. I either like or hate my antagonists." 
 
 Steinbach frowned. "You are very difficult to 
 please. Your friend will have to be a woman or a 
 toady. No man could be your genuine friend." 
 
 " If I were divine I would dispense with women," 
 said Martin. " I had a friend who told me the truth. 
 Women are necessary to the procreator. I cannot 
 become the father of a child nor of a masterpiece with- 
 out a woman. The beauty and the voluptuousness of 
 women are necessary to me. There is no substitute. I 
 had a platonic friend. I became the manservant of the 
 woods and all nature. Nothing has inspired me like the 
 long falling hair of women or their wretched soft 
 curving lips and their white skin. I tell you," he said, 
 " I tell you, this portfolio is a record of my affaires 
 de cceur. My brain becomes clear when I am intoxi- 
 cated. I drink wine, I take opium to try and urge 
 
LEIPSIC 115 
 
 myself to splendor. If I am not at that point of my 
 revolution where I am turning again into the region 
 of love, I am only mediocre." 
 
 " That is youth," said Steinbach; " I am an ancient 
 young man." 
 
 Martin hastened to seat himself at the piano. His 
 hands trembled and there was sweat on his brow. The 
 music he put up before him fell down on his hands. 
 He swore and fixed it up again. Steinbach watched 
 him calmly. His oiled hair was getting out of order 
 and his eyes looked tired. Steinbach felt sorry for him 
 He thought, " Poor chap, he must suffer from nerves.* 
 Martin began to play. He played several short pieces 
 songs and airs. Before some of them he exclaimed 
 " I did this in love," or merely, " In love " ; before 
 others he barked, " Not in love," " Drink," " Opium.' 
 He did not play from the music, he watched his hands 
 At the end he said : 
 
 "Steinbach!" 
 
 Steinbach jumped ; the music was soothing him into 
 far-away thoughts. 
 
 "You have noticed, Steinbach, what I say is per- 
 fectly true. I am a genius only when I am in love. 
 When I am not, it is an intellectual feat." 
 
 Steinbach could not truthfully say that he had 
 noticed, but he murmured " Yes." 
 
 " And I get tired of one woman, and they are so easy 
 to get. My conscience! It is difficult for a man to 
 
ii6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 have one. I do not let it prick me about such little 
 things. I am not the shepherd of the female sex. If 
 they have sense let them shepherd themselves; if they 
 have no sense I do not care, they are not worth 
 care." 
 
 " I know a woman to whom I will introduce you," 
 said Steinbach, " whom I respect and honor. You 
 ought to love the best women. The best women 
 are better than the best men." 
 
 " Humorist ! " exclaimed Martin. 
 
 But Steinbach was feeling sentimental. " I say bet- 
 ter,'* he said as he got up — " better, because to-night 
 I feel as though they were better. Another night I 
 might be more moderate. Good night, Schuler." He 
 took Martin's hand again and held it a short time 
 whilst he looked him steadily in the eyes. Martin felt 
 foolish. Those blue magnified eyes might see him 
 through and through, but he could not tell. They 
 might be shining with triumph or with tears. They 
 might belong to an exceedingly stupid man, but they 
 were not the eyes of a genius. " Here is undiluted 
 sanity," said Martin to himself; "curse it! " 
 
 Steinbach dropped his hand and went out, and when 
 he got out of the door Martin shook himself. " Ugh ! " 
 he exclaimed to himself ; " he sets himself at me ! " and, 
 flinging himself at the piano, he struck a note in the 
 middle loudly with his forefinger. He did not strike 
 another. Instead of playing, as he had intended, he 
 
LEIPSIC 117 
 
 went to the brandy bottle and poured himself out a 
 wineglass or two full, which he drank neat. 
 
 Steinbach stood outside in the rain and looked at 
 the gray front of the house. He looked up at the 
 roof and down to the pavement, and across from side 
 to side. It was very hot out in the rain; there had 
 probably been a thunderstorm in the hills. He heard 
 Martin strike one note and no more. Although it 
 was hot he turned up his gray coat collar and pulled 
 his white silk muffler to his ears. He could feel the 
 rain striking the top of his English bowler. He waited 
 five minutes on the pavement, patiently and, to an out- 
 sider, stupidly. He was not stupid; what he waited 
 for he could not tell, but he did not go until he was 
 satisfied. Perhaps his body was waiting for his mind 
 to come out of the house. After about five minutes 
 he moved away, and walking on the outside edge of 
 the pavement he came to the bridge. In the middle he 
 stopped and considered. It was a long way down on 
 his side of the wall to the bottom of the well. People 
 outside might think him shallow. He had a sensation 
 of depth, probably because he was looking over a high 
 bridge into a void, but the physical and mental sensa- 
 tions coincided, though they were neither of them 
 expressed in words. 
 
 When he got back to his House he was conscious of 
 feeling better, though better than what he did not 
 know. If he had considered his thought he might have 
 
ii8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 got some light on the matter. He was thinking, " I 
 at least am human," but like most thoughts it went 
 through his mind without holding the attention. As he 
 took off his coat he passed his hand over the wet, 
 heavy material. His hand was as wet as if he had 
 dipped it into water. He suddenly felt in sympathy 
 with his father and sister and all his friends. It 
 seemed to him that Martin could not get wet and 
 would not notice it if he did. "They are all on my 
 side," he thought. " Thank God ! " 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 IT was January. Hella von Rosenthal sat beside 
 Martin in a box at the opera. She was not listen- 
 ing to the music, nor was he. He was dreaming, 
 as he always did when he heard music, about some- 
 thing totally different. Steinbach sat at the back of 
 the box and watched him. Hella was pleased to be at 
 the theater with Martin, though she hardly knew him. 
 Steinbach had not succeeded so far in making him her 
 friend. She was thinking what thoughts he must be 
 having when he sat in the darkness like that alone with 
 himself. She wondered what it would be like to kiss 
 him ; she had only kissed Bernard Christian Steinbach 
 amongst men, but he was an ancient friend. She felt 
 quite cold when she went mentally through the experi- 
 ence of kissing Martin. "What hundreds of men 
 women kiss in their imagination,** she said to herself. 
 The thought was quite pure. After all, kisses can be 
 as chaste as roses and lilies. She wondered what it 
 would be like to kiss him, because she wanted to 
 know what he was like, not to discover what she her- 
 self felt. She next wondered how he would treat a 
 wife or a mistress, and decided that he would treat 2t 
 wife badly and a mistress well for a short time and 
 
 "9 
 
120 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 cruelly later. " Preserve me from ever being his 
 wife," she thought. She looked at Steinbach. It 
 excited her sense of humor to see him sitting at the 
 back of the box like the keeper of a lunatic. She 
 thought he had a bee in his bonnet. She thought him 
 very good to let Martin spend his money; she 
 thought him very silly to try and chain such an ele- 
 mental being to his will. Martin came to her without 
 a past, as so many of our friends do, like a mushroom. 
 All she knew of him was his " Poverty of Croesus," 
 which had caused a considerable sensation amongst 
 Leipsic critics. He seemed a mature person, full of 
 self-command and ability. She tried to grasp the fact 
 that Steinbach wanted to make him write a light opera. 
 It seemed to her incongruous; it seemed as if her 
 ancient friend was making a mistake. She felt herself 
 siding against him. For years their indefinite feeling 
 of friendship had not experienced anything so strong. 
 They had supposed, in their gentle comradeship, that 
 one day they would marry one another ; she had called 
 him her little fat husband in fun several times. They 
 were to marry, they thought, at the end of his con- 
 scription; and again, after his university course, but 
 nothing had taken place. 
 
 She wore a black velvet gown that evening, and a 
 hat with ostrich feathers, and looked what we should 
 now call old for twenty-six, but at the beginning of this 
 century people looked women long before their girlhood 
 
LEIPSIC 121 
 
 was properly over. She was very good-looking*; some 
 of her friends called her American. She was like a 
 high-class German who has emigrated to America and 
 returned. People sent her postcards of young women 
 drawn by Dana Gibson, and certainly with her fine 
 eyes, her oval face, and beautiful hair rolled up a la 
 Pompadour in front and tied into a large queue with a 
 black ribbon in the nape of her neck, she closely re- 
 sembled their general outline, but her mouth with its 
 definite curves betrayed her nationality. She had also 
 a beautiful dimple in one cheek, and when she smiled 
 she showed white, regular teeth, and everybody thought 
 she was very handsome. 
 
 Martin deigned to admire her, but she seemed so 
 cold and statuesque that he made no effort to approach 
 her. He lolled back behind the ridiculous side curtains 
 of the box, with their ridiculous fringes of little balls, 
 and surveyed Steinbach and Hella. She put up her fan 
 and talked to Bernard behind it. She referred to a 
 joke of his about not being able to manage Martin 
 unless he were going through a crisis or an emotion. 
 Music was supposed to produce the former. 
 
 " A crisis or an emotion ? '' she whispered, looking 
 behind her fan towards Martin. 
 
 " ril hire a beastly piano-player and work my feet 
 off," answered Steinbach. "Why don*t you sing to 
 him?" 
 
 " I ? He has not asked me." 
 
122 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " Ask him." 
 
 "I don't know," said Hella; "why should we 
 squeeze operas out of the poor young man ? " 
 
 " I want him, don't you understand, to be famous. 
 I do not believe he has grand opera in him. He has 
 the other sort. Why, he has half written one. I can- 
 not make him finish it." 
 
 " Are you fond of him? " said Hella. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am fascinated ; to tell you the truth, I 
 am fascinated to see what he can be made to do." 
 
 '* I think you are horrible." 
 
 " Who is horrible ? " said Martin, who had been 
 trying to catch the conversation. He leaned forward. 
 
 " Bernard is," said Hella. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Hella laughed softly. " Oh, oh," she said, " I simply 
 cannot tell you! That is forbidden, to betray a 
 friend." 
 
 Martin lolled back again behind the curtain and 
 screwed up his eyes. 
 
 " Fraulein von Rosenthal," he said, " all I can see 
 of you is an obscure whiteness with diamond flashes 
 upon it, all I can see of Bernard is a shirt front 
 and a pair of rimless pince-nez, and those spectral 
 fragments I tell myself are my friends, and yet 
 against me." 
 
 " Quite so," said Steinbach, from the back of the 
 box, and smiled. 
 
LEIPSIC 123 
 
 " I see teeth now — the teeth of the devourer." 
 
 Hella laughed. "You are absurd, Herr von 
 Schiller." 
 
 " I am serious. Perhaps you two specters can 
 enlighten me. In this darkness I can speak frankly. 
 Tell me, oracles, what does my lord and master select 
 that I shall do for him ? Why am I in Leipsic, what is 
 the price of my liberty ? Shade of man and woman, 
 are ye an expression of the devil? Why tempt ye me? 
 It is all too easy for me to follow. I wish to excel 
 everything and all, you wish me to be easily brilliant, 
 I have sold my soul to a rich man. I try to evade his 
 persuasiveness ; he brings me a woman to tempt me. I 
 do not wish to be clever in your way. Give me a 
 chance." He spoke in a low, quiet voice. 
 
 Steinbach leaned towards him so that he could have 
 touched him with his hand and said also : 
 
 " Give me a chance." 
 
 "The chances are all yours," said Martin. He 
 turned to Hella. " Will you give me a chance? Your 
 future husband is obdurate." 
 
 " I dare not interfere," she said with a smile, and 
 looked the other way. 
 
 Martin looked at Steinbach. 
 
 " If I could only make out what destiny you have 
 for me," he said. 
 
 "None, none," said Steinbach. "I want you to 
 see what ability you have. I want you to see yourself. 
 
124 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Give me my chance; you are welcome. to discard me 
 afterwards, but you will not discard me. I have stud- 
 ied you for almost a year ; I know your abilities better 
 than you imagine, also your temperament. Finish me 
 the * Coquettes.* You will thank me when you get 
 the net profits.*' 
 
 " This is an odd moment to talk business." 
 
 " You are an odd man. Half the business of the 
 world is done in odd moments." 
 
 The lights went up for the interval and Steinbach 
 rose. His time was up for that day, probably for a 
 long period ; you could not badger a man like Martin. 
 He managed to whisper to Hella as he went out, " Ask 
 him to supper with us at your house and sing to him — 
 sing to him." 
 
 When he had gone, Hella started a conversation. 
 
 "Don't you think," she said, leaning her beautiful 
 arm along the edge of the box and looking over — 
 " don't you think people are too isolated nowadays each 
 within himself? " 
 
 " I certainly feel isolated," said Martin. 
 
 " Look over the edge of the box," she went on, " at 
 that pink creature and that blue creature and all the 
 other creatures. Do they look to have one single sym- 
 pathy?" 
 
 " I do not know," said Martin; " I cannot imagine 
 myself partitioned amongst many." 
 
 " No," said Hella, " we shall cast lots for you." 
 
LEIPSIC 125 
 
 "That will be very charming; you will tell me who 
 wins?" 
 
 *' Oh, we shall not tell you! But the stakes will be 
 enormous.'* 
 
 "What sort of stakes?" 
 
 Hella smiled sweetly with her eyes and mouth at 
 him. " Oh, I do not know ! " she said ; " piano-players, 
 reputations, peace of mind, self-esteem, and all sorts 
 of things. You see you are something to have and to 
 hold." 
 
 " You are flattering me." 
 
 "Will you come to supper with us?" said Hella 
 suddenly. 
 
 "I shall be delighted," said Martin; but he nearly 
 yawned. 
 
 As they left the opera-house, Hella said to Stein- 
 bach, " He is coming. I am doing this to amuse my- 
 self, but how it will amuse me I cannot see." And then 
 she laughed. " I am not in your power too, am I ? " 
 
 Steinbach smiled. "Just so! You are part of the 
 game ! " 
 
 She put her hand on his arm and shook her head 
 with a frown. 
 
 " No, no," she said ; " you are too young to have a 
 sensible woman in your power. I will do this to oblige 
 you. I do not want a midnight name. You must 
 remember I live alone." 
 
126 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " This will not make you a cocotte/' said Steinbach. 
 He smiled again. " Any one can have supper with a 
 man this twentieth century." 
 
 " I look upon you as my protector/' said Hella, jok- 
 ing. " How you throw away my reputation ! When 
 a man wants anything every sacrifice must be 
 made!" 
 
 Steinbach frowned. " If I could not trust him with 
 a sane woman," he said, " would I send him to you? " 
 
 " It will not be a success," said Hella ; " bring him 
 on Wednesday." 
 
 Martin had gone to look for a taxicab. 
 
 " What a long time that man is with the cab," she 
 went on. " Don't bring him to-night ; say I have a 
 headache. Really, dearest friend, I only want myself 
 and you, if you will come." 
 
 " Oh, darling Hella ! " Steinbach answered, " you 
 ought not to fail your old friend." 
 
 " I wish we were married," said Hella with a sigh. 
 
 " We will be when the * Coquettes ' is produced." 
 
 *' I believe you have somebody else in your eye." 
 
 " No, I have nobody else in my eye. Here's 
 Schuler." 
 
 " You look like husband and wife from the street." 
 said Martin as he came up. 
 
 They laughed. 
 
 " I have known this creature from childhood," said 
 Hella affectionately. 
 
LEIPSIC 127 
 
 "And I this creature," said Steinbach, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 "Leave me alone and get married," said Martin 
 cheerfully. 
 
 They went down the steps and got into the cab. 
 Hella got in first, Martin second, and Steinbach, who 
 held the door, made a feint, cried, " All right " to the 
 driver, and was left standing on the pavement as the 
 taxi buzzed away. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said Martin, leaning out of the window, 
 " where is he going? " 
 
 " I do not know," said Hella. 
 
 " I am trapped," Martin ejaculated, as he sank back 
 on the seat. 
 
 " We are trapped," said she. 
 
 " It is impossible to escape that man," said Martin, 
 half seriously. " One day I shall shoot him." 
 
 " Yes," said Hella, " he has a curious capacity for 
 making people do what he wants." 
 
 Martin was talking to Hella and eating sandwiches. 
 
 " Since I came to Leipsic," he said, " I have changed. 
 Paris made me stop being a foolish youth, but Leipsic ! 
 Oh, my God ! I have moods here. I find that my temper 
 is bad and I become depressed, most terribly depressed. 
 T have long periods when I fail to know myself. I 
 fail to recognize my actions. Before, there never ap- 
 peared to be more than one way. And how do I now 
 
128 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 decide? It is all luck; whichever I like best at the 
 moment I do. I am insecure. I wander. There is 
 nothing to prevent me from doing any mad thing. I 
 step. I take another step, but whether north or south 
 I cannot tell." 
 
 " It is change of place," said Hella. She was seated 
 on a sofa before an open fire. He was standing beside 
 the mantelpiece, sticking his first finger into the crev- 
 ices of an elaborate china group. He went on : 
 
 '* I was so sure when I was young. Without think- 
 ing, a few years ago, I seduced a respectable girl." 
 
 Hella's eyes intensified. 
 
 " I stole a manuscript from under the dead body of 
 a man — a man called Werner." 
 
 "Yes," said Hella; "the 'Ways of Water' fel- 
 low?" 
 
 "I thought well of that man," continued Martin; 
 " he was curious — a dream, not real. It was a queer 
 life in those days ! He was my very good friend. How 
 dim the past is 1 I remember clearly, though, some of 
 his unpalatable remarks to me. He did not praise me. 
 I remember how happy I was to receive my patrimony. 
 It wiped away any sorrow I had for my father. I long 
 to be at home now. My sister Bertha was charming : 
 now she is a house-frau. Of course they were not 
 your kind of folk; we are quite common people. It is 
 all vanished away like steam. I can never recall to 
 you, except in music, the charm of those past days! 
 
LEIPSIC 139 
 
 Have you been to Heidelberg? The beautiful woods 
 and rivers ! Surely, I think to myself as I recollect 
 them, Paris and Helen dwelt here ! " 
 
 " I have had no home for three years," said Hella. 
 "I am independent. I live alone. I am sorry you 
 are unhappy." 
 
 "I am not exactly unhappy," said Martin, sitting 
 down with a sigh. He adjusted the crease in his 
 trousers, and then hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " Bernard told me to sing to you," said Hella. 
 
 " Damn Bernard ! " he cried, suddenly crossing his 
 legs and folding his arms across his breast. "You 
 are the only human being I have met for weeks." 
 
 *' Are we human ? " 
 
 " That is the point," cried Martin violently, chang- 
 ing his position again ; " who is human ? what is real ? 
 what is false ? what are dreams ? " 
 
 " I am twenty-six," said Hella, without any reason 
 but an intricate chain of thoughts. 
 
 *T am nearly twenty-five," answered Martin. 
 
 " Bernard and I have been friends," she said, " for 
 years. He is so rational and gentle. He is so sane 
 in his judgments, so human." 
 
 " I cannot get familiar or at all at ease with him,*' 
 said Martin, standing up again. " I am so pleased I 
 have met you ; I have a friend in Leipsic ! Ah ! Leipsic, 
 now thou art more to me than a mere pile of bricks." 
 
 " Please come and see me whenever you like," said 
 
130 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Hella; " if you like me to-morrow, if I am human." 
 
 " I have never met so clever a woman " — Martin 
 bowed — " one so human and — may I say it ? — so much 
 my equal/' 
 
 " Oh ! " said Hella, laughing, " I can say the same 
 of you. We are two genuine and private beings." 
 
 " Yes," said Martin. 
 
 " And you in public are a musical genius, and I 
 
 Martin interrupted — " A very beautiful woman." 
 
 Hella made eyes at him. 
 
 " Good-night, Martin Schiiler; we shall meet again." 
 
 ** Assuredly, many, many times. Allow me the 
 privilege of a friend." He kissed her hand, and, 
 looking up with a smile, said: 
 
 " Hella, next time perhaps you will sing one of my 
 songs to me." 
 
 Before she had answered he had kissed her cheek 
 and gone out of the door. 
 
 A most delicious feeling came to her. Happiness 
 suffused her mind and body. She half shut her eyes 
 as she stood, bathed in delight. Suddenly she laughed 
 girlishly, and went to the mantelpiece to get a cigar- 
 ette, but when she found herself standing just where 
 he had stood, she hid her face in her hands and said 
 aloud, " Oh, I am happy, I am hap-py ! Martin, Mar- 
 tin, Martin!" 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 STEINBACH gave a dinner party some weeks 
 later to his young men friends. His dinner 
 parties were intellectual at the beginning and 
 often rowdy at the end. To this dinner party came 
 Griffenhousen, who knew more about the antiquities 
 of Greece than any man of his years; Paul Reinherz 
 and Maurice von Rittenberg, historic authors, one 
 stout and one Bohemian; an artist, August Falls; 
 another artist, Jensen Christenholm, a Swede, who 
 painted only naked women as they were, not as the 
 general public supposes they are ; the sixth was a Rus- 
 sian Pole, who had tabulated human nature during his- 
 residence in a Siberian prison, and who, like Dos- 
 toieffsky, had returned much the worse in health and 
 morals, to write novels. His novels were bad, though 
 startling. He was always in debt, always unclean and 
 fierce in behavior, though of a weak and mild appear- 
 ance. His teeth were far apart, his eyes pale and short- 
 sighted, his hair lank and fair. Martin was amused 
 by him, probably because he was a foreigner, and 
 certainly he said amazing things in an amazing 
 way. 
 
 131 
 
132 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Martin was not in time for dinner. Nobody waited 
 for him. They seated themselves in Steinbach's mod- 
 ern dining-room round a round table covered with 
 fruit and wine. The Russian began to smoke at once. 
 He was supposed to suffer from epilepsy, but his fits 
 never occurred unless he could gain something by 
 them. He had fits in the drawing-rooms of rich people 
 in order that they might put him to bed and look after 
 him for several days. 
 
 "Where is Schiiler?" said Reinherz, looking at 
 the empty chair. 
 
 " Chez Hella von Rosenthal," said Steinbach. 
 
 Somebody made an indecent and obvious remark. 
 
 " He is still a rose in the bud," said August Falls, 
 the artist. 
 
 " We expected more than we have got," sneered 
 Christenholm, the other artist. " The life of music 
 is short. Music is a spasmodic art. We are all fools 
 if we expect any more musicians for a thousand 
 years." 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! " cried Rittenberg as he swallowed his 
 horS'd^ceuvres noisily, " don't you tell me that. It is 
 art that is on the wane." 
 
 Knives and forks clattered and glasses clinked. 
 Wine was poured out of bottles ; everything seemed to 
 be in shimmering movement like sunlit water. 
 
 " Steinbach, you got a bad egg when you went to 
 Heidelberg," said somebody. 
 
LEIPSIC 133 
 
 Steinbach was silent. He did not like being laughed 
 at. 
 
 The Russian spoke. "What is everybody saying? 
 My premonitions are wrong, perhaps.'* 
 
 " What premoniti.Tins ? " everybody cried. 
 
 "That I shall have a recurrence of my illness to- 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! " cried Rittenberg, " we shall souse you 
 in the bath if you do.'' 
 
 The noise grew, the plate clattered, voices hummed, 
 buzzed, and shouted. Griffenhousen ate little, Stein- 
 bach nothing, the others a great deal. Griffenhousen 
 whispered to Steinbach: 
 
 " You have lost Schuler." 
 
 " Perhaps," he answered stiffly. 
 
 " I suppose von Rosenthal is his mistress." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Steinbach stiffly again. 
 
 " People talk about them. He kisses her publicly at 
 her soirees." 
 
 " I daresay." 
 
 " I am sorry for you, Bernard. What a disappoint- 
 ment. He is running to seed, I suppose. We all ex- 
 pected something this March." 
 
 " You shall have it in October," Steinbach barked. 
 He was angry and hurt and annoyed with Martin be- 
 cause he had not come to dinner. Martin was hardly 
 ever to be seen nowadays. He took himself off to 
 Hella's house, and the house of rich men who flattered 
 
134 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 him and treated him like a prince. He spent Stein- 
 bach's money, came back drunk now and then, and 
 gambled, rode, and danced his time away. 
 
 Then there was Hella. He, Steinbach, had lost her, 
 but she seemed to have opened the gates of life to 
 Martin. It would have been easy to throw Martin 
 over, and kick him out of the house, but Steinbach was 
 hampered by jealousy, by fear lest somebody else 
 should participate in the success that he himself hoped 
 for; and by love, because he loved Martin and looked 
 upon him as a responsibility. 
 
 Doors banged. The door of the dining-room was 
 flung open and Martin, gay and joyous, came into the 
 room. 
 
 " Hail, my friends ! " he cried. " Caesar is late ! " 
 Then flung himself into a vacant chair. The servant 
 offered him hors-d'oeuvres. " No," he said, " I'll go 
 on with the rest." 
 
 " How is Hella ? " somebody said. 
 
 Martin frowned slightly. " Hella is very well," he 
 answered. " Make me a cigarette, Machinkoff ! " 
 
 Machinkoff made him a cigarette, then stood up and 
 leaned across the table, with a slight bow, to hand it. 
 " My friend," he said, in a voice too deep for his ex- 
 terior, " the immutable truth lived at the bottom of the 
 well." Nobody knew what he meant, but somebody 
 clapped his hands and said, " Well done, Machinkoff." 
 
 ** What do you mean ? " said Martin. 
 
LEIPSIC 135 
 
 "Next time you are with your girl/' answered 
 Machinkoff, " threaten to kill her. Threaten to kill a 
 woman if you care for her mind. If you only care 
 for her body, do the same. It is amusing." 
 
 " The lunatic," said Falls. 
 
 Rittenberg thought no woman's equanimity would 
 stand a threat of death. Griffenhousen said everything 
 was less dear than life to some people, but that others 
 valued many things more. He himself did not care 
 how soon he died. 
 
 Machinkoff in a flash produced a revolver, and fired 
 it off in the air. The suggestion caused Griffenhousen 
 to think he had been taken at his word, and he fainted. 
 A commotion took place, but he soon recovered and 
 lived for many years under the shadow of that joke. 
 
 Soon order was restored, and wines and cigars were 
 spread in the smoking-room, where all the men shortly 
 repaired. The din became deafening until Machinkoff, 
 who hated noise of any kind after his long and silent 
 Siberian sojourn, suggested cards, and no sooner were 
 they all seated at cards than he began to tell the for- 
 tunes of the three men at his table from the hands 
 they held. The fortunes were banal enough, but as 
 nobody is proof against the black arts, soon everybody 
 was clamoring for a display of clairvoyance, except 
 Steinbach, who said he believed in God. 
 
 "If you will," said Machinkoff, "I must; but if I 
 have a fit, be it upon your heads." 
 
136 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " Upon our heads be it," cried everybody. 
 
 Machinkoff looked from one to the other. He was 
 a little drunk, he was excited, he hardly knew what 
 he said. " All have blank faces," he said. 
 
 " Griffenhousen is a fool and of no use in this 
 world. What are the antiquities? We live a little in 
 the present. He is in too much of a hurry to belong 
 to the past." 
 
 " Father of heaven ! " he suddenly cried, looking 
 at Martin, about whom he felt a stupid jealousy, but 
 whom he dared not mention first for fear of being 
 accused of charlatanism ; " Jensen Christenholm must 
 beware of himself. He is a low and cruel man. Thy 
 place in hell is hot, Jensen Christenholm 1 I see the 
 devil with his tongs nipping the soft parts of your 
 body." He pretended to shiver as if in the first stages 
 of a fit. Christenholm laughed, but he felt the powers 
 of evil run coldly down his spine. When denounced, 
 one's convictions are apt to give way ; even in fun it is 
 uncomfortable to be denounced. The Russian took a 
 drink of brandy, and, becoming more drunk and more 
 excitable, let out a flow of language that was unintel- 
 ligible even to himself. 
 
 " I see," suddenly burst out Machinkoff, " Martin 
 Schuler crucified upon a high tree. * Unfaithful 1 un- , 
 faithful ! * cry the carrion crows as they pluck out his 
 once luminous eyes. Unfaithful! unfaithful! His 
 bonds burst, he falls from the tree. He walks. He is 
 
LEIPSIC 137 
 
 full of death. Damned art thou, Martin Schuler, one 
 way and another. I have lived in prisons, I have 
 worked in mines, I have stenched with filth and degra- 
 dation, but I have not stenched as Martin Schuler 
 stenches in his death's walks." Machinkoff wrestled 
 with his collar and groaned. " Oh, I am bewildered at 
 the sight of your degradation! No diamond is true 
 that will not withstand fire. Hark ! Hark ! He howls 
 as the dogs tear him. As he walks, dogs tear him. Is 
 he alive? Yes! Dogs tear him. Do you see yourself 
 as you prowl in the night? What a labor to live. 
 At the top of the hill you will die. How steep the 
 hill is, how barbarous the rocks ! * Is there no top to 
 this hill,* you cry. At the top you die. You live a 
 little longer after you are dead — sl minute perhaps. 
 That minute is everlasting, that is hell. Hell 
 is timeless; hell has no locality; for you it is 
 that minute when you are dead on the top of 
 the hill!" 
 
 Machinkoff shuddered and pitched forward. Two 
 of the men caught him, and brandy was poured down 
 his throat. In a minute he spoke. " There," he said, 
 " I almost had a fit," but his eye was steady and cold, 
 he was pleased because he had made a sensation; he 
 was looking for Martin. Martin and Steinbach had 
 gone. Steinbach was walking in the dining-room; 
 in a miserable temper. He had gone there at the out- 
 break of clairvoyance. Martin had just been in to 
 
138 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 him and had struck his face. Before he had 
 time to retaliate or do anything else Martin wa^ 
 gone. 
 
 When Martin arrived at Hella's house it was after 
 midnight. He let himself in with a key and went to 
 her bedroom. The opening of the door woke her. 
 She saw the outline of a man. 
 
 " Who is it ? " she said breathlessly. 
 
