Chapter XX   
     
KATHERINE’S first letter was posted in Cologne and reached Berlin the following morning, according to expectations. The accompanying address had been given by Botho himself, who, smiling and goodhumored, held in his hand a rather thick-feeling letter. Three cards faintly written on both sides with a pencil had been put in the envelope, and all of them barely legible, so that Rienäcker went out on the balcony, in order better to decipher the indistinct scrawl.      1   
  “Now let us see, Katherine.”      2   
  And he read:
           
“BRANDENBURG a. H., 8 o’clock in the morning.
  “The train, my dear Botho, stops here only three minutes, but I will make the best use I can of the time, and in case of need I will write, well or ill as it happens, when the train is in motion. I am travelling with a very charming young banker’s wife, Madame Salinger, née Saling, from Vienna. When I wondered at the similarity of the names, she said: ‘Yes, it looks as if I had married my own comparative.’ She talks like that right straight along, and in spite of having a ten-year-old daughter (blonde; the mother is brunette) she too is going to Schlangenbad. And she is going by way of Cologne too, like me, because of a visit that she is to make there. The child has naturally a good disposition, but is not well brought up and has already broken my parasol by her constant climbing about in the railway carriage, a mishap which embarrassed her mother very much. The railroad station, where we are just now stopping (that is to say, the train is starting again this very moment), is swarming with soldiers, among them Brandenburg Cuirassiers with a name in yellow letters on their shoulder straps; apparently it was Nicholas. It looked very well. There were fusiliers there too, from the thirty-fifth, little people, who seemed to me far too small, although Uncle Osten always used to say the best fusilier was one who could not be seen with the naked eye. But I will close. The little girl, alas, is running from one window to the other as before and makes it hard for me to write. And besides she is constantly munching cakes, little pastry tarts with cherries and pistachio nuts on top. She began that long ago, between Potsdam and Werder. The mother is too weak. I would be more severe.”   
   3   
  Botho laid the card aside and ran through the second one as well as he could. It ran:
           
“HANNOVER, 12–30.
  “Goltz was at the Magdeburg station and told me you had written him that I was coming. How very good and kind you were once more. You are always the best and most attentive of men. Goltz has charge of the survey in the Harz Mountains now, that is, he begins July first. The train stops a quarter of an hour in Hannover, and I have made use of the time to see the place immediately around the station: regular hotels and beer-drinking places that have grown up under our government, one of which is built completely in the Gothic style. The Hannoverians call it the ‘Prussian been church,’ as a fellow traveller told me, simply because of Guelphish hostility. How painful such things are! But time will mitigate this feeling also. Heaven send that it may. The child still keeps no nibbling, which begins to make me nervous. What will be the upshot of it? But the mother is really charming and has already told me everything. She has also been in Würzburg, with Scanzoni, about whom she is enthusiastic. Her way of confiding in me is embarrassing and almost painful. For the rest, she is, as I can only repeat, perfectly comme il faut. To mention just one thing, what a dressing case! In Vienna they far surpass us in such things; one can notice the older culture.”   
   4   
  “Wonderful,” laughed Botho. “When Katherine indulges in reflections on the history of civilisation, she surpasses herself. But all good things go by threes. Let us see.”      5   
  And he picked up the third card.
           
“COLOGNE, 8 o’clock in the evening.
“Headquarters.
  “I prefer to mail my cards here rather than to wait until I reach Schlangenbad, where Frau Salinger and I expect to arrive to-morrow noon. All goes well with me. The Schroffensteins are very friendly and pleasant; especially Herr Schroffenstein. By the way, not to omit anything of interest, Frau Salinger was fetched from the station by the Oppenheim’s carriage. Our journey, which began so charmingly, grew somewhat burdensome and unattractive from Hamm on. The little girl had a hard time, and moreover it was her mother’s fault. ‘What more do you want?’ as soon as the train had left the Hamm station, whereupon the child answers: ‘Drops.’ And it was from that very moment that things got so bad.… Ah, dear Botho, young or old, our wishes ought to be constantly kept under strict and conscientious control. This thought has been constantly in my mind ever since and the meeting with this charming woman was perhaps no chance occurrence in my life. How often have I heard Kluckhuhn speak in this vein. And he was right. More to-morrow.   
Your
“KATHERINE.”
   6   
  Botho put the three cards back in the envelope and said: “Exactly like Katherine. What gift she has for small talk! And I ought to be glad that she writes as she does. But there is something lacking. It is all so trivial and comes so easily, like a mere echo of society talk. But she will change when she has duties of her own. Or perhaps she will. In any case, I will not give up the hope.”      7   
  The next day there came a short letter from Schlangenbad, in which there was far, far less than in the three cards, and from this time on she wrote only twice a week and gossiped about Anna Grävenitz and Elly Winterfeld, who had actually put in an appearance, but most of all about Madame Salinger and her charming little Sarah. There were always the same asseverations and only at the close of the third week did some lessening of enthusiasm appear:
             “I now think the little girl more charming than her mother. Frau Salinger indulges in such luxurious toilettes as I find scarcely appropriate, especially as there are practically no men here. And then too, I see now that her complexion is artificial; her eyebrows are certainly painted and perhaps her lips too, for they are cherry-red. But the child is perfectly natural. Whenever she sees me, she rushes up to me and kisses my hand and makes her excuses for the hundredth time about the drops, ‘but it was Mamma’s fault,’ in which I fully agree with the child. And yet, on the other hand, there must be a mysterious streak of greediness in Sarah’s nature, I might almost say something like a besetting sin (do you believe in besetting sins? I do, my dear Botho), for she cannot let sweet things alone and constantly buys wafers, not the Berlin kind that taste like buns with meringue on top, but the Karlsbad kind with sugar sprinkled over. But I will not write any more about all this. When I see you, which may be very soon—for I should like to travel with Anna Grävenitz, we should be so much more by ourselves—we will talk about it and about a great many other things too. Ah, how glad I shall be to see you and to sit on the balcony with you. After all, Berlin is the most beautiful place, and when the sun goes down behind Charlottenburg and the Grünewald, and one grows so tired and dreamy, how lovely it is! Don’t you think so? And do you know what Frau Salinger told me yesterday? She said that I had grown still blonder. Well, you will see for yourself.   
As always, your
“KATHERINE.”
   8   
  Rienäcker nodded and smiled. “Charming little woman. She writes nothing at all about her health or the effects of the cure; I will wager that she goes out to drive and has hardly taken ten baths yet.” And after saying this to himself, he gave some orders to his man servant who had just come in and then walked through the Zoological Garden and the Brandenburg gate, then under the Lindens and then to the barracks, where he was on duty until noon.      9   
     