 " I," said Martin. *1 am betrayed ! " • 
 
 " Who has betrayed you ? '' 
 
 " Steinbach. Oh, my God, my God! '' he cried; " I 
 shall kill him. I shall go back and kill him, and then 
 myself." 
 
 Hella sprang from the bed and ran to him. " Don*t, 
 don^t!" she cried. "Oh, Martin, don't!" She felt 
 his breast heave in fury. 
 
 " I must kill that man. I have struck him : I must 
 kill him." 
 
 " No, no ! " Hella left him hastily and put on a 
 dressing-gown. Then she led him into the drawing- 
 room. She believed he was drunk. 
 
 " My dear," she said, holding his arm as they stood 
 watching the red embers of the fire; "my dear, do 
 nothing rash." 
 
 " Rash ! " howled Martin. " He hired a Russian 
 to insult me! He cannot goad me into servility with 
 his insults. I shall kill him. Let me but tear up all I 
 
LEIPSIC 139 
 
 have written, let me but get back when they have all 
 gone ! '' 
 
 " You must tear nothing up — for my sake," said 
 Hella. " Remember you are going to be my husband 
 in May. My husband! I want my husband and all 
 his works. I love his beautiful works. Oh, dearest 
 Martin, I love you." 
 
 " May is not the question now," said Martin ; " I 
 shall shoot Steinbach." He renounced, however, his 
 last intention to shoot Steinbach as he said it. Hella 
 was crying. How lovely she looked with her hair 
 flowing over her shoulders ! She was good too. She 
 loved Martin perfectly and unselfishly, and an agony 
 filled her heart lest he should do anything out- 
 rageous. 
 
 " Darling," she said, " you must not kill Bernard." 
 
 Martin growled, " You can marry him." The reply, 
 ** But he will be shot," sprang to her lips. She almost 
 smiled as she answered instead, " I do not love him." 
 
 They still stood in front of the fireplace. Martin's 
 hands were in his pockets. He frowned and puffed 
 out his cheeks. 
 
 " I cannot go back to his house." 
 
 A huge wave, like a wave of the sea, caught up 
 Hella's spirit and threw it at his feet. 
 
 '* You can stay here," she said meekly. 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " You come here often," she said, almost bitterly. 
 
140 MARTIN SCHtJLER 
 
 " I do," he sighed, but he turned and took her into 
 his arms. ** Hella, Hella, my love ! " 
 
 She put her arms round his neck and whispered in 
 his ear, "We will go to Switzerland. Up in the 
 mountains you will forget; just alone, you and I, and 
 you can call me your wife." 
 
 " My wife," said Martin, kissing her hand. 
 
 ** And we will not think of Bernard at all." 
 
 " Yes," he said ; " I will shake his dust off the soles 
 of ray feet." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN those days it was still possible to evade the 
 English in Switzerland, but then one lacked con- 
 venient hotels and life was not very comfortable. 
 Martin and Hella wished above everything to avoid 
 people, so they went neither to Davos, Caux, nor St. 
 Moritz. Lunn was beginning to popularize the Ber- 
 nese Oberland as a winter resort for the English and 
 to import as social attractions, to regions where society 
 had never yet flourished, certain poorer members of 
 the British aristocracy. It was probably a scheme 
 remunerative to Mr. Lunn and to the Swi^s, but to 
 Hella and Martin, who wished to discover some place 
 where men and women were few, its results did not 
 appeal. Finally they took a chalet near Les Avants, 
 because Les Avants was small, accessible, and not too 
 high. 
 
 There, in a small chalet overlooking the lake of 
 Geneva, they began their life together. All day they 
 wandered in the beautiful clear winter sunshine, or 
 climbed the Col du Lion, or walked down the gorge 
 beside the half -frozen mountain torrent. Below and 
 above their chalet grew immense pines of a description 
 only to be met with in those shaded mountain valleys, 
 
 141 
 
142 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 pines from whose boughs the frozen snow continually 
 slipped with a soft swish. In those calm still days of 
 winter sunshine this was the only noise that invaded 
 their peace. How blissful and how idle their life was. 
 Beauty and goodness filled their hearts, they were as 
 pure as the endless snow upon the mountains. Some- 
 times they walked high upon the hillside to gaze at 
 the panorama of the Italian mountains, sometimes 
 they went even higher amongst the rocks to gain a 
 view of Mont Blanc, remote and blue, like a peak of 
 mist. Before them, wherever they went, stretched the 
 lake and the long Rhone valley, terminating in the 
 beautiful Dent du Midi. Sometimes they took the 
 train down to Vevey and pretended to be frivolous at 
 a tea-shop ; sometimes they ventured on the lake. Hella 
 was never tired of looking at Chillon, she sailed past 
 it, and walked past it, and entered it several times. But 
 there was no snow in Montreux or Vevey, so that in 
 spite of romantic and frivolous attractions they did not 
 very often go down there. They preferred to be high 
 up in the whiteness of the snow, or under the warm 
 shade of the gigantic pines. They read many books 
 together and watched many sunsets. Martin, to the 
 outward eye, was changed. He wrote no music nor 
 did he talk about it except vaguely when Hella opened 
 the subject, which she did not frequently do. He 
 was mild, kind, and happy. The joy of loving well 
 and generously one who was so good and who de- 
 
LEIPSIC 143 
 
 pended entirely upon him for her happiness took hold 
 of him. He did all she asked him, went where she 
 wished, sought to please her and to make her as happy 
 as himself. One lovely day succeeded another. Rous- 
 seau in his highest idyllic dream, his best idyllic experi- 
 ence, never surpassed the beauty of those winter days. 
 The golden sunshine, the dark green trees, the white 
 snow, the blue lake, entered their hearts. They were 
 one with the beauty of nature. Their thoughts and 
 their conversation were too bhssful to tell. They 
 dwelt in heaven. Marvels of existence were revealed 
 to them; they spoke to one another of these revela- 
 tions. Nothing in the world seemed impossible. The 
 highest and most remote came within their reach. 
 They grasped it, they rode among the stars. At night, 
 in the cold glitter of the moon, they would stand on 
 their veranda wrapped in the same fur cloak, and with- 
 out speech would enter into one another's souls. Not 
 a moment of the day or night were they apart. Their 
 familiarity became complete. Short, happy days, and 
 long, rapturous nights glided past — a never-ending 
 day, a never-ending night. The depths of their souls 
 were disclosed, their minds were awakened to their 
 own deepness, the profundity of human nature, the 
 magnitude of human love. 
 
 They met in that oblivion where the human soul 
 becomes utterly lost in one perfect light made of the 
 (essence of oneness, made of the perfection of thought, 
 
144 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 and of the perfection of physical tension, when every 
 nerve of the body is alive and perfectly controlled. 
 They knew the complete self -consciousness of the 
 body: no ugly frenzy of inequality but the loveliness 
 of the purest free-will and the passionless beauty of 
 restraint. The delicate and most wonderful contacts 
 of supreme love beautiful and strong finger-touches, 
 the light caresses, the meeting of lips: give wings to 
 the soul, upon which it flies a million miles above the 
 stars, so that they look below like silver streaks in 
 space. The soul poises a little while looking down- 
 wards; it cannot look up, it is supreme; it looks side- 
 ways and around for it knows that this instant of time 
 will never return except in memory. It shines white 
 like pure light and suddenly bursts into a million sil- 
 very sparks that shower and scatter and flow forth like 
 the fountains of the day. An instant, and then dark- 
 ness falls over space, and time, pain, and conscious- 
 ness, restraint, beauty, and attainment, life, desire, 
 passion, and supremacy fade into the deepness of the 
 wonderful and silent night. 
 
 When the snow began to melt and to lay bare great 
 green patches on the hillside, they gathered hepatica 
 and crocuses together, primroses and white and purple 
 violets. The saturated fields were full of flowers. They 
 wandered down the slopes through little woods and 
 crawled under bushes for the hepatica; " fille avant la 
 mere" it is called because the mauve flowers appear 
 
LEIPSIC 145 
 
 long before the leaves. No day passed during the 
 spring thaw without a walk. They walked chiefly in the 
 gorge, and Martin, intrepid and bold, waded out of 
 sheer lightness of heart across the widest part of the 
 torrent with Hella in his arms. Their ecstatic happi- 
 ness seemed not to wane ; neither of them could surfeit 
 of love-making and kissing. Every time they kissed 
 was a new love. In the woods sometimes they would 
 suddenly kiss, and a blind oneness would possess them 
 for a moment. Sometimes they denied themselves an 
 embrace till their hearts cried out to meet. They found 
 a thousand expressions of their love. When the clouds 
 rolled below them, close upon the lake, they had the 
 sensation of being in that material heaven so dear to 
 man's imagination. When they descended through the 
 fir trees down into the valley they had the sensation of 
 sinking into the oblivion of love. When they stood 
 high upon the hills in the wind of early spring, they 
 felt ybung and strong. Courage, weariness, hope, sad- 
 ness, aspiration, wonder, fear, thankfulness: none of 
 these things did they experience. In their bliss was 
 nothing but gladness, certainty, and attainment. 
 
CHAPTER Xiy 
 
 MARCH became April, and April May, and 
 Martin Schiiler went to Interlaken with 
 Hella von Rosenthal. They had heard noth- 
 ing from Steinbach, though Martin, in a moment of 
 good feeling towards humanity, had written an apology 
 to him. 
 
 In those days, behind the Hotel du Nord was a field 
 full of flowers : forget-me-nots, primroses, and daisies; 
 fuller of flowers than any other field in the world. It 
 was away from the main road, beside an old monastery 
 church, the vaults of which were used as a beer cellar. 
 Here in the early part of summer, before visitors in- 
 fested Interlaken, one could pass whole days and see 
 nobody but an occasional peasant. Hella called it the 
 Champs Elysees, for she and Martin frequently sat 
 there together and talked and wrote poetry and passed 
 idyllic days. When they were tired of the sight of the 
 Jungfrau and the Scheidech and the well-wooded foot- 
 hills of the Oberland, they sat beneath the shadow of 
 the huge walnut trees that grew beside the church. The 
 ancient trees and the old church were, in quality and 
 color, like those old trees and churches which one sees 
 in landscape pictures of the late eighteenth century. 
 
 146 
 
LEIPSIC 147 
 
 There was repose beneath them, and a feeling of rural 
 domesticity. Here village revels were held in former 
 times, and solemn Calvinistic ceremonies performed. 
 Here children sometimes played while their mothers 
 gossiped and made lace. Hans Andersen probably saw 
 Rudi's prototype kiss a village girl in the secluded 
 shadows of the church walls; probably Byron had 
 lolled upon these grasses, dressed fantastically in peas- 
 ant costume, handsome and emotional, lazy and ener- 
 getic. The ancient quality of that shady place brought 
 peace and the quiet things of love closer to Hella. She 
 enjoyed the placid calmness of her love there as one 
 enjoys the serenity of a lake after the turmoil of the 
 ocean. 
 
 In the warm afternoon, when she and Martin sat 
 together there, the proprietor of the Hotel du Nord, 
 their host, used to watch them through a gap in the 
 hedge that gave access to this field. He was a fat 
 Swiss, and habitually wore a gray suit and a small 
 straw hat. He used to wonder how Herr and Madame 
 von Schiller could lie for such hours in a common 
 field instead of commandeering his carriages for end- 
 less expeditions. He spent a long time in that gap 
 wondering who the von Schiilers were, and excused his 
 idleness by pretending to scare birds off his grass-seed 
 patch. People did not usually come to his small hotel 
 so early. When the first visitor came the seed grass 
 was usually cut, his wife had usually been replaced 
 
148 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 by a chef, and his son by a few waiters more awake to 
 their work. 
 
 On the tenth of May Martin received a parcel from 
 Steinbach with a short, business-like letter asking him 
 kindly to go through the contents and to make what 
 alterations he liked. Martin did as he was asked and 
 then thrust the parcel into his portmanteau. 
 
 One hot morning, as he and Hella were in their field, 
 Hella sighed and said, " I could live and die in this 
 field! I love these forget-me-nots and I love you." 
 Then she whispered, " Forget-we-not, forget-m^- 
 not!'* and ran her hands through the grass and 
 flowers as if they were the hair of the earth's head. 
 " Haven't we been happy here? " She picked all the 
 forget-me-nots in her reach. " I never want to go 
 back to Leipsic." 
 
 " I should like to go to Lauterbrunnen again," said 
 Martin ; " I want to see old Staubach once more." 
 
 " You old tourist," smiled Hella. 
 
 " You can stay here for ever," said Martin, " if you 
 like." 
 
 " It is not nice in summer, I know by experience ! 
 If we could only keep the weather, and the wistaria, 
 and the emptiness, and this flowery field ! " 
 
 "Hella," said Martin, "I love you inexpressibly." 
 They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. 
 
 Then Martin said, "Hella!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
LEIPSIC 149 
 
 " Steinbach has sent me my opera comedy 
 finished.'* 
 
 "What? that comedy!" 
 
 " Yes ; I am amazed. It is wonderfully amalga- 
 mated ; he must have rifled my desk. All the best parts 
 I ever made for it and a multitude of harmonies and 
 odd tunes are incorporated. Two songs need altera- 
 tion. I did not think such a thing was possible. It is 
 very good. Do you object if I ask him to come down 
 here for a week ? " 
 
 " Oh/' cried Hella, " do not let us spoil this with 
 him! I would rather go back: either idea is hateful, 
 Martin ! " 
 
 " I am afraid I must see him," said Martin ; " I have 
 the fever. I did not realize that I had done such 
 brilliant works of art." He laughed. " It is really a 
 very nice comedy; the waltzes and songs are charm- 
 ing. Steinbach will have it played for me on the first 
 of June, my twenty-fifth birthday. He is an admirable 
 ass. The book is good, too." 
 
 Hella's heart sank into the bottomless pit. " Oh ! " 
 she said, " this was too lovely to last. Martin, I want 
 the impossible." 
 
 " What, dear love ? " said Martin. 
 
 She stuck pink forget-me-nots in his mustache. 
 His mustache was too short to hold flowers. They 
 fell out as he kissed her hands. 
 
 " I want to be alone with you always," she said. 
 
I50 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "We will always be happy," said Martin; "we 
 will get a house in Leipsic." 
 
 " It will be funny to return," said Hella ; " I am not 
 what I was when I left it; how much happier, a thou- 
 sand times happier! Do you know I am a bad 
 woman ? " 
 
 "What?" said Martin, kissing her ear. 
 
 " A bad woman," cried Hella, laughing and pushing 
 his face away because his breath tickled her. 
 
 " You have been faithful to me," said Martin. 
 
 She put her head down on the grass and looked side- 
 ways at his face, which was close to her own. 
 
 " I am so happy," she said, " I have gone to the devil. 
 Darling, you can throw me off absolutely any minute." 
 
 " So I can," said Martin. 
 
 Hella had never discussed their relationship before ; 
 they had both taken it for granted. Now she did so 
 with a beating heart and a pleasant feeling of daring. 
 
 " I am your mistress," she said. 
 
 Martin put his hand over her mouth. His unconven- 
 tionality was almost shocked. "Lawful observances 
 are nothing to me," he said; " if I ceased to love you 
 I should leave you in any case. Tell me, who is in the 
 happier position, a wife who has divorced her husband, 
 or a deserted mistress ? Both are free in either case." 
 
 " Do not talk about it any more," said Hella. 
 
 " No," said Martin. " It is too hot here ; my legs 
 are burnt. The sun makes me sweat." 
 
LEIPSIC 151 
 
 " I like it," said Hella; " I like being very hot. It 
 will make me thin/' 
 
 " You are thin enough. I forbid you to alter." 
 
 Hella kissed him under the parasol. 
 
 It was very hot, and high noon, so presently they 
 went and sat under the walnut trees. Blue shadows 
 and white sunshine checkered the grass upon which 
 they sat. 
 
 *' I have been idle," said Martin. 
 
 "I have been happy," said Hella. She felt as if 
 this moment were the end of something precious, as if 
 it were a moment placid to the mind, yet, to the deeper 
 consciousness, one of grave importance, like the day 
 when war becomes inevitable, or when death begins to 
 set in — a day without apparent significance. Her 
 deeper consciousness said " Farewell," and put in the 
 irrevocable past a season that to her would make her 
 life worth having been lived. Although she knew that 
 her natural attitude was gone, and that every day 
 would now be wasted in an endeavor to make the most 
 of it, when Martin said, " I think I shall go back to- 
 morrow," she begged for another week of happiness. 
 
 " I must go to-morrow," he decided, and got up. His 
 determination was stubborn once he had made up his 
 mind. " We will go to see old Staubach once more 
 this afternoon. I want to depart with that sound in 
 my ears." 
 
 Hella would have preferred to sail once more upon 
 
152 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Lake Thun. She had a passionate love of sailing upon 
 still water. She did not say so to Martin, but she was 
 conscious of being opposed to one who for months 
 had been as herself. They went into the hotel for 
 lunch. 
 
 They stood near the waterfall and got splashed, and 
 were amazed at the height from which it fell. The 
 rainbows in the spray brought back to Hella that feel- 
 ing of hope which had been so long unnecessary to her. 
 At the end of its fall the water was as light and diffused 
 as rain. The light breeze blew it about as if it were 
 the end of a long veil. Martin would not go far away 
 from it as long as they were in Lauterbrunnen. It had 
 a fascination for him. They spent the afternoon upon 
 the grass slopes near it, and picked gentian because they 
 were as blue as Hella's eyes and as the sea which 
 Martin had never seen. Hella was horrified to hear 
 he had never seen the sea. He reminded her of his 
 mediaeval youth and the lack of imagination of his 
 parents. " Several people in Heidelberg have never 
 seen the sea," he said ; " we do not go to Ostend for 
 our holidays like the Colognese." 
 
 "You must go with me to Norway," said Hella, 
 " and hear the sea roar amongst the rocks. It seems 
 incredible never to have seen the sea. You have never 
 seen anything really flat, nor anything larger than your 
 eye can look at, nor anything deep; Oh, Martin, the 
 
LEIPSIC 153 
 
 sea ! You would love me there ! I can hear the waves 
 thunder over the rocks, surging upwards and then sink- 
 ing back with a rushing sound and a rattling of thou- 
 sands of pebbles. Oh, it is so endless and eternal! — 
 Martin, you must go to the sea! How circumscribed 
 this valley is ! Like a crevice among rocks. You must 
 see the motion and continual heaving of the sea. The 
 only thing I know of like the sea is the Hungarian 
 plain, but it is still. I must take you to the blue, calm 
 Italian sea, too, where distant land is visible, and 
 islands. You must stand on an island." 
 
 "Perhaps I will go some day," said Martin, who 
 knew without having beheld it — because he was de- 
 scended of man — the whole nature of the sea. It had 
 probably a greater significance for him because he had 
 never seen it; things unseen are often most wonderful 
 to us. " But people," he added, " have exclaimed on 
 beholding the sea for the first time, * How tame ! ' on 
 beholding mountains, ' How low ! ' on seeing foreign 
 countries, thrilling to their imaginations, 'How 
 dull!'" 
 
 Martin looked up at the Jungfrau. "There is my 
 test of imagination," he said. The glittering blue ice 
 of the glacier sparkled in the sun; the whiteness of 
 the mountain peak rose wreathed in light clouds 
 into a superb blue sky. "The sea cannot be more 
 beautiful." 
 
 " I would like to go to the South Pole," said Hella. 
 
154 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Captain Scott had just returned from one of his 
 expeditionSi 
 
 " You would like the world to be smooth/* laughed 
 Martin. 
 
 " Yes," said Hella, " I like expanse." 
 
 "There we differ," said Martin, whose love for 
 her was cool that afternoon. " I prefer uprightness 
 and deep-downwardness unfilled by flat earth and 
 water. I rejoice in the confines of this narrow valley. 
 Wonderf ullest of all valleys 1 I like the perpendicular 
 waterfalls and the menace of overhanging cliffs. Give 
 me precipices and high mountains, give me a gazing 
 upwards and downwards, give me gorges, give me 
 passes ! To me the Iron Gate is the symbol of imagi- 
 nation, the sheer ascent of the Jungfrau the symbol of 
 aspiration, the blueness of moonlit white peaks the 
 symbol of fineness, the piled-up mountains grandeur ! — 
 Mont Blanc, Chimborazo, Everest, the earth's attain- 
 ment." He smiled at Hella. " You are a quiet woman 
 and a singular woman. Your passions are wide and 
 deep and, I should say, everlasting. Mine rear them- 
 selves towards the sky. You and I are the mountain 
 and the plain; on you I raise myself, I am nearer the 
 stars. O low-lying plain, your constancy, not your 
 poetry, is your beauty." He pretended that he was 
 teasing her, but he was not. 
 
 When the afternoon drew to a close they went to 
 have tea in a cherry orchard full of white blossom. 
 
LEIPSIC 155 
 
 They bought wooden swallows and carved spoons from 
 a brown little Swiss boy, and coarse, narrow lace from 
 a little brown girl with her hair in pigtails. 
 
 "Shall we ever have a little boy and girl?'* said 
 Martin, patting the little girl's head. 
 
 " With the grace of God and the mercy of our 
 Lady," said the infant. 
 
 " Yes," said Hella, " when we are married. I will 
 not inflict illegitimacy upon children." 
 
 Their last day in Switzerland was like the last day 
 of any long honeymoon — the beginning of that time 
 when adaptation sets in. Martin had none of the 
 domestic qualities. Hella might elevate herself on to 
 a pedestal sufficiently high for his worship, she might 
 become his slave, she might become his mother, and, 
 putting aside all jealousy, guard his selfishness with 
 devoted care. One could not tell what Hella would 
 do. She might continue passionately to love him and 
 refuse his secondary love, for it was as improbable as 
 a dream that his passion for her would endure, that 
 his inconstancy should for her become constancy. 
 
 They returned to Interlaken by the half -past six 
 train, which brought them to the station at eight. The 
 evening was so beautiful that Martin, who found in 
 woods a secret of inspiration, suggested that they 
 should walk home by the Heimweh Fluh. 
 
 When they were deep in the woods Hella said, 
 
156 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "Our last stroll! Kiss me, Martin." Her emotion 
 was very deep. 
 
 Martin kissed her and said, "I told you I once 
 seduced a girl ? " 
 
 " Yes, do not remind me of that now," said Hella, 
 with tears in her eyes ; " kiss me now — ^kiss me, only 
 me; tell me I am all you love in the world." 
 
 " You are all I love in the world,*' said Martin, and 
 his thoughts flew to his opera comedy. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? '* said Hella ; '* I saw 
 your thoughts fly to something." 
 
 Martin answered candidly. " I was thinking how 
 my opera would sound on an orchestra." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Hella, sadly, " not of me." 
 
 " Of you all the while; I always think of you." 
 
 They sauntered along through the woods in silence, 
 until Hella suddenly said, " Martin ! " 
 
 They stopped under the gloomy trees. 
 
 Hella looked at Martin and cried all of a sudden, 
 " I do not know how to keep you ! I am a child. 
 There is nothing to compare with you in all the 
 world." 
 
 Martin took her in his arms; his heart suddenly 
 swelled with great feelings. "My lovely one," he 
 said. 
 
 " How gentle you are," whispered Hella. " How 
 gentle! I adore you." 
 
 She rested against him peacefully. He kissed her 
 
LEIPSIC 157 
 
 passionately as he knew she liked to be kissed, then 
 picked her up in his arms. 
 
 " In my power !" he said. 
 
 " Utterly ! " she sighed ; " so beautiful ! " 
 
 He carried her some distance in his arms. In the 
 dim light he could discern that her eyes were shut and 
 feel her soft, regular breath. 
 
 " If I left her," he thought, " what would she do! " 
 A kaleidoscopic vision of her grief ran before him. 
 He stood holding her for a moment, and said, " I do 
 love you, Hella, better than my life." 
 
 For a moment he stood upon a pinnacle of goodness, 
 and then her weight impressed itself upon his arms 
 and he gently put her on the ground. She awoke and 
 murmured, " Lovely, lovely ! we do love." 
 
 " I am your slave," he said, sitting at her feet ; he 
 in turn succumbed to love, and kissed and then em- 
 braced her passionately. 
 
 They sat together in the deep shade, bewildered. 
 Their love reunited them after the gentle estrangement 
 of the day. As if for the last time love made a final 
 and supreme expression of itself in them. The bene- 
 ficence of the past day floated up from around them, 
 the pines exhaled an aromatic perfume upon them, the 
 white, dew-laden winds from the lake blew softly past 
 them. Small and still and silent they sat among the 
 vast mountains, indistinguishable among the dark 
 
158 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 trees; little beings in the grandeur of nature. The 
 mountains and the valleys, the hills and forests, turned 
 with the turning earth further and further away from 
 the sun, but to Hella and Martin it seemed as if the 
 world stood still, as if the peaceful darkness hid them 
 in the eternity of death with their immortal and tran- 
 scending passion of love. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 ON June 1st an orchestral rehearsal of "The 
 Coquettes " was held in the Neues Theater 
 of Leipsic. As Hella, Martin, and Steinbach 
 drove together in an open cab across the Rossplatz, 
 the two men seemed perfectly reconciled. Hella was 
 delighted with both of them. It was with the greatest 
 difficulty that she had persuaded Martin to ride in the 
 cab with Steinbach. Even as it was he had endeavored 
 to be so late that Steinbach would have driven off 
 without him. Steinbach was prepared to wait till 
 doomsday. He had gracefully acquiesced in Martin's 
 relationship with Hella. All that a man could do he 
 had done ; he had yielded everything in order to gain 
 his end ; but the prospect, now that his end was in view, 
 gave him no pleasure. His happiness seemed to have 
 been twisted back to front; he felt entirely the wrong 
 way on. His determination, and his subordination of 
 all human considerations, had enabled him by a judi- 
 cious selection of helpers to complete the work of 
 another man. A chosen path to him was the path of 
 his life, he permitted himself no change; in fact, 
 change to him was impossible. The opera was about 
 to be launched upon the world. It was an achieve- 
 
 159 
 
i6o MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ment of lightness. Steinbach's share in its construc- 
 tion had been arduous. Although he knew that his 
 labors had been successful, he was disappointed; he 
 was disappointed because Martin was not his friend, 
 because he had behaved badly to him and had not 
 kept his compact of cooperation. Disgusted, but de- 
 termined to bring the episode to a satisfactory close, 
 he had prepared everything for the final obsequies, as 
 it were. He spared no expense. In the New Theater, 
 towards which they were driving, were collected 
 together the persons who were to be asked to produce 
 it. Steinbach drew out his watch with a familiar 
 movement as they passed the Museum. 
 
 " Just so," he said ; " we are half an hour late." 
 He looked up towards the pseudo-renaissance eleva- 
 tion of the theater. " At last," he thought, " I have 
 got this horse to the water. In a minute Fll make him 
 drink." 
 
 Hella was excited. She sat beside Martin in a 
 new dress of blue crepe de Chine and blue silk braid- 
 lace. It fitted tightly round her figure, but at the 
 hem flowed out into a shower of accordion-pleated 
 chiffon frills. The bell sleeves hung gracefully over 
 her hands, the collar rose to her very ears. Upon her 
 head she wore a large blue hat of fine straw, shaped 
 like a dish, which projected over her face but was cut 
 away almost like a Salvation Army bonnet at the 
 back. Chiffon strings secured it under her chin. At 
 
LEIPSIC i6i 
 
 her waist she had a bunch of pink carnations to match 
 the one pink flower in her hat. Her face was sHghtly 
 flushed and she looked very pretty. As they drove 
 up to the theater she slipped her hand into Martin's 
 and gave his a squeeze. 
 
 Martin was in a bad temper. He had manufactured 
 a quarrel with Hella, one of their many recent quar- 
 rels. They were all of his doing ; she was as patient as 
 a lamb with him. She had not kissed him properly that 
 morning, he said, or something equally stupid. He 
 was angry because he had been forced to ride in a cab 
 with Steinbach. He felt full of ill-will towards every- 
 body. Now it was beginning to rain too, and he was 
 quite sick of the name of his opera. Why he had ever 
 shown a moment's interest in it he could not say. 
 Now he was forced to attend this performance. Why 
 should he? There was really no law passed to make 
 him. It was only an orchestral rehearsal. No use. 
 If Steinbach cared to waste his money, let him. After 
 all, it was too much trouble to get out of the cab 
 and make a fuss now. He decided, in spite of the 
 waste of time, to go through with it. 
 
 The performance was concluded. The conductor 
 turned and bowed to Martin and he felt pleased. Soon 
 the financiers, managers, and directors adjourned from 
 the grand circle to a box where they could talk freely. 
 When Martin found himself an object of no notice in 
 
i62 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 the middle of the dress-circle, in the center of buzzing 
 and stupid friends, he was cross. He thought he was 
 being slighted. He got up and hurried round to the 
 box. Hella followed him. He flung the door open 
 and said in a loud voice, " May I say a word ? I 
 consider the opera too bad to produce. I intend to 
 rewrite it." 
 
 Makintire, the broker, shrugged his shoulders and 
 let his arms fall to his sides. 
 
 " You fool, Schuler! " said Steinbach; " you fool! " 
 His obstinate patience had given out. 
 
 The director said, " I cannot undertake to produce 
 it if it is rewritten. It has a very probable chance of 
 some success as it stands." 
 
 "Don't be foolish, Martin," whispered Hella; 
 " don't be foolish." 
 
 Makintire came towards him. " Herr Schuler," he 
 said, " reconsider what you have said. Surely so fine 
 a money-making production ought not to be lost. It 
 is worth a great deal of marks to my pocket even." 
 Martin's conduct had made up everybody's minds that 
 the desirable thing to do was to have the opera pro- 
 duced. Steinbach was tense. His father, who was 
 there to countenance his son with the brokers, began 
 to be silly and persuasive. Ancient Rosenbaum, Mak- 
 intire's decrepit partner, was making totally useless 
 and elaborate calculations. The manager of the thea- 
 ter kept his eyes on the director, and the director — • 
 
LEIPSIC 163 
 
 grandiose, young-middle-aged and essentially Prus- 
 sian — was smiling to himself, and thinking what a 
 fine young woman Hella was. He was calmly await- 
 ing the moment when all the disturbances should have 
 been settled. Then he would give his vote whichever 
 way he chose. Having spent several years in the army 
 and retired a colonel, he was quite satisfied with his 
 superiority over mankind. Hella was just behind 
 Martin. Pride rose in Martin. He wanted to exert 
 himself like Samson. He wanted to kick everybody 
 over the edge of the box into the stalls. He wanted 
 to escape and write a grand grand-opera. Hella was 
 behind him. One cannot brave out the foe at one's 
 back. Her hand touched his back. He wavered. It 
 was his birthday. He remembered his bearishness of 
 the morning. His birthday kisses had fallen flat. He 
 had meant to enjoy to-day, but he had not. He 
 thought his love for Hella must be going off, which 
 was true. Suddenly it seemed that everybody was 
 asking for something. Why not give? He began to 
 be flattered by the obvious attitude of petitioning that 
 every one seemed to be adopting towards him. He 
 began to think he might enjoy the success of this af- 
 fair. Hella touched him again in a vital spot. He 
 did not at once see how to give in. Then the 
 brilliant notions of gallantry, reconciliation, and 
 triumphant climbing down all occurred to him 
 simultaneously. 
 
i64 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "What do you wish," he said, turning around^ 
 "Hella von Schiiler?^' 
 
 Hella had never been called this before. Old Stein- 
 bach winked at the director as being the most jocose 
 man present, but every one else*s eyes were turned on 
 Hella. 
 
 Hella was not prepared for any such denouement. 
 She blushed deeply. 
 
 " Oh, I should like it to be done," she said, " if 
 Herr Schiiler wants it.'* 
 
 Bernard Steinbach was shaking her by the hand, 
 the director was murmuring some compliment, some 
 one was clapping his hands and saying " Brava ! " 
 
 Thus the tedious affair came to be settled. 
 
 They drove away from the theater in the late after- 
 noon in a shut cab, for the rain was pouring down. 
 Martin and Hella were alone together. 
 
 " Ah ! well," said Martin, looking with fixed eyes 
 across the gray spaces of the Augustplatz, " my first 
 public step is made." Hella felt sad; she seemed to 
 see some unhappy thoughts in his face. She sat closer 
 to him. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, *' for being naughty to yoii 
 this morning. I won't ever answer back again. Be 
 happy on your birthday." 
 
 " All days are alike," said Martin. " What a dreary 
 occasion that was." 
 
LEIPSIC , 165 
 
 " But I love you." 
 
 He put an arm around her. 
 
 " I try to think," he said, " that love is the great 
 compensation, but it is as hard work as anything else 
 and does not make anything easier." 
 
BERLIN 
 
BERLIN 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE Countess von Ardstein was an extremely 
 ugly woman. Although she was barely fifty 
 years of age her skin was dry and wrinkled 
 and her hair was gray. It is said that once she had 
 been very handsome, but now her teeth were long and 
 wide apart and almost as brown as her skin. She 
 was as thin as a lath, and her hands, covered with 
 brown skin in which a multitude of little dried veins 
 showed, were like the claws of an old witch. She 
 was altogether like an old female necromancer es- 
 caped into society. She could read Latin and Greek, 
 and had a passion for money, music, art, and house- 
 hold economy. Her costly clothes were horrible. She 
 always wore fur somewhere about her person, and a 
 touch of either emerald green or turquoise blue. 
 These were her favorite colors. In the daytime she 
 perched high hats, bedecked with ostrich feathers, 
 upon her hair, and decorated herself with bags, reti- 
 cules, chatelaines, umbrellas, parasols, and boas. At 
 night she always wore decolIetCy which she adored, 
 although her figure was such that only with great 
 
 169 
 
170 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 difficulty did she evade slipping out of her clothes, the 
 contours of which were constructed by dressmakers 
 out of buckram. Her evening dresses were always so 
 much too large for her that it was quite possible for 
 her to turn around inside them. 
 
 Had she not existed before the eyes of her friends 
 they would have credited her only as one of those ex- 
 aggerated impressions of clever women given on the 
 stage. To those who knew her she seemed quite nat- 
 ural, for her eyes were undimmed and beautiful, and 
 her voice pleasant, though given to uttering quick and 
 often sarcastic phrases. There was nobody more gen- 
 erally popular in Berlin ; she continued throughout her 
 life to make new friends and rarely lost her old ones. 
 The directness and force of her personality com- 
 manded attention, her assurance commanded respect; 
 she had also the gifts of wit, success, and sympathy, 
 and that peculiar ability which often coincides with 
 neither beauty nor wealth, of attracting and subject- 
 ing any male being she chose. She had political in- 
 fluence and took care that it should increase. Just a 
 little below her as she rose in power her husband 
 ascended like the basket of a balloon, but he thought, 
 as every basket under every balloon thinks, " How 
 magnificently I rise." It was a great satisfaction to 
 her to give advice upon the situation between Essen 
 and Berlin, to dabble in the corn question, and even 
 to soil her fingers in the muddy waters of interminis- 
 
BERLIN 171 
 
 terial affairs. She never made the mistake of discus- 
 sing politics, and never gave any opinion on political 
 matters unless she was asked for it, but she was often 
 asked. Her other opinions she poured out gratuitously 
 and occasionally rather ferociously. Her favorite 
 ideas were those connected with economy and the 
 sexes. 
 
 Upon a particular evening she gave a music party 
 at her Berlin palace in order to encourage society to 
 admire a young man whom she had recently discovered 
 at Leipsic and brought to Berlin, and whom she de- 
 termined to exhibit after sending him to the best tailor 
 and flattering him into the best humor. The " Ard- 
 stein Genius," as Martin von Schuler found himself 
 called, had delivered himself over entirely into her 
 hands; she managed his affairs for him, engaged him 
 a secretary, lodged him at her house, and built him 
 at his expense an art villa in the Black Forest, upon 
 the shores of a small lake. Although he allowed the 
 Countess to order his life, Martin felt free again. His 
 successful light opera, " The Coquettes,'* had given 
 him money and introduced him to the world. His 
 second opera, " The Saddest Singer," had been a wild 
 success both at Leipsic and in Berlin. It was the es- 
 sence of light-hearted gayety and love. He had grown 
 up upon it and come to think himself one of the men 
 of the day. He had no friend, nor did he want one; 
 friends were a dependency and a clog; what he wished 
 
172 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 for were friendly acquaintances towards whom he 
 need have no obligations. Above all things his free- 
 dom was most precious to him; he required nobody 
 who would at all deprive him of it. He did not de- 
 sire to enter again the dark forest of passion, nor to 
 have again the experience of cutting himself loose 
 from an octopus, for it was thus that the escape from 
 an unequal love presented itself to him. 
 
 The music party was held in the gilt and blue 
 reception-room of the Ardstein's large residence; 
 cupids sported among the clouds and plaster work of 
 the high ceiling, from which descended chandeliers 
 sparkling with a thousand drops of glass that looked 
 like fountains arrested in their play by a magic wand. 
 Above the doors and in the alcoves cupids danced 
 among tambourines, harps, flutes, French horns, and 
 kettledrums heaped upon rolling clouds entwined with 
 ribbons, as if the angels had created there a dust-heap 
 of musical instruments in favor of the more modern 
 gramophone and player-piano. Martin Schiiler, who 
 had never appreciated any form of decoration more 
 lovely than the interior of an opera house, felt at home 
 in this music-room with the exquisitely colored and 
 appropriate, if rather foolish, French mural decora- 
 tions. The long mirrors above the consoles, the ormolu 
 clock and tables, the looped blue damask curtains, 
 gave him great pleasure. There was nothing he liked 
 so much in nature as the blue sky and the setting sun 
 
BERLIN 173 
 
 and flowers, or in art so much as the pretty, the taste- 
 fully gaudy, and the voluptuous. 
 
 The Countess wafted about among her friends like 
 a witch en a broomstick. She did not believe in 
 crowded parties. To-night she had caused to be writ- 
 ten on the programmes, '' As a friend with a friend," 
 for she decided that it would be better for Martin to 
 meet her acquaintances in a beam of intimate sun- 
 shine. Accordingly there were scarcely more than 
 thirty people present to hear Polinski, who was the 
 only performer of the evening, play. Amongst them 
 was Baron von Hirchner, the Minister of Finance, a 
 broad man of forty-five, at least six foot three inches 
 in height. His wife Beda was there also, but not 
 with him: she was fifteen years his junior and pre- 
 ferred men of her own age, such as Konstanz, the cari- 
 caturist, who sat with her now in an alcove. Hirch- 
 ner himself was fonder of Countess von Ardstein 
 than of anybody. They knew each other's secret lives. 
 His tender emotions, however, belonged to Countess 
 Sophie von Sebaltz, who was the most beautiful young 
 married woman in Berlin. She had been married four 
 years, ever since she was eighteen, and was the wife 
 of a noble whom she had endowed with suflficient 
 wealth to allow him the pleasures of the lion-chase in 
 Africa. She got as much sport out of her life as he 
 did, and infinitely more joy. Her beautiful clothes 
 were the desire of everybody; to-night she was wear- 
 
174 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ing a long pale satin dress of a thin silhouette, made 
 without a single ornament, with a trailing cape of blue 
 satin falling from one shoulder upon the floor. She 
 had a string of pearls round her neck and pearls in 
 her ears. She might have lived in any land at any 
 time. Her dark hair and eyes gave her a Spanish 
 look, her mouth was a little Victorian, her chin was 
 decided and Teutonic, her skin also had the immobile 
 pallor of Central Europe, it was of the palest cream. 
 Her cheeks blushed with the pink of roses and her 
 ears were like those pale, nail-pink shells common 
 upon the seashore. Her brows, her arms, her figure 
 w^re lovelier than those of any princess. Her hands 
 were like a china shepherdess's and her feet beautiful 
 and correctly proportioned. She had all those attri- 
 butes so long associated with the fairest heroines, and 
 if at times she emphasized her not quite perfect mouth 
 by dressing in frilled mid- Victorian garments, she 
 could, nevertheless, always be the loveliest creature 
 in Germany, the queen of all young hearts in society. 
 Polinski wandered about among the guests as a 
 guest. The Countess von Ardstein had had to pay for 
 it. His hands flapped from pocket to pocket of his 
 suit. He had always lost something, his handkerchief 
 principally. He had a diamond ring on his little fin- 
 ger. Any one could see that his life had been spent in 
 his hands. They might have been called intensely 
 beautiful; they appeared to be heavy, loaded, so that 
 
BERLIN 175 
 
 all his movements culminated in them instead of in 
 his brain. If possible he never shook hands with any- 
 body; he let his hands fall heavily into the folds of 
 his fine brown cloth suit when he met an acquaintance 
 and bowed. Sometimes he put his hands under wo- 
 men's when he bent to kiss their fingers, and they 
 conjured up a whole series of sensations, chiefly due 
 to romance in their hearts. His face was wrinkled, 
 with young eyes and young hair. A mustache of 
 fine hairs seemed to have settled like dew on his up- 
 per lip and just above his chin. He walked about 
 with an air of sweetness and, perhaps, of slight in- 
 sipidity. 
 
 Martin walked about also ; he was the other hero — 
 the Countess's hero. He was aware of it, and de- 
 liberately acted contrarily to Polinski. He was a man 
 of the smart world to himself, not an old virtuoso. 
 His pince-nez gave him the look of a Viennese officer, 
 but he was not as well corseted nor as slim as those 
 persons generally are. He smiled and bowed with 
 great dignity to the charming people in the room, and 
 raised himself in his conceit above everybody there. 
 The Countess gambolled round him and ran after 
 him, introducing him to everybody, impressing upon 
 him the advantages of speaking to Hirchner and 
 Sophie, to Konstanz in the second place, and one or 
 two duller people in the hijSfher rank of society. Mar- 
 tin had extraordinarily well caught the air of superior- 
 
176 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ity that acknowledges the courtesies of human beings, 
 but abstracts itself in a moment to better thoughts 
 without waste of time. 
 
 Polinski went to the piano and seated himself at 
 it, and the assembly grouped itself in a semi-circle, 
 with Martin Schiiler and Countess Sophie in its midst, 
 as if they were the king and queen in a cinematograph 
 play. The people were small for the size of the room, 
 which was lofty and wide enough for a ballroom. 
 They looked like a group of moths and butterflies 
 upon a gilt branch with golden thorns and blue silk 
 leaves. Suddenly Polinski smiled across the space at 
 Martin and made him feel uncomfortable by playing 
 out a phrase of Chopin's Ballade, Ta-^^*, Tsi-ti, ta-Zf/ta- 
 ti-ti-ti, as if he were making a joke at his expense. 
 
 Everybody laughed, except Hirchner, who was lean- 
 ing upon the back of Martin's chair in order to be 
 able to see what might happen between him and 
 Sophie, for it seemed at once obvious that they would 
 attract one another. Hirchner was prepared to make 
 a flight into flower-sown skies upon the wings of 
 good music, because he adored music more than any- 
 thing else in the world, and had a passionate Teutonic 
 love for soul-stirrings and nervous excitements. 
 
 Polinski improvised upon an arpeggio and resolved 
 through a dozen modulations into a series of the pre- 
 ludes and fugues of Bach. Hirchner 's mind was cap- 
 tured by the antiphonous beauty of the well-created 
 
BERLIN 177 
 
 sound. Martin forced himself to realize what he 
 heard. His animal nature died in him, he ceased to 
 be physical, his intellect gave itself to the succession 
 of phrases. From the animal he rose to the human, 
 from the human to the intellectual, from the intel- 
 lectual to the absolute. Sophie von Sebaltz, whose 
 mind was that of an educated woman of the world, 
 thought that Polinski seemed a very long way off, 
 so she spent her time examining Martin, whose breath- 
 ings she could hear, and looking at the large, un- 
 conscious Hirchner who swooned with languorous and 
 exquisite enthusiasms as phrase fell into phrase. She 
 saw Beda Hirchner also carried away by the music 
 and understood why she had married Hirchner. Kon- 
 stanz also was smoking like a quiet chimney at sunset, 
 having his thoughts recalled to him probably, for in 
 some music only rouses the pleasant memories. When 
 Sophie had looked at all the thirty men and women 
 in the room, she returned to the consideration of 
 Martin, whom the rhythmic ecstasy of the music was 
 filling with joy and peace. In that moment he was 
 again young, lovely, and good. Goodness is a thing 
 not understood except by those who understand Plato, 
 Bach, and Martin Schiiler. He lost himself in regions 
 where the Prince Errant of fairy-tales seeks livmg 
 water, and was amazed to remember that there is 
 something more exquisite than love or passion. He 
 knew that Bach had attained the highest human pes- 
 
178 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 sibility by creating the uncontroversial. He suffered 
 one of those outgoings uncommon to the human soul, 
 and was aware that he went beyond the outgoing 
 of Polinski or any man in the room. As for women, 
 they are only sighers after departure; they yearn for 
 the impossible voyages that they only accomplish dur- 
 ing periods of motherhood. He became perfectly gay. 
 The beauty of the earth passed before his eyes, and 
 he gave himself up to the quiet of strifeless sound 
 where there is no climax but only a state of beauty. 
 His heart was soothed as if with the rippling of wind 
 over a still pond. 
 
 Suddenly, with a brilliance of execution rarely 
 heard, Polinski, as if ashamed of disclosing his so»l 
 by his Bach playing, burst into a Hungarian rhapsody. 
 The nerves of the listeners quivered exquisitely as the 
 rhapsody vibrated through the room. The rhythmic 
 rush, the barbaric insistence, the tremulous accuracy, 
 scintillated like a cloud of dancing sequins. The 
 hearts of the hearers were lifted to a point of atten- 
 tion like the hearts of spectators in a race. Their 
 ears were opened to the delicious translucency of a 
 myriad of little waves of sound that followed one 
 another with quivering, shivering movements. 
 
 It came to an end. Beethoven's sonata, commonly 
 called the " Waldstein,'* next gave them an unutterable 
 yearning, and tears stood in their eyes. 
 
 "Ah!" they thoug'ht, without expresising them- 
 
BERLIN 179 
 
 selves save by occasional sighs, " how I could rise 
 from the ground in long leaps, how I could overcome 
 the waves with long strokes ^f swimming, how I 
 could glide low over the breasts of hills on invisible 
 wings." Hirchner looked towards Sophie and thought 
 that he might try to resuscitate the few sentiments 
 they had shared together, and his breath stirred her 
 hair. Martin got up, and, leaving his friends, began 
 to stride about the room in godlike attitudes. His 
 heart expanded, his throat grew dry. Beethoven al- 
 ways had a physical effect upon him. He seemed to 
 recognize for an instant something he had felt before. 
 
 " Beethoven was a sensualist," somebody said. 
 
 " Beethoven was impassioned," somebody else said. 
 
 The long sonata of variations was given with the 
 last movement in cumulative form that shook the air 
 and caused the chandeliers to rattle. Nobody was very 
 interested in it; they were endeavoring to catch again 
 the sensations the "Waldstein" had produced in 
 them, then they were irritated because it was not re- 
 peated. " The best music is the music that appeals to 
 men over and over again," thought Martin to himself 
 as he recognized the notes streaming from the piano. 
 He began to dream again. Polinski^s exquisite sense 
 was something worthy of his admiration, and he ad- 
 mired it with all his soul. He desired to be played 
 to endlessly. 
 
 A group of arias was performed, and from this 
 
i8o MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 agglomeration of Bach, Wagner, Rubinstein, Martin 
 Schiller, and God knows whom, Martin received an 
 idea which he remembered several years later. A 
 Tschaikovski waltz, a romance by some obscurity and 
 Debussy's " Soiree en Granade '' were so delightfully 
 represented that everybody began to dream of the 
 happy portions of their youth; and, after that, 
 Chopin's alluring, worn-out, played-out, sensuous bal- 
 lade in A flat that Polinski had hinted at earlier in the 
 evening made them laugh and wink at one another 
 and throw back their heads with their tongues in their 
 cheeks in order to appreciate some gay and daring 
 memory. At the end of it they broke into such vio- 
 lent applause that it had to be played again. 
 
 "Aubrey Beardsley illustrated it," somebody said. 
 
 " Ah, but badly ! " cried Countess von Ardstein. 
 
 " Yes," everybody assented, " he did not get the 
 feeling." 
 
 Martin, who knew nothing about Beardsley, was 
 amused to see how this light composition set every- 
 body gay and chattering. 
 
 " Chopin was a genius," he thought ; but by this time 
 Polinski was playing one of Martin's own songs. He 
 pronounced the subtle harmonies with distinction, and 
 phrased the aria more nearly after the manner of 
 Martin's dream of it than was common. Martin was 
 delighted. He thought how well he compared with 
 everybody else, but forgot to remember that Chopin 
 
BERLIN i8i 
 
 had just preceded him. His technique, played by a 
 master hand, was pure and finished; there was no 
 pov-erty or weakness of quality. He was a musician 
 of a high water, even when compared with the classics 
 and semi-classics of other days. Polinski ceased in 
 the middle, and said, " The composer is the body, I 
 am the spirit," and then continued to the end of the 
 song. 
 
 Everybody became very enthusiastic ; Martin found 
 himself embraced by Polinski, and his hands shaken 
 by several other people. Polinski had had a success, 
 and was, besides, generous natured. " My friend," 
 he said, with tears of enthusiasm and exhaustion in 
 his eyes, " I have shown you where you stand amongst 
 the immortals, and you will rise; I prophesy that you 
 will rise to the presidency of Parnassus. Oh, my 
 friend! you have very wonderful gifts." He let two 
 or three tears run down his face. 
 
 " My gifts are nothing to yours," answered Martin, 
 who was deeply moved. 
 
 "Ah! do not blaspheme," said Polinski, openly 
 weeping ; " do not blaspheme. Your harmony ! Your 
 delicious abandon! You waste yourself on the com- 
 mon public — no, you are generous — you diffuse your- 
 self so that the lowest rejoices when it hears you. It 
 has not been my honor to salute so great a man since 
 I kissed the hand of my dead master, Brahms ! " and 
 he kissed Martin on both cheeks and left the room. 
 
i82 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 The soiree ended. 
 
 " I like Polinski," said Martin afterwards to the 
 Countess. 
 
 " Well," said the Countess, *' I am not surprised.*' 
 
 But he liked Polinski not only because he flattered 
 him but because he was a musician and sought after^ 
 and Martin added snobbishness to his other vices. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 NOT long after this musical affair, Countess 
 von Ardstein gave a week-end party at her 
 country house, to which she invited those per- 
 sons whom Martin von Schiiler chose out of her ac- 
 quaintance: Sophie von Sebaltz, Hirchner, Konstanz, 
 Lottie Bischoffheim, and one or two other people. A 
 great deal of riding and shooting took place. Sophie 
 brought her piebald half-arab. She dressed herself 
 to match it in a black coat and white breeches; 
 in her riding gear one would have said she was on 
 the stage. Martin himself had a sixteen-hand bay 
 mare, which Konstanz had induced him to buy. She 
 was large and vicious and strong, without grace, but 
 with a great deal of brute force. He rode her in a 
 queer mixture of riding clothes and ordinary lounge 
 garments. Down to his waist he wore his ordinary 
 navy blue clothes, but the lower half of him was in 
 doeskin breeches and long black military boots and 
 might have belonged to the army. Konstanz was 
 charmed with him and ran about with him all over 
 Berlin, so that people said they looked like two dogs 
 on the same leash. Konstanz decided that Martin had 
 
 183 
 
i84 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 never been spoiled by what he called life, and at 
 twenty-seven was as young and fresh as at twenty- 
 one. Certainly he seemed to be full of joy 
 and vitality, never to have abused himself or to have 
 overtaxed either his mind or his body in any way. 
 Again, the past was all gone from him, and the things 
 that he had done and suffered seemed to have vanished 
 away like clouds at sunrise. Wealth and adulation 
 agreed with his health, and though at times he suf- 
 fered from what he called nerves, sciatica, heart- 
 trouble, and other inappropriate names for indiges- 
 tion, which made his temper very bad, he was magni- 
 ficently well and merry most of the time. 
 
 One evening in June, in the dusk of a hot day, 
 Hirchner sat talking to the Countess von Ardstein in 
 the smoking-room that opened out upon the piazza. 
 Dinner was long since over, and there remained but the 
 hours of confidential chat before bed-time. The Ard- 
 steins* country house was a pleasant place for friends 
 to say their says in. One need wear nothing but old 
 shooting clothes all the day and evening. The chairs 
 were all old, comfortable, and large ; there was no ele- 
 gance, merely food and quietness. The wide win- 
 dows all stood open, the country dogs slept and snored 
 upon the floor, the dachshunds, of which there were 
 three, occupied the chairs. The Countess was be- 
 loved by dogs; she had sixteen, four of which had 
 come to her from unknown wanderings upon the earth. 
 
BERLIN 185 
 
 Hirchner, like the dogs, was inclined to sleep and snore 
 between the conversations. He lay back in a large 
 and comfortable English chair, upholstered in red lea- 
 ther, beside a small table upon which were cherries 
 and kirch-drinks. He took some cherries off the plate 
 and threw them into his mouth, and spat the stones 
 out on to the carpet. 
 
 " Well," he said, moving the cherries about in his 
 mouth, " I like your protege." 
 
 "Of course," replied the Countess; "I never ex- 
 pected you to do anything else." 
 
 " But I am curious to know," he went on, " what 
 particular, what identical thing caused you to take him 
 up, to spend so much on him." 
 
 The Countess lifted her eyebrows a little, and began 
 to ferret in her bag for some handkerchief or other, 
 which came out rather the worse for the chase, at- 
 tached to a silver vinaigrette. She behaved as if she 
 were blind, due to the vanity of foregoing glasses, 
 which she ought to have worn. 
 
 "Of course you know about that girl of his." 
 
 " You have told me." Hirchner settled himself fur- 
 ther down into his chair. 
 
 "And now I am so glad he has taken a fancy to 
 this Sophie creature, whom, by the way, I suppose 
 you were fond of, but then it was not serious, and 
 why not you as well as everybody else. She is a beau- 
 tiful girl. She is light enough, she will not corrode 
 
i86 MARTIN SCHtJLER 
 
 his fancy. Imagine, my dear man, imagine. He was 
 there baking to death in the ardor of her smile/' 
 
 "Mademoiselle Rosenstein's, you mean?" 
 
 " Baum ! Baum ! " cried the Countess ; " Hella von 
 Rosenbaum. She was killing him with an ideal, at 
 least that is my notion. She walked about after him 
 like a leech and kept her eyes pouring adoration upon 
 him. The lad could not move without her moving 
 or think, I believe, without her thinking after him." 
 
 "And yet," said Hirchner, "his fancy seems to 
 have produced this charmingest of light operas, and 
 it seems to me she was a very devoted young woman 
 with a fine idea of love." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said the Countess ; " she had the genius 
 of love, but she wore his heart out by encircling it 
 with her arms. That is not the identical reason, as 
 you call it." 
 
 " Well ? " Hirchner took and clipped a cigar. 
 
 " Leipsic is not Berlin, Humbert." 
 
 " To cosmopolitanize him," muttered Hirchner 
 through a new mouthful of cherries; "I do not like 
 this centralization, this immense inmoving tendency." 
 
 The Countess herself took a cherry and ate all 
 around it so as not to detach the stone from the stalk. 
 " Cosmopolitanization is surely the other way." 
 
 " All women want to give men heaven or earth. 
 It is so, by God! " growled the Baron, grovelling with 
 his left hand over the arm of his chair after two cher- 
 
BERLIN 187 
 
 ries that had got lost in the mat. "Let the grass- 
 widow have him." 
 
 "I am not a fool," yapped the Countess; "I will 
 have nothing to do with him now I have got him away 
 from that miserable life." She chose a bunch of 
 three cherries growing together, but one of them was 
 malformed and unripe, so she chose another three of 
 more equal beauty. Hirchner's huge form moved 
 creakingly in the chair, conveying the absurd little red 
 fruits from the plate to his mouth, and the darkness 
 that was never really dark all night gathered about 
 the room in vague clouds. The mountain of cherries 
 decreased. 
 
 " I have eaten a great many cherries, I think too 
 many," he said, pushing the plate away from him an 
 inch, but, like most people who are fond of eating, 
 he forgot next minute what he had said and continued 
 to demolish the mountain. 
 
 " It is a pity we are no longer young, Katchen/* 
 he said, thinking of Martin, who he knew was in 
 the garden with Sophie, and of Lottie and Konstanz 
 — for Konstanz liked her equally with Beda — who 
 were joking in the card-room. 
 
 " Those were very tiresome days," replied the 
 Countess; "how glad I am I have never to pass 
 through the tedium of experience again. Humbert, 
 I am glad I am old." 
 
 Humbert sighed. " I do not feel old. I wonder 
 
i88 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 why I have never changed since I was a child — why 
 I never seem to learn anything to do with the game of 
 life, to be as great a fool as ever. I understand the 
 technique and all that, but I am equally puzzled by 
 each new principle I meet. I am always discovering 
 that everything is new under the sun." 
 
 Hirchner ceased speaking and roused himself to 
 drink. 
 
 After he had relapsed into his chair, Martin ap- 
 peared at the window. Both the Countess and Hirch- 
 ner were impressed by his atmosphere of preoccupa- 
 tion, and the strong disturbance that his concentration 
 made in the air of the room. He seemed to have been 
 running — to be waiting to run again. 
 
 " Have some cherries," said the finance minister. 
 
 " No," said Martin, whose eyes were fixed on a 
 far part of the garden, " cherries — no, I do not 
 think so." 
 
 " Do you love her ? " said Hirchner, like a father to 
 his eighteen-year-old son; " do you find her as beauti- 
 ful and as pleasing as you ought? " 
 
 Martin felt insulted a little, but he gave what he 
 thought was the best answer. 
 
 ** She is in the garden." 
 
 Hirchner leaned forward. "Is she?" He hoped 
 he might be able to see her from that position, but 
 he could not. Martin raised a hand above his head, 
 shut down his fingers as if he were playing a castanet 
 
BERLIN 189 
 
 and at the same time imitated the clack of it with his 
 mouth. He let his arm fall, saying sternly : 
 
 "I love her!" 
 
 He was standing on the top step of the piazza with 
 his back against tV"- window post. Suddenly his heart 
 leaped in him and he thought, " I am here amongst 
 these high-bred people." For an instant he acknow- 
 ledged an inferiority to society, and then, looking at 
 Hirchner's six-foot body and the Countess's little one 
 out of the comer of his eye, felt infinitely superior. 
 He was humble before his idea of society, but in so- 
 ciety itself he found himself very much more remark- 
 able than the general herd, for, after all, it consists 
 only of ordinary people decorated by environment. 
 The quiet of evening came over the woody enclosure 
 that was called the garden, and all the happy ideas of 
 love and peace filled Martin's soul. The beauty of a 
 thousand and one stage nights pervaded the small 
 world that he could see, with its romance, its low- 
 hung moon, its dark shadows. The nightingale cried 
 plaintively and long through the deep blue air, and the 
 sweet scents of cedars and hay-grass, night stocks, 
 and old-fashioned roses came up from the dewy 
 ground. 
 
 " Why have you left her? " said the Countess after 
 a long pause. 
 
 Martin pretended not to hear her, for he could not 
 very well reply, " We are playing hide and seek, or 
 
I90 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 hunt the girl, or wild men of the woods/* because he 
 was twenty-seven and not ingenuous. 
 
 " Incomparably indiscreet/' said Hirchner, half- 
 asleep, as he fell back into his chair, but nobody heard 
 him or knew to what he referred. 
 