  Soon after twelve o’clock, when he was at home again, and had had something to eat, and was about to make himself comfortable for a little, the servant announced “that a gentleman… a man (he hesitated over the word) was outside, and wished to speak with the Herr Baron.”     10   
  “Who is it?”     11   
  “Gideon Franke… so he said.”     12   
  “Franke? Strange. I never heard of him. Bring him in.”     13   
  The servant went out again, while Botho repeated: “Franke… Gideon Franke… Never heard of him. I don’t know him.     14   
  In a moment the visitor entered the room and bowed somewhat stiffly at the door. He wore a dark-brown coat closely buttoned up, highly polished boots and shiny black hair, which lay very thick on both temples. He wore black gloves and a spotlessly white high collar.     15   
  Botho met him with his usual courteous amiability and said: “Herr Franke?”     16   
  The latter nodded.     17   
  “How can I serve you? Let me beg you to be seated.… Here… or perhaps here. Stuffed chairs are always uncomfortable.”     18   
  Franke smiled in assent and took a cane-seated chair, which Rienäcker had indicated.     19   
  “How can I serve you?” repeated Rienäcker.     20   
  “I have come to ask you a question, Herr Baron.”     21   
  “It will give me pleasure to answer it, provided that I am able.”     22   
  “No one could answer me better than you, Herr von Rienäcker… I have come, in fact, about Lena Nimptsch…”     23   
  Botho started back a little.     24   
  “And I want to add at once,” Franke went on, “that it is nothing troublesome that has brought me here. What I wish to say, or if you will permit me, Herr Baron, to ask, will cause no inconvenience to you or to your family. I already know that your gracious lady, the Frau Baroness is away, and I carefully waited until you should be alone, or, if I may say so, until you should be a grass widower.”     25   
  Botho’s discriminating ear perceived that, in spite of his rather ordinary middle-class clothes, the man was frank and high-minded. This soon helped him to get over his embarrassment and he had recovered his usual calmness of manner, as he asked, across the table: “Are you a relative of Lena’s? Pardon me, Herr Franke, for calling my old friend by the old name of which I am so fond.”     26   
  Franke bowed and replied: “No, Herr Baron, no relative; I have not that right to speak. But my right is perhaps quite as good: I have known Lena for a year and more and I intend to marry her. She has given her consent, but on that occasion she told me of her previous life and spoke of you so affectionately, that I at once determined to ask you yourself, Herr Baron, freely and openly, what you can tell me about Lena. When I told Lena of my intention, she at first encouraged me gladly, but immediately afterwards she added, that I might as well not ask you, as you would be sure to speak too well of her.”     27   
  Botho looked straight before him and found it difficult to control the beating of his heart. Finally, however, he mastered himself and said: “You are an excellent man, Herr Franke, and you want to make Lena happy. So much I can see at once, and that gives you a perfect right to an answer. I have no doubt at all as to what I ought to tell you, and I only hesitate as to how I shall tell it. The best way will be to tell you how it all began and continued and then how it came to an end.”     28   
  Franke bowed once more, to show that he too agreed to this plan.     29   
  “Very well then,” began Rienäcker, “it is about three years or perhaps a couple of months more, since on a boating excursion around the Liebesinsel near Treptow I had the opportunity of doing two young girls a service by preventing their boat from capsizing. One of these two young girls was Lena, and from her manner of thanking me, I saw at once that she was different from others. She was wholly free from affectation, both then and later, a fact which I specially wish to emphasise. For no matter how merry and at times almost boisterous she may be, yet she is naturally thoughtful, serious and simple.”     30   
  Botho mechanically pushed aside the tray, which was still standing on the table, smoothed the cloth and then went on: “I asked leave to escort her home, and she consented without more ado, which at that time surprised me for a moment. For I did not yet know her. But I soon saw what it meant; from her youth on she had been accustomed to act according to her own judgement, without much regard for others, and in any case without fearing their opinion.”     31   
  Franke nodded.     32   
  “So we went all the long distance together and I escorted her home and was delighted with all that I saw there, with the old mother, with the fireplace by which she sat, with the garden in which the house stood, and with the modest seclusion and stillness of the place. A quarter of an hour later I took my leave, and as I was saying good-bye to Lena at the garden gate, I asked whether I might come again, and she answered the question with a simple ‘Yes.’ She showed no false modesty, and yet was not unwomanly. On the contrary, there was something touching in her voice and manner.”     33   
  As all this came so vividly before his mind once more, Rienäcker rose, in manifest excitement and opened both halves of the balcony door, as if the room were growing too hot. Then, as he walked back and forth, he went on more rapidly: “I have scarcely anything more to add. That was about Easter and we had a whole long happy summer. Ought I to tell you about it? No. And then came life with all its serious claims. And that was what separated us.”     34   
  Meanwhile Botho had sat down again and Franke, who had been busily stroking his hat all the time, said quietly to himself: “Yes, that is just how she told me about it.”     35   
  “And it could not be any other way, Herr Franke. For Lena—I rejoice with all my heart to be able to say so once more—Lena does not lie, and would sooner bite her tongue off than to boast or speak falsely. She has two kinds of pride; one is to live by the work of her own hands, the other is to speak right out freely and make no false pretences and not to represent anything as more or less than it really is. “I do not need to do it and I will not do it,” I have often heard her say. She certainly has a will of her own, perhaps rather more than she should have, and one who wanted to criticise her, might reproach her with being obstinate. But she only persists in what she thinks she can take the responsibility for, and she really can too, and that sort of strength of will is, I think rather character than self-righteousness. I see by you nodding your head that we are of the same opinion, and that pleases me greatly. And now just one word more, Herr Franke. What has been, has been. If you cannot pass over it, I must respect your feeling. But if you can, I want to tell you, you will have an exceptionally good wife. For her heart is in the right place and she has a strong sense of duty and right and order.”     36   
  “That is how I have always found Lena, and I believe that she will make me an uncommonly good wife, precisely as the Herr Baron says. Yes, one ought to keep the Commandments, one ought to keep them all, but yet there is a distinction, according to which commandments they are, and he who fails to keep one of them all, may yet be good for something, but he who fails to keep another, even if it stands the very next one in the catechism, he is worthless and is condemned from the beginning and stands beyond the hope of grace.”     37   
  Botho gazed at him in surprise and evidently did not know what to make of this solemn address. Gideon Franke, however, who for his part had now gotten well started, had no longer any sense of the impression produced by his homemade opinions, and so went on in a tone that more and more suggested that of a preacher: “And he who, because of the weakness of the flesh sins against the sixth commandment, he may be forgiven if he repents and turns to better ways, but he breaks the seventh, sins not merely through the weakness of the flesh but through the corruption of the soul, and he who lies and deceives, or slanders and bears false witness, he is rotten to the core and is a child of darkness, and for him there is no salvation, and he is like a field in which the nettles have grown so tall that the weeds always come uppermost, no matter how much good corn may be sown. And I will live and die by that and have always found it true. Yes, Herr Baron, the important things are neatness and honesty and practicality. And in marriage it is the same. For ‘honesty is the best policy,’ and one’s word is his word and one must be able to have confidence. But what has been, has been, and that is in the hands of God. And if I think otherwise about it, which I too respect, exactly as the Herr Baron does, then it is my place to keep away and not allow my love and inclination to get a foothold. I was in the United States for a long time, and although over there just the same as here, all is not gold that glitters, yet it is true, that there one learns to see differently and not always through the same glass. And one learns also that there are many ways to salvation and many ways to happiness. Yes, Herr Baron, there are many roads that lead to God, and there are many roads that lead to happiness, of that I feel sure in my very heart. And the one road is good and the other road is good. But every good road must be straight and open, and lie in the sun, without swamps or quicksands or will-o’-the-wisps. Truth is the main thing, and trustworthiness and honor.”     38   
  With these words Franke had risen and Botho, who had politely gone to the door with him, gave him his hand.     39   
  “And now, Herr Franke, as we are bidding good-bye I will ask just one thing more: Please greet Frau Dörr from me, if you see her, and if the old friendship with her still continues, and above all give my greetings to good old Frau Nimptsch. Does she still have her gout and her days of suffering, of which she used to complain scconstantly?”     40   
  “That is all over now.”     41   
  “How so?” asked Botho.     42   
  “We buried her three weeks ago, Herr Baron. Just three weeks ago to-day.”     43   
  “Buried her?” repeated Botho. “And where?”     44   
  “Over behind the Rollkrug, in the new Jacob’s churchyard.… She was a good old woman. And how she did love Lena! Yes, Herr Baron, Mother Nimptsch is dead But Frau Dörr is still living (and he laughed), and she will live a long time yet. And if she comes—it is a long way—I will give her your greeting. And I can see already how pleased she will be. You know her, Herr Baron. Oh yes, Frau Dörr…”     45   
  And Gideon Franke took off his hat once more and the door closed.     46

Chapter XXI   
     
WHEN Rienäcker was alone again, he was as if benumbed by this meeting and by all that he had heard toward the close of the interview. Whenever, since his marriage, he had recalled the little house in the garden and its inmates, he had as a matter of course pictured everything in his mind just as it had been formerly, and now everything was changed and he must find his way in a completely new world: there were strangers living in the little house, if indeed it was occupied at all; there was no fire burning in the fireplace any more, at least not day in and day out, and Frau Nimptsch, who had kept up the fire, was dead and buried in the new Jacob’s churchyard. All this whirled round and round in his head, and suddenly he also recalled the day when, half seriously, half in jest, he had promised the good old woman to lay a wreath of immortelles on her grave. In the restlessness that had come over him, he was very glad that he had remembered the promise and decided to fulfil it at once. “To the Rollkrug at noon and the sun reflected from the ground—a regular journey to central Africa. But the good old woman shall have her wreath.”      1   
  And he took his cap and sword at once and left the house.      2   
  At the corner there was a cab stand, a small one, indeed, and so it happened that in spite of the sign: “Standing room for three cabs” there was usually nothing there but standing room or, very seldom, one cab. It was so to-day also, which in consideration of the noon hour (when all cabs are in the habit of disappearing as if the earth had swallowed them) was not particularly surprising at this cab stand which was one merely in name. Therefore Botho went further along, until, near the Von der Heydt Bridge, he met a somewhat rickety vehicle, painted light green, with a red plush seat and drawn by a white horse. The horse seemed barely able to trot and Rienäcker could not keep from smiling rather pitifully when he thought of the “tour” that was in store for the poor beast. But as far as his eye could see, nothing better was in sight, and so he stepped up to the driver and said: “To the Rollkrug. Jacob’s churchyard.”      3   
  “Very good, Herr Baron.”      4   
  “But we must stop somewhere on the way. I shall want to buy a wreath.”      5   
  “Very good, Herr Baron.”      6   
  Botho was somewhat surprised at the prompt and repeated use of his title and so he said: “Do you know me?”      7   
  “Yes, Herr Baron. Baron Rienäcker of Landgrafenstrasse. Close by the cab stand. I have often driven you before.”      8   
  During this conversation Botho had got in, meaning to make himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of the plush cushioned seat, but he soon gave up that idea, for the corner was as hot as an oven.      9   
  Rienäcker had, in common with all Brandenburg noblemen, the pleasing and good-hearted trait that he preferred to talk with plain people rather than with more “cultivated” folk, and so he began at once, while they were in the half shade of the young trees along the canal: “How hot it is! Your horse cannot have been much pleased when he heard me say Rollkrug.”     10   
  “Oh, Rollkrug is well enough; Rollkrug is well enough because of the woods. When he gets there and smells the pines, he is always pleased. You see, he is from the country.… Or perhaps it is the music too. At any rate, he always pricks up his ears.”     11   
  “Indeed,” said Botho. “He doesn’t look to me much like dancing.… But where can we get the wreath then? I do not want to get to the churchyard without a wreath.”     12   
  “Oh, there is plenty of time for that, Herr Baron. As soon as we get into the neighborhood of the churchyard, from the Halle Gate on and the whole length of the Pioneerstrasse.”     13   
  “Yes, yes, you are quite right. I was forgetting.…”     14   
  “And after that, until you are close to the churchyard, there are plenty more places.”     15   
  Botho smiled. “You are perhaps a Silesian?”     16   
  “Yes,” said the driver. “Most of us are. But I have been here a long time now, and so I am half a true Berliner.”     17   
  “And are you doing pretty well?”     18   
  “There is no use talking about ‘pretty well.’ Everything costs too much and one has to have always the best quality. And hay is dear. But I should do well enough, if only nothing would happen. But something is always sure to happen—to-day an axle breaks and to-morrow a horse falls down. I have another horse at home, a light bay, that used to be with the Fürstenwald Uhlans; a good horse, only he has no wind and he will not last much longer. And all of a sudden he will be gone.… And then the traffic police; never satisfied, you mustn’t go here and you mustn’t go there. And one is always having to repaint. And red plush is not to be had for nothing.”     19   
  While they were chatting together, they had driven along by the canal, as far as the Halle Gate. And now a battalion of infantry with the band playing spiritedly was coming straight toward them from the Kreuzberg, and Botho, who did not wish to meet acquaintances, urged the coachman to drive faster. And they passed rapidly over the Belle-Alliance Bridge, but on the further side, Botho asked the driver to stop, because he had seen a sign on one of the first houses that read: “Artistic and Practical Florist.” Three or four steps led into a shop, in the show window of which were all kinds of wreaths.     20   
  Rienäcker stepped out and went up the steps. As he entered the door, a bell rang sharply. “May I ask you to be so kind as to show me a pretty wreath?”     21   
  “A funeral wreath?”     22   
  “Yes.”     23   
  The young woman in black, who, perhaps because she sold mostly funeral wreaths, looked ridiculously like one of the Fates (even the shears were not lacking), came back quickly with an evergreen wreath with white roses among the green. She apologised at once for having only white roses. White camellias were far more expensive. Botho, for his part, was satisfied, declined to have more flowers shown him and only asked whether he could not have a wreath of immortelles in addition to the wreath of fresh flowers.     24   
  The young woman seemed rather surprised at the old-fashioned notions that this question seemed to imply, but assented and immediately brought a box containing five or six wreaths of yellow, red and white immortelles.     25   
  “Which color would you advise me to take?”     26   
  The young woman smiled: “Immortelle wreaths are quite out of fashion. Possibly in winter.… And then only in case …”     27   
  “I think I had better decide on this one at once.” And Botho took the yellow wreath that lay nearest him, hung it on his arm, put the wreath of white roses with it and got quickly into his cab. Both wreaths were rather large and took up so much room on the red plush seat that Botho thought of handing them over to the driver. But he soon decided against this change, saying to himself: “If one wants to carry a wreath to old Frau Nimptsch, one must be willing to own up to the wreath. And if one is ashamed of it, he should not have promised it.”     28   
  So he let the wreaths lie where they were, and almost forgot them, as the carriage immediately turned into a part of the road whose varied and here and there grotesque scenes led him aside from his former thoughts. On the right, at a distance of about five hundred paces, was a board fence, above which could be seen all sorts of booths, pavilions, and doorways decorated with lamps, and all covered with a wealth of inscriptions. Most of these were of rather recent, or even extremely recent, date, but a few of the biggest and brightest dated further back, and, although in a weather-beaten state, they had lasted over from the previous year. Among these pleasure resorts, and alternating with them, various artisans had set up their workshops, especially sculptors and stone cutters, who mostly exhibited crosses, pillars, and obelisks hereabouts, because of the numerous cemeteries. All this could not fail to strike whoever passed this way, and Rienäcker too was strangely impressed, as he read from the cab, with growing curiosity, the endless and strongly contrasted announcements and looked at the accompanying pictures. “Fräulein Rosella, the living wonder maiden”; “Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices”; “Quick Photography, American Style”; “Russian Ball throwing, six shots for ten pfennig”; “Swedish Punch with Waffles”; “Figaro’s Finest Opportunity, or the First Hairdressing Parlor in the World”; “Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices”; “Swiss Shooting Gallery”:
           “Shoot right quick and shoot right well,   
Shoot and hit like William Tell.”   
  29   
  And beneath this Tell himself with his son, his cross bow and the apple.     30   
  Finally the cab reached the end of the long board fence and at this point the road made a sharp turn toward the wood and now, breaking the stillness of noon, the rattle of guns could be heard from the shooting stands. Otherwise everything was much the same on this continuation of the street: Blondin, clad only in his tights and his medals, was balancing on the tightrope, with fireworks flashing around him, while near him various small placards announced balloon ascensions as well as the pleasures of the dance. One read: “A Sicilian Night. At two o’clock Vienna Bonbon Waltzes.”     31   
  Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these placards with real interest, until after he had passed through the “wood,” where he found the shade very refreshing for a few minutes, and beyond which he turned into the principal street of a populous suburb that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast, were passing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill and the traffic was blocked. “What are we stopping for?” he asked, but before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people, and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him, if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in front of him had not impressed him painfully. “Broken glass bought and sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf” was painted in big letters on the high tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of glass was piled up in the body of the wagon. “Luck goes with glass” … And he looked at the load with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger tips.     32   
  But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed upright.     33   
  “What is that?” asked Botho.     34   
  “The Rollkrug.”     35   
  “Very well. Then we are nearly there. We only have to turn up hill here. I am sorry for the horse, but there is no help for it.”     36   
  The driver gave the horse a cut with the whip and they began to go up a rather steep, hilly street, on one side of which lay the old Jacob’s cemetery, which was half closed up because of being over full, while across the street from the cemetery fence rose some high tenement houses.     37   
  In front of the last house stood some wandering musicians, apparently man and wife, with a horn and a harp. The woman was singing too, but the wind, which was rather strong here, blew the sound away up hill and only when Botho had gone more than ten steps beyond the poor old couple, was he able to distinguish the words and melody. It was the same song that they had sung so happily long ago on the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he sat up and looked out as if the music had called him back to the musicians. They, however, were facing another way and did not see him, but a pretty maid, who was washing windows on the gable side of the house, and who might have thought that the young officer was looking back at her, waved her chamois skin gayly at him and joined vigorously in the chorus:
           “Ich denke d’ran, ich danke dir, mein Leben; doch du Soldat,   
Soldat, denkst du danke   
  38   
  Botho threw himself back in the cab and buried his face in his hands, while an endlessly sweet, sad feeling swept over him. But the sadness outweighed the sweetness and he could not shake it off until he had left the town behind and saw the Müggelberg on the distant horizon in the blue midday haze.     39   
  Finally they drew up before the new Jacob’s graveyard.     40   
  “Shall I wait?” said the driver.     41   
  “Yes. But not here. Down by the Rollkrug. And if you see those musicians again … here, this is for the poor woman.”