 " We are all catching our own fleas," thought the 
 Countess, upon whom the stage effect of the window 
 and the moon had begun to dawn. 
 
 Hirchner also was dreaming of the isolation of 
 human beings; he wished everybody was happy and 
 that they would all join together at something. 
 
 Presently Martin went away off the piazza to re- 
 new his game, this time more seriously for he had 
 fallen straight into love during his rest at the window. 
 
 " What are they doing ? " said the Countess, when 
 he had gone. 
 
 "Why should I know? — playing the incomparable 
 game of catch-as-catch-can," said Hirchner, from 
 whose mouth rings of blue smoke were ascending. 
 The repose of the beautiful end of day was wrapping 
 itself over the chairs and animals and round the two 
 people. Hirchner lay at full length in his chair and 
 seemed to have forgotten everything to do with finance 
 and the military. He began to murmur to the Countess 
 from under his cloud of smoke. 
 
 " Wonderful, is it not wonderful, for ever and ever 
 wonderful ! " His virility and the huge power of his 
 animal personality were at rest. 
 
BERLIN 191 
 
 The Countess sighed and moved her hands to a 
 different position, and the dachshunds sigfhed and 
 wagged their tails under the dream of her caress. 
 
 *' A night for lovers," murmured the tender Min- 
 ister of Finance. " But indeed money and war, slav- 
 ery and cruelty, would never exist but for men. The 
 earth is ever so forbearing with us. Why does she 
 not ask the sea to leave its bed and smother us with 
 pillows of foam? " 
 
 The Countess sighed again, and again was echoed 
 by the responsive dachshunds. 
 
 " Ah me ! " continued the baron ; " and this young 
 man, what is he doing with himself, what is he going 
 to do! He has earned riches. T feel a wonderful 
 sympathy with him. I love him even as you do, as 
 everybody must. I liope, as you hope, that he likes 
 me. When he walks about, grown up and self-pos- 
 sessed, I am inclined to laugh, and yet I know he is 
 my superior. In the beginning was the Word, and the 
 Word was God — that is not unlike him. The Holy 
 Book we do not read, Katchen, is wonderful, very 
 wonderful. In the beginning God created the world, 
 and He said, Let there be light, and He separated the 
 light from the darkness, and the light He called youth 
 and the darkness age. Remember thy Creator in the 
 days of thy youth, lest the evil days come and the 
 years when thou shalt say, ' I have no pleasure in 
 them.'** He was thinking how very sad for him it 
 
192 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 was not to be young again in order at least to be the 
 rival of Martin in the garden. " That poor girl must 
 be tearing her heart out in Leipsic,'* he added. 
 
 " Yes," answered the Countess ; " I feel very sorry 
 for her, but men and genius first. Imagine, if you 
 have any imagination, how she killed him by absorbing 
 him." 
 
 " I am incredibly pleased he writes light opera," 
 said Hirchner ; " it is the most human, the most happy, 
 the most enjoyable thing in the world." He began to 
 hum one of Martin's airs. 
 
 *'Yes," said the Countess, whose thoughts saw 
 Martin chasing Sophie among the dark trees ; " I find 
 it hard to think that he wrote that; all music is as- 
 tounding. Why think in tunes — who does ? I do not, 
 nor do you." 
 
 " Astounding," said the minister softly. " I do not 
 believe he is altogether happy." He made this remark 
 hoping that this was the case, for he felt a little jealous 
 of all the gifts of fate to Martin Schuler. 
 
 " You are right," the Countess sighed ; " he has been 
 serious and grown up till I brought him into the pretty 
 world here." 
 
 " Oh, yes, oh, yes, of course you are his fairy god- 
 mother!" 
 
 After an interval, during which the sleep of twilight 
 gave way to the wakefulness of night, the Countess 
 got up and went to the window, 
 
BERLIN 193 
 
 "I can see them," she said; "he has just caught 
 and kissed hen" 
 
 Hirchner rose off his chair and yawned with his 
 arms raised above his head so that they nearly touched 
 the ceiling. 
 
 " Damnation of damnations ! " he said slowly; " you 
 are perfectly right — he is kissing her again, and now, 
 there, she is kissing him." It was hard to say how 
 he could discriminate between the actions. " Come 
 let us shut the window and go in. Venus has capitu- 
 lated and now Adonis will carry her off into the 
 woods, or is it Endymion and his moon? Have you 
 seen Paris in red hose run off with the gilt and white 
 Helen?" 
 
 "Your fantasies," said the Countess, shaking her 
 fingers loosely, as if she were scattering dewdrops; 
 " how absurd ! your fantasies ! " 
 
 Hirchner gently shut the window as he continued 
 speaking: "Or the blue delphinium hurry the white 
 butterfly to his lips, or why not say Martin von Schiiler 
 with the loveliest woman in Berlin. It is all the same, 
 my heart is absolutely captivated: I have a mind to 
 weep." 
 
 " Crocodile's tears," said the Countess, whose own 
 sentimental feelings forbade her to sympathize with 
 those of the six-foot financier. She turned and went 
 away out of the room, but Hirchner, whose life on 
 one side was limited by his work, and on the other by 
 
194 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 the purest animal sensations which occasionally gave 
 him an insight into intellectual truth, stood still and 
 gently opened the window again to be tossed a little 
 upon the radiating waves of romance that spread 
 through the garden. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 KONSTANZ leaned against the buffet of his 
 dining-room shaking a cocktail. He affected 
 a great many Americanisms in such matters as 
 boots, drinks, and hats. He loved anything absurd 
 and up-to-date. Having spent his early years admir- 
 ing Wilde and Beardsley, now that he was thirty he 
 turned his attention to Uncle Sam, to Yankeeism, and 
 to Boston. " Boston " and " colossal " were his fav- 
 orite words, just as the favorite words of Hirchner 
 were " wonderful," and " for ever." He now raised 
 his cocktail shaker to his ear to listen to the condi- 
 tion of the ice. Apparently it was satisfactory, for 
 he poured out the contents into a glass and drank 
 them off. Then he hastily pulled on some wash-leather 
 gloves, and seizing a hat and stick that lay upon the 
 dining table, ran to the lift and was conveyed to the 
 ground floor. 
 
 He jumped into the first taxi that came along, and 
 throwing himself into a corner, began to read with 
 great speed a further account of the Steinheil murder. 
 
 In five minutes he was at his destination, the palace 
 of the Ardsteins, near Unter den Linden. He bounded 
 
 195 
 
196 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 out of the taxi and ran up the stairs to the quarter as- 
 signed to Martin von Schiiler. A servant let him in. 
 
 Wolf, the secretary, was writing in the large outer 
 room. He got up directly Konstanz arrived and 
 faded away, murmuring that Herr von Schiiler would 
 be disengaged in the space of a quarter of an hour. 
 
 There was nothing to do but sit in a chair and re- 
 read the paper or stand on one leg and look at the 
 room. Konstanz preferred standing to sitting, so he 
 went from one part of the chamber to the other, 
 minutely examining every object in it. 
 
 Martin moved in sumptuous circles; the poor for 
 him did not exist, ihe second floor of an hotel was 
 to him a garret whence issued those English-speaking 
 tourists who have adopted the world and who stare 
 as if to say, " Who are these coarse, fat people in our 
 restaurant ? '* The houses in the suburbs and second- 
 rate quarters of Berlin caused him to feel reminis- 
 cently sick of his Leipsic experiences. The summer- 
 house of the Ardsteins, which had formerly been their 
 only home, was as near as he got to the shabby com- 
 fort of most of the world, but even there everything 
 had an air of refined age. The sofas were baronial, 
 the chairs and tables belonged to the natural surround- 
 ings of countesses and minor princesses. 
 
 He himself lived in the superb flat which he rented 
 from the Countess von Ardstein. His bedroom was 
 fit for an emperor, and he was glad, because luxury 
 
BERLIN 197 
 
 made him happier than anything else in the world. He 
 took for granted all his surroundings : the mahogany- 
 bed, with brass motifs of the first Empire under a 
 blue silk canopy, the carmine silk bed-cover, the ex- 
 quisite linen, sheets, the fur blankets. He never asked 
 himself if things could have been otherwise, if his 
 mattress might have been straw or his floor bare 
 boards. He never questioned the condition of any 
 place into which his life led him. All houses, chairs, 
 and tables seemed a part of nature and — created or 
 uncreated, he cared not which — to have had the origin 
 and suffered the history of the world itself. The 
 Countess von Ardstein seemed to have indulged in the 
 furnishing of his apartments that side of her nature 
 which is common to humanity and whose only expres- 
 sion is, "HI had carte blanche and such-and-such an 
 amount of money, I would furnish a suite of rooms 
 thus." She went to the utmost limits of the large sum 
 of money that she asked Martin for, if not a little 
 beyond them. She contrasted the voluptuousness of 
 his night apartment with the costly simplicity of the 
 day-rooms. The table of black ebony in the study was 
 a replica of an Italian altar. The black bronze lamp 
 by whose light he wrote was a masterpiece of the 
 modem Cellini, Gregory Comino. The fireplace in 
 black basalt was by the same master. Its pure and 
 severe proportions were relieved by nothing save by 
 one black classic vase placed immovably upon the left 
 
I9g MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 end of the mantelshelf in order to frustrate the inart- 
 istic fingers of the maids, and filled with a collection 
 of wax flowers arranged to recall Dutch flower paint- 
 ings. A black carpet of tapestry worked with flower- 
 bunches partly covered the floor, and upon the obscure 
 walls hung three pictures two by Rubens and one by 
 Titian, whose colors kept Martin's eyes fixed upon 
 them for hours, for he was a prey to red and orange 
 and sky-blue, and to the richness of luxurious forms 
 of art. There was no other furniture in the room but 
 one black empire chair upholstered in cherry-colored 
 silk to match the long straight curtains at the window. 
 It was not a large room, and the ceiling was high, but 
 nevertheless it gave no idea of being an uncompromis- 
 ing box or a passage room, although it was the only 
 means of communication between his bedroom and the 
 sitting-room. His sitting-room was larger than either 
 his bedroom or his study, and the ceiling appeared to 
 be lower. It had in it a modern picture of Spanish 
 peasants by Alexander Basilikoff, a Polish gipsy, typi- 
 cal of the modern continental feeling. Broad propor- 
 tions, vermilion, cobalt, black, emerald green, chest- 
 nut complexions, flatness and stupidity of feature, such 
 were the characteristics of the picture which dominated 
 the room. The room was dark, almost black; the 
 walls and ceiling were covered with large panels of 
 heavily smoked Spanish leather that had been lightly 
 polished. The junctions of the panels were made 
 
BERLIN 199 
 
 with narrow slats of mahogany. Golden curtains radi- 
 ated the light into this imposing gloom from two high 
 windows, and reflected themselves in the polish of the 
 leather and mahogany chairs and the Chippendale din- 
 ing-table. At night the room was lit by a Spanish 
 center candelabrum that carried forty candles, and by 
 small electric lamps placed about the room. The 
 fireplace was a large square hole in the wall, on a 
 level with the floor. Above it was fixed as a panel the 
 Basilikoff production. No frames, cornices, or shelves 
 marred the beautiful lines of this room. Martin dis- 
 liked this picture; he said it disturbed conversations, 
 but he never supposed that it could be taken away. The 
 only addition he made to his room was a convex mir- 
 ror ; a convex mirror was to him the height of pleasure, 
 for the eye, perhaps, if he had been candid, his notion 
 of perfect beauty. He sat for hours drinking wine 
 with his friends and watching their movements accu- 
 rately reflected in the convex glass. In it his room 
 assumed a mystery and became something beside the 
 ordinary: a comparative criticism perhaps. As he 
 gazed at it from amongst a dozen faces his sense of 
 the aesthetic was roused by the reflected atmosphere of 
 the dark room, profound and strange, enhanced by 
 the glitter of candle-light, by the whiteness of the 
 tablecloth and the men's linen, by human faces 
 and hands, by miniature reflections of bright 
 flowers. 
 
200 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Konstanz stood looking at the mirror. He leaned 
 against the dining-table smoking a cigarette, and won- 
 dered why values were rendered so much more clearly 
 in a diminishing-glass than in nature. He felt that 
 Hogarth and one or two of the Flemish painters must 
 have painted out of a glass. 
 
 Presently Martin came out of the study with a hat 
 and stick in his hand like Konstanz. Konstanz spun 
 round and said: 
 
 " I bet my caricature of Steinheil you are off to a 
 house in Friedrichsvorstadt." 
 
 " No," said Martin, " I am waiting here till she 
 comes for me." 
 
 " I am colossally jealous." 
 
 Martin laughed. " I always prefer men to women 
 and women to men." 
 
 " What the deuce do you mean ? " 
 
 " Well, when Venus is in the ascendency I am in 
 love — I like women best — but at other times I prefer 
 men." 
 
 A rustle was heard outside the door, and in a 
 moment Sophie von Sebaltz came in dressed in the 
 most charming clothes to go shopping. 
 
 She greeted both men merrily, giving a hand to 
 each, and Konstanz hoped she would ask him to go 
 shopping too. 
 
 " Why not all go shopping ? " she said, " and you 
 shall see how women throw away money on clothes 
 
BERLIN 201 
 
 in order to please you, and what a business it is being 
 pretty." 
 
 " You are always pretty, anywhere," said Martin ; 
 and Konstanz tried to think of a smart compliment 
 to pay, but allowed a second too many to elapse before 
 it came into his mind. 
 
 They went down the stairs together, Konstanz 
 a little behind like an intelligent dog, and trying to 
 push his way forward into the intimate company of 
 the most sought after couple in Berlin. 
 
 They went to a parade of models where he amused 
 them by playing the clown, and with silly remarks 
 caused their happiness to escape in peals of laughter. 
 
 "You dear thing; you are so funny," said Sophie. 
 " I think he is the amusingest creature, don't you, 
 Martin?" 
 
 " I think so," answered Martin very gravely ; " and 
 you are the most precious, the most sweet woman on 
 the earth." 
 
 They pleased themselves by buying her the dress 
 she preferred amongst all those that were shown to 
 her, and she promised to give them a dinner in it at 
 her house with nobody else there. Konstanz gave 
 her also a jewelled amber cigarette holder, and Martin 
 bought her a case to match, and they drove back to 
 tea at his rooms in a car filled with boxes and flowers 
 and jokes and noise and jpreneral amiability. This is 
 what Konstanz meant when he said that life had not 
 
202 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 spoiled Martin Schuler; that one could play at boys 
 and girls with him without feeling forced or stupid. 
 
 At five o'clock, after tea, Konstanz went away dis- 
 creetly and left the lovers together, who became serious 
 directly they were left alone. The whole of the fan- 
 tasies and fripperies of life disappeared, and they 
 found themselves in the sweetest of passions, strangers 
 to one another, exhilarating and exciting, and yet one 
 because they possessed each other. They remained 
 themselves and took nothing from each other. They 
 gave one another all the sensations of joy and all the 
 light, stimulating pleasures that neither destroy nor 
 create new souls. Their love was like the notes of a 
 harp, like the cascades of the fountains of Versailles, 
 like the fluttering of beech leaves upon the trees in 
 May. They laughed and kissed, and were serious with 
 the seriousness of two Fragonard lovers whose sur- 
 roundings are silk and umbrellas and parrots, black 
 boys, white maidens, roses, and loves. Nevertheless, 
 Martin was only gay in speech and thought ; his calm, 
 dignified manner, his slow attitudes, gave him still that 
 superiority which impressed the world and made 
 Sophie in her heart afraid of him. She could love 
 nobody she did not fear; she was the archetype of 
 man's dream of womanhood — effeminate, silver- 
 voiced, and silver- footed, with a laugh that rippled with 
 sensuality and eyes and lips always ready to send 
 pretty messages. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IT may well be said that the sun never sets on 
 the noise created by the Cosmopolitan Gramo- 
 phone Company, whose offices have for years 
 been situated in the Markgrafen Strasse. Herr Boch 
 and Herr Walcker, the proprietors, kept up a melo- 
 dious gyrating all over the world. Black disks belong- 
 ing to them, stamped with a little world supported by 
 cupids, spun round in every country of the globe; at 
 no time were all at rest and the earth quiet. No 
 sooner had those belonging to the garrison at Shang- 
 hai ceased revolving than those in India began to go 
 round like the spinning tops of Buddha; continuously 
 they buzzed into noise round the v/orld after the 
 chariot of the sun until the garrison officers at Shang- 
 hai met again in the smoking-room of their mess. 
 
 Bernard Steinbach stood by the window of the 
 private room of the company's offices on the first 
 floor of their establishment. He had grown fatter 
 since the production of " The Coquettes," almost four 
 years ago, his shoulders were a little higher, his face 
 redder, and the cheeks more puflFed out. He hardly 
 ever laughed because the action lifted his glasses off 
 his nose and because he had become grave since the 
 loss of his illusions. 
 
 203 
 
204 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 He wore a gray suit that was a little tight for him, 
 and stood at the window with the knuckles of his 
 folded left hand resting upon his hip. In his right 
 hand he held a pipe. He was very troubled and vexed 
 with the idea of seeing Martin again; his mouth 
 drooped, and trouble passed in shadows across his 
 brow. He stared down out of the window vaguely 
 watching the passers-by, and coursing shame, resent- 
 ment, and embarrassment ran through him and 
 brought the blood to his face. He hardly moved at 
 all for ten minutes; most of the time he kept assuring 
 himself that had it not been for the money part of 
 the question, or had the money been less worth while, 
 he would never have come near Martin again. He 
 had to assure himself of it however. 
 
 The yellow autumn sunlight shone on the tops of 
 the buildings opposite, for it was nearly half -past four 
 of an early October afternoon. 
 
 Herr Walcker came in; he was tall and Prussian, 
 with an air of having been close shaved about the 
 head since infancy. Steinbach looked round and said 
 by way of greeting, without moving from the window : 
 
 " That sewing-machine shop across the road has 
 your name on it." 
 
 " Yes," answered Walcker in a pale, highish voice, 
 " that is a branch of the business ; my partner and 
 Friedrich Cohen manage that." 
 
 Steinbach very much desired to remain at the win- 
 
BERLIN 205 
 
 dow in order to watch Martin's arrival, so he went on 
 talking about the branch firm. Walcker was not dis- 
 pleased to come to the window and enlarge upon its 
 prosperity. 
 
 " We make corset machines principally." 
 
 " Then you know the joke about the two mistresses 
 of Georges Faber." 
 
 " I do not. Our machines are used all over the 
 world." 
 
 Steinbach made no comment upon the universality 
 of the " Bochen " sewing machine, who owed her 
 name, as Walcker wished to explain, to the portman- 
 teau of Boch and Cohen. He went on with his story, 
 in which it appeared that a French lady had met a 
 German lady in unfortunate circumstances under Fa- 
 ber's roof and had told her that she was a simple- 
 minded creature pushed by accident into the wrong 
 kind of corsets. 
 
 Walcker laughed, and then hurried to explain the 
 pretty idea of the trade-name of Herr Boch's little 
 jewel, for Walcker had all the worst vices and mental 
 attitudes of the over-assistant of a hosiery department. 
 
 A large car stopped in front of the house and Stein- 
 bach put his head out of the window like a detective. 
 The effort made him redder than ever. He saw a 
 smart man in a navy blue suit and a blue Homburg 
 hat get out of the car followed by a commonplace 
 looking individual in a rough gray overcoat and tan 
 
2o6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 gloves. The man in blue looked like a very smart 
 edition of Martin Schiller. He seemed to have the same 
 shoulders and the same walk. What were his senti- 
 ments as he crossed the pavement, or those as he came 
 upstairs through the show-rooms? He evidently did 
 not intend to meet Steinbach alone since he had brought 
 a chaperon. Steinbach waited, answering. "Yes, 
 yes," not without irritation, to the pompous trade de- 
 scriptions of Walcker. Schiiler seemed very slow. He 
 must be looking at all the photographs of the singers 
 upon the walls, some of whom were probably his 
 friends. Steinbach's patience was not great, but his 
 obstinacy did very well to make up for it. He was 
 always obstinate for a plan or for an advantage, in 
 spite of every delay, and people said that he had the 
 patience of Job, but this was not the case. He had 
 got over his sentiments and emotions some time ago 
 with regard to this meeting, at least that was his 
 impression; but all the same, when he heard Martin's 
 voice outside the door, and saw the handle of the 
 door turn to let him in he was startled. 
 
 Martin entered, handsome and smart and brave, 
 and good health, good looks, and the attractiveness of 
 one whom everybody spoiled filled the whole room. 
 Steinbach had the feeling of struggling through several 
 hoops of paper : he was not happy. 
 
 "Well, that is you, Steinbach," said Martin, ad- 
 vancing; " this is my secretary. Wolf." Steinbach was 
 
BERLIN 207 
 
 nearly forced to reply as he shook hands with the 
 ordinary creature Wolf, " The former secretary is 
 pleased to meet the present secretary/' However, he 
 felt too sore and uncomfortable to say anything but 
 Good day. Martin suspected that his old friend's feel- 
 ings towards himself were not all good, and he sud- 
 denly became self-conscious, and, looking at Walcker, 
 suggested that they should turn their attention to 
 business. 
 
 Everybody became at once impersonal, and in half 
 an hour the whole of the matter, which concerned cer- 
 tain rights in gramophone records of "The Saddest 
 Singer," were settled and the necessary signatures 
 made. No sooner was the barrier of business taken 
 down than Wolf felt impelled by some force to get 
 Walcker into conversation outside the room, and 
 leave his master with the stranger. The inevitable 
 kept Martin Schiiler from following them out of the 
 room. He found himself in almost personal contact 
 with Steinbach. He got up and went to the window; 
 he desired to say something but he did not know what. 
 He uttered the words, " There is a sewing machine 
 shop opposite." 
 
 " It belong^s to the firm/' answered Steinbach, whose 
 spirit was taken out of him. 
 
 A silence followed that seemed to last two years. 
 
 " It is autumn," said Martin after a long time. 
 
 ** Yes, the trees are yellow in the country." 
 
2o8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Martin pretended to look at something out of the 
 window; he half wanted to laugh, to clap Steinbach 
 on the back, to embrace him, to do everything to show 
 how ridiculous he thought the situation. The serious- 
 ness of embarrassment did not appeal to him. They 
 perpetrated another pair of sentences, this time nearer 
 the thoughts in their hearts. 
 
 " I am fond of Berlin." 
 
 " You prefer it to Leipsic ? " 
 
 This necessitated an answer. Martin yawned, and 
 remembered the last scene they had had in Leipsic 
 over an imaginary corpse of Hella, which was more 
 violent on his part than any of the many scenes of 
 that miserable time before his escape to Berlin. It was 
 a long time since the sick illness of violent temper had 
 come over him; now he felt the cold creeping anger 
 come up to his knees. It rose like mercury in a 
 thermometer suddenly subjected to great heat. He 
 said in a voice full of the metallic sounds of cruelty, 
 
 " Well, as you are hostile, so be it." 
 
 Steinbach grew redder; his head sunk on his breast 
 and he readjusted his arms upon the backs of the 
 chairs on either side of him. 
 
 Martin had got to the door. In spite of the terrible 
 tension and of the sounds in their ears of ugly ringing 
 and booming bells, they both had a desire to make an 
 effort of friendship, but not the will. 
 
 Steinbach began to think of nothing but Hella, and 
 
BERLIN 209 
 
 Martin looked at him with a burning curiosity to know 
 his opinion of his conduct. 
 
 " It is not desirable for me to stay," said Martin. 
 "There are a thousand things I wish to ask you, 
 but, God in hell, let them lie unasked ! '' 
 
 " Perfectly, perfectly, just so," muttered Steinbach, 
 whose anger was rising up to the top of him, as Mar- 
 tin's had done. " I agree with you, I agree with you." 
 
 " Well, you have made some money off me at any 
 rate," said Martin, not out of smallness of mind, but 
 because he really thought that this was some consola- 
 tion, as indeed Steinbach acknowledged to himself that 
 it was. 
 
 After that he went with hesitation down to his car. 
 
 Steinbach again went to the window, a sense of loss, 
 a slight despair, a vast consternation in his mind. Now 
 that the meeting was over all those secret hopes that 
 he had not admitted went through the pain of being 
 extinguished. All those natural and human feelings 
 in connection with his separation from Martin broke 
 to the surface for a minute, and he found it necessary 
 to blow his nose upon his large white handkerchief. 
 In a few seconds he adopted again the general and 
 commonplace view of the actions of the man he had 
 once loved, and moved away from the window in a 
 dreary and not very satisfactory state of mind. 
 
 Martin drove off into the countrv in order to see if 
 the frees were as yellow as Steinbach suggested, anH in 
 
210 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 order to be alone. He sent Wolf home in the tram, 
 for he felt moody and not altogether pleased or happy 
 about the idea he entertained that Steinbach did not 
 think well of him. 
 
 " Am I bad ? Am I not good? Have I done wrong? 
 Surely I have not done wrong. I was forced to act as 
 I did — I have always been forced to act as I have 
 done"; and, presumably having convinced himself 
 that the faults of his life were due to the actions of 
 others rather than to his own, he regained his happi- 
 ness and good temper, and returned home. 
 
 With joy he saw that the trees in the Linden were 
 also yellow, and as he drove along under their shade 
 he lost the last vestige of second-rateness that clung to 
 him, and felt glad that never again would he find him- 
 self face to face with Steinbach. He stopped the car 
 and got out to walk a little under the trees, from which 
 the beautiful thin leaves fell now and then to the 
 ground, and he paused a moment before he turned up 
 into the street where his home was in order to appre- 
 ciate the invigorating air of the October evening, with 
 its slight smell of frost, of dried leaves, and of aro- 
 matic wood. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 ONE morning on a bright day in spring Martin 
 hurried round to see his beloved friend. She 
 lived about a mile away from him and he had 
 to ride down Unter den Linden in order to get to her. 
 He had just finished his third light opera, and a sense 
 of freedom and recurrence of youth came over him, 
 although he had sat up all night. The whole winter 
 had been passed in not too arduous work, which was 
 preoccupying enough to keep him in love with Sophie, 
 who remained the most charming, the most radiant 
 creature alive. Her charm and her loveliness seemed 
 to have increased under his caresses, and he belonged 
 to her in all his free moments as the shadows belong 
 to the sunlight. As he rode gayly down the Linden 
 at an early hour, the shops were washing their faces 
 and had menials manicuring their front doorsteps as 
 it were. Those artful creatures, the stereotyped shop- 
 assistants, who in the daytime dressed in smart clothes 
 and tyrannized over customers, were behaving like 
 human beings as they walked along the pavements to 
 their work: the men were chatting and joking with 
 the women, the srirls were amusing themselves at the 
 expense of the boys. 
 
 an 
 
212 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 When Schiiler came to the Brandenburg gate with 
 the quadriga of Victory upon the top, it seemed to him 
 that its looming proportions were the statue of the 
 mighty German nation, for the sun fell full upon it 
 this morning; but in the evening, when the sun was 
 behind it and cast its huge shadow forward, it seemed 
 like an austere and overhanging rock. To-day birds 
 could be seen perching upon its cornices and even 
 building their nests in the niches that presented them- 
 selves. " What a lot of nests there must be in the 
 chariot of Victory,'' he thought and as in former days 
 the thought inspired a musical idea. " A cloud of birds 
 fly from the chariot of Victory," he said to himself as 
 he rode under the archway. When he got through 
 the Brandenburg Thor he turned his horse towards the 
 Friedrichsvorstadt. The linden-trees were budding, 
 the sparrov/s chattering, dogs ran cheerily after their 
 owners, and little children on their way to school 
 were daring to play upon the steps of the Victory 
 monument and the Hall of the Imperial Diet. All 
 nature was merry, so that in spite of a feeling of 
 weariness he kept his restive horse at a brisk walk 
 with the aid of rein and heel. He experienced a curi- 
 ous feeling of happiness. " I am myself again," he 
 thought. Perhaps it was the feeling of youth that dis- 
 persed his experiences and gave him simplicity. For a 
 moment he hesitated whether to call upon Sophie or to 
 go for a long ride. He went for a ride and turned his 
 
BERLIN 213 
 
 horse to the Charlotten Chaussee because that way was 
 long and straight. He could ride here at ease and 
 enjoy his morning thought. 
 
 He thought he was very much like what he used to 
 be in the old days before Leipsic, and that social life 
 was a little tiring. He began to want to be alone 
 in his little house in the Black Forest, but a considera- 
 tion of Sophie's feelings drove away the desire. He 
 seemed to see his love for Sophie as a reality and his 
 love for Hella as a far away dream, like a floating 
 castle upon clouds. " Love like that is not to be 
 found down here," he said to himself. " I should like 
 to marry Sophie and carry her off to my quiet den.'* 
 So he went on talking quietly to himself as one does 
 in the early day when riding upon a horse or walking 
 over a hill. "No, I believe if I were with her all 
 night and day I should tire of her. That is a heresy. 
 Well, I can think of heresies." The notion of Stein- 
 bach occurred to him, and he felt a little uneasy and 
 asked himself if there were an after life, an idea which 
 did not really trouble him. " Of course there is," he 
 said. " No, of course there is not. There is a power 
 of evil. I am not pure, but after all I am not so bad " 
 He began to wonder where he was riding to, whether 
 it was to Charlottenburg or to an ultimate goal, but 
 he had only a vague idea of what that goal might be. 
 He decided that he was not yet dead nor had he really 
 lived. He felt for a moment that he had been amusing 
 
214 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 himself for years and waiting for something, and that 
 in the meantime he had allowed people to handle him 
 and influence him. Then the idea vanished as he 
 looked at the arch of his horse's neck, and said, " My 
 horse is a good horse.'* He wondered if people 
 admired him upon horseback, for it seemed that he 
 had looked presentable in the glass of the shop win- 
 dows of the Linden. 
 