Chapter XXII   
     
BOTHO entrusted himself to the guidance of an old man who was busy near the entrance gate and found Frau Nimptsch’s grave well cared for: ivy vines had been planted, a pot of geraniums stood between them and a wreath of immortelles was already hanging on a little iron stand. “Ah, Lena,” said Botho to himself. “Always the same.… I have come too late.” And then he turned to the old man who was standing near and asked: “Was it a very small funeral?”      1   
  “Yes, it was very small indeed.”      2   
  “Three or four?”      3   
  “Exactly four. And of course our old superintendent. He only made a prayer and the big middle-aged woman, about forty or so, who was here, cried all the time. And a young woman was here too. She comes once a week and last Sunday she brought the geranium. And she means to get a stone too, the kind that are fashionable now: a green polished one with the name and date on it.”      4   
  And herewith the old man drew back with the politeness common to all who are employed about a cemetery, while Botho hung his wreath of immortelles together with Lena’s, but the wreath of evergreens and white roses he laid around the pot of geraniums. And then he walked back to the entrance of the cemetery, after looking a little longer at the modest grave and thinking lovingly of good old Frau Nimptsch. The old man, who had meanwhile returned to the care of his vines, took off his cap and looked after him, and puzzled over the question, what could have brought such a fine gentleman (for after that last handshake of his, he had had no doubts as to the quality of the visitor) to the grave of an old woman. “There must be some reason for it. And he did not have the cab wait.” However he could come to no conclusion, and at least to show his gratitude as best he could, he took a watering pot and filled it and then went to Frau Nimptsch’s grave and watered the ivy, which had grown rather dry in the hot sun.      5   
  Meanwhile Botho had gone back to the cab, which was waiting by the Rollkrug, got in and an hour later had once more reached the Landgrafenstrasse. The driver jumped down civilly and opened the door.      6   
  “Here,” said Botho … and this is extra. It was half an excursion …”      7   
  “One might as well call it a whole one.”      8   
  “I see,” laughed Rienäcker. “Then I must give you a bit more?”      9   
  “It wouldn’t do any harm … Thank you, Herr Baron.”     10   
  “But now feed your horse a little better, for my sake. He is a pitiful sight.”     11   
  And he nodded and ran up the steps.     12   
     
  There was not a sound in the house and even the servants were away, because they knew that he was usually at the club at about this time, at least during his wife’s absence. “Untrustworthy people,” he grumbled to himself and seemed quite provoked. Nevertheless he was glad to be alone. He did not want to see anyone and went and sat out on the balcony, to be alone with his dreams. But it was close under the awning which was down and had also a deep, drooping fringe and so he rose to put up the awning. That was better. The fresh air, which now entered freely, did him good and drawing a deep breath he stepped to the railing and looked over fields and woods to the castle tower of Charlottenburg, whose greenish copper roof shimmered in the bright afternoon sunshine.     13   
  “Behind lies Spandau,” said he to himself. “And behind Spandau there is an embankment and a railroad track which runs as far as the Rhine. And on that track I see a train, with many carriages and Katherine is sitting in one of them. I wonder how she looks? Well, of course. And what is she probably talking about? A little of everything, I think: piquant tales about the baths, or about Frau Salinger’s toilettes, and how it is really best in Berlin. And ought I not to be glad that she is coming home again? Such a pretty woman, so young, so happy and cheerful. And I am glad too. But she must not come to-day. For heaven’s sake, no. And yet I can believe it of her. She has not written for three days and it is quite likely that she is planning a surprise.”     14   
  He followed these fancies for a while yet, but then the pictures changed and, instead of Katherine’s, long past images arose again in his mind: the Dörr’s garden, the walk to Wilmersdorf, the excursion to Hankel’s Ablage. That had been their last beautiful day, their last happy hour.… “She said then that a hair would bind too tight, and so she refused and did not want to do it. And I? Why did I insist upon it? Yes, there are such mysterious powers, such affinities that come from heaven or hell, and now I am bound and cannot free myself. Oh how dear and good she was that afternoon, while we were still alone and did not dream of being disturbed, and I cannot forget the picture of Lena among the grasses picking flowers here and there. I have the flowers still. But I will destroy them. Why should I keep the poor dead things, that only make me restless and might cost me what little happiness I have and disturb the peacefulness of my marriage, if ever another eye should see them.”     15   
  And he rose from his seat on the balcony and passed through the whole length of the house to his workroom, which overlooked the courtyard and was very sunny a the morning, but was now in deep shadow. The coolness did him good and he went to a handsome desk which he had had ever since his bachelor days, and which had little ebony drawers decorated with various little silver garlands. In the middle, surrounded by these drawers there was a sort of temple-like structure with pillars and a pediment; this temple was meant to keep valuables in and had a secret drawer behind it, which closed with a spring. Botho pressed the spring and when the drawer sprung open, took out a small bundle of letters, tied up with a red cord, on top of which, as if put there as an afterthought, lay the flowers of which he had just been speaking. He weighed the packet in his hand and said, as he was untying the cord: “Great joy, great grief. Trials and tribulations. The old song.”     16   
  He was alone and need fear no surprises. But still, fancying himself not sufficiently secure, he rose and locked the door. And only then did he take the topmost letter and read it. It was the one written the day before the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he now looked very tenderly at the words which he had formerly underlined with his pencil. “Stiehl.… Alléh.… How these poor dear little “h’s” take my fancy to-day, more than all the orthography in the world. And how clear the handwriting is. And how good and at the same time how playful is what she wrote. Ah, how happily her traits were mingled. She was both reasonable and passionate. Everything that she said showed character and depth of feeling. How poor a thing is culture, and how ill it compares with genuine qualities.”     17   
  He picked up the second letter and meant to read the whole correspondence from beginning to end. But it distressed him too much. “What is the use? Why should I recall to life what is dead and must remain dead? I must destroy all this and I must hope that even memory itself will fade with the reminders that awakened it.”     18   
  Now that his mind was fully made up, he rose quickly from his desk, pushed the fire screen to one side and stepped to the little hearth to burn the letters. And slowly, as if he wanted to prolong the sweet sorrow, he let leaf by leaf fall on the hearth and vanish in the flames. The last thing left in his hand was the bunch of flowers and while he was thinking and pondering, a change of feeling come over him and he felt as if he must untie the strand of hair and look at each flower separately. But suddenly, as if overcome with superstitious fear, he threw the flowers after the letters.     19   
  One more flicker and all was wholly quenched and destroyed.     20   
  “Am I free now?… Do I want to be? I do not. It is all turned to ashes. And yet I am bound.”     21