 The sun shone down upon him, a light wind blew 
 refreshingly in his face; it wafted the trees about, 
 and the long streamers of water from the public 
 fountains. The trees formed long parallel lines before 
 him, between which ran the ever-narrowing roadway, 
 to which a thin sprinkling of people seemed to be 
 glued, so constant was their number upon it. The 
 people looked very small, especially in the distance, 
 when compared with the wide roadway and the trees. 
 
 " How little everybody is ! " thought Martin, but 
 he himself felt about as large as the statues dotted 
 about the park, which are mostly of the heroic size 
 and compare well in height with the trees and 
 fountains. 
 
 He was unable to conceive the idea that these little 
 creatures walking about the road had erected the 
 Brandenburg Gateway just behind him or the Char- 
 lotten Palace to which he was going. It was difficult 
 for him to credit that the builder of palaces was not 
 nature. 
 
BERLIN 215 
 
 "The trees will soon be in full leaf," he thought, 
 a little further on. " How I sigh for the forests of 
 Bavaria! I would like to see Bertha, my sister. Her 
 children must be tall and strong now. Are any of them 
 musicians? Perhaps one of them will outrival me! 
 No, damned be the thought: I will be the greatest of 
 our family." 
 
 Suddenly he was overcome with impatience, and 
 turning his horse, made his way quickly by cross routes 
 to the house of the Countess von Sebaltz. 
 
 When he arrived in her boudoir he saw signs that 
 she had risen. The morning sun filled the apartment, 
 everything glittered with white sunshine. The door into 
 the bedroom was open, and in the doorway stood 
 the Countess, drying her ears with a fine lawn towel. 
 When Martin saw how beautiful she was erect in the 
 morning sun he cried out: 
 
 " Oh, you remind me of all that I have not 
 attained!" 
 
 " How innocent you are ! " she said with rapture ; 
 " you remind me of all that I have not been." 
 
 He began to approach her with hasty awe as if she 
 were a dream, but she vanished into the bathroom and 
 he could hear by the splashing that she had descended 
 into her bath. 
 
 He retired and sat down with a sigh. His eyes 
 ached a little. What hours she stayed in the water! 
 Presently, however, she emerged in a muslin robe-de- 
 
2i6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 chambre, with a huge cape of frills that half hid her 
 .face. He rose and went up to her; then put his left 
 arm around her, and with his right hand pressed back 
 the frills of her cape in order to kiss her. The firm 
 muscles of her beautiful youthful back were against 
 his left hand, as he held her well and lightly. Be- 
 tween his two kisses she adored him, and said : 
 
 " Wonderfullest man ! " 
 
 " Most wonderful woman," he replied, and the 
 lightness and strength of that beautiful embrace could 
 scarcely be excelled. 
 
 When they were seated at the breakfast-table, drink- 
 ing coffee and eating rolls, he said : 
 
 " I came to tell you — I came to announce it is done. 
 The third one, dedicated to you." 
 
 "Well done, excellently done," she said, strok- 
 ing his hand. " But my dearest one looks a little 
 tired!" 
 
 " I worked till four o'clock this morning." He 
 laughed a love-laugh, and jumping up suddenly kissed 
 her mouth. She was laughing too. 
 
 Presently she said, " Have you ever loved anybody 
 as you love me? " 
 
 " No one," he replied. 
 
 " Have you ever loved anybody at all ? " 
 
 " I had a most troublesome and heavy-footed passion 
 for a good woman once. She demanded a complete 
 
BERLIN 217 
 
 sacrifice to love : not to herself, to love ! It was all-too- 
 serious. It did not endure." 
 
 Sophie sighed and said that she had had her photo- 
 graph taken. 
 
 " Do not give it to anybody but me," said Martin. 
 
 " Of course I would not dream of such a thing! Do 
 I want everybody to have me to stare at? " 
 
 Martin came and knelt at her feet. His feeling of 
 former days was returning. He put his arms around 
 her and hid his face on her breast in order to shut out 
 the present. It was strange for him to have such a 
 strong recurrence of the past. He seemed to have 
 before his eyes a photograph of his youth. His 
 loaded memory, from which up to now he had taken 
 nothing, was perhaps beginning to burst. His thoughts 
 came to a head. 
 
 " I am thirty," he muttered, " and I am not satis- 
 fied with myself. I am most displeased. Never will 
 I write anything more." 
 
 Sophie stroked his hair. " You are only thirty, 
 dearest," she said ; " what is the matter with my little 
 one?" 
 
 His mood of self-criticism passed in a flash, but 
 he still hid his head in her breast. 
 
 " How often am I not content," she said, soothing 
 him; " how often I am displeased with myself ! When 
 I was a girl I was so innocent and young that my only 
 dream was to be the faithful companion of a man 
 
2i8 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 and a faithful mother of little children. Fate has 
 given me quite different things to do and I try to do 
 them well. Perhaps your successes are not quite those 
 you dreamed of, but they are brilliant; does not every- 
 body love and admire you? does not everything you 
 want fall at your feet ? Your Sophie does ; she is your 
 little slave. Perhaps she is not very good. Some people 
 call her a little fool, and are writing letters to her 
 husband about her. But I do not think I am wicked, 
 and if so I must be wicked because you are so wonder- 
 ful. Are you not wonderful? Of necessity I am not 
 good." 
 
 " I forgot Hella von Rosenthal," said Martin, " as 
 easily as a fledgeling forgets its mother." This 
 seemed to him at the moment a crime. " I may forget 
 you." 
 
 "You are a genius," answered Sophie; " everything 
 you do is right. I am sure she does not reproach you ; 
 I am sure she has only a few little regrets because she 
 is human." 
 
 Martin, who did not want to have the subject of 
 Hella enlarged upon, kissed her under the chin in that 
 small hollow that Frenchwomen are so proud of. 
 
 " My darlingest," he whispered, " you smell of wild 
 roses and honeysuckle. That is my idea of you. You 
 are my genius and my nurse. How lovely you looked 
 in your doorway. When I want pure inspiration I 
 shall come and watch you," 
 
BERLIN 219 
 
 After he had kissed her he got up and left her. 
 Outside the servant was holding his horse for him. He 
 gave him a large tip, which was unusual, and mounted 
 gayly. He rode down to the Potsdam gate, but the day 
 was so beautiful that he decided to resume his inter- 
 rupted ride to Charlottenburg. When he got there he 
 stabled his horse and walked to the Mausoleum, which 
 he entered. He liked the entrance with the marble 
 angel and the theatrical light effects. Anything with 
 wings was particularly attractive to him. Entering, 
 he found himself among dead Emperors and Em- 
 presses. He stared some moments at the beautiful 
 recumbent figure of the Queen Louise, and a desire to 
 pray came upon him, but to what he did not know: 
 perhaps to Queen Louise. He seemed to be begging 
 of her to lift him up, but out of what he could not 
 tell: perhaps to a love he had forgotten, to a state 
 of mind that he had fallen from. His love for Sophie 
 had none of the depth of passion of those days upon 
 the mountains with Hella. Yes, the pure marble of 
 the statue recalled the snow upon the mountains, and 
 yet Hella was like the deep sea, and Sophie was, in 
 perfect taste, like a carven statue. He did not require 
 a woman who demanded from him the sacrifice of his 
 whole soul : he required one who would fill him with 
 life and joy and the power to do great things. Was 
 Sophie sufficient ? Her body was a fine representation 
 of the intellectual. Did he lie within himself, suffi- 
 
220 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 cient unto himself like these dead bodies? Should he 
 repel outward influences and, like a great river, flow 
 from his own soul only? His heart seemed full to 
 breaking. He stretched his arms above his head like 
 one who aspires physically, regardless of a number of 
 tourists who with devout steps were prowling around 
 the great dead of the old world and snifling their last 
 musty savor with nostrils dilated for the very purpose. 
 
 He heard the curator whisper under his breath, 
 " That is Martin von Schuler." 
 
 " Would he point me out to them if I had gone my 
 own way? " he thought; " perhaps fame is better than 
 immortality.'* 
 
 The boldest of the tourists dared to ask him for an 
 autograph. 
 
 " No," he said in German, "I can write nothing but 
 music " — none of which she understood except the 
 negative. The curator laughed however, and winked 
 at Martin as the party left the place, but he remained 
 behind, and continued his meditations, staring at the 
 floor with his hands in his pockets. His last work had 
 been an effort. He had found it necessary to work 
 up to a standard — the standard of his second opera. 
 He had to keep in the same vein — that was the most 
 difficult part — and at the same level. He was pleased 
 with himself, but he did not feel that a third effort 
 upon the same lines was possible to him, for he did not 
 count " The Coquettes," which was an accident. 
 
BERLIN 221 
 
 " Well," he thought at last, " I cannot stand here 
 all day. I had better go and see if they are over- 
 feeding my mare/* 
 
 He spent the afternoon choosing a present for 
 Sophie von Sebaltz, in order to commemorate the 
 occasion. He was not fond of jewels; he liked giving 
 her flowers, but on this occasion he chose a ring which 
 the jeweller's assistant at Wagner's assured him was 
 quite what she liked. It was a cameo of the head of the 
 Medusa, with black hair and a white face upon a black 
 background. " We have ascertained that several queens 
 have worn it, excellency," said the salesman. A Jew- 
 ish person with a beak nose confirmed this statement. 
 " Aber so ! " he said, taking the jewel from Martin 
 and examining it with a lens. " Aber so ! It is the 
 finest, the most royal jewel in our establishment ! " 
 
 Besides this ring he had only given her a jewelled 
 cigarette case and a pearl upon a long platinum chain. 
 For this he had paid about eighteen thousand marks. 
 The pearl always hung near her heart in the most 
 sacred of love's shrines, for he called it his frozen kiss. 
 As for other gifts, he was not fond of books. The 
 only book he had ever given her was Plato's " Phae- 
 drus" in Greek, which neither of them could read. 
 He gave it to her because Countess Ardstein had told 
 him that it contained the epitome of perfect love. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ALTHOUGH Martin Schuler was now thirty 
 years of age, the peahens was not yet brought 
 off. He had not even read Werner's poem; 
 in fact he had almost completely forgotten the whole 
 idea. His second opera, " The Saddest Singer," was 
 a furious success. When he had brought it to Berlin 
 everybody went wild about it. Everybody sang the 
 chief song in it — 
 
 "So beautiful is the singer 
 Who sadly sings of love." 
 
 It was edited for sopranos, contraltos, tenors, and 
 baritones, with and without obligatos for every con- 
 ceivable instrument. It was edited as a piano solo, a 
 violin solo, a clarinet solo. Martin made a fortune out 
 of it. It was chanted in all countries and in all lan- 
 guages by every make of gramophone. One heard it 
 as frequently as the " Merry Widow " waltz, or Offen- 
 bach's " Barcarolle," which, after a dozen years of 
 popularity still moves the hearts of the bourgeoisie. 
 
 One day Martin sat in the out-of-door restaurant 
 of one of the best hotels in Berlin in charming com- 
 pany. Amongst those present the beautiful actress, 
 
 222 
 
BERLIN 223 
 
 Tarquine, sat next to him, clothed in an up-to-date 
 white tailor-made. He chattered with her throughout 
 the luncheon, and she rubbed the whitening off her 
 doeskin boots on to his trousers. Tarquine was one 
 of those very vivacious people who can neither keep 
 their feet nor their tongues still. It was difficult to 
 recognize in this spick-and-span Herr von Schuler, 
 in the smart navy blue lounge suit, with the longish 
 oiled hair brushed up from his brows, the black 
 mustache and the slightly musical tie, that sloppy, 
 neglected-looking youth who used to sit with his elder 
 sister in an attic den, papered with a soiled mustard- 
 colored wall-paper. He was changed even from the 
 somewhat provincial creature of a few years ago, who 
 bought good clothes off the peg and wore rather too 
 large collars. 
 
 Is one ever different from the present; that is to 
 say, has one a past ? It is difficult to believe that one's 
 other images were oneself at all and not substitutes. 
 
 " Ah " said Tarquine, " to-night we shall witness 
 another succis fou! Ah, mais out, mon tout p'tit 
 homme" she exclaimed to Martin, " I intend to make 
 myself a success in the title role." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," said Martin, who was in 
 good spirits. 
 
 This was the day of the production of his third 
 opera. He was always happy when there was any 
 chance of public glory, fje Ipyed his name in the 
 
224 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 papers, and enjoyed the applause of the multitude, 
 for he valued the acclamation of the herd far above 
 the praise of individuals. 
 
 The hors-d'oeuvres the soup, the special fish, the 
 delicate entrecote maitre d'hotel, the duck so tender 
 and young with equally young and tender green peas 
 enhanced with a sauce of apricots and oysters a la 
 moselle had all been submitted, approved, served, and 
 devoured. The waiters bowed with the beautiful 
 concoction of Venus before the guests, a stimulating 
 savory which appeared to be made of pistachio nuts 
 and thin slices of curried ham, but which tasted as 
 strange and delicate as the perfume of an exotic China 
 rose. The luncheon party chattered, gormandized, and 
 roared with laughter. The summer sun poured down 
 upon the awning. Iced champagne stood in pewter 
 buckets, the bottles decently attired in white cloths to 
 prevent the waiters from getting chilblains. The ladies 
 helped themselves to wild strawberries out of little 
 silver baskets. They put strawberries into their cham- 
 pagne so that they bobbed like pieces of red amber 
 upon little golden ponds. The noise and gayety of 
 the party distressed the grave English family who sat 
 at the next table, and caused them to say, " What terri- 
 ble manners these Germans have ! '* They turned away 
 when Tarquine opened her handsome mouth so wide 
 that the little strawberries could roll into it with the 
 champagne. 
 
BERLIN 225 
 
 " Strawberries ! " said Martin, who was becoming 
 in a better and better humor; and the others — that is 
 to say, Konstanz, Hirchner, Susie Meyder, Gaiya Sal- 
 viati and Fritz Zeiss — all went off into roars of laugh- 
 ter over the very improper joke they all knew about 
 strawberries. Konstanz particularly winked at Gaiya, 
 whom he loved equally well with Lottie and Beda, 
 if not with half a dozen others. Tarquine moved her 
 vivacious feet in glee under the table, and the calves 
 of Martin's trousers assumed the aspect of whited 
 sepulchers. Off the stage she was one of those ener- 
 getic Dianas who destroy, rend, break, or upset what- 
 ever they come in contact with. Her chief charm as 
 an actress was her boundless vitality and her irrepres- 
 sible liveliness. 
 
 " Listen ! " she cried, holding up her spoon with the 
 remnant of her hot-ice in it and waving it rhythmi- 
 cally in the air : 
 
 "So beautiful is the singer ! " 
 
 she sang softly, as the orchestra, at a whisper from 
 the Herr Restaurantkeeper, struck up Martin's song. 
 It was repeated three times. The gay company paid 
 compliments to the hero and drank to the success of 
 his new opera " The Maidens of Weimar,'* which was 
 going to be produced that evening. For that matter 
 it was already an assured success, and the hilarity of 
 the party was greatly due to the fact that they were 
 
226 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 all going to benefit by it. All the guests in the restaur- 
 ant ceased eating, and enquired from the waiters who 
 the person with the black mustache might be. On 
 learning who he was, several of them stood up to get 
 a better view. 
 
 The orchestra ceased playing and turned to look at 
 the hero with whom it felt that it was one. 
 
 Suddenly the composer stood up and turned livid. 
 He swore the most terrible oath, blasphemed God and 
 insulted the Emperor, then strode down the steps into 
 the glaring sunshine and vanished down a side street. 
 
 The company was astonished. The waiters and 
 some of the guests ran to the steps in order to see 
 what had become of him. A taxi-man driving past 
 opened his door and indicated that they should go 
 with him in pursuit. Three of them did, but they 
 never saw Martin Schiiler again. 
 
 Nothing serious had taken place. Martin had merely 
 heard, like a faint echo of the orchestra, what seemed 
 to him the miserable chime of a hurdy-gurdy grinding 
 out his over-sung song. Instantly he had had a clear 
 vision of his young God-inspired self gazing out over 
 Heidelberg, and his soul cried aloud with nameless 
 execrations that he had betrayed himself to shame. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 NIGHT was falling over Berlin when Martin 
 returned to his house. He was physically and 
 mentally ill. Where he had been or what he 
 had done all day he could not remember. His mind 
 was filled with the recollection he had of Tarquine 
 as she appeared at the last rehearsal in short chiffon 
 skirts and a hussar's coat. The memory of this and of 
 the fact that his music had been played upon a hurdy- 
 gurdy revealed to him the baseness of what he called 
 his self -betrayal. The best emanation of his brain 
 during the last five years was suitable for a street 
 organ. Ever since he had last seen Steinbach a sus- 
 picion had arisen in him from time to time that his 
 life was not as it should be, and yet the success he 
 had had and the pleasure he gave flattered him, and he 
 reassured himself that all was right with him. Never- 
 theless the new force or the old force, the suspicion of 
 himself, or the dawning realization of his power, or 
 whatever it might be, had caused him recently to 
 become uneasy and on the look out and to indulge 
 more frequently in sharp, loud accesses of bad temper. 
 Now, as he stood in the middle of his bedroom in the 
 attitude of thinking and perplexity, he began suddenly 
 
 227 
 
228 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 to shake and became beside himself. He seemed to 
 see all his friends arrayed against him, pointing the 
 finger at him and saying " That man is a failure." He 
 hid his face in his hands as he stood there in the dim 
 white twilight, a black shadowy figure amidst the white 
 walls of his room. A furious desire to shoot himself 
 or to plunge at once into a personal revolution seized 
 him. He longed to wage civil war against himself, to 
 immolate, to annihilate everything of him. He threw 
 himself upon his bed and wept extravagantly. His 
 soul raged against his soul. The blood boiled in his 
 veins and rushed to his head, his heart accelerated, 
 he choked and was desperately sick. He flung him- 
 self upon the floor and lay for a long time in an agony 
 with his teeth clenched, his brows contracted, his lower 
 jaw protruded. Tears streamed from his eyes and with 
 his hands he caught the leopard skin rug in a fierce 
 grasp. He lay still in the madness of degradation, and 
 swiftly all the things he had ever done passed through 
 his mind, tinged, stained, and ruined with futility. He 
 fell into a nightmare of horror, in the middle of which 
 his secretary came into the room. When Wolf saw 
 him upon the floor he gave a low cry — ^he thought he 
 saw a murdered man. Instantly Martin sprang up, 
 anger and passion running like a storm of fire through 
 him. 
 
 " Go out of my sight ! '* he shouted in a transport 
 of fury, neither knowing or caring what he said. " Go ! 
 
BERLIN 229 
 
 You foul snarer, you beast of the earth ! '' His heart 
 trembled, his body shuddered : he thought he saw in his 
 secretary an incarnation of his degradation. Delighted 
 also to be able to make some sensitive creature suffer, 
 he sprang upon him as he cowered against the wall 
 and struck him furiously. " You coward ! you beast 
 of the earth ! " he howled again, " you reptile ! Your 
 insignificance shrivels you in your miserable skin." 
 Martin struck him again. " You loathsome hypocrite. 
 Thank your God I have no weapon. If I had a wea- 
 pon I would kill you as Saul killed David — transfix 
 you to the wall — smash out your brains. Time-server ! 
 Escape now, escape," he cried, swaying back from the 
 wall and making with his hands the movements of 
 strangling. " God in hell, escape or I shall choke you 
 with my naked hands ; the sight of you is intolerable.*' 
 
 Wolf slid to the door and Martin lunged again and 
 struck him in the back of the neck. Wolf reeled and 
 nearly fell backwards, but managed to gain the door. 
 Streaming with blood he disappeared through it. His 
 dismay as he heard Martin turn the key in the lock 
 caused him to huddle himself upon the ground. His 
 nature was revolted because he had not struck back, 
 but one does not strike a superior officer, one does not 
 strike God or Martin Schuler. 
 
 " The fool ! " said Martin to himself smiling, " the 
 fool! He thinks I am mad. He will probably fetch 
 the police." He flung himself upon his bed in the hope 
 
230 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 that despair would again fasten down upon him and 
 blot out his abominable feelings, but it did not. He 
 felt calmer, but he also felt that if anybody turned the 
 handle of his door he would open it, drag him in, and 
 kill him. Soon he slept, but his dreams were uneasy. 
 Leopards pervaded a green atmosphere. Discontent, 
 despair, and anguish drifted together in an indefinite 
 sea, where there were ridges of green and parts of 
 leopards, anguish and despair revolving together in an 
 uneven movement. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HE was to have taken Sophie to the theater 
 to hear his new piece. He was to have taken 
 her out to dinner first — to have brought her 
 flowers and petted and spoiled her. They were to have 
 had a happy evening teasing one another with pleasant- 
 ries of which they never got tired. She waited a long 
 time for him. She lay upon the sofa of her boudoir. 
 She was not angry because Schuler did not come: 
 she was afraid. She dared not go out alone because 
 she knew that if he found her gone he would be in a 
 mad rage. She had no idea what kept him, but she 
 dared not go and see if he was ill till he sent for her. 
 Her fears were not deep enough to make her cry. She 
 did not cry easily; perhaps her feelings were never 
 very strong, or perhaps she was philosophical. She 
 lit a cigarette and drank some coffee. 
 
 At ten o'clock she established herself at the window, 
 and, standing there holding apart the sulphur-colored 
 curtains, she looked like a beautiful picture by some 
 French follower of Whistler. The tones of pale 
 sulphur and delicate pearl-pink, shadowed with gray 
 by the bright blue dusk of the evening, the long 
 chiffon dress that hung straight upon the floor, the 
 
 231 
 
232 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 white ermine coat unmarred with black flicks of tails, 
 showed beautiful and soft as a picture upon a flat 
 surface in the light of the shaded lamp. Her delicate 
 right hand had upon it the black and white ring that 
 Martin had given her. It looked like the exotic signa- 
 ture of the artist. There was nothing real about her. 
 Frequently she was unreal : a fairy princess. To-night 
 she was at the zenith of her beauty. Physically, in her 
 beautiful pale clothes, she was a faultless dream, re- 
 minding one of the most perfectly grown malmaison 
 carnations, of pearls without flaw, of ivory carved into 
 eastern houris with black onyx hair. She was an 
 object of art. 
 
 When it was quite dark Martin awoke and imme- 
 diately took his hat, unlocked the door, and hurried 
 down into the street. It was half past eleven. The 
 lights in the street were brilliant. He turned into 
 Unter den Linden and walked rapidly under the 
 emerald green trees that seemed in the powerful light 
 of the overhead lamps to be made of jewels. He passed 
 the gay cafes where everything was glaring vermilion 
 and bright yellow and dark green, as if they were cafes 
 on the stage. Above him stretched the dark purple 
 impassive sky, around him was noise and laughter and 
 brilliance. There was no sympathy in anything. When 
 he was brilliant he was the god of brilliancy; when he 
 was alone in the forest he was the god of the night; but 
 
BERLIN 233 
 
 to-night he was alone in the brilliance. He walked 
 on to the gateway that seemed to be the gateway of 
 life, and went under it as if he were returning to hell. 
 All the dramatic feelings of which he was capable rose 
 in him. He longed to create a sensation, to die of an 
 attack of the heart under the arch of the gate, to go 
 mad and rave screaming down the Linden, to have 
 wings and be carried upon them up into the sky out 
 of life and the desperate state he was in. He felt 
 himself sinking in a sea, and nothing, he assured him- 
 self, nothing in the world, could raise him out of it. 
 
 Soon he found himself entering Sophie's house, 
 ascending her stairs, and going into her boudoir. The 
 light and the sweet perfume made him feel tired. 
 
 Directly he appeared she ran to him and threw 
 herself into his arms. He did not know what to do 
 with her. He wanted to behave so as to make himself 
 feel happy and to remove the despair out of his heart. 
 The soft feeling of her clothes soothed him a little : to 
 gather fur and satin and chiffon under one's hand gives 
 at least a sense of physical well-being. When he had 
 moved his hands about on her a little he thought he 
 would speak. 
 
 " I am done for." He seemed to have said some- 
 thing like it before. Everything seemed a reiteration. 
 His life was stirred into a whirling pool ; events were 
 now in the future, now in the past. 
 
 **Oh!how?" 
 
234 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "How? How should I know." 
 
 Sophie's heart sank — evidently he was madly angry. 
 
 ** Was the play not well received? " 
 
 " I have not been to the play. My heart is broken : 
 I am dead : I am a writer of opera houffe." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " I tell you I am dead. Take your arms from me : 
 I am a corpse.*' 
 
 She did not move. 
 
 " Forsake me, I say : all have." 
 
 Still she did not move. 
 
 He thought how splendidly devoted she was. She 
 herself neither believed what he said nor saw any 
 reason to desert him. She had no idea what to do and 
 was moreover frightened. She liked to hold him for 
 protection. 
 
 She put her face up and kissed him. 
 
 He buried her in his arms, and, picking her up, put 
 her on the divan and threw himself beside her. 
 
 She loved him very much just then: all her excit- 
 able emotions were satisfied. He began to breathe 
 heavily and to sob. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " I am dead." 
 
 She stroked his head. " No, no." 
 
 " Tell me I am a failure." 
 
 " What ! " she whispered ; " why, you can do any- 
 thing in the world." 
 
 "How can you tell?" 
 
BERLIN 235 
 
 "I know/' 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " Because I know/* 
 
 He raised his head and looked at Her. 
 
 " Tell me what I am to do." 
 
 " To be brave." 
 
 " How am I to be brave ? " 
 
 " To go away." The time-honored remedy was the 
 only suggestion she could make. 
 
 " To go where ? " 
 
 " To the Black Forest." 
 
 He besfan to tell her about his life, and talked to her 
 until dawn. He told her the most exaggerated story 
 of his past, which was far different from the truth, 
 in which he had suffered a thousand dramatic and 
 awful moments, and been tortured and made happy 
 bevond the lot even of mythical beings. He gave her 
 an idea so terrible of his sufferings as a youth born 
 to eenius, of his betrayal — as he called it — ^by Stein- 
 bach, of his destruction — as he imagined it to be — by 
 Hella, that her imagination was stirred and all those 
 little-used forces of thought in her took from his 
 grotesaue, magnificent recital enough fire to kindle 
 in him a flame of hope, a desire for the future, and a 
 will to be more wonderful than anvbody that had ever 
 lived in the whole world. At cock-crow he left her 
 and went away to be bv himself in order to dream 
 that He was young and that all that He Had just said 
 
236 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 existed only in his imagination. Unfortunately, his 
 flame of hope was not very strong: his defeat was 
 heavy and smothered it into gray smoke. It lay and 
 smouldered for a long time, and neither Sophie nor 
 Wolf had any power to cheer him from the deep de- 
 pression and loneliness that came over him, or to 
 draw him out of the muddy fen of misery that he 
 had fallen into. 
 
SCHWARZWALD 
 
SCHWARZWALD 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MARTIN SCHULER left Berlin on the 13th 
 of July in his automobile. He felt no regret 
 as the car carried him for the last time down 
 Unter den Linden. Again the past was closed down 
 by a departure. He sat alone in his blue Mercedes 
 thinking of nothing, dreaming of nothing, but he was 
 experiencing the whole of the rest of his life. What 
 he saw as the automobile and his past life grew fur- 
 ther apart, he afterwards realized. The rain was pour- 
 ing down in torrents; the heavy drops pattered on the 
 leaves. The words " Unter den Blattern " came into 
 Martin's mind. " Blattern," short and sharp and 
 hard, was repeated a thousand times by the dripping 
 trees. It might mean something, it might mean 
 nothing; but whatever its significance, Martin never 
 forgot it, and one may now hear, if one thinks fit 
 to go to those rare performances of Schiiler opera, 
 " unter den Blattern," " unter den Blattern, Blattern, 
 Blattern, Blattern," repeated mercilessly through a 
 whole episode by the violins. 
 
 For hours he lay in the car physically at ease in the 
 
 339 
 
240 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 luxury of solitude. Wolf, Sophie, and the rest of his 
 paraphernalia were in the train. He thought of them 
 for a minute, as if they were a couple of boxes, and 
 then solitude came back like a refreshing dream. He 
 dozed and slept in that luxurious car, cut off from the 
 entire universe. 
 
 They drove through Dresden ; the houses passed by 
 him rapidly with the rain and the trees and the ped- 
 estrians, like false objects in a mise en sc^ne. The 
 whole of Germany seemed to be swimming in rain. 
 The rain beat fiercely upon the car and splashed and 
 spat around the wind screen upon the unfortunate 
 chauffeurs, for Herr von Schiiler never went a long 
 distance without two, so that when one was exhausted 
 the other could take his place. As dusk came on it 
 became impossible to see the road with the screen shut, 
 so Bergensen, the Swedish mechanic, opened it, and 
 the rain cut and drove in upon their faces. Schiiler 
 lay comfortably upon the mauve corduroy divan, his 
 dinner case and tantalus open beside him. Drops of 
 rain splashed into the car from time to time, through 
 the slit of open window. The condition of the wea- 
 ther filled him with absurd joy. The chill, heavy wet- 
 ness of the atmosphere, the dark gloom of the sky, 
 gave him a memory of Schiilersholm, on lake Titter- 
 see, where in the morning he would find himself. In 
 his mind he cried to Thor and Wodin and the Norse 
 gods of violent nature to let loose the fountains of 
 
SCHWARZWALD 241 
 
 heaven and pour upon the earth an exceptional deluge 
 of rain. 
 
 The endless motion of the car ceased at some point 
 in the night, and Schiiler awoke to the fact that the 
 world had ceased to go round and that death is a nega- 
 tion of movement. Voices were talking to the chauf- 
 feur. In a few minutes Martin put his head out of 
 the window and said : 
 
 " Who is this? Where are we? What is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 " Regensburg, Herr Count, Regensburg — ^the au- 
 thorities of the bridge." 
 
 " Ah, Regensburg," said Martin, and got out. It 
 was about half -past eleven o*clock at night. A 
 group of men came round him at a respectful dis- 
 tance. 
 