   
Chapter XXIII   
     
BOTHO gazed at the ashes. “How little and yet how much.” And then he replaced the handsome fire screen, in the centre of which was a copy of a Pompeian frescoed figure. A hundred times his eye had glanced at it without noticing what it really was, but to-day he saw it and said: “Minerva with her shield and spear. But her spear is resting on the ground. Perhaps that signifies peace … Would that it might be so.” And then he rose, closed the secret drawer which had now been despoiled of its chief treasure and returned to the front of the house.      1   
  As he was passing through the long, narrow corridor, he met the cook and the housemaid who were just coming back from a walk in the Zoological Garden. As he saw them both standing there nervous and confused, he felt a movement of compassion, but he controlled it and reminded himself, although indeed somewhat ironically, “that it was high time that an example should be made.” So he began, as well as he could, to play the part of Jove with his thunderbolts. Where in the world had they been? Was that the proper way to behave? Their mistress might come home any time, perhaps even to-day, and he had no desire to hand over a disorganised household to her. And the man too? “Now, I don’t want to know anything about it, I will not listen; least of all to any excuses.” And when he had finished his little scolding, he walked on smiling, chiefly at himself. “How easy it is to preach and how hard it is to live up to one’s principles. I am a hero only in words. Am I not myself out of bounds? Have I not, myself, fallen away from correct and virtuous customs? That it has been, might be tolerated, but that it still is, that is the worst.”      2   
  So saying he took his former seat on the balcony and rang. His man came now, almost more nervous and troubled than the women, but there was no longer any need, for the storm was over. “Tell the cook to get me something to eat. Well, what are you waiting for? Oh, I see now (and he laughed), there is nothing in the house. All this happens so conveniently … Then some tea; bring me tea, that will surely be in the house. And let them make a couple of sandwiches. Good Lord, how hungry I am.… And have the evening papers come yet?”      3   
  “Very good, Herr Rittmeister.”      4   
  The tea table was soon served on the balcony and a bit of something to eat had also been discovered. Botho leaned back in a rocking chair and gazed thoughtfully at the little blue flame. Then he picked up his little wife’s monitor, the “Fremdenblatt,” and after that the “Kreuzzeitung,” and looked at the last page. “Heavens, how glad Katherine will be, when she can study this last page every day fresh from the source, that is, twelve hours earlier than in Schlangenbad. And is she not right? ‘Adalbert von Lichterloh, Government Referendar and Lieutenant of Reserves, and Hildegard von Lichterloh, née Holtze, have the honor to announce their marriage which took place to-day.’ Wonderful! And really it is fine to see how life and love goes on in the world. Weddings and christenings! And now and then a few deaths interspersed. Oh well, one does not need to read them. Katherine does not, nor I either, and only when the Vandals have lost one of their ‘alten Herren’ and I see the name of my regiment among the death notices do I read it; that interests me and it always seems to me as if the old camp at Hofbräu were invited to Walhalla. Spatenbräu is still more suitable.”      5   
  He laid the paper aside, because the bell rung … “Can she really …” No, it was nothing but a bill of fare of soups sent up by the landlord with a charge of fifty pfennings. But for all that he was much disturbed all the evening, because he constantly imagined the possibility of a surprise, and whenever he saw a cab with a trunk in front and a lady’s travelling hat on the back seat turning into the Landgrafenstrasse, he would exclaim to himself: “That is she; she loves such doings and I can already hear her saying: I thought it would be so funny, Botho.”      6   
  However, Katherine did not come. A letter from her came next morning instead, in which she said that she should return on the third day after the date of the letter. “She wanted to travel with Frau Salinger again, for, take it for all in all, she was a very nice woman, with many pleasant traits, a great deal of style and also knew how to travel very comfortably.”      7   
  Botho laid down the letter and for the moment was sincerely pleased at the thought of seeing his pretty young wife within three days. “There is room in the human heart for all sorts of contradictions.… She talks nonsense, certainly, but even a foolish young wife is better than none at all.”      8   
  Then he called the servants and told them that their mistress was coming back in three days; they must have everything in order and polish all the locks and other brasses. And there must be no fly specks on the big mirror.      9   
  Having given these housekeeping orders beforehand, he went to the barracks for his period of service there. “If anyone asks, I shall be back at five.”     10   
  His programme for the intervening time was, that until noon he would be on the parade ground, then ride for a couple of hours and after his ride dine at the club. If he did not find anyone else there, he would at least find Balafré, which implied two-handed whist and a wealth of true of untrue stories of the Court. For Balafré, however trustworthy he was, made it a principle to set aside one hour of the day for humbug and exaggeration. Indeed, with him, this activity took the lead among the pleasures of the mind.     11   
  And the programme was carried out just as it was planned. The big clock at the barracks was striking twelve as he sprung into the saddle and after he had passed the “Lindens” and immediately after the Luisenstrasse, he at last turned into a road that ran along beside the canal and further on ran in the direction of Plötzensee. As he rode along, he recalled the day when he had ridden here before, to gain courage for his parting with Lena, for the parting that had been so hard for him and that still had to be. That was three years ago. And what had there been for him in the meantime? Much happiness, certainly. But it had been no real happiness. A sugar plum, not much more. And who can live on sweets alone!     12   
  He was still brooding over these thoughts, when he saw two comrades coming along a bridle path from the woods towards the canal. They were Uhlans, as he could plainly see even from a distance by their “Czapkas.” But who were they? To be sure, he could not remain long in doubt and before they had approached within a hundred paces, Botho saw that they were the Rexins, cousins, and both from the same regiment.     13   
  “Ah, Rienäcker,” said the elder. “Where are you going?”     14   
  “As far as the sky is blue.”     15   
  “That is too far for me.”     16   
  “Well, then, as far as Saatwinkel.”     17   
  “That is worth thinking of. I believe I will join the party, that is, provided that I do not intrude.… Kurt (and as he spoke he turned to his younger companion), I beg your pardon. But I want to speak with Rienäcker. And under the circumstances…”     18   
  “You would rather speak with him privately. Just as you prefer, Bozel,” and Kurt von Rexin touched his hat and rode on. The cousin who had been addressed as Bozel, however, turned his horse around, took the left side of Rienäcker, who was far above him in rank and said: “Very well then, to Saatwinkel. We shall take care not to ride into the Tegeler rifle range.”     19   
  “At all events I shall try to avoid it,” replied Rienäcker, “first for my own sake and second for yours. And third and last because of Henrietta. What would that interesting brunette say, if her Bogislaw should be shot and killed and that too by some friend?”     20   
  “That would indeed give her a heartache,” answered Rexin, “and would also strike out one item in the reckoning between her and me.”     21   
  “What reckoning do you mean?”     22   
  “That is the very point, Rienäcker, about which I wanted to consult you.”     23   
  “To consult me? And about what point?”     24   
  “You ought to be able to guess it. It is not difficult. Naturally I mean an affair, an affair of my own.”     25   
  “An affair!” laughed Botho. “Why, I am at your service, Rexin. But, to be frank with you, I hardly know just what leads you to confide in me. I am not a remarkable fount of wisdom in any direction, least of all in this. And then, too, we have quite different authorities. One of these you know very well. And moreover he is a special friend of yours and of your cousin’s.”     26   
  “Balafré?”     27   
  “Yes.”     28   
  Rexin felt that there was something like reluctance or refusal in these words and stopped talking with some air of finality. But that was more than Botho had meant, and so he led on a little further. “Affairs. Pardon me, Rexin, there are so many affairs.”     29   
  “Certainly. But however many there are, they are all different.”     30   
  Botho shrugged his shoulders and smiled. But Rexin, evidently not meaning to be stopped the second time through his own sensitiveness, only repeated in an indifferent tone: “Yes, however many there are, yet they are different. And I wonder, Rienäcker, that you should be the one to shrug your shoulders. I really thought …”     31   
  “Well, then, out with it.”     32   
  “So I will.”     33   
  And after a while Rexin went on: “I have been through the University, and have served with the Uhlans, and before that (you know I joined them rather late) I was at Bonn and Göttingen and I need no instruction and advice when the case is a usual one. But when I examine myself carefully, I find that in my case the affair is not usual but exceptional.”     34   
  “Everyone thinks that.”     35   
  “To speak plainly, I feel myself engaged, and more than that, I love Henrietta, or to show you my feeling more plainly, I love my dark Yetta. Yes, this importunate pet name with its suggestion of the canteen suits me best, because I want to avoid all solemn airs in this connection. I feel sufficiently in earnest and just because I am in earnest, I feel no need of anything like pompous or artificial forms of speech. They only weaken the expression.”     36   
  Botho nodded in agreement and refrained from every sign of derision or superiority, such as he had shown at first.     37   
  “Yetta,” Rexin went on, “is not descended from a line of angels nor is she one herself. But where can you find one who is? In our own sphere? Absurd. All these distinctions are purely artificial and the most artificial are to be found in the realm of virtue. Naturally, virtue and other such fine things do exist, but innocence and virtue are like Bismarck and Moltke, that is, they are rare. I have observed very carefully her life and conduct, I believe her to be genuine and I intend to act accordingly as far as possible. And now listen, Rienäcker. If, instead of riding beside this tiresome canal, as straight and monotonous as the forms and formulas of our society, I say, if we were now riding by the Sacramento instead of beside this wretched ditch, and if we had the diggings before us instead of the Tegeler shooting range, I would marry Yetta at once. I cannot live without her. She has bewitched me, and her simplicity, modesty and genuine love have more weight with me than ten countesses. But it is impossible, I cannot treat my parents so, and besides, I cannot leave the service at twenty-seven years of age, to become a cowboy in Texas or a waiter on a Mississippi steamer. Therefore the middle way.…”     38   
  “And what do you mean by that?”     39   
  “A union without formal sanction.”     40   
  “You mean a marriage without marriage.”     41   
  “If you like, yes. The mere word means nothing to me, just as little as legalisation, sanctification, or whatever else such things may be called; I am a bit touched with nihilism and have no real faith in the blessing of the church. But, to cut a long story short, I am in favor of monogamy, not on moral grounds, but because I cannot help it, and because of my own inborn nature. All relations are repugnant to me, where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour, so to speak. And if I just now called myself a nihilist, I may with still more justice call myself a Philistine. I long for simple forms, for a quiet, natural way of living, where heart speaks to heart and where one has the best that there is, faithfulness, love and freedom.”     42   
  “Freedom!” repeated Botho.     43   
  “Yes, Rienäcker. But since I well know that dangers may lurk here too and that the joy of freedom, perhaps all freedom, is a two-edged sword, that can wound, one never knows how, I wanted to ask you.”     44   
  “And I will answer you,” said Rienäcker, who was growing more and more serious, as these confidences recalled his own life, both past and present, to his mind. “Yes, Rexin, I will answer you as well as I can, and I believe that I am able to answer you. And so I implore you, keep out of all that. In such a relation as you are planning for, only two things are possible, and the one is fully as bad as the other. If you play the true and faithful lover, or what amounts to the same thing, if you break entirely with your position and birth and the customs of your class, sooner or later, if you do not go to pieces altogether, you will become a horror and a burden to yourself; but if things do not go that way, and if, as is more common, you make your peace, after a year or more, with your family and with the social order, then there is sorrow, for the tie must be loosened which has been knit and strengthened by happiness, and alas, what means still more, by unhappiness and pain and distress. And that hurts dreadfully.”     45   
  Rexin looked as if he were about to answer, but Botho did not notice him and went on: “My dear Rexin, a short time ago you were speaking, in a way that might serve as a model of decorous expression, of relations ‘where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour,’ but these relations, which are really none at all, are not the worst. The worst are those, to quote you once more, which keep to the ‘middle course.’ I warn you, beware of this middle course, beware of half-way measures. What you think is gain is bankruptcy, and what seems to you a harbor means shipwreck. That way leads to no good, even if to outward appearances all runs smoothly and no curse is pronounced and scarcely a gentle reproach is uttered. And there is no other way. For everything brings its own natural consequences, we must remember that. Nothing that has happened can be undone, and an image that has once been engraved in the soul, never wholly fades out again, never completely disappears. Memory remains and comparisons will arise in the mind. And so once more, my friend, give up your intention or else the whole course of your life will be disturbed and you will never again win your way through to clearness and light. Many things may be permitted, but not those that involve the soul, not those that entangle the heart, even if it is only your own.”

   
Chapter XXIV   
     
A TELEGRAM sent just as Katherine was on the point of departure arrived on the third day: “I shall arrive this evening. K.”      1   
  And she actually arrived. Botho was at the station and was presented to Frau Salinger, who declined all thanks for her good companionship during the journey, and kept repeating how fortunate she had been, and above all how fortunate he must be in having such a charming young wife. “Look here, Herr Baron, if I were so fortunate as to be her husband, I would never part from such a wife even for three days.” And then she began to complain of men in general, but in the same breath she added an urgent invitation to Vienna. “We have a nice little house less than an hour from Vienna, and a couple of saddle horses and a good table. In Prussia you have schools and in Vienna we have cooking. And I don’t know which I prefer.”      2   
  “I know,” said Katherine, “and I think Botho does too.”      3   
  Hereupon they separated and our young couple got into an open carriage, after having given orders for sending the baggage home.      4   
  Katherine leaned back and put her little feet up on the back seat, on which lay a gigantic bouquet, a parting attention from the Schlangenbad landlady who was perfectly delighted with the charming lady from Berlin. Katherine took Botho’s arm and clung to him caressingly, but only for a few moments, then she sat up again and said, as she held the great bouquet in place with her parasol: “It is really charming here, so many people and the river so crowded with boats that they can scarcely find their way in or out. And so little dust. I think it is really a blessing that they sprinkle now and everything is drenched with water; of course one had better not wear long dresses. And only look at the baker’s wagon with the dog harnessed in. Isn’t he too comical? Only the canal.… I don’t know, it is still just about the same.…”      5   
  “Yes,” laughed Botho, “it is just about the same. Four weeks of July heat have not managed to improve it.”      6   
  As they were passing under some young trees, Katherine plucked a linden leaf, placed it over the hollow of her hand and struck it so that it made a popping sound. “We always used to do that at home. And at Schlangenbad, when we had nothing better to do, we would pop leaves and do all sorts of little tricks that we used to do when we were children. Can you imagine it, I really care a great deal for such foolish little things and yet I am quite old and have finished with them.”      7   
  “But, Katherine.…”      8   
  “Yes, yes, a regular matron, you will see.… But just look, Botho, there is the rail fence again and the old ale-house with the comical and rather improper name, that we used to laugh at so heartily at boarding-school. I thought the place was gone long ago. But the Berliners will not let anything of that sort go, a place like that will always keep on; all that is needed is a queer name, that amuses people.”      9   
  Botho vacillated between pleasure over Katherine’s return and fleeting moments of discontent. “I find you a good deal changed, Katherine.”     10   
  “Certainly I am. And why should I be changed? I was not sent to Schlangenbad to change, at least not my character and conversation. And whether I have changed in some other ways, mon cher ami, nous verrons.”     11   
  “Quite matronly now?”     12   
  She held her hand over his mouth and pushed back her veil, which had fallen half over her face, and directly after wards they passed the Potsdam railway viaduct, over the iron framework of which an express train was just rushing. It made both a thundering and a trembling and when they had left the bridge behind, Katherine said: “It is always disagreeable to me to be directly under it.”     13   
  “But it is no better for those who are up there.”     14   
  “Perhaps not. But it is all in the idea. Ideas always have so much influence. Don’t you think so too?” And she sighed, as if some dreadful thing that had taken a terrible hold upon her life had suddenly come before her mind. But then she went on: “In England, so Mr. Armstrong, an acquaintance at the baths, told me (I must tell you more about him, besides he married an Alvensleben)—in England, he said, they bury the dead fifteen feet deep. Now fifteen feet deep is no worse than five feet, but I felt distinctly, while he was telling me about it, how the clay, for that is the correct English word, must weigh like a ton on the breast. For in England they have a very heavy clay soil.”     15   
  “Did you say Armstrong.… There was an Armstrong in the Baden Dragoons.”     16   
  “A cousin of his. They are all cousins, the same as with us. I am glad that I can describe him to you with all his little peculiarities. A regular cavalier with his mustache turned up, and he really went a little too far with that. He looked very comical, with those twisted ends, which he was always twisting more.”     17   
  In about ten minutes the carriage drew up before the door and Botho gave her his arm and led her in. A garland hung over the large door of the corridor and a tablet with the inscription “Willkommen” (“Welcome”), from which, alas, one “I” was wanting, hung somewhat crookedly from the garland. Katherine looked up, read it and laughed.     18   
  “Willkommen! But only with one ‘1,’ that is to say, only half. Dear me. An ‘L’ is the letter for Love, too. Well then, you too shall have only half of everything.”     19   
  And so she walked through the door into the corridor, where the cook and housemaid were already standing waiting to kiss her hand.     20   
  “Good day, Bertha; good day, Minette. Yes, children, here I am again. Well, how do you think I look? Have I improved?” And before the maids could answer, which indeed she was not expecting, she went on: “But you have both improved. Especially you, Minette, you have really grown quite stout.”     21   
  Minette was embarrassed and looked straight before her, and Katherine added good-naturedly: “I mean only here around your chin and neck.”     22   
  Meantime the man servant came in also. “Why, Orth, I was growing anxious about you. The Lord be praised, there was no need; you are none the worse for wear, only a trifle pale. But the heat causes that. And still the same freckles.”     23   
  “Yes, gracious lady, they stay.”     24   
  “Well, that is right. Always fast color.”     25   
  While this talk was in progress she had reached her bedroom, where Botho and Minette followed her, while the other two retired to their kitchen.     26   
  “Now, Minette, help me. My cloak first. And now take my hat. But be careful, or else we shall never know how to get rid of the dust. And now tell Orth to set the table out on the balcony. I have not eaten a bite all day, because I wanted everything to taste good here at home. And now go, my dear girl; go Minette.”     27   
  Minette hastened to leave the room, while Katherine remained standing before the tall glass and arranged her hair which was in some disorder. At the same time she looked at Botho in the glass, for he was standing near her and looking at his pretty young wife.     28   
  “Now, Botho,” said she with playful coquetry and without turning around to look at him.     29   
  And her affectionate coquetry was cleverly enough calculated so that he embraced her while she gave herself up to his caresses. He put his arms around her waist and lifted her up in the air. “Katherine, my little doll, my dear little doll.”     30   
  “A doll, a dear little doll. I ought to be angry at that, Botho. For one plays with dolls. But I am not angry, on the contrary. Dolls are usually loved best and treated best. And that is what I like.”