 " Water was necessary, sir," said the French chauf- 
 feur; "also to cool the car; also the authority of the 
 bridge." 
 
 " Ah, the sacred stream ! " said Martin, advancing 
 to the group of people. " Permit me, I would like to 
 look over." 
 
 " This is a very old bridge," said one man. 
 
 " Very old, very old," said three or four others. 
 
 " It is still raining," Martin answered. 
 
 " But not as before," said the police official. 
 
 Martin had on only a thin lounge suit and no hat; 
 upon his feet were thin shoes. 
 
242 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 "What do you think of the river, Prince, if one 
 may interrogate ? ** said a bold late diner-out. 
 
 " It seems very black," said Martin, who was aware 
 that the river was the highway of Europe to Con- 
 stantinople. 
 
 Somebody lit a newspaper, and when it had flared 
 up let it fall over the black chasm of the bridge. The 
 river was too murky to give a reflection. 
 
 " That is very beautiful,'* said Martin, as the news- 
 paper sailed slowly downwards like an angel of heaven 
 into hell. 
 
 " Your car is ready, sir,'* said the French chauffeur. 
 
 Martin still lingered at the corner of the bridge, 
 looking down into the abyss. After a few minutes he 
 said : 
 
 " On it comes from under, and hangs like hair upon 
 the piers, and streams longer and longer till it grows 
 to the sea." 
 
 " Yes," said the man next to him : " it is always 
 the same water under this bridge; we love it, it is so 
 familiar : 
 
 "Our water is so familiar. 
 Thou art my under- and my over-going. 
 
 " Not a rhythm to admire, Herr Count." 
 Martin leaned over the parapet. His eyes were ac- 
 customed to the dark. He could see streaks of the 
 onflowing river. 
 
SCHWARZWALD 243 
 
 "What IS your over-going?" he said to the man 
 who had spoken to him. 
 
 The man, who was young and had the silhouette of 
 one given to thinking, made a gesture with his hands 
 to represent the bridge and the river. " At right 
 angles," he said, " at right angles over and under, on- 
 wards with motion and onwards without motion, but 
 both of them are permanent. The ripples around the 
 pier change very little; they only change to become 
 what they have been before. The road over the bridge 
 is the same : mend it, mend it, and the same holes re- 
 appear. It is all based on the fundamental structure 
 and the mathematical idea. Everything is based on the 
 philosophical notion: that and the mathematical idea 
 are one." 
 
 Martin put his hands on the parapet and stretched 
 his arms so that he stood upright. He looked at the 
 would-be philosopher and said, " Over and under in 
 opposite directions: there you had a true thought; 
 that is the sort of thing I admire, but I myself never 
 illustrate glimpses into eternity. Over and under in 
 opposite directions is enough; I shall sleep well to- 
 night. Thank you ; we have something in common." 
 
 The man who had spoken felt ashamed of himself, 
 as if he had made an object of the description called 
 applied art. 
 
 Martin moved and began to gtt into his car. He 
 felt as Napoleon felt when he got into his carriage after 
 
244 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 a successful battle. He looked at his watch as Napo- 
 leon frequently looked at his: his head down, the 
 timepiece in his right hand. 
 
 " Twelve," he said, and an idea came into his head. 
 
 " You Regensburgians," he said, " you are a little 
 behind Berlin." 
 
 " Indeed," said the police constable, " the clocks 
 will strike midnight soon." 
 
 Martin took his foot off the step. 
 
 "Does the river cease flowing at midnight?" he 
 said. 
 
 The police official answered without being able to 
 help himself. " But no, time does not matter to it." 
 
 Martin got into the car. " Good-by," he said to 
 the pedestrian crowd. " To the Schwartz Wald," he 
 shouted to the chauffeur. 
 
 " Adieu, Herr Diavolo! " said a voice. 
 
 Martin looked out again. " Auf Wiedersehen ! " 
 he cried, and everybody roared with laughter except 
 the philosopher, who was trying to remember the exact 
 words he had used to this prince of darkness, in order 
 that while singing his own praises he might not quote 
 by mistake portions which he wished to forget. 
 
 The car left Regensburg. Martin felt the approach 
 of the mountains and forests. After midnight the 
 rain began again to pour in fierce torrents. As they 
 left Regensburg he heard the hour of night echo from 
 a hundred chimes. The clock in the interior of the 
 
SCHWARZWALD 245 
 
 car answered irritably and electrically witfi twelve 
 wearisome small pings. 
 
 "You beast!" said Martin, kicking its face till it 
 broke " you unsymphonic parasite ! " He laughed to 
 himself and rolled himself into comfort on his 
 couch. 
 
 The car advanced southward in that intense black 
 night. The French chauffeur had in his mind the 
 whole of the road from Berlin to his destination. Its 
 chief contours, towns, and proportions were present to 
 ^his sight. Like a narrow white nerve in the darkness 
 of the night it lay before him, and his senses were all 
 of them aware of the familiarity not only of the part 
 he had just traversed, but of the part he had yet to 
 traverse. He was interested in the Grand Prix. He 
 insisted upon driving the whole way in order to estab- 
 lish a record, and the Swedish mechanic, who pre- 
 ferred slumber and occasional sweet drafts from a 
 bottle of cognac to straining his eyes and establishing 
 records, made no objection. 
 
 In the woods below Regensburg, Martin opened a 
 window of the car. He sat close beside it and allowed 
 the wetness to strike his face. The woods stood silent 
 in the merciless downpouring of the rain. Black 
 and dark were the caverns of the trees under the 
 boughs ; a wind stirred, and in a long series sounds of 
 scattering drops ran from end to end of the forest 
 roads. The wind passed, and again all was silent and 
 
246 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 still, save for the endless unrhythmic pattering of the 
 rain. 
 
 The motion of the car was swift, and Martin felt in 
 it like some vague adventurer of dreams. They passed 
 through the woods where in the twilight of evening 
 evil beings hunted the white hart with hideous cries 
 and with savagery caught late-straying village girls 
 for a prey; where charcoal-burners dwelt in huts, and 
 in the evening hours gradually became transformed 
 into beneficent old dwarfs, who, with leafy heads and 
 eyes inherited from fauns, pried about to guard late 
 goers; where, in height of moonlight nights, fairies 
 streamed in wreaths among the boughs singing small 
 drunken chanties and making lovers who heard them 
 mad with their sounding honey and music-making 
 flowers. They passed through glades where in the 
 depth of night darkness lay deeper than in the shadow 
 of the trees, where the sound of human foot, or the 
 chime of bells, or fairies, or any of those things parti- 
 cularly loved by man, have never been heard or seen 
 It is the open spaces of the forest that are fearful. 
 Here there is a void that seizes upon the heart and 
 makes the mind stop. The wanderer shrinks back 
 into the shadows where it is warm, and there are rough 
 trees which respond to the sense of touch. 
 
 To-night no ghosts or fairies, beasts, magicians or 
 late travellers were on the prowl. The rain killed 
 everything supernatural with its wetness. The hills 
 
SCHWARZWALD 247 
 
 with their castles, the terraced vineyards near the vil- 
 lages, the small churches and wooden houses filled with 
 little people of the size of matches, were still, silent, 
 and asleep. In his imagination this was Martin's 
 view of the world. He sat at the window as the car 
 drove past hill and village, over bridges and again into 
 the woods, and felt that the world was on a very 
 small scale. 
 
 The French chauffeur had much the same view, ex- 
 cept that for him everything was further reduced in 
 order to accommodate itself to the dimensions of his 
 half -inch ordnance map. 
 
 Martin slept for a few hours again, and when he 
 awoke the heavy rain had ceased to fall. The car was 
 winding up the steef roadways of the Hartz Moun- 
 tains. It was still dark, but the chill air of dawn filled 
 all the valleys, and a wan reflection of the coming day 
 was cast up from behind the eastern horizon. Martin 
 pulled the rugs closer around him and changed his posi- 
 tion, in order to be able to see the rising of the sun. 
 It was as natural for him as it is for most living 
 things to keep himself towards the sun. Last night he 
 had sat looking out of the car in the direction of the 
 west and at dawn he changed his position automatically 
 eastwards. 
 
 The car came out in a clearing of the forest, where 
 the timber had recently been felled. The logs still 
 lay upon the ground. The pine trees stood around in a 
 
248 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 wide circle mourning their companions' fall, in the pale 
 light of dawn like soldiers upon a battlefield. 
 
 Slowly the sky became grayer and the forest soft 
 and dark, but not with the black darkness of mid- 
 night. Everything was unsubstantial, decomposite, 
 like a soft lithograph, like a world of millions of dimly 
 colored chalk specks set together in flat masses: the 
 darkest green forest, the fog-colored grass that in the 
 widening light became tinged with green, the road an 
 indefinite soft pale streak, the fallen logs shadowy 
 corpses in faint red uniforms. Over all hung the 
 heavy gray clouds that in the west were still black 
 with night and in the east faded into the day. 
 
 Again the car went into the pines. The road wound 
 up a steep place in the hills, and when it came out upon 
 a crest the day was near at hand. The light came 
 at long intervals in jerks, as if thin films slipped off 
 the face of the unrisen sun from time to time. A 
 breeze passed over the earth and died away. Martin 
 leaned out of the window. The dawn had come. The 
 forest became substantial, the grass was full of grass 
 blades, the road of stones. In the east a long yellow 
 rent appeared in the clouds, which began to move 
 towards the west with those curious flat, stiff move- 
 ments of the beginning of the day. The rift widened 
 and showed the blue of heaven. Very slowly the 
 clouds crept away from the light, like a host of old 
 whales, and half the vault of heaven became opened 
 
SCHWARZWALD 249 
 
 in the clear upward light cast by the rising sun. The 
 turning of the earth became perceptible as it rolled 
 over into the east, and Martin felt the instinct of 
 nations to climb up the world westward, so as not to 
 be pitched into the abyss. The colors of the earth 
 revived, birds chirped and moved, and a perfectly clear 
 cold atmosphere descended from the height of the 
 morning upon the forest. Martin sighed; his soul 
 filled with the perfection of that new day, unwarmed 
 yet by the passion of the sun, unwearied with the con- 
 sciousness of existence. He stopped the car at a high 
 place, and got out to enjoy the sensations of the early 
 hour. He was stiff and tired with sitting, but presently 
 he regained his suppleness, and went towards a place 
 from whence sixty or seventy miles of country could 
 be seen in all directions. He turned himself slowly 
 around like the hub of a wheel, and swept a gigantic 
 circle with his gaze : such is the power of the human 
 mind, that he saw in that one turn all and everything 
 contained in a circle nearly four hundred miles round. 
 The black, wet night was crawling to the western rim, 
 while in the east the silver of the sun's first rays was 
 striking upward into a sky of amethyst and water- 
 green where small yellow and rose clouds drifted like 
 falling flowers. The whole expanse of heaven was in 
 fairest light. 
 
 Before the gilt sun came up Martin returned to the 
 car: he had no desire to see the red husband of dawn 
 
250 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 ravish her beauty. The instant of the day's perfec- 
 tion was so short that he wished to prolong it by shut- 
 ting out its decay from his sight. The car drove on, 
 and he slept again like a cfrunken white carouser on 
 his way home from a feast. His head sunk on his 
 breast, his hands lay on each side of him at the ends 
 of his loose arms, the fingers curled inwards and up- 
 wards as if they held vanished rose leaves; his feet 
 were crossed, his knees wide apart, and an odor of 
 dank human breath, of cigars and wine hung about 
 him. For all that his face had the expression of a 
 sleeping child, with pursed lips and drooping lashes 
 and his dreams were foolish, charming, and fairy-like. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ONE day Martin Schiiler sat alone in his beauti- 
 ful villa upon the shores of lake Tittersee. 
 Sophie von Sebaltz had returned to Berlin, 
 and he felt relieved. Although it never occurred to 
 him that he was tired of her, for she made no demands 
 upon him even if she gave him nothing, he had a sense 
 of freedom now that she was out of the house. He 
 looked grave and serious, and thought that now at last 
 leisure was his in which to consider where to turn and 
 what to do. The downfall of his conceit had at last 
 brought all the rubbish in his mind away with it. He 
 was now proud and humble, competent and mature. 
 Although he had never lacked competency there had 
 always been a certain air of easy success about him. 
 He had looked successful; now he no longer did. 
 
 The study that he sat in had been designed for him 
 by Frederich Morgensohn and carried out by the 
 Arthouseconstructors Company. Nothing in it was 
 incongruous. Upon the black and gold furniture were 
 black and purple cushions worked by a clever woman, 
 the artist employee of the company, in bunches of 
 conventionalized sweet williams of a Teutonic Poiret 
 Stamp. A black and gold chessboard pattern embel- 
 
 9^1 
 
2Sa MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 lished the frieze, and the walls were decorated with 
 alternating panels of gilt paper and art trees. The 
 black wood writing-table, inlaid with a sylvan episode 
 in keeping with the trees, held a large photograph of 
 Frau von Sebaltz, especially taken at Schuler's request. 
 Across it was written "To my dearest friend! 1 !" 
 followed in the German manner with several exclama- 
 tion marks. The composer of three successful light 
 operas sat contemplating it without seeing it. 
 
 The weather was calm, still, and mysterious. Long 
 clouds lay invisibly in the heavens and gave them a 
 funereal darkness. Pale primrose sky showed here and 
 there in streaks. Outside the house, ever5rwhere and 
 in all directions, were the gloomy trees of the Black 
 Forest. They crawled from south and west, north and 
 east, over mountains and valleys, around lakes and 
 along rivers. It seemed that they were all walking to the 
 beautiful villa, to see what Herr von Schiiler intended 
 to do with himself. An atmosphere as of something 
 extraordinary pervaded everything. The house had no 
 garden, but an artfence of heavy and simple design 
 kept the trees from stepping upon the little villa and 
 crushing it to death. 
 
 Martin got up and went to the drawer hi whicH Ke 
 kept interesting objects referring to the past. He 
 sought in it a few moments, and took out the manu- 
 script of the peahens. It was still tied with the piece 
 of string put around it by Werner. To bis knowledge 
 
SCHWARZWALD 253 
 
 no hand had ever undone the knot since Werner made 
 it. Feeling a little sentimental and a little curious, he 
 put the bundle of yellow paper to his nose. It had the 
 pleasant odor of old books. He smelled it again, and 
 the smell made him desire to open it. Very curious, he 
 took the yellow, frayed bundle to the writing-table and 
 unfastened the string. The sheets, which were folded 
 over lengthways, still lay together from the long habit 
 of nine years. He ran his hand up the inside of the 
 middle crease to flatten them out. Werner's hand- 
 writing, neat, small, and professional, lay before him. 
 It was so many years since he had seen it that he had 
 no recognition of it. It was not familiar and roused 
 no feelings, but the fact of holding it in his hand 
 made him recollect how much his technique had grown 
 since those old days, what power and what mastery 
 he had acquired over the hundred or so notes in human 
 circulation, what delicious harmonies he had since dis- 
 covered. At the same time he seemed to feel that in 
 former times he had had a purer inspiration, a clearer 
 sense of poetry, a finer charm, a greater intellectual 
 sincerity than had ever beautified any of his mature 
 scores. 
 
 He sat and looked across his large writing-table out 
 of the window in a dream. It was the first time he had 
 ever experienced a clear vision of the past, or had 
 sought to remember anything out of it. Up to now the 
 present and the future had been sufficient for him. He 
 
254 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 had never yet drawn upon his resources : he had taken 
 everything out of the air, out of his friends, out of 
 the incidents of his Hfe as they occurred. 
 
 In a short time he began to read the manuscript of 
 the peahens. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 MARTIN put down the manuscript and lay 
 back in his chair; the force of the inspira- 
 tion removed his thoughts; and he felt a 
 contraction in the front part of his head. He shut his 
 eyes, hunched up his shoulders, and threw his body 
 violently forward so that his elbows rested on the 
 table. He covered his eyes with one hand and ran the 
 fingers of his left hand up into his forelock, so that the 
 palm supported his head, and with the thumb and little 
 finger spanned his forehead and felt the contour of 
 his brows. The shape of his head was exceedingly 
 pleasant: at each temple it was flat, and from there 
 curved upward and outward to form the square of 
 his forehead. He thought that creation was in the 
 forehead; he could feel the effort of imagination be- 
 tween his eyes ; from there backwards to points above 
 his ears he had the sensation of creation. 
 
 He did not think out what use he should make of the 
 manuscript; he felt that he wished to conceive some- 
 thing magnificent, something that should be the out- 
 come of all his experience, finely constructed upon 
 intersecting arcs or upon converging lines or upon 
 curves of balance. He gave himself a climax, a point, 
 
 255 
 
256 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 and again shut out the light with both his hands. After 
 a few minutes he felt a motion rise, burst, and break 
 into a million falls. He had conceived his idea. It 
 was not expressible in words. His throat was tight, 
 his brain contracted, the muscles at the side of his jaws 
 were distended in the effort of clenching his teeth. He 
 opened his eyes and, without thinking or flickering his 
 eyelids, took some lined paper and began straight away 
 to note down the beginning of an opera in music. He 
 put it all down. Very slowly he set the idea that came 
 out of his mind straight down on paper with immacu- 
 late notation. He paused frequently, his eyes half 
 shut as if he were focusing something, but he had not 
 a single image or sound in his head. His hand obeyed 
 some unknown force in his mind that had its seat in 
 the middle of his brows, and drew pains from the sides 
 and back of his head. After a time his consciousness 
 returned and he began to think. 
 
 *' The Opera House is large ; it will be full of specta- 
 tors. There will be a large orchestra and a large stage. 
 I myself am in the center box; there are lights, there 
 are natural limitations " ; and his well-trained brain 
 began to control the force of his intellect and to keep 
 before him every detail of a finished production. From 
 that moment he wrote nothing without having always 
 before him the whole of the finished production. He 
 himself was a spectator of his own work. He had 
 never heard it before, and knew nothing of it except 
 
SCHWARZWALD 257 
 
 the tendency until he actually put his hand on the 
 paper. Then the substance slowly came into being, 
 with the utmost labor of imagination, but perfect in 
 so far that what he wrote needed almost no correc- 
 tion. 
 
 Never in his life did he think out anything the day 
 or week before he wrote it. After the idea had been 
 conceived — sometimes as a faint beating of the heart, 
 sometimes as a moment of amazement over a combina- 
 tion of colors, sometimes as a vague dream inspired by 
 two thoughts, a few words, the leaves of a tree or a 
 picture — he let it vanish until the materials for writing 
 were at hand. He knew that to write directly from 
 inspiration was the only true method. To write from 
 memory of the thoughts of inspiration was to lose the 
 force, the genius and beauty of the conception. " I 
 might as well copy another man's work," he said to 
 himself. 
 
 After five hours, dazed and half blind, with the 
 vision of an opera house full of wings, scenery, dress- 
 ing rooms, orchestra, and seats still perfectly distinct 
 in his mind, he put down his pen. The first episode 
 was finished — the opening of the whole thing was 
 written down : grand, subdued, mysterious, and vague, 
 with a vagueness that was definitely constructed. The 
 beginning of a new opera had been made. His eyes 
 still half shut, Martin got up and went to the window, 
 saw nothing from it but blue lines, and walked round 
 
258 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 the room, pausing now and then to put his hand on 
 some piece of furniture and support himself. Soon he 
 threw himself into a chair and, shutting his eyes, lost 
 himself again in the depths of a black night. Uncon- 
 sciously he felt his head, of which he had become 
 enamored, and, assuming one after another a variety 
 of attitudes, went through perfection in ecstasy and 
 darkness. Probably a spectator would have laughed 
 to see him take up those marvellous attitudes, unless 
 he had been a genius also. Each one contained an idea 
 of the true line inspired by the extraordinary complete- 
 ness of his unconscious thought. 
 
 Presently he came to himself and a long wave of joy 
 flooded his heart : he was young again, he was twenty, 
 but full of experience, omniscient, and powerful. The 
 wild force of his imagination drew him out of himself, 
 and he was compelled to go out of the house down to 
 the lake to stand, silent and exulting, and watch the 
 evening fall. The uneasiness that from time to time 
 had disturbed his charming efforts of the past nine 
 years, his comprehensive observation and his technical 
 perfection, and the last terrible catastrophe of realiza- 
 tion, broke in upon him and tore the exultation out of 
 his heart. 
 
 " T am complete and done for,'* he cried, and, going 
 quicklv indoors ae^ain. shouted for Wolf. 
 
 Wolf hurried to him instantlv. 
 
 " Wolf," he said, taking hold of his coat fiercely, 
 
SCHWARZWALD 259 
 
 "look at that, look at it; inform me if there is any 
 hope." Wolf looked at the fragment, but not having 
 the power of imagining the nature of a mountain from 
 a small stone oif it, was bewildered. 
 
 Martin came towards him again, and again seized 
 his clothes. 
 
 "What!" he shouted, "What! Have you not 
 formed an opinion ? " 
 
 As quickly as lightning Wolf put an expression of 
 awe upon his face and, turning around, said : 
 
 " That is magnificent." 
 
 " Do not judge me by the old rubbish," cried Mar- 
 tin; " do not lie to me." 
 
 " It is wonderful," answered the secretary, who had 
 a very high power of simulating enthusiasm. 
 
 If Martin had been in a less wild state he would 
 have seen through him, but instead he appeared satis- 
 fied, and stretching his arms wide said : 
 
 " It is simply beautiful. It is my boyish conception. 
 I have recaptured it: in those days I was a genius. 
 Werner's poem has preserved me for myself. I never 
 read it until now." 
 
 Wolf gazed at his master with worship. 
 
 "Oh, Wolf!" he cried, picking up the manuscript 
 of the peahens and thrusting it under the secretary's 
 nose, " smell it, smell the musty leaves. How long 
 have they lain in the drawer! God in hell! I can 
 remember all those old days. Help me, dear Wolf. 
 
26o MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 The little episode of nine years is over. Wolf, Wolf, 
 do you help me ! " Wolffs eyes shone with genuine and 
 perfect adoration, ^nd he said with overflowing tears 
 in his voice, " How wonderful you are." 
 
 Martin knelt upon the writing-chair, and set his 
 face close to Wolf's who instinctively stroked his 
 hair. 
 
 Martin, whose eyes were full of a curious inhuman 
 light, said, " Keep my feet upon the earth for me, even 
 if my head is among- the stars.** 
 
 Never in all his life had Wolf seen anything to be 
 compared with Martin*s expression : it drew the whole 
 of his soul out of him into his face. With a most 
 extraordinary uplifted heart he looked straight into 
 Martin's eyes with all his devotion and humility, and 
 understood the power of his master's genius. 
 
 " The stars are effervescent round my head : I fiear 
 them bubbling in my ears. Oh, Wolf ! '* he said, " How* 
 marvellous are the true far wanderings of a young man, 
 and the mad dreams of our youthful years. I am now 
 returned to the dawn of my life. T was a wonderful 
 young man, but T am not going to be less wonderful 
 nor less beautiful now. The dreamer and the experi- 
 enced cynic are here together; T know all, I can do 
 cver5i:hing. It takes a lifetime to perfect a work of 
 sltI such" as I Have dreamed of.'* 
 
 The emotional crisis was over. Wolf stood patiently 
 listening to what might be said, and Martin, taking up 
 
SCHWARZWALD 261 
 
 the manuscript again, said, in a matter-of-fact voice : 
 " I am fortunate ; Werner caught me and preserved 
 me in this lyric." He smelt it again, as if it contained 
 all the perfume of the woods of Heidelberg, and the 
 smell of himself in his one-and-twentieth year. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THAT night after dinner Martin went out. He 
 seemed to disappear into the forest. When he 
 had gone Wolf could not believe that he would 
 ever come back, and walked in a nervous rage from the 
 top of the house to the bottom. It seemed to him that 
 no person intimately associated with Martin Schiller 
 could possibly avoid becoming enslaved by him. He 
 went into the art study and arranged those papers 
 which he knew were not sacred, he went into the 
 dressingf-room and hated the valet who looked after 
 the clothes. He walked into the bedroom. A large 
 portrait of Sophie von Sebaltz stood on the table beside 
 the peasant art bed. Another, more elaborate, tinted 
 after the photographer's idea of color, hung on the 
 bare wooden wall surmounted by an old laurel wreath, 
 a remnant of the pala performance of " The Saddest 
 Singer." He stood a moment beside the table in the 
 window where the personal knick-knacks lay, and 
 desired very much to take away something as a 
 memento, for he knew that it was very unlikely that 
 Martin would ever give him anything. 
 
 His simple personality was capable of very strong 
 feelings, and in particular he had the bitterest sense of 
 
 362 
 
SCHWARZWALD 263 
 
 rivalry. He hated Sophie with the whole of his emo- 
 tion of hate. She seemed neither good nor beautiful 
 to him : he thought her on the contrary selfish, spoiled, 
 petty, and vain. Although he hated fiercely, in the 
 silence that he had so much of, all Martin's friends ex- 
 cept the Countess Ardstein, he very much wanted a 
 companion to whom he could communicate his senti- 
 ments and who would share them. At the art villa his 
 passion of jealousy was three times fiercer than in 
 Berlin. His position in Berlin was so inferior to that 
 of Schiller's other associates that it seemed irrational 
 to be over angry, but here he felt himself proprietor 
 of loneliness, and any third person whose presence 
 made his absence from the dinner-table and the private 
 smoking-room necessary was a maddening intruder. 
 He spent a great deal of his time with Martin, who 
 found loneliness, in those moments when he was not at 
 work, very unpleasant. 
 
 He sat down in a chair in his master's room, and 
 asked himself if there had ever been so extraordinary 
 a person as Martin Schiiler, one whose brutality was 
 absolutely negatived by the most wonderful charm; 
 for he seemed to him to be the most charming and fas- 
 cinating man that could possibly have existed. Wolf's 
 face lost its look of everyday life, and all that was best 
 in him came to the surface : such small share of divinity 
 as he had made a faint halo in the dusk of the room. 
 He was very tired. The demand made upon him that 
 
a64 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 evening to simulate enthusiasm seemed to have taken 
 his vitality. He was uneasy when he thought of that 
 manuscript downstairs. He could not believe, in vSpite 
 of his belief in its creator, that it was anything rare. 
 His imagination could not create extraordinary phan- 
 toms of unproduced works. He had to see the whole 
 to believe in it. 
 
 He sat in the chair upstairs lost in thoughts which 
 were human and simple. His hands were folded in 
 front of him, his face stuck forward, his head a little 
 on one side. The muscles of his face were relaxed as 
 if in sleep. Presently he got up, shook himself like a 
 dog, and went downstairs again. Martin was standing 
 in the doorway that led out of the house. At any rate 
 he had come back this time. 
 
 Martin turned around as he heard his steps, and 
 said : 
 
 "You read pleasantly, Wolf; read to me. Let us 
 sit here and read." 
 
 Wolf went towards the door of the smoking-room. 
 " What do you prefer ? *' he said. 
 
 Martin walked over to a cane chair and sat down. 
 
 " Something soothing, something accommodating : 
 Ibsen, I think, or Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." 
 
 Wolf was not in the mood to smile at the idea that 
 Rosmersholm or Hedda Gabler were particularly sooth- 
 ing: they seemed soothing to him, because he under- 
 stood Martin's meaning. He went into the library 
 
SCHWARZWALD 265 
 
 and came back with seven or eight volumes. He sat 
 down. 
 
 " You do not like Tolstcw ? *' he asked, bending over 
 the pile of books which he had put on the floor. 
 
 Martin had lit a cigarette. " What, for instance ? 
 Tolstoi seems to have written about a thousand books." 
 
 " * The Cossacks/ " said Wolf, picking up a small 
 volume. 
 
 "Is it soothing?" 
 
 " Yes " — Wolf was conscious of altering the mean- 
 ing of words — " it is soothing." 
 
 " Very well " — Martin lay further back in his chair 
 — " but first I choose to be read the * Ice Maiden.' That 
 is what I have been thinking of all day." 
 
 What had occurred to him in the forest Wolf could 
 not guess, only he had a sensation that Martin was 
 changed, that he had ceased to be a man of the world. 
 It was not because he asked for fairy stories to be read 
 to him that he seemed changed ; it was partly because 
 his manner was different and his appearance a little 
 less brilliant. He seemed to have become less hard, 
 less vivacious, less energetic. It would have surprised 
 Wolf, but he could not have said why, if Martin had 
 broken into one of his frequent irrational bursts of 
 sarcasm, or said anything witty. A vague fear seized 
 upon him that he was ill, and he could hardly induce 
 himself to find the pages of the Swiss story. 
 
 " Well, the ' Ice Maiden,' my old Wolf," said Martin 
 
266 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 impatiently. " Read slowly the descriptions of the 
 scenery, especially those parts referring to the Bernese 
 Oberland. I shall never go there again. I believe it is 
 seven years since I was there. Have you been to 
 Switzerland ? '* He spoke slowly, and seemed tired 
 and dreamy. 
 
 " I went once when I was at Cambridge in England, 
 for winter sports," answered Wolf, and he got up to 
 turn on the electric light. 
 
 ** Leave them a little longer," said Martin; and Wolf 
 sat down again patiently. ^ 
 
 " You have never been there in June? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " You have never smelled the torrent of the Jungf rau 
 swollen with melting snow, nor seen the flowers in 
 the woods at Interlaken?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Nor ever sat behind the monastery church with 
 your girl? I had a girl in those days." 
 
 Wolf, whose heart had frequently been touched, 
 was sympathetic; he agreed with Martin's unspoken 
 thought that Sophie was not to be classed with the 
 girls of romance. 
 
 " I was a fool," continued Martin ; " I loved to the 
 exclusion of everything else : I certainly wasted a whole 
 year on love." 
 