Chapter XXV   
     
IT was a glorious morning, the sky was half clouded and in the gentle west wind the young couple sat on the balcony, while Minette was clearing the coffee table, and looked over toward the Zoological Garden where the gay cupolas of the elephant houses shone softly in the dim morning light.      1   
  “I really know nothing yet about your experiences,” said Botho. “You went right to sleep, and sleep is sacred to me. But now I want to hear all about it. Tell me.”      2   
  “Oh yes, tell you; what shall I tell you? I wrote you so many letters that you must know Anna Grävenitz and Frau Salinger quite as well as I do, or perhaps still better, for among other things I wrote more than I knew myself.”      3   
  “Perhaps. But you always said, ‘More about this when we meet.’ And that time has now come, or do you want me to think you are keeping something from me? I know actually nothing at all about your excursions and yet you were in Wiesbaden. You said indeed that there were only colonels and old generals in Wiesbaden, but there are Englishmen there too. And speaking of Englishmen reminds me of your Scotchman, about whom you were going to tell me. Let me see, what was his name?”      4   
  “Armstrong; Mr. Armstrong. He certainly was a delightful man, and I cannot understand his wife, an Alvensleben, as I think I told you before, who was always embarrassed whenever he spoke. And yet he was a perfect gentleman, who always respected himself, even when he let himself go and showed a certain nonchalance. At such moments, gentlemen are always the most easily recognised. Don’t you agree with me? He wore a blue necktie and a yellow summer suit, and he looked as if he had been sewed into it, and Anna Grävenitz always used to say: ‘There comes the penholder.’ And he always carried a big, open umbrella, a habit he had formed in India. For he was an officer in a Scotch regiment, that had been stationed a long time in Madras or Bombay, or perhaps it may have been Delhi. But any way it is all the same. And what had he not been through! His conversation was charming, even if sometimes one hardly knew how to take it.”      5   
  “So he was too forward? Insolent?”      6   
  “I beg your pardon, Botho, how can you speak so? Such a man as he; a cavalier comme il faut. I will give you an example of his style of conversation. Opposite us sat an old lady, the wife of General von Wedell, and Anna Grüvenitz asked her (I believe it was the anniversary of Küniggratz), whether it was true that thirty-three Wedells fell in the seven years’ war? Old Frau von Wedell said that it was quite true, and added that there had really been more. All who were present, were astonished at so great a number, excepting Mr. Armstrong, and when I playfully took him to task, he said that he could not get excited over such small numbers. ‘Small numbers!’ I interrupted him, but he laughed and added, for the sake of refuting me, that one hundred and thirty-three of the Armstrongs had perished in the various wars and feuds of their clan. And when Frau von Wedell at first refused to believe this, but finally (as Mr. A. stuck to his story) asked eagerly, whether the whole hundred and thirty-three had really ‘fallen’? he replied ‘No, my dear lady, not exactly fallen. Most of them were hung as horse thieves by the English, who were then our enemies.’ And when everybody was horrified over this unsuitable, one might almost say embarrassing tale of hanging, he swore that ‘we were wrong to be offended by any such a thing, for times and opinions had changed and as far as his own immediate family were concerned, they regarded their heroic forbears with pride. The Scottish method of warfare for three hundred years had consisted of cattle lifting and horse stealing. Different lands, different customs,’ and he could not see any great difference between stealing land and stealing cattle.”      7   
  “He is a Guelph in disguise,” said Botho, “but there is a good deal to say for his view.”      8   
  “Surely. And I was always on his side, when he made such statements. Oh, he would make you die of laughter. He used to say that one should not take anything seriously, it did not pay, and fishing was the only serious occupation. He would occasionally go fishing for a fortnight on Loch Ness or Loch Lochy—only think what funny names they have in Scotland—and he would sleep in the boat, and when the sun rose, there he was again; and when the fortnight was ended, he would moult and his whole sunburnt skin would come off and then he would have a skin like a baby. And he did all this through vanity, for a smooth, even color is really the best thing that one can have. And as he said this, he looked at me in such a way, that I did not know how to answer for a moment. Oh, you men! But yet from the beginning I really had a warm attachment for him and took no offence at his way of talking, which sometimes pursued one subject for some time, but far, far oftener shifted constantly here and there. One of his favorite sayings was: ‘I cannot bear to have one dish stay on the table a whole hour; if only it is not always the same, I am much better pleased when the courses are changed rapidly.’ And so he was always jumping from the hundreds into the thousands.”      9   
  “Then you must have met on common ground,” laughed Botho.     10   
  “So we did. And we mean to write to each other, in the same style in which we used to talk; we agreed on that as we were saying good-bye. Our men, even your friends, are always so thoroughgoing. And you are the most thoroughgoing of all, which sometimes annoys me and puts me quite out of patience. And you must promise me that you will be more like Mr. Armstrong and try to talk a little more simply and amusingly and a little faster and not always on the same subject.”     11   
  Botho promised to amend his ways, and as Katherine, who loved superlatives, after describing a phenomenally rich American, an absolutely albino Swede with rabbit’s eyes, and a fascinating Spanish beauty—had closed with an afternoon excursion to Limburg, Oranienstein and Nassau, and had described to her husband in turn the crypt, the cadets’ training school and the water-cure establishment, she suddenly pointed to the towers of the castle at Charlottenburg and said: “Do you know, Botho, we must go there to-day or to Westend or to Hallensee. The Berlin air is rather heavy and there is none of the breath of God in it, as there is in the country where the poets so justly praise it. And when one has just come back fresh from nature, as I have, one has learned to love once more what I might call purity and innocence. Ah, Botho, what a treasure an innocent heart is. I have fully determined to keep my heart pure. And you must help me. Yes, you must promise me. No, not that way; you must kiss me three times on my forehead like a bride. I want no tenderness, I want a kiss of consecration… And if we take lunch, a warm dish, of course, we can get out there at about three.”     12   
     
  And so they went on their excursion and although the air of Charlottenburg was still less like the breath of God than the Berlin air, yet Katherine was fully determined to stay in the castle park and to give up Hallensee. Westend was so tiresome and Hallensee was half a journey further, almost as far as Schlangenbad. But in the castle park one could see the mausoleum, where the blue lights were always so strangely moving, indeed she might say it was as if a bit of heaven had fallen into one’s soul. That produced a thoughtful mood and led to pious reflections. And even if it were not for the mausoleum, still there was the bridge where you could see the carp, the bridge with the bell on it, and if a great big mossy carp came swimming by, it always seemed to her as if it were a crocodile. And perhaps there might be a woman there with round cakes and wafers, and one might buy some and so, in a small way, do a good work. She said a “good work” on purpose and avoided the word Christian, for Frau Salinger was always charitable.     13   
  And everything went according to the programme, and when the carps had been fed they both walked further into the park until they reached the Belvedere with its rococo figures and its historical associations. Katherine knew nothing of these associations and Botho therefore took occasion to tell her of the ghosts of the departed Emperor and Electors whom General von Bischofswerder caused to appear at this very place in order to arouse King Frederick William the Second from his lethargy, or what amounted to the same thing, to get him out of the hands of his lady love and bring him back to the path of virtue.     14   
  “And did it do any good?” asked Katherine.     15   
  “No.”     16   
  “What a pity! Anything like that always moves me so painfully. And if I consider that the unhappy prince (for he must have been unhappy) was the father-in-law of Queen Luise then my heart bleeds. How she must have suffered! I can never rightly imagine such things in our Prussia. And you say Bischofswerder was the name of the general who caused the ghosts to appear?”     17   
  “Yes. At court they called him the tree toad.”     18   
  “Because he brought on changes of weather?”     19   
  “No, because he wore a green coat.”     20   
  “Oh, that is too comical!… The tree toad!”     21

Chapter XXVI   
     
AS the sun was setting the young couple reached home, and after Katherine had given her hat and cloak to Minette and had ordered tea, she followed Botho into his room, because she thought it fitting to spend the whole of the first day after her journey in his company, and besides she really wished to stay with him.      1   
  Botho was content, and because she was shivering, he put a cushion under her feet and spread a plaid over her. Soon afterwards he was called away, on account of some official business which required prompt attention.      2   
  The time passed and since the cushion and plaid did not quite suffice to give the requisite warmth, Katherine rang and asked the servant to bring a couple of pieces of wood; she was so cold.      3   
  At the same time she rose, to set the fire screen to one side, and in doing this, she saw the little heap of ashes, which still lay on the iron plate of the fire place.      4   
  At this very moment Botho came in again and was startled at what he saw. But he was immediately reassured, as Katherine pointed to the ashes and said in her most playful tone: “What does this mean, Botho. Look there, I have caught you again. Now confess. Love letters? Yes or no?”      5   
  “Of course you will believe what you choose.”      6   
  “Yes or no?”      7   
  “Very well then; yes.”      8   
  “That is right. Now I am satisfied. Love letters! That is too comical. But perhaps we had better burn them twice; first to ashes and then to smoke. Perhaps that will bring good luck.”      9   
  And she took the pieces of wood that the servant had brought in the meantime, laid them skilfully together and started to light them with a couple of matches. The wood caught. In a moment the fire was blazing brightly and as she drew the armchair up before it and put her feet comfortably on the iron fender to warm them, she said: “And now I will tell you the story of the Russian, who naturally was not a Russian. But she was a very clever person. She had almond eyes, all such persons have almond eyes, and she gave out that she was at Schlangenbad for the sake of the cure. Well, one knows what that means. She had no doctor, at least no regular physician, but every day she went to Frankfort or Wiesbaden, or even to Darmstadt, and she always had an escort. And some even said that it was not always the same one. And you just ought to have seen her toilettes and her conceited airs! She would scarcely how to anyone when she came to the table d’hôte with her chaperon. For she had a chaperon—that is always the first requisite for such ladies. And we called her ‘the Pompadour,’ I mean the Russian, and she knew that we called her that too. And the general’s wife, old Frau von Wedell, who was entirely on our side and was quite indignant over this doubtful person (for she was a person, there could be no doubt about that)—Frau Wedell, I say, said right out loud across the table: ‘Yes, ladies, the fashions change in everything even in pockets large and small and in purses long and short. When I was young, there were still Pompadours, but now there are no longer any Pompadours. Is not that so? There are no longer any Pompadours?’ Is not that so? There are no longer any Pompadours?’ And as she said this we all laughed and looked at the Pompadour. But the shocking person won a victory over us for all that for she said in a loud, sharp tone (old Frau von Wedell was rather deaf) ‘Yes, Frau Generalin, it is exactly as you say. Only it is strange, that as the Pompadours went out reticules came in, and presently they were called Ridicules and such Ridicules we still have.’ And as she spoke she looked at good old Frau von Wedell, who, since she could not answer, rose from the table and left the room. And now I should like to ask you, what have you to say to this? What do you think of such impertinence?… But, Botho, you are not saying anything. You are not listening…”     10   
  “Oh yes, I am, Katherine…”     11   
     
  Three weeks later there was a wedding in Jacob’s church, the cloister-like court in front of which was filled with a large and curious crowd, mostly workingmen’s wives, some of them with children on their arms. But there were some school children and street children among them too. A number of carriages drove up, from one of the first of which a couple alighted, who were accompanied by laughter and comments, as long as they were in sight.     12   
  “Such a figure!” said one of the women who stood nearest.     13   
  “Figure?”     14   
  “Well, her hips.”     15   
  “They are more like the sides of a whale.”     16   
  “That is right.”     17   
  And doubtless this conversation would have continued longer, had not the bride’s carriage driven up just at this moment. The servant sprang down from the box and hastened to open the door, but the bridegroom himself, a thin man in a tall hat and high pointed collar, was quicker than he and gave his hand to his bride, a very pretty girl, who, as is usually the case with brides was less admired for her beauty than for her white satin dress. Then both walked up the few stone steps, which were covered with a somewhat worn carpet, then over the court and directly afterwards through the church door. All eyes followed them.     18   
  “And she has no wreath?” said the same woman whose critical eye had shortly before looked so severely at Frau Dürr’s figure.     19   
  “Wreath?… Wreath?… Didn’t you know then?… Haven’t you heard anything whispered about?”     20   
  “Oh, so that is it. Of course I have. But, my dear Kornatzki, if everybody paid attention to rumors there would be no more wreaths and Schmidt on the Friedrichsstrasse might as well shut up shop at once.”     21   
  “Yes, yes,” laughed Kornatzki, “so he might. And after all, for such an old man! At least fifty years have gone over his head and he looks as if he might be going to celebrate his silver wedding at the same time.”     22   
  “Yes indeed. That is just how he looked. And did you see his old-fashioned high collar? I never saw anything like it.”     23   
  “Well, he could use it to kill her with, if there are any more rumors.”     24   
  “Yes, he can do that.”     25   
  And so the talk ran on a little longer, while the organ prelude could already be heard from the church.     26   
     
  The next morning Rienücker and Katherine were sitting at breakfast, this time in Botho’s workroom, both windows of which stood wide open to let in the air and light. Some mating swallows were flying and twittering all about the yard, and Botho, who was in the habit of giving them crumbs every morning, was just reaching for the basket again for the same purpose when the hearty laughter of his young wife who for the last five minutes had been absorbed in her favorite newspaper, caused him to set the basket down again.     27   
  “Now, Katherine, what is it? You seem to have found something uncommonly nice.”     28   
  “So I have.… It is simply too comical, the names that one sees! And always in the notices of weddings or engagements. Just listen.…”     29   
  “I am all ears.”     30   
  “Gideon Franke, Master Mechanic, and Magdalena Franke, née Nimptsch, respectfully beg leave to announce their marriage which took place to-day … Nimptsch. Can you imagine anything funnier? And then Gideon!”     31   
  Botho took the paper, but only as a means of concealing his embarrassment. Then he handed it back, and said in as careless a tone as he could muster: “What have you against Gideon, Katherine? Gideon is better than Botho.”