 Wolf moved a little nearer to him; it was ghostly 
 and queer in the darkness of that forest house. Remi- 
 
. SCHWARZWALD 267 
 
 niscences always made him apprehensive of phantoms 
 in which he did not believe. 
 
 " I do not care for any of that sort of thing now. 
 I find my heart is as cold as water. Affection and 
 sympathy are worth passion a thousand times over; 
 passion is nothing unless you are twenty. Now read 
 to me, read to me; read with a shaded light that I may 
 lie in the dark, and know again the whole of those 
 days at Lauterbrunnen and beside Lake Thun." 
 
 Wolf did as he was told and began to read, and 
 Martin, having lit a cigar, lay back into the brown 
 shadows and fell to dreaming of his new work, until 
 the murmuring sound of Wolf's voice sent him to 
 sleep. 
 
 Never again did he discuss himself with anybody: 
 introspection and self -dissection were not proper to 
 him. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE next morning Martin was himself again 
 spruce, well-brushed, and handsome. The night 
 had been passed in pleasant slumber. At ten 
 o'clock he sat down again to continue his work of the 
 day before. He worked all day. That evening he 
 rolled about on a couch unable to find repose. He was 
 exhausted. The following morning he rose dazed, 
 and, scarcely troubling to eat, went straight to his 
 writing. Again he wrote all day and part of the night. 
 For two months he wrote incessantly, taking hardly 
 any sleep, eating when he could reach food with his 
 hand, and put it into his mouth without thinking. His 
 eyes became glazed and he spoke to nobody. Wolf 
 kept his friends away from the villa, and had the 
 pleasure of warning Sophie not to come near the place, 
 as Martin would not see her. For two months Martin 
 refrained from human intercourse, for two months 
 the trees of the forests saw nothing of him ; his spare 
 moments were spent upon his bed, which he had had 
 carried into the art study, the rest of the day in dream- 
 ing and putting down notes. 
 
 His nights were passed in exhausted sleep full of 
 dreams and visions. Frequentlv he found himself 
 lying upon a black rock at the bottom of a well of 
 flames a thousand feet high. They flared upward from 
 
 a68 
 
SCHWARZWALD 269 
 
 under the rock like long vermilion grass and went 
 higher than he could imagine into the cold air of night. 
 He lay awake in the dark and watched them around 
 him, straight up like walls, moving like the swift 
 ground under an express train, but always perpendicu- 
 lar. He had the sensation of being pale and white, 
 and of feeling his body with pity. He was sorry for 
 himself. He raised his head a little and the flames 
 vanished, the cold night came around him and he shiv- 
 ered. He wanted the blessed flaring upwards to begin 
 again, to charm away the still, horrible silence of the 
 room. He lay down again, and no sooner was he com- 
 fortable than an irresistible thought came to him, and 
 he was forced to get out of his bed, turn on the electric 
 light, and, blinking with the glare, sit down at his table 
 and write until the light had become pale in the flooding 
 sunshine of morning. Time passed rapidly. Three 
 hours were like three minutes, and at the end of a day 
 he could not understand why he felt so exhausted, 
 because it seemed to him that he had neither made an 
 effort nor worked hard. 
 
 Sometimes he fell asleep at his writing-table about 
 two o'clock in the afternoon ; sometimes he would look 
 for Wolf, and sit in his company without saying a word 
 until Wolf became morbid and felt creepy. Sometimes 
 he rushed to his library and, taking twenty books of 
 the most varied description, would lie upon his bed 
 looking at them. Books of pictures he particularly 
 
270 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 favored, but also books of travel, catalogs, dictionaries, 
 and biographies. Poetry he did not read. It might 
 be said that he had never read a word of poetry. What 
 he found in those books one cannot say: mere words, 
 mere sights, mere isolated sentences probably caught 
 his eye and stimulated his imagination. Kaulbach's 
 illustrations of Goethe's works pleased him. He would 
 sit for hours looking minutely into the engraved photo- 
 graph facsimiles. Whether he found rest in the care- 
 fully drawn pictures of heroines, complete with the 
 most accurate accessories, or whether he found romance 
 in the beautiful young women and the godlike young 
 men, it is impossible to judge. He gazed most fre- 
 quently upon the representation of a princess playing 
 chess. The young man standing in the shadow of the 
 curtains with his arms folded seemed to him a prince. 
 He adored the shepherd in the second plate, pursuing 
 the angry shepherdess, and the lovesick Dorothea 
 embracing her lover in the vineyard. His mind was 
 entranced and delighted with the completeness and 
 quality of the whole volume of plates. He had no 
 idea to what the pictures referred; he never read the 
 text accompanving them, much less the works of 
 Goethe. Each picture for him was a story, wonderful 
 and perfectlv satisfactory. Probably he did not know 
 bad art from good, certainly he would have found 
 Greek vases detestable: representations of voluptuous 
 nature, bright colors, beautiful finish, this was his idea 
 
SCHWARZWALD 271 
 
 of what pleased the eye. Probably he himself was able 
 to supply all the elemental necessities of his music, 
 the balance and the restraint, and looked to outside 
 things for an idea of technical finish, of natural beauty 
 and romance. 
 
 Kaulbach's pictures satisfied some need ; he got from 
 them something perfectly necessary. Poetry or high 
 art would probably have surfeited him, he found no 
 need to seek expression of those things in admiration, 
 he neither knew nor did not know that his work, as 
 he put it down, possessed certain qualities. He was 
 not conscious whether it answered the requirements of 
 the most exalted art. Never having considered these 
 things he knew nothing about them. His one idea 
 was a slow upward motion bursting at the end into a 
 million falls. Like the clear picture of the finished 
 production, the idea remained in his head the whole 
 of the two months. One day he worked for twenty 
 hours, till the whole of his blood seemed to be break- 
 ing away out of his body. At the end of that time he 
 finished the end of his last idea, and sat for some 
 minutes in dazed silence. 
 
 Suddenly, in spite of his haggard appearance, a look 
 of youth came over his face, and leaping up he went 
 into the forest. He went a long way, and at the end 
 ley down and slept. Joy filled him. He slept in the 
 midst of joy. The first terrible and great effort to- 
 wards a fine work had been made — the conception had 
 become an infant. He had it now in his arms, as :t 
 
272 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 were. Without considering the days ahead of him, he 
 lay under the pines in the satisfaction of a glorious 
 accomplishment. 
 
 The following day Martin spent in tying together 
 his sheets of manuscript, and in making delicate cor- 
 rections with the most careful writing. His writing 
 as a rule was horrible, but he made those corrections in 
 a hand as beautiful as a child's in its tenth year. After- 
 wards, with pleasure as childish as his writing, he cut 
 out the superfluous portions of Werner's poem with 
 brackets of red ink. With a feeling akin to sacrilege, 
 that he enjoyed very much, he made marks on Wer- 
 ner's manuscript. He never marked books ; he thought 
 it a useless habit, and had not personally sufficient 
 courage to do it. He made two holes in the side of 
 his papers and threaded through them a piece of scarlet 
 ribbon off an old box of sweets. He then with care 
 put the manuscript of words upon the top of therr*, 
 and tied them round with some string. The accumu- 
 lated mass of rubbish on his table covered with scrib- 
 bles, sketches, blots, and false starts he swept on to the 
 floor, and putting the bundle of papers in a special 
 drawer, rang for his valet. When the man appeared, 
 he said, " Tidy the room." 
 
 Then he went into the outer room and, calling to 
 jWolf, who thought that his life would end in the 
 silence of that house, surprised him by shouting, 
 ** Order me the car : I am going to Berlin." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 HE drove straight to the house of the Countess 
 von Ardstein. She was fortunately in. 
 " My dear/' she cried, as he ran to embrace 
 her, " how delightful to see you; how ill you look." 
 
 " I do not feel ill/' answered Martin, kissing her 
 again. " I have come to tell you good news." 
 
 For some reason unknown to herself she was 
 startled. She put up her hand in apprehension, and 
 stood for a second held by a fear. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, and looked around at 
 an old family portrait for the sake of companionship. 
 
 Martin unbuttoned his great coat, with the Astra- 
 khan collar, and from the inner breast pocket produced 
 the tidy packet of white papers. His heart seemed to 
 dance all over him as he held it out to her. She did 
 not take it, but looked at him. He appeared to be 
 laughing. 
 
 " Take it," he said ; " it is the idea of my new opera ; 
 it is ancient and new and sacred to me." 
 
 The Countess understood why she had been fright- 
 ened. The news was evidently something out of the 
 way and terrifying. 
 
 "It is yours for twenty- four hours," he said; "at 
 the end of that time I am going back to my home." 
 
 273 
 
274 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Up till then his house in the Black Forest had never 
 been considered as a home. 
 
 She untied the string, staring at him, and repeated 
 twice : " My dearest." 
 
 " Don't lose the leaves of the written portion ; I 
 have a very great sentiment about it." Martin evi- 
 dently did not consider the notation of the music as 
 written. 
 
 Countess von Ardstein burst into tears. She had no 
 reason for crying except a sensation of amazement. 
 Martin had never had a very great sentiment about 
 anything before. That, however, was not what caused 
 her to weep, but she remarked it. The room seemed 
 filled with a peculiar kind of smoke, and a soundless 
 vibration hit against her ears, as of one shouting so 
 slowly as to cause no actual noise. She had the same 
 feeling as a distant spectator suffers between the sight 
 of an ax striking upon a tree and the hearing of the 
 sound of the blow. She took a lace handkerchief out 
 of a flowered ribbon bag and wiped her thin nose. Her 
 lorgnon caught in her sleeve as she raised her arm, 
 and tore a bit off a lace frill. 
 
 She looked very old suddenly to Martin: at least 
 seventy years old, and he, on the contrary, felt 
 eighteen. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he said tenderly. 
 
 " My dear boy," answered the Countess with a 
 vulgar sniff, " I do not know. I think you are ex- 
 
SCHWARZWALD 275 
 
 traordinary. Last time I saw you with your mistress 
 you were a gay man of the world. I could have some 
 fun with you. Now, my dear lad, you remind one of 
 a genius." 
 
 The Countess had not, to her knowledge, seen a 
 genius, but she spoke as if they were a class which 
 she inspected from time to time. 
 
 " Well, read it," said Martin after a minute in some 
 irritation, ** even if you sit up all night, and after- 
 wards speak to nobody of it, unless it is to Hirchner. 
 Read it, get somebody to play it, play it yourself. I 
 am going to Sophie. To-morrow night at this time I 
 will call for it." 
 
 He disappeared. Countess von Ardstein sat up all 
 night obediently. 
 
 Martin himself went to Sophie's house. She was 
 giving a dinner party. He ordered the servant to show 
 him into the dining-room. There everybody sat feast- 
 ing. Several people rose as he entered, and cried, 
 " Hoch ! there is Martin Schiiler." 
 
 Sophie, whose back was towards the door, jumped 
 up in a passion of irrational fright. Martin, still but- 
 toned up in his great coat, came a step into the room. 
 Sophie put down her napkin, and with the other hand 
 pulled the skirt of her dress a little out of the way of 
 her feet, and with a graceful and sudden movement 
 ran towards him, and put her arm around his neck. 
 
 She kissed him and began to purr over him. 
 
376 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 " You delicious creature ! ** he murmured. Her phy- 
 sical movements always enraptured him. 
 
 " What are you doing here? " she asked; " what? ** 
 
 He led her to the table, and taking the chair next 
 to her, which had been vacated by a charming young 
 man of twenty, sat down beside her and held her 
 hands. 
 
 " I have come to Berlin for one night," he answered. 
 
 " How pale you are," she said, looking at his face, 
 still frightened. " Why, you are completely changed. 
 The look in your eyes is quite changed. My dearest 
 Martin — I do not believe that is your name." The 
 young man who had vacated the chair, and who was 
 standing behind it, leaned a little forward and said : 
 
 " It is nice to see you again, Herr Schiiler. Berlin 
 has lost something by your departure." 
 
 Martin looked up at him, and the young man felt 
 extremely foolish and small. The look of openness 
 and power in Schiller's face made him take a step 
 back. 
 
 Sophie pressed his hands, and asked him whether 
 he was glad to see her, and he whispered that he 
 would be glad to see her alone. By some means she 
 made a sign to Count von Hansen, and got him to 
 whisper to the guests that their early departure would 
 be tactful. As dinner was at an end, they rose and 
 silently went out of the room. 
 
 Sophie began to tremble, and said : 
 
SCHWARZWALD SI77 
 
 "What is it, Martin, what is it?" 
 
 "Nothing,'* said Martin, taking her in his arms. 
 " I want you." 
 
 " I am never coming back to Berlin ; I am going 
 to work at my villa; I am probably going to work 
 for years. You will come to me when you feel in- 
 clined, will you not? " 
 
 Sophie stroked his face and kissed him. She was 
 not frightened of him any longer — the renewal of 
 their former relationship had taken away her fear; 
 on the contrary, she felt that he was making a demand 
 upon her and asking something that he was half afraid 
 he would not get. Like many women whose minds 
 are not very great, she imagined that persons who 
 asked things of her were less than she. 
 
 " My dear," she said therefore, " I will always be 
 near you when you want me." 
 
 He fell asleep, but Sophie, the melodramatic fright 
 of the evening having been dissipated, now for the 
 first time completely ceased to fear Martin, and with 
 the end of her fear came the end of her passion. She 
 was not addicted to looking after little boys. The 
 sentiments attached to the thought of being the faith- 
 ful mistress of the strange man beside her were strong 
 enough however to make her willing to go to that villa 
 in the forest and look after him from time to time. 
 The compensating joy of proprietorship almost made 
 up for the lost joy of being passionately desired. Thus 
 
278 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Sophie approached as near as she was able to the tran- 
 quil pleasures of marriage. 
 
 The next day Martin ordered her to come with him 
 to the Black Forest. In the evening they got in his 
 car and drove to the house of the Countess von Ard- 
 stein. Martin left Sophie outside, and ran upstairs in 
 his overcoat without a hat as he had done the evening 
 before. 
 
 The Countess was in. She looked as if she had been 
 crying all night. He went up to her and, feeling ex- 
 tremely uneasy, said, "Well?'' and put out his hand. 
 
 She put out her hands and, gathering he^-self 
 together, went up to him and shook her head in amaze- 
 ment. He laughed and repeated " Well? " She went 
 back to a table, and took the papers out of a drawer. 
 They were still in immaculate order. She seemed to 
 be trying to speak. He had never seen her moved with 
 feeling before. He was very self-conscious. 
 
 He took the papers from her and buttoned them 
 in his coat. To the Countess five minutes seemed to 
 have elapsed since he gave them to her. 
 
 He put a bitter expression on his face and said with 
 a cynical smile: 
 
 " Well, are they not good ? " 
 
 " Do not ask," said the Countess, making a pitiful 
 face at him, and again turning away. 
 
 He walked after her, and took her by the shoulders. 
 
SCHWARZWALD 279 
 
 " You know ! " he cried roughly, turning her around. 
 " I command you to speak to me." 
 
 " Wonderful," she gasped. 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her a thousand 
 times. 
 
 " I trust you," he said, and left her. He went away 
 without turning back, and she stood in the middle of 
 the room dumbfounded with her good fortune. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 IN the year nineteen hundred and thirteen Martin 
 Schiller fell ill. The strain and anxiety of his work 
 upon the opera had brought him to such a state of 
 ill-health that he was unable to bear the cold weather 
 of the winter. He fell ill in January. He had spent 
 the day roaming about the forest, where everything 
 was as silent as death, where everything was covered 
 with the white, hard snow. In the morning he set 
 out across the lake, where the snow lay in one white 
 clean sheet. His foot sank in it at every step, but with 
 monotonous going forward he crossed to the far side. 
 The long string of his footmarks lay behind him. He 
 left the open and went in under the trees, where the 
 ground was bare of snow except small patches. There 
 had not been enough to cover the trees, and the ground 
 beneath them. Small drifts ran up to the trees here 
 and there. He had expected the forest to be warm : 
 it was cold with a coldness that ate into his heart. He 
 became absolutely cold. He had expected it to be 
 sheltering and friendly : it was silent, still, and strange. 
 The whole of the world was dead. He wandered aim- 
 lessly and miserably about without thought, without 
 hope, without will. The peahens were one effort from 
 
 280 
 
SCHWARZWALD a8i 
 
 completion. He could not make it. For two months 
 he had been unable to add a single phrase to his opera ; 
 for two months he had been as empty of genius as 
 other men ; he was merely a corpse, barely sustained by 
 life. He put his hand out to touch the trees, but they 
 were cold ; he stooped to touch the ground, but it was 
 cold as the grave. The warm soft smell that he had 
 expected was not there among those boughs. He had 
 come out for understanding and companionship but 
 found none. The people indoors were of no use to 
 him. There they sat like painted figures, and did not 
 in the least understand how empty and how exhausted 
 he was. He was more exhausted to-day than he had 
 ever been in the whole of those long four years. After 
 every effort of a few days he had lived weeks in stupid, 
 blind indifference, broken by a craving to be physically 
 violent and by fierce childish tempers. To-day he had 
 no desire for anger, no desire to hurt and kill; even 
 the desire to break the bonds of human limitations that 
 had maddened him to rage in his former long days of 
 misery did not strike him. He felt weary and his head 
 was full of a sickness and of a dull eternal pain; to 
 himself he seemed surrounded by a nauseating flat 
 stretch of mud to which there was no limit. His eyes 
 were blank, his brows lowered upon them in a frown, 
 his nostrils contracted, and his face sucked in at the 
 cheeks. Sometimes he opened and shut his mouth, as 
 if he had a taste of something upon his lips. He was 
 
282 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 both hopeless and degenerate, he had lost his look of 
 strength, and wore instead a childish look of wretched- 
 ness and despair. He had come out without an over- 
 coat. He stood as long as twenty minutes at a time, 
 examining nothing, with his eyes towards the ground. 
 As the day advanced the sky became more leaden and 
 the frost more keen. Nothing moved. It seemed as 
 if the world were very close up under the clouds, and 
 had ceased to go around. The long black and white 
 landscape, in which everything seemed wooden, small, 
 and close at hand, was mere long white ridges of snow 
 and black patches of trees. The trees were so black 
 that only where they stood isolated from the mass of 
 the forest could their forms be distinguished. To- 
 wards three o'clock, about the time when the sun would 
 have set, Martin came out again upon the lake in a 
 gloomy place where the trees grew close down to the 
 edge. A few flakes of snow fell slowly down out of 
 the sky; few, silent, and steady; they seemed more 
 inevitable than death, more weird and foreboding than 
 the howl of wolves, more sinister than ravens. He 
 walked a few steps oiit upon the snow-covered ice, and 
 heard a long, thin, siren cry of the wind vibrating upon 
 the taut frozen air. The snowflakes gathered around 
 him. He could still see the locality of his home: to- 
 wards this he began to walk. The snowflakes thick- 
 ened, the wind veered round a quarter of the compass, 
 and came from due north. It quickened. The siren 
 
SCHWARZWALD 283 
 
 cries from behind him ceased and the wind blew up 
 into his face. It was bitterly cold, colder than before. 
 The snow hit his face like wool and suffocated him ; 
 with his hands up before him, he struggled through 
 the thick drowning snowflakes towards the villa. No 
 step seemed to bring him any nearer; he thought he 
 was in the same place, lifting his feet up and down. 
 
 At last, after an hour, he found himself at the fur- 
 ther bank, and turning instinctively to the right pres- 
 ently came to his little landing stage. 
 
 The inside of the house was warm and pleasant; a 
 log fire glowed, the lamps were lit, and everything 
 was prepared for the evening. To Martin it looked 
 strange. The fire seemed without animation, the 
 lamp to be flat and not the author of the light. Sophie 
 in her long soft scarlet gown made by Madame Lucile, 
 her cheeks red with the heat of the fire, her eyes and 
 her sapphire rings black and sparkling, seemed a 
 painted image. Wolf in his tweed jacket and flannel 
 trousers looked like a husband in a play. Their clothes 
 seemed as out of keeping with reality as stage clothes 
 usually do. 
 
 " Those two have had a quarrel," said Martin to 
 himself ; " why does the wife dress herself above her 
 station?" 
 
 Suddenly they both looked up at him where he 
 stood, wet, pale, and shivering. They ran to him ; 
 Sophie embraced him in spite of her beautiful dress. 
 
284 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 He was taken to the fire, kissed, petted, scolded, and 
 given hot coffee. His clothes were taken off, and 
 Sophie wrapped him in a soft warm rug. 
 
 " I would like my bed in here,'* he said. 
 
 In ten minutes he found himself lying in the middle 
 of a wonderful warmth, staring at Sophie and at 
 Wolf. What were they doing? How did Sophie 
 know when milk was boiling, or the right way to put 
 the sheets? She must be his mother. Yes, that was 
 it, she was his mother. She sat staring into the fire 
 all night so it seemed to him, always in her red dress : 
 all night or a hundred nights, he could not tell which. 
 
 Up and down his mind surged. His hands became 
 larger than his body. The people in the room became 
 as small as pins. He had an idea that he was staring 
 into a doirs house where everything was strong- 
 colored and perfectly clear. All the objects in the room 
 were focused as if seen in a diminishing glass; each 
 stood out clear and separate. Martin's eyes had the 
 glazed look of fever: the softness of his surroundings 
 had gone with the softness of his eyes. 
 
 In the middle of a night he called to Sophie and 
 Wolf, and asked them whether they thought he was 
 going to die. He himself was convinced of it. He 
 told them exactly how terrible he felt, how lonely and 
 deserted. His tongue seemed to be loosed by fever. 
 
 " And," he added, " not all your kindness, not all 
 that you can do, nothinp:- that you can think of stirs 
 
SCHWARZWALD 285 
 
 in me the slightest feeling. I do not care for you, I 
 feel nothing pass from you to me. I want to find 
 somebody to gather me who is stronger than I am. 
 I want somebody to take me and hold me upon their 
 arms and make me happy. I want to be held in the 
 dark warm arms of somebody omnipotent, who will 
 drive away all these ghosts. I used to think that 
 mothers were like that when I was a little boy. Do 
 you know, I used to cry when I found my mother 
 was not omnipotent, not all-loving and all- forgiving." 
 
 Sophie leaned over him and stroked his hair. 
 
 " No,'' he said, " it is no good — I am stronger than 
 you. I want to be taken away out of myself and 
 put to sleep. I am a barrier, I am on the outside, and 
 I know nobody who can keep the wand from howling 
 down my back. The abyss is just behind me and all 
 of you are pushing me into it. If only I could die. I 
 am dying, I am sure I am dying, I am sinking into 
 softness. Sophie and Wolf, I am going down! '* 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 FOR nearly five months Martin lay in his bed 
 in a weak state, half between sleep and wake- 
 fulness. He slept nearly the whole of the time. 
 Several times he tried to convince Wolf that he was 
 about to die. He had never been ill before. Sophie 
 believed him, and lived in a continual series of frights 
 until she began to see that he knew nothing about him- 
 self and was getting better. 
 
 His personality during the whole of his illness 
 seemed large, vague, and shadowy. He seemed to 
 spread out over the whole house, and to loom up 
 like a large shadow cast by a candle on a wall. Wolf 
 liked nursing him, and so did Sophie after a fashion ; 
 she had never done anything useful before. They 
 neither of them dreamed for a moment of letting a 
 professional nurse into the house. 
 
 One day in May, Sophie sat sewing at the window ; 
 she had put on a beautiful white muslin dress with 
 frills edged with dark blue thread. She never failed to 
 look as exquisite as if she were attending a ball. Upon 
 the back of her chair hung a large leghorn hat with 
 dark blue silk ribbons. She clothed herself well, 
 partly to please Martin, and partly because she could 
 
SCHWARZWALD 287 
 
 not help it. From time to time she put down her sew- 
 ing and looked out across the lake. The water was 
 black and still as a mirror, and the day calm and 
 beautiful. 
 
 Sophie sighed. She was thirty years old. There 
 were still ten years of good life before her. Life in 
 that villa, in spite of her real devotion to Martin, did 
 not agree with her. Frequently she walked to the other 
 side of the lake to stare at it, and to stare at its re- 
 flection; when she had stared she came back and sat 
 down in it. That was as near as she ever got to deep 
 philosophical thinking, to asking the question of her 
 existence. She sat sewing an undergarment more to 
 kill time than because she liked it. She was herself in 
 the villa, and she did not like it. In Berlin she manu- 
 factured herself out of the attitude of the many people 
 around her, and out of events. Here she was without 
 people and nothing ever happened. She was not very 
 clever at conjuring something out of nothing. 
 
 Martin turned over and spoke to her. 
 
 " What a pretty sight Sophie is.'* 
 
 Am I, dear one ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Silence fell again. They had not been on very good 
 terms lately. Such terms as can exist between an ill 
 man and a well woman had not been altogether pleas- 
 ant. One of them found the other a little tiresome. 
 It was impossible to say which. 
 
288 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 Martin spoke again. 
 
 " Sweet Sophie, am I very ugly? " 
 
 ** No, of course not." 
 
 " Do you care for me ? " 
 
 Sophie put down her sewing and came to him. She 
 was moved. She bent over him and played with him. 
 He seemed a child although it was thirty-four years 
 since he had been born. Presently he fell asleep and 
 again silence fell over the room. Sophie wanted a 
 friend, she wanted to see some other creature than the 
 sentimental secretary, who never let her do any of 
 those things she thought essential in moments of crisis. 
 
 She went to the window. She could see Wolf in 
 the garden tending a little rockery of Alpine plants, 
 which he had put together to pass the hours, when 
 there were no letters to be written and no battles to 
 be met. Wolf never fought a battle against Martin; 
 he only endeavored to keep his feet. He was smoking 
 a pipe and Sophie despised him. His conversation 
 bored her terribly. It was one long reminiscence. The 
 poor man had found nothing new to talk about for four 
 years. The only years of his life worth living seemed 
 to have been those passed at Cambridge. The unutter- 
 able stupidity of most of his actions there made her 
 feel white inside. She had no sense of the ordinary, 
 the normal, and the everyday. Wolf was ordinary and 
 everyday. His position in regard to Martin was from 
 his point of view a wonderful piece of luck. Actually 
 
SCHWARZWALD 289 
 
 it was a calamity, it killed his personal life. He sat in 
 the grass of the garden, which was hardly yet green 
 with spring, holding an Alpine plant dictionary. She 
 saw him crawl on his knees and inspect a gentian, 
 finger a flowering moss, stroke a saxifrage. He was 
 unable to put his knowledge to no use ; he was writing 
 a little book on rock plants for amateurs, with colored 
 photographic plates made by himself. 
 
 Sophie got up, went out of the garden window, and 
 crossed the grass to the corner where Wolf and the 
 chauffeurs had created a false moraine. She wished 
 to see the gentian. She bent down beside Wolf and 
 said: 
 
 " How are your flowers ? " 
 
 Wolf looked up in delight. His labors had so far 
 passed unnoticed except by his subordinates. He 
 answered : 
 
 " Very well, thank you. Look at the beautiful spiked 
 petals of this gentian. It is a new kind from a man 
 I know at Schaffhausen. He makes expeditions into 
 the Alps for the originals.*' 
 
 " Can you not see him, alpenstock and all ? " cried 
 Sophie, " with fish basket and pressing book, like the 
 caricatures in Simplicissimus ! Picture one — he sets 
 out, bids farewell to gross wife and family; picture 
 two — the edelweiss, and so on. Of course he falls 
 down a crevasse in the end.*' 
 
 Wolf laughed. His friend at Schaffhausen was only 
 
ago MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 an horticultural correspondent : he had never seen him. 
 When Wolf chuckled he sniggered and shook all over 
 because he was not at all accustomed to doing it. 
 
 " Do you ever pick them ? " said Sophie. 
 
 " That would be a very great shame," he replied ; 
 " the plant is very delicate." 
 
 She felt a little sentimental this afternoon, probably 
 because the air was warm and full of the tired feeling 
 of spring. She said : 
 
 " Does he care for flowers? " 
 
 " I do not know. He used to have them at Berlin.'* 
 
 They looked at one another, and Sophie laughed. 
 
 " There we two have been here for so long and do 
 not know any little thing about him. Could we not 
 dig up that blue thing and put it in a pot ? " She felt 
 very affectionate towards Martin and wanted to pay 
 him delicate attentions. 
 
 Wolf was delighted. He went indoors for a bowl 
 and quickly made a little rockery of glacier chips and 
 sand in it for the gentian. 
 
 Sophie held it up to her face and said : 
 
 " It is very pretty." 
 
 Like children they carried it indoors. Martin was 
 awake. 
 
 "Will this amuse you?" said Wolf, bending over 
 him ; " we thought you might care for it." 
 
 Sophie thought it was kind of Wolf to include her 
 in his speech. 
 
SCHWARZWALD 291 
 
 Martin took it eagerly with a boyish gesture. " How 
 beautiful," he said, "how beautiful. I believe if I 
 could lie in the midst of flowers I should recover. I 
 have always been accustomed to flowers. There are 
 never any here in this house." 
 
 He put the bowl beside his pillow and lay on his 
 side for hours inspecting the very intricate arrange- 
 ment of the plant. 
 
 "This is better than one finds in Switzerland," he 
 said. 
 
 " It is an horticultural creation," answered Wolf. 
 
 Later on he said that the color of the blue filled his 
 throat with something and that he felt madly happy 
 inside. He never wished to see anything to do with 
 music again; he wanted to lie in the garden and be 
 happy. He thought the gentian reminded him of his 
 favorite Rudi: he loved everything Rudi loved — 
 Babette, the cat, mountain climbing, chamois hunting, 
 and the glacier of the Jungfrau. He could see it now 
 like a pale blue clouded emerald glistening in her 
 bosom. He had seen the Jungfrau at night like a 
 folded veil in the sky, pure white in the moonlight, and 
 in the shadows the colors of the night sky. He kept 
 the gentian pot close to his eyes, for by half shutting 
 his eyes he could turn the bits of Alpine rock into peaks 
 and the cracks between them into ravines. There was 
 one like the Matterhorn. He thought he saw Grindel- 
 wald below him, over the edge of his eye, as if he were 
 
292 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 lying down upon a rock high above it and looking over. 
 
 Sophie watched him. 
 
 " What are you playing at? " she said after a long 
 time of silence. 
 
 " My dearest," said Martin looking round, " come 
 and look at the Matterhorn." 
 
 He made her bend over him, and put her eye down 
 by the pot. She could faintly see the mountain. 
 
 "You darling child," she said, suddenly overcome 
 with a revelation of understanding, " you darlingkin, 
 you Martin ! " 
 
 "Am I your child?" Martin turned over towards 
 her— "ami?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, smothering him with kisses, 
 " you are the dearest in the world." 
 
 He pulled himself up under her arms, and let his 
 cheek lie in the warmness of her neck. 
 
 He began to talk again. 
 
 "How small everything is, and lovely; how soft 
 like the little birds. You smell sweetly to me like the 
 sweetest honey. Your skin is soft like little birds' 
 feathers. I think you are my nest, my mother, my 
 charming mother." He pushed his face closer into 
 her arms and sighed. " Am I too old and rough to love 
 all your faithfulness to me? How patient you have 
 been, how good. I would like to put flowers round 
 your hair. Darling Sophie, I am thirty-four: am I 
 too old to feel the sweetness of love? I never knew 
 
SCHWARZWALD 293 
 
 anything so sweet and pretty as your breath. I will 
 never be cruel to you again; I will always love you 
 most tenderly, my little lamb. Tell me I am your little 
 one too." 
 
 " You are my little one.'* 
 
 " But " — Martin moved in the bed — " I must finish 
 those peahens. My peahens must be finished. Your 
 little boy is lost without them." 
 
 " You shall, you shall," cried Sophie, who was full 
 of tears. All the shortcomings of her life were being 
 forgiven. " You shall indeed finish them." 
 
 " When ? " he cried, " when ? I must know." Sophie 
 looked wildly up for inspiration. 
 
 " Next year," she answered, " in the spring." 
 
 Martin believed her. He lay down in bed again, 
 and, turning over, went to sleep with her hand in his. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 MARTIN SCHULER gradually recovered from 
 his illness and began to go about again. His 
 health continued to be bad; he suffered from 
 his old pains in the stomach and from a weakness of 
 the heart, brought on by so much leaning forward over 
 a writing-table. He always wrote with the edge of 
 the writing-table pressed against his breast below his 
 heart. 
 
 He looked old and sallow and slow. His figure 
 had lost its beautiful grace. He seemed less tall and 
 thicker. His vitality seemed to have gone altogether. 
 Through the summer he wrote scarcely anything at 
 all, and never said a word about his opera. 
 
 He finished and elaborated a little army of songs 
 and boudoir pieces from ideas that had fallen off the 
 peahens, and wrote, in imitation of the successive mas- 
 ters, a musical revue which he called " Bachravellian- 
 stiicke." " Backravellianstiicke '' had a great vogue. 
 It was certainly brilliantly clever. His little army 
 sold well and was edited in various Albums which were 
 given to the young to get to Parnassus upon. 
 
 Sophie frequently went to Berlin, and he seemed un- 
 easy when she was away, although he never said that 
 
 394 
 
SCHWARZWALD 295 
 
 he missed her. It probably never occurred to him that 
 he had not everything he wanted. Wolf read to him 
 every evening; he read the "Ice Maiden" of Hans 
 Andersen seven times and " The Cossacks '* twice. 
 Martin liked " The Cossacks." He shared the forest 
 feeling and the charm of the large beautiful heroine in 
 the pink shirt with the hero. He thought the pink 
 shirt must be pleated in a thousand pleats with a pale 
 green edge. Frequently he was moody and ill- 
 humored, but Wolf was blind to everything in his 
 master but his divinity. The large divinity of Martin 
 filled the whole forest, just as Wolffs small divinity 
 had once filled a small circle around his head. Wolf's 
 adoration for him was beyond the reach of thought. 
 When he sailed upon the lake alone in his skiff, Wolf 
 stood on the shore like a dog watching him the whole 
 of the time. He would see him lean over and look 
 down into the water for his Ice Maiden, and he knew 
 he was seeking inspiration. The water was clear upon 
 the surface and dark and green below. Frequently 
 Wolf feared he would fall over the edge of the boat 
 and drown. 
 
 Sometimes Martin went by himself into the woods, 
 as in the old times. He was quiet by himself, and 
 melancholy; he hardly thought at all, and wandered 
 among the trees with the quiet resignation of a monk. 
 They showered their silver light upon him as he walked 
 below in the dark and beautiful green shadows. He 
 
296 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 used most frequently to go to those parts of the forest 
 where the trees were very old and tall, where their 
 sumptuous boughs hid the sky in a heaven of green 
 clouds. Here the romances of the world seemed to 
 have come together, the ghosts of all the fairies and 
 lovers that had ever lived. Adam's form of red clay 
 stole softly with an ivory Eve about the tall pillars of 
 the trees — Venus herself, marble and everlasting, sur- 
 rounded by a thousand Cupids like the dream of Titian 
 held herself upon a rock under the canopy of pines. 
 All the Pans, shepherds, fauns, and nymphs of men's 
 innumerable thoughts passed riotously by after a 
 Dionysius. Fairies and heroes, princes and princesses, 
 and every happy and more romantic form of imaginary 
 being, could be seen there riding down the glades. 
 
 Martin stood upon a knoll and watched them. He 
 was looking for his prince and his romantic notions 
 in the past, but they all lay in his own manuscript 
 awaiting the last act of creation: unborn and in the 
 future. 
 
 Day followed day, and all the time he waited in a 
 negative and hopeless state that was neither happy nor 
 unhappy for some unforeseen event to come down upon 
 him like golden rain, and fill him with a blind, raging 
 energy. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 COUNTESS VON SEBALTZ took a house in 
 Munich, and at this house she determined to 
 make Martin pass the winter. She utterly re- 
 fused to live at Tittersee, cut off from the world in 
 a forest of snow. 
 
 One afternoon when November had come again she 
 sat dreaming in front of the fire in the sympathetic 
 art study of the villa. The fire glowed upon her lovely 
 violet dress, and cast her shadow upon the ceiling, 
 large and dark. Martin was standing at the window 
 humming an indefinite melancholy song. Outside, the 
 first snow of winter was beginning to fall thin and 
 slow over a black landscape. It was almost dark. 
 
 Presently Martin turned and looked at her. His 
 satisfaction in the color of her dress gave him a mo- 
 ment's happiness ; a gleam shot through him and faded 
 away. He came forward and touched the silk. She 
 seemed more wonderful to him than she had ever 
 done in all her days. Since the moment of his con- 
 valescence, when he had depended upon her, she had 
 become for him something quite extraordinary and 
 different from before. Once he had loved her because 
 her gayety and beauty had been the gayety and beauty 
 
 397. 
 
298 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 that were necessary to him. When he no longer 
 wanted any of those things, but deep understanding, 
 he had found nothing in her. He did not cease to love 
 her after a fashion because any change of emotion in 
 the terror and agony of creation had never occurred 
 to him. After his tenderness towards her during his 
 recovery he had created for himself something new in 
 her. She had accepted it and allowed it. It was not 
 beyond her power. He loved tenderly, without pas- 
 sion, for the first time in his life; for the first time in 
 her life she had been tenderly loved by somebody who 
 depended upon her. As far as she was able she ap- 
 preciated it. Frequently he raged at her, but his rage 
 had lost the terrifying vividness of his former rages. 
 He no longer flashed lightning at her and made her 
 think he was insane. 
 
 To-day he touched her silk dress and loved her. 
 She was considering how she could induce him to leave 
 Tittersee, for she understood that if he were to fall 
 ill there she would not be able to stay away. She was 
 too conventional to desert him, and not strong enough 
 to shift the burden he had put upon her off her 
 shoulders, and yet the thought of the next winter was 
 as hateful to her as the thought of hell. She turned 
 sick at the idea, and her whole body felt unutterably 
 weary with the uneasy fear of another long imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 The magnificent house in Munich was already 
 
SCHWARZWALD 299 
 
 furnished and the fires every day burned brightly on 
 the hearth ready for his reception. Aired linen was 
 already laid upon the bed and flowers put on the 
 table. 
 
 Martin threw himself at her feet, and, laying his 
 head in her lap, began crying for nothing, like a child. 
 She began to stroke his hair and the back of his neck 
 where his brain ended; she could see the movements 
 of his shoulders under his coat. She put her hand on 
 his coat : it was warm and rough and entirely opposed 
 to all the silken smoothness of her own personal life. 
 Becoming sentimental, she thought of all the differ- 
 ences she knew between men and women; they were 
 not many, but on the other hand she did not recognize 
 any likenesses. Men and women were therefore ut- 
 terly different for her upon a few generalizations. She 
 pitied Martin ; she was convinced that the peahens were 
 waste paper, that his work was a failure, and that there 
 was absolutely nothing in the idea. She had not the 
 least glimmering of understanding of anything except 
 of the management of men and of social success. 
 
 She began to talk to him as if she were telling him 
 a story. 
 
 " I have taken a house in Munich. It is furnished 
 and warm. There is a big room there with blue 
 silk curtains and a fire. It is a very fine house, the 
 kind of house I know that you will like. You will feel 
 comfortable and happy and better there. Perhaps the 
 
300 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 peahens are there, perhaps they are perching on the 
 walls waiting for you." 
 
 Martin put his arms around her waist and looked up 
 at her. He shook his head miserably from side to side 
 and said: 
 
 " But, no, they have gone a very long way away 
 from me. They have altogether flown away to the 
 moon, or to Jupiter." 
 
 "It is comfortable and warm," repeated Sophie; 
 " My Martinkin, let your small Sophie show it to you." 
 
 Their intimacy had not failed to produce familiar 
 conversation between them. 
 
 "My small girl," said Martin affectionately, "I 
 will come and have a look at it." 
 
 Sophie had the sense not to move immediately : she 
 fingered the frown upon his forehead, and wiped his 
 tears with her handkerchief. 
 
 " My ancientkin must come with me and let Sophie 
 show it to you ; it would please her so much." 
 
 She continued to play with his face. He kissed her 
 fingers. 
 
 " Describe it again," he said, " and I will think about 
 it." 
 
 " It is in the Konigstrasse. From the balcony of your 
 room you can see the Palace. The bedroom is a small 
 room at one end ; T had it made gold and pale blue for 
 you, because you like bright colors." 
 
 Martin rose ; warmth seemed to have come into his 
 
SCHWARZWALD 301 
 
 life ; he felt a desire for luxury ; the art study seemed 
 dirty and worn. 
 
 " Get my coat/' he said; " I will go." 
 
 Sophie ran and told the chauffeur, who was drinking 
 coffee in the kitchen, to get the car. She ran into the 
 kitchen herself. Everything had been prepared for 
 two days for instantaneous departure; she knew how 
 much a moment's delay might mean to her arrange- 
 ments. She ran to her room and put on a small cherry- 
 colored hat with a cherry-colored sparrow in flight upon 
 the top. When she heard the car she flung herself 
 into an ermine coat, and, screaming at the valet, hur- 
 ried him down with Martin's black felt hat and large 
 military coat. 
 
 In a minute she ran down herself, and, creating pur- 
 posely an air of excitement, bustled Martin into the 
 car. They got in. The snow was now falling fast. 
 The car moved away from the house and soon turned 
 into the road to Munich. When the white Rolls- 
 Royce had slipped away from sight Wolf put the mass 
 of luggage upon the old Mercedes to follow after. 
 
 When the car had got well past the railway station, 
 Martin put his hand on Sophie's and said : 
 
 " I know what it was that I suffered from. That 
 house was too small to finish the peahens in." 
 
 With that the car sank slowly down to Munich out 
 of the cold world of snow and pine-trees and black 
 winds. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE house in the Konigstrasse was a marvel of 
 simple beauty, such as the French and Viennese 
 alone understand. It was furnished without the 
 aid of any art furnishing company. Here, in a lofty 
 room, large enough for a queen's antechamber, deco- 
 rated with stately curtains of blue silk and beautiful 
 plaster moulding, furnished with a vast polished wood 
 writing-table, an orange brocade divan, several chairs, 
 and a full sized grand piano. Count von Schiiler fin- 
 ished his best and most beautiful work. That winter 
 he had received the Nobel prize, because the world 
 thought his day was over, and that having brought gay 
 happiness to millions of human beings, he deserved the 
 reward for benefiting mankind. The Emperor gave 
 him a Countship, partly to thank the Swedish nation, 
 and to show that he himself patronized the arts. The 
 change of place and the accident of public honor had a 
 great eflFect upon him, as it frequently has upon sensi- 
 tive people. 
 
 All of the past four years Martin Schiller left behind 
 him at his villa by the lake ; he took away nothing with 
 him except the manuscripts of the peahens. For the 
 first weeks that he spent in his new and beautiful home 
 
SCHWARZWALD 303 
 
 he sat still and silent, seeing nobody but his secretary 
 and his friend, and going out infrequently to look at 
 the city. At the end of three weeks he roused himself, 
 hired a music secretary and a copyist, and began to 
 make the final effort necessary to the accomplishment 
 of his task. He sat at work for weeks together. His 
 health got worse every day, but every day as the years 
 fell upon him — for in a week he lived a twelvemonth — 
 he became more calm, more dispassionate, patient, and 
 kind. He sat steadily writing and gazing into the past. 
 His creative intellect was at rest; his selective intellect, 
 his extraordinary technical powers which throughout 
 all his work had been amazing, and his memory, alone 
 were at work. He wrote entirely from the memory 
 of his dreams, and from the copy of those visionless 
 thoughts that in the past years had with pain and labor 
 expressed themselves under his hand. The vision of 
 his peahens was far-off and dark, as if reflected in the 
 water of the lake, but he had not the slightest difficulty 
 in perceiving it, in hearing those few sounds that he 
 still wished to hear. He worked with a sense of co- 
 ordination and of artistic balance, he was making of 
 his absolute genius a perfect and supreme expression. 
 Throughout the days of his creation he had thought 
 mainly of the life, yet always of the form. When 
 the form lay ready under his hands for the last com- 
 pression, he thought mainly of the form, yet always 
 of the life. As before the form had been continuously 
 
304 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 before his eyes, so now the life was continually in his 
 mind. 
 
 Everything was smooth and easy, for the selective 
 power was one of those gifts with which he had been 
 born. 
 
 In March he sat for another three weeks doing noth- 
 ing but stare into the fire, and from time to time call 
 to the secretaries. They came frequently and showed 
 him copies of the score. He would not allow a blemish 
 or a correction to spoil those sheets. They thought 
 him very fussy and tiresome. For three weeks he sat 
 and shuddered by the fire, wrapped up in a rug with a 
 large cat upon his knees. He shuddered, not from cold 
 but from weakness and fatigue. Wolf had found the 
 cat straying upon the stairs, and Martin had appro- 
 priated it. Wolf wanted the cat himself as a pet, but 
 he gave it up to Martin, whom he felt that he had lost 
 altogether that winter. 
 
 At the end of this time, Martin's chief secretary 
 came to him with a clean bundle of manuscript and 
 said, " That is all, Herr Count." 
 
 Martin wrote his name upon the first and last sheets 
 and ordered him to ring the bell. When the footman 
 appeared, he said, " Tell all to come.'* 
 
 While they were coming he took from his pocket 
 Werner's old manuscript and his own first draft that 
 he had made five years before in the villa. He had a 
 vision of the villa standing upon the March snows 
 
SCHWARZWALD 305 
 
 among the trees of the forest like an empty box. 
 
 The servants all appeared, following Wolf and 
 Sophie, who thought that he must be going to die. 
 
 There he sat with the cat upon his knees, looking 
 quite diiferent from his former self — gentle, kind, and 
 simple. When Sophie came to him he took her hands, 
 and, looking down at his manuscript, which was beside 
 him on a chair, said, " It is finished." 
 
 An emotion carried her away, and, communicating 
 itself to Wolf, left them both speechless and still. 
 
 Martin evidently did not notice it. 
 
 He turned his head to the servants and said in slow 
 and emotional tones, " I have finished my work to-day; 
 do you all finish yours and take a holiday. May you 
 all be blessed." 
 
 The butler smiled at the footman, shrugged his 
 shoulders, and looked at the chef. They knew per- 
 fectly well that to forsake the house all at once for a 
 day's joy was impossible. 
 
 In a minute Martin said : 
 
 "And now I want the car; I want to go to the 
 photographer's ; I want to go out to a cafe ; and do you, 
 cook, make me a feast for Friday for twenty per- 
 sons." 
 
 He took Sophie and Wolf with him in the car, and 
 carried the cat in his arms, who, with sleepy su- 
 periority, was not in the least affected by anything 
 that went on. 
 
3o6 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 After visiting a photographer's they went to tea at 
 a new and fashionable cafe, where everybody stared 
 at them, and particularly at Sophie, who wore as usual 
 the most beautiful clothes. After this they went to an 
 exhibition of paintings in a curious black and white 
 gallery, where each picture was hung in a panel of 
 fluted gray silk. Before some were little statuettes 
 upon white wooden pedestals, before others painted 
 wooden flowers in painted wooden bowls. A peasant 
 Madonna had imitation candles dripping simulated wax 
 on each side of her. 
 
 Martin liked this exhibition; he thought it extra- 
 ordinary that people could do such wonderful things, 
 for it was years since he had seen anything of the 
 kind. 
 
 Upon Friday night he gave a dinner party, to which 
 he invited from Berlin the Countess von Ardstein, 
 Hirchner, and Konstanz, together with many of his 
 old friends. To his great joy his photographs came 
 back at five o'clock, and he spent an hour fussing over 
 their choice, and tying them up with white paper and 
 ribbons to give to his guests. He made the cook tell 
 him all there was to eat, and the butler all there was to 
 drink. He ordered a grotesque amount of flowers and 
 tokens of sweets from the best shops. 
 
 That night, at the beginning of dinner, he presented 
 the finished score of his peahens formally to Sophie, 
 
SCHWARZWALD 307 
 
 who publicly kissed it among a thousand hand-shakes, 
 glass-raisings, and compliments. Everybody was 
 ecstatic over the photographs. 
 
 " Am I not a magnificent old fellow ? " cried Martin. 
 The guests all agreed, and his long health was drunk. 
 
 " May you live for ever and ever," cried Sophie 
 with dramatic feeling, and everybody echoed, " Yes, 
 for ever and ever, our immortal singer." 
 
 They cried this rather because they loved him, and 
 because the atmosphere suggested it, than because they 
 at all suspected what the peahens were like. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 ON June 1st, 19 14, Martin Schiiler's opera was 
 produced at the Berlin Opera House. 
 It is remarkable that it was exactly the right 
 length. It needed no adaptation or disembowelling to 
 speak of. All his friends were wild about it; the 
 actors, the orchestra, the scene-shifters, although they 
 did not understand it any more than his friends, caught 
 the enthusiasm. Perhaps Hirchner and the Countess 
 von Ardstein alone had an idea of what it meant. 
 
 Count von Schiller was present at the First Night. 
 He sat in a box hung with laurels and roses. His 
 hair was oiled, his hollow cheeks and rigid jaws were 
 clean-shaven, and he wore a new evening suit with a 
 soft linen shirt and a velvet coat. On his left breast 
 was a decoration, on his marriage finger was a ring 
 set with an emerald surrounded by brilliants. This 
 ring had been given to him by Hella von Rosenthal. 
 He had recently begun to wear it again. His heart 
 was void. The peahens were no longer his ; they had 
 flown out into the world. 
 
 In the front corner of the box sat Sophie von Se- 
 baltz, at the back stood Wolf; on either side of Martin 
 sat two of his friends talking to him. 
 
 308 
 
SCHWARZWALD 309 
 
 "Ah," said Konstanz, the man at his left hand, 
 "have courage, dearest friend. The most beautiful 
 work in the world will stir their hearts to hell depths 
 and heaven heights." 
 
 Hirchner sat at Schiller's right side with one hand 
 on his shoulder and the other grasping his right hand 
 so that the ring on the marriage finger cut his palm. 
 He secretly feared that " The Peahens " was above the 
 heads of the general public, but he said in rolling ac- 
 cents : 
 
 " It is going to be wonderful, glorious, colossal, an 
 ever-to-be-remembered, altogether magnificent suc- 
 cess. Ah, look at the faces turning their eyes upon 
 you ! You are recognized. Permit us to support you, 
 dear friend, you must stand." 
 
 Cheers filled the Opera House. Like a child Schiiler 
 did as he was bidden. He stood erect in the box and 
 bowed, supported by his friends, who only half rose 
 in order to give him the supremacy in height. Every- 
 body shouted and clapped. He had been a great fa- 
 vorite in the old days. Sophie clapped also. Wolf let 
 his nature out in one loud shout. 
 
 The orchestra began the overture. With the first 
 notes the group in the box melted away to the corners. 
 Countess von Ardstein bustled in and sat down. 
 Sophie sat in the front corner of the box in a flame- 
 colored dress of gauze. She looked as lovely as she 
 had ever done. She leaned very much on the front of 
 
3IO MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 the box and let her right arm lie over the edge. She 
 gazed straight down at the dark people below her : with 
 her fingers she played with her pearl. She felt very 
 lonely. She wished Martin would put out his hand 
 to her or touch her. There she sat reclined in a beau- 
 tiful pose staring down into the abyss. She had not 
 the slightest idea that anything was being performed. 
 
 Wolf stood at the back of the box, his attention 
 riveted. It seemed to him as he gave himself to the 
 music that the light upon the stage came out of Mar- 
 tin's mind like a searchlight, and, widening out over 
 a piece of heaven, concentrated itself again in his own 
 brain. He thought that if Martin had not been there 
 the whole spectacle would vanish, and the sounds of 
 music drop to silence. Hirchner sat beside him with 
 his legs crossed, looking like a man of the world, but 
 his mind was soaring to the highest heights, and he 
 felt that he had been born only to hear the wonder of 
 that night. The Countess kept her eyes fixed on the 
 back of Martin's head. Konstanz saw his soul swim 
 like a golden carp in the fish ponds of Elysium. 
 
 Count von Schiiler himself stared at the stage, his 
 whole nerves supporting the whole of the performance. 
 Every slight technical mistake broke something in him. 
 During its progress he suffered everything that he had 
 ever suffered during his labors on it, and went again 
 through every ecstasy, through every disappointment; 
 as the acts followed one another he held his heart 
 
SCHWARZWALD 3" 
 
 still for the climax. His beautiful and perfect work 
 ravished his soul out of him; he never had heard or 
 seen anything to be compared with it; it exceeded his 
 dreams; all the loveliness of his whole life was there. 
 Once he smiled at his young Wagnerian dreams and 
 saw a bridge, slender as a rainbow, stand over his life 
 from his twentieth year till now. He went back seven 
 years to the top of the bridge and looked down at 
 Leipsic and Berlin and the Black Forest. The millions 
 of episodes of his life lay below him. He was thou- 
 sands of hours above them in the air. " Here am I," 
 he thought, " and I have safely crossed by this bridge ; 
 how slender and how beautiful and how white. I have 
 made it and it is my own support. I suppose it was 
 necessary for my body to go by land ; only at the end 
 can we cross by the complete bridge back to the be- 
 ginning." He looked down the far side towards 
 Heidelberg. Under the far end of the bridge flowed 
 the Neckar. He saw the pavilion upon the castle hill 
 shining with electric lights. For some time he stood 
 up there upon the top of the bridge in contemplation 
 of the beauty of the universe ; he understood all crea- 
 tion and the smallest actions of living things. Sud- 
 denly he found himself sitting in a box at the Opera 
 House of Berlin. It was the last act. He was await- 
 ing the sensation of the million falls that he had so 
 often had. Unfortunately the actors were not quite 
 up to their task. They failed to produce the true, the 
 
312 MARTIN SCHULER 
 
 absolute sensation. The audience also did not appre- 
 ciate the climax. The orchestra alone carried them- 
 selves away by their own playing. Hirchner moved, 
 his heart torn out of his body by the marvellous 
 perfection of the music; Wolf wept, amazed at the in- 
 comprehensible before him ; Sophie dreamed, still lean- 
 ing in her comer, of things she did not know. 
 
 As the last chord sounded, Countess von Ardstein 
 touched Hirchner and Konstanz. They looked at Mar- 
 tin, electrified at her contact. Martin had risen and 
 was leaning forward with his hands upon the edge of 
 the box; he seemed to be about to speak, but sank again 
 heavily into his chair. Hirchner half sprang to his 
 feet. The Countess detained him. Sophie was star- 
 ing blankly at Martin. She alone could see his face. 
 Absolute silence fell over the theater. Sophie shrank 
 back into the curtains and raised her hands in an 
 action of self -protection. In a few seconds the audi- 
 ence began to go quickly out of the theater and every- 
 body knew that Martin Schiiler was dead. 
 
 His body was taken home to the house of the Ard- 
 steins and laid upon a bed. He lay in the center of a 
 scene that he would have appreciated. The rest of 
 Wolf's life crouched in a black stricken form beside 
 the bed. Sophie, to whom nothing was comprehensi- 
 ble, wept by him, supported in the arms of Hirchner. 
 Konstanz and the Count von Ardstein stood in the 
 
SCHWARZWALD 313 
 
 background with the Countess, who was playing with 
 her lorgnon. In the silence and the pale light of the 
 breaking day all those people felt that they had now 
 for ever finished with life and that with the first gleam 
 of the rising sun they would all vanish away. 
 
JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
 
 By ROMAIN ROLLAND 
 
 Translated from the French by Gilbert Cannan. !n 
 three volumes, each $1.75 net. 
 
 This great trilogy, the life story of a musician, at first 
 the sensation of musical circles in Paris, has come to be one 
 of the most discussed books among literary circles in France, 
 England and America. 
 
 Each volume of the American edition has its own indi- 
 vidual interest, can be understood without the other, and 
 comes to a definite conclusion. 
 
 The three volumes with the titles of the French volumes 
 included are: 
 
 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
 
 Dawn — Morning — Youth — ^Revolt 
 
 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS 
 
 The Market Place — Antoinette — The House 
 
 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY'S END 
 Love and Friendship — The Burning Bush — ^The New 
 
 Dawn 
 
 Some Noteworthy Comments 
 *• 'Hats off, gentlemen — a genius.' . One may mention *Jean-Chris- 
 tophe' in the same breath with Balzac's 'Lost Illusions'; it is as big 
 as that. . It is moderate praise to call it with Edmiind Gosse *the 
 noblest work of fiction of the twentieth century.* . A book as 
 big, as elemental, as original as though the art of fiction began to- 
 day. . We have nothing comparable in English literature. . "— 
 Springfield Republican. 
 
 **If a man wishes to understand those devious currents which make 
 up the great, changing sea of modern life, there is hardlv a single 
 book more illustrative, more informing and more inspiring. '—Ci«rr*nl 
 Opinion. 
 
 "Must rank as one of the very few important works of fiction of the 
 last decade. A vital compelling work. We who love it feel that it 
 will live." — Independent. 
 
 "The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or 
 from any other European country, in a decade." — Boston Transcript, 
 
 A 32-page booklet about Romain Rolland and Jean-Chris- 
 tophe, with portraits and complete reviews, on requ4St. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 {PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
BOOKS ON MUSICIANS 
 
 BY ROMAIN ROIXAND 
 
 Author of "Jean-Christophe," and called by W. J. Hender- 
 son •' The most interesting of living critics of Music and 
 Musicians." 
 
 SOME MUSICIANS OF FORMER DAYS 
 
 Translated from the fourth French edition by Mary Blaik- 
 LOCK. $1.50 net. 
 
 The Place of Music in General History; The Beginning of 
 Opera; The First Opera Played in Paris; Notes on Lully, and 
 shorter but vivid papers on Gluck, Gretry, and Mozart. 
 
 ". . . One of the greatest of living musical scholars. He is also the 
 most interesting of contemporaneous writers . . . Written with bril- 
 liant scholarship, with critical insight and with flashes of human sym- 
 gathy and humor. . . . Every lover of music should hasten to give 
 imself the pleasure of a persual of this delightful volume which radi- 
 ates learning, keen judgment and sympathetic humor." — New York Sun, 
 
 MUSICIANS OF TO-DAY 
 
 Translated from the fifth French edition by Mary Blaiklock. 
 With an Introduction by Claude Landi. 324 pp. $1. 50 net, 
 Berlioz's stormy career and music, Wagner's "Siegfried" 
 and "Tristan,'* Saint-Saens, Vincent D'Indy, Hugo Wolf, 
 Debussy's " Pell6as and Mllisande," ** The Musical Move- 
 ment in Paris," and an absorbing paper on the Concert-Music 
 of Richard Strauss, etc. 
 
 " May surely be read with profit by the musically uneducated and 
 educated."— P-fti/ii* Hale in the Boston Herald. 
 
 HANDEL 
 
 Translation and Introduction by A. Eaglefield Hull. 
 With musical extracts, four unusual illustrations, and an 
 index. 210 pp. $1.50 net. 
 
 "... Written with enthusiasim, but with judgment as well. The 
 story of Handel's life is told simply, but with feeling and alacrity of 
 phrase . . . will repay reading. . . r— Springfield Republican. 
 
 BEETHOVEN 
 
 Translated by A. Eaglefield Hull. $1.50 net. 
 
 This is, perhaps, the most famous of the non-fiction musical 
 books by the author of "Jean-Christophe." The translator 
 has added to Mr. Rolland's famous monograph, in which he 
 treats of Beethoven both as musician and hero, so much in- 
 teresting additional material that this volume almost doubles 
 the size of the original. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 » STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 NOV 111933 
 
 APR 14 1931 
 
IB 33560 
 
 UNIVERSITY QF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY